The thing was, Jason had never really hated Tim. Not as a person, anyway. He'd hated the fact that Bruce had given Robin to someone else. He'd been jealous of exactly how well Tim had worked alongside the stoic man. Jealous of his brilliance and how much better he was at being Robin than Jason had ever been.
Jason had been all exuberant energy and unending drive to help people, but he'd never really been a detective. Not like Bruce or Dick and certainly not like Tim. He wasn't dumb, he knew that, but things that took Dick or Tim only seconds to connect his brain didn't see the connection for a minute. Tim had been the Robin that he could never have been, even if he hadn't died. He'd hated the idea that even if he had come home after that trip, Bruce probably still would have replaced him. He'd been a better son than partner.
At least, he'd thought. The batarang scar on his throat seemed to tell him otherwise every time he saw it in a mirror.
Tim stepped in close and helped himself to the oversized medical kit he'd spread out over the table. His stomach twisted and tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the sharp sting of antiseptic and everything to do with the fact that he could smell his own shampoo mingling with the undertones that had to be just Tim. He was still as the younger boy worked, letting himself be poked and prodded and finally bandaged...and then the distraction of his wound was gone and all that was left was the heat of Tim's hand soaking into his side. His eyes like crystalline lasers, making his very being twitch to be perceived so completely. His own cornflower blue eyes flicked down to trace full lips...and in doing so, the faint scar on Tim's neck caught his attention and doused him in ice cold reality.
He'd left that scar. He couldn't even remember exactly which time it was that he'd left it, but he knew that he had. He'd left that scar without a second thought and Pit influences be damned, he'd done it with intent. At the time, he'd been so out of his own mind with manipulated anger and absolutely no control of his own emotional regulation....but he'd still done it. The Pit had done a lot to him, but it hadn't ever forced his hand.
Pulling away, he rubbed at the back of his neck as he moved to cross the room and put space between them.
"Nah, I'm fine. Thanks, though. I'm...I'm gunna shower real quick and then we can head back downstairs. I didn't lock anything if you want to not wait for me." He grabbed clothes as he spoke, then closed the bathroom door almost before his last sentence was finished.
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Jason had been all exuberant energy and unending drive to help people, but he'd never really been a detective. Not like Bruce or Dick and certainly not like Tim. He wasn't dumb, he knew that, but things that took Dick or Tim only seconds to connect his brain didn't see the connection for a minute. Tim had been the Robin that he could never have been, even if he hadn't died. He'd hated the idea that even if he had come home after that trip, Bruce probably still would have replaced him. He'd been a better son than partner.
At least, he'd thought. The batarang scar on his throat seemed to tell him otherwise every time he saw it in a mirror.
Tim stepped in close and helped himself to the oversized medical kit he'd spread out over the table. His stomach twisted and tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the sharp sting of antiseptic and everything to do with the fact that he could smell his own shampoo mingling with the undertones that had to be just Tim. He was still as the younger boy worked, letting himself be poked and prodded and finally bandaged...and then the distraction of his wound was gone and all that was left was the heat of Tim's hand soaking into his side. His eyes like crystalline lasers, making his very being twitch to be perceived so completely. His own cornflower blue eyes flicked down to trace full lips...and in doing so, the faint scar on Tim's neck caught his attention and doused him in ice cold reality.
He'd left that scar. He couldn't even remember exactly which time it was that he'd left it, but he knew that he had. He'd left that scar without a second thought and Pit influences be damned, he'd done it with intent. At the time, he'd been so out of his own mind with manipulated anger and absolutely no control of his own emotional regulation....but he'd still done it. The Pit had done a lot to him, but it hadn't ever forced his hand.
Pulling away, he rubbed at the back of his neck as he moved to cross the room and put space between them.
"Nah, I'm fine. Thanks, though. I'm...I'm gunna shower real quick and then we can head back downstairs. I didn't lock anything if you want to not wait for me." He grabbed clothes as he spoke, then closed the bathroom door almost before his last sentence was finished.