Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tim can’t really remember the last time he slept. He thinks it was Thursday but he’s not sure—the days have been blurring together lately. Then again, he doesn’t really need an exact time frame when his computer screen’s been busy blurring together as well, eyes making everything foggy.

Doesn’t need a degree to know it’s probably been a while.

Also, his hands have started shaking but that could be a lot of things. Thinks it’s probably been a while since he ate, too, what with the heart palpitations he gets every time he stands.

He’s taken to not standing.

But that’s fine, it’s not like he really needs to move anyway—he’d planted himself in one of the Manor’s sitting rooms he-doesn’t-know-how-long-ago to work on some cases.

Which he’d been doing quite well until his vision started blurring.

Go figure.

He sighs, stares at the screen for a while; willing his vision to clear.

It, predictably, doesn’t. Continues staring at the screen, anyway, sighing again.

Wishes he had superpowers, why can’t he have superpowers? He feels like superpowers would be really useful right about now.

Like, non-vision-blurring abilities. Not the most useful sounding but Tim would use the hell out of it.

Or invulnerability, does Superman need to sleep? That seems kind of stupid, why the fuck would Clark need to sleep, it’s not like he’s actually human. Being limited to human shit would suck.

Would it be rude to ask? Bringing up someone’s non-human-ness seems kinda rude.

Bruce would know—not about the rude thing, the does Superman need to sleep thing. He should ask Bruce.

Stares at his computer screen and thinks, or he could not do that.

Pushes his computer aside, turns to stare at the ceiling instead, something fierce grating under his skin. Feels like tearing it out.

Stares at the ceiling a little harder. Notes that’s probably a terrible idea because a) he has patrol later and b) he has patrol later. Doesn’t really stop him from imagine it though. It helps, a little. Like some reverse psychology shit, if he pretends he’s already torn his skin to piece maybe the urge will go away.

Or not, whatever—it’s not like Tim ever claimed to have healthy coping mechanisms. He blames Bruce. And Dick. And Jason.

Man, everyone he knows really sucks at the whole healthy coping strategy thing, don’t they?

Sighs and looks to the doorway instead. Thinks he should probably eat so he doesn’t do something useless like faint on patrol. And maybe he would be doing that except he’s also 90% sure if he got up right now, he’d fall over; which first of all, super pathetic, and second of all, he is not emotionally ready to deal with that.

So, no. He’s just going to stare at the doorway until food miraculously appears or he decides to deal with his problems.

He really hopes food miraculously appears.

His problem’s can go to hell, basically; sitting on the couch until he either dies or some outside force gets him food sounds like a much better option. He doesn’t really know which he’d prefer at this point.

Except that’s another lie.

Shit, he really needs to eat.

He also really, really doesn’t want to.

That’s about when Dick and Jason walk in; not altogether unusual but Tim can’t help but wonder if they were summoned by his need for food. Feels like that’s getting more and more likely, what with everyone always showing up and dragging him off to eat.

They think they’re being subtle, but they’re really, really not.

He summons up a smile, thinks this might be his actual superpower. Opens his mouth to greet them but Dick beats him to it.

“Hey, Timmy. We need to talk.” Tim’s heart freezes in his chest, has enough frame of mind not to start panicking straight away. Besides, he thinks a little hysterically, plenty time for that later.

Jason scowls at Dick, hitting him over the head. “What the hell Dick.” Dick winces—half falling over in surprise, looks back over his shoulder at Jason who’s doing a great job at glowering him to death. “That is not how you start conversations.” Jason pinches the bridge of his noise which is probably a good idea—he looks like he really wants to hit Dick again—before shoving Dick out of the way, “Go sit in the corner and think about what you did, moron.”

Dick looks like a guilty little puppy, expression torn and sullen as he sits down on the nearest chair, but Jason doesn’t pay him any mind. Just walks nearer to Tim before sprawling out on the chair closest to him. He grins, sharp and exasperated but it does nothing to ease Tim. Feels like ice water’s just been poured over his head, adrenaline already running rampant. Keeps his breath steady and just watches them.

“Fuckin’ hell, Timbo. This is why you can’t take Dick anywhere. He’s like a walking, talking drama machine.” He looks at Dick deeply annoyed before peering back at Tim. Says like this is some private joke between them, “Acts like the world is ending—what an asshole.”

And somewhere in the back of Tim’s head he appreciates Jason trying to calm him down, really. But right now, it’s not working. Pulse hammering in his ear like it’s trying to break through his skin, eyes a touch away from darting between them. He wants them to get on with it—nothing good ever comes with those words. Pretending otherwise is just stupid.

Dick smiles perfectly apologetic, says genuine as always, “Sorry Tim.”

Tim just looks between them, swallowing mechanically before finding his voice, “It’s fine.” Looks between them again, hands clenching in his lap, “What, did you want to talk about?” The words feel clumsy. Another thing he can’t seem to get right.

Jason loses his smile now, turning somewhat somber. Tim swallows again, watches them. Feels a spike of irritation at anyone who’s ever thought Jason Todd was just some overgrown knucklehead, because right now he’s looking at Tim like he can read every thought he’s ever had.

Glances at Dick to find him frowning—concern bleeding from every pore, but Tim can’t hold his gaze. Looks back at Jason and gets caught. Feels a little small, like he’s sinking into the couch—made a wrong move and now he’s Alice in Wonderland shrinking down to size but he can’t look away.

Then Jason’s talking, full attention on Tim, “We’re just a little worried about you, Timmy.”

And Tim believes him, really, but the way he says it makes it clear that’s not it. Palms turning clammy he looks at Dick—leaning forward on his knees, nodding in agreement, frown marring his face and the air feels so serious—mouth drying up completely, he looks back at Jason, because he thinks he knows where this is going.

He thought he’d been careful.

“I’m fine.” It comes out a bit defensive and he wonders what they see.

Because Jason doesn’t stop looking at him, regards him for several seconds before relaying, “See, you say that, but I don’t think even you believe it, Little Red.”

Tim swallows again looking away, the words echoing in his head because lately he doesn’t know what he believes. Feels lost in everything he does, like he’s watching everything two steps back—can’t keep up with the story line when he doesn’t know where the story line is. He doesn’t say anything, shame chasing every thought away and he hates it.

I’m fine, but it’s caught in his throat. Can’t say anything when there’s nothing there.

“Tim,” Dick’s talking now, voice hesitant and so damn concerned—Tim hates that too. Wishes they didn’t care. It would be so much easier if they just didn’t care. “We just want to help.”

Tim’s eyes snap up to him, glaring—feels indignation taking over every shred of doubt. “I don’t want your help.” He doesn’t want their anything. “I’m fine. I don’t need it.” Adds snappishly, “Thanks for the concern, but you can go.” Dick recoils a bit, but then Jason’s speaking.

“Nice try, Replacement. 10/10 performance.” Tim purses his lips, watches Jason coolly even as he continues perfectly calm, “Really got the whole asshole thing down pat, but we’re not leaving.”

Tim continues to glare, forces out through gritted teeth, “I don’t want your help, Jason. Take it somewhere useful—or not, you seem to be pretty good at running away.” Feels a spike of regret but pushes it down—he doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to do this.

Jason’s eyes narrow, glaring right back, “I’m sure you’d like that, right? Then you wouldn’t have to deal with me stepping on your princely little toes. Better get it together fast, birdie, I’m not leaving.” Says harshly—glare not letting up, “I fucking care about your scrawny little ass. Gonna cost everything you’ve got chasing me away—better try again ‘cause attempt number one ain’t gonna cut it.”

Now it’s Tim’s turn to recoil, glare shifting to his hands—feels his chest burning even as he tries to swallow everything back down. Because for all Dick likes to tell the truth he never weaponizes it quite like Jason. Swallows again because he always seems to know where to hit the nail on the head.

Wrists aching, he tries to keep it together. Tries to grip at the anger even as it slips away—can’t look at them when his eyes are burning.

And it’s a mistake—one huge mistake because then Jason’s talking again. He’s talking again like he never stopped but his voice is shifting, molding into something so much worse than harsh. Something soft. “We care about you, Timmy.” And Tim hates it, hates it so completely—wants to fall into the ground. Doesn’t want to be here. Not when Jason’s half whispering in a quiet room, not when he sounds so sincere, not when Tim doesn’t know if he believes him.

He just—he doesn’t want to be here.

“Stop.” It sounds like a gasp tearing from his throat and Tim has to swallow down another—tries to even out his voice. Can’t look at them when his eyes are burning. “I’m fine, I’m fine—just stop.”

Hears Dick shift but doesn’t look up. “Hey,” And his voice is so soft too—he hates it, “It’s okay Tim.”

But it’s not. “I’m fine—I’m fine.” Looks up when he says, voice imploring, “I’m fine, Dick.” Can’t hold his gaze longer than a second when he’s so damn concerned. Drags his hands up to his eyes, screwing them shut—doesn’t want to look at them.

Doesn’t want to cry.

He didn’t want them to know.

Everything’s too much and when he speaks again it sounds like a cry caught in his throat. Every inch of him turning desperate, “I’m fine.”

But he’s not—he’s not and he can’t do this. Drags his legs up to his chest, tries to hide away because he doesn’t think he can move to run.

He’s fine.

“I wasn’t going to—I wasn’t going to—" But his voice breaks and he can’t move.

Dick’s at his side in an instant, perching next to him—hand curling on his shoulder even as he reassures, “Hey, you’re okay Baby Bird. Shh—it’s okay.”

Tim just shakes his head—lips pursing tightly, hands turning white as he pushes on his eyes. Can’t move to shove Dick’s hand off—just shakes his head mutely.

It’s fine.

Dick’s hand continues to move, painting circles on his back. Weight close to his side as Tim starts to tremble.

But then Jason’s prompting from his place in the room, “Weren’t going to what?” Voice bouncing around weirdly, and Tim squeezes his eyes shut tighter.

“Jason.” And he feels like laughing—feels like laughing at how harsh Dick’s voice is. Whisper yelling across the room and Tim can practically feel them glaring at each other.

Feels like laughing but can’t stomach it—not when nothing seems funny.

“What? He needs to talk about it, Dick.”

It sounds like Dick’s gritting his teeth when he responses, voice clipped with irritation, “He doesn’t need to do anything but calm down.”

Jason doesn’t get a chance to retort again because then Tim’s speaking into his legs, voice muffled but so, so clear. Heart beating a million miles an hour, whole body shaking. “I wasn’t going to—I’m not stupid. I wasn’t going to do it—” Shakes his head because he can’t. He can’t. But he does, voice working—blurting out everything he desperately doesn’t want to say. “I wasn’t going to.” And his voice is getting quieter, whispers turning hoarse.

It hurts. Like every word is tearing up his throat just to get out. Phantom hands choking him, and he thinks if he concentrates, he can taste the metallic tang of blood. But he can’t stop, lips quivering against his knee and everything aches.

“Hey, shh... Shh...it’s okay.” Dick keeps whispering but Tim doesn’t listen, arms wrapping around his eyes—curling up completely.

His voice is barely even there when he tries again, throat closing around them, “I wasn’t going to hurt you. I wasn’t going to—because I know it would hurt you. I just, I wasn’t going to do it.” Gasps back a sob when he says, “I’m sorry.” Whole body burning up with shame because it feels so hollow.

Jason’s voice is right in front of him when he speaks, must be crouched down just before the chair. Hands dancing along Tim’s toes. “I know buddy. You did so good—it’s okay.”

Tim shakes his head because it’s not. “But I wanted to. Jason, I really, really want to.” Gasps in another breath and whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

Jason shifts again, arms coming up to wrap around him—and the hug must be so uncomfortable from the floor. Jason’s head tucking in beside his—Dick’s hand playing with Tim’s hair even as Jason soothes, “But you didn’t—it’s okay Tim, you did so good.” Voice whispering in his ear, “I’m so proud of you—you did amazing Baby Bird.”

Tim shakes his head again because he didn’t. “You don’t get it—I didn’t, I’m not—” Fingers digging into his arms, he finally gets out voice choked and quiet, “—I really want to die.”

Dick makes a noise behind him, fingers stuttering to a stop before starting the next second, and Jason breathes a little loudly, hands tightening before he splays his fingers out—runs them along Tim’s back.

Says after a second, voice hoarse as well, “I know, buddy. But you didn’t—you did so, so well. I’m so proud of you.”

And Tim doesn’t get it—he just, he doesn’t get why he’s proud of him, doesn’t get why Dick’s still playing with his hair—doesn’t understand why they’re not yelling at him.

He wants them to yell at him—wants them to do anything but this.

He wants it to stop.

He’s halfway across the room before he can think about it, their hands falling away like water—arms aching at his side—should just walk away. Trail out the door and pretend this never happen.

But he can’t—his legs won’t move, stands and stares at the wall. Tries to breathe.

Mostly just tries to ignore them shuffling around behind him, head resting against the wall—cold touch soothing. Braces his hands against it and tries to feel a little less pathetic, tries to think.

Can’t drag up anything when he feels so tired.

Except he does—brain running too fast and he just wants to shut it off, but nothing makes any sense.

It’s not like he doesn’t know they love him.

He does, it’s easy. Some fact amongst a million others swimming in his head. It’s just lately, he doesn’t believe it. Repeats it over and over; they love me, they love me, they love me.

But it sounds phony. Like he’s repeated the words too many times and now the meaning’s gone. Write it down just to stare at it, what does it mean?

Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it’s the other way around, maybe it’s never been true at all. Some forgery he’d conjured up years ago. Convinced himself and played pretend like the little kid in a too empty house convinced his parents loved him.

But did they? Was that love? Is this?

Tim doesn’t know. Can’t remember what it feels like anymore, can’t remember when the feelings drained away. Like he knocked some water bottle over and its lid’s just a tad too loose, been leaking for so many years—spilling all its precious contents while his back was turned away. Now he’s stranded in the desert and really needs a drink.

Too late for that when it’s run dry. Emptier than that little kids empty, empty house.

Is this love?

Feels his eyes burn, throat drying up—because no, it doesn’t feel like it. All it feels to Tim is a desperate kind of lonely.

And if he got poetic maybe he’d claim it as Gotham’s smog filled sky swallowing him whole—or some looming gray blurring around his sides—a sad color. Except to Tim it’s never felt like anything but blinding white, as far as he can see. Just white, and it’s huge. Stretching to infinity.

All this nothing.

All this empty space.

It feels like a hospital waiting room when all he’s gotten is bad news... Sitting for eternity just to hear a word, but the word sounds like whispers in a church. Sounds like uncomfortable chairs and too much space—sentences bouncing back at him no matter how much he screams for them to stay away.

It sounds like tragedy in a box; too small, too young, too broken.

It’s when even a crowded room feels like silence at 4am, buzzing in your ear—freeing every other time but now. Whole world’s about to wake up and it’s never felt as empty as this. Whole world’s about to wake up but Tim’s never felt more alone, than this.

Sunk to the ocean floor and now he’s looking up. Freezing, and burning, and drowning.

How’d he get so far away?

Leans on the wall and tries to forget—just, for a moment, tries to forget. Limbs shaking erratically—breath forcefully calm. Stays there until he can breathe without having to remind himself.

Just breathe.

Looks back at them after minutes or hours, finds them standing as well, watching him. Tim doesn’t think about it, just forces himself to walk closer again. Knows this conversation isn’t nearly done.

They’re still concerned, still watching him with pinched brows—Dick looks a little misty eyed himself, but Tim just doesn’t care anymore. Wants this to be over.

“You’re going to tell Bruce.” Every inch of him weighs like lead. Feels like he might fall to the floor but doesn’t. Just watches them in return.

Dick frowns, looks at Jason and when he doesn’t make a move to answer says, “Yes. We’re going to tell Bruce.” Continues after a beat, “You don’t have to be there, but we need to tell him Timmy.” Tim nods but it feels a little empty.

“You’re going to bench me, aren’t you?” It’s not very surprising when Dick nods again—that’s one of the main reasons he didn’t want anyone to know.

“You can’t be fighting right now,” He stresses firmly, “It’s not safe.” Tim nods again, feels a little too apathetic but can’t bring himself to care. No more Red Robin.

It’s fine.

“What else.”

Dick frowns again, takes a half step closer but Jason catches his arm—stopping him with a shake of his head. He looks at Tim, shifting casually on his feet and says, “Gonna get you some help, Timbo.”

“I don’t want to talk to a therapist.” He doesn’t. Last time he went to one all he did was lie.

Jason quirks an eyebrow, drawls unimpressed, “Yea no, you’re going to try going to a therapist. And a doctor, probably. Call a rain check after three weeks and if it doesn’t work,” He puts his hands up in surrender, shrugging easily, “Fine. You won’t have to go.”

Tim narrows his eyes, unimpressed himself. “It’s not going to work.”

Jason smirks. “Three weeks, Baby Bird. Gotta try.”

Tim huffs looking away, shoulders hunching slightly before he straightens. “So,” Looks at them and can’t decide what he wants their answer to be. “You’re going to fix me.”

Jason and Dick share a look, a pause that feels like eternity then Dick’s saying, “We’re not fixing you. We’re going to try and help you heal.” Tim’s eyes dart down and away, swallowing thickly. Red hot shame building in his throat again—eyes rapidly following suit, gathering tears but it feels like lava. Feels like if he lets them spill, they’ll fall like lava too, leaving stains in burns; red and angry flowing down his face.

And he turns away further, back to them completely—because he really doesn’t want to cry in front of them, doesn’t want to cry ever again, but he can’t stop it. Not when his will feels nonexistent, not when these tears weigh like all the world’s sin.

So, he can’t. The tears fall and fall and fall, he doesn’t move—doesn’t speak. Doesn’t make a sound. Everything human melting into stone as he stays turned away from them, as he cries and cries and cries.

Maybe he’ll just drown from it—like they’re a river or maybe... just from all the extra weight. This weight on top of everything else—every little thing, all the big ones, gathering around him and it’s like he can’t breathe.

Maybe he’ll just drown, and he’ll never have to face them again—never have to look Dick in the eye, never have to gaze up at Jason. If he finally drowns, faced away... this would be it.

But he doesn’t—he doesn’t drown, it doesn’t feel like a miracle, but it doesn’t feel like a curse either. Not when he stays turned away. Not when familiar arms wrap around him from behind. Not when Dick’s whispering so quietly, all those stupid cooing words trapped in his stupid, stupid arms—and it feels like the end of the world. Could have minutes or hours. Days or years—but the world is ending.

All Tim wants to do is stay protected in Dick’s arms for however long is left.

So, he does.

Tim turns around, folding into Dick’s chest like he’s always meant to be there. Hides his face away, because he’s still crying. All his breathe burning up his throat like maybe it will finally heat him alive, and he can’t stop it when he sobs.

And then it’s there and he can’t stop. Can’t hide the sound away—because he’s trapped in Dick’s stupid, stupid arms and it’s too much. It’s too much when Dick is hugging him like he’s something precious instead of broken. Hugging him the way he always does... like the world is ending and the only place Dick wants to be is here.

All he can do is bury his face in Dick’s shirt and cry.

Dick just holds him tighter, arms so real against his back—so there, and Tim never wants them to disappear. Not when Dick tightens his hold like maybe that will keep Tim from collapsing, from swallowing his down these cries until he chokes on them. And it does—because Tim hasn’t cried like this in so long and he can’t stop.

Hasn’t had anyone there to comfort him even longer, and it’s just, too much.

“Shh... Baby Bird, shh... I’ve got you—I’ve got you... I’m not going to let you go. I’m not going to let you go, Tim.” And he keeps whispering, all the words melting into a meaningless hum quickly drowned out by Tim’s retching gasps. Hands braced on Dick and he doesn’t want to leave.

It feels like eternity before Dick shifts above him, like he’s looking somewhere else in the room. Feels him nod his head and guesses Jason had said something, but he doesn’t move away. Just continues to hide in Dick’s hug.

Doesn’t even startle when Dick lifts him off his feet—carrying him like Tim weighs nothing, and maybe Tim would be complaining. Would be annoyed that everyone seems to think they can just pick him up, but right now—he doesn’t care. Feels all the more secure tucked fully against Dick as he carries him bridal style. Tim doesn’t know where they’re going. Doesn’t bother opening his eyes. Just lets the repetitive rock of Dick’s footsteps settle around him like a lull.

It could be seconds or hours when they finally stop. Dick settling down in another seat effectively dragging Tim with him, still wrapped in his arms. Sprawling out completely with Tim against his chest.

He lets Dick maneuver them around. Doesn’t think of anything, can’t—he just, can’t. Doesn’t think, doesn’t cry—not when he has nothing left to give. Hell, he doubts there’s enough water in the world to spill on Dick’s t-shirt. Doubts anything could ever fuel him again when he’s just so tired.

So, he doesn’t try. Just lays there in silence, letting Dick’s voice run over him like water. Air heavy and quiet. His hands in his hair, combing away the nonexistent knots even as he holds him close.

Everything buzzing around him like static.

Dick starts humming after a while, some out of time tune—but it’s nice. A steady vibration rumbling in his chest—against Tim’s ear. Like a lullaby, maybe—but Tim can’t remember anyone singing him lullabies.

Still, it’s nice.

He’s almost asleep by the time someone speaks, soft rumble tickling him awake, “C'mon, Timmy. You don’t want to listen to Dickie’s god-awful singing anyway.” Dick makes a sound of protest even as Tim slits his eyes open, finds Jason crouched down in front of them.

Jason quirks a smile at him and Tim blinks his eyes open a little more. “Hey there, Tim-Tam. Gotcha some grub, think you can eat that for me?” Tim peers over his shoulder, finds that yes, there is a tray of food there. Looks back at Jason and he continues, “Eat some then we can put you to bed, okay?”

And there’s nothing in the way he says it, no change from the low murmur he’s been using. But Tim still panics—heart seizing, eyes jerking wide, voice too high when he blurts, “You’re leaving.” And it’s stupid—of course they’d leave, they don’t even live at the Manor. It’s irrational it has him this frightened, it’s not like they weren’t always around the Manor anyway. Tim sees them all the time.

It’s stupid.

But Jason mustn’t think so because his brows pull together, frown falling on his face even as he reassures, “Hey, no. I’m not leaving—” His hands move as he speaks, gently swaying in the air to illustrate each word. It’s a strange kind of comforting, “Couldn’t chase me away with all your silly little sticks if you wanted to.”

Dick hums in agreement beside him, reaching out to smooth Tim’s hair back but he can’t take his eyes off Jason. Voice a touch too quiet when he asks, “Really?”

Jason quirks a little grin at him, says confident as ever, “Really. I’ll stay as long as you want me too.” He rolls his eyes, smile staying half teasing, half gentle, “And you know Dickhead, world’s toughest fungus. Couldn’t tear him away with all the crowbars on Earth, Little Red.”

Tim’s chest eases, hears Dick talking distantly. They’re not going to leave.

“Really? Crowbars? Are you making death references, right now?”

Jason replies even as he moves around, bringing the table closer before sitting on the floor. Tim can take a hint, uncurls a little more—reaching for the food, knees brushing against Jason’s shoulder with every movement—still half lying on top of Dick. “How can you be so cold, Dickie? To think I would ever be so flippant—I have deep, emotional scars, Big Bird. Scars.”

Dick scoffs, settling around Tim as well, “We get it, asshole. You’re a zombie, it’s all very tragic. Grab one of your many leather jackets and start sprouting mournful poetry—add to the aesthetic, y’know.”

“Psh. Like you know anything about aesthetic, Mr. Mullet.” Tim continues eating—only half listening to them squabble. Gets distracted by the constant noise all the same, it’s a nice background sound.

“That’s what everyone was wearing!”

“Dick, sweetheart, that doesn’t make it okay.”

By the time he’s finished Jason’s food, his eyes are dropping again, arms weighing heavier still. Can’t make a move to get up before Jason’s hauling him off the couch, into his arms—carrying him along much the same way Dick had.

Tim grumbles halfheartedly, already sinking into the hold—head buried in Jason’s neck, “I can walk, Jason.”

Jason huffs but doesn’t pause, “Sure thing, sleeping beauty. Whatever you say.” They continue down the hall not saying anything else. Tim let’s his eyes trail along, glancing at everything lazily. Distantly he notices they were closer to the kitchen than before. Figures that’s why Dick had moved him earlier.

Also figures he should probably address the whole, picking Tim up thing at some stage. Especially if it keeps happening, Tim can actually walk—it’s a bit grudging to have people carry him around.

For now, he lets it slide. Let’s Jason cart them along. Floorboards shifting slightly under his feet in a way all old houses do, hallway lights dimmed, still painting shadows on familiar walls. Shapes climbing high to tickle at the roof.

They get to Tim’s room; door being opened with only a minor struggle from Jason, hands trying to shift around without dropping Tim. The walk to the bed is silent as well. Springs shifting under his weight and Tim reluctantly let’s go, hands uncurling from Jason’s neck. Sheets being pulled back then placed back over Tim gently; Jason smooths his hand over the material before he trails off, stepping back completely. Trickles of hallway light dancing at the tips of his hair as he stands.

Tim watches him for several seconds, can’t help it when he whispers to the air—voice quiet and clear. Room dark as Jason looms, blocking the hallway light. Catching it on his shoulders, protecting Tim even as he leans into the beds embrace, blankets resting on him as a comfortable weight.

“You said you weren’t going to leave.” Jason’s shadow pauses, glow of the corridor barely reaching the room at all—he stands there as an ominous figure, but it doesn’t matter. Tim knows this is Jason, and to him that means a hell of a lot.

He knows, so does Jason’s word.

“I’m not,” His voice is quiet as well and though he’s quick to reassure he still hesitates. Tim can hear the floorboards creak as he shifts. “...Do you, want me to stay? Dick’s going to be up in a bit to check on you.” Adds like it means something, “I don’t think he’d leave you alone if you threatened him with all the paperwork in the world, birdie.”

And it does mean something, means more than Tim can comprehend at the moment, but he thinks it’s different for Jason. Like this is the deal breaker, Dick’s coming up soon so why would you want me? Tim gets it, really, he does. The replacement’s replacement that got replaced. If there’s anyone that’s on the same page, it’s him.

But it’s also ridiculous, Jason’s awesome.

States with all the surety he can manage, “I don’t want you to leave.” Tries to pretend it doesn’t make something in him twist. Feels like his chest is falling open to let the cool night in, vulnerable to all the elements. Vulnerable to all this rejection. This is where he leaves.

But he doesn’t, floorboards creaking again as he steps forward. Agrees, “Okay,” Voice softer than the thump his shoes make when he slides them off. Bed shifting under his weight as he slips under the covers. Hesitates again for several long moments then he’s sliding closer still, throwing his arm over Tim.

And Tim curls nearer with a sigh—hiding his head against Jason’s chest, feels dwarfed but it’s a good feeling. Nice. Feels like maybe he’ll start crying again, throat already burning, tries to swallow it away even as his eyes water.

This time, the tears don’t fall.

Closes his eyes and listens to Jason breath, concentrates on every rise and fall of his chest.

His wrists are still throbbing, and his shoulders still ache—everything’s too much and he’s so tired.

But Jason’s still here. Hasn’t booked it yet. He’s still here with his arms wrapped around Tim and it feels like maybe that’s enough.

Throat constricting at how much this feels like enough.

Because Jason’s still here—Jason’s still here and Tim—

He doesn’t deserve it.

Doesn’t deserve Dick or Bruce or Cass—doesn’t deserve any of them.

But he’s going to savor the hell out of this, savor every second he stays cocooned to Jason’s chest.

Savor it like this is all he’ll ever get, because as far as Tim’s concerned it might be.

His wrists still throb, and his shoulders still ache—but Jason’s arms are a steady weight against his side, his breathe a steady beat against his ear. Tim wouldn’t move if the room was on fire... doesn’t think he’d notice in time anyway. Not when Jason’s busy taking up all his attention. Not when his thoughts are spinning and speeding and drifting. Not when all he can think is...

Maybe this is love.

Falls asleep before he can doubt it, discredit it to hell and back. Heavy words a little light running through his head.

Falls asleep to Jason humming, “Night Timmy.” in his hair, hands curled securely around his back.

And, yeah.

Maybe... just maybe.

This is what it is to be loved.

Tim hopes desperately he’s not wrong. Falls asleep to a hollow feeling in his chest and Jason’s arms warming up his sides.

Maybe this is love.

But even if it isn’t, it’s enough and it’s Jason.

And that means a hell of a lot.