Yes. It's more Tim/Jason.
And, uh, it's not really totally with the comic's storyline.
NOTE: THERE WILL NO LONGER BE A SEQUEL. Or, if you so prefer, I can write two endings. Because there are those that see this as Tim/Kon and those that see it as Tim/Jason (that's my preference). So. Whatever you want! :D
SO. ENJOY. REVIEW. MUCH LOVE AND ANY HUGS TO YOU.
Disclaimer: I do not own. Never will.
Jason was babysitting, in a sense. Tim was sitting on his bed, in his apartment, brooding like a classic Batkid. His skin was pale and beading with the sweat of a person going through a massive rejection of heroin.
"Huh, didn't know the kid was a user. Hardcore."
"He wasn't," Dick paused. "Isn't. He just... bought a bag of the stuff, put it in a needle, as much as he could, and..." He just gestured.
"...Oh. Oh fuck."
Tim grabbed the trashcan near the bed and threw up into it, everything he'd eaten since he'd been discharged from the hospital. The hospital breakfast, the cookies from Alfred. His pride was probably in there somewhere too.
"Ugh. Jason," Tim's eyes were tired and Jason remembered when he had wanted to punch that pretty face into something wretched and unrecognizable. "Thanks, I..." He vomited again.
Tim had been about to say that he couldn't have stayed at the manor. He would have run. And he would have died.
Jason shrugged off the gratitude. All he was there for was to make sure Tim didn't finish the job.
Tim had stopped vomiting, but Jason knew the boy's stomach was probably still rebelling because he didn't eat much. Mostly, what Tim would do was stare out the window's wistfully.
Once, he'd tried to make a break for the door.
Jason had tackled that notion right out of him. Tim had bruises on his ribs, and Jason felt bad about that (sort of). But Tim wasn't getting out, no way, because Jason heard his little mantras before Tim went to sleep. ("If I were dead...")
Dick would kill him if anything happened to Tim, even though Tim probably doubted that Dick cared about him at all (though Jason couldn't exactly blame him because Dick just sort of fucking fired him on top of everything else that was driving Tim off the deep end).
"You want something to eat?" Jason asked, coming out of the kitchen, bag of potato chips in hand (ha, the Bat would have freaked the fuck out back in the day), to find Tim lying on the couch.
"No." Tim sighed, probably realizing he sounded like an asshole. "I mean. No. Thanks."
Jason sighed, put the chip bag down on the coffee table and went back into the kitchen to begin rummaging around for something that super-healthy, uptight Tim would eat. He ended up deciding on making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with low-fat peanut butter (even though it tasted awful, Tim's stomach probably didn't give a shit).
When he returned to the living room, he held out his masterpiece to his prisoner.
Tim sort of just stared at it.
"Well?" Jason raised an eyebrow, causing Tim to sigh. And then he took the sandwich and began eating it.
"Huh," Tim said after his first swallow. "Low fat peanut butter."
"Tastes like shit, so I figured it'd be healthy enough for you to eat."
Tim licked his teeth (Jason could see that under Tim's lips) and then smiled. It was a small smile, but hey, he was a walking tragedy, so a small smile was a good thing. It implied that perhaps he wasn't as close to killing himself as he was two days ago.
(But Jason could see, under Tim's skin and into his brain, that he'd still rather be dead.)
Tim was now allowed outdoors. With Jason as supervisor.
Which was fine. Jason didn't mind, though he thought by now he would have minded. Alas, no such fucking luck. In fact, he was starting to really enjoy Tim's company, even if he did give that condescending eyebrow raise far too much.
"Do you want to go out with me sometime?" Jason asked and regretted it the moment it freed itself from his lips. It sounded like was asking Tim on a goddamn date, and he most certainly was not.
"I thought I was already out with you," Tim said, either not catching it or ignoring the implications. The sunlight made Tim's eyes glitter as he looked at a storefront, contemplatively.
"Not what I meant, dumbass." Rudeness would cover for the slip of the tongue. "I know you miss being... Robin." Tim flinched a little and Jason felt a little bit bad about being the source of that. "So, you could come out doing the hero thing with me. Or something. I've been falling behind anyway."
Tim snorted, a decidedly Tim snort. "I don't kill people, Jason."
Jason bit his bottom lip, only for a moment. "I won't kill anyone if you decide you want to go." Tim raised his left eyebrow, as he'd been doing so often recently. "I swear!" Jason thought of something he could swear on that wouldn't be a lie. "I swear on Alfred's cooking."
Tim seemed to think about it and deem this claim sincere because he said, "Alright. I'll go out crimefighting with you. No. Killing."
"I promise. I'll be a good boy."
And Tim couldn't hide his laughter, even though Jason suspected he had wanted to.
Jason regretted asking Tim to come out with him. Because Tim's nightmares had started up (again, though they hadn't been this bad since his first night in the hospital). He was wailing in his sleep.
And he was wailing that he couldn't save anyone that mattered.
But it was when Tim broke the mirror in the bathroom that Jason regretted taking Tim out to hero Gotham back into shape the most.
There had been a crash and a hiss and Jason was in his bedroom (because he had been sleeping on the couch) faster than Tim's friend Bart could — could have — moved. And Tim was freaking out, crying and hating himself and holding a shard of mirror in one bloody hand against his other bloody wrist.
Jason hit all the pressure points that controlled the movements of Tim's arms, causing Tim to drop the mirror piece. Jason held him close and Tim just cried.
It was one of those times that Jason didn't mind blood staining his clothes.
They went to visit Dick and Alfred.
That was another thing that hadn't gone so well.
Jason had left the room for a minute (literally, one minute) and Tim was on top of Damian, poised to rip out the younger boy's throat, his lip split and leaking blood. Damian looked smug for someone who didn't look like he could move (thank Batman for teaching everyone up to Tim about pressure points and their effects).
Tim looked horribly confused. Then the expression changed from confusion to self-hatred. Jason had been seeing a lot of that particular expression lately.
"He said... he said something about Conner, and I..."
When Dick and Alfred came in, Tim looked even more mortified and Damian was getting movement back into his limbs. Alfred lifted Tim up and guided him to the bathroom to clean up his lip and the cut that Jason just noticed above his eye.
Damian stood on shakey legs and snorted, crossing his trembling arms, opening his mouth to speak.
"Don't. Even." Jason said, cutting the boy off. "Don't even speak, you little prick. You don't ever mention the Superkid to Tim. Not ever. I don't..." Fury burned in his throat. "I don't know what your issue is, you arrogant little brat, but don't ever say anything to Tim about Superboy."
(A feeling tightened his chest. Jealousy?)
"And you," he pointed at Dick, "don't even pretend you didn't see this coming, because you piled firing Tim on top of everything else that was going on in his life. You know he envied me?" Dick opened his mouth but Jason kept on going. "Last time we kicked the shit out of each other, he said that it wasn't his fault that my 'way out got cut short.' He was talking about me being dead."
Dick made a choked sound.
"And you, Mr. I'm-going-to-give-his-job-to-a-mini-psychopath, took the last thing he had to hold onto, the last thing connecting him to that blonde girl and Conner and Bruce, and gave it so someone else. So, no wonder he wanted to rip Damian's throat out. No wonder at all." Jason shoved his hands into his pockets.
Alfred and Tim were back in no time, giving Jason time to catch his breath. He took Tim by the elbow and made for the door.
But not before saying, "Fuck you. Fuck both of you."
(Jason hoped Dick didn't sleep well.)
Tim was in sleepclothes and Jason would be damned if he didn't think Tim looked ridiculously hot. He wondered if he was getting attracted because of the practically constant sight of Tim or if he was genuinely getting giddy over his crazy, depressed sort-of brother.
"Do you want your bed back?" Tim asked from the doorway to the bedroom. "I can take the —"
"...do you want to share the bed then?"
If Jason had been drinking something, he would have choked. But since he wasn't, he made a small gurgle at the back of his throat.
Tim raised his eyebrow in that ever-classic expression and smiled.
"...sure. Whatever." Jason stood, tossing the blankets off of his lower body and moved toward the bedroom, watching Tim. Tim followed him into the bedroom, lay down and... slept. He had just wanted to sleep. (And, knowing Tim, the guilt of taking the bed was finally catching up with him.)
Jason sort of really wanted to brush Tim's hair off of his face as he watched him sleep. But that would be weird, so he ended up just patting him awkwardly on the head. But Tim was out, and Jason had never seen him look more beautiful.
They were kissing. It had just sort of happened. They were watching TV together (because, while Tim had been acting perfectly fine, it didn't seem like he wanted to leave, which was okay with Jason) and then, Jason just... kissed Tim.
And Tim melted into it. Almost literally.
It took only two minutes to get to the bedroom.
(Jason didn't think he'd ever be able to get over the sounds Tim made.)
Jason had fallen and fallen hard.
When Tim held his hand, he didn't protest.
It seemed to go both ways though. Tim went where Jason asked to go. And, once, Tim had made some sort of dinner that he was sure Tim learned to cook from Alfred.
And Jason was happy. Happier than he'd ever been, at least as far as he could remember.
So, when Tim almost leapt out of bed (a nightmare, Conner, again), Jason held him still and let Tim cry. Jason told Tim that it wasn't his fault and that his guilt complex was almost as bad as Dick's or Batman's. He told Tim that it was okay, that Jason had him, that he loved him.
And Tim stopped, his eyes puffy but surprised.
Fuck, shouldn't have said that.
"I... I said I love you. Moron."
Tim smiled, and though it was a watery smile, it was a smile that showed white teeth and made the skin around his eyes crinkle.
"I love you too."
(Jason figured he could die happy.)
Tim asked if Jason would prefer if he found place of his own, or something. After all, he'd been free loading for over thirty days.
Jason looked at him like he'd lost a couple hundred braincells.
"Fuck no. Where'd you get that idea?"
Tim shrugged. "I didn't. Just wanted to know if you'd be willing to let me move some clothes over here."
Jason grinned and it felt far softer than any smile he'd made in awhile. "Hell yeah. I'll even help you."
"Gee, thanks," Tim said, rolling his eyes. "You're such a gentleman."
"You bet your ass I am."
They were relaxing on the roof of some building. It was odd, because neither of them were on the roof with the intentions to fight crime or whatever. They were just sitting and basking in each other's company, looking out over Gotham.
And Tim wasn't even wondering what Dick and Damian were doing, which was good.
Jason and Tim both turned.
Tim made a pitiful little squeak at the back of his throat. Jason tensed and Tim unlaced their fingers and moved forward towards the person (if you could call him that) who called his name.
Conner was floating just adjacent to the rooftop and Tim looked like he was about to die right there.
Jason felt like he was about to die. He was up and off the roof before Tim could protest the jump, though he did hear the worried, frantic sound of Tim yelling "Jason!"
But Jason didn't give a shit right then. He ran to wherever-the-fuck, because right now, he didn't want to go home (his apartment smelled like Tim, everywhere) and he sure as hell wasn't going to the manor (Dick would probably laugh).
Fuckfuckfuck, stupid, Jason, stupid.
The pinpricks on his eyelids were as close as he would get to crying.
(At least as far as he would admit.)