Chapter Text
Jason’s window shines bright like a beacon.
It wavers slightly in Tim’s vision, the glow trembling at the edges, and he blinks but nothing changes. He blinks again, this time against the wave of dizziness that rocks through him. His grip on his bo staff threatens to slip.
One more jump. One more rooftop to cross and he’ll be on the fire escape, and from there he’s home free.
It’s been a long night. It’s been a long couple of nights, but when he started heading back for the Nest, he suddenly couldn’t stand the thought of recovering in the dark of his sparse apartment, alone. The cold air stings against the raw scrapes on his face, and he can feel blood drying tacky in the short hairs at his temple, a thin line trickling past his left ear. He could clean himself up, he’s done it countless times before, but he’s still learning that he doesn’t have to.
He doesn’t have to.
It takes him a few tries to make his staff collapse, clumsily thumbing at the catch, but he manages to put it away. He gauges the distance with an unsteady eye, and gives himself a few paces before taking the jump at a run. His right knee twinges again, the joint complaining as he tries to put weight on it after taking that kick an hour ago, but he catches the railing and hauls himself over, aided by momentum. He rolls in a graceless heap onto the grated floor with a deafening clatter. Wincing in reflex, he thinks about the lecture that would have gotten him from Bruce.
Tim lets himself lie there for a second too long and his body starts to throb as everything clamors for his attention at once. He’s so exhausted that he seriously contemplates letting himself fall asleep right there for Jason to find. But he can’t. His hands are shaking, he’s cold with sweat, and a low buzzing under his skin ratchets him tighter and tighter the longer he stares blurrily at the criss-crossing beams of the next balcony up. He feels scraped open and hollow, raw and unsettled. He needs something, and it’s not out here on Jason’s fire escape.
With great effort, he pulls himself up to his feet and lurches through the window.
The inside of Jason’s apartment, the nice one, where he actually lives, is so divorced from the night Tim just crawled out of that it feels like stepping into a new reality. The shift is completely jarring, and he has to steady himself against the wall beside the windowsill.
Jason is on the couch, his hair damp and curling at his temples, wearing the black cotton t-shirt that Tim likes to steal to sleep in. Lamplight shines bright off his dark hair, glowing warmly on his skin, illuminating him. He glances over at Tim and relaxes as he recognizes him, before turning back to whatever he’s studying in his lap. Tim swallows, and his throat clicks. It’s still new enough, this thing between them, that something clenches sweetly in his chest at the easy acceptance of Tim in Jason’s space.
Not a threat. Safe.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Jason snipes idly, amused, with a curl of fondness under the words that wraps around Tim’s bones. Tim feels himself sag, the cool wall against his forehead the only thing holding him up as the past forty eight hours suddenly crash down on him.
“Long day at the office, snookums?” Jason asks.
Tim should say something equally sarcastic. 'Oh, the longest, honey bear. I swear, it's like the boss is out to get me.' Jason would laugh at him and he'd go clean himself up in the bathroom, then reheat some of Jason's leftovers when he came out. They could make out on the couch while Tim tried to steal glances at Jason's case files, and Jason would have to carry him off to bed to keep him from butting his nose into Red Hood business— the same way he butts his nose into Red Robin business, the hypocrite.
It would be normal. Only, he doesn't feel normal.
His throat tight, he pushes off the wall with a wobble and makes it to the front of the couch. Jason finally looks up at him, his easy smirk swiftly giving way to blank assessment. His brow furrows in concern as Tim lands in his lap, straddling him and trying to curl in as tightly as he can to Jason’s warm bulk. He burrows into the damp warmth of Jason’s neck, breath shuddering, and takes in the grounding scent of his skin and the mild soap he uses.
The distant sound of scattering papers precedes the warm weight of Jason’s hands on his back, trailing up and down his sides and testing Tim’s ribs. He hisses once or twice when Jason finds a tender spot, can’t help the hitch in his breath when he finds the shallow cut on the outside of his left thigh.
“Long day,” Jason murmurs under his breath, grimly confirming it to himself, and Tim trembles.
Jason shifts as though going to stand, but Tim squeezes his legs tight around Jason’s hips, shaking his head with a small denying sound that grates out of his throat, and Jason stills.
“Not going anywhere just yet, but,” Jason brushes lightly around the blood on his face, “we should get you cleaned up, yeah?”
Tim knows they should. It’s part of why he came here in the first place, so that Jason could at least be there, so he didn’t have to dab at his cuts without anyone around to distract him from playing what had happened tonight over and over in his mind on loop. But he can’t help but cling desperately to Jason, not wanting to leave the circle of his arms, the guaranteed safety, wanting to hide just a little longer. When he’s here, he doesn’t have to explain a thing.
Jason waits for one minute, two, but Tim can’t work out a response. Jason sighs, and a small bubble of panic starts to unfurl in Tim’s stomach at the sound, but it’s quelled by the small squeeze at the back of his neck, and the soft question Jason asks.
“Hurt or comfort?”
Tim breathes out, the tension leaving his shoulders as his scrambled thoughts start to reorder themselves. It’s a system they’ve worked out after one too many fights they’ve had, when one of them wasn’t okay and neither of them knew how to help each other. This helps Tim. It’s a simple question, with only two possible outcomes.
Whatever he chooses, Jason will give it to him.
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