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Jason is nearing the end of a very pointed message to one of his dumbass underlings, telling him to get his guys in line around the Alley’s elementary on Sixth and Mayflower, when a timer beeps in the kitchen. Finally, Jason thinks. His roast is ready.
Jason kicks his legs out and places his laptop down on the maple and steel coffee table in front of him. Humming to the tune of “Dust in the Wind”, he makes his way over to his kitchen. It’s nowhere near the size of the one in the manor, but it serves him just fine. His cabinets are stocked up with the good stuff, and he didn’t fuck around with that teflon pan bullshit. Jason’s order of priorities back when he came back to Gotham were to first find an apartment, invest in a solid stainless steel cookware set, and then establish his rep. He followed this to the tee.
He takes note of the plates piling up in his sink, and promptly decides that they’re a Future Jason problem. He picks up his favorite set of Wonder Woman printed oven mitts off the counter and pulls down the oven door. The scent of meat and spices hits his nose, and Jason breathes them in with satisfaction. God, he’s been wanting to recreate this for what feels like forever. Just a few minutes of cooldown, and then a serving of Alfred’s famous pot roast is all his.
He grabs the Dutch oven with both of his hands and lifts it from the wire rack. With well-honed grace, he turns on his left foot to face the living area and kicks out with his right to slam the door closed behind him. It’s at this moment that Jason lets out a very manly yelp.
There’s a mouse on the counter.
It’s black with brown speckles and makes direct, beady eye contact with him. It squeaks a few times before peetering out. Jason wants it gone immediately. The only weapon at his immediate disposal is his glorious dinner, though, so Jason sets it aside far away from the unwelcome creature. He swings back around and walks to the fridge, where his broom is haphazardly leaning in the narrow wall space. What if he just shimmied it away? Jason’s dealt with enough mice over the years. It should spook pretty easily.
Jason and the mouse stare one another down as he reaches out with his broom, dragging it along the counter. The bristles brush the mouse’s twitchy whiskers, and he gives a gentle nudge. But it just stays where it is. He tries a solid push next. The mouse moves a few inches against its will and then crawls back for more, like some kind of masochist.
“Alright, you asked for it.”
He pulls the broom head above the right of the mouse and gives a mighty smack down onto the counter, close enough to startle but not hurt the little fucker. Finally, the mouse changes its behavior.
As if prepared for such a battle, it retreats into the living room without a sound. God, couldn’t it just crawl back into whatever hole it came from that Jason doesn’t want to think about? Either behind the stove or in some small island crevice or… yep, he’s stopping there.
Jason sees it climb the side of his sofa. Great, now he’s gonna have to vacuum that shit. Using the right couch arm as a diving board, it leaps onto his coffee table and plops right onto his laptop. What, does it want to look up the best way to fuck with the human whose apartment it’s squatting in? Is there an actual brain or something behind those black eyes?
Tonight was looking pretty good, all things considered. Sure, he has to do the annoying part of running a morally-acceptable crime empire and tell his guys to not sell drugs near schools, again, but at least he is gonna eat good. Even if the mouse just went back into the walls instead of whatever the hell it’s doing now, things would be salvageable. But the breaking point of Jason’s evening comes down hard and fast.
It starts fucking typing.
The mouse picks up his front and slams onto the keys. A nonsensical jumble of letters appear in the draft box. The mouse skulks to the top of the keyboard bar and travels along the speakers, over towards the backspace bar. It’s in this moment that Jason considers that he’s still dead and joined in the afterlife by a sentient mouse hellbent on messing with his message chain.
Jason tries to grab it with his free hand so it doesn’t junk up his new laptop, but it bites on his pointer finger, hard.
“Hey!” Jason draws his hand back and wipes at the blood. He better not get rabies.
Ignoring Jason, it holds its paws on the backspace key until the remnants of the keyboard slam are gone. It also deletes the previous two sentences Jason typed. Great. Alongside tossing this mouse onto the street, he’ll have to redo his UMD sorority-style email to Jerry.
The mouse crawls back to its previous spot. Now balancing on three paws and reaching out with its fourth, the mouse presses down on the keys, one at a time. “tim” is painstakingly summoned on screen. The mouse stops typing and looks up.
Fuck it. His life is already crazy enough. Might as well play along.
“Tim? Who’s Tim? I thought you’d be more of a Chuck. Or Mickey. Will you go away if I give you a cookie?” The mouse just stares at Jason.
“Alright, alright. Tim. Let’s say you and I both know a Tim. What’s he gotta do with this? And how do you know that name?” The mouse moves down to reach the space bar and a lower key, and then comes back up.
“me,” is the response Jason receives.
“Yeah, I get that you know him, dipshit. A little more would be great.”
“tim” is added back in, and it finally clicks. Little Timmy Drake, Robin number whatever is now extra pint-sized. And this also meant another thing. Did the Bats seriously figure out his new hideout location, again?
“Holy shit. You got yourself turned into a mouse? And you thought I’m the one you gotta go to?”
“close”
“Yeah, right. Bats has plenty of hideouts in the city that you could’ve crawled to. And if you’re so nimble, couldn’t you have typed on your little Bat-beeper? I was never allowed to go out as Robin without one.”
“broke”
“Well, isn’t that convenient for both of us!” Jason sighs. “Let me guess, some baddie smacked you with some stupid spell, and you want to reverse it yesterday. Are they still out causing problems, too?”
Tim shook his little head no.
“Well that’s just dandy, but you and I both know I don’t exactly have the materials to fix that here. And I ain’t bringing ya to the-”
“manor” Tim predictably types, having ignored Jason as he spoke.
“Yeah, no.” Jason’s not going there. Sure, maybe he’s on better terms with them now, but it’s still a line he’s not willing to cross. He hasn’t gone back since, well. “You can hitch a ride on the bus, can’tcha? And where’s Batman, anyway?”
“busy”
“Yeah, right. He’s probably out looking for you now. Leaving you by some random rooftop for when he’s looking to brood over another lost Robin sounds good to me. He’ll find you in no time.”
“pls”
“Nope. I could mail you, though.”
Tim holds down the s key indefinitely. Jason gets the message.
“Kid, it’s just not happening. But since I’m the best, I’ll play Fairy Godfather and drop you at the base Bruce has in Newtown.” Tim’s ears perk up. “Assuming the code has changed since I last raided your stash?”
“f5V-” Jason interrupts Tim’s best Twister impression by stretching across the keyboard while holding down the shift key.
“Trick question, I already know it. Let’s bounce.”
Mourning the pot roast’s warmth already, Jason picks up the keys to his bike and apartment. He scoops up Tim in his hand, who lets out an indignant yelp.
They’re at the private garage within a few minutes. Luckily, Tim settled down once he climbed Jason’s arm to perch on his shoulder. Jason definitely wasn’t bothered by the feeling of little paws crawling on his arm at all, no sir.
Kicking his bike stand back and starting the engine feels like breathing to Jason. At least this part of the night is passing easily.
“You’re gonna wanna get somewhere a bit more secure, kid. I ain’t going slow just because you’re tiny enough to blow away. I wanna get back as soon as possible. You interrupted dinner.”
Jason hears what sounds like a sigh before Tim wiggles his way into the front of Jason’s leather jacket. It’s as good of a place as any.
He peels out of the garage and begins the drive to the base. Tim isn’t much of one for conversation in this state, so the drive passes in silence, just how Jason likes it. Tim might not be one for conversation in general, but Jason wouldn’t know. He’s barely talked to the kid. Once again, that’s the way Jason prefers things to be. Trying with this kid, or any of them, is a bridge he's not willing to cross. He’s traversed that path before. He knows how it ends. And even if he misses the way it was, for those few months where everything felt shiny and perfect, it’s better this way. For all of them.
The nondescript building that houses their Newtown base comes into view. Jason parks his bike and enters in the long ass code on the door. Three beeps and a light click sound in the silence of the lot. Jason pulls the door open.
The familiar warmth of a Wayne-kitted base washes over him. It never fails to make him feel like he’s part of something bigger, even if the room feels smaller now that he’s shot up a few inches. Tim shimmies his way out of Jason’s jacket and leaps onto the nearby table that houses one of many monitors.
“I figure you got it from here, yeah?” Considering Tim’s typing capabilities despite his size, he’ll be logged in and messaging the Bats very shortly. Jason would be shocked if it takes more than ten minutes for one of them to be on route. It’s time for Jason to go. “You better be Robin sized next time I see ya.”
Tim looks up from where he began furiously clacking away to give Jason a pint-sized wave. It sends Jason over the edge into a cackle. The picture in front of him is straight out of a kid’s bedtime story book.
“Bye, kid.” He walks to the door, which echoes as it closes behind him. It’s cold outside.
Early on the drive home, he looks back once. The base is just barely visible, until it’s not. A car zips beside him as the wind whips against his face and the empty space of his unzipped jacket.
Once he’s finally sitting on his couch with a spoonful of pot roast in hand, his phone buzzes.
“Thank you for helping him, lad. I’m sure your dinner is delicious, but perhaps you should come home and have it directly from the source. I’ll make your favorite this Sunday.”
Jason cracks a small smile despite himself, and doesn’t respond.