Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

As he hauls Jason’s shaking body through the door of his safehouse, Tim has only one thought bouncing off the inside of his skull:

  How the fuck did I get here?

That’s an easy question to answer, actually. Tim got where he was by doing the stupidest possible thing imaginable after an argument with Dick at the manor – going out at night alone. Going out alone, unarmed, and not even dressed as Robin, when he at least had methods of communication other than the smashed phone currently clutched in Jason’s fist. No, he had to go out for a little brooding session at midnight and stumble upon Red Hood in some shadowy Gotham alleyway, surrounded by bodies, crumpled against the wall as though he’d taken a knife to the gut.

Or a needle to the neck, given the syringe laying in pieces at his feet.

“Hood!” Tim whispers shrilly. Getting too close to Jason is a toss up on a good day, but to approach him in a dark alleyway in a sweater and sweatpants? Jason might think he’s another thug and shoot him. Or he’d realize that it’s Tim and shoot him. Either way, Tim keeps his distance. “Hood! What happened?”

Jason looks up, his movements slightly sluggish. He stiffens, hand going for a gun that isn’t there, but the tension morphs into something else as it dawns on him that it’s Tim staring at him from the shadows. “The fuck are you doing out here?” He hisses. He sounds like he’s in pain. “How’d you find me?”

“I followed the scent of blood, gore and stupidity.” Tim sees Jason take a step forward and feels every ounce of bravery leave his body. “Okay, okay. I heard gunshots and came to investigate. I’m just out on a walk.”

“At midnight ?” 

“Dick and I got into it. I needed to brood, okay? Don’t act like you never did.”

Jason barks a laugh. “I never went out at night. Unarmed. You are asking to be kidnapped.”

Well, Jason obviously isn’t incapacitated enough to dampen his attitude, but Tim still finds his eyes drifting to the hand Jason has clutched against the side of his throat. The syringe doesn’t look like any of theirs, and from the tension in his fingers, whatever he’s just been injected with had to have hurt like a bitch. “What did you get hit with?” 

“Fear toxin. The new shit.” Jason rolls his neck and groans. “The bad shit.”

Tim blinks. Fear toxin usually has its victim on the ground within a couple minutes. Either Jason is mere seconds away from collapsing into a screaming heap, or this stuff is one of Crime Alley’s notoriously fucked-up concoctions. “Are you sure? You don’t seem like you’ve been hit.”

“Are you even listening to me?” Jason snaps. “I said it was the new shit. Whole new strain. Slow-acting.” He looks around. “Shit. I have to get home before this hits.”

“Go to the medbay. Alfred probably has an antidote–”

“Not a chance, Replacement. No fucking way Batman sees me like this.” Jason runs a hand over his face. “Bad enough you’re here.”

“I’m not leaving you like this. You’ll basically be bait for every bad guy within a 50 mile radius.” Tim crosses his arms. “Either take me with you or come back to the manor with me.”

Jason has him manhandled onto the back of his motorcycle in five seconds flat.

So, yeah. Long story short – Bruce is never, ever letting him leave the manor ever again. 

“We have t-minus ten minutes until I lose my marbles. I’m going to–” Jason stumbles his way to the safehouse and makes a beeline for his bedroom, tearing his mask off as he goes. The remains of Tim’s phone hit the wall and land on the carpet with a dull thud . “I’m going to get a fever, then I’m going to get really, really angry, then I’m going to, like, freeze up and–”

“Are you actually trying to plan out your reaction to fear toxin?” Tim asks incredulously.

“Shut up!” Jason whips a pillow at Tim’s head hard enough for it to hurt. It’s kind of impressive. “I’m trying to remember! Fever, then anger, then catatonia, then – no, no, the panic comes before the catatonia. Then the confusion hits, I think–”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Shut up !” The green glow of fury flits past Jason’s enlarged pupils. “The stages, Tim! This shit has phases. The first and the last ones are fevers. That’s how you know it’s starting and ending. Then come the hallucinations and the rage. Think punching, kicking, screaming – normal fear toxin shit. Same with the panic. Then the catatonia hits. Three ways that can go: sleep, stare blankly at the ceiling, or die. Following along?”

Tim is absolutely not following along. His brain hasn’t quite wrapped around the fact that he’s just been abducted off the street by Red Hood, had all means of communication with the outside world smashed to smithereens, and is still somehow not being tortured and murdered. By all accounts, he should be in pieces by now, scattered over Gotham like a demented easter egg hunt. 

Instead he stands in the doorway of Jason Todd’s tiny bedroom, watching yet another tremor rattle its way up his predecessor’s spine, with the weight of his life bearing down on Tim’s scrawny shoulders. “Come on, dude. I can’t help you through this shit all on my own. At least let me call Dick. He can keep a secret.”

Jason shakes his head groggily. “Hard pass.” 

“What makes you think I’m going to sit here and watch you have a drug-induced panic attack? The Bats are probably going insane looking for me right now!”

“And they will find you in forty-eight hours, safe and sound.” Jason slumps onto his side with a creaky groan. “And if you do this for me, I’ll owe you one.”  

“Forty-eight hours? That’s how long this shit lasts?” Tim buries his face in his hands. However, he can’t deny that the thought of Jason being indebted to him isn’t at least somewhat intriguing. “Dude, that’s fucked.”

Jason manages a weak shrug. “Leave me alone, then. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you stupid?” Tim balks. “You won’t be able to take care of yourself!”

The laugh that bubbles from Jason’s chest is thick and crackly. “I’ve gone longer than forty-eight hours without food or water, kid. This is nothing. I won’t hold it against you if you decide to skip out.”

“I’m not leaving you, Jason. But if shit gets out of hand, I’m calling Batman. You can’t stop me.”

The mere mention of Bruce has Jason lurching to his feet, face twisting. In the blink of an eye, he crosses the room and grabs hold of Tim’s wrist. “Whatever—“ Jason motions between the two of them, dragging Tim’s hand along with him. “Whatever little plan I know you’ve got rattling around in that head of yours, consider it dead in the water the moment you call that old fart. Mark my words, Replacement — if you call Batman, I will snap both your legs and let you drag yourself all the way home. Debt or no debt, I will never forgive you.” He leans forward and jabs his other finger square into the center of Tim’s chest. “Capiche?” 

Perhaps it’s the growing pallor of Jason’s scar-striped skin, or the sweet stench of something sick on his breath, but Tim nods silently, without fuss. Jason Todd, if nothing else, can always be trusted to hold to his violent promises. 

Jason leans back, swaying, and his face twists with discomfort. “Good,” he says tightly. “Now you listen to me. We’re gonna set some ground rules.” 

What is this, a spar? Tim thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut and gestures for Jason to continue. “Rule number one: no calling Batman. No calling Dick. No calling the Bats at all. Break this rule, and I call off the debt and break your femurs too for good measure. Got it?” 

“You smashed my phone. I can’t call anyone.” Tim opts not to mention Jason’s cellphone, or the many communication devices he probably has scattered about the place. Just to be safe.

Jason seems satisfied with that answer. “Rule number two: if I go batshit, lock yourself in the bathroom. It’s got no windows, but I won’t be able to break down the reinforced door. Hide out in there until the phase passes.” 

This is sounding more and more like a horror game. Tim gives Jason a stiff thumbs up, making him frown. “Don’t be a baby. You’ve seen me angry before.” 

“Yeah, and you beat the shit out of me.” 

“And you survived! I don’t see the issue.” 

A headache blooms behind Tim’s eyes. Hopefully Jason is well-stocked with painkillers — At this rate, they’re both going to need it. “Alright, then. That’s all?” 

Jason tightens his lips and looks away, suddenly uncomfortable. “No. If I get—” he scrunches his nose — “If I get emotional, you have to fuck off. I don’t care how you feel or whatever sad shit I say to you, you have to leave the room. Leave me to cry it out.”

“I’m just supposed to ignore you if you cry?” Tim frowns. “That’s… especially fucked.” 

“Don’t care. I’ll be fine. Go sit in the living room and drown me out with the TV or something.” Jason pauses. “Debt’s off if you break this rule too.” 

“That’s not fair! What about rule two?”

Jason smiles. “The debt will be off out of principle if you break rule two. Because you’ll be dead.” 

Tim narrows his eyes. “Touché. I still think you’re out of your mind, though.” 

“That’s my specialty.” Jason turns and stumbles back to his bed. “Go get me a glass of water.” 

Tim does as he’s asked without another word. Is this how Alfred feels? He wonders somewhat snidely. I’m surprised he hasn’t decked one of us yet. 

If the man himself wasn’t slumped over in bed a wall away, futilely trying to prepare for the forty-eight hours of personalized hell his brain was about to dropkick him into, Tim would have had a hard time believing he was in the safehouse of Jason Todd, murderous vigilante with a knack for putting heads in bags and riddling bad guys with bullet holes. The safehouse isn’t luxurious by a long shot, cramped in that way that makes a room always look cluttered no matter how much one cleans, but the floors are mostly unstained and every cupboard is filled to the brim with cans of non-perishable food. The glass weapon cases that hang on the walls are all dusted and smudge-free. A couple of dirty dishes sit in the sink, filled with water, and Tim smells no mold or grime as he pokes his head into the fridge and sniffs. The fridge actually has a few vegetables in there. That, oddly enough, is the most surprising of all.

When he returns with the glass of water, Jason is back on his bed, but all the covers have been kicked onto the floor. “It’s starting,” he grunts, and the waver of fear in his voice is easy to miss if Tim tries hard enough. “If you’re going to leave, leave now. I have to lock the door.”

Tim takes a deep breath through his nose. “Not leaving,” he says simply, passing the cup into Jason’s hand when he reaches for it. “But you’re going to owe me one in two days.”

“Anything you want.” Jason knocks the water back, then holds the glass back out. “More.”

I know exactly what I want. Tim goes and fills the glass again, then runs his fingers under the chilly stream until the thumping of his heart slows. One conversation between you and Batman. No violence. No running away. Just talking. 

Jason doesn’t need to know the specifics just yet.

The fever hits, and the fever hits hard . Whenever Tim thinks the descent might be over, that Jason is as sick as he’s going to get until the next phase of the toxin sets in, another new symptom joins the pantheon of other ones currently wreaking havoc on his body. In the six (because yes, Tim is counting) hours since he’d been metaphorically roped into Jason Todd’s Costco Sampler Of Hell, Jason’s gone from a somewhat-functioning human being to a shivering, sweating Jason-shaped lump on the bed that can’t decide whether he prefers threatening Tim with violence or begging him for help. 

“Keep drinking. You need fluids.” Tim pushes the side of the glass into Jason’s hand, but he pulls it away. “If you’re dehydrated, then the delirium will set in. I don’t need you going extra crazy.” 

“I’ve had enough,” Jason mumbles, rubbing at his glistening forehead with the back of his palm. “I’m going to throw up if you force any more fucking water into me.” 

“You should have let me go buy Gatorade, then. I don’t need you passing out on me.” 

“I don’t need Gatorade. Fevers aren’t dangerous.” A weak groan escapes the pit of Jason’s throat. “Just fucking annoying.” 

He scoots backwards, away from Tim and his water, and kicks weakly at the blanket caught around his legs. “I’m — fuck, it’s so hot in here. I’m burning up,” he says, as though he wasn’t whining about the chilly (nonexistent) drafts ten minutes earlier. “You’re fucking with me. You turned the heat up. I know you did.” 

“This is a fucking storage container! I don’t think it has a heater!” Tim replies. “Drink the water. It’s cold. It’ll cool you down.” 

“ Fuck your water,” Jason snaps. 

I think he’d actually be less irritating if he was delirious, Tim thinks to himself as he not-so-gently sets the cup of water down on Jason’s tiny bedside table. “Fine, then. Sleep it off. You’ve got a couple painkillers in you already, and I’m not giving you more for another four hours.”

A particularly violent tremor runs down Jason’s spine and he lurches up, gagging. Tim hurriedly grabs the designated puke bowl from the floor and thrusts it into his lap. Jason retches, gasping, then collapses back with a low moan. Tim takes a peek into the bowl. It’s just water.

Maybe he is making him drink too much. 

Sue him — he’s not a nurse!  If Jason wanted someone qualified, he shouldn’t have kidnapped the rich teenager with nothing going for him except his coffee addiction and his ability to bulldoze his way into positions he has no right to be in. Having Tim here is only fucking them both over. At least Dick knows some first aid.

Maybe I should have left. Tim sits back on his heels, setting the bowl down on the floor beside him. I definitely am not going to help in any way. Except for maybe being a live target for when Jason’s rage hits. That’ll be a nice blast from the past. 

“Oh my god,” Jason groans to no one in particular. “Fuck my life.”

Tim runs his eyes over Jason’s features and feels his gut twist. His cheeks are flushed a dark, angry red, stark against the pasty whiteness of the rest of his flesh. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his nose, and Jason swipes it away with one irritated motion. “I feel damp,” He growls, in the way someone might say ‘ It smells like dog shit in here’. “My body can’t make up its fucking mind.”

“Do you want a cold rag on your forehead?” Tim asks. 

“That’s just going to make me more damp, dipshit.”

Tim purses his lips. “A hot sack of rice?”

“Don’t fucking test me.”

“I’m just trying to be helpful! Not my fault you kidnapped the least helpful resident of the Wayne Manor. You should have kidnapped Alfred.”

Jason’s mouth twists, and he wipes more sweat off the sides of his neck with a fistful of blanket. “Just… Just get me a stupid cold rag.”

Tim rises to his feet. “Aye aye.”

“Stop being cheeky.”

“I just–” It’s a wonder Tim manages to keep his eye from twitching. “Okay.”

By the time morning rolls around, Jason’s fitfulness has reached its bloody peak. He’s paced himself to exhaustion, thrown up another two times, and his mood has only darkened as the minutes ticked past without any reprieve. He ends up on the floor of the living room, knees pressed to his chest, groaning and mumbling and cursing to himself like a drugged-up Arkham prisoner. For someone who survived years amongst the scum within the League Of Assassins, Jason doesn’t seem to handle being in physical pain all that gracefully.

Perhaps those two facts are a little more connected than Tim would like. 

“Fuck!” Jason fists his hands in his hair and pulls until it goes taut. “ Fuck! I can’t do this shit anymore!” 

Tim, leaned against the wall beside the kitchen doorway, opts not to mention the fact that they aren’t even out of phase one. How many phases are there even? He doesn’t quite want to ask — the absolute last thing Jason needs to be reminded of is the senseless rage that’s due to hit any second. As much as Tim wants to lock himself in the bathroom preemptively, leaving Jason alone to his misery twists something deep in his gut. It feels wrong. 

Maybe he just doesn’t want to look weak in front of Red Hood. That never goes well for him.

“I’m going to kill that guy who got me. I’m going to gut him like a fish and hang him by his fucking entrails.” Jason drags a hand down his face. There’s a drop of saliva bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll break every bone in his fucking body. And his friends’ too. All of them. Dead.” 

Tim nods tightly when Jason’s gaze flicks to him. He’s pretty sure the guy and his friends already are dead, but he doesn’t quite feel like making Jason find new targets. “Once this is over, you can go ham on them. Nice little free-for-all.” 

The tiny Batman that has lived in his head since he was nine tuts at him disapprovingly, but Jason only grins. His teeth are chattering, lips dark. “I’m—“ he abruptly swings his fist into the wall with a resounding boom . Tim flinches. “I’ll kill all of them. I’ll eviscerate them like the vermin they are.” His head swivels around. “Where are my guns?” 

Oh, fuck. It’s bathroom time. “In their cases,” Tim replies simply. 

Jason takes a moment to process that. His eyes are wide, flickering with green. “Where are the keys?” 

Tim shrugs. “I don’t know. Somewhere in here, probably.” 

“I need my guns. I need them in case he comes back.” Jason looks around wildly. His chest is beginning to rise and fall more rapidly. “Where’d I put my keys?” 

You put them in my hands three hours ago, Tim thinks stiffly. And I put them in the back of a bathroom drawer. “Start looking for them; they’ve got to be here somewhere, right? I’ll help you once I’ve taken a piss.” Tim detaches himself from the wall and takes a step backwards. Jason’s eyes follow him. “Sound good?” 

Jason swallows, looks Tim up and down with glinting eyes. Tim doesn’t realize he’s been leaning forward until he’s already balanced on the balls of his feet like a runner before a race. Or a predator, seconds away from lunging.

Tim runs. 

Jason does too.

Shit! Fuck! Shit! Tim misjudges how fast he can turn and slams into the far wall before careening off in the opposite direction. Hurricane Jason follows at his heels, a bellowing shadow in his periphery that knocks everything off the walls in his fury. Panic seizes Tim’s lungs in an iron grip, and he’s hardly able to breathe as he narrowly dodges Jason’s fist and makes a beeline for the bathroom door. 

His foot is almost past the threshold when he’s yanked back by the collar of his sweater. 

“Where are they?” A gust of Jason’s sickly sweet breath invades Tim’s nostrils, nearly making him gag. He’s thrown against the wall with enough force to wind him, then Jason grabs him by the front of his sweater and pins him there. He’s snarling, eyes blown so wide they’re practically black. “Where are they, Replacement?” 

All at once, they’re back in Titan’s Tower, and Tim is so, so afraid. “I don’t know! I swear I don’t!” 

“ Liar! ” Jason roars. “I know you’ve got them! I gave them to you!” 

He pats (read: hits) Tim down in search of his keys, and when there is nothing in Tim’s pockets, throws him to the ground with a furious growl. “I’ll kill you!” Looming over Tim with bloody saliva dribbling down the side of his mouth, his hair a sweaty, clumpy rats’ nest, Jason looks more animal than human. “I’ll show you what happens to baby birds who try to fuck with me!” 

“It’s just the fear toxin!” Tim cries, grasping desperately at Jason’s forearms. “You don’t want to hurt me, Jason. I know you don’t.” 

Jason’s eyes gleam dangerously. “You don’t know anything .” 

His hand goes for a weapon. When he realizes that one isn’t there, his mad scowl only deepens. He swivels around and stalks to the nearest weapon case hanging on the wall — one filled with handguns and blades as long as Tim’s forearms. With one last furious glance at Tim, Jason steps back, raises his fist, and drives it into the glass. 

It cracks. 

The bathroom door locks behind Tim with a heavy click . 

“Replacement!” The banging starts with such force that Tim is sure Jason would have barrelled straight through any other door in the safehouse. “Get out here, you fucking coward! Get out here and fight me!” 

Heart in his throat, Tim scrambles into the grimy bathtub and claps his hands over his ears. He doesn’t want Jason so much as hearing him breathe — not when he’s rattling the door handle like a madman and throwing his whole body against the reinforced wood. “Get out here! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” 

Please don’t break, Tim silently begs that door and the past-Jason who installed it. God, please don’t break. I think he’ll actually kill me. 

The bathroom is hardly bigger than a closet, and Jason was right — there are no windows. Tim is well and truly trapped, with nothing but a door between him and a guy high on fear-rage who weighs a good ninety pounds more than him. If the door breaks, he’s dead. Nobody is coming to save him.

Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry, Timothy Drake. He lets himself slide down the weathered porcelain until his knees hit the end of the tub and the only thing he can see above him is the grimy tiled ceiling. You have to be strong. Jason’s already beat the shit out of you once — this is nothing new. Just a normal Wednesday. His throat squeezes painfully. Just a normal day in the life of Tim Drake. 

With one last attempt to bust the door off its hinges, Jason’s furious yelling takes off down the hall. Based on the sound of porcelain shattering that rings out, he’s taking his rage out on the kitchen cabinets. Hopefully all those dishes are just from the Dollar Store. 

Stage one done, stage two underway. Tim lets his eyes fall closed. He’s definitely going to poach some of Alfred’s good espresso beans when he gets home. Yeah — a nice cup of coffee and a debt from Jason. That’ll be worth getting through this. Less than forty hours to go. 

He stays in the bathtub for the next several hours, dozing out of pure exhaustion, listening to Jason cycle between bashing on his door and bashing on every other possible surface in the safehouse. Most of that time is spent screaming — angry, wordless howls — but Jason does talk occasionally too, not that his words are any more comforting than his shrieks of fury. As long as he isn’t talking to Tim, though, he guesses he’s probably safe.

“Fuck you! Fuck you! ” A resounding crash tells Tim that the coffee table has just met its untimely end. He’s honestly surprised it lasted this long. “I’ll tear you to fucking shreds! ” 

“Ooh, scary,” Tim murmurs to himself. His head is pounding. He probably needs an actual drink of water, but turning on the tap is a total no-go until Jason is done taking out twenty-something years of mindless aggression on his innocent safehouse. Poor safehouse.

“Get the fuck away from me! I’ll kill you, you stupid fucking clown!”

The last word catches in Tim’s ears like a mis-played piano note. He chuckles sleepily to himself, careful to not actually make a noise. Clown. What an insult. For a fleeting moment he thinks of Dick, of the literal circus from which he came, of the twisting front walkover he’d tried to do on the kitchen island one morning, only to be quite harshly scolded by Alfred for having his feet on the counter, and — 

Clown. Tim’s thoughts come to a grinding halt. That clown. 

“Stay back!” Something swings into the safehouse wall and splinters. “Stay the fuck away from me! I’ll fucking kill you!” 

How many times can he say that before it gets old? Tim has the sudden urge to cover his ears. Trick question. It’s already old. 

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop!” Jason’s voice reaches a crescendo, then shatters. “ Stop it! ” 

In all of Tim’s fifteen years on Earth, he’s never once heard Jason scream like that. He’s not sure he’s ever heard anyone scream like that. It’s a scream of pure fear, and the next one has Tim shooting up like he’s been electrocuted. He’s at the door before his brain catches up with his body, twisting open the lock of the bathroom door. Stop! Stop! He yanks his hands away and holds them to his chest. Jason is still screaming. This might not be another phase. If he so much as sees me while he’s in the rage phase, he’s going to kill me. I can’t go out just yet. 

It takes three and a half minutes of Jason’s unending wailing to wear him down. 

Thump. The bathroom door hits something hard and heavy when Tim opens it, stopping the motion in its tracks. For a moment Tim fears it’s Jason blocking the door, but when he pokes his head out, he realizes it’s only the remains of the coffee table. The coffee table that’s supposed to be in the living room. Huh. 

The coffee table isn’t the only piece of furniture that is out of place. The safehouse looks like a tornado ran straight through it; Tim has a hard time finding a piece of furniture that hasn’t been thrown down the hall, smashed to a million pieces, or both in varying orders. Half the kitchen cabinets are hanging open, the oven’s glass door is shattered, and the entire living room is in a state of disrepair. The only things that aren’t on the ground are the weapon cases, but those too are dented and scratched, so it isn’t like Jason didn’t try. 

At the center of the chaos, curled into the far corner of the room with his hands fisted in his hair, is Jason, looking so much worse than the last time Tim laid eyes on him. The rage has certainly passed, but what is left in its absence isn’t much better. If Tim’s fuzzy memory of Jason’s explanations are to be believed, Jason is now in the panic phase. 

He looks up, sees Tim, and screams bloody murder. 

Yep. Definitely the panic phase.

Here’s the thing: Timothy Drake has seen many sides of Jason Todd. He’s snapped candid pictures of Robin vaulting over rooftops alongside Batman, spent more than a few hours standing in front of Jason’s glass memorial case, had the shit personally kicked out of him by Red Hood before he even knew it was Jason under that red mask, and has even had the privilege of wandering into him once or twice scarfing down Alfred’s waffles during the few times Jason stops by the manor for breakfast. All and all, his profile of Jason Todd is pretty well-rounded.

Never, ever, has Tim seen Jason genuinely frightened. 

Until now. 

“Go away!” Jason’s about as close to the wall as he can get without literally phasing into it, but he somehow manages to push himself farther back and fold himself smaller anyway. “Stay the fuck away from me!” 

Tim holds his hands out in an attempt to be comforting, but his voice doesn’t work when he tries to speak. Oh, God. The unfamiliarity of the situation hits him like a bus, and Tim’s brain scrambles to find the best course of action. This is the worst moment of my life. 

“Whoa! Easy there!” Is what ends up leaving his lips, like the terrified vigilante curled up in front of him is nothing more than a horse spooked by a plastic bag. “It’s just me, Tim. Tim Drake.” 

“I don’t want you here. Leave!” Jason whips a piece of wood at him. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

It’s then that Tim notices the blood. On the wood, on the floor, on Jason’s hands and bare feet. Once he sees it, he sees it everywhere . The floor around Jason is a patchwork of bloody footprints. “Holy shit, dude!” He says incredulously. “What did you do to yourself?” 

“Stay away!” Jason screeches. His cheeks are red and wet. “I don’t need your fucking help!” 

He all but shoots to his feet when Tim takes another step forward, bracing his bloody hands against the walls to hold himself up. His feet are definitely in bad condition — storming around barefoot on broken wood and glass for four hours will do that. The pain only seems to be deepening his panic, and Tim’s pretty sure he has about ten seconds before Jason tries to make a mad dash for the door. So he does what comes naturally — make himself as small and not-scary as he can manage. He drops to a crouch, tucking his arms close to his body, and he hopes his face looks amply pathetic. “Okay, okay. I just— I just want to look. I see blood, I want to check it out. No big deal.” 

“No! Stop fucking looking at me!” 

Tim closes his eyes. “Okay.” Another piece of wood hits him square in the face. Fucking ow . “Okay, rude.”

When he opens his eyes, Jason has another plank of wood at the ready. “Do not throw that at me,” Tim says sternly. “I can’t help you if I’m concussed.” 

What a strange feeling it is to have Jason Todd cowering in front of him. If Tim was less of a weak-spined emotional little loser, maybe it would have been exhilarating. Instead, the feeling of wrongness is stark and unpleasant, and Tim actually misses the rage for a fleeting moment. At least murderous Jason is familiar . 

“I don’t want you to touch me,” Jason whimpers. “I’m fine.” 

“You’re objectively wrong. But that’s okay,” Tim adds helpfully. “Because I know how to bandage.”

“You’re not fucking touching me!” 

“I am, but I’m going to be so nice and gentle that you won’t even feel a thing.” Tim motions to Jason’s feet. “Nothing can be more painful than that, my friend.” 

Jason’s tearful eyes look down at his raw, bloody knuckles, the flecks of blood on his sweatpant cuffs, and he says nothing. Tim kneels, and though Jason still shies away from him, he no longer seems to be an immediate flight risk. Perhaps he’s realizing that Tim is a safe person; perhaps the physical tax of going batshit (pun intended) crazy for several hours straight is finally catching up to him. Either way, Tim’s glad he’s tethered to one place. “I’m just going to check out the bottoms of your feet, okay? You can watch me as I do it.” 

Jason’s eyes go wide, and when Tim takes his ankle in hand ( gently, mind you), he promptly delivers a swift kick to Tim’s stomach area. Tim sees every swear word in the English language flash across the back of his eyelids all at once. “Ouch,” is what he says instead. “Didn’t appreciate that one.” 

Tim’s not even sure Jason is aware of what he’s doing. He doesn’t apologize, nor does he look any guiltier than he did a moment before. He still looks scared beyond any rational thought. “Do you hear me, Jason?” He asks. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to bandage your feet up.”

Jason stares at him owlishly. His knuckles are still bleeding too. Tim internally sighs. 

This is going to be fun. 

It isn’t fun. It isn’t fun at all. Jason kicks him another two times, ending all possibilities of Tim ever reproducing (which might be a good thing, but Tim’s not opening that can of worms today), and shrieks into his hands the whole time Tim bandages his feet up with some gauze he finds in the bathroom cabinet. In his defense, having wood splinters and pieces of glass be pulled out of his heel isn’t bound to feel all that good, and Tim would rather the screaming over the kicking any day. 

That doesn’t make it any less emotionally stressful to see his pseudo sorta-brother in such distress. So Tim does what he always does when he feels uncomfortable.

He talks. 

“You know, I always preferred your Robin over Dick’s.” 

Jason’s current moan-shriek of pain cuts off with a strangled gurgle. He meets Tim’s gaze, unblinking, and Tim sees what could be a flash of understanding ripple across his petrified features. Slowly, Tim grabs one of his bloody hands and presses the wet cloth to his knuckle. 

He screams. 

Tim continues talking. “Dick was classic, you know. He was the Robin. I didn’t think Robin could get any cooler than him. Quadruple somersaults are a pretty high bar to go over.” He lets himself chuckle breathily. “But your Robin was something different. It’s hard to even explain.” 

Once Jason’s knuckles have been wiped clean, Tim mists them with antiseptic spray. It earns him another scream and a solid punch to the left shoulder. “You were alive, Jason. I could feel your excitement from rooftops away. Didn’t matter what shit you and B we’re doing out there — you were just happy to be there and at his side.” 

“Tim,” Jason says in a wavering voice, but when Tim looks up, surprised, he says nothing more. His hands are shaking. They haven’t stopped shaking for hours. 

“I would never have become Robin if it wasn’t for you.” Tim pauses, then grabs the gauze. It’s already flecked with blood from bandaging Jason’s feet, but it’ll have to do. “I mean — I’m not even counting you, y’know… leaving the position open temporarily. Even in general. I would have never believed how fucking awesome it is to be Robin if I hadn’t seen you living the dream. You were my hero.” 

Tim feels a rush of embarrassment the moment the words leave his tongue. He looks up at Jason, who is looking at him once more (and perhaps never stopped) , and bites his tongue. Half of him expects Jason’s face to split into a grin, for him to tip his head back and laugh until he’s red in the face, for him to look Tim in the eyes and remind him of what a pathetic little loser he is. But Jason does none of that. He stares, he shakes, and whatever cortisol cocktail was in that stupid fucking fear toxin continues to course through his veins with no signs of stopping. 

Tim suddenly feels very, very tired. 

“I really hope you don’t remember any of this,” he admits quietly. “I’m too tired to keep myself from saying embarrassing shit.” 

“Tim,” Jason says again, more intently. 

Tim ignores him. He’s just glad Jason is keeping his hands still enough to bandage. “You’ll always be a Robin to me. You’d have a pissfit if you heard me say that — again, very grateful you won’t remember a single thing — but it’s true. I think Bruce still thinks of you as Robin too. I’m just the moving body in the suit.” 

He moves onto Jason’s other hand. His middle knuckle is split entirely in two, sending blood dribbling down his wrist with every tremor. Tim feels his stomach flip. At least he doesn’t see bone. 

“I’m glad you’re my brother.” Antiseptic spray goes on. Jason cries out like he’s being tortured. “I know you probably don’t consider us remotely brotherly, but I do. Nobody can take that away from me. I deserve to not be alone, even if those around me try to murder me and take me hostage to play nursemaid.” Tim pauses. The gauze is almost finished, but there seems to be enough to wrap Jason’s knuckles if he makes it tight enough. “Or at least that’s what Bruce says. The first bit, not that last part. Don’t think he could have predicted this.” 

“ Tim, ” Jason says a third time, and this time it comes out as a full plea. Tim forces himself to meet his brother’s eyes. 

They’re full of tears. Some of them have already fallen, gathering on the apex of his bruising chin.

Jason is crying. 

“Oh, God—“ Tim doesn’t know what to say. Tim doesn’t know what to do . “Jesus, Jason.” 

Jason lunges forward and throws his arms around Tim, reeking of blood and rotten fear. His breathing is ragged and heavy in Tim’s ear. “Tim, I can’t do this again. I can’t go through this again. I can’t .” 

“Again?” Tim doesn’t have any clear memories of Jason getting hit with fear toxin, but he reasons that there is a pretty good chance he’s been hit before. It certainly would have been helpful to know beforehand, though. “Fear toxin is nasty, man, I know.” 

“No,” Jason moans, dragging in a shuddering breath. “I’m dying, Tim. I’m dying.” 

“You’re not—“ The meaning of Jason’s statement hits Tim like a bucket of cold water. “You’re not dying, Jason. This is just fear toxin. You’re okay.” 

“I can’t do it again. I can’t. God, I can’t .” 

Jason starts to shake, and Tim wriggles his arms free of his iron grip and wraps them around Jason’s waist. He should be savoring the chance to hug his older brother, as there certainly won’t be many opportunities to do so after this ordeal. If Jason ever figures out — or god forbid, remembers — that they hugged at all, he might just kill Tim for good measure. Red Hood doesn’t like blackmail material. “You’re okay,” he says softly. “I’ve got you, buddy.” 

Jason presses his face into Tim’s shoulder. “I’m so fucking scared, Tim.”  

Tim laughs emptily. “Fear toxin will do that to you.” 

“I can’t—“ Jason’s breath catches. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.” 

He seizes for a moment, then again, and again, and Tim realizes that he is well and truly sobbing against him. The realization is as stark as it is frightening.

I don’t care how you feel or whatever sad shit I say to you, you have to leave the room. Jason’s voice rings between Tim’s ears. Leave me to cry it out.

Icy cold begins to leech into Tim’s veins. It starts in his fingers, which are still bunched in the fabric of Jason’s sweater, then trickles into his arms, which are still wrapped around Jason’s torso like a lifeline, then seeps into the rest of his body like a slow-acting poison. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to do this. 

But Tim knows what’s at stake, and he can’t put that in jeopardy.

He needs that stupid debt. 

“Okay.” Slowly, carefully, Tim starts to pull back. Jason follows, clutching tighter at his shirt. “I have to go now. I can’t stay here.” 

“What? Don’t go,” Jason begs into his shoulder. “Don’t leave me alone here.”

“I’m sorry, man. You told me I had to leave you.” Tim pulls Jason’s hand off his sleeve. “This’ll make more sense once you come out of it.” 

“Don’t leave me alone, Tim. Please.” Jason’s grabbing at anywhere he can reach. The tears are still coming. “I’m sorry. I’ll be better. Just don’t leave me alone.” 

“I’m not leaving. I just have to be in a different room, okay? I’m still going to protect you. I’ll still be there.” Tim practically wrenches himself out of Jason’s grip and hops backwards before he can be grabbed. Jason looks up at him from the floor, one arm still outstretched. His streaming eyes are full of fear and betrayal. 

Tim has never hated himself more before.

“I love you, Jason. I just can’t be here, okay?” 

Jason’s face twists. “ Please. ” 

The second Tim shuts the bathroom door behind him, the tears start. He collapses against the door and slides down it, pressing his face into his knees to muffle the noise of his shuddering breaths. Please don’t come near me, he begs Jason, all alone out in the living room. I won’t be able to keep the door closed if you come knocking. 

Jason doesn’t come knocking. It’s as agonizing as it is comforting. 

When Tim jolts awake next, eyes gummy and mouth dry, the safehouse is completely silent. So silent, in fact, that Tim thinks for one terrified moment that he’s gone deaf. When he jolts awake and loudly smacks the back of his head against the doorknob, that hypothesis is swiftly proven false. The safehouse is simply silent. Quiet.

Something is terribly wrong.

“Jason? Jason? ” Tim scales the broken coffee table in a single jump and is back in the living room faster than he can blink. Jason isn’t there. His mess of bloody footprints is still there, but the space in which he’d been curled up the last time Tim saw him is starkly empty. Tim feels his heart lurch up into his throat. He backtracks into the kitchen, finds it just as empty and destroyed as it had been a few hours ago, and is about two seconds away from having a panic attack before he remembers the one other room in the safehouse he hasn't checked yet — Jason’s bedroom. Simultaneous jolts of relief and terror go shooting through his veins. He stumbles to the door, which is closed, and leans his cheek against it. “Jason?” He says. “You in there?”

Nobody answers. Tim bites down on his lip. If I have to go running through Gotham to find fear-high Jason, I’m killing myself first. Slowly he closes his hand on the door handle, twists it silently, then pushes it open just a crack. He waits for a voice. For a shout. For the clatter of something hitting the other side of the door. 

Nothing greets him but the endless ringing in his ears. 

“Jay?” Tim opens the door further. Part of him is scared to look; if Jason somehow escaped the safehouse while Tim was trauma-napping in the bathroom, then Tim is mega-fucked. Jason would certainly call off the debt, if he even survived. “Jason? Hood?” 

To his great relief, there is a figure curled up in the jumble of blankets on Jason’s bedroom floor. Tim practically jumps for it, landing on his knees amongst the sweat-damp sheets. “Fuck, Jason. You scared the shit out of me!” Jason is facing away from him, curled up on his side, so Tim grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him onto his back. “I thought you’d fucking left—“ 

Jason is dead. 

Jason is dead .

Jason is staring up past him with open, glassy eyes and his skin is clammy and cold under Tim’s fingers and he supposes that that’s not as bad as being warm and dead but Jason wasn’t dead a few hours ago and if Tim missed his stupid heart stopping because he was crying like a baby in a locked bathroom, he’ll take one of Jason’s revolvers out of the case himself and— 

Jason blinks at him.

“Jason!” Tim grasps his face in both hands. There’s a pulse beating under two of his fingers. “Oh my God. Oh my God.” He collapses forward and buries his face in Jason’s chest. “Fuck. Jesus. Oh my God .”

He swallows the urge to cry again. Jason will probably be able to smell his tears in this place once he wakes up, and Tim doesn’t need him to have more emotional blackmail on him than he already does. He’s fine, Jason is alive, and Tim has no reason to cry. 

“You scared me,” he sniffles. Fuck. “Why the hell are you on the floor?”

Jason doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem to hear Tim. Were it not for his blinking and the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart against Tim’s cheek, he truly would look like a bonafide corpse. Though Tim is achingly glad that the panic phase is over, he isn’t quite sure what to make of Jason’s current condition. The lack of immediate violence is nice, at least. 

Jason’s voice inside his head pipes up again. Then the catatonia hits. Three ways that can go: sleep, stare blankly at the ceiling, or die.

Stare at the ceiling it is. 

“Are you awake in there?” Tim passes his hand over Jason’s face. His glassy eyes remain stuck in place. “Do I need to get eye drops or something?”

Truth be told, he hopes Jason isn’t awake. Being trapped in a body that refuses to move has got to be at the top of Tim’s Worst Nightmares Ever. Plus, it makes Tim’s spine tingle to think of Jason being conscious with just him around, doing nothing but silently listening. Watching. Waiting. If he’s angry or frightened, then he’s got no choice but to let it cook inside him like a pressure cooker for the next couple hours. 

Tim shivers. Yeah. I hope to God he won’t remember this. 

Cleaning the safehouse proves to be a good distraction, but it doesn’t keep his mind occupied for long. Tim can’t help but check on Jason every five minutes, frightened of finding him blue and cold in the nest of blankets Tim fashioned around him. There’s nowhere to put most of the broken furniture strewn about the place, so Tim designates a corner of the living room to house the biggest pieces of debris. Jason does, in fact, own a broom, so at least they won’t have to worry about any more incidents with broken glass when the next phase hits. 

Tim stops mid-sweep. What the hell is the next phase? 

He racks his brain for any more memories of Jason’s explanations, but they all end with the catatonic phase and the awful fever with which the toxin trip will end. For all Tim knows, this could be the last phase. Or, because Tim is never that lucky, there also could be another five waiting their turn to fuck Jason’s body up. 

Tim sets the broom against the wall. A quick glance at the clock tells him that it is almost midnight again. Twenty-four hours down. Twenty-four more to go. 

Tim wants to bash his brains out. 

Have his parents noticed he was gone? (Tim laughs aloud to himself. Yeah, right!) Are Dick and Bruce out looking for him right now? Half of Tim hopes not — he probably won’t hear the end of it if they spend two whole days ignoring their patrols just to look for his stupid ass. He hasn’t had contact with them since his argument with Dick, and Bruce always finds some way to check in on him when he and Dick spat. Tim’s also the only one living somewhat regularly in the manor, so him not being in his room when he’s supposed to be would definitely be a cause for concern.

Unless Bruce gave him the night to cool off, in which case they probably wouldn’t notice he wasn’t home for hours . With his Robin costume locked up in the cave and his phone in tattered smithereens, they’ve got no way to track Tim’s location even if they wanted to. He doubts Jason has given them any idea as to where his safehouses might be. 

I think if Bruce wanted to put a tracker in my arm, I’d fucking let him. Tim presses his fingers into his eyeballs until colors bloom before his eyes. Makes things a whole lot less complicated in general. Come on, rich guy. Be a little less moral with all that money you have. I won’t even be that mad about it.

The next few hours pass as such: Tim cleans the safehouse as best he can (which isn’t all that well, but it’s better than nothing), wanders into the bedroom to check Jason’s pulse and eyes (still beating. No eyedrops required yet), tries to eat (can’t stomach anything), tries to eat again (throws up), drinks some coffee (mmm), and then cleans some more. After a few hours of cycling meaninglessly through his routine, he understands why old housewives were constantly doped up on Valium. Tim would fucking love some Valium right now. 

Jason’s got nothing stronger than over-the-counter stuff in his bathroom cabinets. It makes Tim feel a little sick to his stomach that he’s even looking for more. 

As Tim’s walking back out into the living room, carrying some ripped-up electrical wires he found poking out of the carpet, an odd realization washes over him — he’s sleepy. Sleepy, because apparently his hours of trauma-napping in the bathtub wasn’t enough for his greedy psyche. His limbs go heavy all at once, and Tim has to steel himself to avoid dropping the wires like his body suddenly wants to. God, not now, Tim thinks, further exhausted by the fact that he’s exhausted. I can’t sleep now. This is what the stupid coffee is for. 

He learned his lesson last time — fall asleep, and you might wake up to a corpse. It’s only by the grace of whatever bored god is taking pity on him that Jason’s heart didn’t decide to stop while Tim was curled up on the bathroom floor. Bruce would say he’d forgive him and probably spew some bullshit about how it wasn’t his fault, but Tim knows he’d never forget it. A part of him would always blame Tim, if only just for not being strong enough to stay up for a couple more measly hours.

Tim blinks. He’s in Jason’s bedroom now. Jason remains unchanged, alive but only just, and the bandages around his fingers have begun to grow spotty with blood. Tim isn’t replacing them yet, catatonic Jason or not. Something about putting Jason in pain while he can’t even scream makes him dizzy. 

“I’m tired,” he complains aloud. “And it’s all your fault, asshole.” 

Jason, predictably, has nothing to say to that. Tim gingerly steps over him and sits down against his bed, laying one hand on Jason’s chest. His pulse thumps steadily away, but still it isn’t enough. Tim’s arm hurts. He’s so tired. He’s so, so tired. 

“If you’re awake in there,” Tim whispers shakily, feeling his motivation leave him. “Then you can’t get mad at me for this. Call it a sanity tax.” 

The polyester of Jason’s shirt is as soft as satin against Tim’s cheek. Every remaining ounce of energy leaves him in a dizzying wave; he goes boneless, tucking his knees up against his chest. Between Jason and the edge of the bed, Tim feels covered. Safe. Jason’s heart beats like a metronome against his ear with no sign of stopping. 

Tim fights the urge to throw his arm over Jason’s chest. This isn’t a hug, isn’t a snuggle — it’s a tactical position. Tim can listen to Jason’s heartbeat without so much as moving. He’s saving energy, saving calories, ensuring that if Jason’s heart does decide to stop, he’ll be the first to know. Yeah. 

Tim grabs Jason’s limp hand and drags it over him until his palm is settled across the back of Tim’s neck. That’s for me. Sue me. I’m lonely. He closes his eyes and lets the tears dribble free. If Jason really is awake inside his own head, then Tim is never hearing the end of this. I’m very, very lonely. 

He’s asleep before he knows it.

Tim wakes up to someone shaking him. 

“Kid. Kid. Hey.” A cold hand smacks his cheek, just hard enough to make him wrinkle his brow. “Kid, wake up. Wake up.”

I am too tired for this shit. Tim hits weakly at the hands shaking him. “What do you want, asshole?” he mumbles.

There’s a beat of stunned silence. “Are you okay ? ” 

Tim looks up, confused, and finds Jason staring down at him in much the same way. Looking calm, thankfully, but no less confused. Tilting his head, Jason blinks slowly, then squints. There’s a bruise purpling on his cheek from his four-hour showdown with the bathroom door. “Feeling alright, kiddo?” 

Tim comes to a startling three realizations all at once. One: The catatonic phase is now over. Tim is now in uncharted fear-toxin-trip territory. Two: Jason does not seem to be in any sort of immediate distress. Somehow, that is scarier than waking up to him screaming his head off. Three: Jason called him kiddo. 

Jason called me kiddo? 

“Mm,” Tim says awkwardly. “You woke me up.” 

“You were unconscious.”Jason puts a gentle hand against Tim’s forehead, then feels either side of his neck with surprising tenderness. “Take a tumble? Someone hit you?”

“Uh… just fainted, I think.” Tim smiles tightly. “I don’t eat enough salt.”

He doesn’t exactly want to play along with Jason’s delusion, but he’s worried that shattering it will send him into yet another destructive meltdown. Trouble is, he’s not even sure what the delusion is. Is he even delusional? Maybe he’s just feeling friendly. 

Jason gives him a sympathetic smile and starts stroking Tim’s hair. Okay. Definitely delusional.

Tim lifts himself into a sitting position. Fuck, his hip and back hurt. He’d almost forgotten that Jason had tossed him to the ground like a ragdoll a couple hours earlier. Compartmentalization is a bitch sometimes. A useful bitch, but a bitch nonetheless. “How are you feeling?” He asks Jason. “I’m not the only one bruised up.”

Jason wrinkles his nose and chuckles. “You don’t need to worry about me, kid. Being bruised is part of the job. It’ll take more than a few bruises to take a Robin down.”

Oh. Now Tim feels like he’s actually going to faint. So this is how it’s going to be.

He squawks loudly as hands slide under him and heft him into the air. Jason rises to his feet, takes only a couple steps towards the door, then collapses back to his knees with a startled shout. Tim twists and catches himself on his hands before he can clatter to the floor, but one of his wrists twinges uncomfortably. Oh joy. “Jeez, dude,” he groans. “Are you okay? Give a guy a bit of warning before you dribble him like a basketball”

“Sorry,” Jason breathes, and he sounds achingly genuine. “I wasn’t– I wasn’t expecting that.”

He turns, looking unbalanced and frazzled, and his eyes fall on his damaged heels. “Oh,” He says in a wavering voice. “My feet are broken.” 

Of course the peace can’t last longer than two minutes. Jason’s face is going white, and the flecks of blood on his clothes and the floor don’t seem to be helping. Tim pushes himself up, ignoring the jolt in his sore bones. “Not broken!” He says quickly. “You just got a little cut up. Broken glass.”

“Broken glass?” Jason repeats. Tim knows he’s said something wrong. “Why is there broken glass around?”

“Uh–” A thousand answers flit over Tim’s tongue, but none of them are right. “Just, uh – bad things–”

Jason’s up on his feet in the blink of an eye, brow pinched in pain. He stumbles to the wall, half-collapses into it, then forces himself back into a standing position. “Stay there,” He orders in his best Batman voice. “I’m going to go check outside.”

Outside looks like a fucking tornado went through it! Tim thinks with a jolt. “Wait! Maybe don’t do that.”

Jason grabs the edge of the doorway and laboriously steps over to it. He’s leaving bloody footprints on the carpet. “Why not?”

“There’s–” Tim gestures vaguely. “There’s stuff out there. It’s kind of a mess. I don’t want you to hurt your feet again.” 

Jason dismisses him with a quick wave. “I’ll be safe.” 

“I don’t want to have to bandage your feet again if you go poking holes in my nice gauze.” Tim hops to his feet. “Just stay in here, please.”

Jason’s face tightens. “What’s out there?” He whispers.

“Nothing — no one, I promise. It’s just a mess.” 

Tim looks down. Jason’s hand is on the doorknob, slowly twisting. “Jason,” he pleads.

Jason freezes. Tim’s heart plunges into his stomach. For several moments, there is nothing but silence. “How do you know my name?” Jason asks slowly.

“I’m— fuck, it’s okay. Bruce knows that I know.” Tim steps forward, but Jason flinches back and presses his back against the wall. “I’m Timothy Drake. I live next door, y’know? Janet and Jack Drake? The archeologists? I used to follow you and B around with a camera.” 

Jason averts his eyes, lips pulled into a tight line. His breath is coming quicker. “You are safe, Jason,” Tim says, holding his hands up defensively. His left shoulder aches something fierce. “It’s just you and me. There’s no one out there – but you really should stay in the bedroom, okay? I’ll let you check me over for injuries and shit. That’s fun, right?”

He gives a hopeful smile. Jason is still looking at him like he is a wild animal. Before Tim can stop him, he whirls around and slips out the door on unsteady feet. “Shit,” Tim curses, darting after him. “Jason! Jason, wait!”

By the time he reaches the door, Jason is already halfway down the hall, limping with one hand braced on the wall to keep him upright. “Shit, kid! What happened in here?” He asks.

“Nothing! Nothing bad!” Tim cries. “It just needs renovations. Can we get back into the bedroom, please?”

Jason points into the living room. “There’s blood on the floor!”

“It’s yours, idiot! Look at your fucking feet!” Antagonizing a disoriented Jason probably isn’t the best idea, but Tim’s heart is up in his throat and every atom seems to be buzzing with terror. Jason hasn’t been lucid enough to actually escape before, and Tim knows it’ll be hopeless trying to get him back inside if Jason manages to leave the apartment. He simply can’t let it happen. Not if he wants that stupid debt. “Everything is fine. We’ve–”

“My coms.” Jason pats his empty pockets. “We need to call Batman.”

“No we don’t.” Yes we do. I want Bruce here. I need him here. “Nothing is wrong. I promise.”

Jason runs his hands over his body, leaving smears of blood on his shirt. “Where are my fucking coms?”

Tim clenches his fists. “You’re not in uniform, Robin. You don’t have coms. You don’t need them.”

“Shit. Shit .” Jason stalks back with a scowl and takes Tim by the shoulder, his grip soft but firm. He’s whipping his head around like an owl. “Something’s very wrong here. I don't know who you are, or how we got here, but we’ve got to get out.”

“No!” Tim grasps Jason’s arm and yanks him back. “You can’t. We have to stay here.”
“Why?” Jason asks incredulously.

“We just have to, okay? Just believe me!”

“If you’re hiding from someone who says they’re going to hurt you, I need to know. I can help–”

“No!” Frustration fills the cavern of Tim’s empty stomach and catches on his exhaustion like flame to tinder. “Nobody is leaving this fucking safehouse!”

Jason’s expression changes. He pulls his arm out of Tim’s grip and takes a fast step in the direction of the hallway. Tim practically lunges for him, dizzy from exhaustion and pain and fear. I am not losing this debt. His fingers catch the back of Jason’s shoulder and push him off balance. I can’t. Jason stumbles; Tim throws his arms around him and wrenches him backwards. Not after all of this bullshit.

Apparently, Tim doesn’t know his own strength. What was meant to lightly disorient Jason ends up toppling him entirely. His calf collides with a metal beam poking out of the remains of the couch and Jason falls, twisting mid-air, landing hard on his stomach in the middle of the room with a rattling CRASH . He goes so still that Tim thinks for a moment that he’s knocked himself out. Then he shifts, claps his hands over his ears, and makes a bone-chilling noise in the back of his throat.

Tim has a sinking feeling that he knows what that means.

“Jason?” Tim drops to Jason’s side and grabs him by the shoulders, pulling as much of his upper body into his lap as he can. His eyes are burning. “It’s me, Jason. It’s Tim.”
Jason doesn’t seem to hear him. He kicks weakly out at nothing, nails digging into Tim’s forearms as he tries to pull himself away. “Kid, you – you have to go. We’ve got to get out of here. He’s going to come back.”

“The Joker isn’t here, Jason. He’s not here. It’s just me.” Tim hugs him closer. His throat tightens painfully, and words that leave him next come out as a shaky whisper. “It’s just a hallucination. There’s no bomb. You’re okay.”

“Don’t you hear it? That’s a time bomb! He’ll kill us both if we don’t get out!” Jason’s whole body shudders, wracked with the phantom agony of broken bones and crowbar welts. Then he throws himself forward, dragging Tim with him as he forces himself up onto his knees. “We’ve got to – I’ve got to–” He gasps. “ B! Batman!”

His voice echoes off the storage container’s metal walls; Tim fights the urge to clap his hands over his ears. “B! It’s Robin! We’re in here!” Jason sobs. He looks down at his empty hands and clenches them into fists. “My coms aren’t working. He can’t hear us!” 

“You aren’t wearing coms, Jaybird. You’re at home.” Tim presses his face to the back of Jason’s neck. It stinks of sweat and fear and sickness, but he breathes it in all the same. “You’re in your safehouse. Nobody’s coming to get you. You got hit with a fear toxin. I’m Tim, I’m your brother—“ 

“Bruce! ” Jason screams. “I’m in here! I'm here !” 

Is that what you said the last time? Tim feels like he has a front-row seat to the world’s most nightmarish 3-D movie. Did you call him by his name? Did you spend your last moments screaming through broken ribs for a man who wouldn’t save you in time? 

Jason draws in a long, shuddering gasp. “ Dad! ”

Like bones against concrete, against brick, against the mercilessness of an iron crowbar in the hands of a madman, Tim’s will shatters. He isn’t sure where he finds the burner phone, but he has it pressed to his ear before he’s even managed to blink away the tears filling his eyes. Jason only said I couldn’t call Batman. It rings once, twice. He didn’t say anything about calling my dad. 

“Wayne Manor, Alfred speaking.” 

“It’s Tim!” Tim practically shrieks. “I need help!” 

Alfred doesn’t even respond. There is a moment of shuffling, a muffled shout, and then a familiar voice fills his ear. “Where are you, Tim?” Bruce orders.

“Jason’s safehouse. I tried, Bruce, I—“ Tim claps a hand over his mouth, strangled. “I don’t know where I am.” 

“Are you hurt?” 

“It’s Jason. It’s — it’s bad.” 

“That’s not what I asked. Are you hurt?” 

Tim’s hands are shaking. “No. Please come quickly.” 

Jason lets out another gut-wrenching scream. Bruce’s breath audibly catches. “Fear toxin,” Tim forces out. ”It’s bad, man. It’s so bad.” 

“Stay on the phone with Dick. I’m on my way.” 

The relief that floods Tim’s body has him crumpling against the wall, shoving the phone against his chest as another sob wrenches its way from his chest. Faintly he hears Dick’s panicked voice coming from the tiny speaker, but he refuses to put the phone to his ear again until he’s gotten ahold of himself. I was weak, he thinks with no small amount of guilt. But I won’t be a blubbering mess when he gets here.

“Jason,” he calls out, sniffling. “Bruce is coming. He’s on his way.” 

Jason only shrieks, agonized, and that’s enough to have Tim pushing himself to his feet. He brings the phone to his ear. “— hear me?” Dick is practically hysterical. Tim feels faintly satisfied for making him panic, but the feeling flits away after a moment. “Answer me, Tim! It’s Dick!”

“I hear you,” Tim grunts. 

“Oh my god! Tim! ” Dick gasps as though he’s been holding his breath. “Thank fuck you’re alright. You had us losing our fucking minds over here.” 

“If you’re about to lecture me, I’m going to hang up.” 

“Don’t you dare! Not until Bruce gets to you!” Dick’s voice goes sharp. “This is all we have to track your location.” 

Tim re-enters the living room and finds Jason where he’d left him, lying face-up with one hand clenched over his chest and the other one fumbling uselessly with a utility belt that doesn’t exist. “Chill. I was just making a joke.” 

“This isn’t the time for jokes.” 

“You don’t know what I’ve been through over the past forty hours, dude,” Tim snaps. “I’ll make as many jokes as I fucking want.” 

Dick goes silent. Tim collapses at Jason’s side and squeezes his hand in an attempt to be comforting. “Bruce’s coming,” he repeats. “And you’re going to hate me for it when you wake up.” 

“Get out of here, kid,” Jason moans. His voice is hardly above a whisper. “I can’t move. I think he broke my legs.” 

“I’m staying right here. Batman’s going to save us both.” 

Jason’s face twists. “No, he’s not. You have to get out of here.” 

“I promise he is. You’ll see.” 

Jason sobs once more, then laboriously lifts himself up onto his elbows. He grabs Tim’s shoulder with a trembling hand, then pulls him down to the carpet. Tim lets himself be moved bonelessly, like a doll, as Jason maneuvers him onto his side, kicks his knees up to his chest, then drapes his full body over Tim’s like a human shield. The dampness of his tear-streaked face tickles the back of Tim’s neck. His hands come up, caging Tim’s face in darkness, and lace together over the top of his head. “Cover your face,” Jason whispers. “I’ll try to cover the rest of you.” 

This won’t do shit against a time bomb and you know it. Tim covers his face with his hands. The phone rests just past the tip of his nose. And yet you still try.

“Jason?” Dick says uncertainly. “Tim, do you think he can hear me?” 

Tim shakes his head. The carpet makes his temple burn. “No. But you can try talking to him anyway.” 

That’s how Bruce finds them fifteen minutes later; Jason Todd, protecting Tim from a blast that will never come, with Dick murmuring assurances into their ears. He looms over them like a shadow, a specter — of death or protection, Tim can only wonder. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur.

Chapter Text

Tim, miraculously, wakes up in his bedroom. Every single part of him hurts, from his pounding head to his stiff spine to the tingling arm he has trapped underneath him. The world around him is quiet and dark, but he recognizes the familiar smell of Alfred’s detergent and allows himself to sink into it, sighing. 

It’s over. He failed. 

He shifts, tugging the blankets with him, and realizes that they’re weighed down on one side. Slowly he lifts his head, blinking blearily through his swollen eyes, and sees a dark shape sitting beside him. “Dick?” His voice comes out hoarse. “That you?” 

“The one and only, Timmers.”

Dick sits stretched out beside him, on top of the covers, one hand still braced against the small of Tim’s back. He’s in his sweats and a plain, old t-shirt, looking tired, and it’s obvious he hasn’t spent a moment sitting in Tim’s bed actually sleeping. When Tim shuffles onto his other side and presses his face into Dick’s thigh, his wan face curls into a small smile. “How are you feeling?”

Tim shoves him off his bed with one satisfying thrust. 

“Mm,” Dick mutters unhappily from the floor. “Still mad at me, I see.” 

That’s not quite it, but Tim grunts anyway and stuffs his face into the pillow. He’s not ready to see Dick yet, not ready to answer all the questions he’s bound to be asked. He’s not even ready to fully admit to himself that the last forty-eight hours haven’t been one big, nightmarish hallucination. 

Maybe he’s the one that got hit with fear toxin. 

“Well, for the record,” Dick says, rising to his feet. He doesn’t try to sit back down on Tim’s bed. Tim kind of wishes he would. “I’m sorry. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t been so much of an ass.” 

I can’t even remember what we were fighting about. Tim’s eyes start to burn. “It’s fine,” he mumbles into the pillow. 

Dick sighs. “It’s really not.” 

“I’m alive.” 

“In normal families, being alive is kind of the bare minimum.” 

Tim hiccups. It’s embarrassingly loud. Fuck Dick for being here, for being an asshole, for being the one to push Tim to take a walk outside in the middle of the night. Fuck Jason for not just leaving him there in that alleyway. Fuck Jason for getting himself hit with fear toxin. Fuck Bruce for giving Jason so much to be afraid of. Fuck this whole family, Tim included, for being one bad day away from shattering into a million pieces. 

Dick’s whisper comes just an inch away from Tim’s ear. “Are you going to push me off you if I octopus hug you?”

“Fuck off,” Tim squeaks.

The bed creaks as Dick leans over and sprawls himself on top of Tim, leaning his forehead on the pillow behind Tim’s neck. “Octopus hug,” he whispers, just enough to squeeze a tearful giggle out of Tim. “Fixes everything.” 

“He’s going to hate me forever,” Tim whispers back. “He’s going to fucking kill me.” 

“He won’t kill you. We won’t let him, even if he tries. Not that I think he’ll actually try,” Dick replies. 

“That was his one rule — don’t call Bruce. He was so sure about it. And I fucking broke it.” Tim wants to bash his head into something a little harder than a down pillow. “He’s never going to forgive me for this.” 

“He has nothing to forgive you for. You stayed with him for two whole days while he was having the fear toxin trip from Hell. That asshole is going to be in your debt for years.” 

The debt. Tim brings a hand to his face and scrubs at his eyes until they hurt. Another thing I lost.

Dick pulls back, putting a hand on Tim’s shoulder to drag him up with him. “Come on, Timbers. Proper hug time.” 

“No,” Tim moans. He’s maneuvered into a sitting position, one of Dick’s legs on either side of him, and he can’t help but lean into his older brother’s warmth as his arms wrap around him and squeeze tight. “He said he’d owe me one if I made it through with him. I chickened out.”

“You didn’t chicken out. There was no way you could have handled that all on your own. Whole teams of doctors have a hard time handling that fear toxin without killing the person or getting themselves killed in the process. It’s not meant to be survived. If Jason had let you call earlier, you would have known that.” 

His voice peters out into tense silence, and Tim feels guilty again. Guilty for not calling earlier, guilty for calling at all, guilty for once again being the center of his family’s undoing. No matter what he did, someone was always going to be disappointed in him. It was always going to be his fault. “Jeez.” 

“Jeez indeed. I’d actually been doing my own research into the stuff before this whole debacle started. Didn’t think it was worth bringing up to you or Bruce because we hadn’t seen it on any patrols yet.” Dick pauses. “Ironic, looking back at it.” 

Tim elbows him. “Not your fault.” 

“It’s no one’s fault, really. If I wasn’t so pissed at Jason right now, I’d be down in the med bay holding his hand, asking God why he can’t give my poor little brother a break.” Dick squeezes him again. “Instead I’m up here doing mostly the same thing to you.” 

Tim wishes he could feel peaceful. “How is Jason?” 

“Still in it. Bruce and Alfred are with him now. It’s not your job to take care of him anymore, Tim. You did it, and we’re all proud of you.” 

Tim’s throat closes, and the taste of failure is heavy on his tongue. “I ruined everything,” he sobs. “Jason’s never going to talk with Bruce now. Not after what I did.” 

“Oh, Jason’s going to be doing a lot of talking with Bruce. And with me, once I’m done here.” Dick clicks his tongue. “Got a lot to say to him about all this.” 

“Please don’t hate him.” God, Tim’s full-on blubbering now. The hand that finds its way into his hair is only a mild consolation. “Please, Dick. I don’t want you to hate him. He already thinks Bruce hates him. He—“ 

“Nobody hates Jason. Even if we did, that’s not your responsibility. Jason needs to be held accountable for what he did, Tim. What he did to you was cruel.” 

Tim’s breath tastes like tears and snot. “He just wanted someone with him.” 

“Then he should have let you call Bruce. Instead he held you hostage and set you up to fail.” 

Tim twists his body into Dick’s chest and sobs until his throat hurts. “I just— I just—“ he gasps. “I just want everyone to be happy again.”

Dick’s fingers scratch slow circles into Tim’s scalp. “You’ve got a good heart, Timbo. I applaud you for that. I wish it was easy to give you what you wanted.” 

“Nobody wants to fucking talk !” A rush of hot rage has Tim smashing his fists down into Dick’s legs. “All you idiots fucking do is make it worse and then run!” 

“That’s our specialty,” Dick murmurs. 

“I can’t take it anymore! Nothing fucking changes!” Tim wishes he had something to punch. “I just want to fucking die .” 

He regrets the words the second they leave his lips. Dick goes rigid, his hands find Tim’s shoulders, and Tim’s being moved back into a horizontal position before he’s able to cling to Dick’s sweater to stay upright. “Okay, not good words. Don’t like those words. I think it’s best if we just relax for a bit.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Tim bats Dick’s hands away. “I’m just tired.” 

Dick, ever the slippery bastard, somehow manages to plaster himself to Tim’s side and lean his cheek on the top of Tim’s head while Tim’s distracted shooing his hands away. “I know, Tim. I know. Do you want me to find something to help you sleep?” 

Tim considers saying yes just to get Dick out of his room for a couple minutes, but upon momentary reflection, he realizes the absolute last thing he wants is to be alone. “No,” He says weakly. “Just sit here with me.” 

“Anything you want. Do you want to talk about it?” Dick smells like laundry detergent and sweat and home. “As much or little detail as you’re comfortable with.” 

Tim closes his eyes. I can just give him an overview. 

He tells him everything. 

Bruce could deal with a child of his threatening to kill him. They did it often – in jest, in rage, when Bruce took the last piece of bacon at breakfast or banned them from patrolling with him until their twisted ankle healed. Jason in particular could drop an offhand ‘I’ll kill you’ in just about any situation. Bruce barely noticed them now, for he heard them as often as he heard hello and goodbye and I hate you so much. 

What Bruce could not deal with was a child begging for death. That, unlike many of the other unimaginable things he saw in life, was something he could not easily let go of.

“Please just let me die, Bruce.” Jason has two fistfuls of Bruce’s shirt clutched in his trembling hands. His hands are bandaged, bloody. With every movement, more fresh blood leaks from the soaked gauze and dribbles down his forearms. “Please just kill me. I can’t do this. I can’t do it again.”

“Easy, lad. Easy going.” Bruce holds his voice steady. It’s tremendously difficult. “I need you to lay down. You can’t sit up just yet.” 

Jason tosses his head and gasps like he’s drowning. “Don’t do this to me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was a bad kid, okay? Is that what you want to hear?”

No, it isn’t. Not in any way. “Nobody’s hurting you, Jay. You’re still under the toxin. It’s going to pass.” Bruce goes to brush the sweat-soaked hair off Jason’s forehead, but he jolts back as if he’s expecting a slap and claps his hands over his face. “Come on, Jase. Breathe through it. Breathe.”

And breathe Jason does, but it comes out like a strangled groan. The bruises on his arms and face are a dark, sickly purple – a product of throwing himself into walls and doors for hours on end, no doubt, if Tim’s stories are to be believed.

Of course they are to be believed, Bruce thinks bitterly. The boy wouldn’t lie about something like this. 

He hates himself for not being upstairs with Tim, who undoubtedly needs his attention just as much, but leaving Jason’s side as he’s begging for death (or mercy, which Bruce promptly decides is even worse ) is entirely unfathomable. Tim has Dick. Dick is by far the best comforter of them all. If Dick wasn’t so furiously angry with his other brother at the current moment, Bruce wouldn’t mind having him at his side. 

“Just kill me!” Jason sobs. “Why are you drawing it out? I– I said I was sorry!”

Then again, Bruce doesn’t think he could stand having anyone but him and Alfred seeing Jason like this, both for their sakes and for Jason’s.

On the other side of the bed, in Bruce’s periphery, Alfred moves like a flickering shadow. When he draws near, holding one of their IVs between his deft fingers, Jason’s wild eyes land on him. The reaction is instantaneous. “Not a needle! Anything but that. Please. God, please !” Jason’s voice crescendos into a terrified, childish shriek, and he grasps at Bruce’s shirt and face with renewed vigor. Bruce can’t tell if Jason wants him to hold him or to beat him unconscious. “Please, Dad! No! No!”

Alfred’s face is somber, his focused calm unshakeable. “Breathe, Master Bruce,” he murmurs. “I need his arm. He’s dehydrated.” 

Bruce nods tightly. He forces Jason’s arm to the mattress with one hand and grabs his free hand with the other, squeezing tightly. “Alfred won’t hurt you. You’ve gotten many needles from him before.”

“Please.” Jason’s voice goes quiet and hoarse. “Please, please don’t.”

The needle slips into the meat of his forearm and Jason seizes with a gasp. He throws himself upwards and Bruce catches him in a crushing hug, half to comfort him and half to stabilize him before he can tear the needle straight out of himself. “Do we need to get the restraints out, Alfred?” He says, holding back a wince as Jason grabs a desperate fistful of his hair. 

“If it can be avoided, I suggest we do,” Alfred replies solemnly. “It will only distress him further.”

Bruce still feels a rush of disappointment, even though he knows Alfred is right. Jason is strong, even in such an awful state, and Bruce would never forgive himself if Jason managed to hurt himself because Bruce couldn’t control him. He keeps his weight steady against Jason’s chest, trying to swallow the bitter unfamiliarity of hugging him. The last time Bruce had hugged him, he’d been a child.

The last time Bruce had hugged him, he’d been a corpse.

“Please just let me die,” Jason whispers. “Please let it be fast this time.” 

Another shadow moves into their little bubble. “Alfred,” Bruce says. “How much longer until this phase ends?”

“It’s not easy to say.” Alfred sticks a thermometer into Jason’s ear and holds it there until it beeps. He gives it a quick glance, then clicks his tongue. “His temperature is rising, but still rather slowly. It could be several more hours of this.” 

Several more hours of this, Bruce thinks, devastated. A gut-wrenching sound escapes Jason’s mouth. I don’t know how we’ll all survive. 

Against his better judgment, Bruce pulls back just enough to cup Jason’s face with the hand not holding his elbow to the mattress. He hasn’t seen Jason this up-close in years — he’s hardly seen him out of his Red Hood getup since the moment he died. Somehow, after all he’s been through, he still manages to look young. Young, frightened, and in mind-breaking agony. “Do you know where you are, Jason?” He asks gently, if only to momentarily distract Jason from his terror. “You’re at home. You’re in the manor.” 

“I can hear him,” Jason chokes, throwing his head back against the pillow. “I can hear him! I don’t want to fucking hear him! ” 

“It’s just you, me, and Alfred, lad. I promise. No one else.” 

“He’s laughing at me, Dad.” Jason’s eyes go wide, gaze trained on the ceiling. “He just keeps fucking laughing.” 

Bruce swallows. His mouth tastes like ash. “It’s all in your head. He’ll never touch you again. I promise. I promise.” 

Promises mean little; to Jason, they mean dirt. But to Bruce they are comforting, and comfort is one of the only things keeping him tethered to the moment. He cannot default into Batman, curl into himself and lick the raw wounds he’s been nursing for years — Jason needs Bruce, not Batman. Batman may have been the one to let that bomb’s timer run out and botch the rescue, but Bruce had been the one to push his child into that warehouse in the first place. If Bruce hadn't hurt him, he wouldn’t have run off on his own. If Bruce hadn’t made him feel lesser, he wouldn’t have pulled away. If Bruce hadn’t — 

Bruce cuts himself off there. That train of thought is a well-traveled road, and it always leads him back to a cold, empty bedroom upstairs. 

Jason goes limp, shaking with exhaustion, and his eyes roll back into his head. “That’s my boy,” Bruce murmurs as he lays him down again. “Are you giving him any sedatives?” 

Alfred swiftly takes one of Jason’s hands into his and begins unwrapping the filthy gauze. He motions for Bruce to do the same with his other hand. “I will be giving him nothing but a fever reducer when his temperature exceeds one hundred and two degrees. His system needs to be flushed out.” 

Bruce nods and tries not to feel sick when he unwraps Jason’s bloody knuckles. “He really did a number in himself.” 

“He sure did,” Alfred says. “I can only hope Master Timothy knew to disinfect the wounds before wrapping them. I’d hate to see an infection develop.” 

“I bet he did. Tim’s a smart kid.” Bruce can’t help but press a quick kiss to Jason’s hand. “A tough, smart kid.” 

Alfred takes in a sharp breath. “As life continues to require of him, it seems.” 

Bruce bites his tongue. Alfred is adept at communicating his disapproval non-verbally. “I really should make sure he’s alright. I couldn’t really talk to him on our way home.” 

Tim had been practically catatonic when Bruce had found him, curled under Jason like a frightened child. He hadn’t said a word the whole ride home, and Dick had whisked him away the moment they walked into the med bay. Bruce wants to see him, hug him, tell him he’s proud of him. No kid that age deserves to go through what he did. 

A ripple of anger — the very first of the night — passes through Bruce. From the look on Alfred’s face, he sees it too. “We’ll have to talk with them. About this.” 

Alfred nods. “Indeed.” 

“Something has to change.” 

“Indeed.” 

Jason shudders, but he remains still. It doesn’t feel right being angry at someone so weak, but Bruce can’t help it. “I failed them, Alfred. All of them.” 

A cool hand cups Bruce’s cheek and pats his cheek comfortingly, the same way it did when he was a child. “You’ve only failed them when you stop trying,” Alfred says. “They all need you right now. You must be the adult here.” 

That is a duty Bruce has sorely been neglecting. He’s been neglecting a lot of things lately, it seems. Looking down at Jason, his throat grows thick. 

I'm sorry, he thinks, for there's no use in saying it aloud. I'm so sorry.

The fever sets in, and Jason returns to himself. 

It’s chaos. 

“Get out!” Something glass shatters against the wall right next to Bruce’s head. “Get the fuck out of here! Get out!” 

“Jason—“ Bruce starts, only to duck out of the way of another projectile. “Jason, listen. You—“ 

“Fuck off!” Jason yells. His cheeks are flushed so dark they almost look purple. He’s kneeling on the bed, covers torn to shreds around him. His arm is bleeding where he tore the IV out. “Get any closer to me and I’ll kill you. I fucking mean it.” 

“Okay,” Bruce says, holding his hands up. “But you can’t leave. You’re still under the toxin, and—“ 

Jason’s eyes glow green with rage. “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want to! You can’t keep me here!” 

“It’s for your own safety. You can go once your fever breaks.” 

Jason leans forward, breathing heavily, but his eyes never leave Bruce’s. “I’ll go when I damn well please. And that’s now. Let. Me. Go .” 

“Alfred’s already locked the place down.” Alfred also happens to be the smartest man on the face of the Earth. “It’s up to him when you leave, not me.” 

Jason snarls. It’s a disturbingly animalistic noise. His gaze flicks to Alfred, standing coolly in front of the door, looking entirely unaffected by the wreckage of medical equipment at his feet. “Alfred,” he snaps, but his voice lacks the threat it would have had he been talking to anyone else. No one, not even Red Hood, dares to threaten Alfred. “Let me go. I can handle a fucking fever on my own.” 

Alfred scrutinizes him for a moment. “Language,” he says. “And no.” 

Jason goes to take a step off his bed, but his feet are so tightly bandaged that he isn’t able to put much weight on the one he plants on the ground. Bruce can see how badly he’s trembling from across the room. He doesn’t even want to imagine how awful that fever must feel. “Alfred,” Jason repeats, slower. Now his jaw is trembling; Bruce isn’t sure whether in fury or in agony. “Don’t make a mistake here. Let me go, and I’ll go nicely.” 

Alfred hardly blinks at him. “If you try to leave this room, I will restrain you to that bed. You are not physically fit to be outside right now.” 

Jason holds his iron gaze for a moment, gritting his teeth, then he turns to the wall and whacks it with the side of his fist. “Fuck!” He hisses. “Fuck!” 

“Language,” Alfred repeats simply. 

“Stop it! Stop! This is exactly the kind of shit I was trying to avoid!” Jason fists his hands in his hair, despite the obvious agony it causes him. “I’m going to kill that brat. I’m going to kill—“ 

Another ripple of anger bubbles within Bruce. “Tim has no fault in this! Leave him out of our problems!”

“Oh, he’s got everything to do with this!” Jason roars. “I wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t such a weak little loser!”

“Don’t speak that way about your brother!”

“He’s not my brother!” Jason’s voice cracks, sending him into a coughing fit. “He’s the little shit who jumped into my suit before my body was even in the ground!”

The anger in Bruce hardens into icy fury. “He stayed with you at your weakest out of the goodness of his heart. I saw that safehouse, Jason – you could have killed him!”

“ HA !” Jason grins so widely it draws his lips thin against his teeth. Bruce doesn’t want to think about what it reminds him of. “He wanted a debt, nothing else. That rich little brat has only ever worked for his own self-interest. That’s why he’s here, mooching off of you, taking my life the second I wasn’t around to snap every single one of his grubby little fingers–”

“That is enough !” Alfred barks, and an abrupt silence falls over the room. He’s practically bristling. He meets Bruce’s startled gaze, breathes in, and the lividity in his eyes melts in one practiced motion. “Master Bruce,” He says, deadly calm. “Please go upstairs to tend to Master Timothy. I can remain down here alone with Master Jason.” 

Jason takes one look at him and practically shrinks to half his size. In an instant, his furious bravado is gone, and what remains in front of them is a sick, frightened young man. “Bruce can stay,” he mumbles. “If he wants. I don’t care.” 

“Your brother requires his attention,” Alfred says coldly. “He may return downstairs once he has ensured that he is alright.” 

Jason nods silently, picking at his nails. Alfred turns to Bruce. “I will hold down the fort here. Go check on Tim.” 

“Don’t…” Any sentence that starts with ‘don’t’ never ends well when it has to do with Alfred. “Make sure things stay calm.” 

“Total peace,” Alfred says firmly. “Now go.” 

Bruce looks at Jason, who refuses to look back at him. Leaving him alone with an angry Alfred feels a bit like leaving him to die all over again. Bruce has had his fair share of being at the sharp end of Alfred’s temper — it isn’t pretty. “I’ll be back,” he promises Jason. “We’ll talk more about this.” 

“Great,” Jason mutters, and that earns him another icy glare from Alfred.

“Yep.” Bruce nods, turns on his heel, and leaves without another word. He’s had torture session less agonizing than that. 

He’s quick to make his way upstairs; the longer he isn’t with Tim, the worse he feels. Tim’s been home for hours now, and he hasn’t seen Bruce once. Once again, his needs have fallen to the wayside. Wonderful job, Bruce. Apparently your children have to be feverish and dying for you to give a shit about them. 

He has half a mind to check Dick’s room before Tim, knowing Dick’s penchant for dragging people back to his own space when he wants to smother them, but he arrives at Tim’s door first. It’s closed, and if Bruce listens closely, he hears people talking within. The voices stop as soon as he knocks. “It’s just me,” Bruce says. “Alone.” 

“Come in,” Tim says immediately. The speed with which he answers is relieving, but the waver in his voice puts a pit in Bruce’s stomach. He opens the door just enough to slide in, then softly closes it behind him. Tim’s under his covers, curled into Dick’s side. The room is dim, with only the lamp to light the walls, but Bruce avoids turning on the overhead light. Even in the shadows, the puffiness of Tim’s eyes is clear as day. 

“Hey, chum,” Bruce murmurs. “How are you feeling?” 

Tim shuffles up, wiping his eyes. “I—“ he starts, but his voice breaks. “I— can you — can you come here—“ 

He’s already sobbing when Bruce sits down on the bed and gets his arms around him. Dick stays laying down, looking wan and hurt, but one of his hands slides under Tim’s sweater and starts rubbing slow circles onto his back. Bruce holds him tight, cupping the back of his head so he can press Tim’s face into the crook of his neck. “Oh, Tim.” Bruce kisses his temple. “You did a good thing calling me. I’m proud of you.” 

“I ruined—“ Tim shudders. “I ruined everything!” 

“No. You’ve done nothing wrong, Tim. You did everything you could.” 

“I tried . I tried so hard.” 

“You did,” Bruce murmurs into his shoulder. “You did, and I’m so proud of you.” 

“Jason made him promise that he wouldn’t call us, no matter what happened,” Dick says in a low voice. “Told Tim that he’d owe him one, but that the debt would be off if he called us.” 

Bruce feels a little less bad about leaving Jason to Alfred’s mercy. He tries not to let his disapproval show, but Tim clings tighter to him and cries harder. “Don’t hate him. Please don’t hate him. He was scared and he didn’t want to be alone and—“ 

“I don’t hate Jason. I could never hate Jason,” Bruce assures. “But what he did tonight crossed the line.” 

“Also when he beat the living shit out of Tim at Titan’s Tower,” Dick adds. “That crossed the line too.” 

Tim pulls himself out of Bruce’s arms and whirls around so fast it makes Dick flinch. “That was the Pit! He apologized for that!” Tim whacks Dick’s hand off his back and delivers a solid kick to his thigh for good measure. “Stop fucking bringing old shit up!”

Bruce pulls Tim back into his chest. “Whoa, whoa,” he says. “Breathe, Tim. Unwind. Dick, stop antagonizing your brother. We’ll discuss the Titan's Tower stuff later.” 

Dick clicks his tongue. “Fine.” 

“Fine indeed. Everyone is alright, everyone is safe, and we’re going to work this out.” Bruce pats Tim’s back, rocking him side to side until his anger ebbs and he relaxes into him, trembling. “You’re a good kid for caring about Jason. That was noble of you.” 

“I just want you guys to fucking talk ,” Tim spits. “I’m tired of this fighting.” 

Dick and Bruce share a look over the top of Tim’s head. The glare Dick gives him isn’t quite scathing, but it borders on it. Bruce mirrors it. We’re both at fault. Jason too. All three of us.

Tim sniffles. It’s a wet little noise. “Is Jason mad at me?”

Jason wants to tear you limb from limb, stitch you back together, and then do it all over again. “He’s still feverish,” Is what Bruce decides to more tactfully say. “He’s not making much sense yet.”

“Mm.” Tim laughs emptily. “So that means he’s probably threatening to kill me. Great.”

“Let him be mad,” Dick says rather sharply. “It’s not your fault he decided to pull some bullshit. He can face the consequences.”

Bruce feels Tim go stiff against him. “Dick, please. I know you’re angry, but–”

“I’m fucking furious! Look at the state he’s got Tim in!” Dick sits up. “You should have put a stop to this after Titan's Tower. He can’t keep going around treating a child like shit just because you refuse to put a bullet in some fucked up clown’s head for him.”

“Stop fighting,” Tim begs into Bruce’s chest. “For the love of God.”

Dick closes his mouth, looking guilty, but it’s obvious his anger hasn’t gone anywhere. It warms Bruce, in some odd way. If nothing else, Tim needs people that will stick up for him when Bruce can’t get his head out of his ass. “No fighting,” He says soothingly. “We’re going to figure this out.”

“When can I go downstairs and talk to Jason?” Dick asks innocently. 

“In a bit. Alfred is with him now. Bandaging him up.” Bruce meets Dick’s eye. He’s glad Tim can’t see their faces. “Talking things out with him.”

Satisfaction ripples across Dick’s features. “Ah. I’ll leave him to it then.” He leans into Tim’s back, hugging him tightly. “Are you hungry? Alfred’s got some pasta leftovers.”

Tim pulls back from Bruce’s arms and wipes his eyes. “Oh, please. I haven’t eaten in, like, three days.”

“Three?” Bruce cries. “Why three? You were only at Jason’s for a day and a half!”

Tim shrugs. “Got distracted.”

It’s certainly a good thing that Alfred’s attention is focused elsewhere, Bruce thinks. Because I think he’d kick Tim’s ass too if he was here. 

Jason hears the medbay door open and feels his heart plunge into his stomach. He pointedly does not look at whoever enters. He prays it isn’t Alfred again. His dignity cannot take another round of that . “Hey, asshole.” 

“Wrong body part. It’s Dick.” 

The torture continues. Jason’s throat is raw from screaming. His hands are in such pain he can hardly move them. Alfred’s scathing iciness has left him shivering, unable to shake the chill no matter how many blankets he layers on his shoulders. He’s probably still running a fever, but he hasn’t let them take his temperature since he woke up. It doesn’t make a difference – he feels like absolute garbage either way. “Close enough.” 

Dick snorts. “Don’t get short with me. I’m giving you no wiggle room tonight.” 

“Wiggle room,” Jason repeats with a scoff. “What are you, an investigator?” 

“I’m your older brother, Jason, and I love you. But I also love Tim, and he’s the one I’m a little more focused on at the current moment.” 

Jason’s mouth tastes bitter. Bitter and resigned. ”Seems like everyone is tonight. Tim’s getting the gold star treatment.” 

“Tim just threw up Alfred’s pasta and had to be carried back upstairs because he was shaking so badly. The idiot had already been unintentionally fasting for about a day by the time you got your hands on him. Three days with no food? Gold star treatment indeed.” 

“That isn’t my fault,” Jason snaps. “My safehouse has food. He could have eaten. I never said he couldn’t.” 

Dick’s voice takes on a sharper edge. “Oh, I’m sure he had such an appetite while he was hiding in the bathroom from your crazy murder rage.” 

Jason grits his teeth. The guilt is sticky where it sits in his throat, creeping upwards like stomach acid every time he swallows. Alfred’s words ring in his ears. 

You have caused irreversible damage to that boy.

You placed a burden on him far greater than any cape or mask could.

I never believed your capacity for cruelty could go beyond physical violence. It appears I was mistaken. 

Yeah. Safe to say, Jason feels like a million dollars right now. “I guess he told you everything.” 

“Yep.” Dick’s footsteps move closer. “Took a while for me to get all the gory details out of him, but I managed. Sounds like you two had one hell of a time.” 

The past forty-eight hours are a blur of pain. Just thinking about it gives Jason a stomach ache. “How is Tim?” He asks awkwardly. “Right now, I mean.”

“Why do you care to know? Want to gloat over how weak you think he is?” 

That snaps Jason’s thin patience. He whirls around on his bed, breath catching in his throat as the pain in his hands draws a rough cry out of him. “Shut up! I just want to know!” 

Dick, to put it lightly, looks furious. Though he’s barefoot and in his pajamas, he’s just about as menacing as he would be fully suited-up with two crackling escrima sticks in his hands. “He’s upstairs,” he hisses, “Probably being force-fed Gatorade and crackers so he doesn’t pass out on us. He’s in pain, he’s frightened, and he feels like an absolute failure. Because of you .” 

“He didn’t have to help me! I told him he could leave!” Jason cries. 

“You were the one to put a debt on the table. You knew Tim wouldn’t say no to that!”

“That’s not my fucking fault! He made the decision to ride it out with me. He knew what he was getting into!” 

“No he didn’t! He knew nothing about that strain of toxin before you came along. He was totally blind.”

“Aren’t you always the one crowing about how smart he is? Forgive me for thinking he could handle himself!”

“For fuck’s sake , Jason!” Dick’s voice rises to a furious shout. “Tim is a fucking child! You are a grown man! How can you genuinely believe that what you did wasn’t absolutely off the rails? Make it make sense to me!”

Maybe it’s the tone of his brother’s voice, or the uncharacteristic rage twisting his features, but Jason’s mouth goes dry. “I didn’t–” Words escape him. Jason suddenly, urgently, needs to be alone . “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Well, it is. Congratulations.” Dick rubs his hands over his face. As his face softens, Jason realizes how pale he is. Tired. Sick.

Seems like pain is contagious. And Jason, as it turns out, is patient zero. 

“I don’t know what to say.” Jason turns away. His throat feels thick. “Sorry.”

Dick doesn’t seem to hear him. “Bruce is thinking of taking Robin away from Tim. He’s not taking care of himself. He wants me to stay in Gotham and pick up the slack while we figure out if Tim can continue like this.”

That hits Jason like a bucket of ice water. He turns back to Dick, gaping. “What? He’s benching him? Why the fuck would he do that?”

“Three days. No food,” Dick snaps back immediately. “He didn’t even tell us how badly you roughed him up until I helped him change for a shower and found out his back looks like you ricocheted hockey pucks off of it for four hours straight. He can barely get his arms over his head.”

“Benching him is only going to make things worse! He’s just a kid!”

“Oh, I thought you thought he was smart enough to handle himself!” Dick replies mockingly.

“Shut up!” Jason needs his guns. He needs his helmet. He needs an escape route. He needs to get out and get away and never look any of the Bats in the eye ever again. If he’s lucky, maybe he can find another open grave and make sure he never crawls out of this one. “Just shut up!”

“Just face it, Jason. You fucked up! Stop trying to run away from that!” Dick says. “The sooner you stop acting like a coward and actually face the music, the easier this will all be.”

“I don’t need to do shit! Leave me the fuck alone!” Jason tries to get off the bed again, but the sudden spike of red-hot pain in the bottoms of his feet send him crumpling to his knees. He curses to himself and tries to stand, but his muscles won’t listen to him and his bandaged hands can’t get enough of a grip on the edge of the bed to heft himself back up. He glances at Dick, somewhat pleadingly, but he makes no move to approach.

“Do you want help?” Dick says, stone-faced.

Jason’s face burns. My dignity is already in pieces. What difference does it make now? “Please.”

To Dick’s credit, he helps Jason back into his bed with impressive ease. Since when are you strong? Jason thinks. You’re as wiry as a greyhound. Where are you hiding all those muscles?

“Thanks,” He mumbles, pulling a knee to his chest. Dick takes a silent step back, his features soft and neutral. “Tell… Tell Bruce not to bench Tim. Not for long, at least. He’ll go crazy.”

“Why have you chosen now to care?” Dick asks softly. 

I don’t know. I don’t know. Stop trying to make me think about it. Jason fights the urge to clench his hands into fists. “I’m just trying to avoid more bullshit.”

Dick gives him an empty chuckle. “Bit late for that. You can tell Bruce yourself when he comes down here. He should be down in a couple minutes once he gets Tim settled back in bed.”

The idea of talking to Bruce right now is only slightly less appealing than taking the Joker out on a dinner date. But it’s unavoidable, Jason presumes, so he’d better get it over with before he throws any more matches on the charred remains of the bridges he has with his family. If Bruce is feeling merciful, maybe he’ll send Jason to Blackgate instead of Arkham. Maybe he’ll just kill him. 

Fast footsteps descend the staircase to the med bay, loud enough to be heard through the walls. Even Dick seems startled by the abruptness. The door to the med bay swings open, and Tim is standing there, fists clenched and jaw set, Bruce looking bewildered behind him. Dick turns and says, “Tim?” just as Tim moves into the room, quick and unsteady on his feet. He’s looking at Jason and his eyes are swollen and he’s moving towards Jason at a brisk walk and Jason reaches for him before he can think twice because Tim’s reaching for him too and— 

Tim’s open palm cracks across his face hard enough to make Jason’s vision go white for a solid three seconds. Had he not already been sitting, it probably would have knocked him flat on his ass. 

“Tim!” Bruce splutters. 

“Oh my god,” he hears Tim say. “Were you reaching out to hug me? Now I feel like the asshole.” 

Then he promptly collapses into the chair at Jason’s bedside and bursts into tears. 

For the first time since he clawed his way out of his own grave, Jason kind of wants to cry too.

Bruce moves to Dick’s side and taps his shoulder silently. Dick looks up, and Bruce cocks his head towards the door. “Nope,” Dick replies immediately, making a show of moving closer to Jason’s bed. “You can leave, but I’m staying here. These two have had a bit too much time alone together over the past forty-eight hours.” 

“Dick,” Bruce says warningly.

Dick shrugs. “What?” 

Dick Grayson, playing bad cop. Jason is well and truly fucked.

“Everyone is staying,” Tim says, equal parts stubborn and tearful. He lifts his face out of his hands and Jesus — he looks like absolute shit. More shit than the regular Tim Shit, which is already more shit than the average shit. “Nobody leaves this room without my fucking permission.” 

Bruce looks like he’d rather be anywhere else on Earth, but he raises his hands in silent submission. The only person Jason can’t see is Alfred, but he knows better than to think the man isn’t lurking just out of eyesight. Rule number uno of the Wayne Manor: never, ever assume Alfred can’t hear you. He always can. 

“Okay,” Tim stands, looking somewhat hysterical. “I am so fucking tired of all of you. I am tired of—“ he motions at them harshly— “All of this. All of you are so dumb .” 

Jason isn’t sure who looks more offended — Dick or Bruce. He wants to feel offended too, but he’s pretty sure he’s lost the privilege. He keeps his eyes cast downward, Hurricane Timothy a blurry furious shadow in his periphery. “I’ve tried!” Tim continues breathlessly. “I’ve tried so hard to keep this place together. If this is how Alfred feels, I’m surprised he hasn’t keeled over from a fucking heart attack yet. Every single one of you is so happy to cause shit and then refuse to talk about it until it blows up in your face. Then what do you do when it blows up in your face? Fuck if I know! Because you don’t fucking talk about it!”

He’s shouting loud enough to echo. Bruce, because he always knows the worst thing to say at the worst time, makes a small quiet down gesture. Tim’s eyes flash; it reminds Jason of the Pit. “Don’t tell me to quiet down!” He surges out of the chair and shoves Bruce backwards. Bruce actually stumbles, despite the fact that he’s probably thrice Tim’s weight and Tim’s arms are as thin as spaghetti noodles. “This is your fault! This is all your faults! And I’m always the one who ends up suffering because of it!”

“You benched him,” Jason says to Bruce. “You really benched him.”

Tim scrubs at his face with his hands. “Was that one your idea? Really cool if it was.” He laughs again. It makes Jason’s stomach curdle. “You’ve really developed your skill of taking away everything I love. Quite impressive, actually. It’s a testament of your devotion to ruining my fucking life.”

“Tim,” Bruce says sternly but softly. “This isn’t a punishment. It’s for your health.”

“My health is great, thank you. Under my countless bruises and horrific injuries, I’ll have you know my skin is wonderfully soft.”

“That isn’t–” Bruce sets his jaw. “Let’s all take a breather, please. Nothing is going to get done if we’re all keyed up.”

“I don’t want to take a breather!” Tim screams, and suddenly there are tears rolling down his cheeks again. “I want you all to listen to me! I’m tired! I’m tired of this! I can’t do this anymore!”

“Tim, please–” Dick starts.

“Fuck off! Both of you! None of you are listening to me!” Tim claps his hands over his ears. “This is so stupid. I can’t do this. I’m going to bed.”

As angry and abruptly as he came, Tim storms past Dick and Bruce and darts through the open door. “If anyone tries to bother me, I’m throwing myself off the roof and taking you with me!”

A cold, dead silence fills the air the moment his footsteps fade. Bruce looks to be almost in a daze as he turns away and follows after Tim; Dick looks like someone just slapped him dead across the face. Jason… Jason just feels bad . He never even said a word directly to Tim the whole time, but he’s still left with the stomach-churning feeling that everything is his fault. Again. Just as it always is. 

His face hurts. He really, really wants to go to bed. 

“Master Jason,” Alfred says, suddenly at his side. His voice is gentle, but Jason still can’t bring himself to look him in the eye. “You may sleep here tonight or up in your bedroom. It is your choice.”

“Bedroom,” Jason murmurs. He can’t stand to be in this medical bay for another moment. It smells of stale disappointment and fresh, sharp pain. “I’ll need help walking.”

“I’ll do it,” Dick says, equally as quiet. 

Alfred nods. “Everyone in this household requires proper rest. I would advise you both to keep your tempers to yourselves for the rest of the night. Tim needs peace.”

Tim needs a lot of things, apparently.

The walk up to Jason’s old bedroom is slow, painful, and awkward. Jason hasn’t been this close to Dick in… forever. He’s certainly never had one of his spindly arms wrapped around his waist, hand clutching the one Jason has thrown over his shoulders to keep him upright. Each step burns, and he collapses to his knees more than once. Each time, Dick helps him back to his feet wordlessly. 

They don’t try to talk. Neither of them want to risk it. 

The Manor isn’t quiet, though. Tim’s shrieking carries through the walls like a shockwave, far enough away for his words to be jumbled but his anger to still be palpable. Jason doesn’t hear anything hitting the walls or being smashed to pieces, but Tim’s voice is a weapon all on its own. “Looks like Tim is jumping off the roof with Bruce tonight,” Jason says. “If he can manage to carry him up there.”

Dick snorts, but the joke falls flat. Imagining Tim taking a swan dive off the Manor roof is nowhere near as satisfying as it once might have been. Without the Pit to stoke the fires of his rage and keep him warm, Jason feels alone. Cold. Abandoned by even his own fury.

When Jason’s old door comes into view, a dizzying wave of fear washes over Jason. He debates asking Dick to leave him here in the hall, to take him back downstairs, to take him anywhere else but here. But his tongue won’t move and his legs don’t have the strength to carry him in any other direction as Dick turns the doorknob and taps the door open with one foot. 

“Sorry if it’s cold in here,” Dick says. “We don’t usually have the door open.”
Why would you? It’s not like anyone comes in here. Jason screws his eyes shut as Dick flicks the light on. It still buzzes the same way it did when Jason slept in here. The Wayne Manor’s least-used spare room. 

What he sees when he finally opens his eyes is not what he’s expecting. He was expecting cleanliness, sterility, the removal of everything in that room that made it his. But his old bedroom is hardly even tidy, bordering on cluttered. There are clothes on the floor, a gym bag lying empty at the foot of his bed. His homework sits spread over his desk, covered in a fine layer of dust. The only thing that looks new are his bed covers, washed and neatly made.

“Bruce washed those himself.” It seems like Dick is a mind-reader. Or perhaps Jason is just staring. “Took him, like, four hours. Barely let Alfred help.”

“Was that before or after he found out I’d crawled out of my own grave?” Jason asks. He’s not sure why.

Dick takes a moment to answer. “Right after.”

Jason nods, sighing in relief as Dick helps him sit on the corner of his bed. “I’m surprised he didn’t gut this place. Bad memories.”

“He caught me in here with a trash bag once because you left food in here and it was going moldy, so I wanted to throw it out.” Dick fixes his eyes on the floor. “Scariest moment of my life. I genuinely thought he was going to attack me.”

“Jesus.” Change the subject. Get him out of here. I can’t talk about this. “Thanks for helping me up. You can go check on Tim now.”

“I’d rather not become a casualty,” Dick says wearily. “Tim can be a terror when he wants to be. I think he knows he can get away with whatever he wants for the rest of tonight.”

“Yeah.” The conversation peters out into an awkward silence. Dick makes no move to turn around and leave. “You can go to bed now. I’ll be fine.”

“Why do you hate Tim?”

Jason stops. Clenches his fist. Ow. Unclenches his fist. “I don’t hate him.”

“Don’t pull that shit with me,” Dick says. “Why do you hate him? You didn’t even know who he was until you came back. He never did anything to you.”

“He took my job.” My life. My family. “He jumped right on in the second I was gone.”

“He took nothing from you. Bruce was going crazy. He tried to get me to come back and help him, and when I wouldn’t…” Dick sucks in air through his teeth. “He threw himself in front of that shitshow and did his best to stop it on his own.”

“He made that decision. I have the right to dislike it.”

“You don’t have the right to sneak into his tower while he’s defenseless and beat him half to death.”

I’ll never be absolved of that, will I? “That was a momentary lapse in judgment. The Pit was worse back then.”

“So all of this was on you, then?”

“I had a full dose of long-acting fear toxin, asshole,” Jason snaps. “Did you forget about that?”

Dick ignores him. “What would you do if Tim never forgave you for this? If I never forgave you? Or Bruce? Alfred? What would you do?”

Jason feels uncomfortable. Deeply, deeply uncomfortable. “I’d continue on with my life as normal. You guys already hate me.”

“No we don’t,” Dick scoffs. “And you know we don’t. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if we hated you for real.”

“I beat the shit out of Tim. I kill people on the regular. I bring down your reputation every time you guys are seen with me in uniform.”

“And Bruce washes your sheets the second he finds out you're alive in case you ever come home. Alfred extends the offer for breakfast every week. Tim decides to put himself in danger so you won't be alone under fear toxin. Is that hate to you? You can’t even imagine real hate.”

“I wouldn’t care if you guys hated me,” Jason says, though there is nothing further from the truth. “Lots of people hate me. No skin off my ass.”

“You don’t want to be hated, Jason,” Dick says. “You want to play this stupid little back-and-forth where we try to reach out and you refuse and we force our love on you and you come to us when you really need it. And you know what? Fine. Do it with the rest of us. It’s probably easier for Dad to patch up your bullet wounds and hold you as you come out of a fever dream screaming for him than to actually talk about his feelings. If you want me to chase you your whole life, be the big brother you never wanted but are never able to get rid of, then I’ll do it. I’ll find every fucking safehouse you have in this country and leave bags of groceries on your bed.” Dick points out the door. “But Tim? He’s not like us. He’s not like you . You’re driving him crazy. And when he wakes up one day and decides he’s too exhausted to give a shit about you and your bad behavior, you won’t like it. I know what happens when you feel ignored, Jason. You lose your marbles.”

Ignored. That’s certainly the word for how Jason’s been feeling. The loneliness prickles along the back of his neck like needles, and the guilt is hot and heavy where it sits in his stomach, ballooning like a malignant tumor. Jason wishes it was something physical that he could tear or cut straight out of him. That’s a pain he could handle.

This? This is driving him fucking nuts. 

“I can’t do this shit anymore.” Jason turns away from Dick, feeling the burn of his gaze bore into the back of his neck. “I can’t be here. I can’t fucking handle this.” 

“Leave now,” Dick says, “And all of this is over. I mean it. Done. At least with me and Tim.” 

Jason hesitates only for a moment. Then the guilt comes rushing back, forcing his limbs to move. He grabs the empty gym back off the foot of his bed and starts shoving clothes into it at random, clothes he hasn’t worn or touched or seen for years, hardly stopping to see what they are. 

“I mean it.” Dick doesn’t move from his place at the other end of the room, but he might as well be looming over Jason’s shoulder. “If I have to go tell poor Tim that you absconded into the night out of pure cowardice, I will never forgive you. I doubt Tim will either, after all you’ve put him through.” 

“Stop talking,” Jason says firmly.

“You know I’m right.” 

“Stop talking .” Jason tosses his bag to the floor and lets the contents spill out. Something sharp and bloody rattles around in the pit of his chest. He moves to the end of his bed, turned away from Dick, and focuses his eyes on the sliver of moon he can see from his large bedroom window. He spent a lot of time watching that moon in this room. Before. It almost feels comforting in its familiarity.

But that was a different Jason, and now sitting in this room feels like he’s getting his grubby paws all over a sacred memory. His bed isn’t meant to be slept in. His clothes aren’t meant to be touched. That window isn’t meant to be opened. 

Though Dick is still behind him, silent and still, Jason knows he’s being watched. “Please, Jason. Don’t put me in a painful position.” He says gently. Jason wants to scream at him again. He wants him to scream at him again. ”I want you to stay here.” 

You want a body in this room so it’s no longer an empty tomb. Jason pitches sideways and lets himself fall into his old pillow, arms wrapped around himself. Get out. Get out. Get out and let me rest in peace. 

And Dick does. Jason hears the door squeak as he closes it, then click shut behind him. The room is left dark, empty, silent. 

The moonlight hits Jason’s face with a rush of cold night air. Bracing one hand on the windowsill, he swings himself up and out. Agony springs up his legs, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to ignore it. The moon stares down at him judgmentally. Jason turns away from her, shame burning on the back of his neck, and turns his eyes to the ground below.

Here goes nothing. 

Chapter Text

Tim wakes up in a cold sweat, in complete darkness, with the undeniable feeling that he’s being watched. “Bruce?” He whispers through a rough throat. “That you?” 

The silence doesn’t answer, but it does move. A shadow shifts close to the end of Tim’s bed, looking almost shy. “Bruce?” Tim feels a twinge of anxiety. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” a gruff whisper replies. “Just me.” 

It’s Jason. In his bedroom. Alone.

A hand claps over Tim’s mouth before he has the chance to scream. 

“Please don’t scream for Bruce,” Jason begs, holding Tim’s shoulder with his other hand in a crushing grip. It’s Tim’s bad shoulder. This night just keeps getting better. “Please. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Tim bites down on his hand, hard . “Okay,” Jason grunts. “I deserve that. Just promise me you won’t scream.” 

Tim narrows his eyes. Jason’s form is beginning to become clearer in the shadows — he’s unarmed, still in clothes he’d been in the last time Tim saw him, and his eyes are bright and desperate. Slowly, carefully, Jason pulls his hand back. “Don’t scream. Don’t.” 

“What,” Tim hisses. “The fuck are you doing in my room?”

“To talk?” Jason replies, as though he isn’t sure. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” 

“So you sneak into my room and accost me while I’m sleeping? How did you even get in here? Does Bruce know you’re in here?” 

“Bruce does not know I’m here,” Jason says quickly. “I don’t think anyone does.” He shifts uncomfortably. “And I got in through your window.” 

Well, that’s a first. Tim’s never slept through someone crawling in through his window before. (Admittedly, it’s only happened one other time. Dick gets some strange ideas when he’s drunk.) “That fear toxin officially scrambled your brain. I don’t want you here. Get out .” 

“Tim, please. I just want to talk.” 

“ I decide when we talk, shithead. You don’t get to break in in the middle of the night and scare the shit out of me. What’s wrong with you?” 

“A lot, apparently!” Jason puts his face in his hands, groaning into his fingers. “Listen. If you really want me to, I’ll go. But please, Tim. I just want to talk with you. Alone.”

“You can talk to me when I want to talk. Not when you figure out how to break my window lock.” Tim jabs his finger in the direction of the window. “Get. Out.” 

Jason draws his lips thin against his teeth. Guilt looks ill-fitted on his face, even in the darkness. He takes one unsteady step back, then another, then turns towards the window. Tim remembers the state of his feet and lets out a groan. “Did you seriously climb around the side of the manor with your fucked up feet? Are you serious?”

Jason takes another step towards the window. “They feel fine,” he grunts, obviously in pain.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Tim sits up and whacks the empty side of the bed. “Get in. Don’t say any stupid shit. Don’t annoy me.” 

“If you want me to go, I’ll go,” Jason says. “I’m not going to force you to let me be here.” 

Tim whacks his bed again. “ Sit .” 

With that, he twists onto his other side and lays down with a huff, blocking Jason from his view. He hears Jason’s steps grow closer, the quiet grumble of pain as he swings his legs up into the bed. He says nothing. After a few moments of silence, Tim opens his eyes and peeks over his shoulder. Jason is laying on top of his covers, ramrod straight, hands crossed over his chest. “Oh my god,” Tim says. “Just get under the covers, you fucking weirdo. Stop laying there like a dead body.” 

“I am a dead body,” Jason replies petulantly. “And why do you even care?” 

“You’re trapping all my blankets and making them too tight. Just—“ Tim smacks his arm hard. “Get under the blankets and stop being weird.” 

Jason huffs, but a moment later he’s lifting the covers and sliding underneath them. His ankle is hot when Tim presses his foot into it. “Jesus!” Jason flinches away. “And you call me the dead body.” 

“I’m cold-blooded, says Dick. Gives him an excuse to smother me.” 

“I always knew he was out of his mind.” Jason tugs on one of his blankets. “Why is this so heavy?”

“It’s a weighted blanket, dipshit,” Tim mumbles. “Bruce got it for me to help with my anxiety.” 

“Have I fucked you up so much that you need a blanket filled with sand to help you calm down?”

“Not all my problems come from you, Jason.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.” 

“Bruce did get me this after the whole Titans’ Tower situation, though. So this one is actually your fault.” 

Jason is silent for a long, satisfying moment. “Sorry.” 

“Hm.” Tim stretches his arms out in front of them. His injured shoulder protests painfully, but it does some good in shaking the sleep from him. “So, why are you here?” 

Jason keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The bruise on his face catches in the darkness like a melting, deformed shadow. “To talk. Alone. I said that already.” 

“Don’t get snappy with me. That’s not what I asked. Why are you here ? Right now? Doing this?” 

Tim tilts his head towards him. Jason’s mouth quirks. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it.” 

“That’s unfortunate, because I do. Did Dick send you here? You can be honest. When Bruce and I argue, Dick will usually pull his sulking ass out of the cave to come and talk to me. It’s a good system.” 

“I already told you nobody knows that I’m here. Is it that hard to believe that I came here of my own volition?”

“Hm.” Tim puts his head back on the pillow and closes his eyes. “Speak your piece, then. You’re not allowed to wake me up if I fall asleep, so keep it interesting.” 

“Okay, I—“ Jason pauses. “Okay. Fuck. I’m sorry.” 

“A decent start,” Tim says. “Very classic.” 

“Stop being an ass!” Jason replies sharply. When Tim gives him a withering glare, he wilts. “Sorry. I'm sorry. I’m not — I’m not good at this shit. I’m nervous.”

“What are you sorry for?” Tim prompts him. He isn’t exactly happy to have Jason in his room right now, but he can’t deny that having someone next to him warms a chill within him he hadn’t noticed before. The Jason that lays beside him, fiddling with the bandages on his knuckles, is declawed, resigned, exhausted. He doesn’t scare Tim. Jason not scaring Tim is an uncommon occurrence. Tim likes not being scared of Jason.

“For—“ Jason motions around them vaguely. “For all of this. Everything.” 

“You have to be a bit more specific than that, buddy.” 

Jason scowls. “Don’t call— Jesus. Give me a second to get my thoughts in order.” 

Tim bites back a snarky reply; despite how much he wants to be, being mean won’t solve a thing. The longer Jason sits beside him, the more righteous anger trickles from his veins. It feels wrong. Wrong to be angry, wrong to not be angry. A part of him wishes Jason had come in burning with rage, swinging a blade at Tim’s throat. At least then it would have been predictable . Sad Jason reminds him of locked bathroom doors and desperate hands clutching at his clothing. It makes him viscerally uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry for making you go through that,” Jason says finally. The words seem to physically agonize him. “I’m sorry you had to see me all fucked up. You’re well within your rights to hate my guts.”

“You didn’t let me call any of the bats,” Tim says softly. “You made me do it alone.” 

“I know. I know I did.” 

“I had to listen to you threaten to kill me, then to you begging me not to leave you because you told me I had to fuck off if you started crying. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? What were you expecting me to do?” 

“I did that?” Jason pinches his brow. “Fucking hell. I didn’t think it would be that bad.”

“It’s fear toxin , you stupid asshole. Of course it’s going to be bad. And then you woke up from it and proceeded to act even more like an asshole, so—“

“I know! I know!” Jason surges upwards like he’s going to stand up, but his muscles (or perhaps his courage) fail him. He remains upright, leaned forward, head in his hands. “Fuck. I — I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m sorry. I fucked everything up.”

The tone of his voice shakes Tim. Jason never lets himself be on the wrong side of vulnerable; to hear him say sorry at all is something worth writing home to Alfred about. To hear him whisper it, voice laden with shame? It’s improper. It’s unreal. It’s a raw, bleeding wound, thrust into sunlight before it’s had a chance to heal. Tim shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be hearing this. 

“Why, Jason?” He asks, because he never knows when to stop. “Why did you do all this?” 

“I don’t know,” Jason replies, voice muffled. “I don’t know.” 

“Were you scared?” 

Jason presses the palms of his hands into his forehead. “I was fucking terrified , Tim. I know my fears. I know what fear toxin does to me. And then you were there, and you were alone, and sometimes seeing you makes me so fucking mad that I don’t even think —“ 

“So you did this because you just hate me? You just wanted me to suffer?” Tim laughs emptily.

“ No! ” Jason fists his hands in his hair again. Tim stays silent, unsure whether he would rather someone have heard that or not heard it at all. “Just— fuck— I wanted you to get it . And if you couldn’t get it, then I’d have a reason to hate Robin all over again. You want to be Robin? There. That’s what Robin is.” His voice cracks. “It’s fear.” 

A rush of anger hits Tim in a dizzying wave. “You don’t get to decide what Robin is to me,” He snaps, sitting up. “I took on Robin to keep Batman from spiraling into destruction and taking the rest of us down with him. Dick didn’t want to help. Bruce was too busy committing slow suicide to even think about a new Robin. I forced my way in. And you know what?” He shoves Jason’s shoulder with all his might. “I did it for you . For your memory. For Bruce and Dick and the rest of this shitty city. I did everything for you guys.” 

Pressure builds in Tim’s throat; what little he can see of Jason’s form in the darkness blurs into a medley of inky blues. “Now Bruce doesn’t need me anymore. He’s got his boy back.”

“His good soldier, ” Jason spits. 

White-hot fury explodes in Tim’s chest like a flashbang. “Do you know what I’d give to be loved like that? To have someone mourn me like how Bruce mourned you? My parents don’t even know where I am right now! They don't care! ” He fights to keep himself from screaming. His cheeks are wet. “I didn’t get to have Bruce come and pull me out of my shitty situation because he saw something great in me. I had to go and find him, beg him to take me in, and then spend every moment afterwards making sure he didn’t get tired of me.” He takes in a shuddering breath. “Robin is — is everything I have. I have nothing and no one without it.” 

Jason is silent. If he says some stupid shit, Tim thinks wildly, I think I’ll actually kill him. I’ll do it. 

Jason turns towards him, still avoiding his eye. “Bruce won’t get tired of you. He loves you.” 

Not kill-worthy, Tim decides. He flops back into his pillow. “He loves you . You’re his child. He’s fond of me — I’m just the weird rich kid who followed him around with a camera for years.” 

“Dick loves you too. He talks about you a ton.” 

“Dick would love a rock if it was comfortable enough to hug.” 

“And I… I don’t hate you. Really, I don’t. I don’t want us to hate each other.” 

Tim breathes a laugh. “Bit late for that now, isn’t it?” 

Jason goes quiet, looking down at his hands. “Do you hate me?” He asks, genuine. “You can be honest. I don’t really have the right to get angry.” 

Yes, Tim wants to say. Never, Tim wants to say. I just wanted you to like me, Tim wants to say. Not even love me. Just like me. That would have been enough. 

“You were my hero,” he says. “I don’t think I can.” 

That makes Jason laugh. It’s a tiny, exhausted sound. “I’m sorry, kid. Guess that’s why they say to never meet your heroes.” 

“My hero came to meet me , actually. He just came armed.” 

Jason doesn’t even try to reply to that, for which Tim is a little grateful. He slumps back with a small sigh, falling back to his elbows, before hesitantly laying back against the pillow at Tim’s side. Tim mirrors him, and the two of them lay shoulder to shoulder in silence for a long while. This is all I’ve wanted, Tim thinks. Him here, willingly, not angry or scaring me. Just here with me, simply because he wants to be. I want to like him. I want him to like me. 

Tim sits up and twists in place. Jason looks up at him, equal parts concerned and confused. “Jason,” Tim says. “I’m sorry.” 

“Kid, you don’t need to apologize—” Jason starts. 

“I know I don’t. But you need to hear it, so I’m sorry. I’m sorry I took Robin after you died, I’m sorry you had to come back and see some random kid running around in your suit, and I’m sorry you had to die like that. I couldn’t imagine going through that at my age. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Jason stares at him for a moment, looking bewildered. His mouth shuts and tightens into a thin line. “Shit.” He sits up, covering his eyes with one hand. “I— shit , Tim. Jesus Christ, man.” He laughs, but it’s watery. “Oh my god.” 

Tim leans down and hugs him tightly; the arm Jason supports himself with collapses under the weight. Jason falls to his elbow, Tim pressed to his chest, and his breathing comes ragged. Tim feels a shaking hand grasp the back of his head. “You—“ Jason says, sniffling. “You’re fucked, you know that? You can’t do this shit to me without warning.” 

“What,” Tim replies. “Say sorry?” 

“I— yeah, whatever. Just this in general.” Jason lets himself fall back so he can hug Tim with both arms. His hugs are intense— just like Jason himself. Tim’s hands are trapped underneath them and his shoulders definitely don’t appreciate the odd angle, but there isn’t a single thing on the planet that would make him move. “Shit, man.” 

“Bruce loves you. He loves you so much it bothers the shit out of me and Dick sometimes. He lets you get away with shit we never would.” 

Jason laughs, strangled. “Not anymore, I don’t think. It’ll take decades for Alfred to forgive me.”

“Alfred always forgives. He’s just protective. Same with Bruce.” Tim presses his nose into Jason’s chest. “They love you more than anything.”

“Yeah, I’ve given them plenty to love over the years.” Jason rubs at one of his eyes. “For the record, I’m sorry too. You’re a good Robin, and a good kid, and I shouldn’t have had a problem with you. It was Bruce I was angry at — that shouldn’t have had anything to do with you.” 

There it is. Tim feels a prickle of disappointment in the back of his neck. “Do you think you’ll ever forgive Bruce?” He asks. 

Jason shifts; Tim thinks he may be shrugging. “I don’t know. It’s hard. Much easier to just keep going how we’re going now.” 

“He misses you. We all miss you.” 

“The man who tortured and murdered me is still alive. I’m still wrapping my head around that one.” 

“Are you happy with the way things are? Do you want to be closer to Bruce?”

“I— I don’t know. I do miss him sometimes. Not like I’ve got many others keeping an eye on me.” Jason trails off. “I’m giving up too much if I let go of my anger. He can’t ask that much of me. It’s not fair.” 

Tim slides sideways off his chest until he’s laying back on his pillow. Jason pulls his arm out from underneath him, but he keeps it close by, as if expecting Tim to grab it or lean into it if he so wished.

“Humour me,” Tim says, kicking his ankle. “We’re doing a brain exercise.” 

Jason scoffs.“I swear to God, if you try to make me do math, I’m jumping out your window.” 

Tim kicks his ankle again. “Not that kind, asshat. Just listen.” 

Jason motions for him to continue. Tim settles into his blankets, feeling warm. “Let’s say, hypothetically, someone hurts someone you really love really badly. Be it Dick, or — or me, if you want, or one of your murder buddies—“ 

“You’re fine,” Jason cuts in. “For this hypothetical scenario.” 

Tim nods. That shouldn’t elate him as much as it does. “Okay, okay— someone hurts me. Badly. Maybe it’s the Joker, or Two-Face, or some random mugger. Maybe they hurt me so badly I can’t be Robin ever again, or they leave me in a coma, or I’m left so depressed and scared of the world that I can never leave my room again. What would you do?” 

“Kill them,” Jason replies simply. “Easy.” 

“As I expected.” Tim shifts; his head catches on Jason’s shoulder. When Jason doesn’t tense or pull away, Tim leaves it there. “Now, if I asked you to spare them, would you? If I begged you not to kill them? Could you do that?” 

Jason doesn’t respond for a moment. “Why on Earth would you want to spare them?” 

“That’s not the question. Would you spare them if I asked you to? If I begged you to? If it was the only thing I wanted in the world?” 

Jason purses his lips. “No,” he says, sounding somewhat shameful. “I couldn’t let them live.”

“And if I hated you for that, how would you feel?” 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Jason says in a small voice. Tim knows better than to push him further. “It’s — it’s different. It’s different than that.” 

Tim nods silently. He leans his cheek a little more on Jason’s shoulder in a silent apology. 

“You’re fifteen, right? Yeah. Yeah you are. That’s how old I was. I’m sure someone has told you the whole gory story,” Jason murmurs. “Very juicy stuff.” 

“Bruce would leave the room if we so much as mentioned your name,” Tim replies. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know every detail of Jason’s death, but those details he had to look for himself. “I think talking about it would physically kill him.” 

“That makes two of us.” Jason smiles lightly, but his voice is taut with pain. “That’s what makes it nice being Red Hood. Red Hood’s never died.” 

Tim swallows a chuckle. “That and the guns.” 

Jason snorts. It’s a starkly genuine sound. “That and the guns. Now you’re talking.” He pauses thoughtfully. “I could never be Robin again. I always knew I couldn’t, even before I knew about you coming along. Robin is good and he’s pure and, and symbolic and shit. I’ve got too much blood on my hands to ever deserve to touch that suit again.”

“There will always be a bit of Robin in you,” Tim says. “There’s still a bit of Robin in Dick too.” 

“Dickiebird’s the original Robin. He’s still bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and has no duffel bag full of heads on his record.” 

“That we know of.” 

Jason laughs again. “True. Nobody’s got that much natural pep without some seriously weird skeletons in their closet. But still, it’s different. Dick’s always been a darling. Nightwing is good. He’s trustworthy. He’s exactly what a grown-up Robin should be. Red Hood is… distinctly not.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tim says. “You’re still Robin. You were my Robin. I took so many photos of you.”

“Stalker,” Jason replies, but there’s a slight edge to his humorous tone. “The kid in those photos was blown to smithereens in a filthy warehouse. I know that’s not the answer you want, kid, but it’s the truth. Every part of him died that day. I’m just the shitty sum of the bits left behind.” 

You seem so sure of that, Tim thinks. But I don’t think you get it. “Do you know how Bruce found us?” He whispers, tilting his chin down towards his hands. “After I called?”

Jason breathes out through his nose. It tickles Tim’s hair. “You cowering in the bathroom?” He whispers back. “Me throwing myself at the walls?” 

Tim shakes his head just enough for Jason to feel it against his side. “You were curled up on top of me. Like — almost spooning me.”

Jason pauses. “Why?”

“You thought you were back in the warehouse. With the bomb.” Tim’s throat goes thick again. “You were trying to protect me.”

There’s a thick, heavy silence between them. “I—“ Jason begins, but even he doesn’t seem sure of what to say. “I don’t remember doing that.” 

“That’s okay. You still did it. You tried to protect me even when you knew it was hopeless.” 

“That’s what Robin does. I’m not Robin anymore.” 

“Robin is a name and a suit. None of us will ever be Robin. Stop trying to make that distinction. You protected me because that’s what you do.”

Jason’s voice is getting tighter. “Stop making me sound like a good guy. I’m not a good guy.” 

“You’re good enough to try.” 

“I wasn’t trying when I kidnapped you to be my nurse for forty-eight hours of hell.”

“Well, you were trying when you scaled the side of a brick manor wall with busted feet to come apologize for it.” 

A gust of wind makes Tim’s window creak, and the two of them fall silent. A dull ache is blooming in Tim’s back; he’ll probably be due for another painkiller in an hour or two. He’s not sure how long he and Jason have been talking for, but it’s been long enough for Tim’s anger and hurt to have fizzled away like water on a hot pan. What’s left in his chest isn’t peace, but it is peaceful in its own way. The knowledge that it’s all over. That something has changed, for better or for worse.

“Do you want to be good, Jason?” Tim asks. 

Jason sighs. “I want… I want to feel good. I want to know that Bruce has my back. I want the scum of this city off our streets for good.”

“Bruce does have your back. He loves you just as much as he loves me and Dick. Maybe even a little more. Death gets you lots of brownie points.”

“You’re a little optimist, Tim. I envy you.” Jason leans into Tim’s side ever so slightly. “I’m not ready to stop being angry yet. The Joker is still alive, and I don’t think Bruce has any plans of killing him any time soon. That’s going to keep some wounds open.” 

Tim nods, disappointment blooming in his stomach. “Yeah.” 

“I’ll… I’ll be better about it, though. I won’t drag you guys into it. If Bruce wants to try and make things better, then I’ll let him. Doesn’t mean I’m always going to be nice to him, but as long as he doesn’t act like we’re all buddy-buddy right away, then I’ll try to stick around a bit more.” 

It’s a start. Tim smiles. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” 

“That’s if he wants me to stick around. If he doesn’t, then…” Jason trails off uncomfortably. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on you on patrol from afar.” 

“He’ll want you to stick around,” Tim assures him. “He wants us all to stick around. For better or for worse.” 

“A death wish.” 

“That’s Batman’s specialty.” 

Tim closes his eyes. Jason must notice, for his hand curls around Tim’s upper arm and squeezes gently. The bandages are soft against Tim’s skin. He smells no blood in the air. He’s calm. “Jason?”

“Mm?” Jason responds.

“Please don’t let things go back to the way they were between us. If it hurts to be around me, that’s okay. Just don’t give me hope.”

Jason gives a slight pause. When he speaks, it’s scarcely above a whisper. “I’m keeping you up. Go to sleep now. You need it.” 

Tim’s too tired to hold his tongue. “Will you be there when I wake up?” 

“I owe you as much. Sweet dreams, Timbit.”

Satisfied, Tim lets his eyes close. “Sorry about slapping you.” 

“That’s alright. I deserved it.” 

“Just a little.” 

Some time later, he wakes again to the sound of his door opening. Dick stands in his doorway, hand on the doorknob, his shaken features shadowed from the golden light of the hall outside. They make eye contact; Dick’s eyes shift to Jason, whose gentle snores tickle the top of Tim’s head. A great, shuddering sigh escapes him. “He’s here,” he whispers to no one in particular.

Tim nods. “Has been the whole time.” 

Dick breathes in carefully. For a moment, Tim thinks he’s going to cry. “Okay,” he says. “How are you feeling?” 

It’s a loaded question, guarded and wary. “Much better,” Tim says. “We talked.” 

“About what?” 

“‘Bout everything. I think we’re on the same page now.” 

That makes Dick’s shoulders soften. “Sure looks like it,” he says, voice warm. “He never slept like that with me.” 

Tim closes his eyes, listening to the soft, even breathing above his head. It would be smart to get up now, while the painkillers and the exhaustion have a lid on his emotions, and go talk to Bruce before his heart gives out from worry. But, despite his rational thought, his body seems loath to move. Jason’s arm is thrown over his chest, fingers hooked over his shoulder. It would be impossible to extricate himself from the situation without waking Jason up. Waking Jason up while he looks so peaceful would be a literal crime. 

Hm, Tim thinks. I think he did that purposefully. 

“Go to bed, Dick. It’s okay now. Everything is good.” Tim closes his eyes again. “If he wanted to murder me, he’d have done it already.” 

Dick chuckles lightly. “Not what I was afraid of, but good to know. You know where to find me if you need anything.” 

“What I need is for you and Bruce to go to bed and stop worrying. Tell him I’ll talk to him in the morning. I’m okay, I promise.” 

“I believe you, Timmers. In return, you make sure that big idiot back there gets a good rest. I haven’t seen him sleep like that since he was little.” 

Tim nods sleepily. “I got you, Dick.”

“Alright. I love you both.” 

“Love you too.” 

The world trickles back into oblivion.

“Staying home tonight?” 

Bruce turns from where he’s hunched over his desk, startled. Jason leans against the doorframe, hoping he looks casual. “Tim and Dick are already out on patrol. I thought I had the manor to myself and Alfred tonight.” 

“Mm. Yeah.” Bruce sets down his pencil. “I tried to get Tim to stay home, but I think he needs the fresh air. Dick’ll keep him safe.” 

Typical Bruce, avoiding the question. Jason snorts. “Dickiebird ground the big bad bat?” 

“I had day work to catch up on.” 

“You’ve never missed patrol for ‘day work’ a day in your damn life.” 

“Day work isn’t often more important than patrol, but today was an exception. I felt more comfortable being at home.” 

Jason takes a step into the office, feeling awash with the simultaneous nostalgia and unfamiliarity of the room. It many ways, it stands the same as the image of it in Jason’s memory; the plush red chairs are in the same places in the center of the room, with the same meticulously dusted coffee table between them; the bookshelves are still full of books too boring for Jason to even glance at; Bruce’s desk is as messy as it always was, with only a single mug and a few framed photographs to break the patchwork of papers strewn over it. And yet, the closer Jason looks as he scans the room, the more changes he notices. The bowl of fruit that sat on the coffee table is gone, replaced with an empty vase; some of the books with the brighter spines that Jason used to occasionally poke at when he was bored are nowhere to be seen; the framed photographs, Jason realizes, are new as well. Bruce never had photographs on his desk when Jason had been around. “Thought I needed a babysitter, eh?” Jason says, plucking one of the photographs from the end of the desk. It’s Tim’s most recent school picture. His smile is wide and distinctly, almost humorously, fake. With his hair all brushed back, he looks like someone whose name should be something stupid and old like Conrad, Hubert, or Archibald. Jason lets himself crack a smile. Looks like being a big nerd is genetic.

  Bruce watches him silently as he picks up another. This one is of Dick, dressed in a suit, standing at Bruce’s side with an ear-to-ear grin. Some fancy event, no doubt. There had been plenty of those way back when. Rich people love excuses to get dressed up and eat weird shrimp. 

He picks up the third and last one. This one is of Tim and Dick together in front of the fireplace, looking stilted and awkward in the way all posed photos seem to be. They’re wearing matching sweaters. Christmas, Jason thinks, but his heart is sinking. Alfred always goes wild that time of year. 

“Nice pair of sons you got,” he says stiffly, setting the photos down before his hands can shatter them. “You really did find a nice matched set.” 

“I didn’t have any photos of you,” Bruce says quietly. “Not without the Robin costume on.” 

There is ash in Jason’s mouth. “Of course. Dead kids in little pixie boots wouldn’t fit in with all these nice photos. Did Alfred take the Christmas one? That looks recent. I think I might have actually been breathing while this one was taken.” 

“I extended the invitation. You did not reply.”

“Well, I’d have hated to intrude. You three are such a good trio. Tim’s even starting to look like you.” 

Bruce sits back in his seat and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a sleek black wallet, flicks it open, and fishes something out of one of the pockets. He pulls out a little slip of plastic, gives it a quick glance, then sets it on the desk and pushes it towards Jason. The picture is from a film camera, neatly cut down until it’s no bigger than Jason’s palm. It’s dark and blurry, but when Jason picks it up and squints at it, it takes him but a moment to realize what he’s looking at. 

“There are better ones,” Bruce says. “But I keep those downstairs. I couldn’t risk anything if that photo got into the wrong hands.” 

The photo is of Jason, no more than fourteen years old, caught mid-air as he vaults between two buildings. His arms are stretched out like wings, legs illuminated by the glow of the moon behind him, and though his face is hidden in shadow, Jason knows he’s smiling. He always smiled out on patrol. 

“I never forgot about you, Jason. Not for one moment.” Bruce stands and sits on his edge of the desk, eyes trained on the picture burning a hole through Jason’s palm. “I’ll say that as many times as I need to.”

“Who took this?” Jason asks. His throat is dry. 

“Tim. Couldn’t have been more than ten, I don’t think.” 

Jason puts the picture back on the table, and Bruce slips it back into his wallet. “Took the photo of me and Dick too.” 

Jason steps back, wincing as the bottoms of his feet sting. “Talented kid.”

Bruce must be able to tell that he’s on the verge of fleeing, for he stands up, fists balled at his sides. “Jason, I—“ he pauses. “I want to talk.” 

“We are talking,” Jason replies.

“About what happened.”

“I know exactly what happened. I don’t need to talk about it anymore.” 

“It can’t happen again. It won’t happen again.” 

Jason keeps his eyes low. He feels Bruce’s gaze burning into him. “I already know I fucked up, Bruce. I don’t need another lecture.” 

“I want you to call me if you’re ever in danger like that again,” Bruce says. “We’ve got a whole medical bay down there, Jason. We have antidotes. Bandages. Painkillers. You’re safe down there.” 

Like I’m not safe up here, Jason thinks, but he knows to keep his mouth shut. 

“I can’t make you stay. I’ll let you leave when you want as long as your life isn’t in danger. I won’t make you come upstairs if you don’t want to. Just promise me that you’ll come to the cave if you’re in trouble, okay? Don’t try to do it on your own.” 

It’s not the lecture he was expecting, but Jason still feels like he’s being scolded. He nods stiffly. “Fine. I’ll try.” Trying is what I promised Tim. Not giving in, not forgetting. Just trying. 

He looks up at Bruce, and is surprised to see him looking relieved. “That’s all I want from you, Jay. You’re always welcome here.”

Jason looks away. “Does Alfred agree with that sentiment?” 

“Always, Master Jason. This is your home.” 

Jason turns, startled. Alfred stands in the doorway, unusually empty-handed. Jason wonders how long he’s been standing there, silently listening. His eyes are soft, his uniform crisp, the lines of his face deep and weathered. When Jason’s feet move before his brain can catch up, Alfred catches him and pulls him close. He smells of the same detergent he’s probably used for decades.

Of all the things that have changed, Alfred is the only thing that remains the same as he was in Jason’s hazy, light-filled memories. Jason didn’t realize how grateful he was for that until now. 

“Hey, Alfie.” There’s a great shaking lump in Jason’s throat. “You don’t hate me yet?”

Alfred’s cool fingers come to rest on the back of Jason’s neck. “It would take a lot to get me to hate you. Don’t let any of my harsh words lead you to believe you do not have a home here.”

“I deserved those, though.” Jason laughs into Alfred’s neck. He’s shaking, but Alfred’s grip holds him steady.

“I do not regret my anger towards your predicament with the fear toxin, but I do regret some of the things I said. Your well-being matters to me just as much as Master Timothy’s.” 

“Caring about my well-being is a death wish, old man.” 

“That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

Jason squeezes him tighter. His heart skips a beat when Alfred pulls back, but Alfred only cups his face in both hands and presses a kiss to his forehead before drawing him back in for another hug. “I maintain my position that this must never happen again, Master Jason, but I also have no doubt that you are capable of doing your part. Master Tim looked well at ease when he left for patrol. I’m proud of you.” 

There it is. Jason screws his eyes shut. Alfred, you sick, wonderful bastard. 

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Alfred murmurs in his ear. He pulls back, resting his hands on Jason’s shoulders. “I’m still tidying up the medical bay from your episode. You are adept at causing the most damage in the least amount of time, my boy.” 

Jason flushes. “My bad.” 

“Apology accepted. Never let it happen again.” 

Alfred leaves as quickly and silently as he came. He always did have only one speed, Jason thinks fondly as he watches him go. Go go go. Never a moment of peace in this place for him. 

“Well,” Bruce says, sitting back down. “Looking forward. Your bedroom is always open. I can make up a guest room for you too, if you’d rather stay in that—“

“I’m going back to my safehouse tomorrow morning. Once I can say goodbye to Tim and Dick.”

Bruce nods, but his face falls slightly. Jason swallows. “But I might be back Saturday night. Depends how my feet are healing.” And the likelihood of Alfred making Sunday crepes. “Assuming that’s alright with you guys.” 

Bruce brightens. “Always. Always, Jay. That’ll make Alfred very happy.”

Part of Jason hates the smile that creeps over his father’s face as he looks back down at his mess of papers, meaninglessly straightening a few to keep his hands busy. Part of Jason is warmed by it. Bruce doesn’t hate him. Bruce still loves him. It’s easy to not think about warehouses and time bombs and betrayals when Bruce smiles at him like that.

Maybe one day Jason will have the bravery to stick around for more than a night or two. One day. 

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Jason says, and before his courage can fail him, he crosses the desk and leans down to give his father a quick one-armed hug. Surprised, Bruce only has time to give Jason’s back a single, friendly pat before Jason’s pulling away again. “I’ll see you around, B.” 

Bruce grabs his forearm before he can turn away and gives it a quick squeeze. “Saturday night. I’ll see you.” 

“Not a moment earlier.”

“Take care of yourself.” 

Jason pokes the picture of Tim until it falls on its face. “Don’t stare at a piece of paper all day. It’s bad for your eyes.” 

“I won’t. Let your brothers know you’ll be back this weekend.” 

“I’ll let them know I won’t show up unless Alfred’s making something good for dinner.” 

Bruce winks. “He always does.” 

“Touché.”

Jason takes a step backwards towards the door. “Saturday,” he repeats. “I’ll be back.” 

Bruce gives him a nod. “I’ll see you then.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I love you.” 

Jason smiles, and something in his chest untwists. “See you around, Batman.”

I love you too.