Tim stays silent. He weaves around Jason's kick, smoothly settling into a handstand, and his leg shoots out a kick of his own, directly up, aiming at Hood's chin. This one connects with more power than his fist mere seconds ago, and Jason staggers backward, finding his balance in a beat.

That beat is enough for Tim to cartwheel away to some distance and assume a defensive stance again. Silence hurts, underlining the tension, the adrenaline, and the pain, slowly spreading through his chest and limbs.

Jason moves first. Shakes his head, groans and unlocks his helmet with an airy hiss, throws it down. Tim follows the piece with attentive eyes: he needs to remember where it landed, so Hood won't use remote control to detonate it, if Tim ever comes close. The relaxed, wolfish grin accompanied by the feral green stare is more than just unsettling. Outright creepy. Horrifying.

Tim settles deeper into his defense.

He knows fear. It's a distant memory, given everything that's happened, but Jason is hardly scarier than an insect-like monster ready to inject Tim with venom and slurp up his liquified insides like soup. What can Jason do? Kill him? Let him try.

"What's with the face, boy wonder?" Tim blinks. Jason's teeth are bloody, and yet he smiles, then spits on the ground. Lips are unharmed, meaning Tim's kick most likely made him bite his tongue. Good. It'll be harder for him to concentrate.

"Bored," Tim replies simply. "Thought we were busy here."

"Nice try." Jason rolls his eyes, but Tim can tell how the tension in his body becomes more prominent. Try as he might to control the pit rage, it's easy to press the right buttons. "It's you who wanted to get beat up."

"What, you want me to make it easy for you?" Unexpected even to himself, Tim lowers his hands and laughs. "Like two years ago? Yeah, bet you'd prefer th--"

Mistake. As much of a berserker as Jason might be, he's still a good fighter. And a good fighter knows when to strike. When the force shatters against his jaw, Tim thinks he's out, but mere seconds later, as his roll on the floor has stopped, and the ringing in his ears has somewhat subsided, he fights the nausea and dizziness. Double vision rewards him with two menacing silhouettes leisurely strolling towards him, and he scrambles to stand up.

This time the kick sends him flying, no weaving around it. Again, scattered against the ground, he props himself up on one elbow and calms his breathing.

"Brat," Jason growls. "All these years, and still so pathetically weak."

Tim ignores him. Jason steps closer, winds up another kick targeting Tim's face. Timing. Timing…

Dodge.

Use the off-balance to sweep his other leg from under him.

Fist up, strike, hit the nose.

"You--!!"

"F for effort, Hood." Tim grins darkly as Jason holds one palm to his face. His second arm is out of Tim's vision, and Tim pays for it when his temple is hit.

He's swimming in pain. It's dull and ever-present, and it fills his body up with waves that roll over every joint. Vision blurry, exploding with each… Something. Fireworks of red and orange, each time Something happens. Tim struggles to realize what it is, head heavy, a low drum in his ears. His thoughts feel enormous, yet none that he's able to catch, and when he thinks he's got it, the pounding stops. Everything comes into focus.

It's Jason. Eyes pure hatred, emerald and toxic, straddling his hips. His fist, bloodied knuckles - when did he lose the glove? - landing hit after hit across Tim's face. Ah. Makes sense.

Why did he stop? Where is he reaching?

Tim's vision

blurs again. The dark vignette around the edges grows steadily, and it dawns upon him: he cannot breathe. Nails scratching against Jason's wrists, his self-preservation instinct kicks in. Gasping, thrashing, pinned under the other's weight, Tim struggles, and suddenly he's face to face with Hood. Eyes still full of hatred. Still hatred. Still…

A flicker of something, a ripple across the lazarus water. One more.

Suddenly, his lungs fill up again, and Tim chokes on air, coughing. There's no more weight on him.

"…cking sick. Fuck!" What was previously just a set of random sounds suddenly forms into words. With bleary eyes, Tim follows Jason's figure in the dark. He stomps to his discarded helmet, snatches it off the ground, and turns around.

There's no more vivid green.

"You are fucking weak," he barks at Tim, pointing one finger in his direction. "Next time I will fucking kill you!"

It doesn't feel like a threat. It feels… different. Not a promise either. Maybe a concern?

Yeah, as if.

Jason makes a shocked sound.

"You are sick," he shakes his head, turns around, and leaves.

Tim realizes his own smile too late. No matter. Ground is firm and comfortable enough for him to lie in the post-adrenaline void. Every future bruise and crack hurts, and for once, his racing mind is blissfully still and empty.