Jason wasn’t expecting anyone home that early. The manor was quiet—too quiet. Bruce and Dick were out on patrol, Alfred was at the store, and you were still at your event. It was just him, the ticking clock, and the soft hum of the heater.
Then the front door creaked open.
“Yo, someone forget their key again?” Jason called lazily from the couch. No answer. He frowned, getting up—just in time to see Tim step into the hallway light.
And stop.
Tim looked… wrecked. His cheek was red, shaped like a handprint. There were fresh scratches along his arms, bruises forming like ugly shadows. His glasses were bent, one lens cracked clean through. He just stood there, frozen, backpack hanging limply off one shoulder, eyes unfocused like he was still somewhere else.
“Jesus, Tim,” Jason breathed, all the teasing and bite gone instantly. “What the hell happened?”
Tim flinched at his voice, tried to force a small smile that didn’t even reach halfway. “It’s fine,” he muttered, voice rough. “Just—got jumped. I handled it.”
Handled it. Yeah, sure. Jason’s stomach twisted. He’d seen that look before—on himself, years ago. That hollow-eyed exhaustion that came when you weren’t just bruised on the outside.
“C’mere,” Jason said quietly. No sarcasm. No smug smirk. Just a low, steady tone.
Tim hesitated, clearly expecting a jab, maybe a smart remark. But Jason just stepped forward, gently taking his bag off his shoulder and setting it down. The silence stretched, heavy with everything they never said to each other.
Jason reached out, hand hovering near Tim’s face. “You gonna tell me who did that?”
Tim shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
Jason’s jaw clenched. It mattered. Everything in him burned to grab his helmet and go hunt whoever left those marks—but the kid standing in front of him didn’t need vengeance right now. He needed someone to care.
“Alright,” Jason finally said, voice tight. “Then we fix you up first.”
He guided Tim to the couch, rummaging through the first aid kit Alfred kept in the drawer. Tim sat stiffly, trying not to meet his eyes, trying to act like his hands weren’t shaking.
When Jason came back, he crouched in front of him. “Hold still.”
Tim huffed. “Since when do you play nurse?”
Jason shot him a look. “Since my brother walked in lookin’ like he went twelve rounds with a garbage truck.”
It was quiet after that—just the sound of antiseptic wipes and shallow breaths. Jason worked carefully, muttering curses under his breath every time he saw a new bruise.
At one point, Tim whispered, “You don’t have to—”
“Yeah, I do,” Jason cut in. His tone was sharp, but his hands were gentle. “You think I’m gonna let you patch yourself up like nothin’ happened? Not a chance.”
Tim blinked at him, and for the first time, the sarcasm faded. The exhaustion cracked through—real and raw. His shoulders slumped.
“I just… I didn’t see them coming,” he said quietly. “I tried to fight back.”
“I know you did,” Jason said. “You always do.”
He didn’t say you shouldn’t have been alone or I should’ve been there. But it was there, unspoken, hanging heavy between them.
When he finished bandaging Tim’s arm, he handed him one of Bruce’s hoodies from the nearby chair. “Put that on. You’re freezing.”
Tim pulled it on without arguing, curling slightly into the oversized fabric. Jason sat back beside him, pretending to scroll his phone but really just keeping watch.
The silence wasn’t awkward anymore—it was… safe.
After a long minute, Tim muttered, “You’re not gonna tell Bruce, are you?”
Jason snorted softly. “Nah. Not unless you want me to. But if I find out who did it—”
“Jay.”
“—I’m just sayin’, maybe a friendly chat with my fists would—”
“Jay.”
Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. I’ll behave. For now.”
Tim’s lips twitched—barely a smile, but it was something.
By the time Dick, Bruce and you got home, the lights were dim, the movie was paused halfway through, and the two of them were asleep on the couch—Jason slouched back, arms crossed, Tim half leaning against his shoulder, wrapped in that massive hoodie.