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Jason shuts the door behind him and leans against it, breath coming heavier than it should be. His helmet is long gone. His domino is tucked into one of his jacket pockets, taken off sometime during his trek here. A wound in his shoulder bleeds sluggishly. His side throbs. His ankle and knee twinge with every step. It hurts to breathe, let alone to move—but he makes himself push off of the door. He makes it about five steps before his bad leg collides with a coffee table.
“Son of a fucking—”
Tears spring to his eyes, as much from frustration as pain, and he has to lock his knees to keep from toppling over.
The sun’s already up, gray morning light streaming through the windows. There’s no excuse for him to have hit it, except that he’d been on a single-minded mission to get to the nearest first aid kit. He doesn’t have the layout of Tim’s apartment as well-memorized as his own; has never had to trek through it sluggish and in pain.
He abandons his trek to the bathroom, and the first aid kit therein, in favor of collapsing on the couch. Might as well add ruining the furniture to his list of crimes.
Jason catches the reflection of the hall light in Tim’s giant-ass TV, only a moment before he hears Tim’s footsteps—so soft that he wouldn’t have heard if he hadn’t been listening for them. He closes his eyes, some of the tension leaving him. It shouldn’t. God knows Tim is going to have plenty to say to him after he went dark three days ago, ditching his trackers and cutting his comms completely. He’s not sorry, and he doesn’t regret it… but he’d known from the start that Tim wasn’t going to be happy with him. Is a big enough man to admit that he wouldn’t be happy if the situation was reversed.
The lecture doesn’t come. Tim’s shadow darkens his closed eyelids, and then he feels a featherlight touch on his face. He opens his eyes again, and finds Tim’s face pinched with worry. He traces the cut on Jason’s face; his touch so gentle it doesn’t even hurt. Then he brushes the beginnings of Jason’s black eye.
“I’ll get the first aid kit,” he says, in that particular shade of soft he uses when there’s a risk of concussion.
Jason’s eyes sting again. “Thanks.” His voice is raspier than he expects. Tim’s fingers leave his face—Jason misses the touch as soon as its gone. He listens to Tim’s footsteps again, carrying him away this time, and then he takes a slow, careful breath. His body twinges, muscles tensing at the pain. Now that he’s safe, there’s nothing distracting him from the pain; no adrenaline or rush of endorphins to block it out. Only a deep, aching soreness that has grown steadily worse the longer he’s sat here.
Fuck.
He pushes himself to sit up straight, then forces himself to bend over, reaching for his boots. It hurts like a bitch, but he grits his teeth, forcing clumsy fingers to start untying the laces.
He doesn’t even manage to undo one before Tim is back. He gets the light on the way back in, turning the brightness up past their normal setting so that the room is flooded with brilliant white. Then he sets the first aid kit down before kneeling in front of Jason and gently knocking his hands away.
“Sit back,” he says. “Let me take care of you.”
There’s a protest on the tip of Jason’s tongue. Tim quells it with a single, raised eyebrow. It says, simply, Don’t be stupid—an imitation of the same look Alfred would give Batman, night after night. All of the Robins had learned to copy it over time, but if you asked Jason, Tim was the best at it.
He sits back, breathing shallowly, trying not to aggravate his injuries anymore than he already has, and lets Tim fuss.
Before Tim does anything, he says, “Injury report.”
Jason takes a slow breath. “Right ankle and knee—wrenched them in a bad landing. My side. Just bruised, I think. Think I got a black eye, too.” He pauses; runs his tongue over his teeth. “Might be a cut on the back of my head, too. Definitely one on my shoulder.”
Tim’s face does that weird, twitchy thing that happens when he’s split between multiple different reactions. It ultimately settles into something cool, neutral, and hardly reassuring. “Okay,” he says. “I need to check you for a concussion.”
Jason grimaces, but obediently tips his head forward for Tim to examine. This part isn’t so bad. Tim’s fingers are light and probing—he hisses when Tim brushes the cut, but the rest of his prodding is almost soothing.
“No bumps,” Tim says. “Definitely a cut, though.” He nudges Jason’s head back upright, then runs him through a quick cognition check before shining a penlight in his eyes, nearly blinding him. Tim hums. “Normal pupils. Congratulations, you don’t have a concussion.” His mouth twitches—and it’s all so normal that Jason’s throat feels tight. “You do have a black eye, and a couple other cuts on your face.” Tim brushes them—there’s one near his temple, another on his cheek and nose.
“Adds to my rugged charm,” Jason manages, nearly a beat too late.
Tim’s half-smile just widens a little, and then he says, “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
Jason nods, the barest dip of his chin, and then Tim leaves again. He hears the faucet running in the bathroom before he comes back, a damp washcloth in his hand. He perches on the couch next to Jason, and cups his chin in his hand, holding Jason’s face in his hands as he dabs at his cuts with the cloth. He’s gentle. So gentle. Jason had expected— To be tossed out, at worst. Left to fend for himself, maybe. At best, Tim would help, but his touch would be rough. He’d lecture. Yell, maybe, or sit there in tense, clenched-jaw silence.
Instead he gets… this. Jason feels entirely unprepared for it, but he sucks it up greedily anyway.
Tim sets the washcloth down after a bit. Jason keeps his eyes closed, listening to the sound of plastic crinkling. The sharp scent of an antibacterial wipe hits his nose a moment before the cloth itself does. He hisses at the sting, but holds himself still as Tim sanitizes the cuts before bandaging them.
He gives Jason a second, and then his fingers his fingers creep into Jason’s hair. Jason flinches when he reaches the head wound, and Tim stops touching it immediately. “Sorry,” he says—and follows that by leaning forward, pressing a kiss between Jason’s brows.
The gentle affection leaves Jason blinking moisture out of his eyes.
“Tip your head forward for me?” Tim requests softly—and Jason does, if only to hide the emotion on his face. His fingers creep back into Jason’s hair. This time, their presence is only felt by the way they part his hair. His scalp prickles, tingles in a way that Jason could almost relax into, if he didn’t know what was coming. As it is, he still enjoys it. It still hurts when he gets close to the cut, but Jason grits his teeth and bears it.
He’s had worse, he reminds himself.
Tim hums. Jason hears a click; sees the slight halo of a flashlight, his shadow growing darker. Then a second click when Tim shuts it off a moment later. “It’s already started to scab over,” he says. “But I still need to clean it out.”
“Do it.”
Tim does. He’s as gentle as he can be, but the scrape of the washcloth against the wound still hurts; each swipe making it throb. But— It’s not entirely unpleasant. There’s also the weight of Tim’s hand, holding his head in place; the warmth of his body next to him; the care in his touch. It’s easy to focus on that instead of the pain until Tim guides him into sitting up again.
He blinks, bleary.
“Jacket off,” Tim says gently, and helps him shrug out of it; pulling it down his injured arm when Jason has gotten the other arm yet. His chest piece comes off next, and luckily for them both, it can come off as one piece or multiple. Tim opts for the latter, disabling traps as he goes, until Jason is left in his under-shirt. Tim grabs the cloth again, and presses it to the wound on his shoulder, applying pressure. “Can you keep this here?” he asks, and Jason nods, hissing as he accidentally tries to raise his injured arm first, before switching to the other. Tim smiles at him briefly. “Thank you.”
He cuts Jason’s undershirt away. Blood stains the back of it; a bright, rich red splotch marring the white fabric. Tim’s face screws up again when he looks at him, deep furrows in his forehead, his brow knit.
“That bad, huh?” Jason rasps. He can only imagine what he looks like; a mottled mess of scars and scrapes and bruises. Hardly unusual for either of them, but it’s different, when it’s not you. When it’s someone you care about injured and in pain. Jason may not understand why, but Tim cares about him—at least for now—so. Unusual or not, it’s probably not easy to look at.
But Tim looks, unflinching.
“You’ve looked better,” he agrees.
“I’ve looked worse, too.”
Tim snorts, but there’s not much humor in it. There are shadows in his eyes—shadows Jason put there. He regrets that much, at least. Not that it means much when he doesn’t regret the rest of it. Not when he’d make the same choice again, and again and again.
Now would be another good place for a lecture, he thinks, but yet again, that’s not what happens. Instead Tim leaves to wet another cloth. He returns quickly. He cleans the cut on the back of Jason’s shoulder. It’s long, but shallow, meaning he’s escaped having to get stitches. Tim cleans up a few other scrapes and cuts, too; ones Jason hadn’t even noticed amidst everything else.
Then he bandages him up.
His fingers ghost over Jason’s side. “Not much we can do for this but pain medicine and ice,” Tim says. “And maybe an x-ray in the morning.”
Jason grunts. He can feel the exhaustion creeping up on him, threatening to wash over him and carry him off to sleep.
Tim kneels in front of him again. “I’m going to wrap your ankle and your knee,” he says. “Then you can take some pills and hop in bed with some ice, yeah?”
“Rather hop in bed with you,” Jason says, wiggling his brows. The movement makes his head twinge, but it’s worth it for the way Tim’s eyes roll.
“Uh-huh,” Tim says dryly. “I’m sure you would.” He makes quick work of Jason’s laces.
“What, you gonna—gonna deprive me of cuddles? When I’m injured? You monster.”
Tim snorts again. “Cuddles. Is that what that eyebrow movement meant?”
“It meant whatever you wanted it to mean.” Jason grins.
“Charmer.” His first boot comes off easily. The second catches on his swollen ankle, making him hiss. “Sorry, sorry.” Tim gives him a second to recover before trying again. He’s gentler but it still hurts like a motherfucker when the pressure from his boot is released. His ankle throbs. Jason shuts his eyes against it; moisture gathering in the corners. Tim prioritizes his injured foot, pulling his sock off to expose his ankle. For once, Tim’s fingers are cold on his skin; the flesh warm and swollen under his touch. He gently rotates Jason’s ankle, first one way, then then the other. Jason bears it with only a few harsh, ragged breaths.
When Tim is satisfied, he wraps it tightly. Then he slots himself between Jason’s knees, a position that would have Jason flushing in any other situation. In this one, he just manages another eyebrow wiggle before Tim shoves him, gently. He’s an old pro at disabling the traps in Jason’s pants and he does so with ease before unbuckling his belt and popping the button on his tac pants. The zipper follows.
“Hips up.”
Jason tightens his core, lifting up. It makes his side throb, but he only has to hold the position for a moment before Tim has his pants and his leggings down his thighs and he can sit again. Tim eases both off, careful to aggravate his knee as little as possible.
It’s not as swollen as his ankle, but there’s clear bruising where he’d landed on it. Tim gives it a few mobility checks before wrapping it up as well. He gives Jason a pair of pills and a glass of water, both of which Jason downs.
“Bed,” Tim says.
“Anytime.” Jason grins, but it fades quickly as Tim helps him to his feet. It’s easier to move than before now that he has someone to lean on—but harder, too; the pain more intense now that he’s had time to rest and feel it.
Together, they hobble down the hall to the bedroom, where the blankets have already been kicked to the end of the bed. Jason falls into his spot, slowed by himself and Tim so that it doesn’t hurt (much) when he lands. Once he’s settled, Tim goes to leave. Jason tightens his grip on Tim’s arm, keeping him in place.
“Skip the ice,” he says. “Just—c’mere.”
Tim’s face softens, and he circles the bed, climbing in beside him. He gets comfortable, then lets Jason tuck himself against Tim’s side. Tim holds him loosely, careful—so careful—not to aggravate his injuries. Then Tim turns out the light.
In Tim’s arms, it’s easy—so easy—for Jason to finally relax completely, comforted by the rise and fall of the chest under his cheek. It’s easy to give into the exhaustion, too; to let it swallow him, let it pull his eyelids down, let his breaths even out.
Tim hums. Jason feels the vibrations of it. “Jay… One more thing before you go to sleep.” Distantly, Jason registers that there’s something… different about Tim’s voice. It’s as light and gentle as it has been all night, but now there’s something else, too. An undercurrent of danger.
Then there’s the gentlest touch of fingers in his hair, and the thought flies right out of his head. “Mm?"
“Who did this to you?”