Work Text:
“Oh God, you came." Tim draws his words out, a dramatic, oddly well done British accent leaking into his sentences. He’s whining and shoving his face deeper into one of his pillows, squirming under his bright red covers, which oddly, despite Jason believing Tim would have black covers, fit him well. "Jason, my savior. My favorite brother, the only one who read my message. Please, help me, for I am in copious amounts of pain.”
Jason merely stares, helmet hanging from his hand, the other wrapped around the door frame where he had positioned it to steel himself for what he thought he was going to see. All he sees, however, is a grumbling Tim buried under way too many things to be comfortable. And no blood.
Eventually, Jason thinks Tim gets tired of his silence, as he stops fussing for a moment to lift his head from the pillow. His hair is somehow more of a mess now that Jason can see him clearer, and despite the large amounts of exaggeration in his complaints, Jason recognizes thin lines of discomfort adorning Tim’s pouty face. He frowns.
Tim frowns back, mouth pinching further into a pout. “Why’re you just standing there?”
Jason purses his lips, and scans over Tim again. Still, no blood. Jason is beyond confused.
“Are you not dying?”
Tim deadpans, arms folding over the pillow resting below his chin, before he pulls it up further. Jason can barely see his eyes under the mop of hair dangling over them.
“What do you mean?” Tim scoffs. “I am.”
“No? You’re not? You seem fine to me.”
“I literally am.”
“Tim, you show no signs of—”
“I am dying.”
He says it with so much conviction Jason can’t find room to argue anymore, so if Tim says he’s dying, he’s dying. Though, Jason isn’t particularly fond of the thought of Tim being anything but alive.
“Okay?” Jason raises an eyebrow. “How can I prevent you from being dead, then?”
Tim brightens at the acceptance Jason seems to bear, squeezing his pillow tighter as to reveal his smile to Jason. “You could start by getting me ginger ale. There’s some in my fridge.”
Jason blinks.
Oh hell no, this is way too suspicious.
“Tim, if this is a prank to make me do shit for you I swear—”
“It’s not. I physically cannot leave this bed.” Tim’s face goes slack now, refusing to break the eye contact he’s made with Jason. “Please get me ginger ale.”
Jason contemplates for a moment, before flicking his eyes away, setting his shoulders and turning around. “Fine.”
And so, Jason, clad in his whole fucking Red Hood get up, walks through his apparently dying teenage brother’s apartment to get him ginger ale at one thirty am. He opts to leave his helmet hanging on a doorknob as he makes his dandy way to the kitchen so he can grab it when he leaves, and totally not because he can't be bothered to lug it around with him.
Eventually, after taking way too long to find where the fuck Tim keeps his glassware—in the cabinet above the fridge, which what the fuck, who puts shit other than things you never need up there—Jason arrives back in Tim’s bedroom.
“Here’s your ginger ale.” Jason hands it to him, waiting a tad awkwardly for Tim to take a sip before backing up. “If that’s all then I’ll be—”
“No.”
Jason stops, and raises an eyebrow. A habit it seems, around his little brother.
“No?”
“No. You will not be on your way anywhere but right next to me.” Tim scoots towards the middle of his bed, and pats the now Tim shaped empty spot.
“Next to you.” Jason repeats.
Tim nods. “Yes. Next to me.”
“And why would I be on my way to sit next to you?” Jason asks. Tim shrugs.
“Because my heating pad is broken and you run warm.”
Huh?
“Heating pad? What do you need a heating pad f—Oh.”
Jason pauses his own sentence, eyes widening the slightest as it clicks, and oh God, he's officially the densest person on the planet. Maybe being brought back to life really did mess with his cognitive abilities. “Hold up. By bleeding you meant bleeding bleeding?”
Rolling his eyes, and snickering, Tim stretches across the bed and sets his glass of ginger ale on his nightstand before scooting back down with a grunt. “Come on, I thought you had figured this out by now, Jace.”
“I—Well I thought you—You said you were dying!” Jason exclaims. Frustration, and a little embarrassment weighs on him as he runs his hands over his face.
“I still am. Dying, I mean.” Tim clarifies, before wincing. He curls in on himself a bit, eyebrows knitting, but he uses the opportunity to send his best set of puppy eyes towards Jason and… Goddamnit.
Jason sighs. He peels his boots off while removing his bulky jacket and utility belt, with the many guns that had accompanied him, tossing them onto Tim’s desk chair before crawling in next to him. Jason isn’t even fully settled before Tim is latching onto him like a fucking koala, with ungraceful limbs and hair tickling his neck, but Jason can’t really say he minds. It’s kind of… nice, honestly.
“And how long do you want me to be here?” Jason asks, hesitantly wrapping his arms around Tim.
Tim grunts into Jason’s t-shirt, squeezing his stomach tighter. “Until I’m not dying.”
Jason lets out a little snort, before settling fully into the abundance of pillows and blankets, rubbing Tim’s back slowly.
“Alright Timmy, until you’re not dying.”
And Jason intends to keep his word.