Chapter Text
The first thing Jason does upon arriving home is take a shower.
Bruce hovers in the hallway just outside the bathroom the entire time, pretending he isn’t and fooling absolutely no one. It’s ridiculous; Jason isn’t going to pass out twice in one day—especially not in the climate controlled Manor, for god’s sake—but he’d balked at Alfred’s suggestion of borrowing the shower chair and this must have been their compromise.
Whatever. It’s not like Jason has any dignity left.
“Oh wow, look at that, I lived,” he deadpans as he throws the door open and walks straight past Bruce—who is leaning casually against the wall playing sudoku on his phone—into his bedroom, the late afternoon sun peeking around the edges of his curtains in the otherwise dark room. Bruce follows after him as Jason flops down on top of the mattress. “Didn’t even have to break out the life preservers…”
“I considered raiding the pool cabinet for Dick’s old arm floaties,” Bruce says, matching his tone. Jason scowls, and Bruce clears his throat to try again.
“Are you feeling any better?”
Jason rolls his eyes. “I mean, I’m no longer eighty percent sweat, so yeah, I guess that helps.”
He’s being a brat and he knows it, but he’s hot and tired and his head hurts almost as much as his pride.
Bruce doesn’t bat an eye. “I’m going to get you something to drink. Any preference?”
“Vodka,” Jason grumbles into his pillow, causing Bruce to let out a quiet huff of air.
“Pedialyte it is.”
Jason makes a face. “I’m not a toddler, B.”
“No, but you are dehydrated.”
Groaning, Jason flops over onto his side, his back to Bruce. “I’m fine. I drank like, three bottles of water in the car. Now leave me alone.”
“Jay—”
“I’m fine, okay? You can go.”
Bruce hesitates for a moment, and even with his back to him Jason can feel Bruce’s gaze on him, weighing the truth in that assertion.
“Alright,” he says finally. “I’ll let you get some rest.”
Bruce reaches up and pulls the cord to turn on the ceiling fan before stepping out, the door shutting behind him with a soft ‘click.’
For a while, Jason just lies there and tries not to think about it. About how he’d been feeling worse and worse as the day dragged on, but was determined to stick it out for Timmy’s sake. How he’d grown increasingly prickly and irritable over the stupidest things, barely able to keep his temper in check despite trying so hard to keep the trip enjoyable for everyone. About coming to on the sun-baked asphalt, fifty-plus bystanders all craning their necks to get a glimpse of the spectacle he’d just become.
About how terrifyingly vulnerable he’d felt in that moment.
Which is stupid, because Dick and Tim were right there; they’d never let anything happen to him—he knows that. But it didn’t stop his heart from thudding, the panic rising in his chest when he realized how many people had crowded around, how many bodies pressed closer and closer to him while he’d been totally powerless to stop them.
If there’s one thing Jason’s always hated, it’s losing control.
Three soft knocks on his bedroom door are what pull him out of his thoughts. “What,” he snaps, expecting Bruce back with more fucking electrolytes, then instantly regrets his tone when the door opens to reveal the birthday boy himself.
“Hey,” Tim greets quietly.
“Hey,” Jason replies.
They both stare at each other for a moment.
Tim shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Uh, Alfred wants to know what we want for dinner. I told him I didn’t really care because I was still kinda full from lunch, but he didn’t like that answer, so I figured I’d ask you. You know”—he shifts back to the other foot—”since you only ate like, six fries.”
“I don’t care either,” Jason mumbles. “I’m not that hungry.”
He doesn’t feel sick or anything—not anymore—but his appetite is still pretty non-existent. He’ll muster some up if Alfred whips out Tim’s cake later, obviously, but he’s in no hurry.
Tim gives him a serious look. “If we don’t pick, Dick put in a request for chicken fettuccine. And he already had those Dippin’ Dots earlier, so…”
Jason snorts. “Fucking masochist.”
(Tim doesn’t deny it.)
“Alright, alright...” Jason thinks for a moment. “...Tacos?”
“Tacos,” Tim agrees with a nod. He pulls out his phone and taps out a message, presumably to Alfred. Then he pockets it again. “So, uh…” He rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “Do you just wanna be alone right now, or…?”
Jason’s breath comes out in a short, amused huff. “You can come in if you want.”
Stepping in further and closing the door quietly behind him, Tim shuffles over to the bed. He climbs up carefully before stretching out on his back next to Jason on top of the covers.
“You sure you’re okay?” Tim whispers.
“Peachy,” Jason mutters. “Just have a headache.”
Tim hums a little. “Me too.”
Jason sits up a bit, frowning. “Shit, have you drank anything since we got home? You’re probably dehydrated.”
Tim waves him off. “Alfred gave me kids’ Tylenol and I drank a whole bottle of Gatorade downstairs. I’m fine.”
“Oh.” He settles back down on the mattress again, feeling stupid.
They both lie there for a few moments, staring up at the spinning fan overhead.
“Wanna listen to a podcast?” Tim offers.
Jason quirks an eyebrow. “About what?”
“I found this really cool one about banned theme park rides—how familiar are you with ‘Action Park’? You’ve seen the documentary at least, right?”
Fifteen minutes into Tim’s little spiel about human trebuchets and 360-degree water slides resulting in decapitations, he’s yet to actually pull up Spotify. Jason doesn’t mind. He lets his eyelids drift closed as he listens.
“—at least six known deaths, but that’s only what was reported, and it doesn’t count debilitating injuries. I have this theory that the founder might have actually had ties with one of the Rogues. See, the park itself was only about a two-hour drive from Gotham, and—”
“Hey Timmy?” Jason interrupts.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t ever change, okay?”
He can hear the grin in Tim’s voice. “Just wait till you hear about the Wave Pool Grave Pool…”