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He had to run.
He had to hide.
Tim bit down on the strangled whimper and burrowed further into the alcove, ignoring the wash of fire across his chest. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears and it was drowning out everything else.
Batman. He’d lost Batman. He didn’t know where he was and—
Footsteps echoed loudly, ringing in his ears. Tim dared to sneak a peek, and gasped hard. Out loud.
Red helmet. Leather jacket. Bright red bat emblazoned on heavily reinforced body armor. Oh no.
The helmet disengaged with a click-and-hiss as Tim ducked his head and hoped that the shadows were enough to cover the red of his costume. “Hey, kid, calm down. I’m not going to hurt you,” the Red Hood said, in a soothing tone he’d never heard before, “Someone beat you up?”
Tim remembered lying on the cold, stone floor in the basement of Titans Tower, staring up at the ceiling as blood dripped from the slash across his throat. “Go away,” Tim breathed out, his voice cracking.
Hood clearly didn’t know it was him. Tim had to get him to leave before he figured it out. Before Hood finished the job he’d started.
Whispers in his ears—Hood’s sneering venom, interspersed with softer tones—“You got an adult I can drop you with?”—and the poisonous coil of not good enough, replacement, pretender—“…somewhere safe…”—
No, no, he just wanted Hood to leave.
“I’m fine,” Tim hissed, and gasped when a jolt rang through his ribs. The towering shadow shifted closer and Tim hunched his head. “Please don’t hurt me,” squeaked out without his permission.
Stupid. Stupid. Like Hood would ever stop just because he asked politely.
“I won’t. I don’t hurt kids.” Well that was a big whooping lie. “Come here, let me help.”
Help? Hood? Tim tried to draw his cape up to hide his face, hoping that Hood would get bored enough to wander away.
A gloved hand caught on his collar and dragged him up. Tim had barely enough time to register the visible surprise before he was dropped.
Shit.
Tim tried to scramble back, get away, run, but his limbs were jittering and weak, and a hand tightened painfully in his collar as he was picked up again and deposited on top of something hard and cold.
This time, the malicious smirk crossing Hood’s face made it extremely clear that he knew exactly who he’d caught.
Tim tried to edge back, his breaths hitching as he leaned away from Hood, his mind stuttering as his heartbeat filled his ears. Hood’s gloved hand came up and Tim flinched back, but his movements were out of sync, all of them a beat too slow, and Tim only realized what was happening when his skin burned as Hood tore his mask off.
No. The mask was his identity. He had to get it back. The mask tied Robin to Timothy Drake and Bruce Wayne to Batman and Tim couldn’t be the one to fuck it all up, he was always the one to mess it up and his arms weren’t listening to him and Tim could taste blood on his tongue.
Hood’s grip tightened, ratcheting into painful. “Eyes over here, baby bird,” he said, low and dark and amused and Tim ducked his head on instinct, squeezing his eyes shut.
Nightmare. Hallucination. Something. It wasn’t real. Please, please let it not be real.
The rough surface of a glove dug into the raw, irritated line that the mask had left behind and Tim tried to twist away but Hood matched his movements easily, forcing his head back as he cruelly dragged his glove under Tim’s eyes.
One slip, and he would gouge them into his eyeballs. One deliberate push, and Tim would be blind.
“What’s wrong, Robin?” Hood spat the name like it was poison. “Scared?” he purred in mock concern, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He had. The ghost of Jason Todd. The Robin Tim had followed for years, the boy he’d idolized, the brother he’d wished he had.
Until Jason had clawed out of his own grave and made it clear that he wished Tim was in it.
Hood’s fingers tightened on his jaw, forcing his face up, and Tim kept his eyes closed. If he didn’t look, he could pretend that Hood was just another Rogue. Just another villain that wanted him dead.
If he didn’t look, he wouldn’t see Jason Todd’s face sneering back at him.
“It’s rude to not make eye contact when someone’s talking, Replacement.”
It’s rude to stare at people, Timothy, his mother sneered. Stop making that face, boy, his father hissed.
Tim choked down the whimper, “Please. You said you wouldn’t hurt me.” Last ditch effort. Hood was unpredictable. Tim couldn’t do anything to stop him, maybe Hood would take the win and leave.
Something hard knocking into the top of his head, the edge of a mask biting into his eyebrows. “I did, didn’t I?” Hood said softly, and Tim held his breath. “But I didn’t know it was you when I said that, and you’re special, aren’t you?” Tim wanted to shake his head, wanted to sob, please no. “Robin isn’t a kid, Robin’s a target. Batman’s target, meant to draw the fire and all the danger away from Batman while he does his dirty work. And targets are meant to be hit, Timmy.”
Tim sucked in a sharp inhale, aborting his instinctive attempt to curl up and protect his aching ribs. “Jason, please,” he stuttered out, meeting the whiteout lenses of the domino mask and praying that there was some mercy left.
“Please what?” Hood hummed, still in that cruelly gentle tone, “I’m helping you out here, baby bird. Birds with clipped wings can’t fly with the bats. You’ll thank me some day.”
You’ll thank me some day, his mother rolled her eyes, shutting the door behind her as she locked him in his room.
Tim had the awful, sudden vision of a bird lying helpless in the middle of the street, wings tattered and twitching faintly. Vulnerable. Doomed.
Hood brushed the corner of Tim’s eyes, still smirking. “Want to come with me, Replacement?” he cooed, and then laughed as he tilted Tim’s face to the light, “You got fear gassed, didn’t you? Oh, you just made everything so much better, Replacement. This is going to be so much fun.”
Tim’s blood ran cold.
Fear toxin. He remembered Scarecrow laughing. Remembered the burn of a needle sliding in, remembered yanking it out before it could go all the way. Remembered running.
Batman would come. Batman always came. But he was busy with Scarecrow and it would take him time to find Tim and there was living, breathing proof right in front of him that Batman didn’t always come on time.
He was going to die here. Hood was going to kill him, and he wasn’t going to make it quick. His breaths were coming faster and faster, but there wasn’t enough air around him and his feeble attempts to get away were cut off by Hood picking him up and chuckling at Tim’s suppressed shriek when his ribs were jarred.
“What hurts more?” Hood taunted, “Walking or being a bitch?”
Hood’s movements stuttered.
His heart raced faster, thundering in his ears, and it took him a moment to realize that Hood had stopped moving entirely. That the too-fast, too-high breaths weren’t his own. That the hand gripping his shoulder was trembling.
Gravel bit into his back as the arms disappeared. Tim didn’t waste any time wondering what was going on—why Hood had decided to let go, who was retching in the background, what had happened—and aimed for the edge of the roof.
His arms trembled under his weight and his knees refused to hold him up. His chest burned with every shuffling movement as he crawled, his vision growing blurry as he forced himself forward. He needed to get away from Hood. He had to get away—
“Where’s the antidote?” a hoarse voice asked, and Tim only recognized it as Hood’s because there was no one else on the roof.
Tim bit back the pained whimper and pushed off with trembling feet, lunging forward—but his arms got twisted underneath him and he hit the gravel directly on top of broken ribs. Fire lanced through him as his breath cut out in a silent scream, unable to do anything but lie still and take it.
A hand pressed to his lower back. Knees settling on either side of his hips, pinning him in place as effectively as if he’d used rope. Tim dragged an arm to cover his face and the salty wetness dripping off his cheeks.
Hands, rifling through his belt. Tim shuddered and wished for it to end,
“Which pocket do you keep your antidotes in?” Hood asked again, a bite of annoyance in his tone. He made a sharp, impatient sound, and flipped Tim over, pinning him down again.
Tim raised his other arm, shielding his face and neck. The last time he’d been in this position, Hood had twirled the dagger in his hand, eyes maniacally bright and smile vicious, before slashing it across Tim’s throat.
He remembered how it felt—the warmth of blood oozing over his fingers, the sharp burn, the cold, aching pain of sheer disbelief—
Hood suddenly grabbed one of Tim’s hands, pulling it away from his face and pinning it against gravel. Leaving his neck bare. Tim couldn’t hide his trembling.
“Please, Jason, not again,” he stuttered, because he couldn’t, he couldn’t go through that again, he couldn’t—“Please don’t hurt me.” His voice cracked as hitched breaths threatened to choke him.
Hood’s voice was no longer eerily calm or mockingly gentle. It was half-panicked and hoarse, Hood all but tripping over his words as he forced them out, “I’m not going to hurt you, Robin. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”
Tim was definitely hallucinating now. He didn’t know how much of his surroundings were real and how much was the fear toxin and how much was a dying dream.
“God, I’m so awful. I’m just going to give you the antidote. Okay? Then I’ll…” Hood trailed off. Another mood switch?
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Hood said, voice firming, “Calm down.”
Tim cracked his eyes open, because he couldn’t trust Hood, not anymore, and—
Another syringe raised above him, no, not again—Tim writhed against Hood—it was a trick, of course it was—he was going to get the full dose of fear now—Hood wanted him out of his mind and screaming—Tim thrashed harder—
But Hood had a knee planted in his stomach and another pinning down his arm, and Tim could feel every second of the needle slowly sliding in.
The fight drained out of him. He didn’t have a chance against Hood. Not drugged and injured. Not alone. Not maskless and weaponless and vulnerable on a rooftop far from any safe haven.
Wetness dripped slowly off his cheeks as he stared unseeingly at Gotham’s smog-covered night sky. The needle burned on the way out too, and he distantly noted something wrapping around his elbow.
“I’m going to get you somewhere safe, Tim. I promise, I won’t hurt you. You’re safe now.” Mind games. Tim choked on the sob. Hood had clearly learned more than just how to murder. He’d learned how to torture.
How to break.
Arms under him, gentler than they’d been before. “You’re safe,” murmured into his hair.
And the worst part was that Tim couldn’t stop himself from believing it. “Please,” he whispered, please stop, please, I can’t take it, please. His chest ached with something deeper than broken ribs.
“I know,” Jason muttered soothingly, “It hurts. I’m going to make it stop hurting as soon as I can, alright?” It sounded so soft. So gentle. He sounded almost like Dick, cradling Tim in his lap and running a hand through his hair as Tim slowly relaxed from the aftereffects of fear toxin.
Tim opened his eyes, and realized they were at the edge of the roof, four stories off the ground, and he heard the double meaning in Jason’s words.
A fall from this height could paralyze him. Could kill him. Everything would certainly stop hurting then.
“Please don’t drop me!” Tim couldn’t breathe. “Jason, Jason, please!” He locked his arms around Jason’s neck, fingers trembling as he interlaced them. “Please, I won’t fight you, please, you can do what you want, I’ll stop crying, but please don’t drop me!” Tim begged, pulling out every plea he could think of, any bargaining chip he had, anything to stop Jason from throwing him off the building.
Jason stopped, and fingers ran through Tim’s hair. Waiting for him to calm down. A sick parody of comfort before Jason ripped Tim’s arms off and watched him try to fly without wings.
“I don’t want to die,” Tim cried desperately, and he couldn’t see Jason’s face through his tears, couldn’t watch that calculating look as Jason waited patiently.
“Mood,” Jason chuckled, and Tim was too exhausted to suppress the sobs. They wracked through him, each one a burst of agony as they tore through broken ribs, but he couldn’t stop, wailing echoing in tune to his drumming heartbeat.
“I’m not going to drop you, baby bird,” Jason said softly. Lie, Tim pinged as he choked on his tears. “I’ve got a safehouse a few blocks from here. You’ll be safe there until Bruce can come get you.” Lie, Tim knew, because Jason hated Bruce, he would never be able to say the man’s name without vitriol. “I promise, I’m not going to hurt you anymore.”
Lie, lie, lie.
But Tim couldn’t do anything about it. He tightened his grip and twisted his head, burying his face against the red bat and pretended it was yellow. Pretended that the kevlar weave and broad chest was a different suit, a different vigilante, Bruce please—
The whine of a grapple. Wind sucking at his face. The jolt of boots hitting the ground.
Not a lie, something in his mind whispered, faint and surprised. The arms around him firm but gentle. Orange streetlights flickering in the corner of his vision. Steady breathing, a rhythmic pattern of expansion and contraction of the armor under his cheek.
The streetlights faded to dimmer bulbs. Yellowing wallpaper. The near-silent tread of boots changing when they hit the stairs. Pausing, the wooden edge of a doorframe.
Not a lie, something in his mind said, stronger. An apartment, not a warehouse or a torture den. Tim was deposited on something soft, and it took him a couple of seconds to realize that Jason was waiting for him to let go.
He had to pry his fingers loose, one by one, before his arms could drop.
He was on a couch. In what looked like a typical, rundown apartment. And Jason was leaving—
Tim couldn’t stop the strangled shriek as he instinctively rocked forward, arms stretching out. Jason was suddenly in front of him again, green eyes wide and panicked, and Tim curled his fingers into the collar of his leather jacket.
“I’m sorry,” Tim sobbed—he was trying and trying and they kept leaving and he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know how to be better, he didn’t know how to stop everyone from walking away—“I’m s-sorry!”
“The fuck are you apologizing for, kid?” Jason snarled, clearly furious, and Tim clung on harder. “I’m sorry I hurt you. You didn’t do shit to me.”
“B-but you’re leaving me,” Tim stuttered, because it was his fault, always his fault.
“You’re safer alone,” Jason said slowly, reaching up to tug at Tim’s grip.
Come on, Timothy, stop your hysterics, you’re not a child. You’re perfectly safe on your own.
Tim levered off of the couch, ignoring the throbbing pain in his chest as he pressed his face into Jason’s jacket. “Please, please, I don’t want to be alone.” He would do anything. “I—I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll do what you want, but please don’t leave me all alone again.” Please, Mom, please, Dad, please, Bruce, please Robin. “Please, I—You can’t—Please don’t be mad at me, please don’t leave me alone!”
Jason tugged harder at Tim’s fingers, prying them off, one at a time. “I—Kid, you’re going to be fine. Bruce is going to be along to get you soon. Nothing can hurt you now,” he soothed.
Tim ignored him, clutching Jason’s collar so tightly that Jason would have to break his fingers to tear them off.
Jason growled, “Replacement—”
“I’m sorry I took Robin!” Tim said in a rush, trying desperately for anything he could say to make him stay. “You can have it back!” Please let it be enough. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but please don’t make me be alone!”
Tim would take the attempted murder over Jason leaving. He would take the broken bones and agony and bleeding over Jason walking away and leaving him all alone.
Pathetic, hissed a corner of his mind. Weak, hissed another. Look at you, clinging to him, a third part joined in, no wonder he hates you.
“I can’t go back to being Robin, kid,” Jason whispered, low and hoarse, “I can’t even go back to the Manor.”
“You can!” Tim jumped on his words, because what the hell was Jason talking about? “Bruce will let you back, please! I’m—I didn’t take your spot, I’m not his kid, ‘cause you’re his kid and he loves you and misses you so much but you won’t come home, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I—I—”
No one loved Tim. No one missed Tim. No one would even notice if Tim didn’t go home.
Jason stopped trying to pry Tim off, and sighed. He leaned forward, hands curling around Tim’s elbows as he—as he readjusted them, laying down on the couch with Tim curled on top of him. Tim’s breathing hitched again—Jason wasn’t leaving, Jason was staying—and he buried his face into Jason’s collarbone as he tried to stop his trembling.
Jason was staying. Jason was staying. He wasn’t alone.
“I’m sorry,” Tim repeated, his voice cracking, because Jason was staying, even after Tim had taken his place and his name.
“Stop apologizing,” Jason grumbled, the words vibrating against Tim’s cheek.
“But it’s my fault,” Tim whispered, suppressing the sniffle, because Jason was all alone in this apartment, like Tim was all alone in his home. “You’re mad at me, so you won’t go home, and now you’re sad, and Bruce is sad, and Alfred’s sad, and Dick is sad, and I’m sad because you’re Robin and I only wanted to be good, but you hate me, and everyone always hates me eventually and I don’t know why—”
He choked as the lump in his throat swelled, fresh tears soaking into Jason’s shirt, but Jason patted his head instead of tearing him off. “I don’t hate you. I didn’t—I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m not going to leave now.”
Words meant nothing, Tim knew that, he’d heard similar sentiments from his parents so many times—we’ll definitely be there for your birthday, son and of course we’ll be back for Christmas and we’ll spend a whole month together—and the shards of broken promises had scarred his heart.
But this was Jason. This was Robin. And despite everything—bright green eyes and a mocking sneer and the burn of the blade against his throat—Tim couldn’t help but believe him.
Exhaustion dragged him under as his breathing slowly evened out, panic receding and fatigue surging into its wake. Jason shifted slightly, but he still had an arm wrapped around Tim’s lower back, and Tim finally let himself relax.
Not alone followed him into the darkness, a comforting warmth around his shoulders.
Usually, Tim didn’t wake up feeling like complete crap.
His muscles were sore, his ribs were screaming, his skin was crawling, his cheeks were itching, and his head was aching. He also seemed to be laying down on a couch, with someone else’s heartbeat thrumming against his collarbone.
Tim cracked his eyes open, and caught sight of a leather jacket.
“I know you’re awake, kid,” rasped a low, hoarse, and painfully familiar voice. Tim tensed up all the way, panic surging through his limbs as a finger poked his cheek.
Hood.
Another poke. And another. It was a finger now—it would probably be a knife next.
Tim needed to assess his surroundings. Tim needed to get away from the murderous crime lord that wanted him dead.
An arm wrapped painfully tight against his lower back, trapping him in place.
“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Hood said, his voice strained, “How’re you feeling?”
Like shit, Tim answered in his head as his limbs jittered with unexplained anxiety. He tried to twist out of Hood’s grip, but the movement jarred something in his chest and he was forced to a painful stop. Broken ribs, most likely.
“Let me go, Jason,” Tim said levelly. As though the threatening note in his voice would really make Hood back off, when he already had Tim trapped, when Tim was exhausted and injured and done.
He wanted Bruce. He wanted a hug. Tim suppressed the low whimper and tried to get his mind working properly.
“You’re the one who didn’t want me to leave you alone,” Hood growled, “You were quite determined, really, to keep me with you.”
Tim ignored him. It was slowly sinking in that he was sitting at the mercy of the Red Hood, the guy that had beaten him into the ground and cut his throat the last time he’d seen Tim.
“Bruce will beat you up if you hurt me again,” Tim warned, but his voice cracked halfway through.
“If I wanted to hurt you,” Hood said, his tone gaining a dark and bitter edge, “I would have done that while you were crying like a baby on my chest. Or sleeping right here on top of me.”
Tim remembered crying. Remembered terror. Could feel the dryness of his eyes and the scratchy feeling of his cheeks.
Remembered begging.
Tim flailed harder, because he had to get out, he needed to get away, he had to—his ribs screamed and Tim collapsed inelegantly, biting back the sob as he shuddered.
“Jason,” he tried, “Jason, please.” He could feel the terror rising up, choking him, coiling around his limbs like chains. “Please, whatever you’re doing, stop. You don’t need to prove anything.”
Hood made a sharp, irritated sound. “I’ve proven everything I wanted to, Timmers,” he snapped, and Tim was abruptly shoved back against the couch as Hood straightened. “I’m not going to hurt you. Now, sit down and I’ll find you something for those ribs.”
And then Hood actually turned his back and walked away. Tim straightened warily, his fingers grasping for a staff that wasn’t there as he watched Hood move around the room.
An icepack was deposited on his stomach, a water bottle opened with a sharp twist before being pushed into his hands, and Hood shook out two pills from a bottle before grabbing Tim’s other hand and pressing them there.
Tim stared at the pills, dread curling in his stomach. And then at Hood, towering above him—armed, armored, green eyes narrowed and cold. Calculated the odds of running for the door with a chest that felt like someone had shoved splinters into it and set them on fire.
Calculated the probability of Hood overpowering him, straddling him, and forcing the pills down his throat.
He popped the pills into his mouth and took a large gulp of water to swallow them down.
To his surprise, he felt nothing but a soft fuzziness blunting the edge of the burning in his chest and the throbbing in his head.
“What are you doing?” Tim asked, exhausted, because he didn’t have the energy to try and puzzle out Hood’s motivations.
Hood shrugged and reached forward—Tim immediately flinched back, twisting away, and Hood stilled mid-movement, withdrawing his hand with a frown.
One part of Tim mourned the loss of anticipated warmth.
“Y—Do you remember anything?”
Tim raised his gaze to the ceiling, trying to remember, “I—Bruce and I were fighting someone…”
“Scarecrow.”
“Scarecrow?” Tim repeated, surprised, and slumped back against the couch with an unamused chuckle, “Oh, that explains a lot.”
No wonder he felt like shit. No wonder his nerves felt like they were being poked with a bunch of sharp needles, his heartbeat thrumming on the edge of panic.
“Anything else?” Hood asked.
Memories were slowly beginning to filter back—Hood, tearing off his mask—Hood, mockingly gentle—Hood…apologizing.
Jason, promising him he’d be safe. Jason, holding him when Tim begged him not to go. Jason, staying.
Tim bit his lip, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue as he darted a wary glance at Hood. “I—you were there, and you were—I couldn’t tell. You were being nice to me, and I don’t know why.”
Hood didn’t move. “You’re a kid,” he said finally.
Tim stared blankly at him. I was always a kid. Hood’s laughing sneer. “Targets are meant to be hit, Timmy.”
“That didn’t stop you before,” Tim managed, trying to discreetly curl away.
“But it should have,” Hood said simply, several expressions flitting across his face before it settled on something…sad?
Tim slumped back against the couch, weariness soaking through his bones, and scrubbed at his face, clearing the stickiness around his eyes and the itchy, dried tears on his cheeks. The whole scene had a slightly unreal tinge to it.
He was sitting in an apartment with Jason Todd, and no one was getting murdered.
“I’m going to wake up, and this is all going to be a dream, aren’t I?” Tim said numbly, his voice cracking.
“I could pinch you if it helps,” Jason offered.
Tim peered through his fingers to give Jason a flat stare, his fingers beginning to tremble as the anxiety swelled. Tim tried to take a deep breath, but it caught halfway through as he shuddered.
Right. The unpleasant side effects of fear toxin. The unpleasant side effects that Tim would prefer to experience anywhere in the world other than the apartment of the guy that wanted him dead.
“I haven’t got another antidote,” Jason said, narrowing his eyes.
Tim shook his head, trying to remember how to breathe. “I—It worked. This just happens?” Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale—inhale, hold, exhale.
Jason crossed his arms and raised a challenging eyebrow, “The antidote not working on you just happens, and you haven’t told Bruce?”
The second time Jason managed to say Bruce’s name instead of spitting it.
“It did work, it’s just…” Tim didn’t quite know how to explain it. Didn’t know if he wanted to explain it. Not to the Red Hood. Not a potential weakness. “Fear gas always leaves me…rattled afterward. It’s just…real anxiety, I guess, that the gas reminded me about. Normally…” Tim bit his lip before he could spill all his secrets.
“Normally what?” Jason pressed.
Tim twisted away from Jason, staring down at the couch. He didn’t have to explain. He shouldn’t explain.
Prickling crawled up his spine as cold voices echoed in his head, and his mouth opened of its own volition. “N—normally, Bruce holds me. Or Dick. Alfred, if Bruce and Dick are injured.” Stop talking, Tim mentally shrieked, pressing his lips together, but the silence stretched and more words spilled out, “Bruce says that I’m touch starved because…he says my parents neglected me, but they’re just gone a lot. With their work.”
Tell him your whole life story why don’t you, something whispered meanly inside his head.
He didn’t ask, something else hissed, he doesn’t care. No one does.
Not about him. Not about Tim, crying about touch starvation and neglect when he had a house and money and parents, when there were children in the world that had real problems.
“What does gone a lot mean?” Jason snarled.
Tim flinched back, but replied automatically, “A—a few months at a time. But their work is—is really important.”
He knew that. He knew they were busy. And Jason knew it too, he would sneer at Tim now, because he’d grown up on the streets and Tim was crying because his parents didn’t hug him enough? Pathetic.
“Didn’t you have a babysitter?” Jason asked.
Tim snapped his gaze up, glaring. What was he, six? He was sixteen years old, he didn’t need a goddamn babysitter. “I’m old enough to take care of myself,” Tim said coldly, and then winced as he shuddered again. “I just…can I go home now?” Translation: are you keeping me prisoner? “To the Manor?” Tim clarified, clearing his throat to hide that his voice was cracking, “I—I really want a hug.”
Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that last part. But the prickling feeling was getting stronger and his fingernails were biting into his palms as guilt and failure and disappointment swelled inside of him.
“We’re half an hour away, and there’s no way you’re going to be able to hold on that long,” Jason said slowly, “I’ve only got a motorcycle. No car.”
Tim wanted to argue, but his ribs were already furious with him and—and Tim couldn’t wait a half hour and—and he just wanted someone to hold him—he took a cracked, too-fast breath, “I—But!”
But nothing. Bruce wasn’t here. Dick wasn’t here. Alfred wasn’t here. Tim was all alone and his skin felt like something was dancing underneath it. His ribs protested fiercely as he wrapped his arms around himself, curling up as a spike shoved through his heart, stabbing out until he was shaking all over, wetness dripping off his cheeks as he fought to breathe.
Warm arms encircled him, shifting him off the couch and onto a lap, head tucked under a chin.
“Jason?” Tim stuttered.
“Shh, baby bird,” Jason leaned his head against Tim’s, “I’m saying sorry.”
Tim pressed further against him, instinctively burrowing into the warmth, before a distant alarm sounded in his brain. He carefully pulled back, ignoring the sharp, shuddering curl of misery inside his heart. “You’re not going to hurt me?” Tim asked quietly, keeping his gaze fixed on Jason’s face.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jason repeated immediately, “I—I know it’s my fault, but the Pit…I was never mad at you. I’m so sorry you got caught up in this all.”
That was enough to overcome his trepidation as panic pressed through his veins, and Tim took a shuddering inhale before crumpling, exhaustion and anxiety combining to force his muscles limp. “Promise?” Tim asked quietly, Jason’s heartbeat slow and steady against his ear.
“On Alfred’s moustache,” Jason vowed.
Tim snorted, the surprise cutting through the tension, and curled up fully, twisting to the side and drawing his knees up so that Jason’s arms wrapped entirely around him. Warmth, all around him. A comforting weight pressing in, grounding Tim in his own body and absorbing the shudders as Tim slowly regained a normal rhythm of breathing.
A hand rubbed slow, gentle, firm circles into his back and Tim relaxed completely, his head drooping as he slumped.
“With the Pit,” Jason said slowly, his words vibrating against Tim’s cheek, “I can’t control it. I can’t promise I won’t flip out on you again. But I’m sorry. You never deserved any of that, but right now, you’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
I’m sorry.
You never deserved any of that.
You’re safe.
I won’t let anyone hurt you.
Robin. Tim’s Robin. The brief flare of hope when he’d seen a familiar face and bright green eyes, before he’d registered the angry scowl and vicious words. The brother Tim had always wanted.
Tim shifted until he could wrap his arms around Jason’s neck and burrow further into the older boy’s grasp. “Thank you, Jason,” he said hoarsely, feeling the tears slipping out.
Jason’s grip squeezed a little tighter. “Of course, Robin,” Jason murmured into his hair.
The tracker hadn’t moved, sitting silently in a corner of Crime Alley every time Bruce dared to check, but it was more than an hour later that Bruce got the chance to go after it.
Scarecrow’s chemical bombs had been disabled, the man himself was in custody, and Bruce had a Robin to track down.
Fear toxin. Why did it have to be fear toxin? Each one of his Robins had severe reactions to fear toxin—Dick and his heart-stopping urge for heights, Jason screaming bloody murder at the sight of a needle, Tim and his anxiety.
All things considered, Tim’s reaction could be labelled the mildest. He found someplace dark and small, and hid—practically an ideal response. No teetering on high rises. No need to pin him down to give him the antidote while he sobbed out breathless pleas to stop, Dad, please, don’t.
In other ways, Tim’s reaction was the worst. Dick never stayed under the effects for long, pushing through the fear with stubborn determination. Jason calmed down when the needles were gone. But Tim—Bruce remembered holding Tim throughout the night as he shuddered, wishing with all his heart that he could scream at the Drakes, and mentally sorting through his ever-increasing pile of paperwork to prove the Drakes’ neglect and take custody of Tim.
No child should ever be that desperate for comfort.
His child should never be that desperate for comfort.
Bruce gritted his teeth as he swung towards Crime Alley, wishing again that Nightwing had been in town. That someone could’ve gone after Tim and given him the antidote and held onto him while Bruce was trying to stop Scarecrow. Or vice versa.
Bruce landed on the right roof—top of a rundown apartment building—and searched the whole space, double-checking every corner and crevice, his unease growing when he saw no sign of a cape.
He checked the tracker again—Tim should be right here, where was he—as long-held anxieties swelled back up, the ones that always reared their heads when Robin was missing. The tracker…wasn’t pointing to the roof. It was pointing…down.
Bruce frowned. Had Tim broken into an apartment? The rooftop access door wasn’t locked and Bruce slipped inside easily, watching the blinking dot as it signaled that he was getting closer and closer and—
Closer.
The door had a cleverly concealed lockpad. A brief scan told him that it was trapped. And the pit of dread in Bruce’s stomach grew as he remembered who exactly declared Crime Alley as their territory.
Deep breaths. He couldn’t jump to conclusions. Not now. Not when it wouldn’t help anyone. Bruce listened carefully, but couldn’t hear anything from inside the apartment.
It took Bruce a full, tense minute to unlock the door and disarm the traps—Jason had always been inventive—clicking the door open silently as he eased inside.
He froze on the threshold.
He was expecting one of a few different things—the tracker, cut out of Tim’s suit, set tauntingly in the middle of the room. Jason, sneering, with a terrified Tim chained up. Tim, curled up and shivering, with no Jason in sight.
He hadn’t even imagined this as one of the possibilities.
Bruce knew that Jason had registered him coming inside—his son’s jaw was tense, teeth clenched and hackles up—but Jason was ignoring him, so Bruce followed his lead. He stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him, and crossed to a chair opposite the couch.
Tim was curled into a ball, his cape tucked around him. His arms were draped loosely around Jason’s neck as his face—eyes closed, cheeks blotchy—was half-squished into Jason’s armor. He appeared to be unconscious. He appeared to be unconscious in Jason’s lap.
Jason was still pretending to ignore him, apparently concentrating fully on his task—he was twisting locks of Tim’s hair together, the length long enough to support short, loose, half-falling-apart braids.
Bruce sat on the chair, and waited.
Jason fumbled with the latest one, a stubborn lock slipping out of his hands every time he tried to cross it over, and he made a low, frustrated sound before letting go of all of it. He curled one arm around Tim—apparently automatically—as he scowled at the floor.
“I gave him the antidote,” Jason said, quiet and low.
Bruce stayed silent. Okay seemed too casual. Good would be too brusque. Well done—Jason was far beyond responding to a well done. Every meeting with his second son was a minefield, and this time, Tim was squarely in the crossfire.
“Didn’t seem to work,” Jason said, his scowl deepening, “Not completely, anyway.”
Bruce cast another glance to Tim—at the slack face that showed the clear evidence of having cried himself to sleep—and said, quiet, not bothering to modulate his voice, “Yes. It happens.”
Jason let out a low, sarcastic, incredulous laugh. “It happens?” he hissed, his head snapping up, green eyes glaring at him, “And you just let him go back to that house?”
His arms curled tighter around Tim, who didn’t even twitch.
“I’m working on it,” Bruce said levelly. Neglect was easy to prove. The problem was finding a judge that the Drakes couldn’t bribe away. Or, simpler than all of that, working on a way to get the Drakes to transfer custody to him without involving Gotham’s dubious legal system.
“Working on it,” Jason repeated flatly, hands curling into fists. He didn’t move, though, clearly unwilling to shift and wake Tim up.
“Yes,” Bruce said, getting irritated. It was always everything or nothing with Jason. One moment he believed that cash was worthless in creating any sort of change, and the next he thought that simply throwing money at the problem was enough. “What would you like me to do? Kidnap him?”
Jason blinked, before his expression shifted from a scowl to something more neutral. “Yes,” he said, eyes shadowed.
“…What?”
“Kidnap him,” Jason said, clearly warming up to the idea. Bruce squinted at him, unsure of whether this was supposed to be a joke, or if Jason was actually serious. “You kidnapped me, after all.”
“I didn’t kidnap you,” Bruce sighed, resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands because they’d had this exact conversation so many times. “Jason—”
“No, you’re right,” Jason nodded thoughtfully, “You’ve reached your kidnapping quota. I should kidnap him.”
This was a huge turnaround from slitting Tim’s throat and leaving him for dead, but Bruce wasn’t complaining. Though the green eyes and mood swings were confirming one of Bruce’s theories as to how Jason was standing in front of him, taller and bigger than Bruce ever thought he’d be, and missing all his old scars.
“Jason,” Bruce sighed.
“I mean, he said his parents leave for months at a time. Just snatch him, dye his hair and change his name. Not like anyone will look too closely.”
“Jason,” Bruce said firmly, “You can’t kidnap Tim.”
Jason responded predictably to the word can’t, coiling tighter around Tim and glaring at Bruce. “I’d like to see you stop me, old man.”
Tim shifted, alerted by either the voices or the grip, and yawned, “What’s going on?”
“Jason’s plotting your kidnapping,” Bruce said dryly.
“Don’t wanna be kidnapped,” Tim exhaled slowly, “Not gonna pay ransom.” He said that with a certainty that sent a chill down Bruce’s spine, and he locked gazes with Jason, seeing the same realization bloom in narrowed green eyes.
Tim’s eyes fluttered open, finally registering the scene, and he bolted upright, knocking his head against Jason’s chin as he twisted towards Bruce, eyes as wide as saucers. “Bruce,” Tim said, undisguised happiness in his tone. Behind him, Jason mouthed soundless curses as he rubbed his jaw. “You’re here!” He extracted one of his arms from the cape and stretched it out towards Bruce.
Bruce straightened out of the chair and took one step forward before he hesitated. Jason’s face had shuttered, eyes a flickering green as they tracked Bruce’s movements—both of them clearly remembering what had happened the last time they’d been this close to one another.
Tim, however, only seemed to register that Bruce wasn’t getting any closer. The outstretched arm faltered, and dropped, Tim’s expression crumpling into despair as he bowed his head, tears already glistening in bright blue eyes.
Something wrenched in Bruce’s heart and he crossed the three steps to the couch, meeting Jason’s gaze steadily as he crouched down and placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. He could take a punch to the face to get closer to Tim. After all, what was a broken nose in the face of his son’s tears?
Jason didn’t punch him, though. Didn’t move at all, holding himself stiff and tense as Bruce curled an arm around Tim, careful not to shift him out of Jason’s lap.
Tim pressed his face into Bruce’s chest, shuddering silently, and Bruce rubbed circles into his shoulder, humming softly. He adjusted his grip, and accidentally pressed against Jason’s shoulder—he froze instantly.
He met green eyes and a flickering expression, holding himself perfectly still. Waiting for the blow, or maybe the sneers, or Jason pulling himself free and leaving.
Instead, Jason—slowly, deliberately—relaxed, dropping his gaze to stare at his knees. Bruce took the wordless invitation, shifting forward until he was sitting on the couch right next to Jason, an arm around his second son’s shoulder as he pulled Tim up until he was lying against both of them—head pillowed against Bruce’s collarbone, and knees pressing into Jason’s stomach.
Tim gripped a handful of Bruce’s cape in one fist, and Jason’s jacket in the other, burrowing against them both as his shaking eased.
Bruce waited until Tim’s shuddering breaths returned to a steady, slightly hitched rhythm, before he spoke again. “Thank you,” he said quietly, pausing for Jason’s eyes to meet his gaze before he continued, “For being a good brother.”
Jason bared his teeth in an automatic, silent snarl, scowling fiercely, but even the dim light couldn’t hide the rising flush in his cheeks. Bruce smiled slightly, and reveled in the moment—his youngest sons in his arms, Tim’s breaths puffing against his shoulder while Jason grudgingly submitted to the arm around his shoulders. Alive and well.
He never wanted to let them go.
The loud click of a fake shutter.
“Aww, isn’t this adorable.”
“I’m going to break that phone and then your fingers, Dickface!”
“If you’ll cuddle with me afterwards, I’ll take it, Little Wing.”
“You infuriating piece of—”
“Nightwing. What are you doing here?”
“Oracle called. Said you and Robin never returned to the Cave after taking down Scarecrow, so I came to check it out. I can’t believe I almost missed this!”
“Nightwing—”
“Let me guess—we’re cuddling Timmy? Great!”
“Get off of me—”
“Nightwing—”
“Shh, you’re going to going to wake the baby bird.”