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Jason hates doing this - really hates it, enough that he barely does it at all, even though the money's pretty good. He's not an idiot - he knows it's not safe, especially not in this town, where getting picked up by a crazy is not just likely, but fucking inevitable.
When it was just him, it had been easier. He'd been hungry, sometimes, sure, but there were places to get fed. The shelters weren't any safer than the streets, but Jason knew how to keep warm, and where to go when it rained, and which churches would feed you and let you raid the lost and found.
It's different, now that he's somehow acquired another mouth to feed.Tim's got his own kind of know-how - he can fight pretty well for such a skinny little guy, and he knows weirdly useful stuff, like how the Gotham City Museum of Art doesn't charge admission on Tuesdays, and there's a room in the back with padded benches where they show a movie about Picasso over and over with the lights down and the sound low. He knows where every single Martha Wayne Memorial Youth Center in the city is, even if he won't go in himself because they actually check you against missing persons before they let you bed down for the night.
He knows other stuff, too, like when Batman's going to be rousting the skels on their block, when they need to move squats because somebody downstairs caught his attention. Jason doesn't care much - he's not afraid of the Bat, he's met the goddamned Bat, but Tim seems pretty sure that if he gets nabbed, by the cops or by the capes, he's going to get sent back to whatever he's running from.
Jason's not sure what that is - you don't ask questions like that, where he lives - but he knows the kid wasn't born to this, and whatever drove him away from the money he came from, it's not something he's ever going back to - not if Jason has anything to say about it.
Which is why he's here, in this dingy little motel room, fumbling with his belt to stall, because he really fucking hates this. It's not the act so much as what it means - that he's down and out and desperate enough to bend over for this loser, to get down on his knees and pretend he likes it, to be a fucking slave for the hour he's been paid for.
Maybe it would be different if Jason were a little older, and the men he went home with were just lonely and pathetic, and not goddamned pedophiles.
The loser's breathing hard and wet already, and he's clumsy with his own pants in his excitement. He gets them open and they're halfway down his thighs when the lamplight swings wildly, dizzily, and then fizzles and dies in a crash of breaking porcelain. Jason's scrambled back, half off the bed, before his eyes adjust to the glow from the bathroom and he recognizes the figure standing over the wreckage and the crumpled form of the man Jason won't be bending over for after all.
Tim is supposed to be at St. Sebastian's with Manny and Tulio and Sister Claire. It's fucking cold outside, and Jason had thought, apparently foolishly, that that would be enough to keep the kid in one place while he...went for some smokes. "The fuck, man?" Jason growls, low, because this is a cheap motel with cheaper walls, and somebody probably heard that crash.
"You said you weren't going to do this," Tim says, and the frown's all over his eyes but nowhere near his mouth.
"Unless I have to. We've gotta eat, kid. Shit, we've got to get out of here." He jumps up, running his fingers through his hair. "Shit. Shit! Your prints are going to be all over the--" he breaks off when he looks over and sees Tim standing there, palms out, gloved fingers spread wide. Jason's pretty sure the rush of pride and affection that gives him isn't healthy.
"He's not dead." Tim crouches and turns the guy over to dig his wallet out of his pocket. The john's cock, now flaccid, flops against the carpet. "Give me a little credit, Jay."
Jason laughs once, high and unsteady, and slaps his palm over his mouth to stifle it. Not now. They may not have much time. He yanks one of the pillowcases loose and goes to wipe down the bathroom, because he can't remember what he touched when he was washing up.
When he's done, he finds Tim smirking a little as he digs in the mini-fridge. "How much was he paying you?"
Jason bites his lip and doesn't answer.
Tim comes up with two bottles of Zesti and an orange, and they disappear into the pockets of the john's coat, which Tim is wearing over his own. He turns to grin at Jason and hold up a fat roll of bills. The one on the outside is a hundred. "What'll this get me?"
"My undying devotion," Jason says, and steps forward to grab the bills and count them. Eleven hundred. "Jesus."
"The lining of his suitcase," Tim says, before he can ask.
Jason yanks him into a sudden, rough hug and kisses his cheek. "I motherfucking love you, kid." Tim is awkward and stiff in his arms, but he doesn't try to pull away, like he did the first time Jason hugged him. "Come on. Let's go grab the hermanos. I owe Manny a twenty, and the little guy needs feeding. And then we'll go get pizza. And beer. I'm getting you drunk."
Tim looks at him sideways, still just standing there with his arms at his sides as he gets the life squeezed out of him. "I'm not sure it's such a good idea to impair our judgment like that."
Jason rolls his eyes and ruffles the kids hair before he lets him go. "We'll watch each other's backs," he says easily, and smiles.