Chapter Text
Jason
It’s a Friday night and I’m doing the same thing that I’ve done dozens of times since Dick enacted bi-monthly movie nights— I’m staring at a bag of popcorn in the microwave while getting a lecture from Alfred. According to Alfie, standing too close to the microwave is gonna give me some kind of mutation.
“Master Jason,” – he starts the same way every time— “I would advise that you do not stand so close to the microwave while it is running. The radiation that emits…”
I’m mouthing the words along with him, so he stops and frowns. For real, Alfie has a more terrifying glare than Bruce.
“Look Alfie,” I say, as the popping dies down inside the microwave, “I’m a crime lord, with at least half of Crime Alley’s underworld looking to kill me for a hefty cash prize. If microwave radiation wants to kill me, it’s gonna have to wait in line.”
Dick pops his head into the kitchen, “What’s poppin’, Jay?”
I don’t hold back the groan that comes out.
I shut the microwave off, and a few kernels continue to pop.
Dick leans his arm on my shoulders. I wait a few seconds before I shove it off. Dick and I get along the best among the bat siblings, but that just means I tolerate him better than the rest. I haven’t worked myself up to the point of actually liking any of them yet.
I empty the popcorn in a bowl and stick another bag into the microwave. I shove the full bowl into Dick’s arms, “Make yourself useful and bring this to the others. I’ll bring the second bowl out when it finishes.”
Dick ignores the task I just gave him, and gives me a one-armed hug, spilling some of the kernels, “It’s so good to have you back these past weeks, Little Wing. Movie night is so much better with you around.”
I answer with a grumble, and he strides out of the room to deliver the movie snack to the masses.
“My dear boy,” Alfred says, “Go join your brothers. I can bring the popcorn once it’s done.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he adds, “If you do not leave at once, I fear Master Richard will choose another Disney cartoon. I believe he mentioned something about Cinderella earlier.”
“Oh hell no,” I yell as I sprint out of the room.
“Language, Master Jason.”
“Sorry, Alfie.”
When I reach the living room, Dick has the Disney+ menu open and he’s scrolling through.
I snatch the remote out of his hand, “Not a chance, Dickie. New rule— the guy who makes the snacks, chooses the movie.”
Dick snatches the remote back.
“I’m cool with that,” he says, “but we’re not watching any of the Saw movies. Damian’s not old enough for R rated movies.”
Damian’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, but he crosses his arms as well, and pouts.
“How dare you use me as a scapegoat for your fear of scary movies, Grayson! And besides, there is nothing in that movie that I have not seen or administered myself. I am familiar with forty-seven unique forms of torture.”
I take a quick scan of the room. Dick’s sitting on the floor with his back against the couch and the remote pointed at the TV. Behind him on the couch, from left to right, are Damian, Damian’s dog Titus, and Tim.
Titus scowls at me almost as angrily as Damian does. Bruce had adopted Titus with the intention of the Great Dane/German Shepard mix being a faithful emotional support dog for bristly Damian, but Titus is more of an attack dog than anything. To be honest, Titus is probably Damian’s most lethal weapon.
Titus is firmly planted between Damian and Tim, with a fuzzy blanket around him. He’s leaning his head on Tim’s shoulder but keeping the blanket all to himself.
Tim’s being used as a pillow, but he’s the opposite of warm and fuzzy. Tim’s in a black hoodie, with the hood up, covering most of his face. He’s hugging his knees to his chest, taking up less room on the couch than Damian.
Of all my makeshift brothers, Tim’s the one I know the least about. He’s serious, he keeps to himself, and he’s really quiet.
The kid has a right to be a little skittish around me. I’ve tried to kill him a few times—one time I came dangerously close—but that goes for everyone here. When I was under the Lazarus Pit’s influence, I did some fucked up shit. I know I can never apologize fully for that, but Tim seems to be the only one that still actively avoids me. I really hope I can fix that one day.
I snatch the remote back, “Is one form of torture watching Cinderella for the 20th time? I swear if I see one more animated mouse break into song, I’m going back on my no killing truce.”
I flop down on the couch in the only available space, next to Tim. He turns to look at me and even though his hood moves a bit, his eyes are still barely visible behind the bangs that hang past his eyelashes.
I’m not happy sitting next to creepy, but my other choice is to sit on the floor next to Dick, and that human embodiment of a Golden Retriever will cuddle me for the entire movie.
Dick reaches into the bowl of popcorn and passes it to me after taking a handful.
Tim’s voice is so soft that I barely hear it, even though I’m sitting close enough to brush against his arm.
“What movie do you want to watch?” he says without breaking eye contact. Now that I think about, dude hasn’t blinked the whole time we’ve been looking at each other. I stand with my original assessment. Dude is creepy as hell.
I look away as I gather a handful of popcorn. The bowl’s between me and Tim, so we both reach in at the same time. Just like the crowded couch, there’s barely enough room for both of our hands. Tim’s hoodie is oversized—or he’s undersized—so the sleeves hang past his knuckles. Only a small amount of his hand is uncovered, but when his hand bumps against mine, it’s freezing.
“Jesus, kid. Why is your hand so fucking cold?!”
I jerk my hand away and Tim flinches. His voice is just as quiet as it was before.
“I was working in the Batcave on some case files. I must have stayed down there too long.”
“Yeah, well maybe share some of Titus’ blanket to defrost. And next time you go to the basement, bring up an electric blanket with you.”
He bites his lip and nods. His hands retract under his sleeves completely. He switches his nonblinking stare to Titus, but Damian’s dog wants no part of sharing his blanket.
Alfred enters with the second bowl of popcorn and Dick accepts it.
After 15 minutes of complaining, we settle on Pirates of the Caribbean. It should give Dick his Disney fix and it has enough people getting shot in the face for me to stay interested.
Movie night goes on for hours—because Dick insisted that we watch the whole freakin’ trilogy. Damian gravitates to the floor, with his head in his Dick’s lap—fast asleep. Damian’s absence causes Titus to lay his head on the arm of the couch and stretch his legs out. His paws are pushing against Tim, taking up way more of the couch than Damian did, forcing the kid to hug himself in a tighter ball.
That can’t be comfortable.
I lift my arm over the couch, giving Tim a bit more room, and motion for him to scoot closer. He blinks at me—so the kid can blink—and scoots a fraction of a millimeter closer.
As the movie goes on, he relaxes more and eventually he’s close enough for me to grab him and tuck him under my arm. He’s tentative at first, but soon leans against my chest.
By the time Movie 3 starts, Tim and I are the only ones awake. Although Dick’s snoring so loud, I’m surprised he hasn’t woken up Damian and Titus.
The movie reaches a really funny part that I had forgotten about, and I can’t help laughing really hard. I expect Tim to laugh with me, but I can feel him tense up against my chest instead. I’m trying so hard not to wake up the three Sleeping Beauties, so I pause the movie.
Tim goes back to hugging his knees to his chest, as far away from me as Titus’ outstretched legs will allow.
I clear my throat a few times as I get the laughter under control. Tim gives me a look of bewilderment.
“It’s not gonna kill you to laugh, Timmy,” I say, stretching my arms to the ceiling, giving them a good crack.
Tim winces and I’m about to ask if he’s okay. He loosens the hug with himself to reach for the remote. His still freezing finger presses the PLAY button and the pirate fighting commences.
He stares at the screen and doesn’t come near me for the rest of the movie.
___________
Tim
I’m standing outside Dick’s apartment door and as I knock, I’m already coming up with multiple excuses to run away. It’s the first time Movie night is at his place, and it’s making my anxiety spike dangerously high. Watching the pirate movie went well last time, so I tell myself that there’s nothing to worry about. Everything will be fine.
I squeeze the bottle of pills in my pocket. I missed my dose yesterday so I’m feeling a little jittery.
The sound of someone unlatching the deadbolt on the other side of the door, causes me to pull my hand out of my pocket quickly.
When the door opens, Dick is on the other side.
He’s smiling wider than usual. It’s probably because he has guests tonight. As introverted as I am, Dick is extraverted.
Dick opens the door all the way so that there’s no barrier between me and him. He stands, looking at me apprehensively. His hands are shaking with the effort not to reach out and pull me into a hug. His whole body is slightly trembling from the effort of holding back the affection he gives so naturally. He’s literally bouncing on his toes. He knows that every hug he’s ever given me has been followed by stiff panic, so he’s learned to respect my uneasiness with affection.
He puts a hand behind his head and blushes, “Welcome T-bird. I’m glad you didn’t make up some lame excuse to miss movie night.”
My body tenses even more because I’ve made excuses before. He must think I’m a real asshole. My tension causes Dick’s eyes to widen with an unspoken panic.
I take a deep breath and move close, giving him a silent invitation for a hug. He slowly wraps his arms around me and soon there’s nothing between my face and the smell of Dick’s laundry detergent. I focus on the woodsy flowery smell and how warm Dick is. It’s like his clothes literally just came out of the drier.
He let’s go and ruffles my hair, “C’mon in Timmy. We’re just waiting on Jay to arrive.”
Damian greets me from the couch with, “We’re watching the Lion King. I enjoy movies that involve animals and Grayson enjoys Disney, so that is the perfect compromise.”
“Is it too late to leave?” Jason says from the doorway behind me.
“Jay!” Dick squeals and gives him the kind of hug that would knock anyone else but Jason to the floor.
Jason returns the hug and adds a firm pat on the back.
As much as I’d like to be invisible, I’m not, so I head to the kitchen before I have to have any kind of weird interactions with Jason. Plus, I really need to take my medication. I’m starting to feel a little queasy.
When I reach Dick’s kitchen, I’m reminded that it’s an open style kitchen. Just like Dick, his kitchen and living room aren’t connected by a wall, giving an open and inviting vibe.
No one’s particularly looking this way, so I find a little privacy while I start the coffee maker.
Dick, Damian, and Jason are laughing in the other room and my heartbeat speeds up. I close my eyes and coach myself in my head.
You’re alright. You’re good. As long as you’re not the one laughing, you can’t hear his voice. You can’t hear his taunts.
I open my eyes and the rattle of the coffee machine is the only thing I can hear.
I want to laugh along with the others, I really do, but there’s a very specific reason that I can’t.
My father is The Joker.
Whenever I laugh, I can hear his voice in my head. It’s one of the main reasons that I don’t laugh. The other reason is much like the first. I’ve laughed a few times in private—the kind of laughter that doesn’t stop no matter how hard you try. Unfortunately, my laugh sounds just like his. Even a giggle sounds just like my demented father.
If anyone heard, they’d know. They’d know that Jack Drake is my adopted father. They’d know that I share a bloodline with Gotham’s most notorious supervillain. They’d know that the man that brutally tortured and killed Jason was the same man that shares a genetic link with me.
It’s a secret identity that I keep guarded even more than my Red Robin secret identity. No one can find out. No one can know.
The coffee maker goes from brewing mode, to dispensing, and I watch the brown liquid stream into the mug.
I can’t take psychiatric medication with coffee, so I grab a paper cup from the counter and pour some water from the faucet.
I reached into my pocket, retrieve the bottle of pills, and shake one into my palm. I toss the pill in my mouth and tilt back my head as I swallow. I wash it down with the cup of water, but when I move the cup from my mouth, I see Jason standing next to me.
My hand is shaking as I shove the pill bottle back into my pocket. The rattling of the pills inside is the only sound in the room. Even the coffee maker finished before it could cover for me.
Jason lifts an eyebrow and I croak out quickly, “Migraine.”
Jason leans against the counter. He crosses his arms and his ankles, but his voice isn’t as casual as his posture.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
“Look, Tim,” –any conversation that starts with the word look is never going in a positive direction— “If you’ve got a headache, I’m not sure singing animals in the African pride lands is gonna help. When you tell Dick you’re too sick to stay he’s gonna cry like someone popped his favorite birthday balloon, but he’ll get over it.”
I open the fridge and search for the milk. Black coffee is a little strong considering it’s my third cup of the day.
“Um, it’s not bad. I’ve been on patrol with worse pain than a headache.”
I add the milk, then the sugar as slowly as possible, so I don’t have to look at Jason. Making good coffee never requires this much intense concentration.
Jason moves the mug toward him, causing me to look up.
Something about the way that he’s looking at me makes me trust him more than any other person I ever have. And in a moment of weakness I mumble,
“I don’t have a headache.” The next sentence makes my voice crack. “It’s Prozac.”
His eyebrows start to lift, but he quickly covers his surprise with a shrug. “I’m not judging, kid.”
“No one else knows,” I whisper, suddenly realizing that I just blurted out blackmailable information.
“It’s all good,” he says leaning against the counter again. “It’s something I shouldn’t have seen, so it’s not my secret to tell.” He cracks his neck, “I could care less about orphan lion cubs, but Dick can’t cook for shit, so he got catering from one of the best Mexican places in Bludhaven.”
I take a sip of coffee and he cocks his head toward the direction of the living room. “C’mon. I think your pill bottle says something about taking with food.”
“It doesn’t actually say that, but I’m hungry so I’ll pretend it does.”
We head back into the living room and Titus is perched on the couch, with just enough space for me and Jason to squeeze in. Jason sits between me and Titus. He has to put his arms over the back cushions so that we all have enough room to fit.
Dick’s in the reclining chair next to the couch. Damian refuses to sit on his lap, so Dick scoots back far enough so that Damian can sit between his legs, technically sitting fully on the chair. It’s enough for him not to throw a tantrum, so Dick starts the movie.
The movie’s sad—Dick cries. Jason must be a little upset too because Titus puts his head on Jason’s chest right after Mufasa’s death. If an emotional support dog is comforting you, it means you’re upset, right? Maybe Jason just doesn’t like when a father and a son are separated because of a murder.
Whatever the reason, Titus’ new position gives us a bit more room on the couch, but Jason grumbles that it’s impeding his ability to stuff his face effectively. That being said, Jason proceeds to eat more than me, Dick, and Damian combined.
After the movie Dick calls for a break so that he can regain the feeling back in his legs. He comes back with a dog biscuit and shakes it in his hand.
“You want a treat, boy? Who’s a good Batdog?” he coos.
Titus barks—loud and aggressive—making Dick drop the treat.
Dick blushes as he picks up the doggie treat. “Right. Forgot. You don’t like being called Batdog.”
“He also does not appreciate being talked down to either, Grayson,” Damian says with his usual scowl.
“I wasn’t talking down to him. Just yesterday I gave Jay a cookie and told him he was a good boy.”
Titus takes the treat and licks Dick’s hand, reconfirming that they’re still friends.
Dick scratches Titus under the jaw which results in happy growling. The growls are drowned out when three bat comms go off simultaneously.
Batman’s voice quickly follows in surround sound, “Need backup. Paint warehouse on Gramercy. Scarecrow is in the area.”
Jason’s already standing, “I’ve seen enough animals singing and dancing that I’m definitely in the mood to punch someone in the face. I’m in. We’re all at Nightwing’s place. ETA is gonna be at least 20 minutes if I take the bike.”
“That’s fine,” Batman says with his typical growl. “If you’re taking the bike, take Red Robin with you. The rest of you can continue movie night.”
Jason pretty much wears his Red Hood suit all the time, so he waits on me as I put on my suit, in the hall, as quickly as possible.
Dick flops on the couch and calls out as we leave. “Have fun, but you guys are gonna miss Lassie, seasons one thru nineteen. Titus’ pick.”
Jason shouts back, “Lassie isn’t a movie. And the dog doesn’t get to pick what we watch,” as we race out the door.
__________________
We reach the paint warehouse in fifteen minutes, and I’m not surprised. Jason was flying down the street. We switch our comms to a private channel for just the two of us and Batman.
Batman takes the main floor and Red Hood and I take the basement. I take the stairs two at a time to keep up with Hood. When I catch up, Jason’s already fighting three guys.
Jason ducks as a guy flies over his head. I swing my Bo staff as hard as I can, and the guy goes down in a heap.
Another guy grabs me from behind and I backflip over his head so that I’m standing on his shoulders. I add another flip so that I land behind him and sweep his legs from under him.
“Did Wing teach you that trick?” Jason asks, while kicking a guy in the face.
“Yeah,” I say as I wrench a guy’s arms behind him to connect the zip ties. “It’s not that hard. You should try it.”
Jason shoots a guy in the leg with a rubber bullet. “Yeah, not a chance. If I hopped up on some dude’s shoulders, I’d break their collarbone instantly.”
“You’re not that heavy. You—” I’m cut off by a bottle smashing, inches from my face.
I use my hands to block my face from the glass shards, but the smoke from whatever’s inside fills my field of vision, as well as my lungs.
I barely register that Jason has rushed over, before the sound of a body being slammed against the wall and Jason’s growl accompanies it, “Big mistake, you son of a—.”
“Hood,” I interrupt, “He’s unconscious.”
That’s all I can say before I’m cut off by a long string of coughs.
Batman comes through the comms again, “The Scarecrow’s been apprehended. Police are upstairs in the warehouse. I’m going with them to help transport Scarecrow back to Arkham. Are you two alright to clean up by yourselves?”
Jason pokes at an unconscious guy with the toe of his boot, “Yeah, we’ll bring these guys upstairs once you guys leave. We’ll gift wrap them for some of the local cops that come around.”
Hood and I turn off our comms, but Hood keeps his helmet on.
“You okay, Red Robin? You snorted up a buttload of that stuff.”
I nod as I examine the scene. It’s what we’re taught to do after a fight in case there are clues or evidence around.
Jason and I are on opposite sides of the giant room, but it’s echoey enough to hear no matter how far apart. Jason takes a wad of money from one guy’s pocket.
“What?” he shrugs at me, “Not like the asshole’s gonna need it. By the way, was that fear toxin? You feel like the walls are melting?”
“Not all of us have a smoke proof helmet. But that’s not the only thing I’m jealous of. I really wish I could be as tall as you.”
“Red?” Jason asks.
“I wish you were really my brother. I want a brother so bad that sometimes I cry at night.”
“What the fuck, kid?”
I try to make sense of what’s happening and then it hits me.
I got dosed with truth serum! And the cascade of truth that’s about to come out of my mouth is completely out of my control.
___________
Jason
Cleaning up after a fight is something I didn’t miss when I traded in the red, yellow, and green Robin suit, and went rouge.
But here I am, combing through crap, post-fight, acting like a freakin’ CSI agent.
I lift a wad of cash from some poor idiot taking a nap and Tim gives me the how could you face.
“What?” I say with a shrug, “Not like the asshole’s gonna need it. By the way, was that fear toxin? You feel like the walls are melting?”
“Not all of us have a smoke proof helmet. But that’s not the only thing I’m jealous of. I really wish I could be as tall as you.”
Well, that was… strange? Tim doesn’t talk much on the regular and I don’t think he’s ever complimented me before.
“Red?” I ask cautiously.
“I wish you were really my brother. I want a brother so bad that sometimes I cry at night.”
“What the fuck, kid?”
Tim chews on his lip, but it doesn’t stop the weirdness from coming out of his mouth, “I once called your cell phone and hung up because I was too scared to talk, and then hacked your phone to clear the evidence.”
At this point he’s trembling and tears are starting to fall down his face, “I’m socially awkward and it’s nearly impossible to make friends.”
Shit. Truth serum. Tim’s confessions are getting increasingly personal and he’s about to start saying some things he can’t take back. Not to mention that everything he’s already said is 100% against his will and that’s not even close to being alright.
“I’m scared of hugs because I literally wasn’t hugged enough as a child. If I told people what really happened when I was a kid, my parents would be legit arrested.”
I trip over an unconscious criminal on the floor as I race to stop him, but Tim keeps talking, “My mom gave me my first Prozac when I was six because she was so depressed that I was suicidal, but when my teacher found the pills on me at school I said I stole it from her and got suspended for two weeks.”
Tim’s whimpering and he’s crying hysterically. His hands keeping lifting like they’re trying to clamp over his mouth, but they just shake instead. This must be a heavy dose of truth serum in powdered form. The kind that forces your body to spill all your deepest darkest secrets. I’m 100% positive this shit was meant for Batman, not Red Robin.
I can barely hear him over the sharp gasps between words.
“My dad—my dad is—my dad—he’s the Jo—”
I slap my hand over Tim’s mouth, and he grabs onto my wrist, trying to pull my hand down. He’s mumbling against my hand, and I put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.
His eyes are blurry with tears that are coming so fast that they keep pooling in his eyes. His chest is rising and falling way too fast to be healthy.
I can’t understand his words that are trapped under my hand, but I can hear him whimpering between mumbles.
“Red Robin,” I order, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Your scrawny little arms aren’t gonna pry my hand away, kiddo.”
This causes Tim to cry even harder.
“You gotta breathe Ti—Robin. You’re gonna pass out. Hmm, maybe if you’re unconscious…”
Tim looks back at me, his hysteria pausing briefly as a terrified look fills his face.
“No. You’re good. I’m not gonna knock you out. You’d probably talk in your sleep anyway. The best plan is to duct tape your mouth. That way I can regain the use of both hands.”
I squeeze his shoulder to give him a little affection because my helmet mask all of my emotions.
“So, here’s the plan. I’ll turn up the feedback on my helmet and it’ll make a high-pitched tone—think fingers scraping a chalkboard. I won’t be able to hear you, so I can grab the duct tape from my pocket and put it over your mouth without learning anymore of your secrets. Sound good? You trust me, right?”
Tim shakes his head no, and then whines. Right. The truth serum. It kinda hurts to know that he doesn’t trust me.
“Voice command. Feedback 85%.”
No sooner than I say it, an ear-piercing sound fills the helmet. I hold the sides by my ears by instinct even though it doesn’t block out any of the sound.
I grit my teeth and grab the tape from my pocket. I rip off a piece. I would have done it with my teeth if I didn’t have the helmet, but I’m still able to rip off a good-sized piece.
I stick it over Tim’s mouth and zip tie his wrists.
I grit my teeth as I give the command, “Feedback setting zero percent.”
The sound stops and I take a deep breath. In hindsight, a lower setting like 60% would have probably worked too.
I lower Tim to a seated position and he’s still shaking violently. I sit on the floor in front of him and take off my helmet. I’m still wearing my domino mask, but as long as I’m helmetless I can convey the amount of emotion that I need. I just need enough to calm Tim down.
Any residual serum, or vapor, or pollen, or whatever this weird truth dust is, it’s already dissipated.
“You good?” I ask.
Tim shakes his head.
“Right,” I sigh, “Stupid question.”
I tap my comm, “Red Hood to Batman. I got a Robin with a clipped wing here.”
Batman’s response is immediate, “What happened? What’s wrong? What did you do to him, Jason?”
Wow. The old man must be riled up if he’s using real names over the comms.
“Relax, B. Maybe switch to decaf. And speaking of coffee, I didn’t do anything to your little Coffee Bean. He took a direct hit of some extreme truth serum in pixie dust form. He’s really bad off, so I’m hoping you have an antivenom in your utility belt and can swing back around to the warehouse. Unless you’re having too much fun playing with your cop friends.”
Batman gives me a long and loud sigh, which feels more like a Bruce/Jason interaction than a Batman/Red Hood interaction. It’s so reminiscent that I feel the chill of nostalgia bristling up my spine. I stamp down that bitch because nostalgia isn’t really welcome right now. I’ll deal with her later. One crisis at a time.
“I’ll be there in five minutes. Wait, did I hear a moan?” he asks.
“That wasn’t Red. Some of the jerks are waking up. Another knockout punch might cause serious brain damage—not that these guys have many brains to start with—so we’re moving outside to the adjacent rooftop. I’ll meet you there.”
I scoop Tim up and we make the move to the rooftop location.
The wind from the outside air feels good. Tim’s still having a tough time catching his breath, so I try and break the tension.
“So, a horse, a doctor, and a carrot walk into a bar.”
Tim’s eyebrows shoot up and he shakes his head, screaming through the duct tape.
“Okay, calm down. No jokes. Geez. You could have just said you heard that one instead of all that.” I say it with a smirk, so he knows I’m teasing. Gotta keep things light.
He’s calmer after the freak out over the joke, but he’s grimacing pretty hard.
I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on.
“You gotta puke?” I ask.
He nods.
“Alright. I’ll take the tape off and the only thing you’re spilling is your guts. No spilling secrets.”
Tim’s bouncing his knee rapidly and nodding almost as rapidly. I quickly peel off the tape before the dude chokes.
He does as requested, and thankfully turns his head away from me before he does it.
He’s retching really hard, so I rub his back, “Easy, Mocha Bean. You don’t wanna crack a rib.”
He pukes a bit more, before moaning softly.
His voice is raspy, “When you call me mocha bean—.”
I shove a piece of gum in his mouth, “None of that.”
The gum seems to keep his mouth occupied, so I hold off on putting the tape back.
A deep voice says, “Jason,” next to my ear and I jump. The deep voice changes into a baritone chuckle and I roll my eyes.
Batman kneels down to be eye-level with Tim, “Son, are you alright? Jason says you were hit with a fairly strong dose of truth gas.”
Tim whimpers, “Wish you were my dad.”
I put my hand back over Tim’s mouth, “So that’s been happening.”
Batman pulls a vial out of his utility belt and starts to fill a syringe.
“Jason, has he given away any classified secrets?”
“You mean, like has he outted any of our secret identities? That would be a no. Even when he’s hopped up on truth powder, he’s still your perfect little solider. Didn’t spill any family secrets. He’s just been saying some trivial cringy shit, so I shut him up so I wouldn’t have to hear it. I mean, who cares if Tim Bean tripped on stage during an elementary school play.”
I give Tim a quick wink and he mumbles something that sounds a lot like, ‘thank you’ against my hand.
He closes his eyes and groans, and I look down to see Bruce jamming the syringe in his arm.
“Maybe give the kid a little warning?” I say with a wince.
“Sorry, but it’s better when you’re not expecting it. When I gave Dick his Batpen, it was always better that way.”
“His Batpen?”
“Right,” Bruce sighs, “When Dick was little, and he would have allergic reactions he had an EpiPen. Dick used to give everything a Bat prefix, so he’d called the injection the Batpen. Some things stuck like the Batmobile and the Batcomputer. Some things like the Bat toaster, did not.”
I can’t help laughing, and I can feel Tim laughing behind my hand, but his soft laugh is followed by a look of sheer terror, followed by tears.
“You afraid of needles?” I ask
He shakes his head.
Before I can pry further, Bruce injects the last contents of the syringe.
“The antivenom is powerful,” Bruce says while looking at me sympathetically. “The reaction to the antivenom is much like the symptoms of drug withdrawal. Given your history with your mother’s addiction, it might be best for you not to be here.”
I look Tim in the eye, “I gave you a promise that I’d be here as long as you need me. If you still need me, I’ll stay.”
Tim shakes his head. There’s a good chance that the truth stuff is already wearing off and he’s lying to protect me. His eyes roll back, and his hand starts to twitch, just like mom, and I back away.
I jump off the roof, barely hooking my grappling line in time.
When I reach the ground, I hop on my bike as quickly as possible and put as much space between me and Tim as possible.
I can hear my mom’s voice in my head the whole way home.
I collapse on my bed and close my eyes until I can’t hear her begging me for a fix, or screaming for me to kill her to put her out of her misery. The memories fade into the background, like they always do, and I take deep breathes—listening to the beautiful sound of silence.