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Dick has never seen this reaction to Fear Toxin before. He hopes he is mistaken. He hopes that he did not just see Tim, no rebreather, get a face full of Scarecrow's latest batch of fear-inducing gas and continue on as if nothing hit him. He hopes that maybe this batch is a dud. Maybe Crane got his formula wrong for once.
Then Dick looks again at all the civilians nearby out of their minds with fear, crying inconsolably and screaming.
Maybe Tim used his big brain to figure out a permanent inoculation and tested it on himself. Maybe he dosed himself with an antidote when Dick couldn't see.
Anything. Anything is preferable to the thoughts running rampant in the back of his mind with what is probably the truth.
He pushes the questions away for the moment and throws himself into the fight.
--
Crane had ripped his rebreather off and gassed him in the face. He shouldn't have even got that close, damnit. That was careless. He should have seen that move coming. Regardless, Tim doesn't even break stride in his attack. He's used to the screaming in his mind. The screaming of how he's not good enough, fast enough, smart enough, worth enough. Worth anything. Nothing matters. Everything matters.
He works through it on a daily basis. Working himself to exhaustion just to make a dreamless sleep. Working to exhaustion just to be useful one last time. Working obsessively just to make sure everyone else is safe. They matter more, anyways. That's okay. Tim is just a tool to be used by those that need him. He learned that at a young age. It has been reinforced many times since then. He knows what he's worth and it's okay.
The endless pit of loneliness and emptiness is eating at his soul; burrowing so, so loudly. Constantly shouting at him about how alone he is and always will be. It's an old friend by now. Nothing new to see here. It's okay.
It's constantly informing him how his "family" and "friends" truly see him. Tim already knows. It's okay that they don't see him the same way. He'll keep them safe anyways. He loves them even though they don't love him the same way. They probably care a little bit, right? No. They probably don't. It's okay. This is his job. He is a tool after all. He was only ever meant to be useful. It's okay. He knows how to fight. It's okay.
--
When Red Hood finally arrived as backup, he was no longer needed.
Scarecrow was laughing his ass off as Dick and Tim tied him up for his return to Arkham. His brow, softly bleeding into his eye as he looked unblinkingly at Tim, laughing all the while. He was laughing as if he had his own private joke with him. Jason didn't care for that shit at all. Fuckin' weirdo.
Both the vigilantes looked bruised up, but otherwise okay. Tim had his body language closed off as usual. Dick looked tense and kept looking at Tim. Then the weirdo started talking and Jason liked the shit that came outta his mouth even less.
"Oh, you're a special one, aren't you, little bird?" Crane cooed at Tim and Jason wanted to punch him in the face.
"Did you know only one of my test subjects reacted the same as you to this batch of gas? Is it still in there I wonder? Shouting? Do you hear it all the time? I would love to have some sessions with you. See how you tick inside. See how you scream inside at yourself. How deep does it go, I wonder?"
Jason then noticed a discarded, damaged rebreather on the ground. Fuck.
Jason didn't get to punch Crane in his stupid face because the Demon Brat got to him before he could. Lucky little fucker batarang'd him from behind right in the middle of his freaky monologue and Crane fell face forward onto the ground he was kneeling on.
Damian looked like he was about to say something when Batman put a quieting hand on his shoulder.
"Nightwing, Red Robin: Report."
Tim started giving him a monotone, detailed report like always.
Dick stood there stiffly throughout it and added softly at the end, "Baby bird. He gassed you with Fear Toxin. You haven't taken any antidote."
Batman's face snapped to Tim.
Tim went from stoic, to panicked babbling at Bruce's concern, "Nononono- I mean, he did, but I'm fine though. I'll do better. I promise. It's okay. I'm fine. It's okay, B. I'm okay. I promise."
Bruce has that small little line by his mouth that crinkled when he was worried, "You're coming back to the cave with us. Take an antidote when we get back, anyways. You can never be too sure."
"The little robin is empty inside."
Oh, just fuckin great, Crane woke up. Damian couldn't have hit him harder? At least Jason can punch him in his dumb fucking face now.
"Oh you're so interesting! I thought I knew what made you bats, but now I know." Tim looked down at Crane, face impassive, as he continued being a huge fuckin' creep at him.
"I know what makes you at least. Tell me, what do you tell yourself to hide that gaping empty hole? What do you tell yourself that makes you walk around every day? I so, so want to know. I bet I can guess. I wonder if you lie to yourself or fill yourself with small, dirty truths? Does it make it feel better for a moment? Or did you give up on that? How long have you been this way? How deep do you go? How hard is your shell? Will you tell me? Will you tell me what you are?" Crane had locked his, bloody, now manic eyes with Tim's, who had this far-off glazed over look to his eyes now.
"I'm a good tool." Tim unexpectedly replied slowly, not all there anymore, "I am still useful. I am a good... tool."
Scarecrow laughed and then Jason did punch him in the face. Fuck, that felt good.
Jason looked over at Bruce and pointed, "You don't get to say shit to me about that. Also, fix him." Jason gestured at Tim, "Hug him sometimes or someshit. Fuck. I'm going home."