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For the fourth time this week, Tim found himself on the borders of Crime Alley, despite the fact that this was not a part of the plan. It was supposed to be an easy patrol, but things quickly changed the moment he stepped onto the streets. Between apprehending several petty criminals and delivering swift justice to drug dealers bold enough to operate in plain sight, Tim had his hands full.
But of course that couldn’t be all. It was becoming increasingly clear to Tim that there was a new gang operating in the area. A gang he was currently playing a not-so-fun game of cat and mouse with. Everywhere he looked he saw members, doing their best to blend into the shadows, but Tim saw them. He’d been trained in the shadows, after all. He observed their movements carefully, noting potential boltholes they seemed to disappear into.
It felt like every other second he was hearing more about this gang and their plan to get out of Crime Alley and extend their reach into the city. Word on the street was they were muscling in on other operations, hoping to carve out new turf for themselves. But so far they were clever, always staying just out of arm's reach.
By dawn, Tim was exhausted from following trails that led to the end of a number of damp, dank, empty alleyways. Hitting dead end after dead end and he was still no closer to knowing anything about the gang, except for that they existed. It was like they’d just disappeared off the street, chased away by the sun. He had been tailing them for hours, carefully tracking their movements and listening for clues, and was still no closer to uncovering the gang’s purpose or stopping them from carrying out whatever plan they had.
He thought about them all day. When he was walking through the doors of Wayne Enterprises, he wondered where they were. What were they doing? Had they gotten out of Crime Alley yet? All day he was distracted, replaying the previous night's events in his mind, to the point where he barely even heard Damian’s ribbing, and Bruce’s disappointed frown when Tim debriefed him on everything he’d failed to learn about the gang barely even rattled him.
The day couldn’t pass quickly enough. By the time the sun set, Red Robin was more than ready to get back down to business. This evening, that included turning off his comms, because even though he loved his family, he was more than grateful to have a break from Spoiler and Robin’s constant bickering.
Tim couldn’t remember when he’d left the others. Probably around the time Robin had started listing off Tim’s many flaws. Again. But none of that mattered anyway; he wasn’t Robin anymore. He didn’t need anyone else with him to complete this mission. He just needed to catch a glimpse of these criminals so he could find their base of operations. That was the plan.
It felt like it was Tim against Gotham. It was almost as if the shadows were guiding him, and he followed them happily.
He reached the end of an alleyway and peered over the edge of the building. He’d been following one man he knew was a member of the gang all evening, hoping that he’d eventually circle back to his head of operations. Sure enough, below, in the otherwise dark alleyway, he saw a set of double doors propped open with a brick, light spilling into the dank street. He shimmied down the fire escape until he had a clear view into the building as the man he’d been following walked inside.
There was a group of men inside, a few standing along the far wall, but more standing around one specific man. He was looming over all the others, and no one seemed to be capable of looking at him directly.
His fists clenched around his bow staff, tension thrumming through him. He was so close , but not close enough. He could barely make out what any of them were saying; he needed to get closer.
He was about to begin inching forward, but hesitated. He should turn on his comms, tell someone where he was, or at least tell them his coordinates. The minute he turned on his comms he winced.
“Oracle, I demand you give me the coordinates—”
“You are not taking on Scarecrow by yourself, twerp.”
“I am more than capable of taking him down on my own!”
“No one is taking on Scarecrow on their own.” Batman interjected.
“But father!”
Tim had had it. Fed up with Oracle and Robin's bickering, he turned his comm’s off, wincing as his ears rang. He knew he'd probably regret the decision if things got nasty, but Robin's constant criticism was unbearable.
At least for now, the silence felt like a gift.
In that moment, a large black van pulled up, its heavily tinted windows obscuring any view of the occupants inside. The doors swung open, and Tim's eyes widened. A blonde woman stepped out, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that seemed more expensive than the vehicle itself. Next emerged the driver, who Tim recognized as Alex Madden, a criminal who had been operating at the harbor for two years. Fortunately, Madden was not someone Tim needed to worry about.
The passenger, however, posed a different threat. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Tim couldn't place him. He had likely seen the man around the shipyard, assisting Madden with cargo unloading. Among the workers, he must have been involved in the illicit activities.
Sticking to the deeper and darker shadows, he carefully lowered himself onto the fire escape. Thankfully, the structure barely groaned under his weight, but that didn't stop him from freezing with each tiny noiseyes flashing to the gang below, expecting to see one of them pull out their guns and pointing it at him.
Fortunately they never seemed to notice him. Tim forced himself to keep his guard up, but not even a breath of fresh air came to his lungs as he climbed closer. He crept forward, stopping every few stairs and crouching to stay out of sight.
Gingerly, Tim stepped onto the next floor and held his breath, listening intently. The voices were clearer now and he could make out what they were saying. Two of the goons were discussing some sort of deal, something about a shipment of drugs coming into the city. They were in the middle of finalizing details.
The passenger and his men had probably come to collect the money the blonde-haired woman and his associates owed them. The man stood his ground, refusing to pay without receiving the cargo they had promised their buyers in two days.
“Listen, man, here’s the deal.” The man said. “The shipment ain’t coming until next week.”
“We don’t have a week, Abner.” the man snapped. “Our buyers are expecting their cargo this week, and they paid good money for timely delivery.”
“Listen, I—”
“Your incompetence isn’t our client’s problem. You either get them their cargo this week as promised, or you’ll never sell anything in Gotham again. Do you understand?”
The men in the room tensed as the man’s steps echoed as he walked across the cool concrete.
“I don’t take kindly to being threatened.”
“And I have a name, Abner. I highly suggest you use it.”
The men in the room tensed, casting glances at one another. Time seemed to slow, then, as Abner lifted his arm, gun in hand — when had he gotten a gun?! — and shot one of the goons.
Tim winced, eyes clenching shut at the sight. Watching a head explode was a sure-fire way to turn a stomach, even if it was the head of a trafficker.
He needed to call for backup. Swallowing past the dryness in his throat, Tim pressed himself further into the shadows, flattening himself against the fire escape.
Tim saw the other men in the room tense at the confident manner in which Blonde Hair spoke. He knows what she’s thinking. He knows what came of the shipment.
Tim knew exactly what had happened to the shipment and where it had ended up; sunk somewhere off the coast of Gotham.
No one was getting that shipment. Not this week, not the next. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had been lost and the government was now on its tail.
Tim pressed himself further into the shadows, flattening himself on the grating of the fire escape. There was no way of getting out of this without bloodshed; Tim knew this better than anyone. He knew what was about to happen, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to do anything to stop it.
Tim was about to turn his comms back on, hopefully be able to notify the rest of the team, when he suddenly stepped on an old board that let out an ear-splitting creak.
As soon as the creak echoed through the air, Tim knew he was in trouble. To his horror, he could only watch as Madden was shot in cold blood
Tim dove for cover as he heard one of Abners men advancing towards him, shouting for backup. He found safety at a nearby fire escape, taking cover from the reign of bullets.
The goon's final shot missed Tim, but it hit the railing of the fire escape. It was either far too old or the shot had somehow managed to hit in just the right place, because it collapsed right beneath Tim. Before Tim could even register what was happening, his body slammed into the rusty platforms of the fire escape and he dropped to the ground beneath him.
With a loud thud, Tim felt all the air being forced out of his lungs as his ribs crunched under his weight. Pain radiated through his body as he felt his skull hit the ground with tremendous force. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip, splitting it open as he crashed to the ground. The sound of clanging pipes echoed through the alley, accompanied by a loud ringing in Tim’s ears.
He laid there, breathless and winded, desperately hoping that he and Blonde Hair would make it out alive. Eventually Tim managed to stumble to his feet, but Blonde Hair was nowhere to be seen.
He tried to push himself off the ground, but the pain seared through him. The only thing that kept him afloat was the thought of his emergency beacon. Fumbling around, he finally managed to push it with the last bit of strength he had.
Tim heard strikingly familiar boots heading towards him as his vision went blurry. Boots that haunted his nightmares.
“Well, look what the Bat dragged in.” said a muffled cold voice as darkness pulled him in. “Hey, you can’t sleep here. This is a no sleeping zone. Red? Red!”
Tim groaned low in his throat when he felt consciousness slowly returning. He had no idea where he was, but he was fairly certain he hadn't been here before.
He opened his eyes, only to be met with a featureless dark room. A dull light issued from the boarded-up windows, but he could hardly make out any details.
He tried to sit up and felt a wave of dizziness and agonizing pain at his chest overtake him, sending him straight back down to the bed he had been lying on. Confused and more than a little disoriented, he looked at the clothing he was wearing. It was a mismatched outfit, with a plain black T-shirt that he was practically swimming in, and a pair of sweatpants that didn't fit quite right. Still disoriented, his hand blindly reached for something to steady himself with, expecting to meet the familiar oak wood nightstand in his bedroom at the Waynes, but instead was met instead with empty air. The realization hit him like a punch in the gut.
His emergency beacon.
Heavy boots getting closer and closer.
Red Hood.
Escape isn’t so much a thought as it is a visceral, full body feeling. He saw the window and decided that no amount of pain is going to stop him from his current mission of Get The Hell Out.
The first step was sitting up. That proved to be nearly impossible as the pain when he tried made the world turn white. Since he’d barely managed to get even partly vertical, he knew standing wasn’t an option just yet. He decided to brave the pain and crawl across the gnarly carpet. He slid to the floor, knees pressed into the carpet as he dragged himself towards the window.
Shaking fingers clawed at the windowsill, sheer desperation getting his feet to work. He eyed the drop; he could make the jump. He would survive, if not wholly intact, but at this point, he would take anything over facing the Red Hood. The Red Hood, who, curse Tim’s luck, walks into the room with a bowl right as Tim was about to haul himself out the window.
“You’ll rip your stitches.”
Tim stilled, trembling arm still reaching for the lock on the window.
“I worked pretty hard on them. It would suck to have to redo them.” Hood drawled. Tim casted a nervous glance behind him. Jason was standing with his eyebrow raised, looking far too casual for Tim’s liking.
With a deep breath, Tim mustered the strength to lift himself back onto his feet. The pain in his chest throbbed, but he refused to let it show. Not here. Inch by inch, he made his way back into the bed and crawled back under the covers.
As another spike of pain hit him, he pulled up his shirt to reveal bloodied bandages. Oh. Yeah. That would explain the agonizing pain practically radiating throughout his entire body. Tim, distracted by checking out his injuries, didn’t notice Hood walking towards him until he flinched at the closeness. Hood, either ignoring, or not seeing the flinch, placed the bowl on the nightstand next to Tim.
“Eat.” Hood said. It’s only then that Tim notices the bowl was filled to the brim with — was that broth? The Red Hood made him broth. I must be hallucinating. Or dead.
“I’m not hungry.” Tim shot back.
“You’re trembling. Eat. You lost a lot of blood so you don't have a choice.”
Tim considered Hood. He didn’t see any weapons. No guns, and his bow staff had disappeared as well. He swallowed, his dry throat clicking. He felt like he was watching his body from above as Hood sat down at the foot of the bed. It wasn’t him sitting there and accepting the bowl of soup. He didn’t feel the bottom of the bowl burning his palms.
“Hey, I didn’t make that just for you to stare at it.” Hood grumbled, then paused. “Wait, can you like, not feed yourself? Shit.”
“I’m fine.” Tim muttered grumpily, but didn’t move to pick up the spoon.
“Then fucking eat.” Hood snapped. It took everything left in Tim to not tense.
Hands weak, Tim reached for the spoon, balancing the bowl in one hand. His fingers felt numb; a part of him was watching everything as though he wasn’t Tim anymore, just a passive observer. His limbs weren’t his own.
The spoon fell with a muffled thunk to the carpet, and he barely kept the soup from falling onto his lap.
Hood sighed and kneeled down, picking up the spoon. He rubbed it off and put it back in the bowl, scooping up some of it as he did. “Open up, Timbo.”
“Go away, I can do it myself,” Tim hissed.
“Like hell you can.”
“Go away, Jason!”
“Fucking eat it, kid!”
Tim had been pushing down the part of his brain that had been screaming danger for too long, and it finally reared its ugly head as an emotional void in his chest. He tensed, involuntary moving back as if he could sink into the pillow if he tried hard enough, eyes clenching shut. The soup sloshed over the side of the bowl, burning his hands and thighs.
He was just so tired. The exhaustion and the pain battled the terror of being alone in a room with the Red Hood, and suddenly Tim couldn’t breathe. All he could think about was his original plan of Get The Hell Out.
Maybe it was Hood’s tone, or his eyes, or his raised voice, or the way his face contorted with barely concealed frustration. Whatever it was, Tim wasn’t in Hood’s safehouse anymore. He was laying on the floor of the hallway in Titans Tower, too weak to continue fighting back, with Jason Todd Was Here written on the walls with his blood.
It took a long, breathless moment for him to realize that nothing was happening. Hood wasn’t yelling at him, calling him replacement, hurting him. Slowly, he opened his eyes.
Hood was sitting on an ancient looking coffee table, much further away than he had been before. He was facing away from Tim, hands on his lap palms up. His brows were furrowed, but he didn’t look angry.
“I ain’t gonna hurt ya, Timbo. I just want you to eat so I won’t feel ashamed when I send you back to Alfred.” Hood said nonchalantly. Tim watched as he slowly reached for the bowl, advertising his every movement.
“Here, lay back a bit.”
Tim did. Because of the lingering thought of danger, because he was on autopilot, because his last brain cell decided to take a vacation, he wasn’t sure. Hood smiled slightly as he sat on the bedside next to Tim.
He looked Tim in the eyes as his voice lowered into a calming baritone. One that Tim belatedly realized was the tone they used to calm down scared children while on the field. The tone Tim used to imagine Jason using with him on his most lonely nights. He spooned some of the soup, and raised it to Tim’s lips. “Open up, baby bird.”
It suddenly occurred to Tim that if Hood was going to hurt him, he wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of stitching him up and feeding him like this. He wasn’t sure why Hood was being so kind, but Tim was grateful for it. For the first time since he arrived, Tim felt somewhat safe.
“You’ve been out for a whole day, you know,” Jason said as he spoon-fed him broth. Tim was sure he was dreaming. That was the only explanation for this. “B’s been asking about you, said you went MIA. That true?”
Tim didn’t say anything, just swallowed down more broth. While this was a strange experience, Tim was grateful for Jason's kindness.
“It’s not good to go out on your own like that.” Another spoonful.
It wasn’t actually that bad; almost up to Alfred levels of good. He was in Hood’s — Jason’s — safehouse, and getting homemade meals from him. It was too much. The broth… it must have been poisoned, there was no other explanation for this — this insanity. But the soup hadn’t killed him yet, and no one would dare ruin an Alfred recipe.
Too busy being wholly confused, Tim didn’t notice when Jason stepped closer until he felt the prick in his neck.
Tim blinked as Jason capped the needle and smiled down at Tim. His heart would be racing if it wasn’t slowing down due to whatever Jason had just shot him up with.
But Jason put the bowl on the coffee table, pulled another blanket out from the closet, and draped it over him. He tucked the blanket in around his shoulder and patted him on the shoulder.
“Sleep well, Boy Wonder.”
He woke all at once, mind foggy, eyes sandpapery. He smacked his dry lips together and blinked into the darkness, the memory of the needle in his neck and the spoon being held to his mouth coming back in gradual waves.
“Why so much broth?” is the only thing he could think of muttering into the darkness, throat scratchy.
A warmth suffused his chest that was both uncomfortable and vaguely familiar. He’d only felt it once before, when he’d ended up with the flu and Alfred had forced him to stay home from school and patrol. He’d been sitting on the couch in the living room at the Manor watching stupid action movies when Bruce had come in and sat on the other end of the couch. Alfred had even paused his nonstop tidying and settled into the plush reading chair by the fireplace to enjoy the movie too.
Cared for. Safe. It was so different from the ice cold loneliness that used to carve up his chest when his parents forgot his birthday or didn’t pick make it home in time for Christmas when they promised they would.
Tim clenched his eyes shut, shaking off the old hurts. He shifted, aches and pains making themselves very, very well known. Everything hurt. Even his fingernails. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if he didn’t sit up and get moving, because this feeling of safety… it was just an illusion. It couldn’t be anything else. This was the Red Hood, after all, and Tim was his replacement.
It took a great deal of effort to stand, and when he finally had his feet planted firmly on the carpet, he knew it was a one way trip. If he sat back down, he’d never gather the energy to hoist himself back up.
He shuffled down the hall with a less than graceful manner, with one hand on the wall and another holding his belly, where he could feel bandages and gauze beneath his shirt.
He saw the door, but thought against it. It was probably rigged with an alarm or something. The window — he didn’t see any wiring. He staggered toward it, a sense of deja vu overcoming him when he grabs hold of the windowsill and leans heavily against it.
“Look, I’m sorry I drugged you, but this is a little bit of an overreaction.”
"Fuck off."
Tim’s jaw clenched. He reached up for the lock on the window, much steadier on his feet than yesterday — which admittedly, wasn’t saying much.
“Hey, kid, stop it.” he said. “I’m serious about those stitches. And it’s not like you have anywhere to be.”
Tim didn’t say anything. He wasn’t listening. He couldn’t listen. He didn’t even look when Jason came to stand by his shoulder, his tall frame blocking out the rest of the room.
“Hey, Tim. Timbo. Timbers. Over here, kiddo.”
Tim slowly moved to stare up at Hood.
Jason pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the kitchen.
“Why don’t we have something to eat before you throw yourself out the window, huh?” Jason asked. “Just a thought.”
Tim considered the drop below the window, then looked back at the kitchen. He looked up at Jason. Maybe… maybe it’d be okay to…
Slowly, he followed Jason into the kitchen and sat gingerly on the barstool by the little island that divided the kitchen from the small living space.
When he sat, a chipped bowl slid in front of him. Chicken soup. Tim stared.
“Don’t look at it like that, that’s a sacred recipe.” Jason said. “Eat it and appreciate it.”
“I’m not hungry.” Tim spat.
“Sure you ain’t.” Jason drawled. “When was the last time you ate? Don’t say something stupid like the last time I fed you. You’ve been out for another day anyway, new meal, new day. Eat.”
Tim stared down at the broth, and didn't even realize when he began to shovel spoons of it into his mouth. It came as both a surprise and no surprise at all that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something that wasn’t a granola bar chased down with coffee.
Tim slowly ate the broth, refusing to show any sign that it was actually quite good. After a few bites, his annoyance at this entire situation got the better of him.
"Are you just going to stand there and watch me eat?" he asked Jason irritably. "It's creepy."
"Why do you even care if I eat? Aren't you the one who kidnapped me in the first place?"
"Kidnapping is such an ugly word."
"But it's the right word."
"I prefer 'extended stay.'" Jason replied casually
"Extended stay my ass." Tim muttered, taking another angry spoonful of soup.
Jason shrugged. "Details. The point is, I need you alive and functioning for now. So eat up."
He was about to warily thank Jason when he felt it. Again. A slight prick in his neck, and a cool numbing sensation spreading through his skin. His eyes fuzzed over as he blinked heavily until they felt like they were weighed down by cinder blocks.
“There you go.” he heard Jason say, as he gave him a weakened glare and slumped forward into his chest. “You just need a little more rest, Timmy. No hard feelings.”
The next time he woke, fear wasn’t the first thing that gripped him, which was almost enough to convince him that he was still dreaming. But he wasn’t. This was real. He was in Jason’s safehouse, wearing bandages and stitches that Jason gave him, wearing Jason's clothes, with a belly full of broth and chicken soup that Jason had cooked for him.
He laid in the bed staring at the stained ceiling, his head a mess of broth and chicken soup and pain and the echo of a much younger Tim dancing for joy, because his Robin, his hero, was taking care of him. Had noticed him, and not just to call him his replacement. It was his younger-self’s happiest dreams come true; a younger self that Tim was desperate to forget.
He didn’t know what time it was, but it was getting bright beyond the curtains, so it was probably a new day. He sat up, thankful that the pain didn’t white out his vision this time. He began shuffling down the hall, using the wall for support and a guide through the dark.
Suddenly, he heard an unusual sound echoing from down the hall. He cautiously crept up to the living room, and glanced his head around the corner. Tim stood, frozen, as he watched Jason mumble and thrash around on the couch. He wanted to turn away, go back to his room. Suddenly, as if jolted from his nightmare, Jason suddenly woke up, his eyes glaring at him with a deep rage that sent a chill down Tim's spine.
Suddenly, a surge of panic coursed through his veins, overwhelming his senses. He could feel his chest tightening, his vision blurring, and the room started spinning.
Sure, Jason had saved him. And clothed him, and bandaged him, and fed him, but none of that mattered right now. Just because Jason was acting friendly towards him before, does not mean he would be friendly now. Especially not after a pit inducing nightmare.
He tried to look away from Jason's eyes but couldn't. Jason regulated his breathing, making sure his legs were open. Calm. Relaxed.
“Hey, look at me.” Jason said, his earnest gaze meeting Tim's panicked one. He extended his hand for Tim to take. “Breathe with me, okay? In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.”
Tim stared at Jason's outstretched hand for a moment before tentatively reaching out and taking it.
“That’s it, kiddo.” Jason said levelly, his voice lowering into the soothing baritone that Tim was getting used to hearing. “Just focus on your breathing.”
Jason brought Tim to sit down next to him and slowly placed an arm around his shoulders. “Deep breaths, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Good job.”
Tim found himself relaxing slightly. He wasn't mad. Good.
Tim felt Jason start combing through his hair and, against his better judgment, his breathing began to steady. He placed his head on Jason's shoulder as the panic attack subsided, leaving him drained and vulnerable.
“Alright Timbers, let's get you something to eat.”
Jason gently guided Tim’s head to lean against the couch, and made his way to the kitchen, as the warm glow of the morning sunlight spilled through the windows.
“What's your favorite food?”
“Coffee.”
Jason couldn't help but let out a sigh as resisted the urge to run a hand down his face.
“No. You're getting chili dogs. I’m making chili dogs.”
Tim dazedly watched as Jason — the man who had once hunted him down through the Tower and nearly killed him, the man he had once idolized as a child, the man who had called him Replacement since his miraculous resurrection — put together the fixings for chili dogs.
“You should sleep.” Jason said over his shoulder.
“All I’ve been doing is sleeping.” Tim grumbled, because no way was he going to let Jason Todd push him around. “Give me a little coffee and —”
“Sick people don’t get coffee.” Jason said like he was reciting some sort of proverb. “Sick people have soups and teas and shit.”
“And chili dogs?”
“These are magic chili dogs, they’re an exception.” Jason explained.
“Is food poisoning the magic part?” Tim asked.
“Hardy-har.” Jason huffed.
Jason plated the hot dogs and slid one over to Tim. "Eat. And I know you're itching to get out of here, but you've still got healing to do."
Tim took a bite but couldn't hide his impatience. "How much longer then? A day? Two?"
"At least another 48 hours," Jason replied firmly. "No arguments."
Tim scowled. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one being held captive."
"Hostage situations do tend to put a damper on one's spirit," Jason remarked dryly.
Tim opened his mouth for a retort but Jason cut him off. "Look, replacement, I know you're antsy. But I dragged your ass out of that alley for a reason. So just chill for a couple more days, okay? I promise I'll cut you loose after that."
Tim watched him a little longer before finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.
“What am I still doing here?” Tim asked.
“You’re telling me you’re suddenly fit enough to hop on my bike and head back to the Cave?”
“Well, no, but —”
“You telling me you’re rested enough that you can get back to patrolling? That you can face B’s inquisition when you get home and he starts asking where you’ve been?”
Tim’s stomach soured.
“He won’t care.” Tim said. “I’ve been gone for a few days, haven’t I? And where is he? Where’s the inquisition? I’m guessing you have my phone, has he even called?”
Jason’s silence was all the confirmation he needed. Tim stared at Jason’s back as hot dogs sizzled in the pan on the stove.
“They’ve called.” Jason finally said.
“Not me, though.” Tim huffed. “So I ask again, why am I still here ? Why didn’t you just —”
“What, pack you up and ship you off to the Cave? You were bleeding out on my floor. What the fuck else was I supposed to do?”
“You could’ve —”
“No, shut up.” Jason snapped. “You needed to sleep and to heal and — and so I helped with that.”
“I don’t need any more sleep.” Tim argued. “I’ve been sleeping a ton. I don’t think I’ve slept this much since I had the flu in third grade.”
“That’s concerning, baby bird.” Jason said, clearly dodging the question. “You should sleep more.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” Tim said with a shrug.
“I’m sure B isn’t happy with your lack of sleep.” Jason said, though it sounded a little more like a question. “Or Dickybird —”
“Do you really think the Kings of sleep deprivation care if I don’t get the recommended 8 hours?” Tim scoffed. “The only thing they notice is if my work doesn’t get done. There are actual consequences when work doesn’t get done.”
“There’s consequences for not sleeping, too.” Jason said, setting out some plates with buns and putting a pot on the stove to warm what looked like leftover chili. “You can hallucinate, your immune system suffers, hormones get out of whack, your decision-making ability suffers.”
“That’s what coffee’s for.” Tim said, only meaning it half as a joke. “A shot of espresso, a little caffeine shot, and the dancing elephants all go away.”
“And what about the rest of it?” Jason asked. “You think going AWOL on the Bats that night was a good idea? You nearly got yourself killed.”
“I’m solo all the time.” Tim snapped. “I can handle myself.”
“You don’t need to though, kiddo.” Jason said. “You have help. Take it.”
“I’m not a damn kid.” Tim snapped.
“You’re littler than me, and I’m barely an adult myself. You’re a kid.”
“No, I’m not!”
“Definitely are, kid, just own it.” Jason smirked at Tim over his shoulder. His eyes had a glint in them, though; something dark, something almost sad. “Now shut up and let me focus or I’m going to burn the chili, and there ain’t nothing worse than burnt chili, and like hell I’m feeding you a plain old hotdog on a bun. Alfred would be ashamed.”
Tim’s heavy eyes narrowed.
“Not sure Alfred would approve of chili dogs.” Tim muttered.
“Who do you think taught me the chili recipe, kid?”
Tim wasn’t sure how much more time passed before a plate was shoved under his nose, the tantalizing scents of cooked beef, beans, and corn slathered over a hot dog filling his senses.
Tim must have dozed off, because he blinked, and suddenly Jason was sitting across from him, eating a plate full of chili dogs.
Jason merely stared, as he shoved a plate with a chili dog in his direction. “Eat. Your body’s running on fumes. Can't have you dropping in the field again.”
Suspicion rose in Tim, but he was famished. Still, he examined the food closely for anything unusual. Finding nothing amiss, he reluctantly took a bite, and suddenly found himself licking the plate clean.
Jason subtly reached for a third tranq, but Tim was ready this time, nerve striking Jason as the tranq shattered on the floor.
Only then did a strange heaviness come over him.
“What did you do?” He slurred, as he saw Jason’s smug face before darkness took hold once more. Smug Bastard.
Tim was asleep.
Jason carefully closed the doors as he grabbed a dirty towel from the hamper and shoved it against the space along the bottom of the door.
The kid didn’t need to hear any of this conversation.
He pulled out his phone. Twenty-seven missed calls, multiple from Dick, a few from Spoiler and Oracle, one from B. Even Alfred had tried calling more than a few times.
He scrolled through his missed calls and clicked on a name, bringing the phone to his ear.
“You really need to update your voicemail message, Jaybird.” Dick said upon answering. “Looks like you missed me, sucks to suck is so not professional.”
“Please tell me all these missed calls are about the kid.” Jason said.
“So you do have him,” Dick said. “B will be pleased. After he has an aneurysm, of course. You know, his two boys finally bonding and all —”
“Ain’t much bonding going on when one brother’s half fucking dead.”
For a brief moment, there was a rare moment when Dick clearly didn’t know what to say.
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine now.” Jason said tightly. “But it was close. Too close. Where the hell were you guys?”
“I wasn’t there.” Dick said. “It was B and Spoiler and Damian, I think, but I —”
“He thinks no one’s looking for him.” Jason said. “Why does he think no one’s looking for him?”
“Why — I don’t know, Jason, I —”
“No more dead Robins.” Jason said. “There was supposed to be no more dead Robins, and without me there last night —”
“Where are you? God, is he alright? Tell him I’m coming —”
“No.” Jason snapped. “You’ll come when I say you can come. Because clearly you all don’t care that Tim is hanging on by a fucking thread. I need him to know that someone cares that subsisting on nothing but caffeine and spite isn’t healthy. Someone needs to make sure he’s sleeping and eating and doing all the things a kid is supposed to do.”
Jason, please," Dick said urgently. "Just let me talk to Tim, even if it's just for a minute. I need to hear his voice and know he's okay."
“No.” Jason said. “Not yet. I can’t — no, just no, Dick.”
“But Jason —”
“Bye, Dickhead.”
Jason longed for a flip phone or something so hanging up would have more of an impact. As it was, he threw the phone on his bed and sat down, head in his hands.
There wasn’t a second that went by that he didn’t think about that kid on his couch, regret filling his stomach till he tasted bile in the back of his throat. He knew it was the Pit that had influenced his decisions; that had warped his mind so much that he’d seen that kid as worthy of something worse than death. He still probably would have attacked the kid, but not to that extent.
Jason sat heavily on the bed, replaying his conversation with Dick. He could hear the genuine concern and regret in the other man's voice when he spoke of Tim. Maybe he’d been too harsh on Dick. But a part of him had always been comforted knowing that despite what he’d done, Tim had the Bats to fall back on. Always had Dick.
Sinking down on the bed, Jason buried his head in his hands.
Jason stood and pulled the door open, watching the kid sleep soundly on his ratty couch. He looked so small, so young. Jason had never been that young.
His phone lit up on his bed. It was Dick calling him back. Jason huffed and moved into the living room, shutting his door.
Dick could sit and fucking stew for awhile. Maybe then he’d get some sense.
Right as he arrived at Tim’s bedside, his phone started to buzz once more. Dick.
Jason glanced over at his phone in sheer annoyance but made no move to answer it, more focused on monitoring Tim’s unconscious form.
The ringing finally stopped. He stared at the phone as the screen went dark, then lit up again with another notification. He chewed the inside of his lip, then huffed and stalked back over to the bed as he heard Dick’s voice spill out into the ensuing voicemail.
“Hey, Jay." Dick started. Jason rolled his eyes at his brother’s placating tone. “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me right now, but I was just thinking — I’m kind of an idiot."
“True.” said Jason, nodding like Dick could see him.
“I just — things have been messy, lately. Like, really messy. And I don’t know how to handle it all, with Damian and B and you and — and I think I took it for granted that Tim just… takes care of himself. And the way you talked — I should be like that, you know? I should be that angry that he was — God, I don’t even want to think about it. How bad was he hurt? What happened? Why didn’t he come to me? It’s making me sick. And I just — I know I fucked up, okay? I just wanted you to know that. I wanted you to know that I love you and I love Tim — you’re my brothers, and I just want you safe and happy even though I’m kind of shit at conveying that.”
“Fucking right.” Jason mumbled. It had no heat in it.
“So, anyway, I don’t know, if you feel like it, if it’s okay — please know that I totally respect your space if you don’t want to talk — but if you do, I’m here. And if Tim wanted to talk, I’d love to talk to him, too. So anyways — sorry for leaving this, like, mini-podcast — I didn’t even know voicemails could be this long, damn — but yeah. Love you Jaybird.”
The call ended. Jason let the phone rest in his lap for a moment, staring at the darkened screen.
Fucking Dick. They called him Golden Boy for a reason.
Tim needed his family right now. And despite their issues, Jason knew Dick would sit by Tim's side.
He shot Dick a quick text: "Kid's still sleeping. Come alone and be quiet."
He heaved a sigh and opened his and Dick’s text thread and sent his location, along with a pizza emoji. Hopefully Tim wouldn't mind washing down a chili dog with some deep-dish pepperoni and Dick’s special brand of mother henning.