Chapter Text
There were several problems in life that Tim Drake was prepared to deal with.
For example:
- Algebra homework (specifically word problems, which were clearly designed by villains)
- The possibility of being caught sneaking out by his parents (unlikely, they’d have to be home for that)
- Miscalculating a patrol pattern and missing something important (also unlikely, Tim would never make such a mistake)
- Running out of notebook space mid-theory
- Tripping over a rooftop gap and dying in a way that would be both tragic and extremely embarrassing
- Being wrong about Batman and Robin’s true identities (unlikely, but statistically non-zero)
- Getting close enough to Robin to actually talk to him and then saying something stupid
One problem he was not prepared to face, however, was sentient IV poles.
Tim would need to update his list of expected problems when he finally made it out of here.
“Okay,” he whispered, pressing himself very seriously against the hallway wall, “I know you’re working for them, but I need you to be cool for, like, ten minutes.”
The IV pole said nothing, which was suspicious, considering it was definitely working for them, but also promising. Maybe it had finally decided to leave the dark side and join the Tim-side instead.
Smart decision.
Tim nodded once, satisfied with the IV pole’s decision to change sides. “Good. We understand each other.”
He took one careful step forward.
The IV pole let out a loud squeak.
Tim froze.
“Hey.” He glared at the IV pole. “Not cool. Shhh.”
The IV pole said nothing, but seemed ashamed by its actions, so Tim forgave it. For now. But it was on thin ice.
He peered around the corner like the spies did in the movies, except instead of being a spy, he was a ten-year-old in a hospital gown, one sock, and a bracelet that was definitely a tracking device, no matter what the nurse said.
The hallway was empty.
This was it.
This was the moment.
Tim inhaled and then winced immediately because that was a mistake. He ignored the pain. He had to save Batman and Robin.
He pointed forward dramatically, swaying a little on his feet.
“Operation: Save Batman and Robin is a go.”
The name needed workshopping.
He’d come back to it later, when he finally managed to break out of this hospital that he was pretty sure was a front for at least one of Gotham’s major crime families, possibly multiple, because they must be stealing a lot of organs here. Tim could tell because he’d walked past lots of rooms with people lying inside, like he’d been before he escaped.
So much organ theft was happening in this building.
Tim squared his shoulders and started forward determinedly.
He didn’t exactly move fast. And he definitely wasn’t quiet, because the sentient IV pole was screaming their location like the traitor it was. He also wasn’t particularly coordinated, because his left side hurt, because the doctors had stolen his organs to sell on the Gotham black market and thought that Tim wouldn’t notice.
Idiots.
Of course Tim noticed. Tim knew all his organs personally; they were his organs after all. The doctors didn’t know them like that. Tim and his organs had afternoon tea together every Thursday. They were very close.
But whatever. Tim’s organs—or his distinct lack thereof—were not important right now. No. What was important was this:
Batman and Robin were hitting the Maroni sub-branch shipment tonight at the docks, and when they did, they were going to miss the secondary exit route because it was hidden, and Tim was the only one who noticed because no one else paid attention like he does.
Also, because he’d been tracking this for weeks.
He was not going to miss it because of “internal bleeding” and “surgery” and “Timothy, you need to stay in bed.”
He rounded the corner.
There was a nurse.
Uh oh.
The nurse—a young man in blue scrubs—looked up at the sound of Tim’s footsteps.
They made eye contact.
The nurse’s expression went from mild confusion to immediate alarm. “Oh—sweetie—hey—why are you—”
Organ thief.
Tim pivoted.
This was a tactical retreat. He’d have to find a different exit.
He wheeled the IV pole with him, which immediately betrayed him again by squealing like it was being murdered.
“Stop that,” Tim hissed.
“Timothy, sweetheart, wait—” the nurse started, quickening his pace.
Tim quickened his pace too, which was a mistake, because the hallway tilted sharply to the left and then to the right and then did something deeply untrustworthy with the floor.
He steadied himself on the IV pole.
Tim knew this hospital was evil. Normal hospitals didn’t have sentient floors as well as sentient IV poles.
“…you did that on purpose,” he informed the IV pole.
The IV pole, refusing to defend itself, remained silent and complicit in its crimes. So much for it joining the Tim-side.
Behind him, the nurse was gaining on him. “Timothy, you need to get back into bed right now.”
“No,” Tim said, because he is a reasonable person. “I have a prior commitment.”
“With who?”
Tim hesitated.
The organ thief was corrupt. Everyone here was corrupt. Even the hospital itself. They were all working together to stop him from saving Batman and Robin.
He couldn’t tell them the details of Operation: Save Batman and Robin without compromising it.
“…Colleagues.”
This, unsurprisingly, did not improve the situation.
The nurse was getting closer still.
“This is a misunderstanding!” Tim added over his shoulder, a little desperately, because sometimes people just needed things explained to them. “I’m not escaping. I’m relocating.”
“Timothy—”
“Temporarily,” he clarified. “I’ll be back soon.”
He turned the corner—wrong one, probably, but confidence was key—and nearly ran straight into a cart.
Tim swerved.
The IV pole did not.
There was a loud clatter.
Uh oh.
IV pole down.
“Timothy—!”
Tim grabbed the IV pole, righted it, and made a break for it.
He turned another corner and found himself facing a set of double doors with a glowing red sign above them.
EXIT.
Tim stared at it.
The door stared back.
This felt too easy.
“Classic trap,” he whispered.
The IV pole squeaked encouragingly.
Tim narrowed his eyes at it. “Don’t rush me.”
Behind him, the nurse had called for backup, which was cheating, unfair, and also against the rules.
Organ thieves had no honour these days.
Tim looked at the doors again.
Then at his wrist.
The bracelet gleamed under the flickering hospital lights.
Tracking device.
Tim yanked at it.
It did not come off. It didn’t even budge.
He yanked harder, which was definitely a mistake, because the left side of his body screamed at him and his vision went all fuzzy and weird.
He yelped and went very still, breathing carefully through the pain, eyes squeezed shut.
Okay.
Okay.
Fine.
He could work with this.
“Temporary compromise. We adapt. We move.” Tim whispered to himself dramatically.
He’d have to remove the tracker later.
The nurse was closer now.
Tim grabbed the IV pole like it was a trusted partner (it wasn’t, Tim should’ve abandoned it ages ago—every man and pole for themselves!) and pushed through the double doors.
An alarm immediately started blaring.
Tim flinched so hard he almost dropped the pole.
The hallway beyond was darker, quieter—a service corridor, maybe—and, most importantly, significantly less supervised.
“See?” he told the IV pole, who was absolutely taking credit for Tim’s genius plan. “We’re fine.”
The alarm continued to scream behind him.
Tim ignored it.
Because somewhere across the city, Batman and Robin were about to walk into a situation they didn’t fully understand, and Tim Drake was the only one who could save them.
The IV pole could not come with him.
Tim had realised this approximately three seconds after pushing through another set of doors and finding himself at the top of a stairwell.
He wasn’t sure where he was anymore, or how long he’d been attempting to escape, but the nurses behind him had disappeared. At least for now.
He stared at the IV pole.
It stared back, in the way that inanimate objects absolutely do when they are sentient and also on the Tim-side.
“Okay,” Tim said slowly. “We need to discuss mobility limitations.”
The IV pole, tragically, did not have legs. A terrible design flaw.
Tim looked at the stairs. Then at the IV pole. Then back at the stairs.
Oh no.
“We can carry you. No man or pole left behind.”
The moment he tried to lift it, his entire side lit up, sharp and immediate and very, very bad, and Tim dropped it with a strangled noise, grabbing the railing instead.
The world did that thing again, where it forgot how to be stable, and the walls and floor were spinning.
Tim breathed out, and even that made his side hurt.
“…Okay,” he told himself, because he was a professional, and he had a mission. “New plan.”
The IV pole leaned slightly, like it understood him.
Tim pointed at it.
“You stay here,” he said. “Hold position. If anyone asks, you were never with me.”
The IV pole said nothing, but it seemed to tilt wearily. Sadly. Like it was upset that Tim was leaving it behind.
Tim swallowed, vision blurring with unshed tears.
This was harder than it should have been.
“You did good,” he added, quieter. “You—you were brave.”
He sniffed, hot tears starting to spill down his cheeks. He patted the IV pole comfortingly and then saluted. “Your sacrifice will be remembered.”
The IV pole said nothing.
Stoic to the end.
Tim nodded, because he understood. Some sacrifices were too great for words.
“I won’t forget you,” he promised.
The IV pole squeaked.
Tim gasped softly. “I knew you’d say that!”
There were footsteps somewhere behind the stairwell door.
Tim straightened.
Right. The mission.
The faint sound of panicked voices reached his ears.
Uh oh. Organ thieves.
Tim patted the IV pole. “I have to go. I’ll never forget you.”
Then he ripped out the strange tubes attaching it to him, and turned away.
Eventually, Tim managed to make it outside.
It was cold. Very cold.
Tim blinked rapidly, trying to adjust.
The city was… a lot, compared to the calm of the hospital.
There were lights everywhere, and the noise was constant. Horns were blaring, people shouting. There were so many people. And cars.
Tim squinted down the street, then turned in a slow circle to orientate himself.
This did not help. It just made him dizzy.
Okay, the Maroni shipment would be happening at the docks, which meant—
Tim pointed down the street with absolute confidence. “That way!”
He started walking.
He managed to make it maybe half a block before a car honked at him.
Tim startled so badly he nearly tripped over his own bare feet.
The driver yelled something unintelligible, slowing temporarily.
Tim continued to stumble down the street, ignoring him, because he knew better than to stop and listen to random people shouting at him from cars.
He was focused.
He was on a mission.
He was also, unfortunately, very small and very noticeable in a paper-thin hospital gown, which was becoming increasingly more apparent as people kept looking at him.
Tim pulled the gown tighter around himself.
It was okay. He had to—had to save Batman and Robin—had to—
He stumbled again, suddenly very dizzy, and then found himself sitting in the middle of the sidewalk.
Whoa.
The floor was spinning under him again, like at the hospital.
Wait.
Oh no.
The sentient floor was spreading.
Tim squeaked and staggered to his feet. No time! He had to get to the docks!
A man walking past slowed down, a very concerned expression on his face. “Hey, kid, are you—”
He tried to reach for Tim.
Tim yelped and leapt back.
He squinted at the man. He wasn’t wearing the same clothing as the organ thieves at the hospital had been… but still. He was probably working for them.
Backup. Of course. The organ cartel had resources.
“I’m fine!” he yelled, and then ran for it.
“Hey kid—! Wait!”
Too late.
Tim was gone.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a small, quiet voice pointing out that this was not going according to plan.
Tim ignored it, wandering along a dark alleyway in a part of the city he did not recognise, eyeing the shadows and the rats running along the gutters.
Plans change. Variables shift.
That was fine—you had to adapt. Like Batman did.
That’s what makes a good detective.
And Tim Drake is a good detective.
He just needed to find the docks.
He took another step into the alley, one hand pressed hard against his side, and tried very hard not to notice that his fingers came away warm and slightly sticky.
Huh. That was weird.
He lifted his hand and squinted at it in the dim orange spill of a streetlight.
There was something dark smeared across his palm and fingers.
For a second, Tim just stared.
“…Huh.”
The dark stuff looked almost black in the alley, except where the light caught it and made it gleam red.
Oh.
That was blood.
Probably.
Tim blinked at it, very slowly.
That didn’t seem ideal.
He tried to remember if blood was supposed to be inside or outside. Inside, probably. Most things were supposed to be inside. Organs, for example. Blood, also probably.
A sound came from the mouth of the alley.
Tim looked up, teetering a little.
Was the wind strong today? The wind felt strong.
A man stood there, half-shadowed by the flickering neon sign from the street beyond. He was big in the way adults were big when you were ten and barefoot and only wearing a hospital gown, and his eyes were fixed on Tim in a way that made Tim suddenly, horribly aware of the cold air on his bare legs and the blood on his hand.
The man’s gaze dropped to the hospital bracelet on Tim’s wrist, then to the paper-thin gown, now a little ripped and dirtied from his adventures.
Then it dropped to the blood on his hands—Tim’s inside blood that was now outside blood.
“Well,” the man said slowly, teeth flashing in the dim light. “What’ve we got here?”
Tim’s heart skipped a beat.
For one second, the detective part of his brain went very quiet.
For one second, he was not on a mission to save Batman and Robin, and instead, he was just an organ-less kid in an alley.
The man took a step closer.
Tim took one back.
His heel caught on something wet, and he almost slipped.
“Don’t,” Tim rasped, but it came out much smaller and more scared than he meant it to.
The man smiled. It wasn’t a good smile. It made something in him tremble.
“Easy, kid. I’m just trying to help.”
That was what bad guys said in movies when they were absolutely not trying to help.
Tim looked past him, toward the street. There were people out there. Lights, cars, noise. But the alley seemed longer than it had a second ago, and the man was standing between Tim and the easy way out.
Tim’s hand tightened against his side. Maybe he could keep his inside blood inside if he did that, and then he could run past the man.
That was a bad idea.
Pain flashed bright and white behind his eyes.
He whimpered before he could stop himself.
“Looks like you need some help,” the man leered, coming closer. “Come on. I know a place.”
“No,” Tim said, trying to back up.
The man reached for him anyway.
Then a voice thundered through the alley, loud. “OI!”
The man stopped.
Tim looked over his shoulder.
Three women had appeared at the mouth of the alley behind him, standing under the flickering streetlight like they had been there the whole time, and Tim had simply failed to notice them. Which was concerning. Tim noticed things.
One wore a short red coat over a black dress and tall boots. Wow. Very tall boots. Perhaps the tallest boots ever.
Another had a cigarette between two fingers and a handbag tucked under her arm.
The third was older and wearing an expression that made Tim think of teachers right before they told you they were disappointed.
The woman with the cigarette looked from Tim to the man. Then she said, very calmly, “Back off.”
The man straightened. “This doesn’t concern you.”
The older woman snorted a laugh with no humour in it.
“Bleeding kid in a hospital gown in an alley?” she said. “Yeah, that concerns everybody, you fuckin’ creep.”
Tim blinked at them.
This was confusing.
“I’m helping him.”
“No, you’re not,” said the woman in the red coat.
The man looked irritated now.
Tim knew that was bad. Irritated adults made bad decisions.
He took another step back without meaning to.
The woman with the handbag noticed immediately.
“Sweetheart,” she said, not looking away from the man. “Come here.”
Tim froze.
Absolutely not. That sounded like a trap. But staying here meant he had to stay close to the man—
The cigarette woman’s eyes flicked to him, softening for half a second.
“Yer alright, kid,” she said, quieter. “We won’t hurt ya.”
The man swore under his breath.
The woman in the red coat stepped forward, pulling out her earrings and handing them to the older woman.
Tim glanced between the adults.
The world was spinning again.
He didn’t have time for this. Batman and Robin needed him—
The man snapped, “Kid—”
“Don’t talk to him,” the woman with the boots snapped, striding toward them.
Tim looked between the adults once more.
They were all squaring up now, too busy staring at each other over his head to notice him.
Yep. Now was the time.
Tim ran.
Or tried to.
It was less running and more a desperate, stumbling shuffle past the women and out toward the street, one hand clamped to his side, bare feet slapping against the pavement.
Behind him, he heard voices rise.
Tim did not look back.
Looking back was how people in movies got caught.
He made it around the corner before his legs wobbled badly enough that he had to grab a nearby lamppost.
His breath came too fast, ripping out of him in gasps.
Each one made his side burn with hot pain.
His hand was still sticky.
He stared down at the blood again, confused and frightened and suddenly very, very tired.
He… wanted to go home. He didn’t want to have to worry about the organ cartel, or scary men in alleyways, or Batman and Robin anymore.
Tim was tired.
“Okay. I’m fine. I’m fine,” he whispered to himself, eyes a little watery. “I’m sure the docks are close—”
A siren wailed somewhere far away.
Tim flinched.
Then he pushed himself away from the lamppost and kept moving.
Eventually, Tim did manage to find the docks.
It was mostly an accident.
Look... maybe—maybe—he isn’t in peak operational condition.
That was fine. Peak operational condition was more of a guideline than a requirement. Batman operated with broken ribs all the time. Probably. Tim had never confirmed this, but it seemed like the kind of thing Batman would do.
The important thing was that he had found the docks.
Or, well.
A dock.
There was water, and there were crates. There was also a smell so bad that Tim briefly wondered if the organ cartel had also stolen his nose and replaced it with a worse one. There were big metal things everywhere, looming out of the dark like sleeping robots, and the fog coming off the river made the whole place look blurry. Or maybe that was just Tim's eyes. The world had started going strangely blurry in the last five minutes.
Also, there were unconscious men on the ground.
A lot of unconscious men.
Tim stopped.
He blinked.
One of the unconscious men groaned.
Tim blinked again.
Oh.
Oh no.
He was late.
The showdown was over.
Batman and Robin had already handled it.
Tim stared at the scattered bodies, the broken crates, the spilt guns, the ropes, the dangling chains, the cracked concrete, and the shipping container door hanging crookedly from one hinge.
No. That couldn’t be right.
He checked again, because sometimes evidence changed if you looked at it from a better angle.
It did not.
The evidence remained consistent and deeply inconsiderate.
Tim’s stomach dropped.
“No,” he whispered.
His voice came out small.
No, no, no.
He had done all of this—escaped the organ cartel, survived the traitor IV pole, navigated hostile sentient flooring, evaded several adults, possibly been almost kidnapped, and crossed half of Gotham with outside blood—and he had missed it.
He’d been too late.
Something moved in the shadows above him.
A dark shape dropped from the top of a container and landed soundlessly in front of him.
Batman.
Tim gaped.
For a second, everything inside him went still, and Tim had No Thoughts™.
Because there he was.
The Batman.
Batman!
In front of Tim.
RIGHT THERE!
He was real and huge and black against the fog, cape pooling around him.
Wow. That cape looked comfy. Would Batman let Tim use it as—
No Tim! Stay focused!
He’d planned for this.
Not this exact situation, obviously. His planning hadn’t involved a hospital gown, or outside blood, or the mild possibility of death by irresponsible organ management.
But like… generally. He’d generally planned for this.
He had things to say. Important things. Helpful things. Detective things.
Batman tilted his head slightly, white lenses fixed on him.
Tim opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Brilliant.
Batman took one step toward him.
Tim squeaked. Batman stopped approaching.
No, Batman! Come closer! Tim hadn’t meant to squeak—he was just… so excited!
A flash of yellow and green and red dropped down from somewhere above and landed directly next to Tim.
Robin.
Robin!
Tim’s brain made a sound that was not a thought. Just a high, bright, internal screeching noise.
Robin flinched, and then Tim realised that it wasn’t an inside brain sound, and was actually an outside brain sound, and he was in fact just squealing.
Robin was smaller than Batman, obviously, but bigger than Tim had expected up close. And at least two heads taller than he was.
His cape was yellow, bright even in the dirty dock light. Wow. It looked even more comfy than Batman’s.
He had a split lip and a bruise forming along one cheek, but he was standing and looked completely fine apart from that.
“The hell?” Robin muttered, staring at Tim with wide white lenses.
Tim stared back, star-struck, and—
Wow.
Robin.
Robin was right there.
Robin was looking at him.
Robin was looking at him like Tim was maybe a crime scene, but still. That counted.
Tim had imagined this moment several times. Many times. A normal amount of times.
He had imagined being calm and clever and saying something useful, something that made Robin narrow his eyes and realise Tim Drake was a serious detective and not just some kid who had maybe followed him across rooftops more than once.
This was his moment.
This was the moment where Tim said the thing.
The important thing.
The helpful thing.
The detective thing.
Tim opened his mouth.
“Your cape looks really soft,” he said.
Tim’s soul left his body, looked around, and immediately tried to leave Gotham.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
That had not been the thing.
That had not even been close to the thing.
Robin’s mouth opened slightly.
Batman’s head tilted another fraction.
Tim felt his face go hot, which was extremely rude of it, because he was already dealing with several other emergencies.
“I mean,” Tim said quickly, swaying where he stood, “not tactically. Obviously. I mean, maybe tactically. It probably has lining? Or armour? Or weighted edges? Do you have weighted edges? You don’t have to answer that. Actually, don’t answer that. Operational security.”
Robin made a sound and looked toward Batman.
Tim pointed at him, or tried to. His arm came up in a vague, wobbly direction that may or may not have included Robin.
“You,” Tim said.
Robin froze.
Tim also froze, because he had Robin’s undivided attention again, and suddenly that was a terrible thing to have.
“Yes?” Robin said slowly.
Tim blinked at him.
There were so many things to say.
He could say: I know who you are, Jason Todd.
No. Bad. Dangerous. Creepy. Not helpful. Possibly how you got adopted by Batman or murdered by Batman. Unclear.
He could say: Your left shoulder drops when you’re tired, which makes your landing pattern easier to predict.
Also bad. Weird. Made him sound like a stalker.
He could say: You missed the maintenance route under Pier Twelve.
Except apparently he hadn’t, because everyone was already unconscious and tied up, which was deeply unfair.
Tim swallowed.
His throat hurt. Also, his head. Also, his left side.
Actually… sort of just everything.
“You’re taller than I thought,” is what he ended up saying.
Robin stared at him, expression slack.
Batman was still staring too.
This was going very badly. And not at all how Tim had imagined this meeting going.
“I’m usually better at talking,” he added.
Robin looked down at him, taking him in. He looked… worried?
“What happened to you?”
“I came to warn you,” Tim said, instead of answering the question.
Robin glanced at Batman again, then back at Tim. “Warn us about what?”
“The route,” Tim said, relieved. Finally. Good. They were back to the mission. “Secondary exit route. Maroni sub-branch. They cut through the maintenance access under Pier Twelve, but it isn’t on the city plans because the renovation permits were falsified in 1987, and then again in 1993, and also the drainage pattern doesn’t match the official layout, which is stupid, because if you’re going to hide an illegal tunnel, you should at least make the water damage look natural—”
He stopped. Not because he was finished, but because the docks had tilted.
That seemed rude.
Tim blinked hard.
Robin went blurry. Batman became a large black shape with two white eyes, which was honestly not that different from before, except now there were two of him.
That was too many Batmans.
“Whoa,” Tim whispered.
Two Batmans.
Wow.
Batman moved—fast. One second, he was several feet away, and the next, he was crouched in front of Tim, close enough that Tim could see the texture of his gloves and his cape. And, wow—it still looked comfy.
Tim raised a shaky hand and slowly grasped a handful of Batman’s cape.
Batman went completely and utterly still.
Tim stared, wide-eyed, at his hand, at the dark material bunched between his fingers.
That was also wow.
Less exciting wow now. More terrifying wow, because Batman was staring directly at him.
“Cape,” Tim said, very intelligently.
Robin made a strangled noise.
Batman’s voice was low and soft when he said, “You’re bleeding.”
Tim looked down.
Oh. Right.
“That’s outside blood,” he explained, looking back up at Batman.
Robin stared at him.
Batman did not visibly react, because Batman had excellent brand discipline.
“Outside blood,” Robin repeated, sounding unfairly sceptical.
“Yes,” Tim said. “It’s supposed to be inside blood.”
Robin’s lips pressed together very tightly. “As blood usually is.”
“Hey.” Tim frowned at him, hand still clenched tightly in Batman’s cape. “Don’t be mean.”
Robin blinked at him, looking a little bewildered. “I—I wasn’t being mean.”
Tim pouted. “Yes, you were.”
Wait.
Why is he arguing with Robin?
This is Robin. His hero.
Tim’s eyes widened.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
Robin blinked. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” Tim said immediately, horrified. “I didn’t mean to argue with you. I think you’re doing a really good job.”
Robin stared at him.
Batman stared at him.
Tim nodded very seriously, because this was important. “Excellent, actually. Very agile. Good cape. Strong brand identity.”
Robin made another strangled noise.
Batman’s hand hovered near Tim’s shoulder, close but not touching.
Tim watched it suspiciously.
“I need to examine the wound,” Batman said.
“No thank you.”
Batman paused.
“No thank you?” Robin repeated. “Uh… why?”
“I have had enough of doctors today.”
“I’m not a doctor,” Batman said.
Tim considered this.
That was true. Probably.
Unless Batman was also a doctor.
Could Batman be a doctor? A Bat-doctor. Wait. No. That was just a vet.
Batman seemed like he might have several degrees. Possibly all of them. Except maybe poetry. No, actually, he probably had that too, but secretly.
Bat-degrees.
Tim squinted at him.
“Are you an organ thief?”
Robin made a choking sound.
“An organ thief?” Batman repeated, and now he sounded a little amused.
Tim nodded once, which was a mistake, because the pier rolled under his feet. Uh oh. Sentient ground again.
“Important screening question,” he said.
Robin turned away and put one hand over his mouth.
Batman said, with admirable seriousness, “No. I'm Batman.”
That was true.
Tim studied him.
Batman stared back.
This was difficult, because Batman’s face did not do much, but Tim was a detective. He could work with limited evidence.
“Okay,” Tim said eventually, after his staring competition with Batman. “Provisional trust.”
“Provisional,” Robin echoed weakly. “Big word for a small kid.”
Batman ignored him. “What hospital did you leave?”
Tim stiffened.
Aha.
There it was.
“Nice try.”
Batman went very still.
Robin did too, except Robin’s version involved his shoulders jumping slightly, like he had swallowed a laugh and it had tried to escape through his spine.
“Nice try?” Robin repeated.
Tim nodded gravely, then immediately regretted it when the world lurched sideways. “You’re trying to get me to reveal the location of the organ cartel.”
“The hospital,” Batman said.
“That’s what they want you to call it.”
Robin made a noise.
Batman’s hand was still hovering near Tim’s shoulder, but not touching. Tim appreciated that. Touching was suspicious. Hovering was also suspicious, but less suspicious than grabbing.
“What did they steal?” Batman asked.
Tim blinked.
That was… actually a good question.
He looked down at himself, at the hospital gown, at the blood on his hand, and at the place on his side that hurt deeply.
“My organs,” he said.
“All of them?” Robin asked, before Batman could stop him.
Tim gave him a deeply offended look. “Obviously not all of them.”
“Right,” Robin said quickly, his lips twitching. “Yeah. My bad.”
“I’m still standing.”
“You are,” Robin agreed, amusement disappearing, looking like he was having a very bad time with that fact.
“Barely,” Batman said.
Tim turned his offended look on Batman instead. “That’s rude.”
“It’s accurate.”
“It can be both.”
Robin coughed into his fist.
Batman ignored him with the skill of someone who had been ignoring Robin professionally for some time. “Which organ hurts?”
Tim frowned. “That’s not how organs work.”
Robin looked at Batman. “Isn’t it?”
Batman did not look away from Tim. “Where are you hurt?”
Tim considered not answering. Because Batman had asked about the hospital, which meant Batman might be compromised. But Batman had said he was not an organ thief, and Tim had granted him provisional trust, and provisional trust did come with certain responsibilities. And also… he was Batman.
He pointed vaguely at his left side.
Batman’s eyes followed the motion.
Robin leaned slightly to see. “Is that—”
“Don’t touch it,” Batman said.
“I wasn’t going to,” Robin replied, sounding offended.
Batman ignored him, his attention fixed on Tim’s side. His hand moved closer again, slow enough that Tim had time to watch it coming.
Tim narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“I need to see how badly you’re bleeding.”
“That’s exactly what an organ thief would say.”
“I’m not an organ thief.”
“That’s also what an organ thief would say.”
Robin made another strangled sound that might have been a laugh, except it choked off when Tim swayed.
Batman’s hand caught his shoulder. Not hard, he was just steadying him. But Tim still flinched.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Batman said.
Tim looked at the hand on his shoulder.
Then at Batman.
He wanted to say something clever. Something detective-like. Something that made it very clear he was cooperating for practical reasons and not because his knees had started making poor decisions without consulting him.
Instead, he said, “That’s good.”
Robin’s face did something strange.
Batman’s voice stayed gentle. “Can you stay standing?”
“Yes,” Tim said immediately.
His knees buckled.
Batman caught him before he hit the ground.
This was annoying, because Tim had only just said yes, and now his body was making him look like a liar.
“I’m standing,” Tim insisted, even though he was absolutely not standing anymore.
“You’re not,” Robin said, voice amused even though he still looked worried.
“I am in spirit.” Tim insisted.
Batman shifted him carefully, one arm around his back, the other bracing under his knees. Tim made a small, startled noise as the world tilted in a completely new direction.
Oh.
Batman was carrying him.
Batman was carrying him.
This was either the best or worst thing that had ever happened to Tim. Possibly both. Further analysis required at a later date, when everything wasn't spinning so much.
“No,” Tim mumbled, trying weakly to push at Batman’s chest. His hand landed on the bat symbol instead and stayed there. He stared at it through his fingers for a second, wide-eyed. “No, wait. Mission.”
“The mission is over,” Batman said, firm.
Tim shook his head, then stopped because the movement made his vision fracture into bright white sparks.
His other hand was still clenched in Batman’s cape.
“No. Route.”
“We found it.”
Tim blinked up at him.
Batman’s face hovered above him, dark and blurry around the edges. There were still too many Batmans. Two, maybe three. A whole committee of Batmans.
What was a group of Batmans (Batmen?) called?
A colony? No, that was actual bats.
A murder? No, that was crows. Also, probably not good branding.
A brood.
Yes. A brood of Batmans.
“You found it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
His chest hurt then, but not like his side hurt. This was different. He felt… sad?
“Did I help?”
Robin appeared into view beside Batman’s shoulder. His white lenses were fixed on Tim.
“Yeah,” Robin said. He slowly reached out and gently ruffled Tim’s hair. “You helped.”
Tim stared at him, sort of upside down from how he was being carried.
Robin.
Robin said he helped. And also touched his hair.
Wow. This was the best day ever.
Also—Tim should write that down. Except his notebook was not here, because the organ cartel had probably stolen that too. Terrible. Devastating. He would have to remember it manually.
That was okay. Tim was good at manual memory.
“Good,” he mumbled.
Batman’s grip on him tightened, just a little.
Tim frowned, something occurring to him suddenly.
“Don’t tell the IV pole.”
Robin blinked, looking utterly bamboozled. “The what?”
“It was brave,” Tim explained. “But compromised.”
Batman and Robin looked at each other.
Tim didn’t know what their faces were doing. Robin had become mostly blurry traffic-light colours, and Batman was just shadow and white eyes and hands that were much gentler than they looked like they should be.
That was strange.
Batman should not have gentle hands. Or maybe he should.
Maybe Tim had not gathered enough data.
“Stay with me,” Batman said.
Tim tried to focus on him.
“I am,” he said, which was probably true. He was with Batman. Physically. Being carried by him, actually. Which was still insane and needed further analysis when his brain was less full of cotton.
Had the organ cartel stolen his brain too?
Wait.
Was the brain an organ?
“Tim.”
Tim went cold.
Batman knew his name.
Batman knew his name.
That was either because Batman was Batman, and Batman was Bruce Wayne, so he’d recognised him, or because the tracking bracelet was working, or because Batman had spoken to the organ cartel, or because—
“Hey,” Robin said quickly. “Hey, kid, look at me.”
Tim’s eyes drifted to him.
Robin lifted both hands slightly, like Tim was a spooked animal. “It’s on the bracelet. Your name. That’s all.”
Tim looked down.
The bracelet was there, white and plastic and evil around his wrist.
Oh.
Right.
That made sense.
Probably.
“My name is Timothy,” he informed them, because that was what his parents called him. “But Tim is fine. Not Timmy.”
Robin nodded solemnly. “Not Timmy. Got it.”
“Timothy Drake,” Batman said, quieter.
Tim squinted at him.
“That’s me.”
A muscle in Batman’s jaw ticked.
Robin looked at Batman. “B?”
Batman did not answer.
The sound of sirens was closer now. Tim tensed in Batman’s arms.
“No,” he whispered. “No hospitals.”
“You need surgery,” Batman said.
Tim stared at him, deeply betrayed. “Again?”
Batman’s silence was answer enough.
Tim swallowed.
That didn’t seem fair. He had already had surgery today. There should be a rule against having more than one. Like birthdays. Or dentist appointments. Or being kidnapped. Once per day seemed reasonable.
“I don’t want to,” he said.
It came out very small.
Batman looked down at him. “I know.”
Tim’s eyes burned, and he sniffled. “I have to go home.”
“We’ll call your parents.”
That made something in Tim’s stomach twist.
The fog was getting thicker. Or maybe his eyes were getting worse.
“They’re not home,” Tim whispered.
Robin went tense. “No?”
Tim shook his head, which was a bad idea because that made it hurt. “No.”
“Who’s looking after you?” he asked.
Something about that question—there was an alarm going off somewhere distantly in Tim’s cotton-brain—there was something he was supposed to say when people asked that—
“Me,” he slurred instead, head slumping further down Batman’s chest.
Batman’s arms did not move, but something about him changed.
Tim barely noticed.
He was looking past Batman now, at the cranes, at the water, at the smeared lights of the city. Gotham looked pretty like this. Blurry. Less dangerous. No scary men in alleyways could kidnap him if he was in Batman’s arms like this. He was safe.
“I was supposed to warn you,” Tim said again. “I was supposed to be useful.”
“You were,” Robin said.
Batman’s voice followed immediately, low and absolute. “You were.”
Tim breathed in.
It hurt.
He breathed out.
That hurt too.
“Okay,” he breathed, because they wouldn't lie to him.
His hand was still resting on Batman’s chest. He could feel armour under his palm.
Robin’s cape flickered yellow in the corner of his vision.
Batman’s cape was around him now, too, somehow. Warm and heavy and softer than it had any right to be. Wow.
Wow.
Tim would have to update his notes.
Batman: not an organ thief. Cape very soft. Possibly trustworthy.
Robin: taller than expected. Excellent brand identity. Gives good hair ruffles.
The docks tipped sideways again.
“Tim?” Robin said, sounding concerned.
Tim tried to answer.
He really did.
But the dark came up fast and quiet, and this time, Tim was too tired to fight with it.