Two nights in a safe house. Note / warning: includes non-graphic references to past canon trauma. Also that it's a little complicated for them to give and receive comfort.

Waking up the morning after fear toxin, Jason always noticed the taste first. He'd brushed his teeth the night before but it'd showed up right on schedule anyway, something different from a hangover or garlic or death.

Probably more like garlic than death, which was as fucked up and weird as anything in his life.
He stayed still for a moment out of habit, evaluating his surroundings. When he opened his eyes he was where he expected, in one of the Bat network of safe houses, curled up tight on a single cushion at one end of a sofa in the small apartment's living room. He ached all over from sleeping tense, limbs tucked in to make a smaller target. In the chill dawn light coming through the blinds, the fear toxin fully out of his system, that blatant physical admission of terror sent a wash of humiliation through his body. Jason consciously relaxed his jaw at the flare of pain when he gritted his teeth. Eased out his limbs. Watched for a response from the other person in the room.

Dick was in the armchair on the other side of the sofa, legs tossed carelessly over one arm, fucking around on his phone. He didn't stir, which indicated either a stunning lapse in situational awareness--which, Jason had finally fallen asleep because Dick was theoretically standing guard against both outside threats and anything Jason might do under the residual influence, so thanks so fucking much, Dickface--or that he'd clocked Jason waking up before he moved, which meant he'd been paying close enough attention that Jason's skin crawled a bit in response.

It was a standard part of the aftermath of fear toxin, this feeling like his nerves had been moved to the outside of his skin and sunburned, and Jason hated it.

Dick had changed out of costume sometime while Jason was sleeping--and Jason hadn't registered it and woken up, which made his skin crawl more--into t-shirt and track pants. His face wasn't bruised. His torso probably was, from when he'd tackled Jason to get the antidote into him and Jason had fought back. Dick was sitting easily enough, though, so it couldn't have been too bad; though Dick knew as well as any of them and better than most how to lie with his body to downplay damage while doing the Gotham gala rounds. He could be doing so now, out of habit or because he thought Jason might feel guilty about it.

Jason didn't. Bruises were a standard occupational hazard and if Nightwing had been able to take down even a fear-gassed, confused Red Hood without some damage that shit would just be embarrassing. But he didn't like it, either. He wanted any marks he left to be intentional.

When he stood, Dick's eyes did flick towards him. "Morning," Dick said, calm and neutral, and on the one hand a chipper "Good morning, Little Wing!" would have made Jason want to punch him, but on the other hand the way Dick wasn't surprised and was clearly tailoring his mood to Jason's made Jason want to punch him anyway.

"Hey," he said instead, and for a moment more they stared at each other in wary silence.

"Anything new?" Jason said with a jerk of his chin to Dick's phone.

"Nothing Gotham related," Dick said with a shrug. The other Bats had tracked Scarecrow down not long after Dick and Jason had arrived at the safe house. "You want the celebrity gossip?"

"Nope," Jason said, and they stared at each other some more. Jason crossed his arms defensively, glancing around the apartment. His jacket was still slung on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, his guns still out on the table along with Dick's escrima. Dick had insisted on that. He'd let the guns stay in Jason's sight, though, a visual security blanket, and he'd left Jason his knives. He hadn't even asked for them. And yeah, the antidote had kicked in enough by that point that Jason wasn't going to be a purposeful threat to him, and yeah, if Dick had pushed it Jason probably would have grabbed his guns and gone instead of agreeing to a night of monitoring, but Jason found himself suddenly and resoundingly irritated. Fear toxin was experimental and sometimes had unpredictable aftereffects, hence the fucking 12 hours of monitoring, and there was Dick, barefoot and weaponless and comfily ensconced in a chair with celebrity gossip, and still apparently full of confidence that he would be able to handle whatever Jason threw at him.

It made Jason want to throw something at him.

Dick was sitting straighter now, and the wariness in his eyes had grown, which sent a flare of visceral satisfaction up Jason's spine even as it made something else in his stomach shrivel. Dick was waiting, Jason knew, probably not for a physical blow but for Jason to pick a fight, to try to shred Dick's composure in retaliation for seeing Jason vulnerable and scared. The part of Jason that felt like his nerves had been run over by a cheese grater wanted to oblige.

He would have not so long ago, he knew. Picked a verbal or physical fight, or left in the middle of the night because he never would have gone to sleep, or never agreed to monitoring in the first place. He'd gone for that option once in a similar situation, not fear toxin but something unknown, not long into the truce. He'd walked away and ignored Nightwing saying, "Just...text me to give me an all clear tomorrow, then," and then ditched Gotham for a month and burned the number he'd been using; and felt meanly glad at the thought of Dick waiting and worrying. (Or maybe not, who fucking knew, maybe relieved that Jason wasn't his problem for a while.)

Part of Jason wanted a fight, and part of Jason didn't want to be predictable like a kid throwing a tantrum when he hadn't gotten a nap, and part of Jason...part of Jason wanted to go back three minutes, before he'd stood up, when he'd had a bad taste in his mouth and sore muscles, but the light coming through the blinds had indicated that there might be sun today, and Dick had been quiet and relaxed and felt no threat in Jason's presence. That moment when Dick hadn't been expecting Jason to try to hurt him.

They stared at each other, and Dick opened his mouth to say something that would probably tip things in the wrong direction, and Jason blurted, "I'm going to take a shower," and walked out of the room.

There were clothes and a variety of toiletries in the linen closet near the bathroom, along with towels. Dick was the primary user of this safe house and the one who checked its defenses and kept it stocked, but it was still nominally a family safe house, so the clothes were of varying sizes. Jason grabbed a t-shirt in his size, underwear, socks. They could have been meant for Bruce, but the toiletries shelf held Jason's brands of deodorant and shampoo, which was both creepy and comforting, par for the course with this fucked-up family.

He only glanced at his face in the bathroom mirror. Pale face, tired eyes, downturned mouth. Calmer than he felt. Calmer than he'd looked last night, when he'd washed his face and brushed his teeth and flicked quick glances up from the sink when he couldn't help it, to make sure the mirror didn't show anyone or anything behind him. Dick had offered a change of clothes last night, Jason hazily remembered, but the thought of stripping bare for even a moment had been impossible.

Taking off the layer of body armor now felt good. The t-shirt beneath it stunk; Jason kicked it in the corner, away from his jeans and boots he'd wear home. The hot water felt glorious and soothing on several layers, tamping down some of the spikiness from this morning. It had been a shit night and he was actively avoiding thinking of the worst of it, but--he was okay. He'd been through this before and the worst was past and he could deal.

Hell, he even had the familiar smells of his own shampoo and soap, which, when he thought about it more, what the fuck? Possibly Alfie's doing? Jason had to admit to curiosity about whether there'd been some actual directive that had gone out, and when in the truce it had taken place, about the logistical shit like this. "Please be aware that Master Jason now has access to the following safe houses and prefers one of the following brands of toothpaste." Was there going to come a day when he'd get a missive from Alfred: "Regarding your safe house on Elm," (known to the family, not far from four of the regular patrol routes, had already been used as an impromptu refuge by Cass and Steph just a couple weeks ago), "would you consider perhaps adding the following products to your linen closet?" And he probably would. Fuck.

Hell, he should go ahead and tell Steph that one was okay for her to use. Crime Alley kid solidarity. Jason hadn't minded when Cass and Steph showed up, got on fine with Steph and wanted her to have options. He should send her a text later on, tell her he was restocking Elm and ask if there was something he was supposed to add to his list if she and Cass were going to gate crash. She'd read through the lines to welcome.

Looking back, they'd been close to Elm than to here, last night. Jason had been too out of it to weigh in, but it was a little surprising that Dick hadn't brought him there, unless he'd made a calculation that whatever calm Jason would get from being in one of his own spaces would be outweighed by having an outsider there. If so, he was...probably right, but the calculation might be closer than Dick realized.

Jason didn't want to think too closely on that, so he shoved it down. Hot water and cleanness and rolling out his shoulders. Clean socks.

When he got out, Dick had his own neat stack of clothes waiting, saying, "I'm gonna take a turn," on a wide yawn. He'd left the TV on.

There was an opening for Jason to say casually that he was going to head out, but Jason missed the chance when the bathroom door shut. He could still leave. Dick might be expecting him to. It'd avoid awkward goodbyes and Jason trying to force out a thank you and a possible argument. It was kind of a jerk move to leave the safe house when Dick wouldn't know he was alone and undefended, but Jason could hang around quietly for 20 minutes or so outside to make sure no one went in.

Instead, though he settled his guns in their holsters and put his pack of clothes and helmet by the door for an easy exit later, he stayed. Checked his phone, flipping through e-mails and Gotham news sites and the other Bat reports from last night. Felt a resurgence of prickly irritation at Nightwing's bare bones report, mixed with a relief at its sparseness that irritated him further.

When Jason heard the shower go off, he considered a quick getaway again, but went to the kitchen instead. He probably wouldn't be able to spit out thanks in words, so breakfast would have to do. Because the thing was, he still felt an uprush of humiliated resentment that Dick had seen him defenseless, but he also knew he owed Dick, because riding out the aftermath of fear toxin on your own was a fucking nightmare in itself. The obligation of gratitude felt like a poisonous brick in his stomach--Jason didn't do well with debts--but there was a thread of warmth there too. Dick had gotten him the antidote promptly, and gotten them to safety, and disarmed himself so Jason would feel safer. He hadn't insisted on going to the Cave, just sat with Jason and watched endless hours of the Great British Baking Show until Jason unwound enough to get a few hours sleep, and he hadn't pried or urged Jason to talk about what he was afraid of.

For all that it'd been a bad night, it had also been the easiest come down Jason had ever had from fear toxin.