Chapter Text
Tim can’t sleep. The dead goon haunts the back of his eyelids, staring back blankly every time he tries to close his eyes. In the almost two weeks since the fight in the warehouse, he’s only collectively spent maybe twelve hours of it unconscious, most of it fitful and restless. When exhaustion overcomes the caffeine and guilt bubbling through him, the sound of limp flesh and heavy bone hitting the concrete floor echoes through his dreams over and over and over. Gunshots mix with the sound of sirens, and sandstone and flashing screens loom over him. The scent of copper and blood burns thick in the air, the taste of dust and victory lays heavy on his tongue. He dreams of the Cradle, of the bloodlust of a half-dozen assassins, of a thousand pieces coming together to destroy countless lives.
Even when he’s at work, it gets hard to breathe through the memories, and everything is a thousand times worse once night falls. Even going out as Red Robin doesn’t help. All the blood on the suit is long gone, scrubbed away as soon as he got back to the Nest from Jason’s safehouse, but he still feels like he’s suffocating just looking at it. Every time he puts it on, he has to fight back bile at the weight of it.
If patrol is bad though, then after patrol is just hell. With sleep being a lost cause, he works hunched in front of a screen, trying to bury himself in quarterly reports and police statements. It’s not healthy, but it’s better than laying in bed drowning in his own thoughts.
How many times has he cheated death? How many times has he missed it by pure luck? How many times, by escaping death, did he doom another?
He chose Red Robin because it didn’t need to stay separate from the dubious acts that Tim chose to commit to get Bruce back. But the mantle of it drags at him more heavily on him than ever before. If Ra’s found out– god, Tim can’t even imagine what he’d do. Probably laugh at Tim and taunt about how naive Tim is, and how he’s the only one who would accept Tim now. He probably has the exact body count of how many Tim had killed in the Cradle.
How many did he condemn to die that day? Logically he knew that not everyone could escape the bases, but the idea was distant. He let it stay distant. But it won’t stay away anymore. Blank eyes and mangled burnt corpses loom over him, his mind creating an amalgamation of all the gruesome deaths he’s seen over the years. Z and Owens appear sometimes too, throats still bleeding out, silent except for the sound of gurgling breathing. They worked for Ra’s, same as Pru who works for Ra’s still. They were people, just like all of Ra’s lackeys are people.
And Tim killed them with barely a thought.
He lurches out of his chair and barely makes it to the toilet before he’s throwing up, acid clawing up an already raw throat. His eyes burn, but no tears form.
In a way, Tim wishes that he could just cry, wishes that he could express this guilt normally. This dry, burning grief that sticks in the back of his throat and beats discordantly over his heart only makes him remember things he’d rather forget.
In the days after Janet’s death, Dick hovered so much around Tim, giving him hugs and reassurances. After a few days, Dick had told him that “it’s okay to cry, you know. You don’t have to keep holding it in,” and Tim hadn’t been able to find the words to tell Dick that it wasn’t that he was trying to hold it in. It was that he couldn’t figure out how to make it stop.
Janet’s death had hurt so, so much, and with Jack in a coma it had felt like the ultimate betrayal. They had finally abandoned him for good this time. But for all that it hurt, it was detached. Over a hundred people offered Tim their condolences during Janet’s memorial, and as he stood there, listening to them wax on about how good of a person she had been, it stung knowing that they had known her better than he ever would.
They knew enough of her life to cry over her death, even if it was for show. He was buried under condolences he had not earned and he wondered how much they would pity him if they had known that he couldn’t even bring himself to cry for his own mother’s brutal murder. He cried more when he heard that Jason had died. He cried more after Z and Owens died.
Pru had just sat there, expression too unfeeling to be genuine, as Tim had leaned against her and silently sobbed. The grim acceptance had felt more real than any of his mom’s mourners’ platitudes. After he was done, she had handed him a box of tissues and left the room, and Tim’s pretty sure they won’t talk about it ever again. It reminds him a lot of Jason, who let Tim shout without comment, who hadn’t forced him to talk about it, who had just offered to help.
Jason, who’s been ‘conveniently’ running across him at some point during patrol every night, even if it’s just for a minute. Jason, who hasn’t brought up anything that happened at the warehouse or the morning after, but brought granola bars and homemade energy squares on patrol, and talked about random shit and cracked jokes before swinging off again. Jason, who gave him his phone number and told him to use it whenever he needed. Of course, Tim already had it from when he had stolen it from Barbara’s server, but that’s beside the point.
There’s a part of Tim, formed at Janet Drake’s knee and raised in his parents’ absence, that refuses to believe that Jason might actually stick around. Dick would call it pessimism, but Tim knows it’s just realism. That piece of him has started a timer to count down the days until Jason decides to leave. It’s screaming at him to cut this off now, because it won’t last long and he already knows that when the illusion shatters, he’ll be the only one to pick up the painful shards. But no matter how many times the lesson gets beaten over his head that everyone will leave because everyone always leaves him, his heart never seems to get the memo. His stupid heart still believes, even just a little. It hopes that maybe this time it will be different, even though that’s what he thought all those years ago with Dick and Bruce. That’s what he thought about Jack after his coma. That’s what he thought about Steph. That’s what he thought about Young Justice and the Titans.
Maybe that’s the problem with Tim. He thinks and thinks but he never understands. It’s the definition of insanity to keep doing the same thing and expect different results, but it’s what Tim’s been doing for years. He keeps banging his head against the same wall and hoping that it will go differently this time when logically the only common factor is him.
Really he should use the phone number that Jason gave him and tell him to screw off. That he’s changed his mind, that he wasn’t thinking straight the morning after he killed someone and that he shouldn’t have been forced to make decisions like that. Thanks but no thanks.
He hates that he can’t make himself actually do it.
Because– because it’s been nice. It’s been nice to have someone care about him again. It’s been nice to have someone checking in on him without pity or judgment. It’s been nice to have contact with someone, and every time that Jason pats his shoulder or leans against him as they sit and look out over Gotham, or uses him as an armrest – which is just rude because Tim is short, yes, but he’s not that short– Tim melts, just a little.
Tim nearly collapsed into a puddle one time when Tam gave him a hug, and she told him he’s really fucking touch starved. Well, she actually had suggested that he get physical contact from people more often in the dry, ‘you’re-a-fucking-idiot’ voice that she uses specifically on Tim, but he heard what she really meant. He had brushed it off at the time, because Bruce had just come back and he still thought that meant everything would go back to normal. Now he’s a little more willing to admit that she may have had a point. Tam usually does, unfortunately.
So Tim doesn’t chase Jason away. Doesn’t avoid him on patrol, doesn’t refuse the food that Jason hands him every single time, doesn’t shrug the hand off his shoulder. He knows that it will come back to bite him one day, because it always does. Either Jason will leave or he’ll die, because Tim’s never enough even with his abilities, and Tim will be left alone all over again.
He’s so, so weak. No matter how much he trains, no matter how many people teach him, no matter what name he takes up, he will always be weak. Too weak to let people go, too weak to protect himself, too weak to accept that he is unlovable.
He slumps against the tub, resting his cheek against the cold surface. He really just wants to go home. Home to the manor, home to Bruce half smiles and awkward affection, home to Dick’s octopus hugs, and Alfred’s care and warm meals. But the Wayne manor isn’t home anymore. It hasn’t been for a long long time. Not after Damian. Tim can’t blame the kid, not now anyway. He’s been doing a lot better lately, now that Bruce is home and Dick’s finally able to give him his full attention without Batman weighing on him.
He’s stopped pulling a weapon on Tim every time they interact, and even his jabs have occasionally been interspersed with impressively non-scathing comments. But it’s too late for the Manor to truly feel safe anymore. There’s too many memories of knives under the table, of yelling with Dick in the halls, of smashing rooms to pieces, of feeling his whole world fall out from underneath him again and again and again.
It’s too heavy there now. Damian would probably sneer about how Tim’s only running away from his problems like a coward instead of facing them if he knew. But Damian has enough ammunition without him finding out how afraid Tim is of suffocating from memories the moment he steps through the door.
So instead of driving to the manor, he grabs his keys, pulls on a jacket and scarf, and takes off on his motorcycle in the opposite direction. Ten minutes later, he’s pulling himself up through the window of one of Jason’s safehouses. There had been no light in the window, so he nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a moan coming from the opposite wall.
He should spring into action, analyze the situation, find a weapon, anything, but even adrenaline is having a hard time stirring up any response. He’s so tired.
“...Jason?” Tim asks quietly into the dark, and he gets another groan in response.
Fumbling against the wall, Tim eventually feels a light switch and flicks it on, blinking away the spots in his eyes. There’s a noise of discomfort at the sudden brightness and Tim finally sees Jason, slumped in the corner in his Red Hood gear, crimson smeared down his front and on the floor.
For a moment, all Tim can see is a corpse, thick blood pooling on the floor and empty eyes staring back at him, and his breath sticks in his throat. Then Jason shifts, pulling himself a little more upright with a grunt, and the image shatters.
“Where is your med kit?” Tim asks urgently, moving forward.
It takes longer than Tim would like for Jason’s eyes to focus on Tim, but eventually he seems to process Tim’s presence, and then the question, croaking out “...Kitchen sink.”
“Okay. Give me a sec, and stay awake,” Tim orders, before hurrying to check under the kitchen sink and quickly finding a large red backpack that he can only assume is the medical supplies. As he kneels back down next to Jason, he rummages through the pack, pulling out everything he thinks he’ll need.
“Tell me where you’re hurt the worst.”
Putting the kit to the side for a moment, Tim takes off his jacket and grabs the penlight.
“Gunshot wound to left calf, laceration from knife to left forearm, and–” Jason flinches as Tim shines the light in his left eye, then his right. “Fuck– sprained, maybe cracked right wrist. Got hit on the head a few times, but the helmet stopped most of it.” His words are stilted and forced through gritted teeth, but he isn’t slurring and his pupils dilate fine, so Tim concludes that he probably doesn’t have a concussion. “‘Rest is just cuts and bruises.”
“Okay, I’m going to take care of the bullet wound first.” Tim warns, rolling up his own pant leg and steadying himself against the wall. Thank god Jason didn’t get shot in the shoulder or somewhere where Tim wouldn’t be able to see properly.
Threading the needle, Tim takes a breath before he reaches out with his senses and pulls. The pain is immediate, momentarily blinding him with the searing white stab that goes through his calf, before it dulls to an angry pulsing throb.
He hears Jason curse next to him, but he’s too busy sliding the needle into his skin to really pay attention. The wound is bleeding sluggishly, but the slight scabbing implies that Jason’s had it for a little while now. Probably stumbled home after the fight and lay there in the corner, trying to catch his breath before patching himself up. But judging by the amount of blood on the floor, he had been hurt worse than he estimated. At least the bullet had gone straight through and Tim didn’t have to worry about shrapnel or bone shards.
Tying off the last knot with the practiced ease of someone who’s frequently sewed up their own skin, Tim quickly disinfects the site and tapes a gauze over it before turning back to Jason. Who looks significantly more alert, and pissed.
“What the fuck Tim?!” Jason’s voice is still low and rough with exhaustion, but it doesn’t keep the anger from cutting any less.
Tim holds back a flinch at the tone, and instead focuses on the next injury. He’ll leave the wrist alone, but Jason shouldn’t deal with much more blood loss right now, and it’s easier to stitch up Tim rather than taking off all of Jason’s armor and cleaning up the blood first.
Jason’s still talking, but Tim ignores him, gathering his concentration before reaching out once more.
The second pull is harder than the first, but the wound still transfers and Tim immediately gets to work staunching the blood flow, pushing through the stabbing pain and keeping his hand steady as he slowly stitches up the laceration as well. It takes significantly longer to do this one, partially because he only has one hand to do it, and partially because the knife wound is significantly larger than the bullet hole. It spans from just below his elbow to just above his wrist, curving around the arm over the blood vessels in the inner arm. If Tim had to guess, he’d say that this is where most of the blood loss actually came from.
About halfway through the process, Jason starts applying pressure to the rest of the cut as Tim slowly makes his way down, until the gash is fully closed.
“Don’t do that again,” growls Jason as Tim finishes bandaging his arm. There’s a weird undertone to Jason’s words that Tim doesn’t have the brain power to interpret right now, so he just nods.
“Okay.”
Reaching out with his good arm, Tim presses the back of his hand up against Jason’s cheek ignoring Jason’s look, letting the sensations wash over him. It’s always a bit strange to feel a second ghost heart beating over his own whenever he touches someone, but he brushes past it with long practiced efficiency, quickly cataloging the remaining areas of pain. Really he should have triaged the injuries first, but Tim would really rather not have to experience the pain multiple times, and he trusts Jason to give him an accurate rundown.
“That’s everything actually dangerous,” Tim says, pulling his hand away. Jason’s still eyeing him suspiciously, and Tim sighs. “It feels like your wrist is only sprained, but I still want to wrap it, and then you need fluids and rest.”
“I can do that myself,” argues Jason. “Since I don’t have the giant fucking stab wound.”
He still sounds strangely angry about it, and yeah, Tim understands that he probably should have asked before just messing with him, but there’s no reason why Jason should be upset about not being hurt right now. It was Tim’s choice to take the injuries. It’s not Jason’s fault.
Still, he doesn’t fight Jason on it, instead digging out a cloth wrap out of the medpack, and handing it over with the clips. Both of them are silent as Tim begins to put away the rest of the medical supplies. It’s not until Jason’s done wrapping his wrist that he speaks again.
“What the hell are you even doing here Tim?” Jason asks, and Tim jolts, nearly spilling the pouch of disinfectant wipes.
“I–”
The lack of sleep and constant screaming thoughts that had been temporarily pushed aside come crashing back down on Tim all at once at the question. What is Tim even doing here? Why did he ever think it was a good idea to come out here, to try and seek refuge in one of Jason’s safehouses? What the hell was he thinking?
His calf and arm throb in time with the pounding behind his eyes and he’s very abruptly aware of just how exhausted he feels, and there’s a lump building up in the back of his throat. Without warning, Tim’s breath hitches, and his eyes are stinging with tears.
“I– I couldn’t sleep,” he chokes out, and it’s such an inadequate explanation for everything that’s happened this week that built up to the stupid impulse to come here, but it’s all he can offer right now, because suddenly he’s crying.
“I’m s-sorry,” he gasps. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t–” he doesn't even really know what he’s apologizing for at this point, for intruding or taking Jason’s injuries without his permission or crying, but it doesn’t matter because Jason’s scooting himself next to Tim and carefully wrapping his arms around him. It’s not the most comfortable hug in the world, not with the armor still in the way, but Jason’s big and warm and safe. As Tim sobs silently into his shoulder, he gently rubs circles across Tim’s back and it reminds Tim of the last time Dick had held him this way, the last time he felt so… so loved. It was almost two years ago now, and that thought only makes him cry harder.
It’s a long, long time before Tim pulls away.