#fukinweeeb

So when he does tense up, midway between a snark off on which soda brand is better-- “Zesti is the premier shit drink of choice, Jason, even Dick agrees,” which, whatever, if you’re basing an argument over Dick’s questionable tastes, you’ve already lost, and Soder Cola is the most American drink ever made, even Jason can admit that and he’s technically a terrorist-- Jason feels his entire chest go cold.

He thought they were past this.

“I can go.” He says, through suddenly numb lips. It’s cold but not that could, a cool sixty which is practically paradise for Gotham this time of year. It’s not even pissing down rain, though the sky is a gray brick of overcast.

The words float out between them, catching on the mist. The rooftop is damp from an earlier shower.

Tim’s not even looking at him. He’s fiddling around with his scope, hissing under his breath. Jason tries to figure out what he did-- a sweeping arm movement, a too sharp movement? He really hasn’t been watching himself around Tim like he should have been.

You don’t just forget that kind of trauma. God knows Jason hadn’t, when someone had beat the shit out of him in the dark, and he hadn’t even been shot or, fuck, had his throat slit by someone who was supposed to be a friend.

Jason starts to stand.

“What?” Tim looks up, a picture of confusion. “No, what are you being stupid about? The screw fell out of my new lens.” He curses under his breath, glove groping around the rubble of the rooftop. “I cannot believe I didn’t put it back together tightly enough last night.”

Jason’s mouth moves on instinct, the Robinly urge to rib his brother carrying through even when his thoughts are so tangled and confused.

“Did you rebuild that thing again?” He asks. “Damn, give it a few days to see how it functions, would you?”

“If I notice a problem, I’m not going to just wait and fill out a changelog of bugs, Jay.” Tim says absently, waving a hand without looking. His entire back is to Jason now. Jason, slowly and by degrees, relaxes. “Besides, it was an easy enough adjustment.”

Jay, not Jason. Rare enough that one of his brothers indulges in his preferred nickname. Jason himself hardly ever points out that he prefers it, so it’s not like he can blame them.

(Also in fairness, he’d once shot Bruce in the kneecap for pulling out ‘Jaylad’ in the middle of his Pit-induced madness.)

Jason gradually lowers himself back into his sitting position against the roof’s lip. They’re as comfortable as they can be on this kind of stakeout, the orange haze of poisoned daylight on the horizon indistinguishable from sunset. Soon, the ‘working day’ will be through, and they’ll be able to see what the Sionis family is actually doing. They’re supposed to be quiet and cowed with Black Mask back in Arkham, but you wouldn’t know it from the shipping activity on their side of the docks.

“Yeah, I can tell.” Jason scoffs. “You have a back-up kit?”

They all tended to carry replacement parts for their more fiddly gear. Tim, being the most Oracleish of their cohort-- and also the most tech-savvy-- had an entire soldering kit on him or Jason would eat his boot.

“Yes, of course.” Tim says, waspish. “But I don’t need it. I can find this screw.”

“This specific tiny screw.” Jason parrots, amused.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Yeah, okay.

Jason feels the tension fall completely out of his shoulders. Babyest bird is not feeling unsafe, right now; Tim doesn’t get this bitchy around people unless he trusts them.

Random civilians and corporate fuckwits, they get soft-spoken, laughing Timothy Drake. Anyone Tim’s not quite comfortable with-- people he has to impress, like the Justice League-- get the world’s most perfect and efficient Robin. Seriously, it’s terrifying. He wears his competency like a sword and doesn’t bother with a shield.

So, a snarky Tim-- a Tim who lashes out, without regard for if he’ll be hit back-- is a trusting Tim. A comfortable Tim.

“I’m just sayin.” Jason lets a grin surface on his face, in his voice. He wiggles his fingers. Then, actually being helpful: “Hey, maybe try a light?”

“Ugh. Good idea.” Tim flicks on a pen light with careless efficiency, apparently from part of his glove. What the hell.

The light catches on the moist pebbles and occasional shallow puddle, but it does its job; the glint from the tiny screw is enough to find it, and Tim swoops it up with a triumphant sound.

“Ridiculous.” Jason snorts.

Tim pulls a face.

“I don’t want to hear it from you, Mr. My Peripheral Vision Doesn’t Matter as Much As My Aesthetics. At least I can see.”

“The hood had an HUD!” Jason protests, knee-jerk. “I don’t even wear it that much anymore.”

He gestures to his own domino, as bright a red as the bat on his chest.

“Mm, yeah, you definitely didn’t keep wearing it to be petty for, oh, six months.” A snarky little grin, edging into smirk territory.

Jason looks forward to a year from now, where he can not only move openly around Tim, but also smack him playfully. They aren’t there yet-- not like how he can slug Dick in the shoulder as hard as he wants-- but Jason can see it on the horizon.

Instead, he snorts.

“Oh, I know you’re not calling me petty.” He points out, amused.

Tim’s face stops briefly on suspicion before going directly to offended.

“I’m not petty!” He denies. “I’ve never done anything petty in my entire life, ever.”

“That’s a lie,” Jason laughs. “I saw you put decaf coffee into Dick’s stash.”

“That’s for his health.” Tim claims, boldly. “I’m doing him a favor.”

“Yeah, and the fact that you ferried the actual caffeinated coffee you stole into your stash has nothing to do with it.”

“I’m not going to waste it, Jason!” Tim puts a hand to his chest in mock-offense. “If I replace it wholescale, he’d notice, so I switch out a cup at a time.”

“Right.” Jason grins. “And the little fucker who’s stolen all the “R” shaped keys off every keyboard I’ve bought for my safehouses?”

Tim flushed bright red.

“You can’t prove that was me.” He says, immediately, which in their line of work is basically a confession. Also; he knows better than to challenge another detective like that!

Jason starts counting on his fingers.

“Well, it wasn’t me. That’s one Robin out.” And he ignores the pang that claiming that name will always bring him.

“Damian could have done it. He’s a bitch like that.”

Jason tips his head back and laughed.

“You’re more of a bitch. You’ve made bitchiness into an art form.” And he threw Damian under the bus without hesitation, goddamn.

“Dick was a Robin. Just saying.” Tim points out. Yeah, like saying water is fucking wet. Dick wasn’t a Robin, he was the Robin. He was Robin, full stop.

Jason just stares.

“Dick is the only one of us who never stole Robin.” He points out. “And in fact stealing the suit seems to be a right of passage, at this point.”

It doesn’t occur to him that he’s wandering into the biggest trigger between them-- what had been Jason’s biggest trigger, as the furious Red Hood-- until he’s already said it. Fortunately, Tim goes in another direction-- passing the buck down the line, as it were.

“Damian didn’t steal shit.” He huffs, still sour. “Dick gave him that suit right from under me. At least I had to break in and take it.”

He looks up then, apparently sensing the same thing Jason had.

“Oh, uh. I’d say sorry about that, by the way, but you... weren’t using it at the time.” Tim’s face twisted. “Oh, god. No, not that. I’m going to stick with the actual answer that Bruce was going off the fucking deep end at the time and Dick wouldn’t do it.”

Jason just stares.

Tim groans and covers his face with his hands. Jason starts laughing.

“Shut up.” Tim says, but it sounds more like a complaint. Jason laughs harder.

“I can’t hear you, I’m putting the screw back in.” Tim very loudly-- with exaggerating arm gestures-- begins fixing his scope, pointed out the warehouse across from them.

“That doesn’t occupy your ears, Baby Bird.”

“I can’t hear you!” Tim repeats, louder. “I can’t multitask, everyone knows that. Hang on, I’m almost done.”

By the time he sits back, triumphant with his success now that Jason is no longer laughing at his expense, the foot traffic has mostly died down. He points the newly-repaired lens to the beginning of the street.

“I think we’ve got enough for facial recognition.” Tim murmurs, mind back on the business, watching their marks walk up the long, long road in front of the warehouse.

Smile, assholes, you’re on camera.

“Never a good thing when they have this many new contacts.” Jason agrees, eyes tracking the unfamiliar faces who have no business in this part of town.

He brings his own piece up-- yes, designed after the Hood’s perfectly respectable HUD, alright-- to track even more information. Vitals, infrared, even what kind of heat they’re packing.

“Here, look at this.” He offers the binoculars to Tim, who reaches out automatically. Just before they settle in his palm, Jason thinks better of it. He dangles them a foot above Tim’s reach-- not hard, since Tim is almost all the way on the ground looking through his scope, and pretty short anyway.

“Jason.” He complains, not looking away from his lens.

“Since, you know, I’m not using them.”

Tim blanches. Then flushes, hard. He brings a gauntlet up to cover his face again. Low, muffled, his voice sounds out:

“I’m never going to live this down. You should have killed me at Titan Tower.”

It’s like cold water over Jason’s entire body. The arm holding the binoculars falls limp at his side.

“Fuck that.” Jason snarls, and he shouldn’t-- he can’t-- be this angry around Tim, but the smaller Robin doesn’t flinch or even rear back. He just blinks in surprise. Fuck.

“Jason.” Tim says, humor falling all the way away, but Jason-- can’t. He takes a deep breath and turns away.

“Don’t say that kind of shit.” He finally manages, wrestling with the full body horror and memory of Tim’s bones breaking, the glee he felt. Sick, vicious glee.

“Jason. I know that.” Stilted, but not afraid. This, too, is an honest Tim-- the Tim that doesn’t have the right words to say, but doesn’t pause to find perfect ones, afraid of messing up. A trusting Tim.

Jason takes another deep breath and lets him finish.

“I know you weren’t in your right mind. I don’t... hold it against you. Anymore.” Tim manages. And, fuck, is babyest bird seriously trying to fucking apologize? To Jason?

“Are you really trying to apologize for me almost beating you to death?” He asks, flatly. “Just checking. Because that’s insane, Tim.”

Tim bites his lip. Ah, not good. Almost a flinch, but a social one.

“I’m apologizing for bringing it up.” His hands absently hits record on the scope, giving more attention to Jason. “I know you’re... Damn, Jay, I know it fucks with you, alright? Having to remember it.”

“You have to remember it!” Jason says, throwing up both hands-- which, fuck. But Tim doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as lean away from the wild limbs.

“I’ve had worse.” Tim points out, almost-- fuck, distracted, almost as an aside, as a faint beep comes from the scope and he looks down at it. “Honestly...it was a long time ago, Jay. We’re good.”

“We’re good.” Jason repeats in disbelief, remembering the sharp crack of bone. His voice is hoarse.

The worst part is, he wants it to be true. He wants them to be good, wants that easy camaraderie years into the future. Wants to have so many good times between them that they can barely remember the bad.

Then he twinges onto the other half of that sentiment, and wants to shake Tim.

“Wait, you’ve had worse? From me?”

He knew that to be true, of course. Even in the depths of his rage, finding out the little Robin whose throat he casually slit hadn’t been wearing a gorget--because he was allergic to the material and Bruce hadn’t yet synthesized a replacement-- had almost made him physically ill. He’d still been deluding himself, at the time, that he was perfectly in control. That he had chosen every act of violence, that he was being purposeful.

That fuck-up had been one of his first wake up calls that he really, really wasn’t. Even if it was a ‘reasonable’ assumption, he still should have fucking checked. Detectives do their homework, and so what if Dick had worn a gorget, for most of his time out, and so had Jason.

He knew the Robin suit was deceptively well-armored; it only looked like you were defenseless. Shit, even the bare legs were a taunt and a trap; Bruce damn well taught them to defend hits there, and any that got through were still safer than cuts or shots to the torso or head.

So he’d nearly killed Tim with what should have been, if not a love tap, then a mere threat to Bruce and not a serious attempt on Tim’s life. He’d excused the purposeful attempts, of course. At the time, it was only the accidents that bothered Jason-- the perceived lack of control.

He’d shot Tim. He’d snuck into a place where he was supposed to be safe, his home away from home-- and yes, Jason had been bitter at the time that Bruce never allowed him a team, fearful it would turn his second Robin’s head as it did the first’s-- and beat the shit out of him.

And yet something about the way Tim said that he’d had worse...

“From me, right? The other times?” Jason demands. “What do you mean, you’ve had worse?”

Tim makes a caught little sound in his throat, visibly unhappy. His eyes cut to the side.

“Do we have to do this?” He asks plaintively. “It’s not important.”

Not important.

For the first time since conquering the Pit madness, Jason’s vision hazes over a different color. Fear grips him by the throat, almost choking out the anger, but only for a second, because it’s not green that takes him.

He sees red.

Teeth grit, fists clenched so hard he fears he’ll drawl blood, Jason has to fucking count to calm himself down enough to speak. He will not shout at Tim. He will not swing at Tim.

He wants to throttle him, though. Urrgh.

“Jason?” Tim asks, quietly. Concerned. Not afraid. Not scared. Not timid. Leaning towards him, even. As though convinced he’s in no danger at all.

For the first time, Jason wonders if all their so-called progress is just Tim’s distinct lack of self preservation.

Maybe his little brother is too stupid to be afraid.

No, that’s not fair. Tim’s a genius.

He’s just also an idiot.

Jason, in a fit of masochism, had read the kid’s medical file. He’d needed to know every bit of damage he’d done that he could never undo. Since then, he’s familiarized the files of all birds and bird-related bats. Having a working knowledge of what everyone’s got going on-- like, say, allergies to gorget material or their blood types-- is mission goddamn essential in Gotham.

He’s never seen anything about the kid being hurt worse. Which means, of course, not only did the kid not think it was worth mentioning, he went out of his way to hide it. Jason thinks of Tim’s clipped little reports, the bare bones essentials accounting of his own fights with Ra’s Al Ghul, and comes to a conclusion he doesn’t think he likes.

“You--” Jason clears his throat, modulates his tone. He wants to grab Tim by the shoulders, but he can’t. He won’t. Instead he looks across the rooftop and to hell with whatever mission they’ve got going on.

“You listen to me, because I’m only going to say this once.” He manages to keep the growl out, but his voice is deep. Serious. It’s also a boldfaced goddamn lie; he’ll say this as many times as he needs to.

Tim leans in, eyes shocked wide and young beneath his domino. But not scared; still not scared. Good. Jason exhales slowly, maintains that eye contact.

“It was so, so fucked up-- all the things I did to you. I regret them. I’m sorry. But not because I was out of control, and mad with rage. That’s not the part that bothers me.”

Well, not the majority of it.

“Then... what?” Tim’s voice was small. Quiet. But curious and unafraid.

“You, Baby Bird. I could have killed you. I did, in fact, hurt you. That’s the horrible part. You could have died.”

“But, I’m just...” Tim snaps his mouth shut tightly, looking away. He looks haunted, like he’d said exactly what he didn’t mean to. And yep, that’s it for Jason, because fuck all of this.

He’s up and moving before he can even think not to walk like the juggernaut he is, but maybe it is soon enough, close enough to that future, because Tim just watches him with big blinking eyes, waiting to see what he’ll do.

He trusts Jason not to hurt him.

Fuck, but that’s good, so Jason doesn’t hesitate as he yanks his brother into a fierce hug. Better than wringing his scrawny neck, anyway, though it’s not off the table.

Jason wants to shake him.

“You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re...” Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jason forces his voice out around a tight throat. “You’re my brother and I love you. Shit. Your life matters. You matter. I’m so fucking glad you’re alive.”

Tim starts shaking in his arms, but Jason just holds him tighter. It occurs to him that perhaps, somehow, with the shitty way he’s grown up-- shittier, in its own way, than Jason’s own miserable adolescence-- that maybe nobody’s told him this before.

That some of this cavalier disregard for his own importance in their lives-- right from the beginning, when he, an untrained little kid, put on the suit and risked his life because Bruce needed him-- came from having never been told.

Well, Jason would tell him. Jason would tell him a thousand fucking times, if he had to.

He’d show him, too.

It was lucky they were recording the stakeout, because Jason couldn’t be fucked to care about anything for the rest of the night. Oh, they stayed up on that rooftop-- they didn’t leave until dawn, in fact-- but they talked about things more important than the mobsters at the docks.

And two months later, when Jason Todd had been publicly, ‘miraculously returned from his own staged death that was actually a kidnapping’, when he found a copy of his death certificate marked RESCINDED, left out on the kitchen table,Jason knew exactly who to blame for what he saw.

He threw his head back and laughed.

JASON PETE TODD was spelled loudly and in bold on the documents, but it wasn’t a typo. Oh, no.

Tim had stolen the R from his middle name.

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