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Grocery shopping at two in the morning is the only way to go. There are no people, no insane mom or dad with a screaming child demanding to get out of the cart, to say the least about dodging and weaving between carts as he goes down the aisles dictated by his list. It’s just him and a few other night owls who have also decided this is the perfect time of day to restock their pantries and fridge.
Even going home is easier. Traffic is next to nonexistent and the calm that settles over the city is utterly at odds with the cacophony of the day. Even a city like Gotham has to sleep at times and he’s one of the few that knows what she sounds like when she does.
Tim juggles his grocery bags while he aims his key at the lock on his apartment door, hoping he’s right the first time. The reusable bags are great because of the handles, but when he’s overloaded like this, they’re no better than the flimsy plastic ones. Why did he have such a long list this time?
Oh, right. He had to clean out the fridge. Long missions with the Titans are hell on expiration dates.
Lady luck is not with him tonight and he fumbles with the key a few times before it finally does what it’s supposed to and unlocks his front door. Good thing he already set his alarm for access mode while in the car or else there’d be hell to pay.
He shoves the door open and staggers in, wondering yet again why he thought carrying everything inside all at once was a good idea instead of making two trips. Kicking off his ratty old Converse, he uses his foot to close the door behind him. The lock will engage on its own in ten seconds.
The joys of technology. Why doesn’t he use it to have his groceries delivered again?
Tim takes a few steps out of the small foyer and stops cold, the grocery bags hanging low on his arms falling to the floor as his grip loosens.
Jason is passed out on his sofa, the telltale leather jacket giving it away since his face is buried in a throw pillow. An arm hangs limply off the side, blood trickling down the bare hand to land on the glove he’d managed to remove. Already, a small pool has formed.
The rest of the groceries hit the ground and Tim doesn’t spare a moment to think about the eggs as he races forward. “Jason!” he shouts, kneeling beside the man. Blood soaks into the knees of his black sweatpants, but let’s face it, this isn’t the worst thing he’s been up to his knees in.
He checks for a pulse and it’s there, slow and steady. “Jason!” he tries again, this time scanning what he can see of him.
The back of Jason’s trademark leather jacket is soaked in blood.
“Shit,” Tim swears as he jumps up and races to the bathroom for his first-aid kit. It’s Alfred approved, so it has all the goodies and then some for anyone who lives the vigilante life.
When he returns, he finds Jason gingerly sitting up, face scrunched up with red lines on one side from the pattern on the pillow.
“Tim?” he asks, the name slurring as he forces his way through sleep and blood loss.
“What happened?” Tim drops the kit on the coffee table and rests a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Actually, scratch that. Let’s get you out of everything so I can see where you’re bleeding from.”
“Shoulder, I think.” Jason’s words are clearer this time. “Maybe lower.”
“Considering how much blood is on my floor, it’s probably higher.” Tim tries not to snap, but it’s a near thing.
Jason doesn’t reply, which speaks volumes about his condition.
The jacket is a goner, so Tim doesn’t even try to salvage it, cutting it from Jason’s torso rather than aggravating his injuries. He does the same with the body armor underneath, taking note of multiple indents and a couple of holes. Jason has a tendency to wear his gear until the last possible moment before he has to replace it, his pride not allowing him to ask for handouts from the Bats even though they’re all on better terms lately. From the looks of it, this particular armor has been on the verge of failing for days.
It just aggravates Tim that much more.
There’s blood all over Jason’s back and now that he’s sitting upright, it trails down his spine, following a path that has clearly seen some use already tonight.
Tim frowns. Two holes have pierced Jason’s skin, nearly right on top of each other. There are no exit wounds in the front, so the bullets and all their tiny little fragments are still inside, making a mess of everything.
This is going to be so much fun.
It takes some time, but Tim manages to get Jason almost completely stripped down and moved into the kitchen where he sits on a bench that Tim drags away from the wall, knocking over all the crap he normally keeps piled on it.
Jason is looking distinctly anemic and Tim remembers his groceries, groceries that contain a large container of orange juice.
He dashes back to the living room to retrieve his bags. Most of them, he’s able to just shove in his fridge to deal with later, but before he does, he finds the juice and sets that on the counter.
For once, his dishes are clean, and Tim pours a tall glass of juice.
“Any vodka?” Jason quips when he hands it to him.
“Fresh out.”
“Damn.”
Tim washes his hands at the sink, then returns to the kitchen counter to open the first-aid kit. Glancing at Jason’s back, he starts removing numerous items and laying them on the clean dishtowel he’d snagged earlier. As much as he might wish otherwise, he’s no stranger to digging bullets out of members of his family. In fact, some of the neat scars hidden beneath a layer of blood are his handiwork.
This does not make it any easier.
Snapping on a pair of surgical gloves, Tim gets to work.
“Ow.”
Tim ignores Jason, concentrating instead on cleaning the wounds first, then applying the local anesthetic to help dull the pain of what’s coming next.
“Ow,” he says again, and Tim continues to ignore him. It’s possible he digs in a little harder than he needs to, but no one is here to complain except Jason.
Which he does.
“Jesus Christ, where’d you learn to tear a guy apart like this, huh? YouTube?” Someone must be feeling better after drinking his juice. Too bad Tim didn’t have any vodka, it might have shut him up. When this is over, it’s going on his next grocery list, right at the top.
“I learned from the same person you did.” Tim finds a bullet fragment and carefully teases it out. The small piece of metal clatters loudly in the small metal tray that had been in the kit.
“You sure as shit don’t have Alfred’s bedside manner.”
“If you wanted to be coddled, you would have gone to the cave.”
“Who pissed in your Cheerios?”
“Hey, I was having a perfectly good night, doing responsible adult things, and pretending that for a brief time, I had all my shit together. And then I find you bleeding all over my sofa.”
Jason scoffs and tries to glare over his shoulder, but winces instead when Tim finds a much larger fragment and tugs. “It wasn’t like I had much choice. You’re a hell of a lot closer than the cave.”
“It’s called a comm. I know you have one.”
“But it was just so much more fun to climb three stories and break in through your window.”
Tim stops and smacks the back of Jason’s head. Of all the stupid… “You could’ve rang the doorbell like a normal person instead of scaling three stories with a bullet in your back and bleeding all over my sofa.”
“Well, excuse me for bleeding on your fuckin’ sofa!”
A few deep breaths help calm Tim’s rising anger. He sighs and leans over, pressing his forehand into Jason’s tangled hair. “Do you think it’s easy for me, seeing you do this to yourself? Jason, we’re partners. We’re supposed to be in this together and here you are doing shit like this when you know I’m just a call away.”
Jason is silent for a time and Tim is half afraid that he’s passed out when he speaks. “In my defense, I didn’t go out tonight thinking I’d get shot. Just needed to check in with a few informants, then I was gonna come home and make some real food for us since you said you were going shopping.”
It’s a start, but it doesn’t even begin to cover the conversation they’ll be having later about the state of Jason’s equipment.
“That explains why rib-eyes were on the list.” Tim prefers chicken or fish while Jason is most definitely a steak kind of guy. It makes for interesting times when it comes to meal planning. He draws back and resumes poking around in Jason’s shoulder.
“Did you buy them?” Jason sets his empty glass on the bench.
“Of course, I did. You’ve told me too many times not to deviate from the list or else your menu will be all screwed up.”
“Then why didn’t you get vodka?”
“Because you wrote whiskey, not vodka, on my shopping list.”
“Goddammit.”