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Jason officially hates everything. Everything. The disgustingly smoggy Gotham air, the overcast sky. His life, his death, his resurrection. His annoying, asshole of a neighbor who has been blasting 90’s Boy Band Pop music for the last six hours! He just wants to suffer in peace, is that too much to ask!
More than anything, though, Jason hates how easily he sunburns. One of the many—many!—side effects of his little dip in the Lazarus Pit; the damn things makes no sense. Slightly boosted immune system, decreased body temperature. Stronger and denser muscle tissue, increased fatigue. Not to mention the irrational phobia of drowning to top off his claustrophobia—he can swim damn it, he won’t drown.
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The point is, Jason knows better than this. He knows better than to trust the overcast skies to mean no chance of sunburns. Really, though, he had no need of being on the rooftop shirtless. He is supposed to be laying low while he finished set-up for the big reveal, not accidentally tanning.
Now, though, now he needs to shrug into his—far too—many layers: the newest little bird is back from his latest trip to San Francisco.
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Jason has been sitting on this rooftop for the last three hours, watching the Replacement flit around the surrounding blocks: punching muggers and helping little old ladies cross the street. Batman has definitely gone soft on the new Robin.
Jason has seen all he needs to, he knows he is more than prepared to take down the little bird before going after B.
He pushes himself up to standing, twisting slightly to loosen the tension in his back from prolonged stillness. That turns out to be a very ill-advised movement, considering the mother-of-all sunburns he is still sporting. The pain is so unexpecting, jarring and immediate that he cannot help the gasping yelp and twitch of movement that sends him sprawling onto the fire escape below.
Huffing softly, slightly embarrassed at the intensity of his reaction from a damn sunburn, Jason take a deep breath, before pushing himself to standing once again. Prepared, Jason makes no noise from the sudden sting. As he turns to slink off to his current dump of a safe house, an anxious feeling settles over him; one that he remembers—intimately—from his paranoia-fueled street rat days.
Outwardly, Jason shows no signs of his knowledge that little Timmy is creeping closer to his turned back. Jason counts the four—hears the slight scuff that marks the Replacement comings to a stop, and the soft inhale of air that means he is getting ready to speak—and lashes out. Tim barely sees the punch coming, leaning slightly and bringing his hands up, at the last second, to protect his face.
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“Woah. Dude, I’m not going to hurt…. you.” Tim stalls, taking in the guns strapped to the guy’s thighs, and the shiny red helmet hanging from his left hand.
Tim puts on what he calls his Robin voice—modeled after Jason’s tough guy voice, though he will never do the other boy justice—and demands, “Who are you?”
The man tilts his head, considering, and rolls his shoulder like he might be prepping for a fight—not a bright idea against Robin, but the shadier people in Gotham tend not to care—the wince is unexpected. The grunt of pain that follows is even more surprising—typically people decked out in weapons and armor don’t show pain unless it is intense.
“Are, umm, are you okay?” Tim asked, concern lacing his voice.
“Hmmm, no. Fine, kid. I don’t need your help” The mystery man replied.’
“Okaaaaay.” Tim drawled, obvious in his doubt, but not willing to push the guy for no reason. “So, who are you? And what are you doing here?”
The man huffed, “Ain’t none of your business kid, who I am or what I’m doing.”
Against his better judgement, Tim let the man go, but followed from a safe distance.
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Jason knew the kid was following him, but wasn’t terribly worried about what the little good-two-shoes would do with the location of one of Jason’s less preferable safehouses.
Jason makes a sharp turn—not necessarily trying to lose the kid, but showing that he doesn’t really want hi there—and ducks into his one-room, run-down safehouse.
While the kid is outside, obviously debating the pros and cons of following Jason into a confined space. Jason begins shedding armor—leaving the guns strapped to his thighs and easily accessible—while he waits for the Replacement to decide to come in.
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Tim follow the man into his—disgustingly, tattered hole-in-the-wall single—room apartment. When he stops gawking at the room, he finds the guy lounging in a charge, leering like some sort of predator. In the low light of the lamp next to the guy, Tim can make out the harsh, bright red skin of an intense sunburn across the guy’s—broad—shoulders and high cheek bones.
“If I’m about to help you through what has to be an awful sunburn, I think I should at least get to know your name.” Tim states, far sassier than he should be with some guy he doesn’t know. After a few moments of no reply, Tim continues with “At least a first name, I can’t keep calling you mystery man in my head.”
The man barks out a surprised laughed, “Mystery Man, huh? I kinda like it. Names Jason. But I don’t need a nurse, Nightingale.”
Tim smirks, “Too bad Jason, I’m already Florence."