Jason hates it here. The noise, the crowd, the stench of sweat and booze, the shitty music…
Despite his occasional affinity for debauchery, the club has never really been his scene.
But Jason isn't here seeking a good time he won't find. He has a task to carry out. Someone to find. A woman. She shouldn't be too difficult to spot—she's employed at the joint, which means she'll likely be wearing next to nothing, and last he was aware, her hair was an ungodly shade of red.
Women who crave attention are always easy targets.
The crowd shifts around him as he makes his way through. They must have a faint sense he's on the hunt—the gazes that fall on him don't linger long, and a path opens easily before him. Fascinating how it always tends to be the lower life forms that have the stronger sense of self preservation.
Jason's skull thrums. His pulse matches the beat. There's a haze in the air he doesn't like—not just the heaviness of it, but the lights keep flashing green, and it…he just doesn't like it.
He wants to leave. But Isla the loose-lipped stripper is around here somewhere. And he needs to have a word with her.
He scans the booths in the back, trying to make out details without seeing too much. His skin already feels like it's crawling.
It's tricky to tell in the red-tinged lighting, but he thinks he's spotted his redhead. And she's not alone, of course—she's cozied-up in the crook of the neck of some pathetic bastard.
He approaches them slowly, hoping they'll notice him sooner rather than later. He's trying not to look too threatening, though he knows he can't keep the disgust from his face.
The lighting changes again. It's soft now, brighter. Jason can see how distracted they are with Isla at the guy's throat. Several buttons down his shirt hang open, his neck fully exposed and peppered with red smudges up to his jawline. His blazer is practically pinning his arms back as Isla continues gifting him with the hicky of the year, her free hand casually slipping to his inner thigh.
The dude jolts as she grins into his ear. Jason can see him flush, can practically hear his breathing from here. He can see the sweat that suddenly traps his dark hair against his temple…
His dark hair…
His squirming slight build.
Jason freezes as Isla's hand continues its gradual ascent. He suddenly feels like he's the one with teeth against his earlobe for how sharply his breath catches. He flushes, but for an entirely different reason than the boy in front of him.
The effing kid in front of him.
His jaw tightens as he reaches into his pocket for something—anything—besides a firearm. He might want to at the moment, but the sane portion of him hopes he doesn't actually kill the handsy chick.
He comes up with a folded stack of cash and hurls it at the girl, hitting her in the side of the head. She grunts with a muffled yelp. (He'd held back. He could have hit her much harder.)
The bills scatter, littering the floor and the dazed boy's exposed chest, and Jason decides he hates the sight of it.
The woman throws him an outraged glare. "What the hell—?!"
The look on Jason's face must stop her from fully voicing her indignation, because she pauses, her focus cautiously shifting to the cash. She turns to quickly snatch what's in reach.
"Go. Now," Jason says lowly, dangerously.
She's lucky she doesn't need to be told twice. She leaves the booth in a hurry, stuffing the money down her bra without a backward glance. The money was dirty; Jason hadn't planned on keeping it anyway.
He steps forward, staring hard at the kid in front of him. The kid who shouldn't be anywhere near this shithole, let alone entangled in the talons of some tramp. How the hell did he even get in here anyway? He's nowhere close to twenty-one. But, this is Robin he's talking about, and when has Robin ever needed to use a main entrance that's blocked to him?
He stands over the boy, arms crossing. "What the hell are you doing here, Replacement?"
Disheveled, flustered, and still pink to his ears, Tim scrambles to sit up, pulling his blazer straight as his hands lift to his gaping collar. "Jason? What—what are you doing here? I—I did not need your help there—"
Jason reaches down and grips the kid's jacket, hauling him to his feet. He's not necessarily trying to hurt—or even scare—him, but his temper's slipped and it'll take a minute to reel it back.
He half-drags, half-carries Tim through the horde of sweaty, flailing bodies straight to the nearest exit.
Tim doesn't put up much of a fight apart from struggling to recover his footing as Jason pushes him out the door and into a pool of yellow light on the street.
He paces a moment, eyes locked on Tim and inadvertently counting the lipstick marks lining his throat while the kid fumbles with his collar again.
"I'll ask again: What the hell are you doing here?" Jason asks, drawing to a stop in front of him.
Tim puts up a good front, but Jason still glimpses a subtle wince. "Same thing as you, I imagine," he responds, his voice mostly steady as he straightens his blazer. "Gathering intel on Goodman. I—" he went on, "I had everything under control back there, you really didn't need to—"
"'Under control?'" Jason seethes. "That chick was going to fucking eat you alive! Why the hell did you let her put her hands on you?"
"I didn't exactly let her. She said I was…" Tim trails off, reddening.
"What?"
"She thought I was…cute," he grimaces, "and said she'd talk if…"
"So, she wanted a piece of your ass, despite you obviously being a minor," Jason scoffs, feeling his blood growing heated again. "God, that's disgusting. People like that—" he cuts himself off before his temper slips further. He draws a sharp breath. "You're really shit at negotiating, you know that?"
"I turned eighteen last month," Tim says defensively, though he's still blushing and refusing to meet Jason's eyes.
"I don't care. You're still a goddamn kid." Jason draws a sharp breath through his nose. "I've told you before—I don't want you getting involved in any bullshit related to Goodman."
Tim meets his gaze with narrowed eyes at that. "Oh, okay, Bruce. God, you're not that much older than me. You think you can—"
"Are you here on official bat business?" Jason asks, cutting him off. He knows Bruce would never let Tim get involved in a scene like this on his own. Or supervised.
Tim hesitates. "No, but—"
"Then leave Goodman's gang the hell alone. Otherwise I'll tell the bat you're snooping where you shouldn't be, and I'll get you benched."
Tim's glare deepens, and Jason suddenly notices his lips are tinged crimson. Dammit, so she'd been in his mouth too. His stomach churns.
He takes another step forward, ignoring Tim's flinch as he reaches out to grasp the younger boy's jaw. He stares down at him a drawn out moment before roughly running his thumb along his lips.
"Go home and wash that shit off."
He lets him go with a restrained push and turns back for the entrance, fuming. He has more than a few words to share with Isla.
This is the third time this week Jason's found himself outside Tim's apartment. The first time was coincidence, the second time similar circumstance. This time…this time Jason supposes he can admit is intentional. It's not like he'd gone out of his way or anything to get here; he was in the area. He just thought he'd pass by one more time.
The thing is, Tim usually has his window just cracked when he goes out at night (which, yeah, not the smartest move in Gotham. But he can't exactly point it out because then Tim will ask what the hell he's been doing outside his window—and honestly, who the hell knows?). Apparently he prefers using the fire escape over the interior stairs like a normal person. Jason supposes it allows him to be more discreet in his comings and goings.
Not that he cares or has made it a point to notice.
But the nights that Tim doesn't go out, his window's inevitably lit into the late hours by the faint blue glow of a computer screen.
This week the window's been neither cracked nor glowing. Just dark. There's been no evidence of his comings or goings.
And Jason knows he's not staying at the manor because he actually stopped by there a couple days ago. Not to see if Tim was there, but to check in with Alfred.
Goddammit, why did he feel like he needed to justify his own actions to himself? Just go check on the freaking kid and then go home already. It doesn't need to be so effing hard.
Jason parks his bike under the fire escape. Which he climbs with ease. And the closed window proves to be little to no obstacle either.
The living space is dark and silent, and from what Jason can make out, uncharacteristically messy.
Okay—maybe not completely silent. Light snores sound from the direction of the couch. Weird that he's on the couch instead of in bed. And even weirder that he's actually asleep right now—it's only just after midnight. Tim's always had the terrible habit of doing God knows what every night instead of sleeping.
Jason figures the best way to avoid startling Tim too much is to stop creeping around in the dark. He finds the lamp and flips it on, squinting at the flooding light.
Sure enough, the space is in fairly rough shape, considering Tim's penchant for tidiness. The garbage is overflowing, the counter's obscured by clutter, and the amount of used tissues littering the space is…nasty.
Tim's sprawled across the couch, still oblivious to his late-night intruder, which would normally be inexcusable, but now it's just…well, a little concerning.
Jason steps around to the sofa and peers down at Tim. He looks disheveled, like his hair hasn't been combed—or even washed, probably—in a few days. And Jason's willing to bet his sweatshirt's about week overdue for a trip to the laundromat.
"Hey, Tim."
No response. Still completely unaware. Was Bruce sure about letting this security risk of a kid live alone, unsupervised?
"Timmy." He reaches down to shake his shoulder, which finally earns him a groan and some slight stirring. "You alive, kid?"
Tim's eyes gradually blink open, but he doesn't jump at the sight of an uninvited guest in his living room—yeah, concerning. "Hey—" His voice sounds like it hasn't been used in a few days. He clears his throat and tries again. "Jason? What—what are you doing here?" He looks and sounds pretty out of it.
Jason knew he'd be faced with that question and he also knew he wouldn't have a valid excuse for an answer, apart from the truth. "Just making sure you ain't dead. I was at the manor the other day, and Alfred said you'd been MIA lately."
Tim's slowly sitting up now, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?" he asks, looking around, confused. "Sorry if I missed your call…"
Okay, fair. Jason could have tried calling first before breaking and entering. But for some reason, the thought of calling Tim to casually ask what was up seemed so much weirder than showing up unannounced in the middle of the night.
Jason leans down to tap on the blank phone on the coffee table. It stays blank, just as Jason suspected it would. "How long's your phone been dead?"
"Oh, yeah, I, uh—I meant to plug it in earlier…"
Jason's studying him closely. "How long have you been sick, Tim?" He reaches out, brushing Tim's too-long bangs out of his face and presses his palm against his forehead.
Tim surprisingly doesn't flinch. He seems to unwittingly kind of lean into Jason's cooler touch.
"You're burning up. What's your temperature been?"
"I dunno," Tim says tiredly, easing back against his pillows as Jason pulls his hand away.
"Do you have a thermometer?"
"No," Tim yawns. "I've just been taking Advil for my fever, but I ran out yesterday."
"How long have you had a fever?"
"On and off…? For a while now. 'S taking me forever to kick this crappy illness… It…really sucks." Tim pulls his blanket up, turning to his side.
"How long is forever?" Jason asks, his patience quickly giving way. "Longer than a week?"
"Yeah, probably."
"What do you mean, 'probably?'" Jason huffs. "Will you just—" he tugs the kid's shoulder back around towards him, not too roughly. "I'm trying to talk to you."
"And I'm trying to sleep." Tim reaches up to push stray strands out of his face once more. "Look, I'm not meaning to be rude," he explains. "I appreciate you checking in on me and all. It's just—I feel so shitty, and I've finally been able to get some fairly decent sleep tonight, which has been really difficult with this god-awful sinus headache I keep getting, and my throat's been killing me…" he trails off, releasing a drained breath.
"You've had a fever for over a week and you haven't been in to see someone?" Jason doesn't mean to glare, but he's pretty sure he's glaring.
"I've felt too crappy. And I keep waiting for it to just go away on its own… Plus, I don't have a doctor."
"Hello? Leslie?" Jason spits out.
"Yeah, but then Bruce would be all worried, and I'd basically be on house arrest in the manor with Alfred fussing, when he has so much else on his plate…"
"You're basically living under house arrest here," Jason gestures. "Alone. In squalor. 'Cause you can't look after yourself."
"I've been sick…my apartment doesn't normally look like this."
"That's not the point, Tim." Jason says, releasing an exasperated breath. "God, kids can be stupid. I can't believe you didn't ask Leslie for antibiotics days ago."
"I…didn't think I needed any?"
"A fever that long-lasting usually indicates an infection. You know that, you're not an idiot."
"Yeah, but even so, it should still eventually go away on its own."
"What about Dick? Why hasn't he been keeping an eye on you?"
"He's had some business in Bludhaven to deal with this past week. I've texted him a bit, but I'm not sure when he's getting back…"
Jason scoffs. "This is ridiculous. I tried telling Bruce you weren't old enough to live on your own."
"Where are you going?" Tim asks, pushing himself up.
"I'm going to get you some proper medicine, and then I'm taking you straight to Leslie's in the morning."
"Jason—" Tim calls, but Jason's already closing the door behind him.
Stupid kid, Jason fumes, making his way back down to his bike. What's so freaking hard about reaching out to someone—anyone? Bruce would send Alfred over in a heartbeat. Hell, even Bruce himself would stop by if he knew the state Tim was in.
Jason can't help the tiny prick of admonishment he feels at that. He knows he'd be doing—has done—the exact same thing as Tim. Which is to avoid anyone and everyone before ever resorting to admitting he might need a little help or attention. But still, he wants Tim to be smarter than he is. He knows Tim's smarter than he is. So why is the idiot letting himself slowly decline with a likely treatable illness when his phone is right there within arm's reach?
The psychology of the past and present Robins really is a bit of a shit show, isn't it, Jason muses. He can admit it in an objective way. And honestly, probably in a subjective way too.
It takes a little time to find a twenty-four hour convenience store, and Jason isn't pulling back up to Tim's apartment until the better part of forty-five minutes have passed.
He'd left the door unlocked for himself, and he finds Tim in the same state he left him. Only, he's curled up now, blanket drawn tightly around his form, and Jason sees a shudder pass through him as he nears. The dark lines of his lashes are stark against his white face.
Jason draws his gaze away. He's not sure if he should let him continue sleeping or wake him for a dose of Tylenol. He sets the plastic bag on the counter and pulls out the thermometer, ripping into the box. He turns for Tim, leaning over him and vaguely wondering if he's being more helpful or intrusive.
The thermometer slides between Tim's parted lips with ease, and Jason presses his jaw closed around it. He tries not to be too rough, but he feels weird trying to be all gentle. Jason hardly considers himself capable of caring for a cat, so he's not really sure how he ended up in this situation.
Tim's eyes finally flutter open at the thermometer's high-pitched beep and he startles slightly at the foreign object in his mouth.
"One oh three point four," Jason announces, pulling it out and eyeing the reading. "Damn, Tim, that's pretty high."
Tim just shivers in response, pulling his blanket closer. "Jason? …What are you doing?"
"I'm making sure you don't die, remember?"
"Why, though?" Tim's voice is quiet, and he still sounds mostly out of it, but Jason senses some sincere curiosity behind the question.
He scoffs. "Because no one else is," he offers simply, turning back for the counter. He rummages through the bag, ripping into another small box. He fumbles with the safety plastic a minute, wondering what idiot found it necessary to package Theraflu like it was the most dangerous substance in the world.
He finally gets the cap off and fills the little cup with menthol-smelling goop.
"I always thought you didn't like me…?"
"You always were perceptive," Jason says, turning for the couch once more.
Tim coughs into the crook of his arm. "Then why are you helping me?" he asks, clearing his throat.
Jason pauses, cup full of medicine in hand. "What, you want me to leave?" he asks, gesturing.
"No."
"Then shut up and drink this," Jason pushes the cup at Tim, annoyed.
It takes Tim a moment to right himself, but he manages and accepts the cup with another shiver. Jason can't help noticing the shadows under his eyes.
"Look," Jason continues, "don't take it personal, okay? I don't really like anyone."
Tim lowers the emptied cup, grimacing. "You like Dick," he says, swallowing thickly and offering it back to Jason.
Jason considers him a moment. "Yeah, I suppose," he finally replies. "When he isn't being an insufferable moron. Which is rare."
"You like Alfred."
"What kind of asshole wouldn't like Alfred?"
That earns him a weak grin from Tim. "True."
Jason sets the cup on the counter.
"…And Bruce?" Tim asks, hesitant.
Jason turns back to him, face blank. "…You really want to talk to me about Bruce?"
Tim holds his gaze a moment, seemingly trying to read something from him before slowly dropping it.
Jason tries to stamp out the needless anger that briefly flares up at that. The kid's sick, so he'll cut him some slack. And it's not like either of them has the best track record of holding normal, civil conversations with the other.
"Sorry, I was just…"
"Look, just stop grilling me, sickie. Get some sleep." Jason folds the plastic bag closed and starts gathering his discarded trash. "I'm gonna crash here tonight, so I'll be in your room if you need anything."
Tim's voice is still thick and scratchy, but his surprise clearly seeps through. "Oh, yeah, sure," he seems to have brightened a little at that. "You can use my bed. Just sleep on top of the comforter and grab the pillow in the closet. It's clean. I wouldn't want you catching my hellish disease."
"Right," Jason says, still collecting littered garbage. He swaps out the overflowing bag for a new one.
He can feel Tim watching him silently.
He starts running the sink next, warming the water.
"You know, you really don't need to do that…" Tim speaks up, sounding uneasy, apologetic.
Jason ignores him, dumping about a half cup of dishsoap in the sink. He arms himself with a scrubber, aiming to give the dishes the full Red Hood experience.
He tries to dismiss it as he scrubs away at the crusted grime, but he feels his tension mounting for some unknown reason. It's annoying as hell.
"Listen," he says, suddenly slamming the faucet off. "I don't hate Bruce. And I don't hate you." He has no idea why he feels the need to explain himself to the stupid kid, but for some reason he can't help it. "Anyone with half a brain who's known me for longer than five minutes would know that." He shakes the water off his hands harshly, spattering suds across the cabinets.
Tim merely stares at him, a small furrow in his brow.
Jason sighs, setting the last dish aside and wiping his hands. "I can help whoever I want whenever I goddamn want to, okay? Just go to sleep. I'll see how you're doing in the morning."
Tim blinks, and there's a heaviness behind it that doesn't surprise Jason. He'd given him PM medicine, after all, and that shit can actually hit fast. "Well…thanks, Jason," Tim says softly.
"Yeah, yeah. 'Night," Jason says, waving him off and heading for the bedroom.
He sleeps surprisingly well in Tim's contaminated bed (which he's not too worried about, considering he hardly ever gets sick, himself. Whether or not that's a result of… Well, he just doesn't get sick often), and he wakes fairly early despite the late hours during the night.
He stretches, making his way to Tim's bathroom where he gratefully finds some mouthwash. He rinses his face, avoiding his reflection, and makes his way back out to the living room.
Tim's still sound asleep. Snoring again, only heavier this time. He sounds miserably congested.
Jason rummages through the kitchen, not coming up with much apart from three different types of granola/energy bars and he figures they'll have to do for now.
He locates the discarded thermometer on the coffee table and slips it between Tim's teeth once more.
102.1. Damn, still fairly high.
He doesn't notice Tim blinking up at him till his raspy voice replaces the snoring. "Hey…" He coughs heavily. "You're still here."
"Of course I am, I take my role as nursemaid very seriously."
Tim snorts lightly at that. "You can go," he says through a labored stretch. "You don't need to stick around here today, I'll be fine."
Jason studies him a moment. If he hadn't witnessed him dead to the world mere moments ago, he would swear the kid hasn't slept in two days. "I told you I was taking you to Leslie this morning."
Tim slides his feet to the floor and drops his head to his hands, scrubbing at his face. "Sorry, man, I can't get on your bike this morning," he says, glancing up blearily. "I feel too shitty."
"I could call for an Uber."
"Nah," Tim says, slowly drawing himself to his feet. His balance seems off or something, he's taking too long to gather himself. "I appreciate it, but I just need to use the bathroom and then lie back down…"
Jason watches him make his way unsteadily down the hall. Tim's not usually difficult just for the sake of being difficult, so Jason assumes he's telling the truth about feeling too shitty to travel.
Fine, then. A simple phone call will solve their dilemma.
Jason's just hanging up his phone when Tim returns, shuffling and unkempt.
"Who was that?"
"Leslie. She said she'll be here in an hour."
Tim groans, dropping back onto the couch. "Doesn't she have patients today?"
"If it was a problem, she would have said so."
"No, now her schedule's probably gonna be all messed up, but she's too nice to say so—"
"Tim," Jason cuts in. "If it was a problem, she would have said so."
"She's probably just worried about me now."
"You think?"
"Which is going to make Bruce and Alfred all worried, and then Dick will catch word of it, and—"
"Tim, would you relax?"
"It's just a stupid cold."
"Yeah? You a doctor now? I must have missed your graduation from med school, when did that happen?"
"Really, I just…I hate people being inconvenienced because of me."
"Yeah, who doesn't? Just shut up and let someone take care of you for five minutes. Goddamn. I think Bruce would be a hell of a lot more 'inconvenienced' if you end up in the hospital with sepsis or some shit."
Tim sighs and drops his head against the couch, staring at the ceiling with glossy eyes.
Jason steps away to the kitchen, grabbing one of the (now sparkling) cups he'd scrubbed last night. He fills it with water and returns to Tim, holding it out.
Tim accepts it with a muttered thanks.
"Do you feel up to eating? I can grab us some food."
Tim struggles to swallow a few gulps of water before replying. "Not right now. Thanks though."
Jason decides to let Tim sulk for a bit and returns to his bedroom to find a book. He's a little begrudging to admit Tim has an impressively tasteful collection he'd noticed on his bookshelf last night.
He pulls out one of his old favorite classics—Catcher in the Rye—and drops down on Tim's bed.
He's just about to the part where Holden packs up and blows off prep school, when he hears voices from the living area. Not wanting to interrupt just yet, he goes back to his book, hoping to give Leslie some time to assess Tim.
When he emerges another five minutes later, Leslie already appears to be gathering her things.
"Well?" Jason asks.
"Bad case of strep," Leslie explains, jotting something down on a notepad.
Jason tilts his head at Tim with a very blatant I told you so look. Tim meets his glance but refuses to hold it. "I knew he needed antibiotics."
"Do you think you can get this filled for him?" Leslie asks, ripping the top sheet off and handing it to Jason.
Tim clearly wants to intervene, but Leslie gives him another slightly admonishing look, and he keeps quiet.
"Yeah. Sure," Jason says, taking the prescription from her. "Did you give him a good dressing-down for being stupid?"
"Not in so many words…but yes, I reprimanded him for neglecting his health."
"And you'll tell the bat and Dick to keep a better eye on him?"
Leslie zips up and snaps together her bag, pausing a moment before she answers. "I will, despite Tim's protests. We could have been dealing with rheumatic fever before long." Her eyes linger on Tim a long, measuring moment before trailing thoughtfully back to Jason. "Thank goodness he has more than one loyal bat brother looking out for him, though." Jason isn't certain, but he could almost swear she'd winked at him just then.
She shoulders her bag with a promise of checking in as soon as she can tomorrow, and departs out the door, leaving Jason draped in dumbfounded silence.
Jason quietly crosses the second floor mezzanine, heading down the corridor towards the training room.
He's already certain of what he'll find there—he could practically hear every block, swing, duck, and parry of Tim and Dick's sparring session from the moment he stepped foot in the manor.
It's always a little strange for Jason to visit without a legitimate excuse. He usually has a 'pressing' reason from Alfred to stop by—an 'important' piece of mail that he thinks Jason should look at before it gets filed or tossed, a freshly baked dessert with one of Jason's 'favorite' fruits that happen to be in season (Jason must have at least four favorite types of fruit, according to Alfred), a question or needed opinion regarding some of their latest tech that would honestly be better directed towards Tim…
But today Jason just happened to be in the area. And he had an inkling both Tim and Dick would be there, as they usually were most Saturday mornings. And he thought, what the hell, he could stop in to say hi if he felt like it.
Of course, he would never tell them that. He'd lie and say he was there for Alfred if they ask. But yeah, he was pretty much there to just shoot the shit because he happened to feel like it, and it didn't need to be a big deal, goddamn.
He enters the room quietly, hoping to sort of sneak in unseen, but of course it takes Dick all of half a second to notice him.
"Jay!" Dick calls across the room brightly, sparing Jason a half-moment's surprised glance. He diverts his attention back to the fight for a series of well-timed blocks. "What's up, what are you doing here?"
Jason steps in further. He could have sworn he'd heard the clashing of weapons from the entry hall, but they appear to have been abandoned across the floor in favor of hand-to-hand now.
"Just passing through," Jason offers vaguely, watching Tim gain the upper hand for a brief moment, as Dick ducks a split second too late and grunts loudly.
Unlike Dick, Tim can't afford to spare any of his attention—his eyes remain glued to his opponent, thoroughly ignoring the bystander in the room. And Jason doesn't blame him; he knows both he and Tim don't really stand much of a chance against Dick when it comes to fair, straightforward martial arts.
Jason has to get creative if he wants to pull off a win against Dick, despite having the larger stature. Dick's fast. Annoyingly fast. And naturally inclined to outmaneuver his opponent in close combat—always seeming to see at least one move ahead. Sometimes two or three though, Jason swears the dude's part psychic in a fight.
And he can see Dick's advantage starting to wear against Tim now, though the smaller kid has been putting up a decent effort.
A quick succession of jabs and blocks on both sides, and Dick pulls out the old tried and true (and unfair, Tim quickly claims) leg-sweep.
And, of course, the sparring session immediately becomes a wrestling match.
This is where Jason would shine. Weight isn't the ultimate deciding factor in wrestling, but it's close to it, and Jason outweighs Dick by a good margin. Despite Dick being a solid opponent, Jason's pinned him many satisfying times before, and he'll be sure to do it again the next time the opportunity arises.
Tim, on the other hand, doesn't stand a chance against Jason or Dick in a wrestling match, as Dick is quickly proving by partially smashing him into the floor and locking him into an inescapable hold.
Tim's in good shape and his physique's filled out a bit this past year, but he still has the wiry build of a teen, and it's not going to earn him any wins against the older two any time soon.
"You're just in time to see Tim concede a third victory to me this morning," Dick says from the floor, tightening his hold on a struggling Tim.
"Nice." For some odd reason, there's a discarded Rubik's cube on the bench next to him, and Jason picks it up and starts fiddling with it, drawing half his attention away from the fight.
"I'm not conceding anything," Tim huffs, trying vainly to pry Dick's arms off him. He must have just done something particularly painful with his elbow because it's Dick who's grunting next and immediately shifting his hold.
"Okay, okay," Tim practically yelps, suddenly sounding panicked. "This isn't—fun anymore!"
Jason glances up at the younger boy's abrupt change in tone and isn't surprised to see Dick's free hand has found Tim's exposed side. Jason can't help snickering as Tim's writhing takes on a new desperation. Dick's usually an insufferably fair opponent. But rarely, when he feels like it, he can be so unfair.
"Ugh," Tim grunts, face pinched in a grimace at Dick's onslaught against his ribs. "You—cheating—asshole!"
"Anything's fair game on the mat, Tim," Dick says, unrelenting. "All you gotta do is let the laughter out and say uncle, and this ends now."
Tim's holding out pretty impressively, but Jason can see a crack form in the facade as Tim's scowl unwillingly morphs into a smile.
"Screw—you!" Tim yelps again as Dick's hand suddenly slips under his arm and Jason knows he's done for. The floodgates of laughter have parted.
"There you go, Timmy," Dick laughs triumphantly, still not letting up. "Now say uncle."
"Fuhuhuck you!"
"Tim!" Dick exclaims in mock disbelief as he doubles down on the kid, eliciting another frantic bout of laughter. "Where did you learn such language—did Jason teach you that?"
Tim's protests are incoherent now and, despite being very amused, Jason starts to feel for him. He's been on the receiving end of Dick's teasing more than once, and when Dick gets you feeling truly helpless, it sucks. He figures it wouldn't hurt to save the kid. In fact, it might even be more amusing than his current predicament.
"You know, you're beating on a kid who was dying of rheumatic fever just a mere two weeks ago," Jason casually offers, giving the Rubik's cube another couple spins.
The tickling suddenly stops and Tim's laughter fades to exhausted wheezes.
"What was that?" Dick asks, untangling himself from Tim and letting him flop down limply against the mat.
"Yeah, the kid was dying of rheumatic fever a couple weeks ago," Jason clarifies.
"What?"
"And he tried to hide it from everyone, did I mention that?"
Dick's gaze immediately drops to Tim, scanning the spent boy in front of him, searching for any hint of truth to Jason's claims.
"Alfred mentioned Tim was recently ill, but no one told me it was that serious," Dick says, sounding rightfully concerned. "You tried to hide it?" he asks, addressing a still-unmoving Tim.
Tim wearily rolls to his back, letting his arms drop uselessly back against the mat. He shoots Jason a glare. "I had a mild case of strep throat."
Jason snorts. "Mild?" He turns back to Dick, "When I found him, he'd been bed-bound with a high fever for over a week—no medicine or food in sight—couldn't eat, could hardly drink. He'd been ignoring everyone for days with a dead phone—"
"Oh my—" Tim interjects, pushing himself to his seat now. "That is such over-exaggerated bullsh—!"
"He was too sick to move," Jason continues, "so I had to have Leslie come to him. And she wasn't too happy seeing the state he was in."
Tim stares at Jason, appalled, and pointedly ignores the very same stare Dick is directing at him.
Jason smirks. He'd been wanting to call the kid out in front of Dick for a while now, since Dick is really the only one who can give him the proper berating he deserves.
"Is this true, Tim?"
"It was not rheumatic fever," Tim quickly tries to explain to Dick. "It was just a bad case of strep. Jason's just trying to get a rise out of me—out of both of us."
"You were really that sick while I was gone? And you didn't call me? I could have left Bludhaven at any time—the case there wasn't that pressing. You knew that." The way Dick is able to sound so equally worried and offended at the same time has got to be a skill, Jason muses.
"Oh, come on, Dick, you know I would have called if I needed you. Jason's making it sound way worse than it was—"
"Oh, and you might ask:," Jason cuts in, his smirk widening, "was this before or after Tim nearly contracted an STD by getting mauled by some handsy stripper at the club?"
Dick's eyes widen even further, but before he can voice his what?! Tim's already on his feet, growling. "Okay, Jason, you want to go?! Is that what this is?!"
Jason's grin solidifies as he tosses the completed Rubik's cube to a gaping Dick nearby. He shrugs his jacket off, casting it aside. "Thought you'd never ask."
Three shots fired.
One into Tim.
Two into the bastard Jason hadn't noticed until it was too late. He drops like the sack of shit that he is.
Jason doesn't pause to see if he'd killed him—he doesn't care. Tim's down.
Tim, who isn't supposed to be anywhere near here. Who isn't even supposed to know who Goodman is, let alone be sneaking around the scene of one of his shit show 'business transactions.'
Tim, who very well may have just saved Jason's life by jumping in front of the asshole Jason missed.
Tim was an idiot. Jason would have seen him in time.
"Tim. Tim." Somehow Jason's mask is already off and discarded, and Tim is gathered in his arms. His eyes are shut and there's a disturbingly dark stain rapidly ruining his white button down. "Open your goddamn eyes, Tim."
Tim can be such a good kid sometimes, he really can. He actually listens to him and his eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused. "Shi…t."
"Good, kid. Stay with me." Jason's propping Tim's shoulders against him while hastily pulling at his school blazer. Why the hell the kid had followed him in his civilian wear will be a question for later.
"Ugh—the hell…?"
"You were shot," Jason says, quickly losing his patience with Tim's uniform. The blazer's finally free and cast aside, and he tugs harshly at the tie, loosening it enough to rip the shirt open, several buttons scattering across the asphalt.
There's a hole in Tim's side, and Jason could swear every drop of blood in Tim's body is clamoring to escape through it as fast as possible.
"Shit, Tim," Jason says, staring at the spreading pool, wondering for a moment if his eyes are playing tricks on him. It looks so wrong coming from Tim.
He fumbles a moment, not quite knowing what to do, the slickness on his hands making bile rise in his throat. It's Tim's blood. All of it's Tim's, and there's way too much of it.
He snatches up the blazer, wadding it and pressing it against Tim's side as hard as he can, willing the flow to stop.
"Tss—" Tim hisses thickly, "'at hurts."
"I know." Jason doesn't have anything else to offer at the moment as he continues smashing the blazer into Tim's wound, demanding the blood just stop already.
The blazer's only getting soaked, it's not stopping. He needs help.
But, shit, he doesn't have his phone on him—Goodman's goons wouldn't have let him in the warehouse earlier if he had.
"Tim, are you wired into Oracle?" Of course he isn't, he's wearing his effing school uniform.
"No…" Tim says through a heavy breath, eyes squinting shut.
"Hey," Jason gives him a rough nudge. "Keep your eyes open." He reaches down to frisk Tim's pants, finding his phone in one of the front pockets. He has to scrub his hand against his jacket before he can attempt using it.
"Passcode," Jason orders, maneuvering Tim to hold him upright with one arm.
Tim takes another labored breath, grimacing, and Jason gives him another urgent shake. "Tim, I need your passcode!"
"It's…one, zero…zero, seven."
Jason could have probably guessed it would be something as obvious and sentimental as the manor's address. That's Tim for you.
He's into the phone and dialing up Dick in mere seconds. He doesn't have time for 911 dispatch questions, he'll let Dick deal with that. He just needs to get their location out.
"Hey, Tim."
"Dick, it's Jason, shut up and don't ask questions. I need EMS, fast as possible. Tim's down. We're way the hell out in the Tricorner Yards. Between piers eleven and twelve. Tim's been shot, he's losing blood—"
"What?! Jay, did you say Tim's been—"
"Dick. Did you get that? Get Oracle on it immediately or call 911 yourself, but get a goddamn ambulance here as fast as you can. I can't talk, I've got to take care of Tim. Call back if you need me to repeat the location."
Jay hits the end button and tosses the phone aside.
Tim's still limp against him, his chest rising and falling heavily. He seems to be doing his best to keep lifting his eyelids every time they slip shut. Good kid.
Jason's mind is racing. With their location at the far end of the Tricorner, it's likely EMS won't reach them for at least ten minutes. Possibly more.
In ten shitty, meaningless minutes, Tim could lose more blood than his slight teenage frame can afford.
He doesn't know exactly what the right move is here, but he knows he'll only hate himself more if he does nothing.
He adjusts Tim against him again, reaching for his own pocket this time and pulling out his lighter. He pauses for a split second, thinking, then moves to grasp his belt buckle, ripping it off. It's flat, thick, and solidly metal. It'll do.
He strikes the lighter, holding it off to the side as much as he can without Tim slipping. He wants to keep the buckle out of Tim's view as he heats it.
"Timmy?" Jason gives him another nudge and Tim grunts in response. "Why'd you do it, Tim?"
"Mm?"
"Why would you do such a stupid thing as jumping in front of a bullet?"
"Mm…might have hit you."
Jason tsks. "You stupid, stupid kid." The metal's starting to glow faintly.
"Funny way…to say 'thanks.'"
"Oh, I'll be 'thanking' you in a minute," Jason says regretfully, noting Tim hasn't seen the lighter yet. "You ever do anything like this again…" Jason trails off, the and you're dead quickly catching in his throat.
"Jay," Tim says weakly. "I was never…your replacement. Could never…replace you…"
"Shut up, Tim." The buckle's glowing hotter now.
"You have to know… You have to know how much…how much Bruce cares…"
"Wha—?" Jason scoffs, dumbfounded, nearly burning his finger as he glances down at Tim.
"How much…we all care…'bout you."
"Shit choice of final words, Tim." Jason says, angry, setting the buckle aside a moment. "But guess what?" He pushes Tim down between his legs, pinning his arms with his thighs. He reaches for the discarded tie. "You don't get final words. Not today. Not with me." He pulls the tie over Tim's head, tightening the knot in his mouth and tying the loose ends behind him.
Tim seems to come back to himself as he gags, startled.
"Bite down on that, Timmy," Jason says, resuming heating the belt buckle. "You're not going to like this next part."
Tim finally eyes the glowing metal in Jason's hand and he starts at the sight of it, suddenly squirming violently in Jason's hold.
"Ngh–" Tim mumbles something against the gag that sounds a lot like are you crazy?!
Jason tightens up on him, sticking the cool end of the buckle between his teeth so he can adjust Tim once more beneath him.
"I'm sorry, Tim," Jason says, grasping the buckle again in one hand, while the other finds Tim's hair, attempting to calm him a measure. I can't risk you bleeding out. I can't.
Tim's still struggling against him, pleading incoherently, and Jason apologetically strokes his hair one last time, urging him to still.
Chest heaving, Tim's struggling slows as he seems to somewhat accept the inevitable. He whimpers as Jason brushes the saturated blazer aside.
"Sorry, Tim," Jason whispers once more, ignoring the sweat trailing between his eyes.
He ensures his hold on Tim again, forcing as much of his weight over him as he can, and presses the belt buckle against his wound.
Tim lurches against him, his scream strangled by the gag, and Jason has another split-second thought that his senses must be playing tricks on him with how wrong the scene is. How wrong Tim's writhing body feels underneath him. How wrong his stifled, high-pitched pleading sounds.
The smell immediately makes Jason queasy, but he doesn't let up. He continues to hold Tim firmly as he pries the belt buckle free, lifting it for another session of heating.
Tim's moaning, crying, his hair drenched in sweat, still begging for Jason to let him up, to stop. To stop, to stop, to stop.
The second time Jason presses the belt buckle to Tim's mangled flesh, Tim—thank God—passes out.
Jason does one more round for good measure, checking the wound closely, relieved there's no longer a river of red trailing from it. He pulls Tim's limp form back up against his chest, gripping his jaw, making sure the gag had done its job of keeping his tongue in one piece. His skin is clammy and he smells of sweat and burned flesh, but Jason holds him close enough to feel his breath, feel his chest still working in and out.
He gingerly pats Tim's hair again and swears to whatever God may or may not be out there, he'll do whatever it takes to make amends with the bat if someone—anyone—else will just play the role of Catcher in the Rye and save this freaking kid.
A/N: So, with my fairly meager grasp on current Batman canon, I'm not sure I feel qualified to write for this fandom, but it's one I've enjoyed reading for quite a long time. I'm such a sucker for any interactions between Jason and Tim—particularly when Jason is in protective mode. I thought I'd try my hand at writing a little angst between them, and I had a lot of fun with it.
I recently reread Catcher in the Rye, and for those of you familiar with it, do you remember when Holden says his only true ambition in life is to be the figurative "catcher in the rye" and save the children playing in the field before they unknowingly come too close to the cliff's edge? It reminded me so much of Jason.
Anyway, thanks for reading! :)