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The room had been far too claustrophobic even before everything went to hell.
Jason had never liked warehouses, even less so since his death. They had too many corners, too many echoes, too much rust clinging to the air like iron filings forcing their way into your throat. The concrete always smelled damp, of mildew and old oil stains that would never scrub out. Every step came back at you twice, echoing once from the floor, once from the walls, until you couldn’t tell how many boots were actually moving around you. They were the worst kinds of battlegrounds, the ones where your senses lied to you and the walls always felt one moment away from closing in.
And this warehouse? This one was practically the worst. The ceiling was lower than it should’ve been, pressing down like a lid. Fluorescent lights buzzed and sputtered overhead, strobing in irregular intervals that made even the shadows twitch. It wasn’t just a room; it was a trap waiting for a trigger.
Jason’s grip on his pistol was forcibly loose but ready as he stalked the row of crates; he knew if he let himself grip them as hard as he wanted to, he would end up blowing a hole in anything that twitched in his peripheral. Red Robin was a few paces to his right. This was supposed to be a sweep, checking out some unusual activity. Nothing Bruce wanted to waste his time on, nothing Nightwing hadn’t already waved off with a grin and a “you’ve got this, littlewing.” Which left the two of them.
Jason hadn’t minded. He and Tim had done these runs before. The kid was sharper than most; he was easier to work with if you gave him the space he wouldn't actually ask for. He had none of Damian’s arrogance, none of Dick’s relentless optimism, none of Bruce’s suffocating control. Just strategy and focus, tucked behind a mask and a voice that always sounded like it was running on fumes and too little rest.
Sometimes Jason forgot how young he still was under the armour. Sometimes he let himself forget.
Not tonight.
The first two guys went down fast, Jason’s fists, his gun’s butt, the satisfying crack of a body hitting concrete. He turned just in time to see the third thug burst from behind a stack of crates, too close to Tim, too fast. Jason braced himself for the counter: staff spinning, sharp elbow to the ribs, maybe a knee to the gut. Tim had that move down cold; he'd done it a thousand times over.
But it didn’t come.
The man’s hand clamped around Tim’s throat, and the world just seemed to stop.
Tim didn’t fight back; he didn’t even twitch. His hands just hovered halfway up before curling into nothing, fingers twitching against the air like he couldn’t remember what he was meant to do with them. His face went pale, lips parted in a strangled gasp, and his eyes...
God. His eyes.
Wide. Glassy. Gone.
Jason’s stomach instantly dropped. He’d seen that look in mirrors, in alleys, on nights when every nerve in his body had gone white-hot and the world tilted into the past. He knew it too damn well.
The thug snarled something and dragged Tim back against the wall, but Jason wasn’t even seeing the guy anymore. The fight blurred into muscle memory for him; gun up, one shot through the shoulder, kick to the gut, zip-tie the bastard’s wrists and leave him screaming. Easy. Quick. Methodical. Done.
None of it mattered.
What mattered was Tim, still pressed against the wall like the guy’s hand was still there, chest heaving in quick, tearing gasps. His gauntlets trembled at his sides, nails curled into his own palms.
Panic. Bad panic.
Jason cursed under his breath and stepped in, slow enough not to crowd the panicking boy. He crouched, boots scraping deliberately so the sound carried. “Hey, Red. Eyes on me.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
Jason swore again, sharper this time. His brain was split in two: one part tactical, the other personal. Tactically, they needed to get the hell out of here before more backup showed up and they were overwhelmed. But personally.
Personally, he couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the absent look in Tim’s eyes. Couldn’t stand how familiar it was, like looking in a warped mirror.
Grabbing him was out of the question. He knew that much. Being touched while your head was caught in the vice of a memory? That only dug the claws in deeper. Jason had been there, countless times, the phantom hands, the chokehold that didn’t exist anymore but felt like it did. If someone had grabbed him in those moments, he would’ve come up swinging blind. Or maybe something worse.
No. In an ideal world, he needed time and quiet presence. But this wasn't an ideal world, so he needed the next best thing. He needed shock. Something brutal enough to cut through the fog in what little time they had, to yank the kid back into the room, whether he wanted it or not.
After a few seconds of contemplation, Jason’s hand went to his holster. His jaw clenched as he muttered. “Sorry, kid.”
The gun cleared leather with a clean snap. He raised it, angled just left, and pulled the trigger before he could think better of it.
The gunshot split the room like thunder. Deafening in the low ceiling, bright as lightning in the corner of the eye. Jason had braced for it, but the sound still rattled his teeth.
Tim jolted like he’d been ripped out of water. His head snapped toward the shot, eyes flaring wide, blue focus slamming back into place. He sucked in a breath, caught it on a cough, dragged another. Not steady, not even, not clean, but present enough.
Jason holstered the gun like nothing had happened. Safety back on, weight at his hip, a tool put away. His voice came out low, even. “There you are. Welcome back, Red.”
Tim blinked at him, disoriented. Shoulders still hunched, throat red where the man’s hand had clamped down. For a long second, he looked younger than Jason had seen in a long time, too young to be here, too young to carry the same kind of ghosts he himself did.
Finally, hoarse: “That was... really loud.”
Jason’s mouth twitched into a half smile. “Yeah, well. You weren’t exactly picking up on the subtle hints.”
Tim pressed one hand against the wall, lowering himself until he was sitting against it. He looked drained, wrung out. His knees pulled up to his chest, his shoulders curving in like he was trying to make less space. Jason crouched across from him, pulling a cigarette from his jacket and rolling it between his fingers. No lighter, no smoke, it was just something to keep his own hands steady while Tim's trembled.
The silence stretched. Their breathing filled it; Tim’s ragged but slowing, Jason’s deliberate. The tang of gunpowder still hung in the air, sharp on the back of the tongue.
“You okay?” Jason asked, finally. Flat. Not casual, not concerned, just open enough to be answered or ignored.
Tim nodded. Too quick. Too automatic. It wasn't honest.
Jason didn’t call him out on it. He just let the quiet sit a little longer, watched Tim’s shoulders ease by inches, the tremor in his hands settling to a faint twitch.
When he finally spoke again, Jason’s tone was lighter, a ghost of dry humour in his voice. “Next time you freeze like that, I’m dumping a bucket of water over your head. Cheaper than wasting rounds.”
That got him a glare, weak, exhausted, but sharp enough to reassure him that Tim was still Tim.
“Noted,” Tim scoffed.
Jason pocketed the cigarette and pushed to his feet. “Come on. Before the rest of this guy’s friends get curious. You can have your breakdown somewhere with fewer idiots.”
Tim exhaled through his nose, a sound caught between a sigh and a laugh. He braced himself on the wall, got up, and fell into step beside Jason. A little unsteady, but moving nonetheless.
Jason adjusted his pace without thinking, half a step ahead, keeping his shoulders square toward the room. He didn’t comment on the way Tim stayed closer than usual, or how his hand brushed the wall every few feet like he needed the grounding. He didn’t say how much of it felt like déjà vu, like looking at a younger, sharper version of himself fighting the same ghosts.
He just walked in the somewhat uneasy silence.
Sometimes survival wasn’t about skill. It wasn’t about the perfect move or the flawless plan. Sometimes it was about knowing exactly what kind of noise could cut through the dark.
And sometimes, Jason thought grimly, it was about being the one to pull the trigger, so the kid didn’t have to.