Chapter Text
Tim has…been putting this off. Partially because there simply hasn't been time, with the little gap between missions not enough for him to do this, but mostly because–well.
He…doesn't like this. Doesn't like the realization he's come to, or the conclusions he's drawn from it. It means he's been complacent, it means he's failed in the one thing that matters most:
Being a brother. Being supportive. Being family.
Dick would tell him it was okay, that it isn't his fault, that he understands why Tim is the way he is.
Tim...Tim can't accept that, not like he did before. He allowed himself to be comforted, for platitudes to land, for Dick to accept his mistakes and never ask him for better. For years, he's been…helpless.
He doesn't want that anymore. He wants to be stronger, be braver, be better, so that he doesn't make Dick break his promise about protecting him. And Dick won't tell him what he needs to do; all he'll do is say that Tim is enough.
That's the problem, though. Tim isn't. And he needs to stop pretending like he is.
With a bracing breath, Tim steels himself and walks into the training room.
In any given moment, so long as they aren't on a mission or sleeping, there's a good chance someone will be in here. Tim, generally, is the least likely to be present, because his skills are focused away from combat. Dick is next–he is a fighter, but one who sticks with quick situations: assassination, distraction, or enough to hold his own so he can get out. He's not bad, and he wins at least half of his spars, but it's always with rapid strikes and a lot of evading.
Demon, though, spends a significant amount of time in there. Mostly to be alone, Tim thinks, because he's too young to build up muscle mass and he's not allowed bladed weapons when there aren't handlers supervising. Occasionally Tim will join him, when the world gets overwhelming and he needs somewhere quiet, because otherwise he'll sink into Ghost and sometimes he just wants to stay Tim. Demon mostly ignores him, letting Tim sit in the corner and watch Demon stretch or go through katas. It's nice, being able to simply exist around someone else without having to be.
The one who trains the most, though, is Jay, and it’s him Tim needs to see.
The Hooded Jay is…honestly, impressive to see. Even before he fights, there's a sort of awareness to him that lingers in his presence. Not grace–that's Dick, with his lightness on his feet and ability to change his body language on a whim. But fluidity, maybe. The absolute knowledge of himself, where he is, what he's capable of.
When he moves, though, that's when Jay's self description of “trained muscle” is clear to see. He's obviously spent a lot of time building up said muscle, and watching him fight feels like Tim’s brain is glitching out, because someone that bulky shouldn't look so smooth.
He is, though. Every punch is calculated, every shift of weight considered, every attack or retreat balanced. Jay isn't just taught to hit hard, he's taught to be efficient. To hoard his energy and use it carefully, measuring out each action.
It means Jay has a lot of stamina, and as such will often be in the training room for hours at a time, sometimes multiple times a day. He'll drag in any of them to spar if they aren't quick enough, too.
Depending on Jay's mood, Tim might have to spar with him before he's allowed to talk. The thought makes him grimace. Jay hits hard, and Tim really wants to allocate his energy into talking instead of fighting for his life.
Thankfully, Jay is stagnant when Tim enters the room, holding himself in a straight plank for obvious muscle conditioning. His dedication to his training is as impressive as it is…well. Tim’s just glad he’s specialized in other areas, because while he would do similar to Jay if ordered, truly he doesn’t want to. It seems like a lot of work for results he doesn’t care about. Give Tim a piece of technology to fiddle with any day.
Blinking hard to bring his wandering thoughts back on task, Tim approaches Jay and settles down cross legged on the mat in front of him. The other Weapon looks up as Tim’s shadow falls over him, a light sheen of sweat over his face.
“Hey Ghost,” Jay greets, “what’s up?”
Tim hesitates. Normally he has no issue with being referred to as Ghost–it’s just another name for himself, technically. Ghost is more of a mask, though. It’s a name with meaning. It means he’s not thinking, that his mind is far away to protect himself. Yes, he’s wearing the mask more often than not in Reach, but this time he feels like he needs to distinguish himself. To emphasize, more to himself than to Jay, that he’s fully aware and present for this conversation, because this is important.
So, as awkward as it makes him feel, he says, “Tim.”
Jay, at least, accepts the correction in the insouciant manner he tends to whenever one of them acts a little odd. Demon had asked Jay, not long after the first incident where Dick went into his head, how Jay was so comfortable accommodating Dick in his state. It was, after all, a week into them all knowing each other.
Though Tim still doesn’t fully understand the words Jay used (“fuck it, we ball”?), he gathered that Jay simply doesn’t care if any of them deviate from normal behavior so long as he doesn’t see it as a threat.
Considering Jay hardly views handlers as a threat, it means he is remarkably cavalier about all of their…quirks.
“Okay,” Jay says without pause. “Fully here, huh?”
Tim folds his hands into his lap. “Yeah. No handlers around.”
There’s a sense of almost-freedom that sparks as he speaks. They’re scheduled to be left alone until lights out, which is hours away, and most of all–
Most of all, Tim feels safe around Demon and Jay. He doesn’t need to hide from them; they won’t hurt Tim. They’d defend Tim, probably, if push came to shove. Even Demon, despite their youngest’s inimical, intractable nature.
Somehow, someway, the four of them have become a team. Perhaps even friends.
“So.” Tim startles lightly; he had forgotten to speak, hadn’t he? “What’s up?” Jay asks, repeating his previous words.
“I need to talk to you,” Tim says. He can’t run away now, can’t put it off anymore. He’s been thinking about it for days, what he’d do, the words he’d say. For some reason, though, now that he’s here they all slip out of his reach.
Jay raises an eyebrow, an expression that looks a bit ridiculous considering how he’s still holding his plank. “O…kay? Should I be concerned?”
“No,” Tim answers immediately, because the only concerning thing here is Tim’s own inadequacy. “It’s not anything life threatening, just. Dick has–he’s accepted you as a brother.”
Jay blinks, obviously caught off-guard. “Yeah, he has. It’s a bit startling, honestly. I didn’t realize he was one to do that.”
Tim just nods, thinking about how rapidly Dick took Tim under his wing. “He’s always been quick.”
The feel of Jay’s eyes on him is distinct enough that Tim knows he could recognize it even in a crowd. Jay observes almost as much as Tim does, though he seems to be able to look underneath the surface of people in a way Tim hasn’t managed to get.
Fabric shifts; Tim focuses back onto his surroundings to see Jay pushing himself out of the plank and into a cross-legged sit, scrutinizing Tim. “...Do you want me to not accept the brother thing?” he asks, his fingers tapping at the empty holster at his side.
“No.” Dick would be crushed, and Jay doesn’t seem like he minds being treated in this way, so like hell Tim would tell him to stop. “That’s not what I’m here for. I, um.” He trails off a bit. “I need advice.”
Well, Tim can now say he’s confused Jay enough to make him look flummoxed. “Advice?” Jay asks, in the same tone he’d say ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ but, nicer.
“Yeah,” Tim says, nodding a bit. “On…how to…” his voice grows quieter; he can’t keep the nerves and embarrassment and shame out of it. “Be better.”
Jay blinks again, in that way that somehow highlights the expression as something more than an unconscious motion. He does not look any more understanding of what Tim is asking. “A–better what? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure we specialize in different things, Tim.”
Well, Jay doesn’t specialize in social relationships–that’d be Dick–, but he’s still doing a better job at it than Tim is.
“I mean, you saw–” Tim feels like there’s a band around his neck, warning him to keep silent. Just like Dick, except this collar is a phantom concocted from his own mind. “You were there. When–when Dick had his whole thing, with his hands. And you saw how I freaked out.” So uncontrolled that Jay found it prudent to physically break Tim out of his mindset, remove him from the situation, carry him away.
“Yeah.” Jay shrugs one shoulder. Tim does his best to focus on the here and now instead of wallowing in his numerous mistakes. “I didn’t hear most of it, and I don’t really know the details.”
The next breath Tim takes sticks in his throat. Shame feels like barbed wire coiled around his vocal cords, each word sending a wash of blood over his tongue.
“I,” he says softly, “was accusatory instead of supportive, or helpful, or anything I…was supposed to be.” The bare minimum, and Tim didn’t miss that bar as much as dug under it. “I yelled at him for hiding side effects of the shock collar from me–from us.”
The taste of iron lingers in his mouth. Maybe if he sheds enough blood, it’ll make up for his sins.
Jay shifts, fingers tapping lightly at his thighs. It’s an idle movement of his, one he makes when he’s thinking or bored. Tim is unsure if Jay is aware of it. “That’s pretty shitty, kid.”
“Yes.” It is. It is, and Tim will live with this guilt for the rest of his life. “...I know. But y–” His throat closes; Tim clears it and tries again. “After, when you came by and helped, you seemed to know exactly what to say to help him. And I…I’m supposed to be his brother. I’m supposed to be the first, I was–” special? Different?
“I’m not trying to take your place, Tim,” Jay says evenly with a slight tilt of his head, the one he makes when he says reassurances.
That’s the worst part, though, because. “I know you aren’t trying, um…you kind of are, though?” He’d be jealous if he didn’t know he did this to himself. “Uh, and it’s not your fault, it’s mine. I have not been. Kind. To Dick.” Tim will not cry. “Or considerate, or anything that I should have been. Assistive.”
Pathetic. That’s what Tim is. Selfish and self-centered and hypocritical and–
“And you’re so… good at it,” Tim finishes weakly.
Maybe he was wrong to confront Dick, to insist on his brother turning to him in times of weakness. It isn’t like Tim is helping.
He’s never been skilled at being a person, at being real, and that’s what Dick needs. Not a shell of a brother that’s barely present on the best of days. Not Ghost.
But Tim is so bad at being Tim.
“I,” Jason says, startling Tim out of his thoughts (he needs to stop losing track of his surroundings, it’s a flaw–), “have no fucking clue what I’m doing, kid. I’m literally just playing it by ear. Trying to treat him…as a person.”
“But you’re doing it better than me.” Tim needs to collect himself, that was on the edge of whining. Like a baby. “And I–so I–I just–” get it together! “want your help.”
Jay’s fingers tap a little quicker. “Okay.”
With a subtle bracing breath, Tim asks, “How do you stay…so in control when things are falling apart?” When Tim is falling apart, or Dick, or anything and everything. Jay always, always steps up, unless it’s his own anger that’s centered in the conflict.
For a moment, exhaustion flickers across the other’s face, deep and consuming and quick enough that Tim wouldn’t have picked it up were he not paying attention. Then it’s gone, leaving behind Jay’s neutral expression. “Here’s the thing, kid. I don’t.”
What? “But you’re always so collected,” Tim blurts out.
“Yeah, that’s called lying,” Jason quips with a smirk before it fades away into something serious. “I pretend like I know what’s going on, and I pretend like I have a solution, and I pretend. Because in a time of crisis, someone has to be calm, and it’s not gonna be Dick.” Tim almost protests–Dick is calm in crisis–before he realizes that Jay is talking about situations involving Dick. Which, Tim should’ve realized that, obviously. “But what he needs the most is for you to be calm, ‘cause he won’t freak out if you’re freaking out. You know him, kid. He’s always gonna try and reassure you.”
Tim knows. It’s been that way for at least three years, since the day they properly met.
Jason sighs lightly. “He won’t focus on himself until he thinks you’re okay first. So if you want him to do that, you have to act like you’re okay. And you’re probably not gonna feel okay, fuck knows I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I don’t know how to be a person–” (yet he’s far more skilled in it than Tim) “–I just pretend. Fake it ‘til you make it.”
Tim turns those words over in his head, similar to his computer processors. Pretend. He can pretend. He wouldn’t say he’s the best in their group at that, but being Ghost is kind of like pretending. Maybe he can be Brave Tim, too. Sometimes.
“And that’ll make me better?” he asks quietly, lacing his fingers together so he doesn’t pull the joints.
Once more, Jay sighs, though this time he looks…sad? Grieved, maybe, and Tim chides himself. Reading expressions is supposed to be something he’s good at. “I wouldn’t say you’re doing bad, Tim. You’re not a bad brother.”
Tim feels something guilty press as a tight knot in his throat. “But I can’t help him,” he whispers, feeling broken in ways that could never be mended.
That makes Jason laugh, just once and a little bitter. “Well, he never wanted you to help him in the first place. That’s his whole thing.”
Thanks, Jay. That makes Tim feel so much better.
Softer, Jason continues. “In a way you kind of did help him though. Because…Dick clings to normalcy to keep himself sane. He pretends, because there’s nothing else he can do. So him parenting you, brothering you, taking care of you, and you allowing him to? In your own way, you were–are–being a good brother. Because you’re giving him a space to be safe enough to act that way.”
Tim never really thought of it that way. Dick would smile, and call him Timmy, and Tim was too happy to be Dick’s brother to really think about what his own participation would do in return. Still–
“It doesn’t feel like enough.” Ragged like there’s a roughness in his throat and prickles in his eyes, but Tim knows neither of those things exist right now.
A touch on his knee makes him twitch, hands going to grab a knife that isn’t there. Tim looks down, at the scarred, calloused hand on his knee, then up the arm to the shoulder and neck and head and face of Jason staring at him with understanding. “It’s never going to feel like enough,” the Weapon–Dick’s brother, and maybe Tim’s–says.
Tim wants to complain, but Jason barrels onwards. “Nothing will ever feel like it’s enough. You just have to make it so. And it means taking what you can get with both hands, and holding onto it as tight as you can.”
Oh, how desperately he wants to. To grip and hold, to be greedy and hoard and keep his brother safe.
Jason squeezes his knee. “So if you wanna be a better brother, then…” Tim lasers in on the movement of Jay’s lips, the serious weight in his eyes, how his brows are scrunched slightly. “What you should probably do is stop.”
What? No, no, Tim can’t–he doesn’t want to–
“And think. Think before you make an assumption.”
Oh. Shame is a virus tearing him apart at the seams. Tim tries not to let it show.
“Think before you say something. And listen to him. Not just the things he says, but the things he doesn’t say. ‘Cause he’ll hide it.” Jason smirks a bit, this one amused. “But he’s not very good at hiding, is he?”
Despite himself, Tim manages a laugh. “No,” he answers softly. “Not from me.”
Jason nods. “Yeah, you know him best. You know, more than anyone else, what he’s like. You have an idea of what he’ll react to, so use that knowledge and think before you say anything.”
Dick likes to compliment Tim on his intelligence, praise him for how smart he is. Tim used to accept this happily and without question, except here Jason is telling him to stop, to think, because Tim hasn’t been.
The fact that Jason is right makes it hurt, but not as much as Tim’s disappointment in himself.
“Just give him a chance,” Jason continues, quiet and certain, “to learn that you’re gonna be there for him. It’s gonna take time, but you gotta give that to him. Along with hugs and shit, because he never flinches away from you, does he?”
Tim shrugs, wondering if he should feel guilty that Jason can’t always hug Dick or proud that Tim himself is special.
“That’s good.” Jason gives Tim’s knee another squeeze before patting it and leaning back. “Make sure you keep an eye on him, y’know? There’s no perfect way to be a brother, Tim.” A smile, humorous and a little self-deprecating. “And for fuck’s sake, the fact that you’re asking me is saying something, ‘cause I don’t know what the hell I’m doing ninety percent of the time.”
That is certainly a lie, isn’t it? Or at least partially. Jason might not know what he’s doing, but he always seems to come to the correct answer anyways. Tim has a lot to learn, both from Jason and Dick and, yes, even Demon (despite how far Demon holds himself apart).
He just hopes that he’ll have the time to learn, and improve, and help before–
Before something changes.
A quiet, amused huff comes from across Tim, bringing his attention back to the present. He’d chide himself for his inattention again, but. Jason was watching his back. It’s okay if Tim zones out a bit to think, just this once. “Probably didn’t help you very much with this, did I?” Jason says, wry.
If only you knew, Tim thinks. If only you were aware of how much you’ve changed everything for the better, just by being here.
None of those thoughts make it past his teeth. Instead, Tim shrugs. “Eh. You’ve helped enough.” It’s a gross understatement, but he can’t find anything else to say that would come close to explaining the sheer significance of everything Jason has done. “Thanks.” Tim manages a smile, a real one. It feels a little shaky and unpracticed, but he’s proud of himself for achieving it.
Jason smiles back, genuine and warm and…and loving. Or caring, at least. He’s looking at Tim like Dick looks at him: as if he’s something precious and full of worth merely in his existence. It makes Tim feel. Small. But not in a bad way. More like he could crawl into Jason’s arms and be hidden from the world and all of its dangers.
It’s…nice.
At least until Jason’s smile turns mischievous. “If you really wanna thank me,” he says, and Tim’s already scrambling to his feet, “have a spar. I’m warmed up and with no one to train with.”
Actually, no! Tim would very much prefer to not do that, thank you very much. “Nope. Bye.”
Tim flees the training room to the sound of Jason’s cackle and mind filled with gifted treasure.
Maybe things can get better, despite everything.