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Tim has three problems right now.
The first problem is that he doesn’t remember deciding to call Jason.
The second problem is that it’s—he squints at the corner of his screen—2:43 a.m., which feels like a bad time to be making decisions he doesn’t remember making.
The third problem is that it’s already ringing.
“…okay,” Tim mutters to no one, because apparently this is happening now. “Okay. Sure. Great plan, me. Excellent decision making.”
He considers hanging up.
He does not hang up.
This is, objectively, a terrible sign.
The line clicks.
There’s a pause. Then—
“If this is a prank,” Jason says, voice rough with sleep and just enough threat to be comforting instead of alarming, “I’m going to find you.”
Tim opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
That’s—new.
“…Replacement?” Jason adds, sharper now. More awake.
Tim leans his forehead against the nearest solid surface—which turns out to be a brick wall, cold and grounding and probably part of a building he climbed five minutes ago and doesn’t fully remember choosing.
“I think,” Tim says slowly, “I might be outside.”
There’s another pause.
“Yeah,” Jason says flatly. “You tend to do that. Gotham, big city, lots of outside.”
Tim frowns. That doesn’t feel helpful. “No, I mean—I’m outside, but I don’t know why I’m still outside.”
“…Did patrol end?”
“Probably.”
“Did you go home?”
Tim considers this very seriously.
“…unclear.”
He probably should have gone home.
There was a reason for that. Something about sleep. Or food. Or… something.
It felt optional.
Jason exhales, long and suffering. “How long have you been awake?”
Tim brightens, because this is a question he can answer.
“Thirty—” he stops. Recalculates. “Thirty-six? Ish. Give or take a few minutes.”
Thirty-six hours was fine.
People had definitely stayed awake longer.
Probably.
He might be people.
“…You lost the right to ‘give or take’ about twelve hours ago.”
That seems… statistically possible.
Tim slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the edge of the rooftop, cape pooling around him like something dramatic he absolutely does not have the energy to deal with.
“I solved three cases,” he offers, because that feels like relevant information. “So it cancels out.”
That felt like solid math.
Three cases solved.
Minus sleep.
Equal… fine.
Probably fine.
“Yeah,” Jason says. “That’s not how human biology works.”
Tim blinks at the skyline. The lights blur a little at the edges.
“That feels fake,” he says.
“Everything you just said feels fake.”
There’s a beat.
“…Why did you call me?” Jason asks, and it’s different now. Less sarcasm. More something else Tim doesn’t have the brainpower to identify.
Tim opens his mouth again.
Closes it.
Opens it.
“…I don’t know,” he admits.
And that—more than anything else—seems to be the problem.
"Okay...where are you then?" Jason says a moment later. He seemed a little more on edge although Tim couldn't identify it in his sleep-addled brain.
"...I don't know..." he admits once again.
“Can you see anything?” Jason asks, irritation creeping in—underneath it, something sharper.
Tim was sixteen.
He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours.
Why the hell had nobody noticed?
“—bank,” Tim mumbles.
That’s important.
Probably.
He just doesn’t remember why.
Jason freezes. “What?”
“Gotham City Bank,” Tim says, a little clearer this time. Then, quieter, “I think. The big one. With the… front.”
“…the front,” Jason repeats.
“Yeah,” Tim says, like that explains everything.
Oh, he is really tired... and its been a few minutes since he last talked
“I can see you,” Jason says, already moving, already calculating distance. “Just stay there, okay?”
Jason is still talking.
Tim knows that.
He can hear him.
The words just… aren’t sticking anymore.
That seems like a problem.
He’ll fix it in a second.
…
“Tim?” Jason hadn't even realized he called Tim by his name.
No answer.
The line is still connected.
That’s worse.
"Fuck!" He screamed aloud pushing his bike to the absolute limit.
I'm almost there, Fuck you Bruce, really Fuck you.
---
Tim feels it before he understands it.
The shift.
The absence of ground.
Oh.
He’s falling.
That seems… bad.
He blinks, slow and heavy, and the world jumps—he’s lower now, the street rushing up to meet him in a way that feels distant and unimportant.
He should probably do something about that.
He doesn’t.
He felt his body give right when he was violently reminded of life as Jason grappled to catch Tim.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Jason snaps, voice sharp—too sharp. “Why would you—how do you fall asleep mid—” He was angry, but not at Tim, not really.
Jason is saying something.
He sounds… upset.
That’s weird.
Jason doesn’t get upset about him.
…does he?
Tim could feel Jason's hands digging into his shoulders as he was more or less being held upright. He tried to get words out, but his mouth wasn't working with his brain. He hadn't had any form of caffeine in about 12 hours and he could really feel it pulling his eyelids down.
The last thing he saw was Jason's face looking at him with an emotion he wasn't used to seeing, one he wasn't able to name.
Tim doesn’t remember deciding to close his eyes.
But this time, when everything goes dark—
he doesn’t fight it.
---
"Holy Fuck, Replacement!" Jason says as Tim goes limp in his arms.
Is he dead.
I hope he's not dead.
What do i do if he is dead.
Maybe I check for a pulse before assuming he's dead.
Yeah that sounds like a plan.
Jason brings one hand up towards Tim's neck trying to find a pulse.
He finds one, it is a little slower than he thinks it should be, but there's one there so he is not complaining.
---
Jason knows Tim is unconscious before he even hits the ground.
There’s a difference between someone going limp and someone dropping, and Tim—
Tim just stops.
“Hey—” Jason’s grip tightens automatically, one hand snapping up to cradle the back of his head before it can hit pavement. “No, no, no—stay with me, Replacement, don’t—”
Tim doesn’t so much as twitch.
Jason swears, low and vicious, pulling him closer, adjusting his hold until Tim is more supported than not. He’s lighter than he should be. That registers immediately, sharp and wrong.
Not just armor and gear—actually lighter.
Jason’s grip tightens without meaning to.
He knows this weight.
That thought goes nowhere good, so he drops it immediately.
“Tim.”
No response.
Jason shifts, pressing two fingers to the side of Tim’s neck.
Pulse—there.
Too fast.
Breathing—shallow, but steady enough
He’s seen this before.
Different circumstances. Same look.
Jason exhales sharply, like he can force the comparison out of his head. “Yeah. No.”
Alive.
Jason exhales hard through his teeth, tension bleeding out just enough to keep him moving instead of freezing.
“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself than anything. “You don’t get to do that. Not on my watch.”
Tim’s head lolls slightly against his shoulder, completely unresponsive. Up close, it’s worse. There are shadows under his eyes that aren’t just from the mask, skin pale in a way that has nothing to do with moonlight. There’s a faint tremor in his hands, even now.
Jason’s jaw tightens.
Thirty-six hours.
Bullshit.
Try longer.
“Of course nobody noticed,” he mutters, anger creeping in, low and sharp. “Or they noticed and didn’t do anything, which is somehow worse.”
He adjusts his grip again, more careful this time. Tim doesn’t react at all.
That—
That’s not normal.
Tim always reacts.
Always has something to say, some argument, some plan—
Even half-conscious, even injured—there’s always something. A flinch, something—
This kind of silence—
Jason’s jaw tightens.
He’s seen kids go this quiet before.
He hates it.
Jason looks up at the skyline, calculating distance, routes, time.
Wayne Manor is closer.
That’s not an option.
“Yeah, no,” he says aloud, already moving. “Absolutely not.”
He steps back, firing his grapple with one hand, adjusting Tim against him with the other like this is something he’s done a hundred times and not something that feels dangerously close to panic.
“B’s not getting you like this.”
The line goes taut, and Jason launches them upward, keeping Tim tucked in tight against his chest. The movement should wake him.
It doesn’t.
“Great,” Jason mutters. “Love that. Really reassuring.”
They land on the next rooftop harder than Jason would like, but Tim barely shifts, dead weight in his arms.
Jason freezes for half a second.
Dead weight.
“…yeah, we’re not using that phrase,” he snaps under his breath, like saying it out loud might make it true.
Jason swallows something sharp and unpleasant.
Tim’s breathing stutters slightly with the impact, then evens out again.
Jason doesn’t waste another second.
He moves.
Across rooftops, faster than he’d usually risk with someone else in his arms, but not fast enough to jostle Tim more than necessary. It’s a careful balance—speed versus stability—and he hates that he has to think about it at all.
“Sixteen,” he mutters again, quieter this time. “You’re sixteen.”
The city blurs past them in streaks of light and shadow.
Tim doesn’t wake up.
Jason’s grip tightens.
“Yeah,” he says under his breath, something grim settling in his chest. “You’re not going home.”
---
Jason doesn’t bother with subtlety when he gets inside.
The door slams open hard enough to echo, boot catching it before it can swing back. He’s already moving before it fully stops, crossing the space in a few long strides and dropping Tim onto the couch—
Not dropping.
Setting him down.
Carefully.
More carefully than he means to.
“Don’t make this a habit,” Jason mutters, like Tim can hear him. Like that would change anything.
Tim doesn’t react.
Not even a twitch.
Jason’s hands hover for half a second after he lets go, like he’s expecting something—a flinch, a complaint, a half-conscious shove.
Nothing.
“…yeah,” he says under his breath. “Love that.”
He straightens, already reaching for the nearest light and flipping it on. The dim glow fills the room, just enough to see by without being harsh.
It’s enough.
Up close, it’s worse.
The mask is still on. Jason swears quietly and leans back in, fingers moving quick and practiced as he pulls it off, tossing it aside without looking.
Tim’s face—
Jason stills.
There are shadows there that have nothing to do with lighting. Skin pale, lips slightly parted, breathing uneven in a way that makes something low in Jason’s chest twist tight.
“…yeah,” he mutters again, quieter this time. “That’s not great.”
He reaches out, pressing two fingers to Tim’s neck again, just to double check.
Still there.
Still too fast.
Jason exhales through his teeth, dragging a hand down his face before refocusing.
“Alright,” he says, more to himself than anything. “We’re doing this the annoying way.”
He moves quickly after that.
Jason works through the armor on autopilot at first—efficient, practiced, not really thinking about it.
Gloves, off and dropped somewhere to the side.
Cape, unclasped and tugged free, falling in a heavy pile on the floor.
Chest plate, comes off in pieces.
Tim isn’t helping at all in this process.
But, it’s routine.
It stays routine right up until it doesn’t.
Jason’s hand stills.
“…what the hell?”
There’s a bruise spreading along Tim’s ribs—dark, uneven, not fresh. Not old either. Right in that middle space where it should’ve been dealt with already.
Jason presses lightly.
Tim doesn’t react.
Not even a twitch.
Jason’s expression hardens.
“Yeah, that’s not concerning at all,” he mutters.
He shifts position, more deliberate now, pushing the fabric aside just enough to get a better look. There’s more—smaller marks, overlapping, like Tim stopped keeping track of where one injury ended and the next started.
Jason exhales slowly through his nose.
“Course there is,” he says.
His hands move again, quicker this time, checking along Tim’s side, his shoulder—
He stops again.
“…seriously?”
There’s a cut there. Not deep enough to be immediately dangerous, but deep enough that it should’ve been cleaned and closed properly.
It wasn’t.
Jason’s jaw tightens.
“You just decided this wasn’t your problem?” he says, voice low and sharp, even though Tim’s out cold. “That the plan?”
No answer.
Jason lets out a quiet, humorless laugh.
“Yeah. Thought so.”
He reaches for the first aid kit, popping it open with one hand, movements sharper now. Irritation bleeds into everything he does—how he grabs the antiseptic, how he tears open gauze.
It’s easier than thinking about it.
“Stay still,” he mutters automatically, like Tim has any say in the matter.
The antiseptic hits the cut.
Tim doesn’t react.
Jason freezes.
Just for a second.
“…you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
That’s wrong.
Even half-conscious, even exhausted, even asleep—people react to that.
Jason swallows, something tight settling in his chest, and forces his hands to keep moving.
“Yeah,” he says under his breath, quieter now. “We’re not ignoring this one.”
He cleans it properly this time. Slower. More careful.
Like it matters.
Like he matters.
Jason finishes wrapping the worst of it, but his gaze lingers, scanning for anything he missed.
There’s always something he misses.
Not this time.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it anymore.
Just something heavier.
Doesn’t shift.
Doesn’t protest.
Doesn’t even tense when Jason’s hands brush over bruises that should absolutely get a reaction.
Jason pauses.
His hand lingers for just a second over one of them, thumb pressing lightly.
Nothing.
Not even a flinch.
“…seriously?” he mutters.
That—
That’s wrong.
Tim always reacts.
Even half-dead on his feet, the kid’s got opinions. Sharp ones. Loud ones.
This?
This is—
Jason’s jaw tightens.
He’s seen this before.
Different places. Different kids.
Same stillness.
Same way the body just… stops arguing.
Jason pulls his hand back like he burned himself.
“Yeah,” he says flatly. “No. Not dealing with that. Not now.”
Underneath, it’s worse.
Tim looks—
Smaller.
Not physically, not really. Just—
There’s something about the way he’s curled slightly into himself, even unconscious, like his body forgot how to take up space.
Jason looks away first.
“Great,” he mutters, grabbing a blanket from the back of a chair and snapping it open. “Fantastic. Love this.”
He throws it over Tim, then immediately yanks it back into place when it lands wrong, tucking it in tighter than necessary.
“Stay put,” he adds, like that’s a reasonable thing to expect.
Tim doesn’t move.
Jason stands there for a second longer than he needs to, staring down at him.
Waiting.
For something.
Anything.
Nothing comes.
“…yeah,” he says again, quieter now.
He turns away abruptly, dragging a hand through his hair as he paces once across the room, then back. His movements are sharp, restless—energy with nowhere to go.
Sixteen.
The number sits wrong.
Too young to look like that.
Too young to be—
Jason cuts the thought off hard, like slamming a door.
“Nope,” he says aloud. “Not doing that either.”
He moves instead.
Kitchen—if you can call it that. Small, cluttered, functional. He grabs a glass, fills it halfway, then stops, staring at it like he’s not entirely sure why he bothered.
Tim’s not waking up anytime soon.
That’s—
Also not great.
Jason sets the glass down harder than necessary and leans back against the counter, arms crossing tight over his chest.
His gaze drifts back to the couch.
Tim hasn’t moved.
Hasn’t even shifted under the blanket.
Jason watches him for a long moment, expression tightening.
“…you’re gonna be real annoying about this when you wake up,” he says.
No response.
“Like, unbearably annoying.”
Still nothing.
Jason exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face again before pushing off the counter.
“Yeah, alright,” he mutters. “Fine.”
He disappears down the short hallway for a minute, rummaging through a drawer before coming back with a basic first aid kit, not like the one before used for the bigger injuries. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it—just drops onto the edge of the couch and gets to work.
It’s… not bad.
Not as bad as it could be.
But it’s enough.
Bruises. Cuts. The kind of wear-and-tear that adds up when nobody tells you to stop.
Jason cleans what needs cleaning, wraps what needs wrapping, movements efficient and quiet.
Tim doesn’t wake up for any of it.
Not when antiseptic hits raw skin.
Not when Jason presses a little too hard checking for anything worse.
Nothing.
Jason stills again, hand hovering for just a second before he forces himself to keep going.
“Yeah,” he says under his breath, something rough edging into his voice. “I’ve seen this before.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
Doesn’t need to.
The silence in the room does it for him.
When he’s done, he snaps the kit shut and sets it aside, leaning back slightly as he looks Tim over one more time.
Still breathing.
Still too still.
“…you’re not going back there tomorrow,” Jason says, like it’s already decided. Like it was never a question.
Tim, unsurprisingly, does not argue.
Jason huffs a quiet, humorless sound.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Thought so.”
He shifts, grabbing a chair and dragging it closer before dropping into it, elbows braced on his knees.
He doesn’t say he’s staying.
He doesn’t need to.
His eyes don’t leave Tim.
Not once.
---
Jason lasts exactly twelve minutes.
He knows, because he checks.
Once.
Then again.
Then a third time, just to make sure the numbers haven’t changed.
They haven’t.
Twelve minutes since he sat down.
Twelve minutes of Tim not moving.
Not waking up.
Not even shifting under the blanket.
Jason exhales sharply and pushes to his feet.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “No. Not happening.”
Sitting still isn’t helping. Watching isn’t helping. Waiting—
Waiting feels like the worst possible option.
His gaze flicks back to the couch.
Tim is exactly where he left him. Curled slightly under the blanket, breathing shallow but steady, face still too pale in the low light.
Jason’s jaw tightens.
“…don’t go anywhere,” he says.
A beat.
“Actually, do. See if I care.”
Tim, predictably, does not respond.
Jason grabs his helmet off the table, shoving it on as he heads for the door in one smooth motion. He hesitates for half a second—just long enough to look back again.
Still breathing.
Still too still.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll be back.”
The door slams behind him.
The ride is fast.
Faster than it should be.
Jason pushes the bike harder than usual, weaving through Gotham like the city personally offended him. The wind cuts sharp against him, grounding in a way sitting still wasn’t.
It doesn’t fix the problem.
It just gives the energy somewhere to go.
Thirty-six hours.
Bullshit.
Jason tightens his grip on the handlebars.
He’s seen what that looks like. He knows how it ends if nobody steps in.
“…not doing that again,” he mutters.
The Batmobile isn’t hard to find.
Bruce has never been subtle about where he leaves it during patrol—tucked just out of sight, but not enough to actually hide it from anyone who knows what they’re looking for.
Jason knows.
Of course he does.
He kills the engine a block away and approaches on foot, silent out of habit more than necessity. The car sits exactly where expected, dark and imposing and very, very familiar.
Jason stops a few feet away, staring at it.
His jaw ticks.
“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Because now that he’s here—now that he’s looking at it—
This feels worse.
This feels like proof.
Tim’s gear is still inside.
Exactly where it shouldn’t be.
Jason moves before he can think about it too hard, popping the compartment with practiced ease. He doesn’t hesitate as he starts pulling things out.
Staff.
Cape.
Spare gear.
Everything.
It all ends up in a growing pile on the ground, dumped without much care.
“Yeah,” he mutters, voice low and sharp. “This is fine. This is totally fine.”
His movements get rougher, faster.
“Kid disappears mid-patrol, and this is just—what? Business as usual?”
He huffs out a humorless laugh, dragging out the last of it.
“Fantastic system you’ve got going here, B.”
Jason straightens slowly, looking down at the pile.
Then back at the Batmobile.
Then back at the pile.
“…no,” he decides.
He reaches into one of the compartments again, digging around until he finds something to write with. It takes a second longer than he’d like.
That doesn’t help his mood.
“Of course you don’t have a pen,” he mutters. “Why would you have a pen. That would make sense.”
Eventually, he finds one.
And something flat enough to write on.
He doesn’t overthink it.
He just writes.
Hard. Fast. Pressing into the paper like it personally offended him.
Then he looks at it.
Considers.
Adds one more line.
“Yeah,” he says, satisfied. “That’ll do it.”
Jason sets the note right on top of the pile of gear, weighing it down with the staff so it’s impossible to miss.
He doesn’t bother hiding any of it.
That’s the point.
“Figure it out,” he mutters, stepping back. “Or don’t.”
He turns away before he can second-guess the words on the note.
Although they kept circling in his head.
---
You’re missing something.
Not gear. Not a case.
Him.
Figure out what that means.
If you can’t, you don’t get him back.
Try to take him anyway, and this gets worse.
Fix it.
Then we’ll talk.
---
Wayne Manor looms exactly the same as always.
Too big.
Too quiet.
Too—
Jason cuts that thought off immediately.
“Not doing that either,” he mutters.
He circles around the back without hesitation, keeping to shadows out of pure instinct. Old habits don’t go away just because you don’t want them to.
He doesn’t go through the front.
Obviously.
Instead, he looks up.
Counts windows.
Calculates distance.
Finds the one he wants.
Tim’s room.
“…of course it’s on the third floor,” Jason mutters. “Why make anything easy?”
The climb is automatic.
Grapple. Pull. Swing. Land.
He’s done this a thousand times before, muscle memory guiding him even while his mind is somewhere else entirely.
The window isn’t locked.
Jason pauses for half a second, hand resting against the frame.
“…seriously?”
Of course it isn’t.
He pushes it open without a sound and slips inside.
Tim’s room is—
Jason stops.
Looks around.
“…wow.”
It’s clean.
Not just clean—organized. Precise. Everything in its place in a way that feels less like tidiness and more like control.
There are stacks of files. Books. Notes. Screens.
Multiple screens.
Jason walks further in slowly, taking it all in.
“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”
This isn’t a bedroom.
It’s a workspace.
A command center.
A place someone doesn’t leave.
Jason exhales slowly, something tight settling in his chest again.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That tracks.”
He moves after that, quicker now.
Closet first.
He grabs clothes without overthinking—hoodies, t-shirts, anything that looks comfortable and not… this.
Then the desk.
He hesitates there for a second longer.
There’s too much.
Too many files. Too many open cases. Too many things mid-process.
Jason doesn’t read them.
Doesn’t need to.
He’s seen enough.
“…yeah,” he says quietly. “We’re taking a break.”
He reaches out and, one by one, shuts the screens off.
The room goes dimmer with each click.
Quieter.
Better.
Jason grabs a bag—doesn’t matter which—and starts shoving things into it.
Clothes.
Basic supplies.
Anything Tim might need that isn’t tied to this.
He ignores the rest.
Very deliberately.
“…you’re not touching any of this for a while,” he mutters, like that’s a promise he can actually enforce.
When he’s done, he slings the bag over his shoulder and takes one last look around the room.
At the desk.
At the screens.
At the space that looks more like a cage than anything else.
Jason’s jaw tightens.
“…yeah,” he says again, quieter this time. “That’s not happening.”
He moves back to the window, slipping out the same way he came in without a sound.
The drop back down is easy.
The landing is lighter than it should be.
Jason doesn’t pause.
Doesn’t look back.
He just heads for the bike, grip tightening slightly as he starts it up again.
“…you’re staying put,” he mutters, already turning back toward the city.
Back toward the safehouse.
Back to Tim.
---POV CHANGE---
The first thing Bruce notices is that something is wrong.
Not because of the note.
Not because of the gear.
Because of the silence.
Tim is late.
Not late in the way most people would define it—not five minutes, not even ten.
Late in a way that doesn’t happen.
Red Robin doesn’t miss check-ins. Doesn’t disappear mid-patrol. Doesn’t—
Bruce cuts the thought off before it finishes forming.
“Red Robin,” he says into the comm, voice even, controlled. “Report.”
Static.
Dick’s voice comes through a second later, lighter than it should be. “He’s probably finishing up something, B. You know how he gets.”
Bruce doesn’t answer.
Because he does know.
That’s the problem.
“Red Robin,” he repeats.
Nothing.
Jason’s note sits exactly where he left it.
They don’t see it yet.
The Batmobile is exactly where Bruce left it.
Untouched.
Unmoved.
And very, very wrong.
---
Bruce steps out first, boots hitting pavement with quiet precision. His gaze sweeps the area automatically—rooftops, alleys, shadows.
No signs of a struggle.
No signs of disturbance.
No signs of anything.
That’s worse.
“Uh,” Dick says, landing lightly beside him. “B…?”
Bruce doesn’t respond.
Because he sees it now.
The pile.
Tim’s staff is the first thing that registers.
It’s leaning at an angle it shouldn’t be, partially pinning down a sheet of paper that flutters slightly in the night air.
Everything else follows.
Cape.
Utility belt.
Armor pieces.
All of it.
Left.
Discarded.
Wrong.
For half a second, nobody moves.
Then—
“Where’s Red Robin?” Damian demands, already tense, already stepping forward.
Dick doesn’t answer.
He’s staring at the gear like it might rearrange itself into something that makes sense if he looks long enough.
“…that’s not funny,” he says, but there’s no humor in it. None at all.
Bruce is already moving.
He crosses the distance in three strides, dropping into a crouch beside the pile. His hands move quickly, precise, scanning—checking for damage, for blood, for anything that explains why this is here and Tim isn’t.
There’s nothing.
No sign of a fight.
No indication of force.
Just absence.
Bruce’s jaw tightens.
“B?” Dick’s voice is sharper now. “What is that?”
Bruce doesn’t answer immediately.
Because he’s looking at the paper.
He reaches for it slowly, pulling it free from under the staff.
The page is creased, the writing pressed deep enough into it to leave indentations.
Not careful.
Not calm.
Controlled, but—
Angry.
Bruce reads it once.
Then again.
His expression doesn’t change.
That’s how Dick knows it’s bad.
“…Bruce?” he presses.
Bruce hands him the note without a word.
Dick takes it, eyes scanning quickly—
And then stopping.
“…oh,” he says, very quietly.
“Read it,” Damian snaps, stepping closer.
Dick hesitates for half a second.
Then he does.
Out loud.
Each word lands heavier than the last.
When he finishes, the silence that follows is worse than anything that came before.
“…this is a joke,” Dick says finally, but it’s not convincing. Not even close. “Right? It’s—this is someone messing with us.”
“No,” Bruce says.
One word.
Flat.
Certain.
Damian’s expression sharpens, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. “Then someone has taken Drake.”
The word hangs there.
Taken.
Dick shakes his head immediately. “No—no, Tim wouldn’t just—he wouldn’t—”
He looks back at the gear.
At the empty space where Tim should be.
“…he wouldn’t leave this,” he finishes, quieter.
Bruce is already moving again.
“Signs of struggle,” he says, voice low and controlled. “Anything out of place.”
They spread out immediately.
It’s automatic.
Training.
Instinct.
Dick scans the perimeter, flipping into the air and landing on a nearby ledge, eyes sweeping over every inch of the surrounding rooftops.
“Nothing,” he calls down. “No disturbances, no—no drag marks, no broken—nothing.”
“Unacceptable,” Damian mutters, crouching near the Batmobile, inspecting the ground with sharp precision. “There is always something.”
But there isn’t.
That’s the problem.
Bruce straightens slowly, gaze sweeping the area one more time.
Clean.
Too clean.
His hand tightens slightly at his side.
“Oracle,” he says into the comm.
A beat.
Then Barbara’s voice comes through, already alert. “What’s wrong?”
“Red Robin is missing.”
There’s a pause.
A short one.
But long enough.
“…define missing,” she says carefully.
Bruce’s eyes flick back to the note in Dick’s hand.
“To be determined.”
Dick looks up sharply at that.
“Bruce—”
“We proceed under the assumption of abduction,” Bruce continues, cutting him off.
The word lands hard.
Dick flinches.
Damian doesn’t.
His expression sharpens further, something almost eager and very, very dangerous settling in.
“Then we find who took him,” Damian says, already turning, already thinking ahead. “And we make them regret it.”
Bruce doesn’t respond.
Because he’s already steps ahead.
Already calculating.
Already planning.
But beneath that—
Something colder.
Quieter.
More dangerous.
His gaze shifts once more to the abandoned gear.
To the note.
To the absence.
“…someone will.” Bruce says finally, voice low and absolute.
---POV CHANGE---
Tim wakes up wrong.
That’s the first thing he knows.
Not where he is.
Not why he’s here.
Just—
Wrong.
Like something has been shifted half an inch out of place and his brain can’t quite line it back up.
He doesn’t open his eyes.
Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t even fully breathe.
Because that’s the mistake people make.
They wake up and react.
They move too soon.
Give away too much.
Tim doesn’t.
He breathes.
Slow.
Measured.
In.
Out.
Again.
Inventory first.
Always.
Touch.
He’s lying down.
That registers immediately—and that alone is enough to raise a flag.
He doesn’t lie down on patrol.
Doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t—
The surface under him has give. Not much, but enough to be noticeable. Fabric, slightly rough against his fingertips. There’s a seam pressing faintly into his palm. A cushion, maybe. Worn.
Not a bed.
Not his bed.
Not any bed he recognizes.
There’s weight over him, too—something draped across his torso. A blanket. Heavy enough to trap warmth, light enough to shift when he breathes.
Blanket.
That’s—
Not standard.
Sound.
It takes a second longer to come in.
There’s no wind.
No rush of air past his ears, no distant horns or tires or voices bleeding through the city like they always do.
Instead—
A low electrical hum. Constant. Background.
A faint ticking—no, dripping—irregular, somewhere off to the right.
Wood creaking.
Old structure.
Inside.
Definitely inside.
Smell.
Antiseptic.
Not fresh—faded, like it’s been used recently but not just now.
Coffee. Burnt. Old.
Gun oil.
Metal.
Dust.
None of it belongs to him.
None of it is familiar.
That’s enough.
Tim’s eyes open.
The ceiling is wrong.
Too low.
Wrong color.
There’s a crack in the corner, thin but noticeable, branching slightly like it started small and got worse over time.
He stares at it for exactly one second.
Then stops.
Looking too long is a mistake.
He shifts his gaze instead.
Peripheral first.
Edges of the room.
Blurry at first—his vision lags, takes a second to catch up, like everything is moving through syrup.
That’s—
Annoying.
He ignores it.
Left side—
Wall. Scuffed. Bare. No decoration, no identifiable markers.
Right side—
Table. Cluttered. Tools. Not organized, not chaotic—functional. Used.
Front door,
Closed.
Of course it is.
Tim doesn’t move.
He’s been kidnapped.
The thought lands cleanly.
No panic.
No spike in heart rate.
Just—
Information.
He catalogs it.
Slots it into place.
Starts building.
-
Step one: restraints.
He tests carefully.
Wrists—free.
Ankles—free.
No tension, no pressure, no binding.
That’s—
Unusual.
-
Step two: mobility.
He flexes his fingers slightly.
There’s a delay.
Small.
But there.
Like the signal has to travel further than it should.
He tightens his hand.
Releases.
Again.
Slow.
That’s a problem.
-
Step three: injuries.
He runs through a quick internal scan.
Head — possible concussion, headache
Ribs — bruised.
Shoulder — strained.
Side — bandaged.
Bandaged.
Tim stills.
That complicates things.
Because kidnappers don’t usually—
No.
That’s not accurate.
Some do.
Depends on intent.
Interrogation requires subject viability.
Tim adjusts the model.
-
Step four: timeline.
Last clear memory—
Rooftop.
Phone.
Jason.
…
Falling.
He frowns slightly.
That doesn’t line up.
If he fell—
Then either:
A) He survived and was recovered
B) He was intercepted mid-fall
C) Memory gap
Fatigue.
Right.
That’s—
Still relevant.
Tim ignores it.
-
Step five: environment.
No visible cameras.
Doesn’t mean there aren’t any.
Likely hidden.
Audio recording possible.
He keeps his breathing steady.
Neutral.
-
Step six: contingencies.
His brain accelerates.
Faster now.
Sharper.
Cleaner.
-
Plan A: Immediate Escape
Sit up slowly
Assess balance
Reach door
Test handle
If locked, force or improvise
-
Plan B: Passive Observation
Wait for captor
Feign confusion
Gather intel
Strike when close
-
Plan C: Controlled Aggression
Use surprise
Target weak points
Disable
Exit
-
Plan D: Environmental Manipulation
Use tools
Create distraction
Control space
-
Plan E: Worst Case
Multiple hostiles
Conserve energy
Delay
Escape later
-
Tim breathes in.
Out.
Okay.
He can work with this.
He shifts slightly.
Testing.
The room tilts.
Not a lot.
Just enough to register.
Tim stills.
That’s—
Not ideal.
He adjusts.
Compensates.
Recalculates.
Fine.
He can work around that.
He starts to sit up—
Footsteps.
Tim freezes.
Inside the room.
Not outside.
Not approaching.
Already there.
That—
That changes things.
Plans shift instantly.
Footsteps are steady.
Confident.
Not cautious.
Not predatory.
Familiar.
Tim’s brow furrows.
That doesn’t fit.
The steps stop.
Silence.
Then—
“About time.”
Tim blinks.
That—
That is not what he expected.
He turns his head.
Slow.
Controlled.
Vision catching up just a fraction too late—
Jason.
Leaning against the wall.
Arms crossed.
Watching him.
Tim stares.
“…oh,” he says.
A beat.
Jason doesn’t smile.
“You fell off a building.”
Tim considers that.
“…that tracks.”
The memory hits.
All at once.
Phone.
Voice.
Edge.
Nothing.
Falling.
Tim winces.
His hand comes up to his forehead.
“…I didn’t know what came over me,” he says quietly. “I—”
He exhales.
“I’m sorry,” he adds. “I don’t know why I called you.”
Jason doesn’t answer.
Tim pushes himself upright anyway.
Too fast.
The room tilts harder.
He grips the edge of the couch.
Waits.
Lets it settle.
Fine.
“I’ve got work,” Tim says, like that resolves the situation. “I have eight open cases.”
Jason raises an eyebrow.
“Two are urgent,” Tim continues. “And I have—WE—”
He pauses.
Recalculates.
“Meetings,” he finishes.
Jason stares at him.
“So I need to go.”
Tim stands.
The world shifts again.
His balance lags.
He fixes it.
Fine.
Jason watches him.
Counts.
One.
Two.
Three.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
Tim takes a step.
Jason moves.
Blocks him.
Tim stops.
Mostly because he has to.
“…move.”
“No.”
“I have work.”
“You have a problem.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“You fell asleep mid-call and walked off a building.”
Tim frowns.
“That feels like an exaggeration.”
Jason just looks at him.
“You stopped talking,” Jason says. “Then you fell.”
Tim processes that.
“…okay,” he admits. “That’s less ideal.”
“Sit down.”
“No.”
Tim moves again.
Jason blocks him again.
Faster this time.
Tim adjusts.
Pushes.
Jason catches his wrist.
“Not happening.”
Tim twists.
Too slow.
Jason notices.
That’s—
Bad.
Tim tries again.
Different angle.
Different approach.
Jason counters.
Easily.
Frustration spikes.
“I don’t have time for this.”
“That’s the problem.”
Tim lunges.
Now it’s a fight.
Not clean.
Not sharp.
Not what it should be.
Tim’s timing is off.
His balance slips.
His reactions lag just enough to matter.
Jason sees everything.
Adapts.
Blocks.
Counters.
Controls.
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Tim.”
“Jason.”
They move again.
Faster.
Harder.
Tim nearly lands a hit.
Nearly.
Jason redirects.
Tim stumbles.
Recovers.
Keeps going.
Because stopping—
Isn’t an option.
Because if he stops—
He’ll feel it.
And he doesn’t want to feel it.
“I don’t need—” Tim starts.
His words cut off as the room spins again.
Harder.
His footing slips.
Jason catches him.
Not aggressively.
Not like a fight.
Just—
Stops him.
Hands on his shoulders.
Holding him there.
Tim tries to move.
Doesn’t get far.
“Look at you,” Jason says quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I have work.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I can fix it.”
“How.”
“I just—need to recalibrate.”
Jason stares at him.
“That’s not how that works.”
Tim opens his mouth.
Stops.
Because—
He doesn’t have an answer.
And that—
That’s worse.
His knees buckle slightly.
Jason steadies him again.
Tim hates that.
“…I have eight cases,” he says again, quieter now.
Jason doesn’t move.
“They’ll still be there.”
“No,” Tim says. “They won’t.”
Jason doesn’t argue.
Just—
Pushes him back.
Toward the couch.
Tim resists.
For a second.
Then stops.
Because it’s easier.
He sits.
Leans forward.
Elbows on his knees.
Stares at the floor.
“…this is inefficient,” he mutters.
Jason huffs.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’re fixing that.”
Tim doesn’t answer.
He just sits there.
Still.
For once.
And that—
Might be the most concerning thing of all.
---POV CHANGE---
The Batcave is too quiet.
Not empty.
Never empty.
But quiet in the way a room gets when something is missing that shouldn’t be.
Bruce stands at the central console, hands braced against the edge, staring at the screen without really seeing it.
Tim is still gone.
That fact has not changed.
It has been—
Bruce doesn’t check the time again.
Checking it won’t help.
“Oracle,” he says, voice low and steady. “Status.”
There’s a brief flicker across the main screen before Barbara’s interface comes online—lines of data streaming, maps overlaying Gotham in shifting grids of light.
“I’m working on it,” she says, already moving quickly. “I’ve got access to traffic cams, private security feeds, city grid—everything I can legally and illegally get into.”
Dick is pacing.
He hasn’t stopped since they got back.
“Tell me you’ve got something,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Anything. A ping, a signal—something.”
Barbara exhales sharply. “I would love to tell you that.”
Bruce doesn’t move.
“Tim’s comms?” he asks.
There’s a pause.
Not long.
But enough.
“…offline,” Barbara says. “Completely. No signal, no last ping, nothing.”
Dick stops pacing.
“What do you mean nothing?”
“I mean nothing,” Barbara repeats. “It’s not just out of range—it’s gone. Either destroyed or disabled.”
Damian’s expression sharpens immediately.
“They destroyed his communication device,” he says. “That confirms hostile intent.”
Dick looks between them. “Or it got damaged in a fight—”
“No,” Bruce says.
The word cuts cleanly through the space.
Dick looks at him.
Bruce’s gaze hasn’t shifted from the screen.
“It was removed from the Batmobile,” he continues. “With the rest of his gear.”
That—
That lands.
Hard.
Dick exhales slowly. “So… whoever took him didn’t want it tracking.”
“Or,” Damian says, voice edged with something sharper, “they wanted us to believe that.”
Silence settles again.
Barbara speaks first this time.
“Tim’s phone,” she says. “I’m trying to ping it now.”
A beat.
Then—
“…nothing.”
Dick laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
Bruce finally shifts slightly.
“Explain.”
Barbara’s fingers move faster across her keyboard. “It’s not active. Not just powered down—completely inactive. It hasn’t connected to a network since… earlier.”
“How much earlier?” Bruce asks.
Another pause.
“…before patrol.”
That—
That shouldn’t happen.
Dick frowns. “He always takes his phone.”
Bruce doesn’t respond.
Because he knows that.
Because Tim always has everything.
Backups. Redundancies. Fail-safes.
For him to be unreachable like this—
That’s not an accident.
Damian steps forward slightly, gaze sharp. “Then we are blind.”
Bruce doesn’t argue.
Because it’s true.
Barbara exhales. “Okay. If I can’t track him directly, I can track where he was.”
Bruce nods once. “Do it.”
The screens shift.
Gotham spreads out in front of them—layered grids, blinking indicators, camera feeds cycling rapidly.
Barbara’s voice sharpens, more focused now.
“I’m pulling every camera along his patrol route,” she says. “Traffic, storefronts, private security—anything with a line of sight.”
Dick moves closer to the console, watching as footage begins to cycle.
“Start with the last confirmed sighting,” Bruce says.
“I’m on it.”
Footage flickers.
One angle.
Then another.
Then another.
Tim—moving across rooftops, controlled, precise, exactly as expected.
Normal.
Too normal.
Dick leans in slightly. “He looks fine.”
Bruce doesn’t answer.
The footage skips forward.
Another camera.
Another angle.
Tim again.
Still moving.
Still working.
Barbara frowns slightly. “Hold on.”
She rewinds.
Replays.
Slows it down.
“There,” she says.
The screen zooms.
Tim is in motion—mid-fight.
The angle is from across the street, grainy but clear enough to make out shapes.
A group.
Four—no, five men.
Untrained.
Messy.
Not coordinated enough to be professionals.
Dick’s brow furrows. “That doesn’t look like a planned ambush.”
“No,” Bruce says quietly. “It doesn’t.”
Tim moves through them efficiently.
Fast.
Controlled.
Normal.
Then—
One of the men breaks pattern.
Comes in from the side.
The hit lands.
Hard.
Right to the back of Tim’s head.
Dick flinches.
“—oh, that’s not good.”
Tim goes down.
Not fully.
But enough.
Enough to matter.
The footage stutters slightly as Barbara slows it further.
Tim stays down for—
One second.
Two.
Three.
Too long.
“…that’s not normal,” Dick says quietly.
No one argues.
Tim pushes himself up.
But—
Something’s off.
His movements are slower.
Less precise.
There’s a hesitation there that wasn’t before.
“He’s disoriented,” Barbara says.
“Concussion,” Bruce adds.
Damian’s eyes narrow. “He should have disengaged.”
But he doesn’t.
Tim moves forward again.
Fighting.
But not the same.
Not clean.
Not sharp.
Messy.
The men notice.
Of course they do.
They start backing off.
Retreating.
Tim follows.
Dick frowns. “Why is he following them?”
“Instinct,” Bruce says. “Or determination.”
Or something else.
But he doesn’t say that.
The group turns.
Runs.
Tim follows.
Slower.
But still following.
The camera angle shifts—
And then—
Nothing.
They disappear into an alley.
The feed cuts to a different camera.
Empty street.
No Tim.
No group.
Nothing.
Barbara freezes the frame.
Silence.
“…well,” Dick says quietly. “That’s not great.”
“No,” Bruce agrees.
Damian steps closer to the screen, eyes narrowing. “They led him.”
Dick looks at him. “You think that was planned?”
“They retreated in formation,” Damian says. “Not randomly. They drew him in.”
Bruce doesn’t respond immediately.
Because—
It could be that.
Or—
It could be something else.
But the evidence—
Supports the assumption.
Barbara exhales slowly. “I’m pulling surrounding cameras. Maybe we can catch where they came out.”
She works quickly.
Feeds cycling.
Angles shifting.
Nothing.
No exit.
No reappearance.
No sign.
“They vanish,” she says.
Dick runs a hand through his hair again. “So they drag him into a blind spot and—what—just disappear?”
“Vehicles,” Bruce says. “Or a secondary exit point.”
Damian’s expression sharpens. “A planned extraction.”
Dick looks back at the screen.
At the moment Tim goes down.
At the way he gets back up.
At how he follows.
“…he wasn’t right,” Dick says quietly.
No one argues.
Bruce’s gaze lingers on that frame.
Tim on the ground.
Still.
For just a second too long.
Then moving again.
Wrong.
Bruce turns away from the screen.
“The note,” he says.
Dick tenses slightly. “Yeah. About that.”
He pulls it out again, unfolding it carefully.
Barbara glances up from her screens. “Read it again.”
Dick does.
Slowly.
Each word heavier the second time.
Silence follows.
“…okay,” Dick says. “So—whoever took him wants us to think.”
“They want us to understand something,” Bruce corrects.
Damian scoffs. “It is a threat.”
“It’s more than that,” Barbara says, eyes narrowing as she looks at the text. “It’s… specific.”
Bruce nods once.
“‘You’re missing something,’” he says.
Dick frowns. “We’re missing Tim.”
“No,” Bruce says.
The word is quiet.
But firm.
“That is not what the note refers to.”
Damian tilts his head slightly. “Then what?”
Bruce doesn’t answer immediately.
Because—
He’s still looking at the footage.
At the moment Tim falls.
At the delay.
At the recovery.
At the pursuit.
Something—
Isn’t right.
“…they want us to realize something we failed to see,” Bruce says finally.
Dick crosses his arms. “Okay, but what? What did we miss?”
Barbara leans back slightly, thinking. “If this is about Tim… then it’s something about his behavior. His patterns. Something consistent.”
Damian’s expression sharpens. “A weakness.”
Dick immediately shakes his head. “No. Tim doesn’t have—”
He stops.
Because—
That’s not true.
No one says it.
But the thought lingers.
Bruce’s voice cuts through it.
“Focus on the facts,” he says. “Tim was engaged in combat. He sustained a head injury. He continued pursuit into an unmonitored area. He did not reemerge.”
“And his gear was returned,” Barbara adds.
“Deliberately,” Damian says.
Dick looks down at the note again.
“…‘Try to take him anyway, and this gets worse,’” he reads quietly.
A threat.
Clear.
Directed.
Bruce’s jaw tightens slightly.
“They expect us to act,” he says.
“Then we act,” Damian says immediately.
“No,” Bruce says.
That stops everything.
Dick looks at him. “Bruce—”
“We act carefully,” Bruce corrects. “Without understanding the intent behind this, we risk escalation.”
Damian’s eyes flash. “They already escalated.”
Bruce doesn’t argue.
Because that’s also true.
Barbara turns back to her screens. “I’ll keep digging. There has to be something—another camera, another angle—anything.”
Dick exhales slowly. “And if there isn’t?”
No one answers.
Because they all know what that means.
Bruce looks back at the frozen frame one more time.
At Tim.
On the ground.
Not moving.
Just for a second.
Too long.
“…we will find him,” Bruce says.
It’s not reassurance.
It’s a promise.
And somewhere deep beneath that—
Something colder.
Because whoever did this—
Whoever left that note—
Knows them.
And that—
Is the most dangerous part of all.
---POV CHANGE---
Tim doesn’t realize how quiet the room has gotten until it’s been quiet for too long.
Not the absence of sound—there’s still the low hum of electricity somewhere in the walls, the faint ticking drip from earlier, Jason shifting his weight a few feet away—but the kind of quiet that settles after something ends.
The fight.
The argument.
The momentum.
All of it just… stops.
And what’s left is—
Stillness.
Tim leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, staring at a spot on the floor that doesn’t mean anything.
His brain doesn’t stop.
It never does.
Even now, it’s moving—running through timelines, recalculating cases, trying to reorder priorities into something manageable.
Eight cases.
Two urgent.
One probably escalating.
Wayne Enterprises—
Meeting.
Time?
He squints slightly.
Doesn’t remember.
That’s—
Not great.
He presses his fingers lightly against his temple.
The pressure helps.
A little.
“Stop that.”
Tim freezes.
“…what?” he asks after a second.
Jason doesn’t sound annoyed.
Not really.
Just—
Certain.
“You’re doing the thing,” Jason says.
Tim frowns.
“I don’t know what that means.”
Jason huffs quietly.
“The thing where you’re trying to solve everything in your head instead of dealing with what’s right in front of you.”
Tim considers that.
“…that seems inefficient,” he says.
Jason lets out a short, humorless laugh.
“Yeah,” he says. “You keep saying that.”
Tim shifts slightly, the movement sending a dull ache through his ribs.
He ignores it.
There’s a pause.
Then—
“…why?”
Jason doesn’t answer immediately.
Tim glances up.
“…why won’t you let me leave?” he asks, more clearly this time. “And why do you even care?”
It comes out more blunt than he intends.
But—
That’s the question.
Jason goes still.
Not frozen.
Not tense.
Just—
Still.
For a second, Tim thinks he’s not going to answer.
Then—
Jason exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair.
“…because you’re being an idiot,” he says.
Tim blinks.
“That’s not—”
“You remind me of me.”
Tim stops.
The words land differently.
Jason doesn’t look at him when he says it.
He’s staring somewhere off to the side, jaw tight, like the sentence dragged itself out of him without permission.
“…I’m sorry?” Tim says.
Jason lets out a quiet, sharp breath.
“Sixteen,” he says. “You’re sixteen.”
Tim frowns.
“That’s not new information.”
“And you’re working yourself into the ground like it is,” Jason snaps, looking at him now. “Like you’ve got something to prove every second of every day.”
Tim straightens slightly.
“I do have things to prove.”
“Yeah,” Jason says. “That’s the problem.”
Tim opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Because—
That’s not—
That’s not the conversation.
“…I’m doing my job,” Tim says instead.
Jason’s expression sharpens.
“No,” he says. “You’re overdoing your job.”
“That’s not—”
“You fell off a building.”
Tim flinches.
“That was—circumstantial.”
Jason stares at him.
“You passed out mid-call.”
“I was—distracted.”
“You didn’t even remember dialing.”
Tim hesitates.
“…that’s not necessarily relevant.”
Jason actually laughs at that.
Short.
Sharp.
Not amused.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. Sure. None of that’s relevant.”
Tim presses his lips together.
Because—
He knows how it sounds.
But—
“It’s manageable,” he says anyway.
Jason’s expression goes flat.
“No,” he says. “It’s not.”
Tim exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face.
“I just need to adjust,” he mutters. “Reallocate time, prioritize—”
“You need to sleep.”
Tim’s head snaps up.
“That’s not—”
“—optional,” Jason cuts in. “It’s not a suggestion. It’s not something you ‘fit in.’ You need it.”
Tim shakes his head immediately.
“I don’t have time for that.”
Jason stares at him.
“You don’t have time to not.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you want to keep functioning.”
“I am functioning.”
Jason gestures at him.
“Barely.”
Tim opens his mouth—
Stops.
Because—
He can feel it.
The lag.
The delay.
The way his thoughts are just slightly out of sync with his body.
It’s—
Annoying.
Not catastrophic.
Fixable.
“…that’s not from lack of sleep,” Tim says finally.
Jason narrows his eyes slightly.
“What.”
Tim shifts, wincing slightly as his side pulls again.
“I might have a concussion,” he says, like it’s an afterthought.
Silence.
Jason blinks.
“…you might have a concussion.”
Tim nods once.
“That would explain the sluggishness,” he continues, more focused now that he has a variable to work with. “Delayed reaction time, mild disorientation, balance issues—”
Jason is staring at him.
“—and the headache,” Tim adds, pressing his fingers to his temple again. “Which has been consistent, so—”
“Tim.”
Tim stops.
Jason takes a step closer.
“Tell me you’re joking.”
Tim tilts his head slightly.
“…why would I joke about that?”
Jason exhales sharply, pacing once like he needs to move or break something.
“You ‘might’ have a concussion,” he repeats. “You’re not sure.”
Tim shrugs slightly.
“I didn’t run a full diagnostic.”
Jason makes a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
“Of course you didn’t.”
Tim frowns.
“I had other priorities.”
“Yeah,” Jason says. “Like chasing a bunch of guys after getting your head slammed into concrete.”
Tim considers that.
“…in hindsight, that might not have been optimal.”
Jason stops pacing.
“‘Might not have been—’” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face. “You think?”
Tim watches him for a second.
“…it’s not that bad,” he says.
Jason looks at him.
Really looks at him.
At the way he’s sitting.
The way he’s holding himself.
The slight delay every time he moves.
“…you couldn’t stay conscious,” Jason says quietly.
Tim looks away.
“That was—temporary.”
“You couldn’t stand.”
“I was adjusting.”
“You couldn’t fight me.”
That—
That makes Tim pause.
Because—
That part is harder to explain away.
“I was off-balance,” he says after a second.
Jason lets out a slow breath.
“Yeah,” he says. “You were.”
There’s a pause.
Then—
“That’s what I’m saying,” Jason continues, voice lower now. “You’re not okay. And if it’s still affecting you like this—if you’re still this slow—then it’s worse than you think.”
Tim doesn’t answer.
Because—
He knows that.
Objectively.
But—
“…I can work through it,” he says anyway.
Jason’s expression hardens.
“No,” he says. “You can’t.”
“I can.”
“You’re trying to convince yourself you can.”
“That’s not—”
“You’re sixteen,” Jason snaps again, sharper this time. “You don’t get to just run yourself into the ground and call it ‘fine.’”
Tim flinches slightly.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Jason cuts him off. “You think I don’t recognize it?”
Tim goes still.
Jason’s voice drops.
“I’ve seen this,” he says. “I’ve been this. Pushing past everything because stopping feels worse.”
Tim looks at him.
Really looks this time.
Because—
That—
That sounds familiar.
“…I’m not you,” Tim says quietly.
Jason huffs.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
A beat.
“That’s the problem.”
Tim frowns.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
Jason doesn’t explain.
He just looks at him for a second longer.
Then—
“Sit back,” he says.
Tim hesitates.
“…why.”
“Because if you actually have a concussion, you’re not supposed to be doing any of this.”
Tim considers arguing.
Starts to.
Stops.
Because—
His head hurts.
More than it did a few minutes ago.
And the room is—
Still not steady.
“…fine,” he mutters.
He leans back.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The couch shifts under him.
The blanket slides slightly.
He adjusts it without thinking.
Jason watches the entire thing.
Silent.
Calculating.
“…this is inefficient,” Tim says again, quieter now.
Jason snorts.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’re definitely fixing that.”
Tim doesn’t argue this time.
Because—
For the first time since he woke up—
His thoughts are starting to slow.
Not stop.
Never stop.
But—
Blur.
Just a little.
And he hates it.
“…I still have work,” he mutters, like saying it will anchor him.
Jason doesn’t respond immediately.
Then—
“Yeah,” he says. “And it’ll still be there.”
Tim doesn’t answer.
His eyes drift slightly.
Focus slipping.
Just for a second.
Then snapping back.
“…don’t let me oversleep,” he says suddenly.
Jason raises an eyebrow.
“You’re not negotiating your own sleep schedule.”
Tim frowns.
“That’s not what—”
His words falter.
Just slightly.
Jason notices.
Of course he does.
“…just,” Tim mutters, quieter now. “Don’t let me—waste time.”
Jason is quiet for a second.
Then—
“You’re not wasting time,” he says.
Tim doesn’t respond.
Because—
He doesn’t believe that.
And that—
That might be the real problem.
The room settles again.
Quiet.
Still.
And this time—
Tim doesn’t fight it.
Not as hard.
Not yet.
---
Tim lasts longer than he should.
That’s the problem.
He knows he should be asleep.
Objectively.
Logically.
Medically.
Jason said it.
His body is saying it.
His head feels like someone stuffed it with static and shook it.
And yet—
Tim is still awake.
Barely.
But awake.
He’s stretched out on the couch now, not fully lying down—just reclined enough that Jason apparently decided was “acceptable,” which is still a point Tim plans to contest later.
Not now.
Later.
When—
When he’s—
Tim blinks.
He loses the thought.
That’s—
Annoying.
He frowns slightly, staring up at the ceiling again. The crack is still there. Same shape. Same angle.
That’s good.
Consistency is good.
He tracks it.
Follows the line with his eyes.
Left.
Up.
Slight branch.
He forgets what he’s doing halfway through.
“…this is a problem,” he mutters.
“Yeah,” Jason says from somewhere to the right. “I’ve been saying that.”
Tim turns his head.
Too fast.
The room lags behind him.
He stops.
Waits.
Lets it catch up.
Jason is sitting nearby. Chair pulled over. Not relaxed, exactly—just… there.
Watching.
That’s—
New.
Tim squints at him.
“…why are you still here?”
Jason raises an eyebrow.
“Where else would I be?”
Tim considers that.
“…fair,” he admits.
There’s a pause.
Tim shifts slightly, trying to sit up again.
Jason doesn’t even look surprised.
“Don’t.”
Tim ignores him.
Pushes himself up—
The world tilts.
Hard.
He stops halfway.
That’s—
That’s worse than before.
Tim frowns.
“…okay,” he says slowly. “That’s new.”
“No,” Jason says. “That’s been happening. You’re just noticing it now.”
Tim does not like that answer.
“I can compensate,” he says.
“You can lie down.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is right now.”
Tim exhales sharply.
Because this—
This is inefficient.
He swings his legs slightly, trying to stabilize—
Bad idea.
The floor shifts.
Tim’s hand tightens on the edge of the couch.
Jason is up before he fully registers it.
“Yeah,” Jason says. “We’re not doing that.”
“I’m fine,” Tim insists.
“You’re horizontal in about five seconds if you keep pushing it.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
Tim tries to stand.
Jason doesn’t stop him.
Not immediately.
He just watches.
Tim gets halfway up.
And then—
The world drops out from under him.
Not fully.
Not like falling.
But like—
Like everything just slips.
His balance goes.
His vision blurs.
His knees—
Give.
Jason catches him.
Not gently.
Not roughly.
Just—
Efficiently.
“Yeah,” Jason mutters. “There it is.”
Tim blinks.
“…I had that,” he says.
“You absolutely did not.”
Jason shifts, guiding him back toward the couch.
Tim doesn’t fight it this time.
That’s new.
He sits.
Then leans back.
Then—
Stops caring enough to correct it.
“…this is suboptimal,” he mutters.
Jason snorts.
“That’s one way to put it.”
Tim closes his eyes for a second.
Just a second.
That’s—
That’s all.
He opens them again.
“…don’t let me fall asleep,” he says.
Jason goes very still.
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Not happening.”
“I mean it,” Tim insists, forcing his eyes to stay open. “I have—”
He stops.
Because—
He doesn’t remember what he was about to say.
Jason watches him carefully.
“You’re not staying awake,” he says.
“I need to.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I—”
Tim’s words slur slightly.
He freezes.
Jason notices.
Of course he does.
“…you hear that?” Jason asks.
Tim frowns.
“Hear what?”
“That.”
“That what.”
Jason gestures vaguely at him.
“Your brain not keeping up.”
Tim scowls.
“That’s the concussion,” he says quickly. “Not sleep.”
Jason just looks at him.
“Sure,” he says. “And what’s making the concussion worse?”
Tim opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Because—
That’s—
Not—
“…correlation doesn’t equal causation,” he mutters.
Jason lets out a short laugh.
“You are not about to logic your way out of sleeping.”
Tim tries anyway.
“If I rest without sleeping, I can maintain awareness while still—”
“No.”
“—recovering—”
“No.”
“—and then I can—”
“Tim.”
Tim stops.
Jason’s voice is different now.
Not louder.
Not sharper.
Just—
Firm.
“You’re going to sleep,” he says.
Tim shakes his head immediately, and regrets it almost as immediately.
“No.”
Jason sighs.
“Yeah, you are.”
“I can’t.”
“Why.”
Tim hesitates.
Because—
That’s—
Not a question he wants to answer.
“…I just can’t,” he says instead.
Jason studies him for a second.
Then—
“Fine,” he says.
Tim blinks.
“…fine?”
Jason leans back slightly.
“Don’t sleep,” he says.
Tim frowns.
“…that seems like a trap.”
“Not a trap.”
“Definitely a trap.”
Jason shrugs.
“Stay awake, then.”
Tim narrows his eyes.
That was too easy.
Way too easy.
“Okay,” he says cautiously.
Jason nods.
“Okay.”
Five minutes later—
Tim is losing.
He doesn’t notice it at first.
Not really.
It’s subtle.
His thoughts start skipping.
Jumping tracks.
He tries to follow one—
It disappears.
He picks another—
That one fades too.
“…eight cases,” he mutters.
Jason hums quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Two urgent,” Tim continues.
“What are they?”
Tim opens his mouth.
Stops.
He can’t remember.
That’s not right.
“They were—” he starts.
Nothing.
Gone.
Tim’s chest tightens slightly.
“That’s new,” he says.
Jason doesn’t sound surprised.
“Yeah, it is.” he says. “You also keep repeating that.”
Tim blinks slowly.
His eyes stay closed a second too long.
He forces them open again.
“…don’t,” he mutters.
Jason doesn’t respond.
Tim’s head tilts slightly to the side.
Corrects.
Fails to correct fully.
“…just resting my eyes,” he adds.
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m still awake.”
“Totally.”
Tim tries to sit up again.
Doesn’t make it far.
Jason presses a hand to his shoulder.
Not hard.
Just enough.
“Stay down.”
Tim doesn’t argue.
That’s—
That’s really not good.
“…just for a minute,” Tim says.
“Sure.”
“A minute.”
“Mhmm.”
Tim exhales slowly.
The tension in his shoulders loosens.
Just a little.
His grip on everything—
Thoughts.
Focus.
Control—
Slips.
“…you won’t let me oversleep,” he says, softer now.
Jason is quiet for a second.
Then—
“No,” he says.
Tim nods slightly.
That’s enough.
Tim is asleep before he finishes the thought.
Jason watches it happen.
The exact moment Tim stops fighting it.
The second his breathing evens out.
The way his entire body just—
Drops.
Jason exhales slowly.
“…yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”
He stays where he is for a minute.
Two.
Just watching.
Making sure.
Tim doesn’t move.
Doesn’t twitch.
Doesn’t wake back up.
Out.
Completely.
Jason leans back slightly, running a hand over his face.
“…sixteen,” he mutters again.
The word sounds heavier now.
He glances at the bag he grabbed from the manor.
Then back at Tim.
“…you’re staying put,” he says quietly. “Whether you like it or not.”
Tim doesn’t answer.
For once.
That’s how Jason knows just how bad it really is.
---