Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soup was the first thing Jay noticed when he stepped inside the Manor. The spicy aroma wafting through the air was rich and heady. Alfie's special recipe. A bittersweet wash of nostalgia floated on those same air currents; there was no escaping the memory of coming home after long days of patrol, soaked and chilled yet again by Gotham's perpetually pissy weather. The hot showers helped, but it was always the food that truly swept the chill from his bones and reminded him that, even if just for now, he had a home to keep the cold out, no matter how bad it got outside. He had people to keep the cold out.

Jay left the entryway, not entirely tamping down the smile tugging at his lips.

Whatever appetite had been starting to scratch and claw at his stomach died the moment he discovered the location of the soup. "What the hell?"

The kitchen floor was awash in splotches and splashes of red that instinctively triggered a very different feeling in his stomach. Jay grimaced and tried to ignore the suddenly too vibrant color. Streaks and blotches surrounded the epicenter, while smaller dots peppered the lower cabinets and the legs of nearby bar stools. "Looks like Hermann Rorschach beat the shit out of Jackson Pollock in here," Jay grumbled, tension crawling into the base of his spine and slithering its way from vertebrae to shoulder blades.

This is wrong. As much as he hated the mess in Alfred's pristinely maintained kitchen, it wasn't this that left a burn of acid in his stomach and cords of tension sewn through his muscles. It was the fact that no one was there to clean it up. The house was quiet. Since fucking when is it this quiet?

Normally a mess like this would've resulted in an all-hands-on-deck flurry of activity to restore the kitchen to its usual spic-and-span glory, lest the wrath of Alfred descend upon the household. It was one thing to make a mess—the Jason of years ago had been continually surprised and relieved by Alfred's infinite patience as he guided him through lessons in culinary preparation. It was another thing entirely to leave it there.

"All right, who am I going to have to kill today?" The words would've felt more fun to say if there hadn't been a pistol nestled in his grasp. Dickhead, probably. As far as he knew, Dick was in Blüdhaven again, but there was no guarantee he hadn't swung by for a quick visit. And if any of them was chaotic enough to cause a mess like this and scattered enough to somehow leave it there, Dick was a prime candidate. Most of the other family members were definitely in the thick of missions at last check, and the remaining candidates seemed incapable of such a gaffe.

Granted, the only time Dickhead got this clumsy was when illness had thrown a wrench in his Bat-honed reaction time and normally preternatural levels of grace. So maybe Jay would only yell at him half the usual amount once he found him. Wherever the fuck he was.

Normally he would've made a beeline for one of two places: family bedrooms, or the ever-popular secret subterranean hideout. But a prickling at his nape warned him he needn't go that far. It wasn't the danger one, per se. It was that universal proximity alarm humans had.

That tingle in the quiet that meant, You aren't alone.

Jay kept to the lower levels, sweeping from edge to corner on swift and silent feet. Rationally, there was little reason to believe the countless security measures and safeguards of Wayne Manor had been breached.

Also rationally, something was off, and if he'd had a fucking nickel for every time one of them had been attacked somewhere they'd thought was "safe"…well, Bruce might have had some competition in the obnoxious-rich-guy act.

A lean around another corner revealed a splash of light in the dimmed hallway. One of the spare bathrooms, then—door well ajar. A few moments of observation gave the silence time to be interrupted by a clatter that sounded like plastic hitting the tiled floor. Soon followed by the sound of soft cursing. Just one voice, quiet and subdued, but not distressed. Familiar as well, and clearly not hiding, based on the open door.

Though it wasn't until he finished his approach and did a visual sweep for himself that he finally holstered the gun. "Timbo. Don't tell me that shitty attempt at modern art on the kitchen floor was your doing?" Please say it wasn't. That was most definitely the prick of danger. Tim, the kid who still didn't seem entirely convinced he wouldn't be disowned over broken windows, had left a mess like that in the kitchen? In Alfred's kitchen?

"Yeah. Sorry." He didn't meet Jay's eyes, and his face stayed angled away and curtained by the carefully trimmed layers of hair. But his voice still gave him away, coming out watery and a little choked. He swallowed before adding, "I'll clean it up soon, I promise." It was a little less shaky this time, but there was a thin, reedy edge of pleading there that Jay hated.

Courtesy of the Drakes.

Whatever follow-up threats Jay might've made in this situation didn't get past his throat. This idiot would probably take me seriously. So Jay kept with silence for the time being, arms folded and hip leaned against the door frame as he observed Tim…proceeding to make a sequel to Rorschach Stomps Pollock, by all indications.

The kid was perched on the counter, with an array of supplies from one of their countless first-aid kits scattered next to him. When he reached for a tube of ointment—analgesic? antibiotic?—Jay found his eyes pulled at once to a far more pressing issue. "The fuck's wrong with your hand? Hands," he amended, because the tremors and irregular tension had affected not just one but both.

Tim flinched, curling into himself a little, shoulders becoming even more hunched. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Your idea of 'fine' looks like mid-stage Parkinson's that apparently has a more rapid onset than the flu, because it hasn't been that long since I last saw your scrawny ass."

"Just—just nerve toxin."

…What? "I'm sorry…'just'…'nerve toxin'? Just?"

Tim blew out a sigh, broadcasting his irritation. "It's just a mild case. I'll be fine once it clears out of my system."

Jay closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose to push back the encroaching headache. And possibly the admittedly ironic desire to strangle this kid for his lack of self-care instincts. "Tim. Timmy. Answer me this. Where exactly is the old man? Actually, better question: Why in the ever-living hell is the answer to that anything other than 'right here'?"

Tim gave a huff that sounded more tired than defiant. "Because, like I said, it's a mild case and I don't need to be under observation. I already told Bruce the same thing I told you: I'm fine."

"And he believed that."

The disdain must've been clear in his voice, because Tim flinched abruptly before straightening his spine and finally turning to glare at Jay. "It's an important mission, Jay. I've already taken the antidote, and the tremors aren't even as bad as they were before. It's not gonna make me feel any better to have him stay here like I'm just a kid—"

Says the old man of seven-fucking-teen.

"—when there are way better things he could be doing."

Better.

His voice sounded the strongest it had the whole conversation, and the speech probably would've been pretty convincing, were it not for the red-rimmed eyes and sheen of sweat over his brow—both newly visible now that he'd finally turned to meet Jay in the eye.

He was going to kill Bruce. Priorities, though. "If everything is so peachy, care to tell me what you're doing with the first-aid kit now?" He arched a brow for emphasis.

Tim gave him a fawn-in-the-headlights blink, like he hadn't anticipated a Part 2 for the conversation. "Oh." Defiance slid into embarrassment. "The soup." He looked away, but couldn't hide the flush creeping up his skin. "I burned myself a little."

"Yeah, and how bad is 'a little' in your world, exactly?"

"Well, um." His hands found the hem of the black sweatshirt he was wearing, and clumsily pulled up the edge, revealing an angry, blotched patch of red that extended from halfway down his ribcage to just above his right hip. "It, it still…hurts a little bit, but—"

"I will fucking sock you if I hear the word 'fine' come out of your mouth again. That's a fucking second-degree burn, Tim!"

"I know! I already—I already used a compress on it. I just, just need to put this antibiotic cream on, and it'll be fine."

"And how exactly are you planning to do that with your hands shot to hell?" Jay snapped in response.

The items carelessly scattered onto the floor suddenly made all too much sense. Not only was the kid unable to grip anything well, he'd probably been in too much pain to bother retrieving the dropped materials.

"I'll figure it out. My hands aren't completely useless, Jason."

He didn't miss the real words underneath.

"I'm not completely useless, Jason."

He didn't hide the grimace as he watched the kid wrap stiff, trembling fingers around the latest tube of antibiotic cream and begin slow attempts to untwist the cap. He soon gave up on his hands, maneuvering the item to his mouth and using his teeth to bite into the plastic instead.

Jay shifted his weight before finally pushing off the door frame and turning to head down the hallway. "You have five minutes," he threw over his shoulder.

"Wha—"

"Five minutes, Timmy!"

The swears that followed him down the hallway just brought a small smile to his lips.

A little backtracking and a jaunt up the stairs quickly brought him to the target room. Jay took a second to survey the space. Pens and pencils lay scattered across the desk, stripes of dark punctuating a rumpled field of white. How the kid ever found anything amongst the stacks of notes and case files and comic books, Jay still couldn't fathom.

The computer equipment taking up much of the room's other half was similarly buried, though a little less suffocated. And in between lay a field of clothes, action figures—Jay smiled in spite of himself—and books. The smile vanished. He was going to kill the kid.

Once he was better.

"No fucking respect," he grumbled, snatching up the nearest one. Odd Thomas, by Dean Koontz. All right, excellent choice, Timmy. He might have to get the kid the next book in the series. Or the whole rest of it. After a lengthy lecture about storage conditions, of course. But it was the kid's birthday soon, right? Shit, who cared—he'd come up with an excuse.

His lips stayed pursed as he continued rescuing the lost literature, but his mood was further mollified by what he didn't see as he worked. Not a single food container or plate in sight, aside from a single mug and thermos of tea on the bedside table. "Well, isn't that just a Christmas miracle in July. Halle-fucking-lujah."

It was the single thing he'd requested—okay, demanded—of Tim regarding his pigsty of a room. Clutter was one thing; vermin traps were nothing but unacceptable.

Points for Timbo. This would cut the book lecture down by a nice 40 percent or so. Maybe.

Jay continued keeping a tally in his head as he stripped off the bedclothes, bundled them with the other neglected laundry, and cleared the rest of the sundry items from the floor and other surfaces.

No way in hell was he organizing the boy's files for him—that probably would've backfired anyways—but he could get the shit cleared off for later sorting.

By the time he returned to the bathroom doorway, Tim had succeeded in removing the ridge-lined plastic cap and now had the tube itself carefully clenched between his teeth in lieu of trying to squeeze things out with his weakened hands.

Not bad.

That was the extent of his triumphs. He had the hem of his shirt awkwardly pincered and twisted between his right middle, ring, and pinky fingers while attempting to apply the medication with his left.

Sweat still beaded across his brow, and for someone who was supposed to be recovering, he looked markedly like his trembling had worsened in Jay's absence.

As if to confirm the grim impression, a stray spasm jerked Tim's hand, causing a fingernail to snag on his already wounded skin and draw blood—actual fucking blood. Tim couldn't fully suppress the pained cry that escaped his lips then, dropping the antibiotics as he doubled over in pain.

"That's it. That's fucking enough, Tim," Jay gritted, grabbing Tim's wrist to keep him from injuring himself further.

"I still have one minute left," Tim shot back, his bared teeth and glare in stark contrast to the pained tears shining in his eyes and now beginning a glistening path down his cheeks.

"So ask Dad for a lawyer and fucking sue me," he growled, even as he wrapped his other arm around the kid's shoulders. "Now breathe," he whispered, pressing the kid's head into his shoulder as he waited for the new wave of trembling to recede.

The kid sniffled harshly, clearly reluctant to shed any more tears. "Asshole," he whispered, but he didn't fight anymore. The exhaustion wafting off the kid was so palpable Jay could almost feel it seeping into his own skin.

"Yeah, this feels like a familiar conversation," he replied, letting his cheek rest against the crown of Tim's head while he slowly smoothed a thumb along his mussed hair. "Always fun, though. You call me an asshole, I confirm that I am, and we go from there."

A watery huff from Tim, but Jay didn't miss the humor in the noise.

They stayed there for a long minute, until the trembling had returned to more stable levels. Jay would've gladly held on to the kid longer, but there was no treating his pain without finishing the first aid, and the sooner the better.

He gave him a little squeeze before withdrawing, not missing how Tim suddenly flinched back himself.

"Sorry," the kid mumbled, turning away and swiping a quick forearm across his eyes.

Jay sighed. "Dunno what you're apologizing for, Timbo," he said in a quiet voice as he squatted down to retrieve what was now a small collection of dropped items. He gave a quick glance upwards to find a flush darkening the kid's cheeks and neck.

"Everything, I guess." His breaths still sounded a little shaky. "Wasting your time?"

"Ya know…"—Jay resumed his gathering and then paused to look the kid fully in the eyes. He needed to get this—"…if you're going to apologize for shit that never happened, I don't really see the point." He straightened to return the items to their proper places in the case, leaving out the antibiotic cream and extracting the gauze. A pang of guilt flashed through him as he recalled none too distant memories. "And I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm trying to be a little better than that now."

Tim only flinched again. "Sorry."

Apparently, guilt was fucking contagious in this household.

Jay clenched his hands on the counter before scrubbing a tired hand across his face. "You don't need to apologize for something I did, or for reminding me of it. Especially when I brought it up in the first place."

He let out a heavy sigh before dropping a knee to the marble floors. "You're not attached to that sweatshirt, are you?" His hand closed around fiberglass-reinforced nylon even as he asked the question.

"What?"

"Sentimental value or some shit."

"…No?"

"Good," he replied, rising to his feet again with the mirror showing a grin almost as sharp as the Kershaw now gripped in his hand.

Tim's eyes seemed to instantly double in size. "What are you doing with that?" he asked, an audible gulp sounding from his throat.

"Not putting you through more fucking pain."

The look and tone alike plummeted from frightened to flat. "…I don't think that's how knives usually work."

"Oh, but I'm a man of many talents. Never doubt that, Timbit." He set to work swiftly, hands moving with a practiced precision that he hoped would've made Alfred proud. The garment was flayed open within moments, Jay silently shooting off a quick prayer of thanks to the Eye in the Sky that none of the fabric had stuck to the burns.

The kid had enough going on without any further complications, and Jay really didn't want to put him through the experience of a Goddamned debridement—now or ever.

He'd already caused the boy far too much pain, and the thought of inflicting any more, even to help, sent his stomach in loops and turns that would've spiked nausea through even a bat—the honest-to-God, fur-covered kind. And those things chased fucking moths for a living.

Actual moths, not the explosives-happy kind.

With the shirt cut free, he set to work. A visual inspection confirmed that what Tim had shown him earlier was the full extent of the injuries. Which was still plenty. A grim victory, but Jay wasn't exactly in position to choose. He took the win.

Naturally, Timmy chose now to pipe up. "Maybe I can—"

"No." It was Jay's turn to shoot him a flat look and equally flat tone.

"You didn't let me finish—"

"Suggesting something stupid? Nope," Jay shot back with his patented wolf grin—friendly, but too much fang to not also be mildly threatening.

"Fine," he grumbled.

"Good boy, Timmy."

Tim's pursed lips pulled back into a grimace as Jay began applying the topical medication with one hand, his other braced against the youngster's shoulder to keep him steady.

Jay gritted his own teeth in sympathy at every choked noise and gasped breath the younger boy couldn't fully keep down. How the hell had the idiot thought he could do this on his own? And why in the fuck did he not think that any of this counted as important?

Yeah, Bruce was gonna have “better” things to do, all right. Like pulling Jason’s foot out of his—

The previous fury stirred and flared in Jay's gut, but he made damned sure it didn't reach a fingertip as he finished applying the medication and moved on to the gauze and bandaging.

By the time all was complete, the younger boy's complexion was even paler than usual, and he'd reluctantly come to slump most of his weight against Jay, unable to maintain balance by himself any longer.

"All right, down you go," Jay prompted, shifting to slip against the uninjured left side, looping an arm underneath Tim's shoulder to take most of his weight.

He normally would've just carried the kid without a second thought, but he knew that, even being careful, the position would've curved the kid's spine too much in the process, sending additional pain flaring through the burns. For now, walking and keeping his torso as straight as possible were Tim's best bet.

And this time he didn't argue.

The only words to leave his lips as they began a slow but steady trudge down the hallway were a simple, "Thanks, Jay."

"Don't mention it."

Of course, the next words to leave his lips were, "I knew you fucking cheated! You bastard."

"Whoa, language, Timbo," Jay replied with a grin, puzzled but amused by the outburst. "And I think the appropriate words are, 'Thanks, O Great and Powerful Brother who cleaned my pigsty of a room.' "

"That's what I'm talking about!" Tim snapped in response. "There's no way you did all of this in under 5 minutes." He shot an accusing glare as Jay led him over to the wall, letting the kid slump against it for support.

Jay had to chuckle at that. "First of all, Tim-Tam, never underestimate my cleaning abilities." Once certain the boy was stable, he turned away to do some last-minute fluffing with the pillows that lay scattered atop the freshly made bed. "Second of all"—he laid a hand on his hip and surveyed the scene before beginning to arrange a few of the pillows in short stacks—"if I had taken extra time, that would mean I was cheating in your favor, because it would mean you had more than five minutes to work."

Tim stiffened and gave him an owlish blink, considering.

"Starting to think maybe that toxin didn't just go to your hands." He folded his arms and shot a grin as the younger boy put things together in record-slow time.

And colored yet again. "I'm tired," he mumbled, looking away with a poorly hidden wince.

Jay snorted. "When the hell aren't you?" he replied, stalking back over to the kid and slinging an arm around him again. "Now, come on, let's get your bony ass in bed.

"You haven't taken any meds yet, have you?"

Tim shook his head. He seemed to have faded just a little more in the couple of minutes—was it even a full hundred and twenty seconds?—between leaving the bathroom and approaching the bed.

"You'll need to eat something, too."

"Not hungry anymore. Too tired." They had reached the bed, but Tim simply stood staring at it like he expected the thing to zap him if he touched it.

This time Jason did pick him up, with nothing more than a quick, "Up you go." Enough notice for warning, not enough for argument.

He swept the boy up as smoothly as he could, holding him a little further out than usual to avoid contact with the seething red burns.

Tim held his breath the whole time, eyes shut tight and jaw clenched even tighter, not exhaling until Jay had settled him on the bed.

And it took a moment longer before he was relaxed enough to let go and let his arm slip from where it had been braced against Jay for dear life, his hand itself still too weakened to provide a useful grip.

Jay didn't rush him. But he did distract him. "Your input is acknowledged and discarded," he offered, serving up a phrase that Timmy had directed his way on more than one occasion.

"What?" Tim asked, bleary eyes tracking Jay as the elder of the two began adjusting the pillow piles, methodically using them to prop up his right arm so it could stay in a comfortable resting position without further aggravating his side.

Dear God, did this count as building a nest? Glad Dickhead isn't here to see this. He'd never shut up about it. Jay wasn't embarrassed in the slightest about the caretaking, but there were only so many bad puns and jokes he could tolerate in one day. And for someone who fancied himself such a comedian, damn if Nightwing didn't use some obvious and pedestrian material.

Jay instantly resolved to tell him that the next time he saw his perfect face. Well, only if he was being annoying again, maybe. Which definitely meant the next time he saw his perfect face and heard anything even vaguely resembling humor coming from those lips. Problem solved.

"Jay? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about getting you some food so you don't puke all over the sheets when you take your medicine."

"I told—"

"Acknowledged. Discarded," he said, making sure to sound as much like a pissed-off kindergarten teacher as possible.

Tim responded with a glare that probably would've been perfectly withering…were it not obscured by a film of pain that dulled the look in his eye from a probable one of sharp reproach to a definite one of put-upon misery. He didn't break away when Jay simply responded with a flat look of his own, but he did finally let his head fall back against the headboard. Just a little too hard, of course, because clearly this would be just the perfect time to get another injury, jostle some more half-scrambled brain cells, or both.

Jay had already stacked some pillows behind the kid, but increased the height of the pile now. Okay, so maybe there was a good reason to have five thousand fucking throw pillows per bedroom. Not that he was going to tell Bruce. Bruce didn't deserve any positive reinforcement for at least a week. Or a year. Fine, maybe a month was fair.

And Jay was definitely taking a red marker to that “World's Greatest Detective” t-shirt he'd gotten Bruce as a joke for Father's Day. A big, neon-red, scratch-out-errors-with-fire-and-brimstone marker.

"Food. Medicine. Sleep," Jay ticked off on his fingers. "That's your agenda for the day. Back in ten." He left the room, then backtracked after a short few strides, peering around the doorframe. "Oh, and try not to give yourself a concussion. Can't forget that, Whiz Kid."

The look Tim gave him probably would've been accompanied by a pair of raised middle fingers. But, you know.

Hey, silver linings in the Wayne family were just too rare and valuable to let pass unappreciated.

By the time he returned—and in only half the promised amount of time—Tim seemed significantly more relaxed, eyes closed and breaths in a steady rhythm that sent vague prickles of recognition up Jay's spine. Not asleep…meditating? That was it.

Jay nearly started matching the rhythm himself, habit tugging at him with a strength bolstered by years of practice and years of panic.

He was half-disappointed that the kid wasn't actually asleep—exhaustion dripped from every line of his face and frame like water from the wrinkles of a soggy t-shirt—but he knew he couldn't actually let him drift off without some proper nourishment and sufficient medication.

A canister of water in one hand, thermos in the other, and plastic cup of tablets pinned wrist-to-chest, Jay simply used the tip of his toe to shove Tim's rolling chair away from the desk and over to the side of the bed before plopping down on it. "Rise and dine, Sleeping Beauty."

Tim cracked open one eye in pronounced semi-compliance. And wrinkled his nose, looking very much like the child he still actually was. "What exactly is that?" He cyclops-ed the thermos with all the suspicion he could muster from a single eye.

"Poison. I know I just spent the last half-hour patching you up, but I looked at the mess in the kitchen again, and I changed my mind. Fortunately, Alfie keeps the rat bait handy." He set the water and pills down and doubled-checked the lid on the thermos. "Of course, I'm not a complete philistine here." It had a straw built into the lid, so even if dropped, there'd be minimal spillage as long as the lid was secured. "I took the liberty of adding some lentil puree and lemon juice to the bromadiolone."

Tim's lip twitched ever so slightly. "Still no."

"Timbo, I just heard your stomach growl. And I'm pretty sure say a cuss word or two. Now, eat." He punctuated the sentence by shoving the straw an inch away from the hungry birdling's mouth.

With a small snarl—geez, the kid had to feel awful if he was being this uncharacteristically pissy about it—he finally uncurled both hands and slowly clenched them around the thermos. And then rolled his eyes. "Let go, Jay. I thought you wanted me to drink. Not gonna if I don't say please?"

Jay narrowed his eyes. Okay, now you're sounding like me. "Kid, I know your brain's a little scrambled right now—"

"I don't need you to feed me. I got it. Thank you, Jason,” he said, the last word hissed like a curse.

Jay felt his lips press into a line, but he refrained from commenting, instead simply sliding his hand from the thermos—slowly—as Tim shakily attempted to tighten his own grip.

And whaddya know—the kid managed to keep the heavy container aloft.

For all of four seconds.

"Oh—“

“Shit!” Jay reached out to intervene, but there was still something to be said about the reflexes of even an injured Bat.

Before the container could fully escape his grasp, Timbird had managed to snap his left knee up to support the bottom of the container. A precarious enough perch, but the hands that weren't strong enough for a solid grip were strong enough to keep the thermos stabilized now that it had support from underneath.

Of course, it wasn't lost on Jay that he’d be on cleanup detail yet again were it not for the lid that had kept all the sloshing from having consequences. Speaking of which.… No—later. Jay found himself abruptly grateful for the fact that Baby Bat had taken both of the indoor pets with him. Otherwise Titus's klutzy ass probably would've ended up tromping through the soup by now and making tracks across the lower level, bless his exasperating heart. And Pennyworth Cat, who theoretically should've been graceful enough to easily avoid it, probably would've walked through it, too—just to be an asshole. Jay snorted.

"I'm glad you find this so entertaining," Tim cut in sharply, breaking Jay from his thoughts.

Jay caught the sharp glow of defiance in the younger boy's eyes when their gazes met, but there was still a roil of frustration and maybe embarrassment that leaked out all the same. "…Wasn't laughing at you."

It was Tim's turn to snort. "Sure, bet it's not satisfying at all—seeing me have to do circus tricks because I wouldn't listen, right?"

Jay lifted a brow. "…Not particularly, no. And don't diss the circus," he added as an afterthought. "Dickie'd have both our heads for that."

Tim blinked at that, looking a bit regretful, then furrowed his brows. "Then what were you laughing at? And aren't you the one who calls him a circus freak all the time?" he added, leveling a narrow gaze at Jay.

"Yeah, but the difference is he already knows not to take anything I say seriously." He flashed his best shit-eating grin, prompting an eye roll from his younger brother. "I honestly don't think he'd be able to tell it was a joke coming from you, Timbert."

"So you just have a monopoly on circus references, then?" He wrinkled his nose before finally managing a sip of his soup.

Hopefully the food would improve his mood.

"I should probably have a monopoly on all humor in this family. The puns that guy makes should come with some kind of parental advisory attached for sheer bad taste. Or for corn allergies, maybe."

"They're not that bad," Tim grumbled after pulling away from the straw a moment.

Jay gave him a look that he hoped was as flat as Larson's growth arc. "Yeah, new task for you, Timbo: try looking me in the eye next time you say that."

Nary a peep or a glance.

"That's what I thought," Jay commented with a quiet chuckle. “Oh, and for the record, I was laughing because I was thinking how much fun we'd be having right now if the pets were here. You really would be in danger if that cat managed to track shit all over the house.”

“Oh,” Tim replied, voice still a near-grumble and eyes fixed firmly on the cup in poorly hidden abashment.

Jay patted himself on the back for not commenting on how very Damian-esque the response was.

When a beat and a half more passed in silence, he finally settled back into the chair again, pulling up his phone to scroll through local news articles and maps. Analyses of crime hot-spots were an old favorite. He checked some national news briefly, but same story as always: Everyone was being a complete brain-dead idiot, a dead-eyed liar, or some combo of the two. Fucking riveting. At least Gotham no longer bothered pretending to be anything but a giant cesspool. Promises of anything better were the one scam it now rarely bothered with. He returned to local after barely a minute.

Granted, even that couldn't fully keep his attention today. He found himself spending nearly as much time trying to nab discreet glances at the baby bird. It had taken Jay some time to notice that he'd gotten into this habit over the past months, and even longer to figure out why.

In a nutshell? Fuck the Drakes.

Even with the time that had passed, and even with Jay's additional training for him, there was still a subtle sense of frailty that prickled at Jay sometimes and left a whisp of unease in his gut when he watched the kid.

And it had been far more than just a whisp the day Jay had first realized it:

He reminds me of me.

Fury and nausea had roiled together in his stomach like a toxic stew, because it didn't make any damn sense.

When it came to Jay himself, it had sadly made nothing but sense. He'd eaten…just barely enough…during the years with Willis. Although the continual stress of running for his fucking life every day and constantly recovering from injuries had still left him wiry as fuck and burning through calories even faster than the average kid.

And then once Willis had fucked off to jail (and then a frankly well-deserved death), the stress had continued and taken on new forms, with Jay being left the task of paying adult bills with a child's body.

0 for 2 in the war against hunger.

Follow that up with finally being orphaned and homeless after the drugs had exacted their final blood fee from Catherine, and yep, it made full and perfect sense that he'd ended up a scrawny little drowned rat of a 12-year-old. And he'd made progress once his old man and Alfie had taken him in—as always, God bless Alfie—but he'd still been playing catch-up by the time it had…ended.

But.

How.

In the actual fuck.

Did this make sense for Timothy née Drake?

At first Jay had just wondered if it were a hereditary thing, if Tim was always destined to be travel-sized, as Jay liked to jokingly call him when he was actually calm enough to joke about it.

But an inspection of family pictures had made it clear how unlikely that theory was.

And in more than one way, it was the family album rather than the family tree that had helped solve the mystery.

It was there, in all the pictures the Drakes didn't have with or even of their son.

It's not like Jay thought or expected all people of means would have their kids on obnoxiously detailed meal plans, complete with private chef to execute it with exacting accuracy.

But for the love of Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Moses, and Muhammad, how the hell did you manage to have that much money and still end up with a child suffering from malnutrition?

And while the Lazarus Pit had ultimately corrected and possibly overcorrected Jay's early in life neglect, leaving him nearly Bruce's equal in both height and heft, Tim hadn't had any such luck, and Jay was pretty sure the seventeen-year-old had gotten as tall as he'd ever get by now.

Jason bitterly wondered to himself how many proverbial children in Africa could've been fed with all the meals the Drakes hadn't fed their own child.

So…yeah. Fuck the Drakes with an artisanal barbed-wire cactus.

And even with his years under Alfie's care, the kid—

"What?" a waspish voice cut in.

Jason looked up to see Tim staring at him, brows pinched and mouth set into a thin line.

"Excuse me?" Jay replied, lifting a brow.

"You're sitting there glaring at me, so I assume you still have something you want to say?"

Jay suppressed a snort. A hell of a lot, actually. But as much as he was tempted to make a snappy—or snappish reply—he could see past the kid's sharpness and read the stiffness in his frame. Hear the undercurrents of tightly bound fear in his voice.

All right, so it was entirely possible some of his more homicidal emotions just then had filtered through to his expression. Oops.

He could explain it to the kid, but somehow he suspected Tim wasn't in the mood to revisit the topic of his beloved cell donors just then, and any attempts would go over about as well as the tomato soup currently decorating the kitchen.

So Jay settled for the eloquent reply of, "…Nope."

Which Tim promptly echoed. " 'Nope'? That's all you're going to say?"

"Yep," Jay replied with a short nod and shorter smile, pushing to his feet and taking a moment to try and stretch the tension from his neck and shoulders. Didn't feel like much of a success, but hopefully he looked a little less battle ready then. Or strangle ready, as it were. Because that was definitely top of the list if he could only get ahold of the wealthy and now literally rotten bastards who couldn't even have been bothered to hire a nanny to feed their neglected goldfish of a son.

Okay, yup, anger again. Jay cleared his throat. "Looks like you were right. Clearly got that handled." He made a small gesture at the thermos. "Make sure you drink at least half of it and then get those pills taken." He stuffed both hands in his pockets, giving the room a quick scan. "Yeah, so…that's it, I guess. I'll go, let you finish your shit without me staring at you the whole time like a gorgon."

Apparently it was Tim's turn to stare now; the kid followed his awkward shuffle from the room with a gaze worthy of a starved hawk. But he let Jay go without further comment. At least until he was already partway down the hallway and made out a late, quiet, "Th-Thanks."

Jay shook his head and allowed himself a smile then. "Just drink the damned soup," he threw over a shoulder as he strode to the kitchen.

Time to go fix the impromptu Viscera Cleanup recreation.

The work was slower going than it had been with the Hurricane Wayne bedroom, but Jay found he didn't much mind. The scrubbing let him work out some of his lingering anger, and the bitterness rinsed away with the suds. For a moment, at least. He couldn't do anything about the shit Tim had dealt with in the past, any more than he could rewind the wounds inflicted on himself over the years. But he could do shit here and now to work on it, and maybe he liked the thought that every minute spent on Tim, spent with Tim, was just another middle finger to Jack and Janet.

Truth be told, very few people in this world genuinely gave a fuck that they were even dead. And of those, most did so purely for financial reasons. But Tim? Timmybird? That kid had a hell of a lot of people who loved him—folks who would gladly have given their damned lives for him, and made the choice more than once if they'd needed to.

Jay didn't need a moment to consider he was on that list—he'd realized that much a long time ago. What could he say? The kid had won him over. As annoying as the stubborn little shit could be, he was aggravatingly sweet and selfless, and smart as all hell. Not to mention his devotion to people, and the unhealthily intense work ethic that just seemed to be a patented Wayne trait by now.

Honestly, the most fucking bizarre thing about the Drakes was that they'd been able to spend more than a day away from their kid and not just smothered him with attention every friggin' second of the day instead.

The kid was a cuddler, for fuck's sake. Even if he hadn't been touch starved as all hell, Jay found it hard to think he would've been much different with a better upbringing. Less desperate, sure, but probably still the kind who stays linked to your hip and enthusiastically sponges up any little bit of attention you're willing to offer.

The standoffishness, the insistent independence—Jay recognized a little too well what it really was. It came by a different path than his, but from the same place. A need to prove his worth, and the resignation of choosing to tear the good things away before someone else can rob them from you.

He knew how much Tim hated feeling weak. And he knew he felt weak when he couldn't prove that he wasn't "clingy" or "needy" or whatever the fuck else the Drakes had managed to put into his head, because apparently they had managed to impart some things the two days per year they were actually Goddamned in city limits.

Jay leaned against the counter, a strange exhaustion sweeping through him as he surveyed the kitchen and wondered to himself how you get a kid to stop performing for his dead donors.

He needed to talk to Bruce. Well, yeah, he already knew he needed to yell at the dumbass, but maybe he needed to talk to him, too.

The kid still had a paranoid aversion to asking for help or favors when he needed them, and maybe not getting hugs when he needed them wouldn't kill him, but there were plenty of other ways to go instead. Hell, it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that the kid could've had a worse accident that day and not been able to call for help. Unlikely, but not impossible.

There were plenty of nice, sturdy tile floors to crack your skull open on, for one thing.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and released the stopper in the sink, giving the sink itself a quick once-over before he finally felt satisfied in calling the job done.

He did admittedly feel calmer than he had before he'd started, and he finally felt like he could manage the task of returning to the room and actually acting normal. Normal enough not to scare the hell out of his unofficial patient, at least.

He wondered if the kid had fallen asleep by now. Didn't find it likely, but he could hope. Lord knew the kid needed rest—he always needed to rest—and it currently seemed to be the only way he might stop stressing about his grave and despicable crime of being injured.

Jay gave a half-fond, half-weary huff as he trudged his way back to the pillow-padded birdcage.

Chapter Text

He was still a good few strides away when an odd noise gave him pause, instantly halting his tracks and sending a prick of anxiety into his spine like a weird sort of anti-acupuncture.

He eased nearer to the wall while his hand moved to hover above his sidearm. His ears strained to identify the sound.

It took only a few moments for his stop to become go.

He dashed to the room, making it in no fucking seconds flat, his eyes tearing across the room when the bed proved empty. The noise was much louder already, a high-pitched rasping of breath interrupted by choked noises and intermittent whimpers.

He rounded the bed and stopped short at the sight of his charge.

The kid was having a panic attack. Quietly.

But the lack of volume couldn't mask the reality. The younger boy was knelt on the floor, curled up and trembling like a willow branch in a gale. His face glistened with dampness, probably sweat and tears and everything else all mixing together, and his skin was blotched with flushes of red. Worst of all, one clawed hand was clutched to his side in a gesture that was probably meant to be protective but likely just worsened the pain he must've already been in just from that position.

Crap, if he didn't stop—Jay moved before he could finish his own thought, at the kid's side like a magnet. "Easy, Baby Bird, easy," he said, managing to gain a careful grip on Tim's left forearm. "I'm gonna need you to breathe. Breathe and let go, okay?"

The kid hissed out sounds, a "J" or "G," a "K," but his breathing was too erratic and jaw too tightly clenched to let the words escape properly. He shook his head, free hand curling into a tighter sort of mangled claw.

Jay winced at the pain in his younger brother's voice, one hand stroking down his back while the other worked to try and carefully, carefully force Tim's hand away from the wounded area. He had to avoid sudden movements if he wanted to avoid making things worse himself, but the kid was putting up a surprising level of resistance.

Not intentionally, Jay knew, but that made it no less alarming.

And it was getting worse. The tremors intensified—and Jay knew he needed a better plan—and then a full-blown spasm tore through his small frame, a cry of muted agony leaking from his lips.

Jay held on for the sake of them both. He rested his head against Tim's shoulder, feeling the erratic, violent pulsing as the kid's muscles went fucking haywire for what had to be the longest 3, 5, 8 seconds of either of their lives.

And shit like this never just happened once.

Tim relaxed with a choked gasp, and Jay struck like a cobra, a feral sense of urgency driving his movements. He all but threw himself into the corner formed where the nightstand met the bed—hauling Tim along with him. Position stabilized, he wove his limbs around Tim's like iron briars, locking the kid back in a position where he could breathe more easily and the strain was taken off of his wounded side, his uncontrolled limbs trapped away.

He used his left leg to pin Tim's right, letting the weight press just above his knee. Other times he might've simply used his own right, but the cross-body position would ensure Jay didn't brush against the burns himself.

The kid was small enough—or Jay was large enough, to-may-to, to-mah-to—that one arm was enough to encircle Tim's torso and slip underneath both of his arms, preventing the limbs from doing further damage, and leveraging against the pinned leg to keep his body from curling inwards again.

Jay used his remaining hand to carefully nestle the kid's head against his chest, hoping to minimize dangerous thrashing when—

The next set of spasms began.

"I know, I know, I know it hurts, Timbo, I know," Jay murmured, forcing calm into his throat like each pained cry from the boy didn't feel like it was shredding his own body apart. "But just focus on my breathing, match my breaths."

But the kid was far too frantic to comply, and his distress only compounded the panic. Jay could feel Tim's breaths halt and then jerk as the spasms forced air from his lungs and he could only get air in short bursts and snatches.

Jay gritted his teeth, eyes closing as he worked to keep his own breaths as steady as possible while the smaller boy gasped and thrashed in his arms, holding on to the faint hope that this would be enough to center him—center them both—once the current wave passed.

He counted silently, keeping his own anxiety at bay by confirming that the kid was still getting some breaths in, even if they were erratic and strained. He bode his time, fighting the helpless frustrated thrumming in his own veins until he felt the tell-tale slackening as the violent spasms loosened their grip for brief reprieve.

As the tension holding the kid's lungs hostage eased, Jay attempted to reach him again, murmuring as gently as he could manage as Tim drew deep, desperate breaths. "It's okay, Timmy. It's all right, you're all right. You're all right."

"No.…" He shook his head weakly, but it was the first full word he had managed since the episode began.

Jay counted it a win. "Shh, it's all right."

"The pills, Jay." Yet another soft sob broke through his voice as he said it.

He understood at once what he meant, having clocked the dropped and scattered medication in his initial sweep of the scene. Jay shook his own head, ignoring the slight stings of worry pricking his gut. "It's fine, Timbo."

"No, I didn't, I didn't take them."

Clearly not for lack of trying; he wagered the kid had made his way to the floor in hopes of retrieving the stray tablets. He at least didn't seem to have fallen.

"I know, shh."

"I'm sorry, Jay, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, we can fix that."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please. Please." The crying picked up and the kid was working himself up again and Jay would've taken on the kid’s pain in a heartbeat if anyone had given him the damned option.

Tim didn't deserve this shit.

"It's okay, it's all good, Timbo." He winced as he felt the tremors beginning to pick up again. No, no, no. "Tim, Tim. I need you to listen. You're fine, okay? You're fine," he repeated.

"Don't leave, I'm sorry I can't stop, I'm sorry I'm still, I'm sorry—"

Damn it! "Hey, hey, I'm not going anywhere. Just slow down, I need you to do that. That's all I need."

"I can't, I want, I can't—" The kid started to choke on his words and Jay could feel the next breakdown breathing down their necks.

"Tim! Fuck!" He loosened his grip, trying to allow himself enough leeway to reach the water bottle, because maybe—

"I'm sorry, I'll stop—"

But that was entirely the wrong fucking move because the kid lost it—

"I'll STOP, I'LL BE GOOD, I PROMISE I'LL BE GOOD, I'LL BE GOOD, I'M QUIET, I CAN BE QUIET—"

And the surge of nausea was instant and the spasms had started and Jay was going to bite his own fucking tongue off because now he couldn't breathe and he was shaking and he had to hold on and Tim was crying-sobbing-choking, and Jay, Jay had to get his hold right again, and there was a thrashing kid in his arms in agony begging and pleading and promising to be good and, and be quiet and he was begging Jay, JAY COULDN'T FUCKING STAND IT, AND HE COULDN'T HURT THE KID AND HE JUST WANTED TO LET GO, HE—he didn't want the kid to be quiet or good or stop crying or let Jay do anything now, but he was supposed to calm him down and he wanted to let go but he had to hold tighter and the kid was in pain, he was in so much pain and Jay couldn't fix this and he couldn't breathe and he was gonna throw up, he couldn't think, he had to remember, he had to find words, if he could find words, but he couldn't remember anything and he had to say something—

And the pills, how many, arbaa,^[four] the word came to him, and he remembered, remembered the trick, he couldn't find the words but he could find this, he could say this. "Arbaa," he choked out, and Tim was still gasping and did he hear him, he didn't hear him? "Khamsa," he tried again, teeth still clenched because he didn't trust, he knew it hadn't stopped, his stomach was still, he had to just—he had to get through this. “Khamsa…ethnaan…khamsa…veinte…a'ishroon.” ¹

The sobs and the pained cries continued but the begging had stopped and he knew the kid was trying, he was trying. "J-Jay? I don't.…” The words choked off.

"I know," he rasped. Jay didn't fully understand, either, but these were the words he had. He could breathe a little better without the pleading that drowned out even the rush of blood and buzz of static in his head. "I just need"—he took a deep breath himself and swallowed and thought his stomach might be okay now; he could talk. “Follow me, just follow me, Timbo, come on. Ethnaan, khamsa, veinte, a'ishroon."

No words followed, but the choking noises intensified as he tried to speak.

"I need you to say it, Tim." He lifted his volume to be heard over the distressed sounds that seemed to fill every bit of the room now. "Ethnaan, khamsa, veinte, a'ishroon!"

"E-Eth. Ethnaan."

"Khamsa, veinte."

"Kham…sa." The words were raw and distorted in pitch and pacing, but he was speaking again now, and it wasn't to beg, and they could both breathe now.

"Ethnaan, khamsa, veinte, a'ishroon."

"Ethnaan. Kh-khamsa, a'ishroon. Veinte."

"Hejdah, yázdah, bíst, quatre."

"Hejdah, yázdah, b-bíst, quatre."

"Quatre, bíst, fifteen."

"Quatre, bíst, fifteen."

"Fifteen, triente.…"

The numbers flowed on, no real rhyme or rhythm to them, until Jay felt the younger boy's frame slumping against his in utter exhaustion, the trembling still there but muted, and the gasps and wheezes of pain quieted to shuddering but steadfast sobbing.

Jay noted, with faint surprise, his own face now seemed damp. Exhaustion slowly bled in at the same time the tension bled out, like a weird transfusion of sorts.

But he was soothed, at least, by the warmth still present in his arms, and he realized the kid was still matching his own breaths as much was possible with this many tears intervening.

Jay closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep. He wanted his dad to come the fuck home, truth be told. But it was just him. Just them.

He hoped the kid would get some damned sleep now.

He also knew it was stupid to bother hoping for.

Especially since there was still a thing or two up in the air. In a Damocles sort of way.

1. The individual numbers here are random and have no special significance, aside from my possible background that Jace was able to pull them up in his panicked state because he had a vague memory of them being used on him at some point in his murky past. Partial credit to the legal drama "Bull" for this; it's where I first heard of the technique of using a random sequence of numbers to distract someone from a panic attack, because they won't be able to mentally focus on that and the anxiety at the same time, as they might be able to with more basic counting. My own twist on it was that, given that we're dealing with the Goddamned Batkids, it would need to be something still more challenging to be effective. …Hence using a combo of Arabic, Spanish, Farsi, English, and French! ^{[ ↑ ]}

Chapter Text

Not bothering to open his eyes, Jay shifted a little, trying to ease a little tension from the cramped position he'd had to keep for the past however many minutes.

Tim immediately stiffened and quieted in his hold, no doubt waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Jay stilled at once and held back a sigh because of course this still wasn't going to be easy. And like hell was he gonna let the kid spin into a panic again. There was only so much stress either of them could manage before something went seriously sideways.

Baby steps, then. Not like he had the energy for much else either. "Tim?"

A sharp sniffle. "Yeah?" he rasped out quietly, his throat scraped raw but Jay still catching a sliver of steel in his voice as he fought to hold it steady.

"There's something I need to ask you."

The kid seemed to shrink slightly in his grasp and Jay halfway regretted making it sound so dramatic, but he had to be careful.

He didn't reply this time, just nodding instead.

"But I'm gonna need you to answer as Red Robin this time."

Tim seemed to try and clear his own throat here, but aborted the sound on a pained choke halfway through. "Listening," he finally said instead.

"Can you be okay here for two minutes—and I mean exactly a hundred and twenty seconds—by yourself?"

He felt the kid nod, but he needed to be surer than that. "Verbal confirmation, Baby Bird."

A deep, shuddering inhale. "I can. I'll—two minutes, right?" he added.

"Max. Hood's honor."

The kid let out a half scoff, half laugh. It was watery and faint, but still the sweetest sound Jay had heard in what felt like too long now. And as much of a Boy Scout as Jay wasn't, promises were something he didn't take lightly, and he knew Tim understood the strength behind the words.

"Okay," Tim said, this time muttering to himself. "Okay…two minutes, keep my breaths straight. Two minutes. I can do that.

"I can do that," he said again, a little louder this time.

Thank the Maker. Jay began to loosen his hold, only to be halted at once by Tim.

"Why?" he asked, almost sharply, the tension cutting through the rasp of his strained throat.

He let out a slight huff of laughter. "Because you're gonna be in a hell of a lot less pain once you get those damned pills in. Need the antibiotic dose, too. Missing anatomy and all.”

"Oh. Oh." The kid's voice dropped to a hop above a whisper. "I'm—"

Oh, no you fucking don't. A slightly terrified impulse resulted in Jay covering the kid's mouth with his hand. He removed it almost as quickly, the kid sufficiently silenced in surprise.

Jay let his own head drop in exasperation, resting against Tim's a bit. "Oy shked helwa el horiya.^{[Oh, how beautiful is freedom.]2} I think I've hit my apology limit for the week, kid. You really want to apologize, take the pills and we can call it even."

Silence. He could damn-near hear the kid frowning at being let off so easily.

"Deal?" Jay pressed.

"Deal." And there was no hiding the weariness there.

"And Tim?"

"Yeah?"

He pressed a kiss to the crown of the younger boy's head. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Thought you were about to leave." The snark probably would've been far more convincing without the suddenly brittle tone.

So? Still had to say it anyway. "Yep, for a whole hundred and twenty seconds, Timbo. Deal's a deal." He gave the kid a little squeeze before carefully releasing the hold, one limb at a time, watching like a fucking hawk for another wave of panic.

The kid probably would've looked more convincingly at ease if he'd been carved from granite, but the trembling didn't tick up and his breaths seemed reasonably steady now.

Jay peeled himself from the floor at long last and took a long moment to stretch—and contemplate how much his back and joints and various other bits were probably going to hate him tomorrow. Well…otro día, la misma mierda.^{[Another day, same shit.]} And it was as worthwhile as it had ever been. His brother had needed him, and he'd been there. Fuck regrets for that. He'd have to make sure to impress that upon the kid, too.

Once his back was complaining just a touch less, he helped Tim back into the pillow nest—yes, fine, it was definitely that; laugh it up, Dick—helped the kid clean himself up a bit, and mightily resisted the urge to add even more fucking pillows because that was definitely not needed. At all. Even if it was tempting. Not like the pillows could've actually warded off another panic attack, but there was still an irrational part of him that liked the visual reassurance.

And, based on past experiences, he suspected the touch-starved secret cuddle fiend didn't exactly hate it either.

Once Tim was nestled safely in bed again, Jay started a timer on his phone and fled the room. He hit the bathroom, snatched up more meds, splashed water on his face and made it back with just over a minute to spare.

So he burned up some of the extra time leaning his forehead against the wall and trying very, very hard not to even think about why certain phrases seemed to come so easily to Tim. He was sure—he was pretty sure, at least—that Tim hadn't come by the words the same way he had. Jason hoped, he prayed the kid hadn't. He no longer feared throwing up all over his patient, but his stomach hadn't fully forgiven him yet, truth be told. So he just took a moment to breathe. And try to bury the fresh and too familiar memory of an agonized, panicked child spilling pleas and promises to be good while thrashing against the limbs of a man who could bring terrifying new dimensions to the word pain.

"Boss is gonna be happy. He's scrawny, but these exotic-looking brats fetch a good price."

"Yeah, doesn't McKamey have a thing for them? Might pay a pretty penny for some playtime with this one."

"Yeah, I'll bet. What's this one, Spanish? Think I heard him cussing in it earlier. There's a lot of them running around in that quarter."

"Who gives a fuck, long as he has the right look and we get our cut? Pretty sure Mick is gonna have him a little occupied to be yapping much, anyways."

"Rude to talk with your mouth full, right?"

Jay wondered, with a shudder, what nightmares he'd have that eve. Maybe his brain would feel inspired and flip the script—make him take his turn as guest-starring villain in a world that swirled and switched in snapshots of trash-strewn alleyways, mildew-scented carpeting, or even obscenely expensive cotton sheets stained with red, brown, and white.

Ten more seconds.

And then he pushed off the wall, plastered on a mask of his own living skin, and swaggered into the room—

Tim's eyes were closed, and he finally seemed at rest.

—and got skewered a moment later by eyes entirely too sharp and clear for someone who'd just spent that much time vacillating between panicked apologies and hyperventilating sobs.

"What's wrong?" Tim asked, weariness seeping out from every pore but his eyes hard and his frown undisguised.

Jay managed a scoff. "I think that's 'congratulations,' Timbo. Or at least a 'Welcome back, O Victorious Champion.' "

" 'At least'?" Tim repeated.

"At least. And I come bearing drugs," he added as he made his way back to bedside and reclaimed his seat in the office chair. "How're your hands?" he inquired after a moment, returning Tim's appraising gaze.

The younger Wayne looked down at his hands and flexed them a touch. "Better," he answered after a beat. "I'm still…I'm pretty tired, though." He flashed the briefest of glances at the bedside table. "I can handle the pills, I'm pretty sure, but.… Do you…think…?" he trailed off and turned his head a bit as a bright flush crept up his neck.

"Sure thing," Jay answered, making a point to keep his voice breezy as he picked up the water thermos before handing Tim the plastic cup that held the pills.

The kid's grateful relief was palpable, and then it redoubled when Jay made room so that Tim could still manage his own part of steadying the container of water while Jay simply supported it from underneath.

Jason honestly did get it. Tim had enough trouble accepting help, let alone trying to stomach being treated like he was more helpless right now than he actually was. Jay wouldn't have actually minded a damned bit if the kid had let himself be cared for a little more and not insisted on pushing himself so hard, but hey, baby steps. At least he was willing to ask for a literal hand this go-round instead of trying to serve himself in what probably would've been kundalini-contortionist style at this point.

Jay even managed to convince him to down a little more of the soup immediately afterwards, though he didn't have appetite for much.

Not hard to sympathize there.

And when all of this was done.…

"You don't have to stay."

Jay snapped his head over, but the younger bird wasn't looking at him.

"I know"—he chewed his lip—"you have stuff to do. You've already spent a ton of time here, helping me with everything. And I appreciate it, I really do."

And Jay strained to hear him, with how softly he was speaking and how much blood was now thundering in Jay’s ears because what the actual, Goddamned, chicken-fried pretzel-coated fuck was this?

“You even gave me the soup Alfred made for you.”

“Sweet of you to assume I used my own stuff and didn't just take Dickhead's share. Not like he appreciates it enough, anyways. Figure it’s as good a time as any to teach him a lesson.”

“No, it was yours.” Tim got that little frown and that set to his jaw he always got when he knew he was right and didn't get how anyone else could even doubt it.

“Oh?” Jay folded his arms. ”And how would you know?” He gave not one solitary damn that the little brat had caught him out, but if he could keep him talking about just this, maybe he could burn through the sticky threads of self-denial the kid was starting to swathe himself in again.

“Because Alfred always puts extra cilantro in your lentil soup.” And there was his check-friggin’-mate voice. “No one else’s.”

“How the hell do you even know that? You don't even cook.”

“I notice things,” he replied, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and defiant self-satisfaction. “Like how you're trying to distract me right now.”

“And if I am?” Defiance, Jay could match easily. “All I heard earlier was you trying to come up with fifty reasons I should just leave your ass here and be on my merry way. And maybe I don't feel like having that fucking argument again,” he snapped.

"I don't care how many times we have to argue about that; I still haven't changed my mind. You shouldn't have to lose a whole day here." He said the last bit with more conviction than before, and Jay found himself wondering if any of their med kits held prescription-strength anti-stupidity pills, because he really needed a handful right now.

"But"—and now his voice was suddenly much softer and he was worrying at his lip again and inspecting the apparently fascinating bedclothes—"I…I want…I'd also like it if you could stay. If you have time," he quickly added. "Not the whole day, but a little—Jay?"

On his feet, and there went the guns onto the bedside table and the jacket onto the chair and the knives onto the table again. Some of the knives. Compromise is essential to healthy relationships and possibly unhealthy coping habits, Jay reminded himself. Yup, he was doing perfectly well. And hey, if the guns were going to be a little outside of immediate reach, he had to have something, dammit.

"Jay…?" Tim looked faintly alarmed and rather unreasonably surprised for someone who'd literally just asked for this.

"Tim…?" Jason replied in a pointedly similar tone. In a flash he had—quite gracefully—vaulted pillow pile and mini-lante alike to land on the far side of the bed.

Tim's unreasonable look of alarm softened into a conflicted mix of guilt and relief as Jay scooched closer and set about stacking some pillows for his own spot in hopes of placating his still-complaining back.

Wedging into the furniture earlier had helped provide needed stability and support, but Jason was all the more certain by now that he would be paying for the day quite soon. Hell, he was already.

He looked up from his activities just in time to spot Tim wiping away a stray tear or two with his wrist.

Jay let himself sigh audibly this time around. "All right, that's enough." The distance already slight, he reached over and pulled the kid nearer, arm free to wrap around his shoulders in a proper hug—side hug, technically—this time. "And I know I've had a few memory issues over the years, Timmers, but I'm pretty sure I just made a promise to you less than 20 minutes ago.”

"And you kept it. A hundred and ten seconds."

"Not that one. I said"—and he mirrored the gesture of before, pressing a kiss against his hair—"I'm not going anywhere." He then of course reached up to thoroughly and obnoxiously muss the kid's silky but sweat-dampened tresses.

Tim answered with a rather well-aimed jerk of his head, catching Jay square in the chin.

"Oww, that actually hurt a little, Tim-Tam."

"Good," Tim replied, even as he relaxed and nestled closer himself, eyes finally closing for more than just a second.

Jason held his breath and watched. He even made it halfway through a hallelujah before Tim's eyes slid back open.

"I burned my arm."

Jay's brain may or may not have short-circuited at that point, and his voice couldn't quite seem to find its way out of his throat, getting lost somewhere at the corner of Larynx Street & Am I a Blind-Ass Bitch Alley, because he hadn't seen a damned thing when he'd sliced open the sweatshirt and done an exam. He cleared his throat. "When?"

"Back when I was nine."

Sometimes it's good to lead with handy details like that, but hey, question answered. And the abrupt topic was actually less confusing than the prospect Jay had managed to miss a recent injury so glaring. When Tim didn't continue after too many long moments, maybe warring with himself over how much to say about his "parents,” Jay decided to prompt but not press. He wasn't going to rush, but the kid had brought this up for a reason. He let his hand start a sleepy drift through Tim's locks, teasing out the occasional knot and hoping the impromptu scalp massage would make the kid feel less tense and more at ease.

It did the trick.

"It was stupid. My parents were away and they hadn't replaced the nanny, so I had to prepare my own food. I was just starting to learn then."

Jay held back some decidedly acerbic inner commentary about just how many of Tim's stories started with "My parents were away" and whether the disclaimer was even necessary still. Hair pets, happy thoughts—that was his job right now.

Okay, he could manage the hair pets, at least.

"They always made sure the house was stocked with stuff before they left, so I never had to worry about running out or anything," Tim continued, his tone taking on an edge of something that sounded distinctly like defensiveness.

"Glad to hear it, Timbit," Jay managed, though he almost hadn't trusted himself to speak just then.

Right move, apparently, because Tim relaxed a little further and snuggled closer with a tiny wriggle.

Jay was still pissed, but damn the kid was adorable. His blood pressure dropped just as quickly as it had risen and…yeah. Again: Drakes? Complete idiots who'd missed out on a kid they entirely hadn't deserved. …Silver lining, maybe?

And now he was once and forever a Wayne. Definite silver lining.

"And that time…they'd always stock the freezers back then, too, and that time I decided to try these frozen chicken strips. I knew you needed plenty of protein if you wanted to build muscle, and I knew I needed to if I wanted to get better at my martial-arts classes and the…nighttime stuff."

Jay managed to suppress a snort of amusement this time; the kid still tended to refer to his city-spanning photography adventures euphemistically out of sheer habit, despite now having exponentially more secretive and dangerous "nighttime activities" occupying his time.

"So I had them in the oven, and I was looking at stuff online, and I think I'd forgotten to set a timer for them, but then I smelled burning, and I went to see, and there was all this smoke when I opened the oven." He frowned, blinking hard as he revisited the memory. He swallowed. "I hadn't put them in the right kind of container, I don't think. I didn't know they had oil runoff like that, and some of it had spilled to the bottom of the oven and that's where all the smoke was coming from. But I didn't know what to do and I started panicking and I just tried to get the tray out and then I got a notification on my phone—I had them up really loud to make sure I could hear—and I got distracted. It was stupid," he said again, notes of bitter self-reproach lacing his tone.

Jason paused. He still wasn't sure how welcome his commentary would be, but he chose to hazard the risk this time. "You were nine. I'm pretty sure distraction is listed on the job description. Especially when you already have too much to manage on your own."

"I was nine, but I already knew better by then. I should've paid more attention."

"You should've had someone there to fix you breakfast, lunch, and dinner instead of making you become America's Next Top Chef before you hit puberty."

"Yeah, well, I think we both know I'd never win that competition." He huffed out a counterfeit sort of laugh, pure bitterness rather than humor. "Doesn't matter," he added with a mumble. "It happened, so whatever." He gave his head a small shake before settling again.

Jay counted it as a small but painfully real victory when the kid leaned against his hand ever so slightly in a tiny, cautious request. He wasted no time resuming the soothing efforts, and was rewarded by feeling the tension of the mini-argument seep from Tim's posture again.

"Anyways, I was already panicking plenty and then once the phone startled me, I lost my grip and dropped the edge of the pan. It bounced back against the oven rack and then hit my arm, and some of the oil caught me too, I think. Sort of sealed the heat in," he added, teeth clenched and voice grim. "I just freaked out even more, and it was hurting really bad and I didn't know what to do, so I called Mrs. MacIlvaine. I didn't even remember to turn the damn oven off until like a couple of minutes before she arrived." His lower lip trembled and he bit down hard—enough so that Jay faintly worried he'd draw blood—like he thought it would stop the trembling if he bit hard enough.

It didn't.

He took a deep breath. "I think that's what she was actually worried about mostly—the damage I did to the oven."

Of course. The lovely housekeeper Tim had always insisted was perfectly nice to him.

“I'd made a pretty big mess and some of the chicken had landed right on the heating elements, so that had burned the oil in even more. And she got really mad and started yelling and I was scared but I couldn't even think, because it just—it hurt, Jay." His voice cracked. "It hurt so much." And so very nearly did the emotional dam give way to cracks as well, except the kid had already cried his damned eyes out so much that day that nothing seemed to be left. So shuddering but dry-eyed breaths moonlit as sobs this time.

The kid shook his head again, a touch angrily. "Sorry. I'm—I won't cry again. I've been making you deal with me all day already."

"Timbit, you can cry for the next 12 fucking hours if you need to, and I'll bring you the Kleenex and Gatorade." Jay punctuated his point by wrapping the kid in a fuller hug, still mindful of his injured side, nestling Tim's head underneath his chin, much like before. "And how the fuck does this qualify as 'all day'? It's been like an hour, tops."

Tim rewarded him with a small, hoarse laugh. "Maybe the toxin went to your brain, too."

"Well, then, I definitely have to stay. You're the first Guinea pig and I need to keep you under observation for at least twenty-four hours so I'll know what to expect."

Tim snorted and Jay flicked his ear before the two rustled their way back into their prior resting places, Tim turning to lean against his elder brother a little more now, no longer fighting the exhaustion as stubbornly. But he wasn't done with the story quite so soon. "The burns already hurt a lot, but I guess they were even worse than I realized, because after Mrs. Mac finally took a good look at my arm—"

"Finally."

"—she called my parents."

"Please tell me they took you to the hospital. And how long did it fucking take them to get there in the first place?"

"I…they didn't…come home." His voice shrank in volume with each fragment of the sentence.

"They didn't?" Jay asked, forcing his voice to stay almost completely even, barely even inflecting the question. He could do this; he just had to think flat thoughts. Kukenán Tepui. 2-d animation. Janet Drake's affect in a family photo.

"They did call the doctor, though." Normally Tim would've made the protest with more vehemence, but his tone this time around sounded just slightly less convinced that this was a sufficient explanation. "He used to provide concierge medical services for us before he retired."

"And your parents?"

"They set up a call since he still needed permission for the actual treatments and Mrs. Mac couldn't give it."

Jay pushed down the temptation to give a very Batman-esque Grumble of Deep Disapproval at that. …Fortunately the horrifying thought lasted only a microsecond before being terminated with extreme prejudice. See, sometimes lethal force was just necessary.

"Diagnosis?" Jay asked, hoping to keep things on track.

"Burns…?"

Jay wasn't sure if he was just being stubborn or genuinely sleep-drunk. Probably both. "I meant how severe."

"Not sure," Tim mumbled.

Yeah, they were definitely coming back to that later.

"I just remember the part after," he added, voice quieter but also clearer now. "After Doctor Prentiss left, my parents and I had a…talk. D-Jack was pretty mad, kinda like Mrs. Mac. He yelled and said that the oven wasn't a toy, and that if I was just going to play around with the appliances, then I needed to stay out of the kitchen entirely before I burned the fucking house down and they had to spend their time back at home house hunting. Mom…she was a lot nicer. She just said that they'd thought I could handle it but that she and Jack really should've known that nine years old was far too young to use something like an oven unsupervised."

Jay set aside the blatant dig at her own son and appreciated the shock of Janet Drake's having come to a conclusion that actually made fucking sense for once in her life. For once in Tim’s life.

"So they told me not to use the oven again, and they had Mrs. Mac clear out the freezer that night so they wouldn't have to worry about it again."

And never fucking mind. Because what? "Timbo.…”

"I said that they didn't need to—that they could donate it, at least, but they said that I'd already given Mrs. MacIlvaine more than enough work with having to clean out the oven and the freezer and surely I wasn't childish enough to ask them to fly back to Gotham for something like that right in the middle of an important excavation, just so I could feel better. So she just threw out whatever stuff she didn't want to take home herself."

Jay damn near short-circuited for a second time.

"They ordered more food so I wouldn't go hungry or anything, but after that they only kept stuff that didn't need to be heated up on the stove or in the oven. Or microwave."

Jay…well, didn't even have time to enjoy the Mystery Fucking Solved as to how folks of their means had ended up with a malnourished child, because Tim had of course saved the best part for last.

"They didn't need to do that, Jay," he said again, almost as though he thought Jason blamed him for all this.

Well, fuck that. Jay murmured assurances as best he could, though he knew by now how Tim got, especially when he started getting caught up in the memories.

"I wouldn't have tried again. Not after what they said. I didn't even care about the food. I just felt bad I had messed up. But I didn't really get upset until they told me…until they said that they'd have to stay abroad longer. They said it was because they'd had to miss really important consultations to schedule the stuff with Doctor Prentiss, and they'd have to stay longer and work extra hours in order to make up for it.

"…I guess they never caught up." And there at the end was a small, but all too knowing, touch of the sardonic. "Or maybe they were just mad," he breathed. "I messed up, Jay. And…I couldn't fix it."

"There wasn't anything for you to fix, Tim. You weren't the one who messed up. Not really. And how many fucking years do you get to stay mad at a kid for getting hurt in an accident that's your own damned fault? The only people your folks had any right to be mad at were themselves.” And maybe that Goddamned housekeeper you've somehow conferred sainthood upon. Jay wasn't sure where the words had even come from because he hardly felt capable of thought, let alone speech. But the little bird was fading fast and Jay felt a burning need to fix this somehow before he slipped into a ‘scape of whatever nightmares the Drakes had planted in his mind.

It was all too easy to picture what the aftermath of the “discussion” had looked like. Tim huddled in some corner of that too-big house, a mess of aching loneliness and silent tears. He was nearly always silent when he cried, because of course that had been an essential skill to learn at the Drakes’ place: How not to upset the parents who were rarely even there to hear your cries. But on the 3% chance that they might? Quiet as a grave. A normal grave, at least. Couldn't afford to risk having anyone notice that he existed and that he might be experiencing emotions like a normal human being, like a normal child. Erase all evidence of that. Heck, cut to the chase and just erase yourself…whatever interpretation that idea might have at a given moment. It left a lot of opportunity for creative application.

Jay didn't want this to be the last thing on Tim's mind as sleep wrapped its shadowed vines around him.

He tried to think what Dick might do. What sort of off-kilter but somehow perfect idea Roy would’ve sprung if Jason had shared a memory like this with him.

He filtered through his own memories from more recent days, trying to recall the rare times he or Dick had been able to nag the kid into getting a bite to eat on breaks from patrol, fast food if they couldn't drag him to the Manor for a proper meal. There wasn't much to go on. And he was certain either of his elder brothers³ could've come up with something better. But, he was pretty sure.… "You still eat stuff like that, though, right?"

"Mm?" Tim furrowed his brow but his eyes remained shut.

"Like, they didn't ruin actually eating foods like that, yeah?"

"…No?"

"All right, then next time we go out on patrol—or hell, as civvies—I'm buying, and you are eating as many chicken tenders as you Goddamned want, got it?"

A beat passed and Jay had to hold back a nervous swallow, abruptly wondering how ridiculous the offer might’ve sounded to Tim. Sure, nothing like a small bucket of oil to make up for years of fucking neglect. Fast food: The ultimate panacea. Can't afford therapy? Get some waffle fries instead! Nine out of ten psychiatrists recommend!

It wasn't even about the Goddamned food, and they both knew it.

But Tim's lips twitched in a tiny smile, and at length came the answer. "Got it.

"And, Jay? You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. About…earlier?" A tiny wrinkle slipped between his brows, and his voice sounded small, unsure. "But, if you ever want to…I'll bring the Gatorade?" He chanced a cautious half-smile at the end.

Jay's breath seized in his chest for a long moment before finally escaping in a barked-out laugh. "What, no Kleenex? Okay, I see how it is. I get the budget therapy session." He gave Tim a little jostle. "Unbelievable."

Tim gave a little chuckle in response. "All right, I'll get Kleenex."

"And it better not be the cheap knockoff stuff, either," he added with a pointed sniff. "I demand premium." He poked Tim in the ribs on his good side, eliciting full-blown laughter this time.

"Okay! Geez, sorry!"

And there was an apology Jason could've listened to a few times more…it was damned good to hear the kid laugh.

"Anyways, 'preciate it, kiddo," Jay added as the laughter died down, knowing to say it before things got too quiet and his voice got too choked up, and before he could remind himself of all the scarring secrets that had lain burnt into his flesh for far too long.

Tim cracked an eye open and Jay cleared his throat. “Long as you don't cheap out, of course. Now, uh, get some sleep already."

" 'Kay,” he mumbled, both eyes closed again and a small, shy smile on his lips.

No arguments, no hesitation. Just contentment.

“And…Jason?"

"Timothy…?"

"Thank you." A bigger smile. "I'm glad you're here. And I'm glad I asked."

"So am I, Little Red. So am I.”

2. Arabic phrase used in moments of irritation & frustration. Correct me if I'm off here, but I feel like the English equivalent would be a combo of: "Boy, I can't wait until this is over" + "Lord, deliver me from this ish" + "Think happy thoughts." That's the vibe I was going for here with Jason, in any case.[ ↑ ]
3. Just to avoid any confusion (Lord knows comics are confusing enough on their own, ha!), Roy Harper isn't one of Bruce's children the way Dick, Cass, Jason, Tim, and Damian are. BUT he's Jason's best friend, and I feel he's as deeply and intimately his brother by bond as any of our other boys here. (And let's not forget Jay's big sis/sister-in-law, Kori!). It's funny, because Roy's manic, mischievous energy tends to make him come off as the younger one often enough. But then we have other moments where you are reminded that Roy is older and you see Jay benefit from his steadiness and sense of self there. In any case, figured I should clarify why I have Jay think of himself as having two elder brothers rather than one.[ ↑ ]
4. I wanted the emotional resonance of this chapter to essentially stand on its own, so I decided not to put this link at its beginning. But I think of this song, "Walk You Home," by Karmina, as sort of an end-credits theme, as well as being the overall theme for this fic.

   Fell in love with the song from the first time I heard it—on a gritty and very moving series called "The Cleaner," starring Benjamin Bratt—and it wasn't easy to find (my other favorite song from the show is even more obscure!), but it was worth the trouble. It really reminds me of my best friend and how we've each been there for the other through rough years and moments, and it definitely represents a crucial theme for the Batfamily.

   P.S. The linked lyric video is the best one I've found so far, all things considered, and bravo/brava to the creator! Now that I've said that…between listening to the line repeatedly and looking at the context, I'm fairly confident the line written as “Your song is best to company” should instead be “Your song is best accompanied,” as that would be musical terminology. Since I'm directing y'all to it, I felt I ought to mention that.