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jtl-fics · 1 year ago

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Fluent Freshman - Part 29

“Neil, why do you have Smith’s phone?” Andrew asks as the two of them are setting out plates for lunch. Neil startled and looked down at the phone that he had just sat at the table and furrowed his brow.

“What do you mean? This is mine?” Neil asks. He knows his phone even if he’s not really the best with them.

The one that Andrew had given him his Freshman year had died after it got run over by the Maserati when Neil left it on the roof of the car by accident. The second one Andrew had gotten him had been destroyed in rather spectacular fashion earlier in the year when he’d had a bit of a freak out on January 19th. The team knew better than to text him on that particular day now but Andrew had said that he’d take custody of his phone this year. Wymack had stepped in with a phone that same day before Andrew could buy him a new one and that phone had been launched at the Baseball captain that summer.

All this to say, Neil is now looking at the phone in concern because it is highly likely he swapped his with FF’s.

“No it’s not.” Andrew sighs and points to a corner, “You cracked yours up here.” He opens the phone and then the contacts and sure enough Neil doesn’t see his own contacts but the ones that Nicky had programmed into FF’s the day before.

“Oh, I guess I switched them at the hospital.” He says with an embarrassed blush. Maybe he should get a little accessory to differentiate his phone from the other ones that Wymack has gotten.

There’s a slight commotion in the kitchen, “Kevin, stop trying to add vanilla protein powder to Smithy’s soup!” Nicky shouts.

“He needs protein to heal properly! That nutritionist might just feed him a loaf of bread since he is using an outdated model!” Kevin argues back.

“Kevin the doctor said clear soup also do you want to make Smiths sick? Vanilla protein powder and chicken broth?” Aaron asks disgust evident.

“I’d use unflavored but this is all that’s in the house and I am not going shopping until this weekend is over.” Kevin argues back.

“Smiths went out shopping on Black Friday and came back unscathed. He even went out into the worst of it just to get some groceries for baking and breakfast.” Aaron says with a huff.

“He still got stabbed!” Kevin returns.

“Kevin, he was definitely not grocery shopping when he got stabbed.” Nicky shoots back.

“He needs-“

“Przywiążę cię do krzesła.” Neil hears Smith’s Grandma cut Kevin off. Her tone is so sweet just like it has been the last couple times she has interrupted an argument between them all. She really has warmed up to them since Andrew confessed.

Nicky lets out a loud bark of laughter.

“Are you okay?” Aaron asks.

“Yeah, cutting onions make me laugh.” Nicky returns quickly.

Kevin walks out of the Kitchen with the same gooey expression he’s gotten every time Smith’s Grandma has said something sweet to him but considering how often and how hard Nicky laughs at what she says he wonders if she’s just sassing him in a sweet tone.

He really needs to pick up a phrase book.

He might like her even more if his theory is correct.

“It shouldn’t be a big problem.” Neil says but he is a bit more careful as he moves FF’s phone away from where it could get damaged. “Smith is definitely asleep. He looked really tired.” Neil says and it twists his own stomach to think about how FF looked in his hospital bed. FF wouldn’t take anything more than the bare minimum when it came to pain medication.

Each “I’m fine.” He gave had him coming to a deeper and deeper understanding of how frustrating it is to have someone who is CLEARLY not fine say they are.

“I’m more concerned about who might text you.” Andrew says.

Neil shrugs, “Ichirou is more the type to just show up.” Because it’s true. Every time he’s met Ichirou there had been very little warning.

Andrew frowns but then Nicky is coming out with lunch. It was nothing fancy but a home cooked meal always made Neil feel warm. Smith’s grandma had just been using what was in their pantry so far but the two other meals (and her pie) had been amazing.

“Lunch is ready. We’ll head back to the hospital afterwards to see when Smithy can get discharged.” Nicky says putting a large bowl of pasta in the center of the table. Aaron came out a moment later with the Parmesan shaker and the protein powder bottle.

“Here you go Kevin, add as much as you want to your own meal.” Aaron says in a sweet tone just like Smith’s Grandma.

“Eat shit Aaron.” Kevin scowls now knocked out of his gooey expression as fills his plate with pasta and reaches for the Parmesan.

Neil can’t help but let out a puff of laughter at the interaction and lets the worry of being away from his phone slide away. FF was sleeping, he was safe, and Ichirou had not expressed any interest in talking to him.

“Pass that to me when you’re done.” Neil asks pointing at the Parmesan as he fills his and Andrew’s plates.

***

There had been a plan.

Nathaniel Wesninski was supposed to be at this hospital at least according to his cell phone location. His future investment was not the best at keeping that device on him though so he was willing to wait when there were no signs of the Wesninski. There would, of course, be a cost for his patience. He had his men go seek out the uninvolved civilian. If Wesninski came back and found his friend threatened due to his lackadaisical nature with his phone perhaps he’d remember to keep it on him.

Except now that very uninvolved civilian is sitting in front of him. The ’Smith’ that Wesninski had spoken of.

He sees Wesninski’s phone sat on the table and his eyes go back to the young man in front of him. He wonders if this was some ploy by Wesninski, some statement. This young man in front of him took out one of the Butcher’s top men on his own.

He’d confirmed it when he’d gone to see Jackson earlier that day. He went to remind them what would happen if they tried to turn over anything to the Federal agents and to see how two of his biggest headaches had been taken out so suddenly.

Jackson talked about how Wesninski’s friend hadn’t seemed surprised to find him in the alley, had seemed like he had been expecting it and how swiftly he had been taken out. Wesninski’s guard dog had gone out afterwards and they’d lead Romero into a trap that resulted in his arrest and this civilian swearing up and down that Romero was the one that stabbed him even though Romero asserts that he never had a firm grip on the knife.

A great way to ensure he was held by the police while they were fully investigated. They wouldn’t have much time to investigate either of the Butcher’s remnants. Ichirou was only offering the choice between something painful or something easy.

The young man in front of him offered nothing, waiting for Ichirou to begin the talks. His expression clearly showing that he’d happily wait Ichirou out as if he was long used to tense silences. There is no doubt that this man in front of him knows exactly who he is but he still has the audacity to wait him out.

“Where is Wesninski?” He tightens his fist at having to ask first.

“That’s not Captain Neil’s last name anymore.” FF returns with the first hint of expression on his face being a frown.

The first piece of information given. So, loyal to Nathaniel and not to the Wesninski line. Loyal to Captain Neil.

“Captain Neil is getting lunch.” He answers, “I’m the only one here for you to talk to right now.” He adds after a moment putting his hands on the table.

Ichirou can understand what isn’t being said.

“Does, Josten, realize you’re here?” He asks taking care to use Wesninski’s new last name knowing he wouldn’t get his answers otherwise. He has a hard time imagining the man who was so loyal to his friends purposefully leaving this one to act as defense for him.

Wesninski had been very clear during his brief phone conversation with him, “Smith was just caught up in all of this. He’s not a threat to you Lord Moriyama.” He had said voice steady and without a hint of a lie.

“In the hospital? Of course.” He returns, “Down here talking to you? He’ll probably be upset.” he says after a moment.

“And yet, you’re here.” He says mirroring the man’s own relaxed posture.

Loyal but willing to do something that might displease the one he is loyal to if it would keep them safe. Ichirou stops himself from looking to his left where his most loyal man stood. Connor had stepped in front of threats he hadn’t seen coming plenty of times, had questioned him even when Ichirou had threatened to cut out his tongue for it, and had always had the courage to look Ichirou in the eye when he explained himself no matter how injured he was or how irate Ichirou was.

It’s something rare and it seems like it is something Wesninski has found unknowingly.

“Yes, I’m here to talk about Friday night.” He says, “I assume you’ve already spoken with Romero and Jackson.” He says moving the conversation away from Wesninski. Bringing Ichirou’s attention and possible ire to himself.

A truly rare find in his world.

“Yes, let’s talk about Friday night.” He agrees.

***

What was it about the Smith family and making great food?

It was just a simple combination of canned tomatoes, butter, pasta, onions, cheese, spices and garlic but it had Neil going for a third serving. Smith’s Grandma had really made enough to feed an army and when he’d commented Nicky had just reached over and tried to pinch his cheek fat only for his fingers to find little to grab onto, “You’re too thin! Eat more!” He exclaimed before repeating it to Smith’s Grandma in Polish who nodded earnestly.

Wymack was at the table after he took a shower. Kevin was still trying to convince Aaron of all people that he should be allowed to put protein powder into the clear soup that was simmering on the stove top for FF. The dietary restrictions someone faced while they were healing from stomach surgery was no joke.

The other Dealer had dropped despite Wymack and Neil’s best attempts to get Lisa to stay. Seemed determined to head back to her small town and rejoin the family cult she had escaped from. He’d been worried about her going home but she had insisted she’d be back.

It was unfortunate but it was also Lisa’s choice.

His stomach twists wondering if FF is going to go back to Washington with his Grandma when he gets released. There had barely been a whisper of danger from Neil’s past since Ichirou had put that bullet in Riko’s head and now one of his few friends that had been entirely uninvolved in that nightmare was in the hospital because of him.

Andrew elbows him.

Neil turns to look and Andrew is carefully putting a penne pasta on each prong of his fork, “I can hear you worrying.” He says in Russian.

“What if Smith leaves?” He responds back in the same language.

“He has the right to.” Andrew shrugs and shoves the pasta into his mouth.

“I don’t want him to.” Neil admits, FF is a friend. A good friend.

“He still can leave even if you don’t want him to.” Andrew says as he proceeds to once again put a penne pasta on each of his fork’s prongs. “I don’t think he will though.” He adds before shoving his fork into his mouth again.

Neil blinks, “Why?” He asks.

FF isn’t like how Neil was his Freshman year, he’s steady and sure but Neil wouldn’t blame the Freshman if ‘possibly being killed off by remnants of my Captain’s crime family’ is a step too far for FF. Wouldn’t blame FF if he runs.

“He still calls you Captain Neil.” He says reaching over and squeezing Neil’s knee with his hand.

Neil blinks.

He thinks.

FF laid out on the concrete as Andrew worked to stem the blood from his stab wound, “It’s a weird sex alley Captain Neil! I don’t know WHAT to tell you!” He exclaims ready to make a joke even as he’s bleeding because of a situation Neil’s existence put him in.

FF still floating from the initial large amount of pain medication he was on pulling on Neil’s sleeve, “I’m glad you’re okay Captain Neil.” Before falling back into his drugged sleep.

FF’s eyes softening as Neil offered to get a nurse to give him more pain medication, “Really Captain Neil, I’m fine.” He says.

He lays his own hand over Andrew’s.

“I guess he does.” He offers a small tentative smile.

“Eat your pasta Junkie.” Andrew says in English now.

“You’re too thin!” Nicky reminds him and Smith’s Grandma must have picked up on the terminology since she nods earnestly in agreement as the two of them were packing up leftovers and the soup Smith’s Grandma had made for him so they could head back to the hospital to keep FF company.

***

“Why did you go out into the alley?” Ichirou asks.

“Isn’t it better that I was in the alley?” The man across from him asks with a raised brow, as if Ichirou was asking a strange question. “If I had stayed in the club, who knows what would have happened or how many people would have been hurt.” He explains without Ichirou needing to lower himself to asking.

There’s truth to that.

It’s been on the news that the remaining Wesninski inner-circle had been captured but since there’d only been one injury it had been largely overshadowed by news regarding the mass injury incidents surrounding Black Friday. If Romero had started had gotten the general public involved this would be much harder for him to silence the ones involved.

Still…

“This has caused me quite a bit of trouble. It does not look good that I am not the one who found them.” He says because there’d been talks from some of the old men he had yet to rid himself of from his Father’s time. They had wanted the remaining Wesninski men to be brought back into the fold but there was little chance of that happening now. Ichirou planned on disposing them after showing that they were worthless and using it as an excuse to start removing some of the dead weight from his father’s time.

Ichirou was not a man who tolerated incompetence.

“Isn’t it better that they were taken into custody like this?” The man across from him asks, “They were some of the Butcher’s best from what Captain Neil has told me. The fact that it only resulted in me going to the hospital and they were taken out by Andrew and I is one of the better outcomes.” He says.

Ichirou pauses and considers it.

The two men that those relics had wanted for their ‘competence’ and ‘ability’ had been taken out in a way that showcased what Ichirou had thought of them. They were sloppy, they were over-confident, and worst of all they were incompetent.

“Before I forget.” Smith says and his hand goes to the bulge in his jacket pocket.

Ichirou can feel Conner tense behind him and he wonders where this had gone wrong or how the conversation had broken down but he doesn’t have long to wonder about it as Smith pulled something out that was unmistakable as a toy with it’s bright yellow coloring. Smith sets it on the table between them and Ichirou cannot help the confusion that must show on his face despite his many years of training to keep his face blank.

“What is that?” Conner asks sounding utterly bewildered behind him.

“I used this to temporarily blind Jackson during our fight. I figure it would be useful evidence for you.” Smith says.

He hears a bark of laughter to his right as Michael reaches for the toy.

Useful evidence indeed.

It would be easy to show this as a sign that those relics could hardly be trusted to have an opinion in how he ran his empire. Those men they so prized taken out by a children’s toy.

This has gone to his benefit.

“So it would seem.” He finally says, “I will make sure to reward your assistance.” He says wanting a stronger hold over the man in front of him, a tie of some sort to the Moriyama family.

Smith shakes his head in the negative. “I didn’t do anything noteworthy. Whatever it is should go to Captain Neil.” He argues.

Rare find indeed.

“It will be done.” He says and figures with the additional cash flow eliminating the search for the Wesninski men, the removal of his father’s hanger-ons, and the blood he can squeeze from the family Romero and Jackson had intended to go to ( a supposedly allied family) he could more than afford to drop what his three Exy investments owed him as a percent.

His eyes shift over to Smith across from him and finds that he was even more willing to lower those percentages if he could not only drop the dead weight of his father’s empire but perhaps gain someone useful. “Still, I like to reward those who have directly benefitted me. We will take care of any and all hospital fees related to this incident.” He looks to his right and Michael nods.

Smith’s face doesn’t give much away, his pokerface was quite exceptional.

“Thank you." He accepts and says nothing else so Ichirou decides to make his offer.

“I have heard that you are studying languages.” He says.

“I am.” Smith says.

“Which ones do you know?” He asks.

Smith blinks, surprised by the question, “Fluently? French, German, Spanish, Polish, Dutch, Italian, R-“ he pauses and shakes his head, “Recently, I’ve been studying Japanese, Chinese, and some Korean.” He says strangely stumbling over a word for the first time this entire conversation.

A useful skill.

“If you ever find yourself looking for work,” Ichirou snaps his fingers and Conner had a card in his hand in an instant, consider reaching out.” He says before he offers it with both hands and is pleased when Smith accepts it with a slight bow before taking it with both hands. “I see you are also studying the etiquette.” He adds.

Smith looks up from the business card and he looks paler but Ichirou chalks it up to the fact that bowing slightly with his current stomach status likely hurt far more than he had let on. “If you don’t know the etiquette you only know half of the language.” He says and Ichirou quite likes the sentiment.

“Tell Josten that I no longer need to speak with him. Our conversation was satisfactory.” Ichirou says as he rises to his feet.

“I will do that…Lord Moriyama.” Smith says bowing his head politely.

***

The sight of Ichirou Moriyama was always going to be one that made Neil nervous.

The only good thing about seeing him right now was that Kevin had gone with Coach and Aaron in a separate car so that the two of them could continue their argument about protein powder in FF’s soup and Andrew had snagged a spot up front while Coach would have to park farther back.

“Lord Moriyama, I did not expect to see you here.” He greets head down and he almost goes to his knees if it wouldn’t have attracted the sort of attention that Ichirou hated from the public. He just hopes that Andrew isn’t scowling and that Nicky and Smith’s Grandma can keep quiet.

“Perhaps if you kept your phone with you then my appearance would not be such a surprise.” Ichirou comments idly, “Though I suppose I did have a very beneficial conversation with Smith. Quite a bright young man you have as a friend.” He compliments and Neil’s head shoots up in surprise at it.

Ichirou had spoken with FF.

FF who was fading in and out of consciousness.

“I have faith that he will not reveal anything.” Ichirou adds and Neil clenches his fist and wants desperately to ask what happened. Wants to know what state he’s going to find his friend in. “I have not done anything to harm him, you are lucky to have a…friend like that.” Ichirou says as if physical damage was the only thing that Ichirou Moriyama was capable of.

“Yes Lord Moriyama, he is a very talented and skilled defenseman.” He says hoping that if nothing else Ichirou’s desire for Neil and Kevin’s future profitability would have him reconsider doing anything in the future to FF to ensure they would have good showings for the professional teams.

“Yes, he was quite talented in your defense.” Ichirou nods, “I will reach out with details of our new deal once some affairs have settled. Take care of your friend, Josten.” Ichirou says before continuing out of the hospital.

New Deal?

Neil banished the thought from his head. They needed to get up to FF’s room and he needed to make sure his friend was okay and find out what exactly had happened.

Andrew’s hand came to the back of his neck and squeezed, “Calm down.” Andrew ordered voice soothingly blank even if Neil could feel the way his grip stuttered. “Let’s go.”

***

The Nurses were saying something about ‘aggravating stitches’ and ‘lucky nothing tore’ but it was all white noise to FF as he continues to think about the business card burning a hole in his pocket.

Ichirou Moriyama.

He’d just had an entire conversation with Ichirou Moriyama.

His stomach was already hurting from his ill advised walk but the moment he’d seen that name on the business card he had accepted his insides had been pure acid. He missed his Pepto Bismol more than anything right now, what he would give for just a single hit of the sweet pink relief.

He couldn’t figure out what was worse.

The fact that he had given over EVIDENCE to the head of a Yakuza group (was it a yakuza group or was it a mafia group?).

The fact that he’d been right in his thoughts from the abyss that the man in the cafeteria looked like a Yakuza member (was it a Yakuza or Mafia?).

The fact that he’d just seen a Japanese guy and thought ‘Oh, must be the Japanese FBI guy I’m supposed to talk to’ which means he’d still been kind of racist.

The fact that he just realized that he had Captain Neil’s phone and not his own meaning that Ichirou had been telling Captain Neil to come to the cafeteria and FF just showed up like a dipshit trying to pitch their lie about the alley.

Finally there was the fact that Ichirou Moriyama had apparently been impressed enough to offer him a spot within his Yakuza group (Yakuza or Mafia?)

Would it be weird to ask during the interview process? Is there an interview process to join organized crime? Do they have benefits? Wait a crime family is paying for his hospital stay right now. This is too much.

He considers asking the nurse to yes please crank up the pain killers and just let him slip into a nice not embarrassing coma but then Captain Neil and Andrew were rushing into his room. “Smith!” Captain Neil exclaims.

Well, too late to ask for that coma.

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

@i-have-three-feelings @blep-23 @dreamerking27 @andreilsmyreligion @belodensetdust @rainbowpineapplebottle @yarn-ace @iwouldlikesometea @lily-s-world @obscureshipsandchips @booklover242 @whataboutmyfries @sahturnos @pluto-pepsi @dreamerthinker @passinhosdetartaruga @leftunknownheart @aro-manita-muscaria @hologramsaredead @Chaoticgremlinswishtheycouldbeme @tntwme @tayspots @nick-scar @crazy-fangirl2524 @blue-jos10 @stabbyfoxandrew @splishsplashyouropinionistrash @sammichly @the-broken-pen @bitchesdoweknowu @very-small-flower @ghostlyboiii @its-a-paxycab @bisexual-genderfluid-fan @cheesecookie @theoneandonlylostsock @foxsoulcourt @blueleys @adverbialstarlight @elia-nna @can-i-just-stay-in-the-corner @nikodiangel @foxandcrow-inatrenchcoat @hallucinatedjosten @satanic-foxhole-court @vexingcosmos @chalilodimun @insectsgetcooked @angry-kid-with-no-money @queer-crows @lillyndra @themundanemudperson @readertodeath @apileofpillows @mortalsbowbeforeme @hellomynameismoo @next-level-mess @youreonlylow @interstellarfig @notprocrastinatingatalltoday @percyjacksonfan3 @queenofcrazy27 @bsmr261 @ghostlyscares @spencellio @adinthedarkroom @harpymoth @sufferingjustalilbit @anxietymoss @oddgreyhound @ohno-myhyperfixation-itsbroken @ken22789 @atiredvampire @isoldescorner @not--a--pipedream @azure-wing @bushbees @roonilwazlib-main @crumplelush @foldedaces-paperbirds @thesenseinnonsense @let-tyrants-fear @ketchupandfries @legowerewolf @deadlydodos @but-we-respect-his-craft @cariniqe @zanypersonapricotbiscuit @lesbian-blackbeard @lesbiansupernatural @silvermasquerade @thepeachfuzz @minniemariex @kazoo-the-demjin @gaypomegranate @ji-nk-ies @neilimfinejosten @omgrubelangel @itsyouitsmeorpheuseurydice @percabethotplove @cozyrosykay @foxyatlas @theoneandonlylostsock @cindersapsecrets @scornedethnographer @hugemotherfuckingnerd @givemethedamnflowers

The requests to be added to the tag list keep being spread out across a few different areas. If I missed you please just ask again in the replies I promise I just missed you.

As stated before if you’re up here and I spelled it right but you didn’t get a notification there might be something switched around in your settings that won’t let me tag you properly?

If you didn’t get notified on the last part it’s probably because I used tumblr mobile to post and our most beloved garbage fire site just didn’t like that.

Polish in this chapter:

Przywiążę cię do krzesła = I will tie you to a chair

#Fluent Freshman AU #MAN that was a long one #Also just like having to build that misunderstanding took forever #I need a nap #which is to say that I'm going to bed since it's 2 AM #Not pictured is Michael pointing the McDonald's Happy Meal Toy at Conner and pulling the trigger #And Conner going Shit that's bright #And Michael now has to drive the car #The Moriyama men who were looking for Smith absolutely got a talking to #Like a man of THAT caliber got within spitting distance of Lord Moriyama? Unacceptable #Just be grateful he wanted to TALK.#Also not pictured is Kevin and Aaron continuing that argument in the car as Kevin tries to rope Aaron in #to making the perfect protein supplement for Smith's recovery #Kevin is thankfully so focused on this that he just flat out misses that they parked like four cars away from where Ichirou Moriyama is #Neil may Velcro his phone to him now.#Man can you imagine Neil having his Josten Jorts(tm) and he's added a velcro strip to all of them #Andrew just looking on like yeah I still think he's hot and sighing to himself #This is where you've laid your affections Andrew #DEAL WITH IT #Alright it's like 2:20 AM after doing the tags and @-ing everybody #AFTG #AFTG AU #AFTG OC #Andreil #FF - Pt. 29

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ragnarokhound · 8 months ago

Note

((you don’t have to do both if you don’t want to, you can consider this one a back up / alt))

“If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.” 💞

From this writing prompt list i reblogged in...november lmao fljdsjfa

anyway this grew legs and sprinted away the second I picked it up yesterday - clearly it just needed some time to proof lmao. Thank you for the ask, tauria!! From *checks watch* almost 5 months ago fjdslafjsa I will be cross-posting it to Ao3 in my new oneshot collection fic :)

Warnings for: Vague allusions that Ra's Al Ghul is a creep (what else is new), threats of gun violence, canon-typical violence

15. “If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here.”

When Tim arrived in Gotham this morning, he had no way of knowing that his day would end in Jason Todd’s bed.

Frankly, he wasn’t really sure what bed he’d end up in— because his own certainly wasn’t an option right now. But If he had to pick, Jason Todd’s was somewhere near the bottom of whatever list he’d make.

He didn’t exactly plan on this, okay?

But, uh. Let’s back up a little.

—

Tim knew his day was going to go to shit when he got back from the airport at 7 AM.

He had his driver drop him off two blocks away from his townhouse for the sake of caffeine at the hole in the wall place he likes. Wealthy CEO he may be, but a sixteen hour flight is still a sixteen hour flight and Tim is cursed with an inability to sleep in the air.

Don’t ask. He’s tried. It doesn’t work.

So he wants coffee, and he wants a shower, and he wants his own bed. In that order.

With the first thing on his list acquired and blessedly burning his tongue, he managed to tug his brain cells together enough to realize that the building they’d passed that had been shrouded in tents and canvas was his building.

"What's going on here?"

The worker outside his building looks up from her clipboard, her face wrinkling into apprehensive confusion.

"Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

He hasn’t slept in roughly seventy two hours. He is not awake or patient enough for this.

“My name is Tim Drake. I own this building. What’s going on here?” He repeats.

The woman raises her eyebrows and looks down at her clipboard again. “Mr. Drake?” She questions, clearly expecting him to look like a grown-ass man and not a sleep-deprived college student coming home from spring break or whatever.

“Yes. Timothy Drake-Wayne. Why are you—” he tries to gesture with the hand still holding his suitcase handle, walking towards the tarps and tents erected around his townhouse with increasing trepidation, “—here?”

“I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go in there. Not for at least forty-eight hours.”

Tim stops in his tracks.

“Forty-eight—?”

“We've been scheduled to fumigate the property today.” She says it like she’s reading it out of a handbook. “It won't be safe to enter the building for at least forty-eight hours. You should have received prior notice. Uh. Sir.”

Tim's jet-lagged brain kicks into overdrive.

Bruce hasn't made any disappointed noises about Tim’s perfectly normal work ethic lately so it probably wasn't a misguided attempt at benching him. And besides, rendering Tim’s apartment inaccessible is counterproductive on that front.

Dick wouldn’t. They haven’t been exactly— great, lately but he wouldn’t. Besides, if he wanted to get Tim out of the house more, he’d show up to drag Tim out into the daylight himself. This is a little too roundabout for him.

It’s too much work to be Steph. She would think it’s funny, but there’s no way she’d follow through.

Damian might, but this doesn’t quite fit his preferred methods for making Tim’s life hell. It could be some cloak and dagger maneuver to leave him vulnerable, faking a complaint to the city so he’ll—

And then Tim thinks about the call.

The call he’d brushed off at fuck o’clock in the morning somewhere over Europe, too busy with another project. The call his secretary took for him instead. He thinks about the distracted confirmation he’d given to whatever it was she’d asked him about five minutes later.

He also thinks about the form he signed about two weeks ago, before this last minute trip to Hong Kong had consumed his entire attention. The one with “Two Weeks Notice” stamped across the top. His stomach sinks.

“Today,” he repeats.

She looks apologetic. “Today,” she confirms. “And we just started about an hour ago. I’m very sorry, Mr. Drake-Wayne but—”

"No it's—" he says through gritted teeth, "fine. I'll just. Make other arrangements."

—

He does not make other arrangements. Though not for lack of trying.

Tim has a handful of safehouses scattered throughout the city. He has options. He gets a taxi to the closest neighborhood, and nearly falls asleep in the backseat. The cabby has to knock on the glass divider to get his attention when they come to a stop. He grumbles and hauls his suitcase out of the backseat, and tips the man excessively.

Shower. Bed. Sleep. He’s so close he could cry.

Except when he finally rolls around the block, coffee half gone and trying to remember if this safehouse is the one with in-unit laundry or if he’ll have to haul his shit down to the laundry room, his building is a blackened husk with police tape all around it.

He stops on the sidewalk. He peers up at the window of his unit, squinting at the peeling black wood and shattered glass. He ponders whether two is enough data points to be considered a pattern. And whether he could get away with napping in the alley on this street or if that’ll end with him stabbed and robbed.

As he’s pondering, he catches sight of a passerby and stops him.

“‘Scuse me,” he says apologetically. “What the hell happened here?”

The guy looks up from his phone and takes in his rumpled clothes, his suitcase, and the scorched remains of his apartment.

“Oh, uh. Yeah, there was a big fire about a week back? Bad fire. Took out, like, half the block. Cops are saying it’s arson.”

“A week ago,” Tim repeats. The guy’s eyes widen.

“Oh shit, bro, did you live here?”

“I’ve been out of town,” he explains numbly.

“Dude, that sucks. And right in the middle of con’ season. Good luck finding a hotel!”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs as the guy walks away. “Thanks.”

—

The next safehouse he tries isn’t in much better shape.

He remembers hearing about Freeze going on a rampage a few days into his trip, but he hadn’t realized another one of his places had been caught in the cross-fire. The cold burst the pipes, and now the whole place is undergoing renovation.

He hears all this from the crotchety old lady who lives in the next building over (her building needs renovation too, but will the city pay for it? Of course not, they weren’t ‘directly impacted by disaster’ so they won’t see a penny of relief funds even though their pipes are on the same line. Typical) and when he finally extricates himself from the conversation, it’s almost noon, his second cup of coffee is long-since empty and he’s at the end of his goddamn rope.

By the time he sees his next safehouse, he isn’t even surprised anymore.

“Does God hate me?” He asks the boarded up building. “Is this a punishment? What did I do? What the fuck did I do?”

He is 99% sure at this point that someone is burning his bolt holes. There’s a short list of people with the resources and the intel to do it, and while he’s not above ruling out the likes of Damian just yet, he seriously doubts anyone wearing a bat is behind this.

Besides, Dick would have noticed by now if Damian were sinking this many resources into convoluted covert ops designed to make Tim suffer. Definitely. Probably.

Fuck it.

He goes around the back and hops on top of his suitcase to reach the clunky camera watching the back entrance. This building is on the shittier side, closer to Crime Alley than his other haunts; cameras break all the time around here. He’ll have it replaced after he’s a functional human again.

Reportedly, this building was tagged for ‘high toxicity levels’— which is pretty typical for any building where fear toxin or Joker gas are found in any amount. They must have found a lot to condemn the whole building, but Tim is confident he’ll be fine. The airborne shit dissipates to safe levels within hours depending on the ventilation. If it was in the air, it’s long gone. Anything else needs to be injected to be effective.

Once the camera’s busted, he kicks out the boards and heads inside.

He drags his suitcase in after him, and mourns the shower he probably won’t be getting. The hall lights are out, and chances are the water’s been shut off along with the electricity. But at this point, he simply does not give a shit. All he wants are four walls and a mattress.

Leaning on the door to his floor to make it open, he stumbles out into the hallway—

And catches sight of the glistening curved dagger stabbed into the wall next to his door, the hilt gleaming green in the sinking sun.

“Nope,” Tim says, spinning on his heel and going back down the stairwell double time. “Nope, nope, nope.”

He is now 100% certain that the League of Assassins has been burning his bolt holes. Ra’s al fucking Ghul can eat his whole ass.

—

Seven blocks away, Tim sits on the sidewalk in front of a bodega and contemplates a third cup of coffee. The shittiest one yet.

See, here’s the thing.

The thing is, he has options.

He could go to the Manor. Or the penthouse. Or to Steph’s place. He’d have to answer some unnecessary questions like ‘Master Timothy, you know you can’t sleep on aircraft, why didn’t you sleep before your flight’ or ‘Tim, why didn’t you come here first, you know you can still come to me if you’re in trouble, right’ or ‘why did you agree to fumigate your fucking house, you loser, lmao’. (Stephanie is not going to let him live this down).

He is absolutely certain that he would be welcomed in any of these places and after a completely undeserved amount of fussing, he could take a fucking nap and someone else would deal with the League bullshit for him.

And that’s the thing. There’s the rub.

No one should have to deal with the League bullshit for him. This is his problem. He’s not in a hurry to bring them down on anyone. Not even Damian.

With grim resignation, he reaches for his phone to try and find a hotel room (during a con’ weekend apparently, RIP) and maybe get a fucking handle on this whole stupid thing, when he hears:

“Hand over your wallet!”

He lifts his head slowly and finds himself looking down the barrel of a gun. A gun held by some guy wearing a ski mask in broad fucking daylight. There’s another guy next to him who’s watching the street. There’s a third guy somewhere behind him who he can’t see, but he can hear the scuff of his boots.

Sure. Why not. With the day he’s had, this might as well happen. He holds up his hands placatingly.

Tim contemplates his muggers. The guy with the gun is jittery, probably new to this, or hopped up on something. He keeps glancing between Tim and the bodega behind him, so they were probably planning a run on the till. Might have chickened out, or thought Tim was an easier target, an unexpected meal ticket plopped right in their path. Or they were already inside when Tim sat down, which wouldn’t bode well for his situational awareness seeing as he just came out of there himself.

The grinding gears of his tired brain keep getting caught on the fact that this is happening in the middle of the fucking day. Tim glances at the street corner and bites his cheek in frustration. Yeah, he’s smack dab in the middle of the Alley. Figures.

“Are you deaf or somethin’ man?” The guy with the gun is saying. “Hand over your fucking wallet!”

The other guy doesn’t seem as crazy-eyed. He’s nervous, though. He keeps looking around like he’s expecting Batman to materialize, to come whistling down the street like a beat cop.

“Dude, come on, it’s not fucking worth it,” he says, grabbing at the gunman’s shoulder. “We got the money, let’s fucking go.”

The third guy kicks over Tim’s suitcase. “Yeah, come on, Don, let’s just grab this shit and bounce.”

Tim can’t do anything. He’s not Red Robin right now. He’s Timothy Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and he’s getting mugged in front of a bodega at two in the afternoon in a rumpled suit and tie and still toting his suitcase from his early morning flight.

His hands are trembling from unspent adrenaline, too much caffeine, and not enough sleep. His eyelids are the heaviest they’ve ever been in his godforsaken life. His ears are ringing. He could knock all three of them down in less time than it takes to tie his shoelaces. But he can’t.

“Shut up, Johnny, look at him shaking! What’s he gonna do? If he doesn’t wanna get shot, rich boy’s gonna hand over all his fucking shit!”

“Hey, let’s just—” Tim tries to say.

Stars explode across his vision as Tim takes a punch he genuinely wasn’t expecting. He stares up at the blue sky for about half a second, more confused than anything else, before the gunman grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him up to shout in his face.

“What’s it gonna be, pretty boy?!”

Caught on the exhausted edge between vigilante training and the preservation of his identity, Tim is frozen. He doesn’t know what to do. He kind of wants to cry.

“Gee, Donny, what is it gonna be?” A fourth voice says, full of false cheer.

Tim blinks. So do the muggers.

He knows that voice.

“Who the fuck—?” The gunman drops Tim, spinning around and into a fist. He tumbles down to the ground, out cold.

Everything happens pretty quickly after that.

Jason Todd is in civvies. He’s sporting a worn out looking hoodie and a pair of jeans that have seen better days. But his heavy boots are the same ones he wears for his uniform, and the kick he delivers to Johnny’s face is all Red Hood.

Almost in a daze, Tim watches him fight with the usual mix of seething envy and raw desire that rears its ugly head any time he gets to see Jason in action. He’s fast, decisive. Efficient. Beautiful. Tim wishes he had Jason’s skill. And he wishes—

Well. He wishes a lot of things about Jason Todd.

Tim is pretty sure he and Jason are friends. Maybe. Probably. They’ve pretty much moved past the whole “replacement”, “zombie-dickhead” part of their relationship and have graduated to occasionally providing backup on ops that overlap in each other’s sectors, ganging up on Dick when they’re all in the same room, and maintaining a surprisingly steady stream of vigilante gossip to keep each other in the loop.

So, ok, yes, due to the aforementioned, he’s pretty sure they’re friends. And also because Jason wouldn’t have stuck his neck out for him otherwise. He would have just let him get mugged.

Watching Jason fight is one of Tim’s favorite pastimes. But right now, Tim’s usual appreciation is soured by the gut-roiling embarrassment of being caught in this position by Jason of all people. His eyes itch. His cheek throbs. He’s so fucking tired.

“Hey, little stalker,” Jason says suddenly, holding out an expectant hand in Tim’s face. The muggers are groaning on the ground around them. Tim isn’t sure when that happened. He might have zoned out. “Did you know that you had a stalker for a change?”

Tim flushes. “I resent that. I haven’t stalked anyone in years.” He takes the hand. It’s warm, and calloused, and big around his.

Jason laughs at him and yanks him to his feet. “Liar.”

Tim’s mouth twists into a scowl. He tries to glare at Jason, but he can feel himself swaying and Jason still hasn’t let go of him, and it’s ruining everything.

Also, lowkey, Jason is right. But in his defense, it is literally their job to stalk people, so.

“I haven’t stalked you in years then. Just other guys. Bad guys. Not non-bad guys. Fuck. You know what I mean. Whatever.” He pauses; recalibrates. “Had?” He asks.

Jason’s eyebrows inched higher and higher the longer Tim talked. Tim doesn’t blame him.

“Yeah. Had.”

So much for the League, Tim muses.

Jason gives him a once over before tugging decisively on Tim’s wrist, easily grabbing the handle of his suitcase and starting to walk with both in tow, to Tim’s rising horror.

“You’re coming with me, shortstack. What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk? You look like shit.”

Tim tries to yank his wrist out of Jason’s grip, but the asshole doesn’t budge. “I’m not drunk,” Tim snaps. “I’m fine. I’m just. I’m just… really tired.”

Jason stops abruptly, and Tim stumbles into his shoulder.

“I can see that,” he says, steadying Tim with an amused but ultimately sympathetic look. He loads Tim’s suitcase onto the back of a motorcycle that Tim literally just now noticed.

God, he’s fucked. And not even in a fun way.

“C’mon,” Jason says. “Don’t fall asleep on the way over— road rash sucks ass.”

—

They don’t talk on the way to— wherever Jason is taking them, but once they’re parked in a random garage and walking towards the elevators, the game of twenty questions begins.

“So why’ve you got League assassins after you, anyway? Piss in a lazarus pit? Push over the baby brat on the playground?”

“Ra’s al Ghul wants my body,” Tim says, dejected but resigned to this bizarre fact of his life. “Since I was seventeen, I’m pretty sure.”

Jason wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

“I don’t think it’s a sex thing? But it could also be a sex thing.”

“Again. Fucking ew.”

“Yeah. Also I blew up a bunch of his shit and I think he’s still salty I got away with it.”

“Is that why you weren’t at the Manor?” Jason asks, herding Tim out of the elevator and down a long hallway. “Or anywhere but a random street in Crime Alley?”

Tim nods. “Yeah. They found all my safehouses, but— my mess. My problem.”

Jason thwacks him upside the head.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

“You’re the dumbest person on the planet.”

“Am not. B is on-planet right now.”

“Then you’re pretty fucking close,” Jason snarks, fishing out some keys and opening one of the apartment doors.

Tim scoffs at him as he’s pushed inside. “Oh, please. Don’t try to tell me you would let Dick swoop in and solve all your problems for you.”

Jason rolls his eyes, stepping into the side kitchen and popping open the freezer door of the fridge.

“Dickiebird can’t even solve his own problems,” he says as he rummages. “But maybe when I’m fucked up enough to let three nobodies robbing a fucking bodega get the jump on me, that’s a sign that, maybe, it might be time to call in the cavalry. Dick isn’t the only person who’s got your back.” He presses an ice pack to Tim’s face until he takes it himself, and keeps steering him through the apartment. “Just saying.”

Tim would protest with all of his very good reasons why Jason is definitely wrong here, but he’s too busy processing the fact that Jason has led him into a bedroom. With a bed. There’s a bed, with a mattress and pillows and blankets. Right there. Tim stares at it with lustful eyes.

Jason catches him staring. He rolls his eyes, but he’s sporting a small smile that Tim has the presence of mind to memorize. He walks over to a dresser and pulls out a big shirt and a pair of shorts that he hands to Tim.

“Look. If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here. No guarantees I’ll be always around, but, yeah. Mi casa es su casa, or whatever.”

Tim eyes him up, clutching the bundle of Jason-smelling fabric in his hands. “And you’d do that for me because…why, exactly?”

Jason flicks his forehead, a stinging reprimand. Tim hisses.

“Because, dumbass, you need help and I feel like it. And you don’t actually suck to be around, so shut up and be grateful.”

“Oh, yes,” Tim deadpans, rubbing at his forehead. “So grateful to be allowed the privilege of squatting with you.”

The thing of it is, Tim is grateful. But Jason doesn’t need to know that.

Jason squawks, and before Tim can duck, he’s snatched Tim around the neck in a headlock. His arm is thick and doesn’t budge no matter how Tim shoves and kicks. The ice pack and the clothes go flying, and Tim just about dies. Jason is warm.

“Jason—!”

“Brat!” Jason crows, not giving an inch. “I paid for this place fair and square— you’re the only squatter here!”

“Blood money doesn’t count as square!”

“Tell that to half of Gotham, kid.”

“I’m trying to, thanks for noticing,” Tim says, finally wrenching himself free of Jason’s grip, stumbling into the bed and giving into its siren song. He sits down heavily on the edge, toppling over sideways and reaching pathetically for the fallen ice pack that’s just out of his reach.

“And don’t call me kid—” he complains, muffled by the pillow. It also smells like Jason. “You’re barely two years older than me.”

The cold ice pack is pressed into his fingers. He cracks an eye open to look, but Jason is just smirking at him, like he’s giving Tim the win. Ass.

“Coulda fooled me, shortstack.”

Tim rolls his eyes, and onto his back, toeing off his shoes and letting them clatter to the floor. He can’t tell if Jason’s bed is the best bed in the world, or if he’s just deliriously inventing things.

Frankly, Jason Todd’s bed is the last place he ever thought he’d end up, this morning or otherwise, so he’s never bothered to speculate. He does not have a contingency plan for this.

“Is there a reason you keep calling me short,” he complains, “Or will I just need to fill in the blanks myself?”

“Can’t help it. You’re just so small,” Jason coos. Tim props himself up on an elbow at that, raising a disgusted eyebrow.

“You don’t hear me constantly talking about how big you are.”

Jason grins like he just won the lottery; Tim shuts his eyes the second it’s out of his mouth.

“Baby, you don’t know how big I am.”

He does, actually. Not in a creepy stalker way, just— there was this one time. A big rogue breakout at Arkham, all-hands on deck type of situation; Tim, Cass, and Jason were covering Poison Ivy in the park. Acid-spitting pitcher plants were involved.

And look, Jason’s tactical gear is fine in the day to day, but it’s not like any of them had time to prep a neutralizing agent, so when Jason needed his pants off, stat…uh. Well. Tim was right there.

He knows, okay?

“Alright,” he rallies, trying desperately not to replay the memory of Jason adjusting himself through his boxers. All of himself. “I walked right into that one.”

“Oh, trust me. You’ll know if you’ve walked into it.”

Tim scoffs, but he can feel how red his face is.

And the thing is. He says it without really meaning to.

But he still means it.

“You gonna put your money where your mouth is, big guy?”

The change is immediate. Jason had been halfway out the door, but now he turns to Tim, giving him his full, undivided attention. He looks at Tim, laid out in Jason's bed, giving him a very slow once over. The scrutiny is at once nerve-wracking and thrilling.

“Thought you didn’t want my money,” Jason murmurs.

The temperature in the room spikes. If it weren’t for the slow throb of his bruised cheek, Tim would think that he’s already asleep and dreaming.

But he isn’t. He’s very much aware that he’s wide awake.

Tim swallows. “Well. It’s not your money I want.”

Jason’s grin is electric.

He stalks over to the bed, and Tim is frozen like a rabbit, waiting to see what he’ll do next. Jason settles a knee on the sheets between Tim’s legs, looming over Tim and boxing him in against the mattress. Tim’s free hand reaches up of its own accord to tangle in the collar of Jason’s hoodie, and the cotton is softer than he expected.

Jason’s eyes rove over his face, dark and heavy. He catches Tim’s face in his hand, swiping his thumb lightly across the bruising hot ache of his cheekbone. He leans in deliberate and slow and—

—and stops about an inch away from Tim’s mouth.

“Get some sleep, babybird,” Jason teases, his breath puffing gently over the skin of Tim’s lips. “You can proposition me again tomorrow.”

“It’s, like, 3:30 in the afternoon,” Tim argues, breathless.

“Yeah, and your body thinks it’s 3:30 in the morning. You’re dead on your feet. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, and go the fuck to sleep.”

Jason moves to rise. But Tim hooks a stubborn arm around his neck and pulls him down that last remaining inch.

The kiss is— bad. At first.

Tim basically smashed their mouths together to prove a point, and Jason muffles a surprised sound against Tim’s teeth. He lands heavily on top of Tim at an awkward angle, and he’s kind of crushing him. Tim refuses to let go, but— Jason doesn’t pull away.

Jason gentles the kiss instead, and Tim thrills. He levers himself up onto his elbow, wrapping an anchoring arm around Tim’s back. He finds a home between Tim’s legs, and he lets Tim kiss him until Tim's lips are tingling and his fingers go slack; until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

Somewhere between fifteen minutes and a small eternity later, Jason presses one more kiss to the corner of his mouth. He curls around Tim on his side, and Tim turns his face into Jason’s neck with a soft wondering sigh.

“I’ll keep it. Promise. Wait n’ see,” Tim mumbles. Jason snorts, but doesn’t budge, and Tim can hear his smile in his voice, lilted and lulling.

“Sure, babybird. I’ll wait. I got nowhere else to be.”

Tim is already asleep.

#one hundred thousand years have passed #i creak up out of the soil gasping and hacking and coughing #'i lived bitch'#'have some jaytim that grew legs on me'#my writing #asked and answered #jaytim #ladytauria #hurt/comfort #this one is sillier and more light-hearted than the other ones #the hurt is more like 'near tears travel exhaustion' than your typical aftermath of violence lol but it so definitely counts #i held a gun to the head of the muse that said 'this is way too short' and pulled the fucking trigger #i KNOW it's a very fast get together but i did Not want this to become my next 5 digit wordcount fic okay. okay. oka #the bones of a long 'tim and jason vs the league of assassins' fic is hiding here #and if i actually wrote that this would have ended much differently #but i am Not Writing That okay I am Writing Cowboys and also Werewolves Right Now. I Do Not Have Time For This!!!!!!#prompt fill

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