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Tim wakes up under about a hundred and thirty pounds of Canadian Timber wolf.
It's not exactly a new experience. Not really. Jason spends a lot more time as a wolf than he does a man, shoving Tim around the apartment and rubbing his gigantic head all over Tim's face and neck. The times he's human are spent feeding Tim and trying to coax him into transforming.
(Tim has no idea what Jason is even talking about. Aside from the fact that the man can turn into a giant wolf, Tim— can't. He doesn't know where Jason even got the idea that he could.)
(It's better than having to fight him off, though. Tim isn't going to correct Jason on the only thing keeping those jaws from snapping around his throat.)
(And, well— Tim can admit, if only in the safety of his own mind, that it's nice to have somebody dote on him so thoroughly. Something inside of him preens at the way Jason's calloused hands close around the back of his neck or thread through his hair. Even when Jason in wolf-form starts licking all over his scalp and gets his hair wet and gross, Tim feels a little soft inside. Gooey. Tired, maybe.)
The wolf cracks an eye open at Tim, as if sensing he's awake, and gives a jaw-cracking yawn. Tim winces at the sight of the fangs, almost as long as Tim's longest finger, and tries to pull away from the drool the always manages to drop onto him in the mornings.
"Ew," he shoves at Jason's chest. "You're gross."
The wolf on top of him becomes a man in the blink of an eye, out of bed and looking around for the socks he tossed off before going to sleep last night. "You're gross," he huffs, blowing a strand of white hair out of his face. Tim sits up and watches him.
(A week ago, Tim would have tried to escape. Maybe find a phone and message Bruce for help.)
(A week ago, though, Tim still thought people would notice him missing. Jason's never restricted his access to the news, and Tim has yet to see a single missing person report for him.)
(Bruce would have found him by now if the man had wanted to look at all.)
"Come on," Jason scrubs a hand through Tim's hair and then grasps the back of his neck for a quick second before starting to pick his way out of the room. "Breakfast, squirt."
Tim follows on silent feet, fighting the urge to cling to the back of Jason's shirt like a baby. "Can I help?"
"Nope," the fridge swings open, and Jason pokes around for a minute before pulling out the last of their eggs and bacon. "You gonna behave if I head out to the store after this? We're low on groceries."
"I'm not a child," Tim rolls his eyes, hopping up to sit on the counter and watch Jason scramble eggs. "I won't burn the house down."
"Sure," Jason side-eyes him. "I'll leave my phone. You call if you do burn the house down, alright?"
"Fine," Tim agrees. His fingers twitch at the idea of having access to a phone, though.
(Tim's had been left behind at the tower, and he hadn't had the guts to ask to go get it, yet.)
They fall into a comfortable silence, only broken by the sizzling of the eggs and bacon on the gas stove. Jason hums something soft under his breath, and Tim feels his shoulders relax just a little.
His plate gets piled higher with food than Jason's— just like every day— and Jason watches with an intent gaze as Tim pokes and prods at the food.
(He's just never had much appetite. Until now, at least. Jason barely has to prompt him to eat anymore, because Tim practically inhales his food as soon as it's in front of him.)
Jason's wrists rub over Tim's hair and neck again before the older man— teen? He's only eighteen— pulls away to eat his own food. "Do'ya want anything?"
"What?"
"From the store," Jason explains through a mouthful of eggs. "Snacks? Cookie dough? Dog toy? I'm gonna get you some rope toys, actually, let me—" he leans over to a notepad on the counter, scribbling rope toys with a barely-functioning pen and grumbling in frustration when it takes five tries to write out the s at the end.
"I don't need—"
Jason waves him off and continues writing things down— clothes, video games (?), puzzle feeder— "You're a growing boy," he says. "You need enrichment."
Tim wrinkles his nose. "That makes me sound like a zoo animal."
"You're a teenager. That's practically the same thing."
"Asshole," Tim flips him off, finishing his food and hopping off the counter to wash his plate. Jason scruffs him again and tugs Tim back into his side as soon as the dish is in the sink, leaving Tim's head feeling fuzzy on the edges. He leans his weight against Jason's side with a content little hum, letting his body go limp.
(Jason can hold him up just fine.)
"Chrissake, kid," he grumbles, not sounding at all put-out. The low rumbling from his chest that Tim's come to associate with happy-love-safe starts up, and his calloused fingers massage the base of Tim's skull until his vision goes blurry.
All good things must come to an end, though.
Jason pulls away, squeezing the back of Tim's neck one more time for good measure and heads off to the bedroom to pull on more appropriate day clothes.
It isn't long until it's just Tim and the phone.
A burner phone— the kind that still has physical buttons and a flip-down screen. Like something right out of a TV show. Tim's seen one before, but his parents usually had the slide-out keyboards on their phones instead of the flips. It should still be pretty easy to use, though.
He has Bruce's number memorized.
Before he can think about it too hard, his fingers are tapping against the buttons— they let out a quiet beep, beep, beep with every number pressed— until all that's left to do is press the call button. He hesitates for just a second before hitting it.
Ring, ring, ring.
Click.
"Hello?"
He swallows harshly at the sound of Dick's voice, fingers squeezing tight around the plastic casing of the phone. "Hey."
"Tim?" Dick sounds breathless, like he's been working out. Or been on patrol. Tim glances out the window and quickly dismisses the second one. It's too bright out. "Tim. Hey. Where are you? Are you alright? What—"
"What?" he blinks. "I'm fine. I mean— I'm fine. What are you talking about—?"
"Red Hood," Dick says. "We saw the tower footage. Where are you? Never mind, Babs is tracking the phone now. We'll be there soon, okay? Are you hurt?"
Without thinking, Tim slams the phone shut.
(This is what he wanted, isn't it? Why he kept checking the news and hoping to see his own face. Why even bother calling if he didn't want to be found?)
Jason is going to kill him.