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Tim squirmed, causing the burning rope around his already abused skin to further dig in.
It was dark.
There was a blindfold over his eyes, grey tape on his mouth, and rope binding him to a fragile old chair.
He couldn’t breathe.
He knew better than to panic in these situations; if he were Robin, he wouldn’t be panicking. But he wasn’t Robin at the moment—he was Tim Drake—he was weak.
There wasn’t anything for him to do except sit and wait as the sound of his parents' voicemail rang in the air once more.
It was their eighth attempt at contacting his parents in the last three days.
Tim wasn’t sure how much longer their patience would last.
He wasn’t a betting man, but he knew how men like this operated. He wouldn’t bet on making it past one more failed attempt.
These men were brutal, efficient, too organized, and experienced to simply snuff a dying plan. They would get the money, or they would kill Tim—there was no potential for change.
Either way, it would work in their favor. If they received the money, then they would have achieved the goal they set out for when they planned to abduct him. If they ended up killing Tim, due to his parents' refusal to answer phone calls, their street cred would increase tenfold making their next target a lucrative investment.
He sighed; a thousand thoughts ran through his mind as he tried to find a way—any way—out of this situation.
The rope that dug into his skin, leaving nasty red marks, was tight—too tight. He couldn’t wiggle his way out of it; there was no leeway to be taken.
His hands hurt and his nose was bleeding. They had roughed him up, more than necessary, to make a point to an audience that never showed.
It was foolish.
All of it was foolish.
“There a reason your parents aren’t answering, kid?”
The tape was ripped off of Tim’s mouth, stinging his cheeks and further tearing the cut in his lip.
“They’re busy people,” Tim tried to stress, for the second time that night.
He had already told the men that. He told them how unlikely it was that his parents would answer but that he could give them some money if that’s all they wanted.
They didn’t believe him.
The blindfold was never removed, but Tim could feel the moment something shifted in the air; a change in attitude from the man who spoke. The man backed away, this time not reapplying the tape that had covered Tim’s mouth and laughed.
It was a cruel, cold, and agonizingly long laugh. It filled the space around Tim, further suffocating him.
Tim wish, more than ever before, that his parents had answered. It was a fool’s wish, one that would have never come true, but for just once in his life, he wished his parents would be there for him when he needed them.
He had no right to complain. He knew that which is why he never did.
He covered for them instead. Lying through fake smiles as people inquired as to where they were.
He knew or rather hoped, that deep down Jack and Janet Drake cared for him.
When they were in town, they would go out to eat or go to the movies, sometimes they would even stick around long enough for Tim to show them his latest photographs.
Usually, though, they touched down, got dinner, and left before the sun fully rose the next day.
Tim cherished each moment—holding on tight and never letting go—he wondered, sitting in the room tied down if he was soon to become a memory as well.
Faded and far away. A shattering talking point his parents would suffer through.
Tim felt the cold press of a gun against the side of his temple.
Today would be the last day.
He was going to die.
“You sure are pretty when you cry,” the man sneered, his fat finger wiping away a tear Tim hadn’t felt until that moment.
He was exhausted. Running on nothing but fumes and cold water that was dumped on him each morning for the last three days.
Tim knew—he wasn’t a fool—he knew that his parents would never answer his calls.
He knew that even if they did answer the calls, his freedom was never guaranteed.
But he had hope.
Or rather, he did.
Tim had hoped that Bruce would have noticed his absences.
He had hoped that Bruce cared enough about him to be worried—to be willing to go out and look for him—but Tim was simply tricking himself into believing false fantasies.
Tim knew he wasn’t worth keeping around for much longer.
The first day had been slow, but Tim waited—hoping to hear the sound of Batman’s voice calling out to him—but no one came.
The second day came and went and with each hour that passed by as Tim was tied to the chair, he forced himself to accept the fact that no one was coming.
Tim wasn’t Bruce’s child.
Tim just happened to be that annoying neighbor kid.
The kid with too much free time and not enough parental supervision.
Tim was a means to an end, nothing more, nothing less.
He wasn’t worth saving.
He wasn’t worth noticing.
No one was coming and the only person Tim had to blame was himself.
Maybe if he was better, stronger, faster, smarter, or a thousand other things then someone would care.
Someone would care that he was about to die.
But that wasn’t the case.
Tim wasn’t worth other people's attention or love.
And he was going to die because of it.
Alone.
“I’ve got an idea,” the same man from before muttered, pulling Tim from his spiraling thoughts. The man’s right hand caressed Tim’s face before gripping his chin forcefully. “Maybe you won’t need to die after all.”
Tim didn’t say anything.
The man let go of his face and left the room.
Tim wasn’t sure how long it was before the man returned. It had been less than 5 minutes but more than 3.
His headache had increased tenfold during the time, making it hard for Tim to focus on anything besides the throbbing in his head and the painful rope around his body.
“You don’t mind waiting a little longer do you, sweetheart?” The man chuckled, entering the room, honey dripping from his words.
Tim felt gross.
The words the man spoke wrapped around him and left him sticky and uncomfortable.
He knew there were at least three others who entered the room with him, two more just outside the door, but Tim wasn’t sure how big the whole operation was.
He had been taken to a warehouse, near Crime Alley, and that was all Tim had concluded thus far.
A conclusion based on the car ride here and the sounds he heard before entering the building.
He could be wildly off, but he doubted that.
Tim stayed tied to the chair as the next few hours ticked by.
A few more men entered the room he was in, surrounding him but not speaking to him.
It was a strange break from their normal routine of yelling and striking Tim when he told them his parents were too busy with work to answer every phone call.
He wasn’t sure how long had passed—it felt like an eternity, yet it seemed like only a few seconds—when he heard it.
The loud sound of heavy shoes stomping towards the room caused Tim to tense instinctively; his bones hurt, his skin was rubbed raw, and his teeth were close to breaking.
Whoever was on their way to the room, was pissed off and in a hurry.
Tim wouldn’t be able to barter or beg for his life. Not with whoever was coming to the room.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He just wanted the pain to go away.
Tim could feel the tension seep into the men around him. Shuffling feet came to a halt, postures stiffened with sounds of crinkled jackets, and the air grew heavy with anticipation.
The sound grew closer.
Tim’s head turned instinctively toward the door as if by doing so he would somehow be able to see through the fabric that blinded him.
“You have my money?” A gruff, modulated, voice broke through the air.
Tim, unfortunately, recognized the voice immediately.
It was the Red Hood.
He was talking to the two men right outside the doorway; his voice gave away nothing, Tim wasn’t sure if the man could even see him.
Tim’s stomach clenched and he tried to force himself to relax, stretching his stiff fingers even as he wanted to curl them into fists.
“Ah,” a voice spoke. It was a new voice—It wasn’t the man from before. Whoever he was, he had taken charge now that Red Hood was there. “No, we-"
“No?”
Shuffling feet gave Tim little insight into what was happening, but Tim had no doubt that Red Hood had pulled his guns out.
“We have something better,” injected another voice. His tone was smooth and gentle as if trying to pacify the crime lord.
“Oh?” Red Hood’s curiosity had been piqued; Tim’s stomach dropped.
He knew where this was going, but God he hoped he was wrong.
Tim felt the rope loosening around his body and heard the sound of a small thump as it landed in a pile on the floor beneath him. The blindfold was untied and removed; Tim was forced into a standing position. One man on each side and another directly behind him.
“Boys, show our guest what we have.”
Tim neared the doorway and just as he was about to exit the room completely, he was shoved down—rough hands gripping his shoulders as his knees hit the concrete floor—in front of Red Hood.
“He’s the sole heir to Drake Industries,” it was a voice Tim recognized—the man from before who had attempted to reach his parents. “You could catch a pretty penny for him.”
The man crouched down to Tim’s level, gripping his chin for the second time that evening and forcing his eyes up to Jason’s. They met the red mask that allowed for no insight into the emotions of the man wearing it.
“Even if they don’t answer…” the man paused, running his finger along Tim’s jaw. “Well, let’s just say, he’s not too bad on the eyes.”
Tim forced down a grimace.
He looked away from the red mask. He couldn’t stomach watching the man he once looked up to remain silent as Tim’s fate was debated.
Tim wasn’t stupid.
He wasn’t hopeful.
He knew the man behind the mask wanted him dead.
Gone.
Killed.
Removed from Gotham.
Removed from Robin.
Tim knew that.
The last long interaction the two of them had was 8 months ago—at the Tower—an interaction that almost left Tim dead.
Since then, their fleeting interactions usually only came as they passed each other on rooftops or on the rare occasion Dick was in Gotham and had called for backup.
During those cold nights, when Dick needed help, Tim saw him; he saw Jason.
Not the old Jason—not some idolized version of a childhood hero—but just Jason, as he was now.
He was still just a child. Barely considered an adult—stuck in the grey limbo of uncertain time between the ages of 18 and 21. Not fully a man—riding on the cusps of teenager dreams and angst.
It was clear now, from afar, from safety, how young Jason was.
He seemed old when he attacked Tim in the Tower. An ancient force—someone who had been around at least twice as long as Tim had been alive—invulnerable and unable to be defeated.
But on those rooftops, he watched the bickering between him and Dick take place. He saw the way Jason would purposely leap from buildings, grappling at the last moment, just to annoy and worry the older man.
Tim could almost imagine the shit-eating grin displayed on Jason’s face as he did.
Jason was back, even if he pretended that the old version of himself, the caring, sweet, kind, and smart version of himself was gone—dead and buried—Tim knew it was all for show.
Tim watched as Jason would step in, risking death, to protect and fight alongside his brother.
He would flee soon after, but as each time came and went, he stayed for a few extra seconds longer.
There was no old Jason or new Jason—it was all just Jason and the man planning on sticking around. That much was clear.
It was also clear, that if Tim survived the night, he wouldn’t last very much longer as Robin.
There would be no point.
No reason to continue.
Jason didn’t want him as Robin and soon he would be no more.
Even if he did survive, his time was limited—shortened by Jason’s return to life.
It was bittersweet, but Tim would have accomplished what he set out to do.
He loved being Robin.
He loved coming back to a manor that didn’t feel like an empty graveyard.
He loved having people in his life that noticed him—saw him—even if it was just for a couple of hours each week.
If he died tonight, he would die alone—on the outskirts of Gotham—as his parents got tanned in some tourist city Tim didn’t know the name of.
He didn’t want to die alone.
The sound of laughter echoing jarred Tim’s ears. The men around him took great delight in his distress.
Tim kept his eyes firmly on the ground. He refused to look up—he refused to give Jason that. It was the only thing he had left.
“Right…” the mechanical voice drew out the word, weighing heavy in the air.
Tim hunched further into himself.
He didn’t know what was in store for him.
If he got lucky, and he rarely ever did, Jason would simply kill him.
But Tim knew better.
Tim was going to be tortured and then…
It didn’t matter.
His fate was sealed—something he had to reckon with as he felt Jason’s hand grasp his upper arm, pulling.
Tim tried to follow the motion on wobbly legs but stumbled, crashing into the larger man, pain shooting through his body as he did.
The arm wrapped tighter around him, pulling him closer.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
Tim lost count after the third shot.
“…kid.”
The same hand that had pulled Tim to his feet was now pulling him in the opposite direction of the room he had been held in.
Jason’s helmet was removed, showing the black domino and moving lips.
Tim tried to focus but it was hard, and everything hurt.
“…kid?”
“What?” Tim asked, finally able to catch up to his surroundings.
They were moving, heading towards the rooftop exit. Tim stilled.
He didn’t want this.
If Jason was going to kill him, he wanted to get it done and over with.
He didn’t want to wait and be tortured by the older man.
“Come on.” Jason pulled harder on Tim’s upper arm, but Tim remained in place.
“They won’t pay you.”
The statement stopped Jason’s insistent tugging. He kept his hand wrapped around Tim’s arm but didn’t pull.
“What?”
“My parents,” Tim clarified, looking around at the dead men that surrounded him and the red blood that tainted his shoes. “They won’t pay you.”
“They won’t- Tim- “
Jason was grasping for words that escaped him, seemingly not sure how to deal with the situation. Tim had expected that—he had expected his certainty regarding his parents' apathy to be off-putting—he knew how absurd the words sounded.
“I’m not lying,” Tim pushed out the words through his broken lips. “I promise.”
Hollow.
He sounded hollow and resigned.
He couldn’t help but wonder if his parents would attend his funeral.
Surely, they would.
But why did he not believe that?
What if they had an important work event?
Maybe Bruce would attend it.
If there was a body found.
He looked at Jason, not knowing how to ask that his body be left somewhere public—where someone would find him—without further escalating the situation.
He didn’t want his corpse to partake in a “heads in duffel bag” type situation but he wasn’t in a spot where bargaining was on the table.
He could beg.
But that would be pathetic.
If he spent his last breaths begging the man in front of him—it would be an embarrassing thing to do.
Damaging to the legacy of Robin.
But he wasn’t here as Robin.
He was here as Tim Drake, and he wanted to fall to the ground and beg that his body not be hidden or abused after his death.
The hand tightened around his arm and Tim flinched reflexively, trying to get away from certain death. Jason ignored it, pulling the younger man across the room and out the unguarded doors.
“Why wouldn’t they pay?”
Tim nearly tripped over his own feet, the warm Gotham arm hitting him in the face as they made their way outside.
“They don’t have cell service.”
A lie.
But it wasn’t like Jason knew that.
“Last I checked,” Jason said, pulling Tim into an empty alleyway near the building, “Ireland has fine cell service.”
What?
“What?”
Jason looked at him, still walking and tugging Tim towards a run-down-looking building, seemingly annoyed.
“The Republic of Ireland… has fine cell service.”
Tim nodded along as if he understood what Jason was saying.
He didn’t.
“They’re in Dublin; not any place rural,” Jason continued, “they have cell signal.”
Tim stared at the older man.
He didn’t know his parents were in Dublin.
The last he heard from them, they were in Egypt.
Granted, it had been three weeks since that conversation.
Still, Tim was slightly shocked to find out his parents' whereabouts through Jason Todd of all people.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Tim started grasping at reasons, unsure what Jason knew and didn’t know. He needed a way to explain their lack of response.
“They don’t pick up for unknown callers,” Tim forced out.
He didn’t know why he was still defending them.
They weren’t bad people, but they weren’t good parents.
Sure, they never hit him, but he wasn’t sure the last time they stayed home for longer than one random weekend every couple of months.
But just because they weren’t good parents, it didn’t mean they were bad parents.
They gave him so much freedom he was drowning in it.
They weren’t really his parents; they were just people he knew.
He knew better than to complain—others had it worse—but it was hard to let go of the bitter feelings rattling around in his brain and in his heart at the moment.
“They used your phone to make contact,” Jason pointed out, head moving as he took in the surrounding area.
Tim remained silent, unsure what Jason wanted from him.
If the man wanted to kill him, Tim wasn’t sure why he decided on this alley of all places.
It was nice—as nice as an alleyway in Gotham could be—but it still looked like all the other ones.
His eyes tracked Jason’s movements, the man had his eyes up at the skyline, as best he could.
He wasn’t sure what Jason was looking for or anticipating and he didn’t have to energy to care, but there wasn’t much else to do except wait to be killed.
The sound of feet hitting the pavement behind them startled Tim. He made to move, losing his footing as he did, tumbling into Jason for the second time that evening.
He heard the small sound Jason made as their bodies collided, but the older man stayed upright, hands coming up to catch Tim before he fell.
The sound of Jason’s helmet hitting the pavement barely broke through the muddled waters of Tim’s confusion.
Tim’s vision was blurry and if he didn’t feel like death, if his bearings were straight, he would be questioning Jason’s kindness.
“Hood,” a voice broke through the air.
Tim turned towards the voice, the movement causing him to lose vision for a brief second, and saw-
“Batman?” Tim asked, swaying slightly. Jason’s grasp on him tightened.
“Tim.”
Batman made to step forward, but the movement was met with a raised gun from Jason.
“You came,” Tim continued, ignoring the weird standoff he was in the middle of.
“Of course.” The words spoken came from Batman’s mouth but at that moment he was 100 percent Bruce Wayne.
Tim felt like crying.
Maybe he already was.
Bruce was there.
Tim didn’t care how or even why; he was just happy that Bruce was there.
“They could have killed him,” Jason finally cut in, voice sounding oddly strangled. “You would have been too late.”
No one moved.
The silence covered them all in an invisible blanket that tied their legs to the ground.
“Always too late,” Jason finally spat out, time unfreezing and the blanket unwinding as he did.
“Jas-"
“Save it,” Jason bit out, letting go of Tim but remaining close.
Tim wasn’t sure what to do.
It seemed he had left one mess for another.
At least this time he wasn’t tied to a chair.
“I have to go.”
And with that Jason was gone; his helmet snatched from the ground and placed firmly back on his head before he dipped.
Tim made to move when the ground beneath him started to shake. He felt hands come up around him, catching him before he could hit the concrete.
“Steady there,” Batman muttered, pulling Tim upwards.
“‘m confused,” Tim slurred, gripping onto Batman and holding tight.
“I know… I’m sorry.”
Tim just stared at Bruce—confused and unsure why the man was apologizing—not knowing what to say.
“I should have been faster-"
Tim waved his hand, dismissing the words. “At least you came.”
“Tim-"
“I’m serious, B.” Tim looked at the blurry man in front of him. “Thank you.”
“Of course, I came. You’re my-" Bruce cut himself off, gripping Tim tighter as he tried to decide what words to say next.
“You’re my son Tim, I’ll always come for you.”
Tim couldn’t stop the tears from falling down his face. He leaned into Bruce, wrapping his tired arms around the man.
“They ignored my calls.”
Batman didn’t seem to know what to do. He returned the hug, awkwardly patting Tim’s back in a way that made Tim smile through the pain.
The man was trying his hardest, and that was all Tim could ask for—it was more than enough.
Tim wasn’t sure how long they stood there, he wasn’t sure when or how they got to the Batmobile, or how long it took to arrive at the cave. Everything was blurring around him.
The exhaustion from the whole kidnapping ordeal had finally set in—seeping into his bones—and all Tim wanted was to nap for the rest of eternity.
Tim rolled over in the cot that he had managed to be wrangled into at some point: turning to face Bruce.
“You should talk to him.”
Bruce’s eyes shot up to Tim’s and then returned to the floor. Tim felt like a scolding parent.
“I know,” Bruce said, eyes still trained on the floor.
“I’ll still be here when you get back—don’t plan on getting kidnapped again.”
Bruce sent Tim a pained smile.
“I’ll talk to him,” Bruce promised. “But for now, I want to make sure you’re alright.”
“When?”
“What?”
“When will you talk to him?”
“Tim-"
“He saved me tonight…he could’ve killed me—he had several chances to do so,” Tim rambled, still shaken from the tango with death he had engaged in. “But he helped me.”
“Tim-"
“He doesn’t even like me, but he still saved me-"
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow, okay?” Bruce rushed out, stopping Tim’s rambles.
Tim smirked.
“Tell him I said thanks when you do.”