22 From The Prompt List? If You Want To, Of Course.

22 from the prompt list? if you want to, of course.

Thanks for the prompt, anon! <3

22. “They won’t take you away from me ever again.”

Jaytim; established relationship; warning for brief description of eye trauma (not serious)

--

The first thing Jason does is check his pulse.

When he feels fluttering life under his fingertips and marks the shallow rise and fall of his chest, some of the anger collapses into jittery relief.

Some.

Tim's face is bloody and bruised, his cheek swelling purple under his mask. There are electrical burns on his uniform— they must have gotten creative when they couldn't get him fully out of the costume. He's trussed up, his bare hands bound and hanging from a meat hook in the center of the dank, round cell. Seeing it, Jason would like to return to the floor above them and cash in every cent of good will he's earned with the bats.

But the toes of Tim's boots barely brush the floor, and instead of giving in to murderous impulse, the second thing Jason does is hoist an arm around his waist to take the weight off of his shoulders.

When he does, Tim gasps, a wounded sound that nearly sends Jason right over the edge.

"You know," Jason says through gritted teeth as he saws through the ropes, his jovial tone sounding strained even to himself. "This is a pretty needlessly convoluted way to get out of doing dishes. Do we need to rethink the chore wheel?"

The last of the straps around Tim's wrists give way with a snap. Tim's strangled cry is loud in his ear, and Jason grunts as he bears Tim down to the floor.

"Because you can just ask if you want to rethink the chore wheel."

He runs through the checklist— spine: intact; head injury: negative. Unless you count the black eye and the split lip and—

Baby blues peer out at him from narrow slits. His pupils are mismatched; possible concussion but a drug is also likely, and the white of one eye is nearly consumed by bloody red. They're the prettiest thing Jason's seen all night.

"...H'd?"

"Yeah," he says roughly. "I've got you, babybird. I'm here."

"Tal'ns. Mayor's off'ce. Midnight."

God. Even beaten half to death and drugged out of his mind, Tim still has the wherewithal to deliver cryptic warnings. Jason might swoon. And they say romance is dead.

"I hear ya. Don't worry— it's taken care of."

It was the last transmission they received from Red Robin, before he cut out. There had been arguing in his comm for all of five seconds before the roar of Jason's bike drowned it out.

"Mm. 'kay." Tim blinks, and flops a hand to Jason's wrist. Aside from some scratches and chipped nails, his fingers are miraculously intact. He clasps their hands together.

"C'n we go home?"

Jason's chest clenches.

“Yeah. Yeah we can."

He pulls Tim to his feet, then into his arms when he can't stand. He walks them out the way he came.

Ten steps down the corridor, Tim jerks in his hold.

"Talons— the mayor—"

Jason shushes him.

"Hey, hey. You already told me. We've got it."

"But—"

"It's being dealt with. We'll get them. And they won’t take you away from me. Ever again.”

The last part slips out without Jason's permission, tight from his throat. Tim only sighs and turns his face into Jason's neck. Jason takes them home.

It's an empty promise. Not because he won't try to keep it, but because there's no way to guarantee it and they both know it. The Court has its scrawny little claws in every crack and crevice of Gotham, and there's no telling who's behind every mask.

The streets would run red and he'd lose Tim anyway.