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He knows things must be truly gnarly if Bruce has sent Jason on his trail of all people.
“Are you on the clock at least?”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
“Bruce, I mean. Is he at least paying you a fair hourly rate for your service?”
Jason looks at him from the couch like he's baffled by the words. Not affronted exactly, but baffled as in truly confused. He's still in his Hood gear, and for some reason Tim always has a harder time speaking with him when he's dressed up. He wouldn't call it fear, but whatever.
“I needed a place to crash, yours was the closest.”
“Uh-huh.” Tim doesn’t look at him. Maybe if he isn’t looking at Hood, the weird feeling that is not fear won’t bother him quite as much. He just focuses on the pot of coffee he’s trying to brew as concentratedly as possible.
“But now that you mention it, Bruce was mother henning around the Manor last I visited. Did you do something?”
“I haven't done anything .”
“No, no. If you think he's sent me over—” there’s the sound of rustling, and a clunky thud, so perhaps Hood’s kept his helmet down. Tim sneaks in a glance, and pointedly does not sigh in relief when he notices that not only has Jason taken off the helmet, he’s taken off his jacket as well.
“He has.”
“Yeah, because I have a track record of doing what Bruce asks.”
True enough, Tim supposes. But Jason would still do what Bruce asked if it piqued his curiosity enough. And Tim’s always piqued Jason’s curiosity, the little shit that he is. Says something about Tim intrigues him, whatever that’s supposed to mean.
He scowls, more half heartedly than not, “Why do you need a place to crash?”
“Why is Bruce on your ass about not visiting again?”
The sense of victory that sweeps through him is short lived, but it’s there. “I knew it. You've spoken to him.”
“Yeah, he's—Have you fucking met Bruce? Actually, nevermind. That's probably why he's on your ass. You've been ghosting him,” Jason cackles. When Tim looks back, Jason has his feet thrown over the back of the couch and is dangling upside down.
“I haven't been ghosting him.”
Jason hums, a sort of condescending sound that almost makes Tim throw the mug he’s holding at Jason’s face. The bastard would probably dodge, though, and then Tim would have a shattered mug to clean up, one that Stephanie had gifted to him, no less. “Your phone's turned off. Dick also mentioned that.”
Tim does the very responsible thing and only pours his coffee out into the mug, adding in a generous amount of sugar, and milk as well to boot. Maybe if the mug has coffee he won’t be as tempted to throw it. “So you've had a family meeting about me.”
“More like, Dicky and Bruce bonding over their inaccessible wards.” Jason pauses, then adds, “Your birthday’s coming up.”
Is it? Tim thinks sardonically, I hadn’t noticed. “So, now you're a commentator.”
“Just stating facts.”
“If you're gonna fucking ramble all night, you better find another place to stay—”
“You better not be drinking that shit. It's like eleven, are you mad? That's like an entire pot of coffee.”
Tim blinks down at his mug. Well, he supposes it is a little big. Steph probably meant it as a gag gift, but why get up for second or third servings when he can just have three drinks in one mug? He shrugs, rolls his eyes, and says, “Maybe you should stay with Bruce at the Manor. Get some one-on-one Daddy-son time.”
He glances at the couch where Jason’s lounging. There’s plenty of space to sit on it with distance between them if he wants, but he sits down on the carpet, cross legged instead.
“What's crawled up your ass and died? Jesus, kid.”
“Jason.” There is something building up within Tim, right at his chest, his throat, behind his eyes. He takes a sip of his coffee, like it’s going to do anything about the things he is feeling—
“Something's off,” Jason says with such firmness, it makes Tim want to upturn the entire coffee table on his head. “You know I can tell. We all can. That's why you're ghosting Bruce. And Dicky.”
“I've been busy.”
“Sure. Haven't slept in a couple of days either, by the looks of things.” Jason raises his head in a position that looks quite painful, craning his neck to look at Tim.
“Why are you crashing here?”
Jason stares for another moment, before letting his head fall back limply. “Got into a domestic with my roommate and I don't utterly hate myself, so I didn't crash with Bruce either.”
“Roommate?” Coffee. Focus on the coffee. Don’t think about roommates and the fact that he’s been looking at flats and furniture lately, double beds and balconies, no secret rooms or basements or mini armouries the way the Nest has.
“Friend? Comrade? Who cares? He's mad because—nevermind all that. I dropped in to check on my little bro. As siblings do.”
Tim tightens his grip on the mug, then loosens it with deliberate effort. “Great. Bruce thinks I'm fucked in the head again, so he's sent you over—”
“No. Tim, what's up? Why is your phone turned off? Are you avoiding someone?”
“My work phone is on—”
“Tim, buddy.” Jason rights himself, sitting up on the couch now, and stares at Tim with an entirely too intense look in his eyes. “Don't bullshit me, okay? What's up, man? Your birthday's coming up, is that it?”
Yes. “No.”
“Did Bruce actually do some shit? ‘cause I've been itching to have a go at him again—”
“No.”
“Alright. You don't need to talk about it, if you don't want to. Bruce was just worried. Last time you dropped off the map—”
“Don't. Just. I'm fine, not that you actually care, Jason.” He lowers his voice to a mutter by the end of the sentence, although he’s sure Jason hears it anyway. The older boy gracefully ignores the comment and rambles on.
“Whatever.” He flops back down onto the couch, though thankfully not upside down this time, only lengthwise, and Tim’s glad he sat on the floor or he’d have ended up with a lapful of Jason’s boots. “Let me tell you about Roy's whole schtick then, if you don't want to talk. So I get home at eight or something, all dandy, tired as all hell, and sore all over with takeout mind you, and the door is fucking ajar and there's smoke coming out so I'm thinking that we've been attacked or ambushed or what have you, I drop the food, get the good old gun cocked—”
“I'm not invested in this story at all,” Tim lies, although only a little, “Seeing as you're sitting here.”
Jason bulldozes right over Tim’s interruption. “And I walk into a dozen lit candles and fucking petals on the floor, and there's something turning into coal in the oven, fire alarms going crazy—”
“What?”
“Right!? And then right behind me, Roy fucking shows up with jelly, our cat, thrashing in his arm—”
“You have a cat with your roommate and he knows about the gun—wait, Roy? As in our Roy!?” Well, now he’s properly interested in the story, despite his best efforts. And the story means he doesn’t have to bear with Jason trying to act all concerned and shit.
Roy Harper though, Tim faintly wonders why he never knew that his brother Jason shared an apartment with the man. Well, it's not that he knows much of Jason's Hood business to begin with, but still.
“That coffee is messing up with your head. Yes. Obviously, Roy. So, I shouted at him a bit for leaving the oven and lit candles on the floor and he shouted back at me about ruining his romantic spiel—apparently Jelly had jumped out the window, that damn psycho, so Roy rushed out after him—”
Ah. This is not interesting anymore. Actually, Tim would prefer to be anywhere but here right now. “So… he's mad that you what, pulled out a gun, scared off his date or something?” His lips pull in a bitter sneer, and he quickly covers it up with another sip of the coffee.
“What date?”
Is Jason dumb? “You said petals, candles, and romantic surprises. So, did his girlfriend walk in on you guys—”
“I'm his girlfriend,” Jason interrupts, and Tim’s brain bluescreens. Jason, oblivious, goes on, “I mean, there's no girlfriend! The dinner was for me. He was just hissy that I walked in on him losing his shit, and I may have called his romantic gesture flaming gay shit , which in retrospect is funny as hell when you take the actual fire into consideration but he thought differently—”
Jason is interrupted when Tim slams his mug down onto the coffee table, hard enough that not only does most of the coffee spill out the edges, but the table itself cracks a little. So does the mug itself. So much for taking care of the mug.
His face is heating up terribly, and he keeps his gaze on the mess in front of him. “That's not funny.”
Jason had frozen when Tim slammed the mug down, and almost startles at the sound of Tim’s voice. He looks up, slowly, also moving to sit up. “What isn't?”
“That's not fucking funny, Jason.”
“It's—” Jason looks, somehow, more baffled now than he had when Tim accused him of spying for Bruce. “It’s not like I laughed at him about his hand or Jelly being a fucking idiot, I’m not the one who burnt the food—”
Tim abruptly gets onto his feet, “It's not funny. Get out—”
“Tim, hey.” Jason also stands up, and makes as if he’s going to physically grab Tim, but pauses when he recoils. “What's going on? Jesus, you're shaking—”
“Don't you dare,” Tim takes a step back, “You—you're wrong. You're wrong about me and you're wrong about him . I don't care how you and Bruce feel about me being—but don't you dare—”
This time, Jason ignores Tim’s flinch, and gets right into his personal space, grabbing onto his arms and keeping him in place. It’s a gentle hold, one that Tim could easily break. But his body feels too out of his control right now to try. Jason’s still speaking, and the words feel like they’re coming from underwater. “Tim. Look at me. It's fine, okay. Whatever you say. Just breathe. Come on. Shit.”
“Don't touch me,” he manages to spit out, and Jason lets go as if burned.
“Okay! Cool. No touching. I'm not touching you. But you gotta breathe. What happened, did I say something or—”
Tim takes more steps away, trying to put as much distance between himself and Jason as possible, but then his back hits the wall and he lets out a frustrated growl that seems to come straight from his gut. His legs are shaking so badly, he just slides down to the floor, grabbing onto his hair. “I'm just so tired!”
“Okay.” Jason’s voice is cautious, like he’s talking to someone who’s compromised, or a fear toxin victim, or—
“I've been—years!” Tim snaps, “I've had to hide this ugly fucking thing in my chest! For years I had to grapple with it only for you to come and mock me and Bern—”
“Mock you? Who's Bern? Tim, did you put any fear toxin in the coffee or—”
“Oh, please!” Tim is yelling now, and it makes Jason stop from where he had been, rather unsneakily, trying to move closer to him. “So that's why you're here! Stalking me and Bern, you're here to gloat about it, threaten to tell Bruce before I'm ready—”
“Tell Bruce what?” When did Jason get this good at acting? He’s getting really good at this bewildered face thing he’s doing right now, once again, even though they both know perfectly well what Tim’s talking about.
“Is this another type of revenge or you trying to uppercut me because I'm not worthy of your precious family values—”
“Jesus, Tim.” Jason’s looking at him with these really wide, concerned eyes, and it makes a few frustrated tears leak out of Tim’s eyes.
“I know,” he says, voice lowered down to almost a whisper, “I know all that, okay? Please. Don't tell Bruce, please don't tell him yet. I know I promised Bern, and I want to, I want this off my shoulders so bad already but—I can't—”
“Do you have Bern’s number on your phone, Tim?”
Tim stops tugging at his hair to look at Jason in horror, “No! No, don't drag him into this, if Bruce finds out—”
“Finds out what? Is Bern a criminal or a drug dealer?”
The idea is so ridiculous that Tim is almost startled into hysterical laughter. Almost. “No. No, he's—” he chokes. How can he just say it?
How can he not? His birthday is less than a week away. How can he still not say it? He’s supposed to be able to say it. He’s supposed to say it, on his birthday, to other people.
God, if Bernard could see him now, he’d be horrified. He doesn’ deserve this. He doesn’t deserve a partner who goes into pieces at the mere thought of coming out. He doesn’t deserve pushing down his own wants and needs just because Tim is a coward.
“I’m guessing,” Jason says slowly, crouching down a few feet away from Tim, “And I could be totally off the mark, but he is your boyfriend. Or a fuck buddy?”
“Don't say that!” Tim’s voice is so shrill he’s not surprised when Jason winces. Then frowns, a deep line on his forehead that looks uncharacteristic on him.
“Tim, why are you freaking out exactly?” He comes down from a crouch to a kneel, and moves just a bit more close to Tim, movements still slow and cautious. “I just told you about my messy, flaming gay relationship with Roy Harper. Do I look like I care if you're gay?”
“I—”
“And Bruce? Bruce Wayne? Orphan collector, Gotham's sweetheart Bachelor of the last two decades, Bruce Wayne ? You think he might care if you're gay?”
Tim wraps his arms around his knees. His throat feels rough, and his voice comes out a little raspy, “My Dad—”
Jason cuts him off, still incredulous, “Your dad who?” he shakes his head, “Your dad, Bruce Wayne, literally the Batman, who's been running up the walls worrying about you this past week? Or that piece of shit who you're better off calling a sperm donor?”
“Jason,” the word comes out sounding embarrassingly like a whimper, “I can't do this.”
It feels like, the entire conversation, someone’s been wringing him out like a wet rag. And now there’s no more water left to wring out.
“No wonder you look like shit.” Somehow Jason has migrated close enough to wrap an arm around Tim’s shoulders, a warm and comforting weight that Tim wants to hate but can’t. He just leans into it. Jason tightens his hold, “Jeez, Tim. Are you seriously—has this seriously been weighing down on you? Dude, it's not the eighties anymore, no one cares if you're—”
“I thought—” Tim begins haltingly, “I thought Bruce will be—I mean he already puts up with so much when it comes to me. And I've always been the problem child and—”
“No offence. But I think I'll take the problem child crown off your hands. I don't think Bruce gives a shit about you being gay. Because he didn't give a shit about me, the original problem child, being gay. If anything, he gets overprotective and insufferable about safety but—”
“Are you lying?” It’s a little scary how flat his voice sounds. He doesn’t want to sound like that. Not about this.
Jason gentles his voice, “No, Tim. I'm not lying. I was gay before I died. And he knew I had a crush on the horse from Spirit, the movie.”
“Oh.” There’s a wet giggle burbling at the back of his throat, but it’s quickly squashed down by more tears. He hadn’t even realised just how badly he was crying, and only does so now when his nose starts clogging up a little.
“Cry it out. You look like you've been carrying this around for years. So Bern—”
“I promised him.” Tim scrubs roughly at his eyes, “It's been eating at me, I couldn't sleep or eat, I've been—I love him, I don't want to hide him anymore but, but it's been eating at me. I've only gotten Bruce back and things were so awful before and Dick—”
“Alright, before you spiral again—do you need me to call your boyfriend?”
He immediately shakes his head, “No. He has no idea.”
There is a pause, and Tim grows nervous again, his stomach flipping in on itself. And then Jason says, “Civilian. You're dating a civilian? Actually, you know what, Bruce will get on your ass about that more than the fact that he's a guy.”
Yeah, probably. That had been a distant concern. But so, so distant as compared to— to the looming threat of the other thing, hanging over his head. “Bruce—Are you sure he's… that he’s going to be okay?”
“More than sure.” The absolute, bone deep surety in Jason’s voice feels like someone injected Tim with a tranquilizer. “And you'd know that, if you actually turned your phone back on. But let's leave it be for now. Come on.”
Tim doesn’t want to move, now. The tranquiliser running through him already, weighing his body down and leaving him a puddle in Jason’s arms. “Where?”
“To bed? You need to lie down, and I'm tired. Or we could put a movie on—”
“No,” he mumbles, “I think we should sleep. My head hurts.” He should drink some water. He gazes mournfully at his mug, the coffee table, the coffee dripping down the table, and then Jason gently turns his head away from the mess and into his chest, hugging him properly.
“Yeah. I figured.” Jason’s chest rumbles with his words, and Tim feels them more than hears them. “Come on, Red. And you know, for the record, we love you, and we're proud, I guess. No matter who you date.”
Tim probably should not wipe his snot on Jason’s clothes, so he just nods a little, his entire body starting to go out of commission. “Thanks, Jason.” He whispers, wondering whether Jason can even hear him. “Really. Thank you.”
Jason only tightens his hold in response.