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Jason crept through the Manor, quiet as a ghost. He knew all of the creaky floorboards by heart, even the years away hadn't dispelled him of that knowledge. When he'd come to the Manor for the first time — eight years ago, now — he'd mapped out every inch of the place. Noted the ways the building groaned as it shifted and settled. Every floorboard that was out of place, every stair that hissed under his weight.
No one heard him, as he made his way to Tim's room. He knew how to open the old doors as well. Knew to pull the door toward the hinges as you twisted the handle to avoid the scrape of wood on wood.
Jason approached the desk where Tim had fallen asleep, his laptop screen was dark, an empty coffee mug sat at his elbow.
He reached out a hand to touch the boy's shoulder. Tim looked so young when he was asleep. So innocent. Nothing of the replacement Robin in his face. Jason almost regretted his plan. Almost.
Before he could touch Tim, something wrapped around his waist, dragged him backwards. Jason hit the floor hard, helmeted head bouncing off the floorboards and rattling his brain, but it barely registered. He was twisting to face his attacker before he was even fully on the ground.
He reached out, trying to dislodge the arms dragging him out of the room but the attacker snatched his wrist and threw him out of Tim's room.
Jason yelped, slamming shoulder first into the wall. Something popped. His head reeled.
"Bruce," the attacker — no it was Dick — screamed down the hallway. "BRUCE! Jason's here, he's attacking Tim!"
Oh, Jason thought. A green haze settled over his vision. Over everything. Jason sucked in a long breath, forcing his raging body to hold it in and release it slowly.
Dick hauled Jason to his feet and shoved him against the wall, reaching around the back of Jason's head to unlatch the helmet and ripped it off his head. The shining red metal slammed into Jason's face twice before he could really figure out what was going on, hard enough that his knees buckled. Hard enough that blood poured down his face. Hard enough that Dick's grip on his jacket was all that kept him on his feet, for a moment.
Kill him, the pit hummed. Rip his head off, like he just ripped off yours.
Jason shook his head, desperately trying to reel it back in. To hit it with the metaphorical shovel and bury it down.
"Dick?" A faint voice called. Jason didn't think it was him, but he wasn't sure. "Dick! What are you doing?"
"It's Jason, he was in your room he—"
"Jesus Christ, Dick, didn’t Bruce talk to you? Let him go!"
He just wants to kill you himself, the pit hissed. Kill him.
"He texted me, said 'we need to talk about Jason' so I drove straight here."
Kill him, kill him, kill him, kill him, kill him —
"Ohhhh my god he's so inept," Tim groaned.
Jason tried to pull away from Dick, away from Tim, away from everything. Dick saw the movement as a threat — of course he does, you're a monster — and punched Jason in the stomach, wrapping an arm around his neck when he doubled over.
Tim screamed something that didn't quite reach Jason's ears over the rush of his blood.
Kill him, kill him, KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL —
The pressure around his neck vanished and Jason scrambled away until his back hit a wall. He cradled his hurt arm against his chest and pressed his forehead into drawn up knees.
"Jason, Jay it's okay," the Replacement — Tim, Tim said. Except Tim was using his Robin-talking-to-a-victim-voice and Jason felt acid in his veins and bile in his throat and he couldn't fucking breathe.
"Fuck off — fuck off right now," Jason growled into his knees. He could hear Dick's voice, sharp, grating, scathing. Then Tim, soft and insistent and then they were both further down the hallway. Further away, but not far enough.
Jason started to recite the first poem that came to mind, almost silent, lips forming the words. ("Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn.")
"Jaylad? What happened?"
Fuck.
Fuck, he couldn't do this.
"You definitely have to fuck off." Jason felt a bubble of hysteria in his chest. He almost laughed, but he knew it would be a terrifying sound and he felt like he was having a breakdown in enemy territory.
Probably because he was.
So he did his stupid breathing exercises ("Among the river sallows, borne aloft") and tapped his stupid fingers ("Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;") of his stupid uninjured arm on his stupid knee ("And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;") skipping his stupid ring finger ("Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft / The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,") and slowly, so fucking slowly, his breathing slowed down and the anger receded.
("And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.")
Faint voices trickled their way into his consciousness. Bruce, Dick, and Tim were at the end of the hall.
"You were supposed to tell him things were okay, Bruce." Tim. Angry.
"I was planning on telling him in person." Bruce. Exasperated.
"What the fuck is happening?" Dick. Scared? Angry? Guilty?
"We've been hanging out," Tim said flatly.
"You...and Jason — Tim he tried to kill you."
"He doesn't even remember that, not really. He saved my ass on patrol one night a few months ago and I saw him and kind of freaked out," that was putting it lightly. The kid had a full blown panic attack. "Anyway, he comforted me and when I calmed down he just said "I hurt you bad, didn't I" all fucking sad and confused. And then he left."
"What the fuck, Tim."
"But we kept running into each other and he'd help me out and he'd keep his distance and make sure I could see his hands and eventually we talked about it and Dick, he doesn't remember. He hardly remembers coming back to Gotham at all. The League tossed him in the Lazarus pit and whispered awful things about us in his ear and chucked him back into Gotham.
"He doesn't remember. He apologized. He was coming to wake me up and I get that you saw him and freaked but Dick, he wasn't fighting back."
"His eyes are literally glowing green, he's dangerous, baby bird."
Oh, Jason thought.
"Only because you attacked him. He — he’s been working on controlling the pit but sometimes it tries to take over. He told us to fuck off so he wouldn't hurt us."
"Oh," Dick whispered. It was a small, broken thing.
Shuffling, loud footsteps announced their approach but they stopped before reaching him. Still keeping their distance.
He's attacking Tim.
"Jason?" Tim's voice called cautiously.
"What's up?" Jason didn't uncurl, didn't stop tapping. His shoulder throbbed but the pain was grounding.
He's dangerous.
"Are you okay?"
"Peachy."
"Is it — has it gone away?"
"Yep." Jason popped the p.
Tim was in front of him in an instant, gentle hands lifting his head off his knees, poking at the gash on his forehead (superficial, maybe two stitches), prodding his nose (probably not broken), assessing his shoulder (dislocated).
"Why were you wearing your helmet?" Jason startled slightly at the sound of Dick's voice. He was much closer now.
Tim's face darkened and Jason smiled sheepishly. "You were trying to scare me, weren't you." It wasn't a question.
"Sorry." He didn't mean it. Tim rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Whatever, karma."
Jason laughed, "Yeah, I definitely deserved it."
"No you didn't," Dick whispered fiercely, crouching next to him. "I'm really sorry, Little Wing, I'm so sorry."
"Bruce should have been more clear," Tim said pointedly and Bruce shuffled closer.
"I could have done a better job communicating what I wished to talk about," he murmured. Tim shot Jason a look that said can you believe this shit?
"Damn that's like, so close to being an apology. Didn't know you had it in ya, old man," Jason said, tilting his head to look at Bruce, who managed to look both offended and guilty at the same time. Next to him, Dick snickered.
"Are you okay?" Bruce asked suddenly, creeping closer.
Jason looked between Dick, who had wormed his way against Jason's side, and Tim, who had somehow materialized a tiny first aid kit and was disinfecting Jason's forehead.
"Yeah," he whispered, smiling, "I'm okay."