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Something is wrong with this kid.
Jason’s been saying it for months now, but especially since that whole storm debacle when a thirteen-year-old with a raging sinus infection showed up soaking wet on their doorstep, bits of branches stuck in his hair and tiny icicles hanging from his eyebrows, asking to plug in his phone so he could—
So he could—
Come to think of it, Jason still doesn’t know what the little punk had been planning to do. Uber himself a ride to the hardware store? Book his asshole parents a flight home? Pay off some black market contractor to show up on his porch steps in the dead of night with a chainsaw??
(Fuck. It was probably the last one, wasn’t it?)
Now, Jason likes Tim, don’t get him wrong, but that kid’s got the self-preservation instincts of a wet paper towel. And not even the premium paper towels Alfred buys at Costco—that cheap shit you get at the Dollar Tree. The kid’s basically allergic to asking for help, and it’s fucking sad, okay?
Case in point, the fact that he’s currently bleeding all over the damn floor and still insisting that they don’t bother Bruce.
Well fuck that shit.
“—I can assure you, Mr. Carter,” Bruce’s muffled voice comes through the solid oak door as Jason comes skidding to halt in front of his study, “this matter is of the utmost importance. Wayne Enterprises does not take lightly to–”
Jason throws open the unlocked door, his announcement all coming out in a single rushed breath.
“Tim cut his thumb half-off, it’s bad, we can see the bone.”
Bruce blinks at him, once. Then he stands up from his desk.
“...I have just been informed of an urgent family matter,” he addresses the rows of baffled-looking zoom tiles on his computer screen. “Please defer to Lucius Fox for any and all executive decision-making. He has my full authorization to act on behalf of Wayne Enterprises.”
And with that, Bruce Wayne closes the lid of his laptop, effectively hanging up on his entire board of directors.
Seamlessly, Bruce shifts into his Batman persona. “What happened."
His tone demands a report, so Jason rattles one off as they jog down the corridors, placing particular emphasis on how Tim is freaking the fuck out right now.
“Did he get the radial artery?” Bruce interrogates.
“How the hell should I know? It’s not like they’re labeled.”
“Well was it gushing or–”
“I don’t know,” Jason huffs frustratedly as Bruce ducks into the bathroom to snag one of the Manor’s numerous first aid kits, “and I don't care about that nearly as much as I care he was trying to get Dick to superglue it back on.”
“Hn,” Bruce grunts. “He could just be scared of needles.”
Jason rolls his eyes, not even bothering to dignify that with a response.
They’re almost to the kitchen now. Dick’s soothing reassurances are filtering back down the hall, interspersed with the kid’s muffled sobs. Turning the final corner, he can see Tim has his uninjured hand clamped tightly over his mouth, tear tracks running down his cheeks, like he thinks even gasping isn’t allowed.
“I’m so sorry,” Tim whimpers upon seeing Bruce. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
Sudden anger bubbles up in Jason's chest. He wants to shout at the kid. To grab his shoulders and shake him and tell him to go ahead and bother someone for once. Tell him he’s worth the space he takes up and the air he breathes and the attention he craves. That he’s a person and he fucking matters, dammit.
He wants to punch something. Or someone.
Or two very specific someones.
“Jay.” Bruce’s voice is quiet and steady, right in Jason’s ear. They’re both still stopped in the doorway, Jason’s eyes blazing with righteous fury while Tim blubbers out apologies and Dick shushes him. “Go take a walk, kiddo. We’ve got this.”
Jason’s throat is tight. “His parents suck, B.” It’s more of a hiss than a whisper.
“I know,” Bruce says quietly, "I'll take care of it."
You'd fucking better, Jason thinks bitterly as he storms out of the room.