Chapter Text
Jason is torn from sleep by a loud clatter.
He’s moving before he even really registers that he’s awake, his body curled defensively, trying to protect his soft bits. His heart thumps hard in his chest—he swears he can feel it in his throat. Distantly, he hears muffled swearing. The voice is familiar. Alpha, he thinks, and his shoulders loosen. He breathes in, slow and deep. Underneath the sour notes of panic, he catches a whiff of Tim’s scent, mingled with his.
He’s in his den. It’s dark, only a thin sliver of light creeping in through the cracked door. Jason pats Tim’s side of the nest. Cold. He must have just gotten home, then.
Normally, Jason would lie down and wait for Tim to come to bed, but… he has that same feeling he had after Tim’s nightmare, a week ago. There’s something wrong. He brushes against their bond, looking for an explanation but Tim has it locked tight, the same way he always does when he’s out for the night. He frowns.
Jason gets up. The hall light blinds him a little—he blinks through it as he pads down the hall, scratching his stomach. The bathroom door is cracked. He can hear the faucet running. There’s a metallic scent in the air; Jason’s hackles raise. He pushes the door open.
“Tim? Is everything—”
Jason freezes.
Tim is leaning against the bathroom counter, wearing only a pair of tight black pants. (Those aren’t the pants he went out in, are they? Jason thinks he would remember them, if they were—) There's a pile of fabric behind him, on the floor near the tub. Jason barely sees it. (Just a mound of red and black—too much red to be from blood, he thinks? Unless the blood wasn’t Tim’s.) His vision has narrowed entirely to the needle in Tim's hand, the way it moves through his flesh, a piece of thread following. There’s a gash on his side; flecks of blood still staining his skin. The scent of disinfectant is strong—but Jason can still smell copper, and pain.
A long, high-pitched whine fills the room. Distantly, Jason realizes it’s coming from him.
Tim moves quickly. He snips the thread with a pair of scissors, and then hops off the counter. The needle he drops next to the scissors, to rest on a blood soaked towel.
“Jason.” Tim’s voice is soft. Soothing. With effort, Jason drags his gaze away from the needle to look Tim in the face.
Tim is paler than usual. The dark circles under his eyes look like bruises. An actual bruise is forming high on his cheek, and there’s a cut at the corner of his mouth.
Still—the expression on his face is… soft. Pained, too; his eyes are creased, his mouth tight. He holds his arm out, angling his body so his uninjured side is facing Jason.
“Everything’s okay, puppy,” he murmurs. “C’mere.”
Jason knows he shouldn’t—but he finds himself moving forward anyway, all but crashing into his side and burying his face in Tim’s shoulder. He wraps his hands low around Tim’s waist, keeping them loose despite the way he wants to squeeze.
He knows he's being ridiculous. He's not the one who's hurt. But—
"Shh, I'm alright, sweetheart," Tim rumbles, low and soothing. "It's just a scratch. It'll be healed up before you know it."
Jason sniffs. "'Just scratches' don't need stitches," he points out, the words muffled against Tim's skin.
Tim huffs a laugh. "No, I guess not.” He rubs his cheek over Jason’s head; scenting him, covering some of his distress-scent with protective-alpha.
Jason can't help the little purr in the back of his throat. "Why didn't you go to Leslie?" He tips his head back to look at Tim again. The sight of his face, the exhaustion—
The purr rumbles a little louder, a little deeper.
The expression that flits over Tim’s face is gone too quickly for Jason to identify it. His frown deepens. He goes to step away—but Tim’s arm tightens around him.
Jason’s eyes widen, breath catching.
Tim immediately lets him go, stepping away when Jason remains frozen in place. He doesn’t go far; just puts a few inches of space between them. Jason doesn’t miss the way he shifts, either; blocking the pile “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I… I promise I’ll explain. Just… after we sleep?”
There’s something almost pleading in his eyes, and— Damn him. Despite all of his earlier resolve… Jason is weak.
“Okay,” he says. His gaze flickers back down to Tim’s wound. “Do, um. Does it need bandages?”
“Yeah,” Tim says.
Jason grabs a roll of bandages.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know. I want to.” He means it. No matter what else Tim is, he’s still Jason’s alpha. Maybe he’ll be unhappy about that tomorrow. Maybe his whole life will be upended again, and he’ll have to figure out how to pick up the pieces. But that’s tomorrow. Right now, Tim is his alpha, and Jason wants to take care of him.
He wraps Tim's wound and then washes his hands in the sink. There are already smears of blood in it, on the counter, and there's a blood stained towel, too. Jason has never been squeamish, but the sight of all of it makes him a little sick.
It's the nerves, he thinks.
When he's done, Tim gently nudges him out. "I'll clean up," he says. Jason opens his mouth to protest, insist that he doesn't mind, he can do it, but before he can, Tim says, "Can you get me some pajamas?" He pauses. "And some water?"
Jason knows Tim is deliberately sending him away, and he frowns a little to make it clear what he thinks about it. Still, he can't help but saying— "You should have Gatorade instead. And you need to eat, too." Jason doesn't know how much blood he lost, either in the bathroom or on his way home in the first place, but with how pale he is…
It wouldn't hurt to get some food and electrolytes in him.
Tim smiles at him, soft and affectionate, like Jason's said something sweet and romantic instead of reminding him how to take care of himself. "You're probably right."
Jason huffs. “Of course I am.” He turns and heads back to their den. He means to just grab the first set of pajamas he sees, but instead, he finds himself digging until he finds a pair of pants and a shirt that are suitably soft.
He drops them off at the bathroom before going to the kitchen.
Then he stands in front of the fridge and frowns. He knows you're supposed to eat after you lose blood—but what? Hm… Tim is tired, so it should be something quick. Fruit is probably a safe bet, right? With the vitamins and sugars? And then… maybe… maybe a sandwich to go with it? Protein is good.
Yeah. Okay.
It doesn’t take long to make the sandwich or break off a sprig of grapes. It doesn’t take long for Tim to finish up in the bathroom, either—or, at least. It probably doesn’t. To Jason, it seems to take forever.
When he pads into the kitchen, there’s a duffle bag slung over his shoulder—black, not too big, but certainly larger and bulkier than Tim should be carrying right now. He leaves it near the front door before approaching Jason.
It shouldn’t make Jason’s stomach flutter to see Tim in the clothes Jason had picked out. They’re Tim’s clothes—he bought them long before he ever took Jason in.
But…
Instincts are weird.
When Tim gets close enough, Jason thrusts the plate and the Gatorade at him. The Gatorade bottle is still dripping with condensation.
Tim takes both, and leans in, pressing a kiss to Jason's cheek. Jason turns into it, sighing softly.
"You scared me," he whispers.
"I know," Tim whispers back. "I'm sorry."
"You better explain," Jason says, fiercely. "Or so help me, I'll— I'll take all the tires off your car." It's a stupid threat, but god help him, now that he's said it, Jason will. The tires on his car would be way easier to get off than the Bat’s.
Tim laughs, deep and full-bodied—and then winces, hand automatically going to his side. “I will. I promise.”
"Good."
Jason doesn't sleep well.
He doesn’t spend the night tossing and turning, but his dreams are vague and unpleasant. Not quite nightmares, but still enough to leave him unsettled when he wakes up. Nights with Tim have spoiled him. He’s not used to waking up like this anymore—groggy, his eyelids heavy and his face warm and puffy, his mouth dry and tacky.
He lifts his head slightly, squinting at the clock. It’s a couple hours earlier than normal, which means it will be even longer until Tim gets up. Jason lets his head flop back down, burying his face in the pillow. Maybe he should just go back to sleep for a couple more hours.
…
Ugh.
No.
He needs to move.
He’s careful not to wake Tim as he slips out of his arms. It’s an easier task than usual. There’s a little more color in Tim’s face, but he’s still overly pale; dark circles standing stark against his skin.
Jason can’t quite resist the urge to scent him—carefully running his wrist over Tim’s cheek.
Tim sighs softly, turning toward Jason’s hand. Jason lingers there a moment longer, just watching the rise and fall of Tim’s chest. Then, finally, he leaves.
Jason has something small for breakfast before curling up on the couch with one of his books. For once, though, the words on the page fail to capture him. He gives up after he realizes he’s read the same paragraph five times, yet retained none of it.
It doesn't help that the duffle bag is still sitting by the front door, taunting him.
The urge to open it is strong. It would be so easy, and then—
And then Jason would finally know.
Or—well.
Okay, maybe it’s a little unreasonable of him to assume that all of the answers are hidden inside that one little bag, but… There’s got to be some kind of clue, right? A gang sign, maybe, or—
…ugh.
Jason huffs, throwing his head back so it hits against the arm of the couch with a soft ‘thud.’ Just a little bit longer, he reminds himself. He looks back down at his book, but for once… The last thing he wants to do is keep reading.
He marks his place before tossing the book (gently—it’s not the book’s fault he’s frustrated) onto the coffee table. He’s tired of sitting. Outside of a few walks with Tim and the trips to the store, Jason has spent more time being idle recently than he has in a long time. It was nice, kind of, to relax for a while, but right now…
Right now he needs to be doing something.
Jason spends the next couple of hours finding things to occupy himself with. He sweeps, mops, and even dusts. At one point, he seriously considers reorganizing the kitchen cabinets—at least, until he looks at the time. Tim will be getting up soon.
He’ll need breakfast. Hm… eggs and bacon, for protein. Toast for carbs. Maybe he could scramble the eggs with vegetables—or, oh, he could make an omelet. Hm… No, he’s not entirely confident in his ability to flip an omelet. Better to stick to scrambled eggs.
By the time the coffee maker turns on, Jason has a decent spread. He burnt a couple pieces of bacon but most of them turned out fine, if a bit on the crispy side. The eggs and vegetables look good, though—and the toast didn’t take anything at all.
Considering how long it’s been since he’s cooked anything, Jason doesn’t think it’s bad at all.
The coffee maker hums to life, the water starting to pour. Jason makes two plates and sets them on the kitchen island before he turns to pour Tim’s coffee. By then Tim is coming into the kitchen, and just like the other day, he meets Tim with it—pressing the mug into his hand, not letting go until he’s sure Tim has a hold on it.
This time, there’s less wonder on Tim’s face—but that only makes room for more affection. He presses a lingering kiss to Jason’s cheek, before taking a long drink of his coffee despite the temperature.
“S’that bacon?” His voice is still sleep-thick, the words nearly slurring together.
“Yeah,” Jason says, showing him over to his plate.
“Looks good, Jay.” Tim gives him another kiss before sitting down to eat.
Now that Tim is up, it's like all of the energy Jason had burned before has returned twofold. He doesn't know how he makes it through breakfast. It doesn’t help that Tim is silent beside him. Tim eventually gets up for his second cup of coffee. A pit of concern grows in Jason’s stomach when he realizes it’s as black as the first. Tim barely finishes pouring it before he’s rinsing out the carafe and making himself a second pot.
Jason’s never seen him do that before.
He busies himself with the dishes while Tim waits for it to brew. He wants so badly to bring up last night—but he waits until the dishes are done and Tim has doctored his third cup of coffee… this one he makes in a travel cup.
As the last of the dishwater drains down the sink he says, “So… about last night.” He’s not looking directly at Tim, but he still sees the way Tim stiffens.
The knot of anxiety in Jason’s stomach tightens.
"Yeah," Tim says. "Yeah, I— I guess I have some explaining to do, huh."
It's on the tip of Jason's tongue to say—You don't have to, I can wait. But he swallows the words back, because he can't wait, and—as much as Jason might like to say differently—Tim does have to tell him. At least, if he wants this to work. And if not now, today, then when? So instead he says—"Yeah. You do." He pauses. "Um. Is— Is your side okay?"
Tim hums. "It's been better," he says. And then, after a quick, almost evaluating glance at Jason, he adds, "It's also been worse. I'll take some Tylenol, and then— Well. It would be easier, I think if I showed you."
Ominous.
But… Jason trusts Tim, so he nods. "I'll get dressed, then," he says. He's still in his pajamas—one of Tim's t-shirts over his underwear.
Tim gives him a little smile. "We're not leaving the building," he says. "So you can just throw on pants, if you want."
Jason furrows his brow, but he nods and heads down the hall. He puts on jeans, which he doubts is what Tim had in mind when he suggested just pants. He does leave Tim’s shirt on, though. It's stupid, but— Wearing something with his alpha’s smell on it is comforting. Makes him feel a little more prepared for what's to come.
He meets Tim at the door. Tim already has his boots on. Jason frowns.
“You could’ve ripped your stitches,” he points out, somewhat curtly.
Tim’s brows raise a little, and for a moment, Jason expects him to get irritated. Per usual, Tim does the opposite of that, his face softening as a small smile plays on his mouth. He reaches for Jason, and Jason goes, allowing Tim to pull him close and kiss his forehead.
“I’ve had worse,” Tim murmurs.
“That’s not comforting,” Jason huffs, even as he nuzzles Tim’s jaw.
Tim laughs, breathy and soft. “No, I guess it isn’t. I’m alright, puppy. I promise.”
Jason huffs again. He lingers in Tim’s space for a second longer, and then pulls away so he can put his own boots on. Once he’s upright again, Tim goes to heft the bag—only to stop when Jason glares at him. He puts his hands up in amused defeat, letting Jason grab it instead. It’s heavier than he expected, but, luckily for Jason, designed to be carried. He adjusts the straps on his shoulder, wrapping his arm around the canvas as he balances some of the bulk on his hip.
Tim gives him a moment to adjust to the weight, and then opens the door.
Jason is slightly out of breath by the time they make it to the ground floor.
“I can take that, if you want,” Tim offers, but Jason shakes his head.
“I’ve got it.”
Tim hums softly. “Alright,” he says. They still take a short break for Jason to catch his breath—and then, true to his word, Tim takes them not to the building exit but to the basement entrance instead.
Jason’s heart races, but he only hesitates for a moment before following Tim down the stairs. There’s nothing special about it at Jason’s initial glance. He can’t decide if that makes him feel better or worse.
Tim beelines for one of the supply closets, where he reveals a keypad hidden under a secret panel in the door. He types in the code too quickly for Jason to catch the numbers. There’s a quiet ‘click’ and then Tim pulls the door open to reveal a second stairwell.
It’s illuminated dimly. Jason can’t see what waits for them at the bottom—only shadow.
Tim moves his arm in a sweeping gesture. “Omegas first.”
The line is cheeky, teasing, clearly meant for Jason to make a face at. He doesn’t. Blood roars in his ears. He tightens his grip on the bag, readjusting it on his hip, gaze flickering to Tim’s hand on the door. His heart pounds against his breast bone.
It’s so, so easy to picture that door slamming shut behind him—trapping him in the stairwell. But— Tim— He’s never— He wouldn’t— Jason can trust Tim. He can. Can’t he?
"Hey." Tim's voice, so gentle and so soft, yanks Jason out of his spiral. Jason blinks, quickly, eyes flickering to Tim's face again, the concern and care in his eyes. He feels the bond in his chest. It's so— It's warm.
He clings to it. Feels it pulse, feels more of that feeling wrap around him. Tim's concern, protectiveness, affection.
“What do you need, Jay?”
Jason bites his lip. "I—can… Will you go in first?" His voice is whispery thin.
For a moment, Tim’s brows furrow—but then his expression clears; replaced with something like regret. “Yeah. Of course I can.” He smiles reassuringly before letting go of the door and taking several steps down.
Jason’s shoulders loosen. He edges his way in. The strap is starting to dig painfully into his shoulder, but that doesn’t make him speed up any.
Tim doesn’t rush him. Jason doesn’t even feel any impatience creeping in through the bond. Just that same protect-concern-care from before.
It's a secret door, so— Tim probably wouldn't want him leaving it open, or even just cracking it like he usually does, but… Tim being in here makes him feel better. A little. So once he's inside, he turns and grabs the handle.
Then, with a brief glance at Tim, he pulls it shut.
He flinches, slightly, when he hears the locks re-engage. His scent spikes; burning his nostril with distress-panic-omega. The bond surges, and Jason clings to it even tighter.
“Jay.” Tim’s voice is low, rolling; all concerned alpha.
I’m fine, Jason opens his mouth to say—but he whimper-whines instead. Shame fills him. He squeezes his eyes shut. He’s so fucking weak.
“Is it okay if I touch you, puppy?” Tim asks. Jason doesn’t trust himself to try speaking again, so he just nods.
Tim hugs him from behind—warm and solid. His scent fills the air, covering Jason’s distress with safe-loved-protected. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, lips brushing Jason’s temple. “We can go back upstairs if you want, puppy. I’ll figure out a different way to tell you.”
Jason shakes his head. "No, no, I—" He grips one of Tim's arms, tight enough he's sure he's leaving bruises. "I can, I can do this. I just…” He just needs a minute, that’s all.
Tim rumbles. “Take your time, Jay.”
It shouldn't be any different from when Tim locks the front door. It shouldn't. He doesn't— He doesn't know why his brain has decided that it is. It's stupid. He's stupid.
Jason shudders, squeezing his eyes shut.
Tim's rumble gets even louder. His hand wraps around Jason’s—the one still holding the strap—and gently uncurls his fingers. He guides the bag down until it falls to the floor with a thud. Then he turns him, so Jason can burrow into him. Tim rubs up and down Jason's back. At one point, his hand climbs a little higher, towards his neck—but the moment Jason tenses, it falls again, and then never climbs higher than his shoulder blades.
After a while, Jason pulls back slightly, still staying in the circle of Tim's arms. "Sorry,"" he whispers. "I don't…"
Tim raises his hand slowly, giving Jason plenty of time to pull away before he cups his cheek. Jason doesn't—he leans into Tim’s touch, turning his nose toward the alpha's wrist. "Don't apologize. This is— I could have handled this better." His mouth twitches, but he can't quite hold the smile. "All this time to plan…" He shakes his head.
Jason grips his wrist. "It's not— You didn't—" He lets out a frustrated breath. "I know… I know I'm safe with you. I don't— I don't know why…"
Tim rumbles again, tipping Jason's face up so he can nuzzle him. "Sometimes our instincts take longer to catch up with our circumstances," he says gently. “There are things I avoid when I can help it—like going out in the rain. Most days I’m fine, or at least okay, but on bad days— It’s like I can’t breathe.”
It was raining when he had his nightmare, Jason remembers.
“It used to be worse, but… Time helps. Time and support. It’ll help you too.” His thumb sweeps over Jason’s cheek. “And I’ll be right here with you, as long as you want me to be.”
Jason’s throat is tight. “Thanks,” he whispers thickly, turning his head so he can kiss Tim’s wrist.
Tim pulls him in a little closer, planting a brief, chaste kiss on his mouth. “Are you okay to keep going?”
Jason takes a slow, deep breath and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
This time when Tim reaches for the bag, Jason doesn’t argue. He follows Tim down the stairs. As they get closer to the bottom, he can hear a low, humming sound—like fans spinning. Underneath that is the buzz and whir of electricity.
Tim reaches the last step first, of course. He opens the door and reaches around to flick on a brighter light. Then, he glances at Jason one last time, his expression unreadable, before stepping inside.
Jason hesitates for half a second, and then he follows, stepping into the second basement.
Then he stills.
It's nothing like what he expected. To be fair—he doesn't really know what he was expecting, only that this is so far from it that it sends him reeling. He steps further in. In one corner, there’s a corner desk sitting below a wall of monitors. Their screens are black. There are a few other machines on the desk. Jason thinks one of them might be a printer, but the others he has no name for.
Next to the desk is a large board. From the entry, all Jason can really see are pieces of paper connected by bits of multicolored string. Curiosity compels him closer. There’s a map of Gotham in the center, with pins in various locations. The pins have thread that link them to other things—newspaper articles, index cards, sticky notes, photographs, print outs with graphs and readings Jason doesn’t understand. The only thing really legible to him are the newspaper articles; even the handwritten notes make no sense, even when he can make out the words scrawled across them.
Thump.
The sound makes Jason jump, pivoting to find Tim standing by another desk. This one is bare of computers—though nearby are other bits of machinery he doesn’t recognize—but covered in tools and a partially dismantled—
Grapple gun?
Tim opens the bag, the sound of the zipper seeming to echo in his ears, reaching inside. Jason's heart beats faster. He can feel it in his throat, the tips of his fingers tingling. Tim pulls out—
Clothes.
A black and red tunic with a hood draped over the back. And on the front—
Revenant's symbol. A scythe forming the line and upper curve of an R, before the letter is finished by dripping red lines. Jason's feet carry him toward it almost without his own permission. He reaches out to touch thoughtlessly. Tim doesn't stop him. He holds it up, holds it still as Jason traces the symbol with his fingers.
The tunic is more solid than he expected; more like armor than cloth.
That… that makes sense, he thinks. Of course it would be armor. It would have to be.
Jason swallows. Wets his lips. "You're— You're Revenant," he says quietly, eyes flickering back up to Tim's face.
His expression— Jason can tell he's trying for placid. Blank. Unreadable. But he can see the tightness in Tim's mouth, his eyes. Can read the wariness in his body.
"Yes," he says, quiet and solemn.
Jason nods, once, and steps around the chair so he's standing in Tim's space. Tim lowers his arms, letting the tunic fall back atop the bag, turning so he's facing him.
He's spent so long trying not to speculate on what kind of criminal Tim must be… it never once crossed his mind that, perhaps, Tim wasn't a criminal at all. Legally, maybe, but— Revenant spends his nights protecting people. Stopping the people that no one else can, or will.
Like—
Like the traffickers who abducted Jason.
"That's— This is why you were at the meeting that night, isn't it?" he whispers.
Tim nods. “I had been tracking them almost since they set up in Gotham,” he says. “They knew it, and reached out for a meeting. I accepted, sending a ‘representative’ for them to deal with. They were— They wanted to use you to buy me off.” The disgust in his scent, in the shape of his mouth tells Jason exactly what Tim thinks of that idea.
“I’m sorry.”
Tim blinks at him; tilting his head. “For what?”
“I— I thought…” That you were a mobster. Part of a gang. Hurting people instead of saving them.
“It’s okay. After the way we met… who can blame you, sweetheart?”
Jason. Jason can blame himself. Tim saved him. Protected him. Kept him warm and safe and fed—helped him prep for school—took him to the doctor. A real, legitimate doctor who would have absolutely reported him to the authorities if she suspected anything was wrong.
And Jason—
Tim rumbles. “It’s okay,” he repeats, taking Jason’s hand in his and squeezing it. “This city is crawling with vigilantes, but it’s still a hell of a lot more common to run into a gangster or a drug dealer than it is one of us. You took the information you had and connected it to the most logical source. I should have told you… honestly, probably the day after your heat finished. I’d mated you. You deserved to know then.
“I just… I didn’t want to overwhelm you. And then… I just kept putting it off. I told myself I was waiting for the right moment, the right time, but of course, it never came. It’s not your fault for making assumptions, no matter how the saying goes.”
Jason snorts. “I— I just— You were good to me,” he says, uselessly. He knows the argument is flawed from the start. Being good to one person is not indicative of being a good person. He sighs and shakes his head. “But I know that doesn’t— That doesn’t mean anything.”
Tim squeezes his hand again. “No. It doesn’t.”
Jason dares to look up at him again, and finds Tim looking at him with nothing but kindness and warmth and affection. He blinks quickly in the face of it—Tim pulls him closer, letting go of his hand to wrap an arm around his shoulders. He kisses Jason’s forehead. “Let’s sit down,” he suggests, grabbing the chair behind the workbench and wheeling it over toward the desk. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”