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Rare were the days in Gotham that both the clouds and the ever-present chill receded long enough to properly enjoy the sunshine.
Jason double checks his weather app; a true Gothamite knows better than to trust it blindly, then packs his latest book and a pair of sunglasses before setting off for the Manor.
There’s a community pool just down the street, but Jason isn’t an idiot. He’s covered in scars not even the Lazarus Pit had been able to smooth over, raised, gnarled patches of skin where his body had burnt until Bruce tugged his corpse free from the wreckage. The burn scars are wild, spreading across his torso and up his neck until they’ve covered most of his right side. In stark contrast, his autopsy scar is neat and tidy, made with a surgeon’s precise hands instead of a bomb’s rabid eruption.
Jason can’t step foot outside without a shirt on. It’s bad enough some of the scarring has crept up his neck and across his face; he has no desire to terrify the small children of his neighborhood during a morning swim.
And so he heads for Wayne Manor. Things between him and the rest of the Bats have been…well, he hesitates to use the word good, but things haven’t been awful. They’ve come to a tentative sort of truce; Bruce doesn’t bring up Jason’s nighttime habits, and Jason does his best not to leave corpses where Bruce might find them. Things aren’t perfect, but they’re good enough that Jason has no qualms about letting himself in through the back gate.
Tim is already in the pool when Jason dumps his bag by a lounge chair, floating on his back with his arms stretched out wide. His eyes are closed, and Jason strips down to his shorts as quietly as he can before throwing himself into the pool.
“You motherfucker,” Tim splutters as he comes up for air. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, and he kicks hard to keep himself afloat as he smooths it back. “I could have drowned.”
“Pity you didn’t,” Jason laughs. The water is deliciously cool against his skin, and he sighs as being afloat takes weight off his aching joints. “I’m surprised you’re up before noon on a weekend. You sure you haven’t been replaced by a clone with healthy sleeping habits?”
“Oh, har, har.” Tim flicks water in Jason’s direction with a pout. “Like you’re one to talk. What are you doing here, anyway? Alfred put breakfast away like two hours ago.”
“I wanted a swim.”
“Isn’t there a pool next to your apartment?”
Jason stands and lets the water run down his chest, watching the droplets travel through the ridges of his scars. One gets caught on the line of his autopsy scar, and it follows the raised Y across his pec and down his stomach before disappearing back into the pool. “Yeah, ‘cause I can go swimming in a public pool looking like this.”
Tim goes pink. “Oh,” he says softly. “Right.”
“You’re fine,” Jason replies quickly. The kid had meant nothing by it, and Jason knows he’ll start feeling guilty if Tim keeps on looking like Jason’s just kicked his puppy. “Nice shorts, by the way.”
That makes Tim turn a furious shade of scarlet, the perfect match to his Red Hood themed swimming trunks. Jason had got them for the kid after a mission turned sideways had ended up with Tim being thrown into the harbor. He’d crawled out looking like a drowned rat, and Jason had laughed so hard he’d almost choked. The trunks had been on the kid’s bed by the end of the week.
“Oh, fuck off, I couldn’t find my others.” Tim splashes him again. “It’s better than Dick’s god-awful speedo.”
Jason gags. “Oh, god, that thing’s awful. Part of me wishes I’d stayed dead so I’d never have to see that thing again.”
“It haunts us all,” Tim snickers before he floats up onto his back and closes his eyes. “Just push me out of the way if I’m blocking your laps.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you say to drag you under by your ankles if you’re in the way? Is that what I heard?”
He’s grinning when he starts to swim, cutting broad strokes through the water. The pool is just cold enough to chase away the heat, but not so cold that it makes his breath catch in his throat. At the deep end, Jason dives down to brush his fingers against the bottom, remembering when he and Dick used to chase the rings that Bruce would throw for them. He knows the toys are still in the pool house because he’s seen Dick throwing them for Damian, and the thought makes him smile when he comes up for air.
There’s a comfortable ache in his limbs when he finally drags himself out of the pool. Tim is now sprawled out on one of the lounge chairs, and Jason makes sure to drip water down the kid’s back as he towels himself off.
He opens up an umbrella and makes sure his chair is directly beneath it before he lays down and begins to read. The book is one he’s read before, a battered paperback he doesn’t mind getting water on, and he glances lazily over the pages. The heat has always made him sleepy, and he doesn’t even make it to the end of the chapter before he sets the book aside and closes his eyes.
~~~
Jason wakes up screaming.
He’s on fire again, trapped beneath burning rubble with broken ribs and broken limbs and Bruce’s name trapped in his smoke-filled lungs. His skin stretches and breaks. He’s falling apart, torn at the seams, every nerve alight as he goes up in flames. Pain claws up his throat, tears at his cheek, rakes vicious claws across his chest, and digs right down to his heart.
A hand brushes against his shoulder, and he strikes out, feels his knuckles slam into cool, unbroken skin. He’s yelling for Bruce, for his father to come and save him this time, but someone else is yelling too, their voice growing in volume until it cuts through the wheezing screams forcing their way past Jason’s lips.
“Jason!”
He knows that voice. His screams become whimpered cries, and he pries his eyes open long enough to see Tim hovering over him, an ugly red mark blossoming across his jaw.
“Help,” Jason pleads. “It…it hurts. I want it to stop. Make it stop.”
He’s lying facedown on a warehouse floor. He’s by the pool. He’s digging his nails into the dirt of his own grave. He’s at the Manor. He’s alive, and he’s dead, and he’s on fire, and he’s robinredhoodjasonpumpkinlambchopkiddogoodboydeadeadeadead.
Something cool settles across his skin, and Jason gasps as the flames recede. He grabs ahold of his hair, feeling chlorine-dried strands instead of bloodsoaked clumps between his fingers. His eyes crack open, and he sees Tim holding an armful of soaking wet towels. The kid has draped one over Jason’s chest, and he throws another over his legs and across his shoulders.
“You’re alright,” Tim says shakily. “It’s gonna be okay, Jason, you just have to breathe.”
“What happened?”
“You’re, um, you’re pretty sunburnt. We’ve been out here for a while.”
The sun has changed positions, and Jason stares at the patch of shade he had fallen asleep under. His lounge chair is now entirely in the sun, but Tim drags the umbrella over and hides Jason from the blinding rays.
“It hurts,” Jason says again. He’s one of the most feared men in Gotham, second only to the Batman himself, and he knows he’s being childish. He’s better than this; he shouldn’t be whining to the kid, but he hasn’t felt pain like this since he crawled out of his own grave. Laughter rings in his ears, and he reaches for Tim, covers the kid’s hands with his own, and tries to remember how to breathe.
“Alfred’s coming.” Tim perches on the edge of the lounge chair. “It’s gonna be okay, Jason. Alfred’s getting Bruce, and they’ll make it stop hurting.”
“The bomb didn’t kill me,” Jason gasps. “It was asphyxiation. I was on fire, and I felt it, and Bruce didn’t get there in time. He’s not coming, Tim. He didn’t before.”
Tim’s hand is freezing against his shoulder. “He’s coming, Jason. He’s coming, I promise, he’ll be there this time.”
“I hit you.”
“I’ve had worse.” Tim’s smile is crooked. There’s blood staining his teeth from where Jason’s fist had crashed into his mouth, but the kid is still smiling. “It’s okay. You barely got me.”
That’s a bold-faced lie. It’s a miracle Jason didn’t break his jaw.
“Did the towels help?”
Jason just nods. He wants to curl in on himself, but even breathing tugs at scar tissue, so he stays as still as he can, hidden under the cheery patterns of the pool towels.
Footsteps thunder against the path, and Jason hears the gate to the pool slam open, metal ringing against metal as Bruce and Alfred run towards him.
“My God,” Alfred breathes, arms full of aloe and cream and ice packs. “Oh, my dear boy.”
“You’re okay.” Bruce’s eyes are wild, panicked in a way that makes Jason itch, and he hovers, hands outstretched as he stares at Jason’s raw skin. “You’re okay, Jay, you’re okay.”
“I don’t know if I should have put chlorine on him, but he wouldn’t stop screaming.” Tim’s voice is breathy, and Jason feels him trembling. “It’s not good, Bruce.”
Bruce lifts the edge of one of the towels, and then he vomits over the fence. His skin is bone white, and there are tears in his eyes when he turns back around.
“Bruce,” Jason whispers.
Gentle hands reach up to wipe the tears from Jason’s face, and he leans into the touch. Bruce holds him as Alfred peels back the towels and rubs aloe into his ruined skin. The butler’s hands carry more wrinkles than Jason remembers, but their touch is just as soft as it had been when he was a child.
By the time Alfred is finished, Jason has come back to himself. The pain has receded, chased away by aloe that leaves his skin stained green. Tim rubs gentle circles against Jason’s hands, delicate fingers tracing over the scars on the backs of his knuckles. His jaw is starting to swell, and Jason reaches up to press his fingertips against the mark.
“Thank you.” Jason makes sure to meet the kid’s eyes. He knows the weight behind his words won’t sink in unless he does, and Tim shudders as he holds Jason’s gaze. It’s rare for him to offer up such a thing; Tim’s never one to hold eye contact for long, too busy running from one thought to the next. His blue eyes are bright, wide with fear, but they soften when Jason touches his jaw again.
“Thank me once we know your skin won’t fall off.”
“Tim,” Bruce snaps. “His skin is not going to fall off.”
“It might.” Jason huffs. “He did douse me in chlorine, so who knows what’ll happen.”
“I should have left you to scream yourself hoarse, you jackass.”
“Bold words coming from my number one fan. Do you want me to sign those shorts once you stop holding my hand?”
Tim flips him off, and Jason can breathe again. Alfred is smiling, head bent to hide his grin from Bruce, and when Jason looks up at Bruce, the man’s eyes are soft. Color has come back into his cheeks, and he presses a careful kiss to Jason’s hair.
“Let’s get you inside, Jaylad.” Bruce goes to pick him up, but Jason shakes his head.
“Careful, old man, you’ll throw your back out.” The pain of standing sends his head spinning, and he stumbles, but Bruce and Alfred take a hold of his elbows and keep him upright.
“You’re alright,” whispers Bruce. “We’ve got you. We’ve got you.”
He’s at the Manor. He’s alive. He’s covered in sunburn, and his skin is peeling, and he can’t really feel his toes, but he’s alright.
“We’ve got you,” Bruce says again, voice achingly soft. “I’ve got you.”