Chapter Text
The call comes late.
Jason, dead on his feet after patrol and mildly bruised on at least nine parts of his body, squints at the unknown number on his screen for a total of seven seconds before deciding he doesn’t actually want to talk to whatever random scammer has somehow gotten his phone number, and declines it without fanfare.
He closes his eyes with a sigh and has barely a moment to sink into his nice, comfortable mattress before his ringtone is yelling at him again, sinfully loud in his otherwise quiet bedroom. Cracking open his eyes to see the same number flashing at him obnoxiously, Jason genuinely considers throwing his phone out the window so he won’t have to deal with this. It’s past three, he’s only just gotten home after patrolling since just after ten, and if this call isn’t someone who needs to give him a life-altering message right this instant , he might break Bruce’s number one rule.
Jason is tired , okay?
He’s been tired for weeks, ever since the Joker-
-don’t think about it-
-ever since Barbara was hurt, because with her gone from the field and Dick retreating to Bludhaven as a result of his own guilt and Bruce’s emotional ineptitude, patrolling Gotham has become a much more taxing affair, even with Batwoman taking up much of Batgirl’s old territory.
Jason collapses into bed at the end of each night with a very strong intent to remain unconscious until something literally rips him into wakefulness. This plan has been successful so far, and if Jason answers this call and finds out that he’s missing out on an uninterrupted night of sleep for a super determined spam-caller, he’s going to do something very drastic and very violent. The longer his ringtone plays out, the more nervous he becomes that someone might hear, even if he knows everyone else is rightfully asleep by now, and won’t be roused for at least a few more hours for love or money. Still, Jason allows it to ring for a few more seconds, savouring his drowsiness and mourning what could have been, before heaving himself into a sitting position and snatching his phone off his bedside table where it was charging, and bringing it to his ear.
“What?”
Jason winces at how raspy his voice is, and then winces again when the sound on the other side of the call comes through and music pulses straight into his poor unsuspecting eardrum, forcing him to turn down his volume before his head explodes.
“ What? ” Jason repeats in the ensuing silence, rubbing his eyes aggressively to clear them of any sleep-gunk and clearing his throat so he (hopefully) sounds less dead.
“...Jason?” Someone says on the other side of the call, their voice tinny and strangely wobbly, though that might just be the phone quality.
Jason blinks, taken aback by how young the person sounds, and how familiar.
“ Stray? ” Jason hisses, throwing back his covers and swinging himself around so he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, feeling thoroughly confused. “What the fuck?”
He didn’t even know that the thief had his number. It certainly wasn’t gained through consensual means, but he can't say he minds much. The number would’ve been freely given, had the cat-themed criminal ever bothered to ask instead of just taking it like the freak he is.
“Hey uh, can you come pick me up?” Stray’s voice still sounds weird, but it’s clear he’s deliberately trying to hide it. Trying and failing, because Jason knows him well enough by now to recognise when he’s upset. “Please?”
“What?” Jason splutter, because no matter how much he loves his friend, it is so fucking early, and surely the one who’s still out and about will have his goddamn grapple with him? Or the ability to call his mentor for a pick-up instead of a poor, tired Jason? “Why?”
“Uh,” Stray’s voice turns distant, like he’s no longer pressing his phone against his ear, and the music gets louder for it. Jason feels his eyes drooping in the few seconds it takes for the younger boy to continue. “I um, I think I messed up. Please come get me.”
And. And.
He and Stray might tease and jab and bully each other at every opportunity for the dumbest of things, but at the end of the day there are very few things Jason wouldn't do for him, if he asked. And he’s asking, now. It doesn’t matter that Jason is so tired he could cry, or that absolutely none of this conversation is making sense. That’s enough.
“Where are you?” Jason asks, standing unsteadily and reaching for the hoodie thrown over the back of his desk chair.
Stray’s relieved sigh drowns out the music.
The drive to the address Stray gives him is, in a word, hell.
Jason was already antsy and impatient before he even made it out of the Manor, and actually having time to think about the sketchy… everything about this situation is not helping his blood pressure. Part of him is almost glad Stray hung up after giving him the address, because it gives him time to try and wrangle his thoughts and emotions into check before he has to face the younger boy.
There is a reasonable explanation for this, Jason assures himself, knuckles white on the steering wheel of the car, the leather creaking faintly. Technically, he doesn’t have a license, because he’s only fifteen and the law is stupid, but he can drive, and it’s so early that he can’t even begin to muster enough energy to worry about being pulled over
He’d considered taking his bike, since it’d be faster, but eventually decided against it. There’s no telling what kind of state Stray will be in, and it’s probably not a good idea to assume he’ll be able to hold onto Jason well enough that he won’t go careening into traffic. With how shitty their combined luck is, he’d probably take Jason onto the road with him. The car he’d chosen might be slightly too nice for the part of town he’s going to, but Jason doesn’t think any amount of money could bring him to care, right now.
Jason takes a deep, calming breath as he nears the house at the farthest end of the road. Even if he didn’t have its number in his GPS, he thinks he could probably guess which one Stray needs a pick-up from, considering the sheer amount of people spilling out of it onto the street, and the music pulsing through the air so loudly it's a wonder none of the neighbours have called the cops. Then again, this is Gotham, so the chances of cops actually showing up to do their jobs are pretty slim.
If Stray called him at almost four in the fucking morning because he got drunk at a party, Jason might actually strangle him. What the fuck is he even doing at a party, anyway? The Bat’s may have no idea how old the little shit actually is, but Jason knows for certain he can’t be any older than thirteen, at most. The house isn’t even fancy enough to warrant a burglary attempt, so why the fuck is he here?
Jason takes another aggressive breath, and reminds himself that Stray isn’t stupid, and he wouldn’t call Jason for a stupid reason. There’s no way he’d call Jason as a first choice, either, considering he probably isn’t in costume right now, so there has to be a valid reason for being dragged away from a night’s sleep.
Jason squints up at the house as he slowly rolls to a stop in front of it, trying to work out where the hell Stray is, until he spots a dark-haired figure huddling on the front steps. Barely taking the time to force the car into park, he throws open his door and lurches out, double checking that he locked the doors, because he actually does have smart ideas, most of the time, and then hurries up the short path.
Jason wrestles futilely with the garden gate for a moment, before deciding that he just can’t, and jumps the fence, refusing to feel embarrassed for being defeated by a wire gate. A girl flirting with someone on the porch gives him an odd look, but he ignores her gracefully, because he has dignity , dammit. The dark-haired figure looks up when Jason stops in front of him, arm’s crossed. Trying to seem angry for his rude awakening is extremely hard when the kid’s face is drawn and he’s huddling into himself like a sad little turtle. It also turns out to be a useless effort, because Jason loses any ability to hold onto a grudge when the kid lays eyes on him and immediately bursts into tears.
“Oh, shit.” Jason drops down beside who he’s sure has to be Stray and hovers for a moment, unsure, before deciding fuck it , and pulling him into a fierce hug. “Don’t cry.”
Stray blubbers something indecipherable, throwing his arms around Jason and burying his face in his neck.
Jason smothers his emotions before they can bubble up and escape him, resisting the urge to interrogate Stray until he knows exactly what the hell happened to leave his friend in such a state, and takes a breath. This clearly isn’t something that can be solved by losing his head, so he needs to calm down and not panic so he can figure out what to do.
Think calm thoughts , Jason tells himself, holding the younger boy tight and trying desperately to remember everything Bruce has taught him about consoling victims, aside from the obvious don’t yell at and/or upset them . Mission possibly failed from Stray bursting into tears at the sight of him, but Jason is choosing to believe that’s not his fault, considering he didn’t even say anything before the waterworks made their appearance.
Stray will probably punch his lights out if he collects himself enough to realise Jason is treating him like a victim, but right now it doesn’t seem like a concern with how the younger boy is shaking, still slurring incoherently into Jason’s neck while his chest heaves in painful gasps.
“Come on.” Jason says quietly, patting Stray on the back and sending a glare at the few people around them who have stopped to stare at the mild breakdown occurring in front of them. “I brought a car, let’s go.”
Stray manages to get his breathing under control as Jason gently guides him to his feet, still keeping an arm wrapped around his shoulder, more for moral support, than anything. Though actually…
Jason frowns when Stray sways dangerously on the last step, turning to peer into his eyes with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Studiously ignoring the fact that this is the first time he’s ever actually seen his friend’s eyes (and fully uncovered face) before, he studies them intently, and then curses at how dilated the boy’s pupils are.
Jason is aware, on some distant level, that he was affected by watching his mother slowly deteriorate from her addiction, in the way someone is aware that they have family members that they’ve never met. Aware, but not really conscious until you’re confronted with it. Or confronted with them , since his flawed analogy involves people, but whatever.
He’d mostly assumed that after so many years since he’d watched her slow, painful demise, he’d be over how much fear fills him at the slightest hint of anyone he knows doing something similar. For a fifteen year old, Jason is scarily well-acquainted with drugs, but he never thought he’d have to worry about taking care of anyone else when they’re high, ever again. Even when he’d compulsively checked the inside of Dick’s arms for track marks during the height of his rebellious drinking phase, he’d never really expected to find any, and he hadn’t.
The fact that he might not be able to say the same about Stray fills him with a slew of ugly emotions.
Anger swells in Jason, deadly fast and molten, so strong he thinks it might grow enough to burn its way through his chest cavity and spill onto the ground in front of them, a physical manifestation of the furious terror he can feel singing through his veins. The urge to grab Stray and shake him, scream what are you doing, what the fuck are you doing , over and over rises to the forefront of his brain, and Jason swallows and pushes it down, because he knows that won’t be helpful right now.
“What did you take?” Jason asks very carefully, because he knows that his anger comes from a place of terror and care, but it's very hard to remember that when his friend is struggling to walk straight, even with his assistance. “I’m not mad. Just tell me what you took and we’ll fix it.”
“No.” Stray reaches forwards and unlocks the gate easily, which Jason refuses to feel jealous of, and stumbles against the waiting car, blinking blearily as he holds onto it for support. “I didn’t take anything.”
“Stray-” Jason starts, quiet, and then cuts himself off and waits with an unspoken question, because he thinks that at this point, Stray owes him an actual fucking name.
“Tim.” The thief offers quietly, gazing at Jason with big, anxious eyes.
“Tim.” Jason says, and who would have thought he'd find out an actual name from the elusive thief before the World's Greatest Detective? “You took something. Your pupils are so wide I can’t tell what colour your fucking eyes are. Tell me what it was.”
“ No ,” Tim says again, clearly frustrated. “I swear I didn’t take anything. Someone- someone messed with my drink.”
Jason allows himself a full three seconds to process and discard the sudden rush of anger those words prompt, and then silently unlocks the car door and holds it open so the younger boy can climb shakily inside.
Jason rounds the car to open the door on the driver's side and crawls inside, shutting his door slightly too loudly if the way Tim flinches is anything to go by.
“Do I need to take you to a hospital?” Jason asks blankly without looking at the boy beside him, choosing to instead focus on the road as he pulls the car out of park.
“No.” Tim says again, because it’s apparently his new favourite word. He’s tapping something, because a rhythmic thumping fills the empty spaces of the car’s interior. “Nothing happened. No one touched me. I started to feel dizzy a few minutes after finishing my drink even though I was only drinking soda and went outside. I didn’t talk to anyone and I called you to come and get me.”
Jason breathes out shakily, light-headed with relief, and risks a glance at Tim, who seems to be doing his best to melt into the upholstery.
He is so immeasurably glad that Tim was smart enough to realise something was wrong, and actually called someone trustworthy to come and help him, but even knowing he’s safe now doesn’t stop the sickly fear and horror that’s swirling through his stomach. Because what If Jason had ignored his call? if Tim had been a little less aware? What if someone had found him drugged at a party and he’d had no weapons to fight back?
Anything could’ve happened to him tonight, and the knowledge that Jason probably wouldn’t even know if something did, if he wasn’t here right now, is enough to bring his worried anger back full force.
“You’re okay, though?” Jason asks around his leaden tongue.
“I’m okay.” Tim confirms, and he sounds resigned enough that there’s no way he isn’t expecting what’s coming next.
“Then will you please explain to me,” Jason says, fury leaking into his words, and Tim closes his eyes and winces, not looking at all surprised. “Why the fuck you were at that fucking party in the first place? ”
There is silence for a moment, broken only by the low hum of the engine as the car glides over the asphalt, before Tim breaks it, breathing carefully even in a way that makes Jason feel like the world's biggest asshole even before the younger boy speaks.
“It’s my birthday.” Jason sucks in a sharp breath and turns to stare at his friend, then quickly turns back to the road before he hits a stray cat and Tim attempts to kill him. “My parents aren’t home. I just… I didn’t want to be alone. My friend Darcy told me about the party and I thought…”
Jason takes a very familiar moment to curse out Tim’s parent’s thoroughly inside his head, and then forces himself to focus.
“Why didn’t you go to Selina?”
“She’s not my mother, Jason.” Tim says tiredly, and he sounds so fragile that Jason can’t bring himself to give his token protest. “She doesn’t need to be around for my birthdays. I didn’t want to bother her. Or anyone, really, but I guess that failed when I called you.” He gives a little laugh, and Jason feels a small flicker of joy that Tim can still be a little bitch, even when drugged and upset.
“How do you feel about Batburger?” Jason questions after a moment, because fuck, Dick did this for him on is birthday, and Tim’s so far has been so fucking sad that it’s really necessary.
“What?” Tim startles into a laugh, turning to blink at him like a slightly creepy owl. “I mean, it’s fine, but why?”
“It’s your birthday.” Jason tells him, determinedly setting a mental course for the nearest vigilante-themed restaurant. “You’re what, eight now? That’s a big age, you gotta get the birthday milkshake.”
“I’m twelve, asshole!” Tim protests, but he’s grinning, so Jason takes the win and focuses on the road instead of the sleeplessness-induced shadows creeping into his vision. “Can I get the Joker Fries, too?”
“Uh, no. I’ll be getting the Joker Fries, and you’ll be getting your milkshake and nothing else.”
Tim reaches out with an unsteady hand and pinches the outside of Jason’s wrist sharply.
“I’ll crash this car, Timbit, don’t think I won’t!”
Tim laughs all the way to the shitty fast-food chain.
(They end up sharing the Joker Fries, and Jason pretends not to see Tim wiping away his tears when Jason tells him that this is a brotherly tradition.
Tim fake gags and moans about how Jason is a terrible brother, and Jason smiles from behind his menu and vows to never tell Bruce how he uncovered Stray’s secret identity. Not that Batman would actually be finding out about it, any time soon.)