[Warning for a very brief mention of suicidal thoughts]

---- From chapter 9 ----

J: Timmy
J: give me his name and I'll give you a corpse

----

Tim privately accused himself of looking at Robin through rose-coloured glasses. It was easier than admitting he was falling for him- for Jason- for real.

He had exhausted himself even more than usual, staying up for a total of 67 hours and consuming every rivals-to-lovers media he could find before passing out at the 67.3 mark and sleeping for a staggering nine hours. When he awoke, there was a moment where bitter anxiety swam in his chest at the unfamiliar surroundings around him, before he remembered he had been avoiding Wayne Manor like a Scientology church and sleeping in the foreign land his bedroom in Drake Manor had become.

He blinked away the blurriness from his eyes and wished he could do the same with his thoughts. His laptop was still whirring away next to him, the cord plugged into it keeping it charging faster than it could die, and his eyes focused on the screen just as the two main protagonists of whatever movie his queue was playing embraced each other, hair and faces wet with fake tv rain.

He looked away from the screen, reaching out a hand to push the lid shut and silence the scene. Unfortunately, that left him staring at his ceiling without even a sappy rom-com soundtrack to distract him.

Jason was violently pretty, a neat selection of things you were forced to look at, lips always wrapped around a cigarette and knuckles painted with dried blood- his own or someone else's- every angle his good side. There was nothing Tim could do but roll over and bury his face in his pillows. Violently pretty.

He pushed his thoughts around for a while, breathing in the smell of laundry detergent and coffee, trying to rationalize his emotions. Rose-coloured glasses wasn't the right analogy, only stood for the way Robin made him bite his lips red.

There's a space in his chest with a gloved fist clenched around it, yearning for something Tim has no words for. He rubs at it, rubs until the skin there is raw, but it doesn't go away.

It's more like a stain glass window, he decides, latching on to the simile so that he has something else to think about. A window with pinks, but also orange-hot lashes of anger, yellowy-greens of sickness. The purples of intelligence, greens of jealousy. But so, so much red- so much hatred it makes his blood jealous.

The worst part, Tim thinks, is that he can't just be in love with Robin. He tried, tried to convince himself the mask makes them different, but once he saw it, he couldn't help but see it in Jason too. Robin was nice and kind and caring. He was strong and brave, but Jason was mean and rough, he pushes and he pushes and he doesn't let Tim get any sleep at night.

At this point, he's pretty sure he's a masochist because he can't decide which he likes more.

Tim could hear his parents getting out of bed down the hall, and he thinks about his mother's stringy golden hair and mean voice, and his father's fat face, heavy like melted clay, and cold eyes. He was dressed and out the window before he could decide otherwise, forgetting his laptop on his bed and without a sweater to protect him from the four AM air.

He only grabbed his backpack because it was already packed and sitting on a chair next to the window, and the lack of light blinding him as he steps out onto the roof proves it's too early for him to head into the city. There's this bizarre sense buzzing in his ears that the city isn't there yet, that it hasn't loaded yet and he's a glitch in the system. The whole world feels dead. The cord keeping it charged knocked kilter.

At this rate, he gives himself twenty minutes before he starts quoting the matrix. How do you define real? If you're talking about what you can feel, what you can smell, taste and see, then "real" is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain.

He heads to Wayne Manor with the lie that no one will be awake yet pushing him forwards. It's only a two-mile walk, but it gives him longer than he'd ever wanted to have to think. By the time he reached the polished iron gates at the end of the driveway, metal bars curling into W and M in the centre, he stood stiff in all the wrong ways, elbows and hips and knees jutting out like he'd forgotten how to hold himself naturally. Like when he finally moved, he might creak. Or break. Crumble away to nothing recognizable.

He could enter any time he wanted. He knew the passcode, all he would have to do is reach over to the number pad under the intercom and type it in. It's not hard.

Instead, he grips the metal bars, the cold metal chilling him all the way to the bone, and hoists himself up. Up and over.

He slices his hand on the sharp top of the gate, and he sucks in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. He doesn't stop to examine the wound until he's found his footing on the other side, and when he does he finds it's just a small cut. Small, but bleeding heavily enough to be an annoyance. Figures.

He takes a few steps, planning to just ignore it, but then he remembers his mother never got around to getting him his last tetanus shot. With reluctance, he crouches down in the middle of the long driveway, balancing on the worn rubber soles of his converses and sliding his backpack off his shoulders.

He knows the only thing in the biggest pocket is his laptop, cushioned by an old hoodie, so he skips right to the second one. He digs around inside for a minute with his not-bleeding hand, and pulls out a roll of gauze, wraps it around his hand until his whole palm is covered with the white bandage thick enough that no blood with seep through. It's overkill for the small cut, but he's too tired to care.

He pulls back the lip of the pocket to put the gauze back, dragging the zippers down further, and his copy of Jekyll and Hyde falls out and grinds against the gravel with a horrible sound.

Jekyll and Hyde. Jason and Robin. His brain makes the connection pretty much immediately, and before he can start debating if Jason was Jekyll or Hyde, he jams his thumb against the fresh cut on his palm. He feels the skin underneath the layers and layers of bandage tear, and he almost loses his balance, but it keeps his thoughts off Jason and that's well worth it to him.

Maybe his last therapist was right when she called him self-destructive. Huh. Oh well, he fired her months ago, so it doesn't really matter now.

He slides the book back into his bag gently, zips it up again, and continues on with what he has left of the uphill hike to Wayne Manor.

The driveway widens and widens at the top of the hill until it's a big circle with a water fountain in the middle. The grass around the edges is kept carefully trimmed, and the gravel is kept crushed flat by the constant coming and going of guests to Bruce's galas, charity events, whatever's.

Tim veers off it at the crescent of the hill, walks diagonally across the grass until he reaches the side of the house. His plan- not that you could really call it that, it was more of a half-formed thought he was only actually thinking as he went- was to laze around on the dock of the lake a few yards behind the manor until the sun rose. That gets scraped, however, when he passed by the library and noticed one of the windows wide open.

The library windows in Wayne Manor were mostly composed of large walls of glass with wide, pillowed trims a person could tuck themselves into to read for a few hours. Most of them were as tall as the room itself, reaching all the way up so that you could look out them from the loft. The kind of windows you'd find in a castle. Stained glass. Bulletproof.

A few of them, though, were smaller versions of that, ones that opened like shutters, or doors, with little hook-and-eye latches that could be opened.

Tim isn't short. Jason says he is, and if he'd have to stand on his tippy toes to kiss- or strangle- the other, so what. Tim doesn't really think it matters. Either way, Jason stops breathing for a little bit. Win-win.

He's just short enough, however, that he can't quite reach the stone ledge of the open window, even when he stretches and stands on the very tips of his toes.

He jumps once, misses, twice, scrapes the side of his hand against the stone, three times before he decides his backpack is weighing him down and takes it off.

He could leave it on the ground, better yet he could just walk around and use the door, but instead, he takes the bag in both hands, says a quick prayer for his laptop, and throws it through the open window. He follows it a minute after, his fingertips red and stinging from the strain of pulling his entire body through the window.

He falls not so gracefully through, knocking over a chair at the head of one of the long, spruce-wood reading tables with a loud bang. Not his best moment, but not his worst either. He'd give it a solid 7/10, will probably do again.

With no sound of approaching footsteps to warn him, he's still lying on the ground, the tassels of the expensive ornate carpet tickling his face when he hears a scoff. It's probably the ugliest carpet he's ever seen, a deep green and pale beige colour- 2/10, will give to Jason for Christmas- but he'd gladly look at it forever as long as it meant he didn't have to look up and accept the fact that Jason was now towering over him. Tim takes a deep breath for the first time since he woke up.

"Unless you're fucking dead, get up and start helping."

He holds out hope that maybe if he plays dead long enough Jason will give up, but his idyllic fantasy where he escapes this situation is stripped away from him when he feels a hand between his shoulder blades, gripping the fabric there.

All the air rushes out of his lungs at once and he makes a sound embarrassingly mouse-like when that grip turns into a pull, and he's dropped unsteadily on his feet before his body even realizes it's moving. His legs give out under him, and it's only the fact that Jason still has a handful of the back of his shirt that he doesn't end up back on the ground.

Tim blinks, hard, sees his backpack on the far end of the table and has time to mentally congratulates himself on his excellent aim and get his feet under him before Jason let's go of his shirt and slaps him on the back hard enough to make his heels lift off the floor.

Lining the table are piles of books five or six high, a very clear path visible where Tim's backpack hit the table and started sliding, the books that were there caved-in and knocked down.

There's a sigh behind him, and Tim turns to look at Jason. There's a fresh bruise on his cheek, and his bottom lip is bleeding. His tongue swipes out over the cut, and Tim leans heavily against the table.

Most strikingly, Jason's eyes are narrowed into a glare, his mouth twisted into a grimace, his heavy hand still open from when he hit Tim. In his other hand, he balances a tall stack of books.

"Are you gonna start fucking helping, or do I have to hit you again?" Jason spits out, and Tim feels little bites of irritation sparking along his skin. Still, he knows which option Jason prefers, and he silently longs for the same, even when Jason goes on, "This shit is your fault anyway."

Tim hears the click of his teeth when he grinds them together, about to demand how the hell the library being re-organized has anything to do with him when he remembers the last time he was at the manor.

He'd made an off-handed remark about the inherent flaws in the Dewey decimal system in front of Dickie, who promptly announced that he was correct and that it was a crime against literature to organize books in such a fashion.

Tim looked around the small corner of the library they were tucked away in. The half-empty bookshelves and piles of novels on every available surface- and some unavailable ones too, considering there was a stack balanced on the brass-head statue of Thomas Wayne- definitely spoke to the library being in the middle of reorganization but...

Tim's eyebrows drew together. The library was huge, but not that huge. If they were still in the middle of reorganizing, it couldn't have been more than a week since they started. If it had only been a few days, then why did it feel like forever since he had last been in the manor? Why had time in his own house moved so much slower than when he was with Jason?

Jason thrusts the armful of books he was holding into Tim's arms without warning, and Tim figures he's been cruel enough to books today that the least he can do it not drop any of them.

At Tim's prolonged silence he says, "Whatever, I'm taking a smoke break," already retrieving a cardboard box from his back pocket and settling next to the open window, probably the reason it was open in the first place, "put these where they belong. Don't fuck up, fuck up."

Tim would have flipped him off but his arms are full of books so he settles for a passive-aggressive eyeroll and uses his foot to wiggle a chair out of its place at the table and set the books on it so he can see what he's dealing with.

He doesn't have to ask to know that they're supposed to be organized by genre- and if the first title he reads says anything, he and Jason are standing in the classical literature section- by year, by author alphabetically, by title alphabetically, then by height, and finally by colour alphabetically. Because fuck the dewy decimal system, obviously.

Tim worked slowly, feeling Jason's gaze wearing down on him until his every action was heavy with scrutiny. They were both waiting for a fight, wishing for one. It wasn't until he slid a copy of Divine Comedy into its rightful place, though, that Jason spoke up, mashing the few puffs he had left of his cigarette into gray mush when he stubbed it out on the windowsill.

"Did you seriously just put that after D?" Jason made his voice impossibly condescending, just because he knew it would get on Tim's nerves.

"Uh, yeah," Tim answered, playing clueless and moving onto the next book, "Can you fucking read? That's where it goes."

"No, fuck you," Jason says, standing up to his full height. He's annoyed Tim's not looking at him, not paying attention, which is precisely why Tim keeps his eyes everywhere but on him. "Di comes before D and after Dh."

Tim honestly doesn't give a fuck about how the books are organized- as long as it's not in the dewy decimal system. Man, fuck the Dewey decimal system- and neither does Jason, but it's something to fight about, and Tim lets his laughter tumble out like Jason's idiotic remark shocked it out of him.

"Have you ever even read a book?" He asks, shaking his head like he can't believe what he's hearing, his shoulders still trembling with chuckles, "That's so fucking stupid- Di and Dh are sub-categories; they go after D."

Jason scoffs, his voice deep and smoke-rough, low-octane lethal and smoother than silk; it was waiting around the corner for you, and it was gonna make your murder look sexy as hell, "That's almost as fucking stupid as shelving St. under St and not Sa."

That actually makes Tim pause, and he plays it off perfectly, slowly turning to Jason and ignoring the fact that he's giving in to the urge to look at him, too see the way his black t-shirt stretches across his chest when he crosses his arms. The way his hair is windswept from leaning out the window. How his jeans fit him.

He blinks, says, "Oh, wow. You really can't read," as if he's just realizing the extent of Jason's stupidity.

Jason tches out of the corner of his mouth and looks up with venom-filled eyes, teeth pulled into such a tight grimace it almost looks like he's snarling. Tim doesn't imagine he looks any more civil, his pupils probably blown wide and his body language the way it is.

Abruptly, Dickie's voice carries all the way from the library's entrance, and whatever was building in Tim's chest disperses without ever reaching its peak. Jason falters too, scowling.

"Jay, did I leave my phone in here?"

Tim goes stone-still as if that might keep Dickie from coming to find them amongst the rows of bookshelves, but he's not sure why. It's not like he and Jason were doing anything they don't normally do; they were just fighting, like always.

Jason doesn't take his eyes off Tim, and Tim realizes Jason doesn't want Dickie to know he's there either.

"You left it in Historical Fiction. I put it on the mantel above the fireplace," Jason calls back, and Tim flinches at the volume, realizing just how close he and Jason had gotten as they argued. Tim can see flashes of Jason's tongue piercing between his sharp teeth as he speaks, and doesn't let his eyes linger on Jason's mouth for too long.

Tim wants to take a step back, or maybe forwards, but Jason's look hardens, and he knows the young hero is hyper-aware of the brim and the garnish and of the echoes of shadows, the moments before motion becomes movement.

Jason's look is saying stay, and Tim listens.

"The mantel in the living room or the mantle in the library?" Dickie's voice isn't any closer, but it feels like it is. Dickie's voice has always been like that. He has this uncanny ability to make it feel like everything he says he says just for you. It descends into your head like a fog, and within moments you can't think about anything other than what Dickie is saying to you. There has to be some kind of word for it, but if there is, Tim's never heard it. Whatever method he uses, however he does it, as near as Tim can figure, relies on the vivid and dynamic effect of understanding the cri de coeur of everyone he's ever met to its deepest extent.

"The mantel in the living room," Jason says, and Tim knows he's under Dickie's spell too, even though his tone is irritated. There's that look on his face, and he's not seeing Tim anymore. "The one with the main entrance to the bat-" he falters, "-asement. The basement."

Tim doesn't roll his eyes at Jason's sloppy cover-up.

Dickie does though, Tim can hear it in his voice when he says, "K, thanks," and there's silence for a moment. Then, before he leaves, "Tell Timmy there's a fresh pot of coffee on in the kitchen."

The mention of coffee makes Tim's eyes and tongue feel heavy, his exhaustion more physically weighing him down, making him thirsty.

Jason mumbles damit under his breath and his focus goes back to Tim. He wants to leave, he wants to drown the fluttering in his chest with coffee, drink it until his lungs are full, but Jason's eyes are like clocks that stop ticking when he looks into them. The library halted around them, and the books began to breathe in each other's stillness. Tim can taste each individual particle of dust he breathes in on the back of his throat like old, grassy notes with a tang of acid like the first hint of the taste of an orange and a dash of vanilla.

Jason's calloused hand goes up to his cheek, and the pièce de résistance of the touch is when he runs his thumb gently over the dark bags on Tim's eyes. Tim half believes he could wipe them away if he pushed just a little harder. Smudge them off like they're pieces of coloured paper Tim had glued to his face, a stumbling toddler armed with child-proof scissors and a canvas made of himself.

There's a sudden sour taste in his mouth, fuzzy on the back of his tongue like downing orange juice after brushing his teeth. The moment breaks like a lightbulb shatters, loud, sudden, and with something left hanging in the air. Tim's hand is stinging, his skin is drawing closer and closer in on his ribs, closing his body up from the inside, and he realizes he just slapped Jason's hands away from him.

The dark look returns to Jason's eyes, clouding them over with anger and hurt, and Tim burns that look into his memory. He lets the cold pain in his stomach brand him, the feeling reminder to them both not to forget who they are.

Jason is Jason and Robin is Robin, and Jason doesn't get to touch Tim like that. And Tim doesn't get to let Jason touch him like that.

Tim's sneakers scream on the polished marble floors when he pivots on his heel, and he doesn't start breathing again until he's drowning himself in coffee.

----

Tim's not on the roof to kill himself.

He was, two months ago, no alcohol or photo opportunities to explain away why he could see the pavement six stories below over the toes of his converses, but no one knows that but him. Him and Robin.

"I've never been in a snowball fight," Robin had said loudly- loud in a way that tipped his cards and revealed the anxiety in his throat- from behind him, just as he was about to lean forward that last little bit.

He made Tim falter, made his lips break out in a salty grin. Made him say, "really?" and cry a little harder when he said, "yeah. I don't even know the rules. Is there a point system or is it to the death?" His chest heaving in huge, hysterical breaths as he fell back into Robin's arms.

He's on the roof to experience a whole different type of fall.

There's no sound and it's only the warm weight against his back that clues Tim in on the fact that Robin has joined him again on the roof. Tim's hands land on Robin's broad shoulders, his palms against the warm-cold hard-soft kevlar and it's thanks to two months of long, sleepless nights where he could indulge his newest hobby of a collection of martial arts that he has the strength to get his body into the air before Robin has the chance to get his arms around him.

He shouldn't, but Dickie had suspiciously indulged his request to teach him gymnastics and he wants to show off a little, so he stills in a handstand on Robin's shoulders for a second before letting himself fall forward. He lands facing Robin's back, pain shooting up his legs from his heels, and Robin dives forward into a round off to put some distance between them before Tim can strike. Tim has to jump back to avoid getting kicked.

They're facing each other when Robin lands, and Tim is grinning so hard, so genuine that the corners of his eyes actually crinkle. Robin is doing the same, and shadows hide in the crevices of his mask.

"I didn't teach you that," Robin says. It's cute, how he sounds upset that Tim is winning, maybe a little jealous that Tim is such a natural. Maybe a little impressed.

Tim feels like the night air has breathed life back into him when he says, "Nope."

"You cheatin' on me?" Robin asks, and Tim thinks about Dickie's sky-blue eyes and enticing voice, how Tim has been existing in a space with him for months and can still only think of him as being very distant and beautiful and calm. A lighthouse in clean waters, out of reach from the sea. Sparks like lighting when he flashes light-bright smiles in Tim's direction. Then thinks about the way all that melts away the second a red-haired citrus-smelling boy enters the scene and brings Dickie back down to earth like it's not gravity keeping him on the same level as the rest of them.

"Maybe," Tim tilts his head to the side just enough to make his neck a long, biteable line, "Maybe I've learned everything you have to teach me."

Robin counter-attacks by leaning backwards, as if assessing the situation, looking down at Tim with arrogant, challenging eyes. His suit makes his shoulders look so broad, makes it clear just how much strength is contained under his skin.

Tim feels his knees go weak as Robin's eyes undress him, as he says, "You sound awfully cocky for someone who's losing."

Tim swallows, says, "We haven't even started fighting yet," but knows Robin is right. He's losing.

"So it's a fight you want, then?" Robin teases, and it's unfair how he can twist Tim's words like that, lead their banter into any direction he chooses. Dominating what Tim says.

Tim scrambles to recover lost ground. It's not helping that his thoughts are working against him, and by the time he collects his wits enough to say "Depends, what do I get when I win?" he's completely caught up in the way Robin's knuckles tense and flex inside his gloves.

Robin doesn't take the bait- he doesn't say IF you win, he doesn't leave Tim any hope of victory when he says, "What do you want?" in a low, heavy voice.

God, Tim thinks, images flashing through his head. His thoughts on display for Robin to watch through his eyes, a movie reel of Robin on top of him, of Robin picking him up, of Robin noticing his nipple piercings, Robin sucking dark bruises on his collar bone, where they can only be half-hidden by his t-shirts. Of Jason-

"Chocolate cake," Tim says, a finger on his jawline like he's been thinking hard about his answer.

"Chocolate fondue," Robin proposes instead, and Tim's brain switches to images of chocolate-coated fingers and half-eaten strawberries.

"Chocolate-chip cookie dough," he croaks back, refusing to give in to the urge to clear his throat as he keeps talking, "Whole fucking bowl. I live dangerously."

Robin smiles at him instead of a grin, a gentle curve to his lips, and Tim feels colour and heat rush to his face. Of all things, it's unfair that that's what makes him blush.

"Chocolate-chip cookie dough in chocolate fondue," Robin says, with the same sort of victory as when you flip over your cards to reveal a royal flush.

Tim shakes his head and narrows his eyes, hopes it's too dark for Robin to see his blush, "Witchcraft. Doesn't exist."

Robin challenges him immediately, "It does."

"It does not."

Robin's done that thing again where he makes Tim say exactly what he wants, because when he says "I'll take you there if you beat me," it's clear that that's been his end goal this whole time.

"In that case," Tim starts on, and God; has he ever felt as light, as lost yet found, as he does when Robin's arm comes up to block his left hook.

"You better call ahead and tell them we're coming."

----

They got interrupted, they always do, and Tim tries not to be bitter about it. He understands Robin isn't just his, he's supposed to be protecting people, not teaching Tim hand-to-hand combat on rooftops that don't even come close to meeting regulations.

The thing that interrupts them happens right before Tim decides to escape the hold Robin has him in- which he was totally just about to do- is just Bruce- Batman- telling Robin he missed his regular thirty-minute check-in and to return to home base.

Whatever. He's been slowly stealing all of Bruce's cufflinks over the course of the last two months in revenge, and every time he adds another pair to his pile he feels a little better.

And yeah, he feels a little guilty for hogging Robin when he ends up corned in an alleyway on his way home because suddenly all he can think about is how many people have been put in this position with no one to save them because Robin was busy pinning Tim to a rooftop.

Tim's not really that concerned, he doesn't have much in the way of survival instinct or self-preservation in the first place, and those months spent sparring with a superhero are good for practical use too.

So, yeah, it's two against one and both his opponents are armed, but what's the worst that could happen?

There's a moment where he thinks about letting one of them stab him, but then he remembers the way Robin's hands twitched towards him when he asked if Tim wanted him to escort him home like he wanted to dot on him, the little frown followed by a speck of pride that crossed his face for a split second when Tim assured; "I can take care of myself."

And ok, one of the guys gets lucky and manages to knick Tim with his switchblade, slicing right next to the joint that connects his shoulder and his arm, but it's not deep enough to do any lasting damage and other than that the worst injury he gets his a bruise high on his cheekbone.

It's the bruise he's most pissed about. The cut he could wrap himself and hide from Jason easily, but the bruise? There's no way he can cover it up and he's already proven to himself that he's incapable of staying away from Wayne Manor long enough for it to fade.

He nurses a grudge about it all the way back to Wayne Manor, and by the time he steps into the entrance hall it had started raining and his entire body was throbbing.

He's numb to the actual stinging of it, his skin turned nearly ice-blue as the freezing rain runs off his hair and down the back of his shirt, but the water irritated the wound and it radiates heat. He feels feverish already.

On the bright side, the cold stopped the bleeding.

He slides his shoes off when he realizes he's been standing stagnate in the entryway long enough that a small puddle has formed underneath him, darkening the carpet, but he's only taken a few steps when Jason appears in the archway connecting to the kitchen.

They make eye-contact for a split second, but Jason's eyes immediately go to where he's gripping his shoulder, trying to hide the wound under his hand. His body is warming up in the heat of the manor, though. Seeing Jason makes his mind unhelpfully flashback to "I'll take you there if you beat me" and he warms up a little more.

Blood starts to drip between his fingers, and he puts more pressure on the wound.

Jason doesn't say anything, just stares at the line of blood slowly running down Tim's arm. Tim wants him to speak so badly, to say "told you something about you was just fundamentally stabable," or "tell them to aim for your heart next time," but he doesn't.

His hands slowly curl into fists at his sides, and he takes one heaving breath before he turns on his heel and storms out of sight- away.

Dickie appears from the direction he headed off in a few minutes later, at about the same time they hear the slam of a door a floor above them.

Tim knows Dickie is trying, leading him to the dining room table and pulling a first aid kit out of thin air, asking questions like "do you know where you are?" and "do you know Epstein didn't kill himself?" to try and get that blank look off Tim's face, but all Tim could think about was the glint of fury burning in Jason's eyes. Was he mad at him for letting himself get hurt? For saying he could take care of himself and then not? Why didn't he say anything?

Tim's phone buzzes in his pocket and he jumps, a sharp pain resulting in the action as he bumps Dickie, who's halfway done stitching up the cut Tim didn't even think was deep enough to need stitches. It bleeds heavier, and Dickie gently wipes away the blood with a white cloth.

His phone buzzes again, and Tim carefully uses his left hand to retrieve it from his pocket. He has two messages, from Jason, and his heart swells a little.

J: Timmy
J: give me his name and I'll give you a corpse

Bruce walks into the room looking a little lost, uncuffed blazer sleeves hanging at his sides, asks if anyone's seen his gold cufflinks, and Tim's laughs so hard Dickie pricks him with the needle again and he bleeds a little more.