Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim watched solemnly as the water dripped down, staining the floor beneath him. Beyond the shadow his body cast in the dim overhead light, the border extended with each drop, the longer he stood there weighing his options.

It had been easy to enter the building. And now that he was standing there in front of the door, the only person who probably had any idea of what was going through him right behind one feeble barrier, he still found himself faltering. He still had no plan.

On his way there, he had informed Batman that the robber had gotten away during the chase. For a second, his breath had stopped when his report was met with silence, thoughts jumping to the man having figured him out in just a few sentences. And then Bruce had given a grunt, Damian in the background saying they had eyes on something, and the connection was cut off before more could be said. If Tim had been waiting for a final sign, this would have been it.

That had been twenty minutes ago.

Now he was in some run-down residential building ten minutes from the city’s centre, a place the CDC probably had flagged for contamination of unknown kinds. It looked even worse than he had in memory, if he was being honest. But in between having been shot and coming to terms with his apparent immortality (and who was he kidding, it had been less than an hour, there was no coming to terms)… criticising Jason’s choice of living space seemed trivial.

He wasn’t even sure if Jason was home. Hell, he didn’t even know if the number the teen had given him months ago was even real, or if he even lived here anymore.

“What am I doing?”

The walls stayed silent. As he spun around in the dark corridor, he mostly expected the roaches to reply. Maybe they could answer his questions about a resident. More absurdly, if he could use their phone to call the number just to make sure, now that his own battery had died. Or maybe, they would tell him to go to a hospital- because a kid who heard roaches talking and comes back from the dead was clearly not well in the head.

Jason giving him his number might have been risky, but it was Tim who had been an idiot not to tell Bruce. And if he didn’t figure out what to do within the next to minutes, he was going to leave, and none of them would be wiser.

But what else was he supposed to do? He stayed rooted on the spot, deeply aware that there was nowhere else for him to go. There was no way in hell he could simply go back to the cave and pretend that nothing had happened- and telling the truth? What are you supposed to do after you die? Because there was no other explanation, now was there? Bullet through the forehead, that usually equates death. And the blood.

The fucking blood.

He hadn’t even tried to wipe it off, pressuring himself to accept the trails of rainwater-metallic-nausea that clung to him as he forced his legs to carry him. Forward. Just to go.

If he had made his way to the manor, he could’ve never explained the state he was in. No amount of wit or quick thinking could undo his sad reality that he himself didn’t dare to think about. Luck would not have had him enough to evade everyone.

He raised his arm.

Underneath the door, a light turned on. The floor at his feet lit up like a halo, serving as a reminder that the longer he stood there, the more he dripped with the rain and blood mixture. Someone was home, then.

Before his short bout of determination could leave him, he sharply knocked three times and stepped back, unconsciously straightening up.

The ensuing lack of sound had him, despite knowing that it was stupid, considering that the inhabitant had simply not heard him and that, maybe, he should knock again even though there was a fair chance that a stranger was going to open the door for him. Quick, heavy footsteps grew closer, and in anticipation, Tim might have held his breath.

The door swung open.

“Hi,” he offered.

Jason, dressed in sweatpants and a grey t-shirt, stared back at him. He looked like he had just fallen out of bed, blinking into the dark corridor. When his eyes flickered to Tim’s hairline, his entire body froze. “What the fuck.”

“Can I use your bathroom?” Not the words he thought he would say first. But apparently, he looked like shit, or the other was more caught up in sleep than he let on, as he wordlessly stepped aside with his hand still holding the door as Tim stepped past him.

Uncomfortably, he looked down at the shoe rack. “Do you want me to-“ he vaguely motioned down, half-turning back.

“Uh. Yeah- just, no, it’s fine.”

Not having waited for his answer, he had already leant down to undo the zipper, wincing at the pull on his shoulder the motion brought. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Jason stared at him, before apparently remembering that the door was wide open, and it would be interesting to explain to a random passing neighbour why the Red Robin was taking off his shoes in some teen’s apartment in the middle of the night.

Not that Tim had cared about that when he broke into the building, but still.

“What happened?”

He stood up straight again. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Uh-First door on the right.” Jason blinked in surprise, before apparently regaining his composure. “You can’t just show up in the middle of the night like that. What happened?”

Choosing to ignore his line of questioning, he turned on the closest light switch, accidentally flooding the apartment, causing them both to wince. In another attempt, he successfully found the one for the bathroom, entering it quickly. Jason hovered by the door, while Tim pretended not to notice. The cramped room forced him to sidestep towels and what looked suspiciously like Red Hood’s get-up.

He eyed the single toothbrush laying on the edge of the sink. “They make holders for those.” He paused. “And it’s nearing four, so it’s not the middle of the night, really.”

Now came the dreadful part. He forced himself to stare down as he turned the faucet, not able to hide the shiver at the ice-cold water running over his scraped hands. He didn’t bother for soap yet, but still found himself glancing up by mistake.

Two sets of eyes were staring at him through the mirror.

Distantly, he was aware that he had frozen, the water continuing to run and filling the room with its splashing, while Jason leant against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching, just like the living dead had done this entire day.

(Like Jason had done, back when he had been dead.)

(A morning spent in the bathroom, trying not to have a breakdown as it dawned on him that he recognised Robin’s eyes from somewhere. The lights flickering as Jason tried to calm him down, when he himself clearly felt panicked at Tim’s reaction.)

Affirming his horrible discovery, there was no wound on his forehead. When he lifted his dripping hand, he pushed aside the blood-coated strands of hair. But even though he approximated the place the bullet had entered- he pushed the hair back, checking his entire hairline just to be sure- the skin was intact. Blood was smeared all over, mixed with tears and rainwater running down his jaw. He truly was a sight to see. But there was no entry wound.

With a final exhale, he plunged his head down, first hesitantly, then more roughly splashing water everywhere he could reach, his hands roaming through his hair in a feeble attempt of cleansing himself. It ran down the back of his neck, his body shivering. It hurt, but it meant that there was something colder than him, that the cold in his bones didn’t mean he was dead.

His own eyes met in the mirror, and he couldn’t help but glance back to find the previously occupied space by the door empty. He paused, listening, but there was no sound coming from further in the apartment. Confused, he shook his head.

If Jason had gotten bored of whatever he was doing here, then Tim might as well take his sweet time. And if it prolonged having to explain his appearance, well, then that was truly unintentional. But all of the blood was gone and after taking big gulps of water, there was very little to do for him to feign occupation.

For all he cared, Jason could be collecting one of his guns, and shoot him right in the head. He could almost imagine it, the almighty holier-than-though attitude that would shift into horror, when Tim would just – poof- plop up again like a dandelion from concrete. He winced. What terrible imagery.

But he couldn’t die. Or at least, he doubted that another shot to the head would do the trick. Even though he didn’t want to, he turned off the water, half expecting the other teen to dramatically clear his throat behind him, and to turn around and face his mortality the second time that day.

Alas, the bathroom was still empty, and as he peered around the corner of the door, the apartment seemed empty. It still looked like it had the last time- slightly messier, and the pile of books by the shelf had gained a few more hardbacks, but still familiar. Cautiously balanced, Red Hood’s helmet sat atop one of those piles, its side splattered with mud.

He let his eyes roam a little longer this time, noting that his assumption had been correct. Not only did Jason seem like someone without a social life, he probably didn’t seem to get a lot of visitors. But for someone who was an apparent crime lord with a, though rumoured more than factual, rising body count, it was impeccably tidy. The laptop and files littering the coffee table seemed more like a display than honest disarray.

Out of place was the lack of living dead.

But he barely had time to ponder that, as footsteps approached. He took another step forward just as the older teen rounded the corner. His gaze landed on the clothes in his arm and the folded towel he was carrying.

“Take them.” Before he could say anything, the items were shoved in his direction, held out in front of him like he was a stubborn horse refusing to eat. “Warm water runs out after ten minutes, so you better hurry. Put your suit next to mine, I’ll take care of it later.”

He almost felt bad for knowing that Batman and Robin might show up any minute.

“Thanks.”

Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom once again, damp hair dripping down onto the provided sweatshirt. He hadn’t dared to look in the mirror again but the water turning clear had given him enough confidence to pretend it was going to be all right. Unfortunately, it also meant that now he had to face his earlier decision-making.

Jason briefly looked up at him from his crouched position on the couch, giving no indication of any care in the world.

“I should leave,” Tim burst out, instead of a simple ‘thank you’.

Whatever had drawn his attention to the laptop, the other was now staring at him, his mouth uselessly opening and closing.

“I really should go,” he said this time, his mouth still clearly unable to formulate anything close to expressing thankfulness. If his parents were alive, they would surely have his head. “Thanks, I mean. But Batman could come looking for me any minute now and-“

“He’s busy,” Jason interrupted him matter-of-factly. He flexed his hand where it was hovering above the keyboard, then sharply jerked his head to the empty space next to him.

This was going swiftly. He was mentally thanking himself from earlier for thinking that this was a good idea. Now, he doubted that the implication of that statement was meant to be a threat, yet he had very little desire to stay.

Though there was no proper word to define whatever they had going on, some part of his brain was still seeing Jason as the threat that he was. And a threat that wasn’t intimidated by Batman was a dangerous one to be around. Not to mention, today was really not his day.

Not wanting to give in, but also not wanting to give his fearful hindbrain the upper hand, he walked over.

“So.” Jason barely acknowledged his refusal to sit, making no motion to even out their standing. The only betrayal of his emotionless façade was the rapidly bouncing leg. “What happened?”

He died. “Nothing.”

Jason’s expression didn’t change.

Feeling like his eyes were burning into his skull, Tim jerked his head to the side. He really should have left when he had the chance but now he had to stare at the chipping paint of the open kitchen. Still feeling the other’s eyes on him, he took slower strides toward the fridge, suddenly feeling very hungry.

As he paused for protest, he also noticed that there was a lone postcard from Blüdhaven, stuck there with a magnet. Deciding to investigate later, he opened the fridge, staring in disappointment.

“I wasn’t exactly expecting guests to come over," Jason's voice broke the silence.

He turned back around, mustering him, trying to find the non-existent tell in his body language that would betray the catch. “Why are doing this? I mean, why are you being so nice to me?” A part of him that reminded him of his mother chided him for his bluntness, but he’d rather know what was up than having to figure it out.

Jason glanced at him, then quickly averted his eyes. His right arm twitched where he had draped it over the couch’s back, his body half turned to him. “You look like shit,” he finally spoke, his words equally blunt as Tim’s thoughts. His lips pressed into a thin line, as if he wanted to say more.

If this was the best person he had thought to come to, then he was truly damned. Discouraged from scouring for food- which really was the best way he could describe this place-, he decided to take an interest in what Jason was working on. He walked back toward the couch, trying to make out the article on the screen.

The words ‘sighting’ and ‘violence’ caught his attention before Jason shut the laptop, putting it on top of the files, effectively covering the few documents that had lain out in the open. Once more, they seemed to challenge each other by staring.

Truthfully, he had no desire to figure out what the other was working on. Whether it was research for a nefarious scheme, scrapbooking for his crime wall of fame, or checking the daily mail, he didn’t care. But he had even less desire to discuss his presence.

“You’ve been-“ he vaguely motioned for the table- “keeping busy?”

Jason groaned, throwing his head back. “I swear to god, I think we’re past small talk. It’s for a case. Now, why do you turn up at my door at fuck knows in the morning, covered in blood? And don’t say it’s nothing, because I answered your stupid question.”

He felt annoyance flare up in his chest, his eyes narrowing. “Mugging.”

“Oh for-“

“I’m leaving.” They both spoke at the same time, different levels of exasperation clear in their voices.

Despite whatever was expecting him at the manor, he could- and would not- deal with Jason playing twenty questions with him. Whatever he might have thought would happen if he turned up here, he apparently failed to consider that greeting him would be nothing but a nineteen-year-old.

With quick strides, he made a beeline to his shoes, making it as far as to the corner of the room before a warm hand grabbed him by his biceps, the sudden interference in his movement making him stagger backward slightly. He whirled around, resisting the urge to punch Jason in the face.

His eyebrows were raised high, eyes wide, his mouth open as he seemed to try and put together whatever reason he was holding Tim hostage for- he looked desperate. So god-knows-why, Tim resisted the growing urge to take a swing.

“What did you do,” Jason probed, manhandling him so they were standing across from each other, his grip unrelenting. “How did you do it? You call me, and suddenly all the ghosts are gone- And then you turn up here with blood all over your face-“

With force, Tim ripped himself free, effectively silencing the older teen. Stepping back, he couldn’t help but stare at Jason, his thoughts racing as- just as he had thought- he seemed to have found the catch.

Awesome.

The implications that Jason had purposely ignored his calls- when Tim had been crying and in pain and just about losing it- and the fact that his concern stemmed from curiosity, that now Jason, too, could now not see any ghosts and thus assumed, once again, that Tim had anything to do with it. His care, his concern that seemed so uncharacteristic, was in fact, just that.

He had turned up with tear tracks down his face. Smelling of bile. Blood.

Just like at the warehouse, he seemed to see Tim as nothing more than a means to an end, and because of shock- or whatever he could blame it on- he had been too occupied to see the situation for what it was. (Or rather, he had taken one choice over the other, deeming Jason the better outcome.) Still, the realisation left him reeling, the silence between them stretching out as the walls absorbed their blow.

If he hadn’t shown up, he doubted that Jason would have even cared what had happened to him.

“Fuck you.”

He might as well have given in to the impulse to punch him, by the way the older teen flinched at his words. Suddenly, the urge to blurt out what had happened manifested, the imaginary satisfaction at seeing the shock on Jason’s face swelling in his chest the more thought he dedicated to it, simply because he could. Because he was here now.

“No-what-“ Jason attempted to grab him once more, but this time he twisted his body to the side, swiftly delivering a kick to the other’s groin. His fists already tucked, he forced his body into stillness, the other teen hunching over with a groan.  “What the fuck?” he hissed, looking up at him but making no move to get up.

You’re not supposed to punch somebody when they’re already down, but Tim was having a bad day. The brief surge of satisfaction flickered in his chest, egged on by the voice inside his head telling him to let go of the rules for a second.

He was aware that he could just leave now, could grab his suit from the bathroom and be out the door within seconds. That in that second he was thinking about the things he could do, he was already wasting time. He didn’t move.

Taking a deep breath, Jason slowly rose to his feet, Tim’s window of opportunity closing rapidly. His hands were held up defensively, as if still expecting another blow, when they both knew the moment had passed. “I probably deserved that,” he admitted, his voice tinged with a mixture of acceptance and self-awareness.

But Tim didn’t say anything. Whatever short bout of energy had caused him to fight now seemed to have left him. It wasn’t that he thought Jason didn’t deserve to get kicked again- he definitely did- it was that finally, his body seemed to give in, fatigue catching up.

And though he definitely should head back, he became aware again that being here was probably better than explaining how such a simple mission had failed, or why he hadn’t said anything. He definitely didn’t have the emotional capacity to sit through a lecture.

The time it took for him to assess that, the other teen observed him. Probably trying to determine the punch possibility. “If you came here just to insult me and kick me in the balls, why call me beforehand?”

He scoffed, annoyed at the interruption in his thought process. “I wasn’t planning on that.”

“Could’a fooled me.” He pinched his nose between his fingers. Pulled out of his thoughts, it reminded Tim oddly enough of Bruce. Jason hesitated another moment before declaring: “I’m making omelette.” Then, he turned on his heel, purposely not looking back at him, but still clearly tense.

Food sounded absolutely amazing. The nausea hadn’t left him, yet the thought of something as simple as eggs made his stomach rumble, and let him drop all inhibitions. If he took that invitation, who cared, but he stopped trying to convince himself that he didn’t have another option.

Ten minutes later, the two of them were sitting on the bar chairs, an omelette and two slices of toast on each of their plates. For the sake of peace, Tim had bitten back the fun fact that bread with just a hint of mold was entirely inedible, as Jason had deposited the other end of the loaf in the garbage. Now he took a cautious bite of his toast, skilfully chewing around the dough, pondering whether his possible immortality offered protection against food poisoning.

Jason hadn’t said anything, the only betrayal of his feelings being the small smile he couldn’t quite supress upon seeing Tim sit down to eat. Now, the teen was trying not to meet his eyes.

“It’s good,” Tim stated, breaking the silence.

Jason rolled his eyes, finally looking at him. “You don’t have to stroke my ego.”

“This is the worst thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“Well, fuck you too,” Jason retorted, pushing the eggs around on his plate. While cracking the eggs, he had taken a breath as if going to talk a few times but ended up not saying anything. They had been in companionable silence throughout the entire ordeal. Now, he seemed to have gathered his talking points: “Why did you call me?”

To be honest, he had expected Jason to lead with the question of showing up. He shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. And it still beats explaining the situation to Bruce.”

“The situation being?”

“I screwed up a mugging. The guy was on something, I wasn’t paying attention, the next thing you know-“ you’re dead, your body is as cold as a corpse, you are distantly aware that you are going to be the ghost at your own funeral and all your worst nightmares will have come true- “you’re on the ground and the perp’s gone.”

He became vaguely aware of the air entering and leaving his lungs, the cold sweat in the back of his neck.

“And the blood?” Jason pressed, dragging him back from the course his brain was taking.

He narrowed his eyes, careful not to let his expression betray his racing heart. “From earlier,” he replied, holding eye contact. Momentarily, he felt the urge to add something, to make his lie more elaborate- there was a car accident, he stopped a bleeding-

“You’re a terrible liar.”  Tim’s throat felt like it was closing up. “Don’t make that face. I don’t care what happened- tell me, don’t. But if you’re planning on showing up more often, at least have the courtesy to shoot me a text.”

More often, as in, again.

He saw himself as in third person at that moment, the way his shoulders dropped, as he realised something crucial. Jason was nineteen. Of course- he’d known that before, it was clear but- Jason might be an up-and-coming crime lord, was trained in about everything by Batman himself - but he also lived in one of Gotham’s most unfortunate districts, had no relations to any family, was legally dead.

He hadn’t given Tim his number because of some elaborate scheme or manipulation, or a way to keep him off-balance for later. That had happened before the living dead had disappeared. There was no trap. The apartment was bare of items, of signs of visitors- no indications of a social life beyond his vigilantism and the presence of the living dead.

Jason wasn’t just alone. He was lonely. And he saw Tim as someone to spend time with. Maybe.

And because Tim had frozen in the middle of that, he was now mustering him with narrowed eyes, the remaining food on his plate forgotten.

“I mean I called. Four times.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, before he jerked his head away to stare at his hand.

The odd number echoed in his mind, the band-aid trying to tear itself off the wound that was virtually non-existent by now.

Four times.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Jason offered, his voice laced with what sounded like genuine remorse.

It’s fine, he kind of wanted to say, it’s fine, like he’d said back at the very first funeral he went to, when the blood in his body had turned frozen solid at the sight of the only person staring back at him. His father hadn’t believed him, not really, and he knew he couldn’t fool Jason any more than he had his father.  

He still didn’t know what he expected. From the call, or showing up here. He still felt like everything was too much and like he was simply occupying himself with things in order to not be forced to deal with what had transpired.

They didn’t speak as they finished their meal, whatever rapport they had had earlier broken. The tableware scraped along and joined into the slowly rising symphony of city sounds. By the time they were done, dawn was colouring the run-down blue kitchen and yet neither of them mentioned it.

Leant against the fridge, Tim watched Jason wash their plates in the sink, a sense of unease creeping up on him. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d been in a similar situation with Alfred, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing around for another omen. But they were alone.  

“Why didn’t you tell B?”

He held Jason’s gaze, who paused in his actions, his hands still immersed in the water.

“I mean… You had my number, you clearly figured out my address. I wouldn’t put it past you to tell old Bats and take some revenge.”

By telling on him? He knew he should have. But…  Jason met his eyes unwaveringly. “They didn’t believe me that it was you,” he hesitated, which didn’t go unnoticed. “at the Tower. And then later, and then… they saw you and still didn’t believe it. So, when they finally couldn’t deny the truth anymore-“

“They cast you aside,” Jason finished for him.

He opened his mouth to defend them, but closed it again. The other had managed to kidnap him, and nobody had even noticed that he’d been gone. But Jason didn’t need to know that. He cleared his throat, his heart feeling like it might jump out at any second. Which was stupid. He was fine with it. But under the eyes of someone else- the eyes of the kid that had stuck around him so much he’d started to consider him a part of himself, he couldn’t bare it. “I was injured. I was… sleep-deprived, paranoid, jumping to conclusions. They had to assume I was wrong.” He should stop talking.

“You weren’t.”

“Yeah. So?” He clenched his jaw, his heart pounding in his chest. “You were nowhere to be found.” Desperately, he waited for the other to interject, to stop him from this rant that was slowly unfolding. Somehow, when they weren’t busy trying to hurt each other, he felt himself wanting to unload everything. But Jason patiently listened, his hands still wet with soap, the dishes forgotten. “I was mad,” he lamely finished.

Jason let that sink in, nodding as he turned back to his task.

Tim turned away. Whether it was the guilt of the admission, or because he needed to stop himself from saying more, he wasn’t really sure. But it was definitely the latter. The chair slid over the floor with a loud creak as he seated himself on the island once more, balancing his head on his hands.

He wondered what he was supposed to do now. Not now now, necessarily, but now in general. It seemed as if the past twenty-four hours had brought more complication into his life than Jason had within six months. Dead. He had been dead.

And sure, Jason seemed to have come back somehow. But he had been buried. Tim had kicked the bucket for less than ten minutes, and proceeded to cry about it seconds after. Their positions weren’t exactly comparable.
When Jason had died, the world knew- but technically not about Jason. They knew about the Robin that had died, Jason Todd- Wayne had vanished from the papers much later. A sad fact in and within itself. And yet he hadn’t been dead, not really.

Tim wasn’t haunting anyone. He wasn’t even dead, if the unusually high heartbeat and the breath inside his lungs was anything to go by. And even if he was, it ought to be ironic that he sought to haunt Jason this time around.

He didn’t know what to do.

“I used to hate you.” His head snapped toward the subject of his thoughts, who wasn’t even looking at him. The admission caught him off-guard. “This kid that doesn’t talk, now going after all these criminals that I’m supposed to be going after. And the problem is he’s good at it. Stupidly so. And I keep thinking that this is hell: watching someone else take my place and being forced to see them succeed.” He glanced at Tim. “You were thirteen being haunted by a ghost and I was jealous that you were risking your life for a man who couldn’t give less of a shit about you.”

That wasn’t right. He felt a surge of defiance. “He does-“

“He enabled you.”

“I chose this,” Tim shot back, louder. “He didn’t even want me to be Robin.”

Jason regarded him silently, his expression a mixture of sadness and resignation. He pressed his lips together before he spoke again. “I watched you go out every single night. Honestly, sometimes I wished you’d slip and crack your head open.” He gave a dry laugh. “Still hated you when I came back.”

He hadn’t even wanted Jason around back then. All his life, he had tried to ignore the lingering spirits, doing the most to not give them any false hope. It had been Jason who had attached himself like a leech. And for all he knew, Jason could have easily stayed away. He exhaled loudly through his nose, “You’re telling me this because?”

“Because you’re still that thirteen-year-old, except I don’t hate you anymore.”

Essentially, Jason had just told him that he’d wanted for him to die. And he told him that over a pile of dishes on a random morning, as if he was simply telling him about the weather or the newest episode of his favourite show.

“I’m the only one in your corner. Truly in your corner. And I think that we should work together.”

“Work together?” Tim echoed. Work together?

“I don’t want Batman on my case. We both don’t want the ghosts around. If we work together, we both get what we want.”

It was a sad sales pitch. Screw him being right, but the proposition annoyed Tim more than anything. He leant back, crossing his arms defensively. “And what if I don’t?”

“You’ve known my location and how to contact me for about two months now.”

A goosebump-like sensation moved through his brain at the hidden threat. “You’re trying to blackmail me?” He uttered in disbelief. Five seconds ago, he was told he was hated but also not, and now Jason was leveraging his knowledge against him. But also, what an empty threat.

(But was it, really? The tears of joy as they found out Jason was alive, the utter self-destruction that was trying to find him? The way Bruce couldn’t even bare to be in a room with Tim for more than five minutes. Couldn’t even look at him.)

“More like mutual interest.” Jason paused. “If you didn’t do anything, and I know for a fact I didn’t do anything, then I highly doubt that this is done for good. We could figure this out together.”

“So you quid- pro-quo your way out of this? I have as much information about the-“ he still didn’t want to call them ghosts, it just felt wrong- “the-“ he vaguely motioned around. “that situation as you, and I was managing just fine before you decided to show up. What makes you think I want to figure this out?”

The corner of Jason’s mouth twitched. “Because you’re dying to know how I came back.”

Chapter Text

Tim didn’t make it very far before a figure appeared in front of him.

With his arms crossed, already out of uniform and in pajamas, Damian scowled down at him from where he had previously been perched on the steps. “You’re late.”

“Actually I’m quite early,” he responded, the joke falling flat even before he had said it. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was closer to noon than midnight, and all he could think about was finally going to sleep.

Alas, it had been foolish of him to hope that he could simply slip into his bedroom undetected. There had been nobody in the cave, the manor lay in unusual silence. Maybe there was no benevolent god.

Damian didn’t move, eyeing him up and down- and Tim had never been this happy to not lack the foresight as to not change his clothes to his own when he had the chance to. His suit was still at Jason’s apartment, but that was a problem for a later time. All he wanted right now was to sleep and wake up to find that the past 48 hours had been nothing but a fear-toxin-induced nightmare.

“Could you move? I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now.”

The twelve-year-old stared at him with his signature blank look that could mean anything from disinterested to highly suspicious, yet Tim couldn’t find it in himself to care for what it was. But the kid didn’t budge. He only stared back at him.

Right as he had made up his mind to push him down the stairs, Damian scoffed, turning on his heel and moving out of his way without so much as another sound.

For a second, Tim remained dumbfounded, unsure how to categorise that interaction, before writing it off to Damian’s apparent lack of social skills. In quick strides, he made it to his bedroom, not encountering anyone else.

His sleep was worse than anything he’d experienced under Scarecrow.

It was cold.

Trying to get up, he found that there was an inexplicable weight sitting on his chest, holding him in place. The force was making it hard to breathe. When he tried to open his eyes, he found himself unable to, rooted in darkness.

He tried to remember where he was but his mind wasn’t cooperating. He wasn’t alone.

Loud, laboured breathing that wasn’t his own rose over the ringing in his ears just as he remembered that vital piece of information. The pressure on his sternum increased. But the breathing was coming from his right.

All he could focus on was that there was something he was forgetting. His memories weren’t serving him, and the knowledge that this was wrong seemed to consume him, along with the cold that had him paralysed.

He had to open his eyes.

In whatever bout of determination, he rolled his body to the side, the weight not leaving but shifting as if it came from inside of him. Something hard pressed into his side as he drew a ragged breath, coughing, the air stale like breathing in dry ice.

He was scared of what he would find. And when his eyes finally obeyed him, they snapped up to dozens of people, lined up around him in close proximity as if he was the main attraction in a circus. But none of them were looking at him. Their unified body not even swaying as they remained perfectly still.

There was a part of him that knew he shouldn’t look. His thoughts moving as through molasses, his eyes flickered to a woman in the crowd. She was different. Tears were running down her cheeks, her low murmurs transcending the silence but speaking in words that made no sense to him. She shook her head vehemently, her lips moving faster before she succumbed to a wail.

She too, was not looking at him.

Against every last logical thought, his head moved to the side slowly.

There was a boy.

With shaking hands, he rolled the body around, the wet familiar uniform cold to the touch. No sound left his mouth as he tried to yell for help.

When he woke up, he stared at the ceiling, his mind still reeling as the afternoon sun shone into his room. He hummed, just to make sure.

Sleep proved to be impossible after that. Every time he closed his eyes, he became convinced that he would not wake up again. He would pry them open and check his pulse and the time, getting more and more annoyed with himself as the cycle repeated.

After the fifteenth time he got up to go downstairs.

With every step he took, the sound of easy conversation grew louder, carrying through the lower floor as he followed it to the kitchen, where Dick was light-heartedly chatting along with Alfred. Brief dejection flickered in his gut as he paused, trying to figure out if he should be leaving. It passed, making way for a flicker of anger that pushed it aside mercilessly.

“Hey,” he greeted, pausing in the doorway just in time to see Dick’s smile falter, the carefree expression shifting into something a little bit more forced. On his own part, he barely managed to catch his jaw frown clenching.

“Hey.” Dick’s hand clenched around his spoon. “How are you?”

In the corner of his eye, Alfred shook his head, turning around to give them a sense of privacy as he made himself appear busy. And for a moment, Tim pondered whether the man had instigated this chance meeting.

He nodded absently, “Good. You?”

The smile was gone and the man was trying to not make any further eye contact. If it hadn’t been for the half-eaten bowl of cereal in front of him and Alfred in the room, he surely would have bolted already. “Me too,” he nodded, equally too much and equally too long.

It wasn’t Dick’s fault. Tim supposed that had he been put in his situation, he might also not know what to do with him. “How long are you going to stay on leave for?” But he was older, and therefore, Tim shouldn’t be the one trying to fix this.

Dick frowned, uncomfortably shifting in his seat. “Few more days?” he phrased more as a question than an answer, but Tim knew that two months was pushing it, and Dick knew that just as well. All the same, Dick wasn’t trying to explain himself beyond that, fleetingly mustering him up and down before silently resuming his meal.

Maybe a month ago he would have pushed the conversation, knowing all the ridiculous starters his parents had drilled into him when he was younger. He might have tried to fix this. But it seemed pointless.

To his right, Alfred was shaking his head, otherwise still having his back turned to them as he tried not to intervene. Tim had voiced that he had tried to talk to him, but it had always been Dick evading their conversation. Now, he didn’t even want to talk at all, even though the other was not going to leave. Maybe he had tried more for Alfred than for himself.

He shook his head, exhaling loudly. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and left.

In the middle of retrieving Jason’s things, the air grew cold. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the familiar sensation now filled him with a sense of foreboding. He froze, no sound coming from around him. It had been less than a day since they had been gone and it seemed like the spell was finally broken. He feared to find for what.

When he turned around he found the cave empty. After a few more seconds of checking the perimeter, he uneasily chalked it up to lack of sleep.

At around five, Tim was slumped over his homework for the day, the words bleeding into each other, his eyes threatening to fall shut as he turned another page in his economics textbook. He still hadn’t done a report on the previous night, there was still an essay due for in a week, and he was still about two days behind on work- and that was if he was being unrealistic.

But at least, he couldn’t think about what had happened.

Okay, that was the wrong way to put it. It was not thanks to an endless work ethic that had him too occupied to think about the events, it was that he couldn’t. Every time his mind wandered anywhere near last night, it came to a standstill, the events listed in order, but it wasn’t memories. He was detached from it, details becoming blurrier the more he tried to force himself to remember, tried to actually view what happened.

When he attempted to think back to how he had made it to Jason’s apartment, he came up empty. Everything that had happened was there somewhere but inaccessible to him. Scared of forgetting it, he had tried to focus on something else each time his mind went remotely close. A paradox in itself, but he feared losing that memory. And it probably wasn’t a good sign that his brain was blocking it.

On top of that, Jason. Or rather, whatever they had going on now. An hour ago, Tim’s phone had chimed and a message came in, but he’d immediately shut it off and thrown it somewhere on his bed so he could pretend it wasn’t there. Now, faced with the knowledge that there was no work getting done tonight, his eyes wandered to the piece of technology.

He sighed. This was ridiculous.

In a swift motion, he got up, fully intent on reading the message. But like a shadow in a forest, something caught the corner of his eye and his head twisted to the side to find himself looking for anything out of the ordinary. He came up empty safe for a low, pounding pain thrumming behind his temple. Nothing.

Maybe he was getting paranoid. He turned back to the search for his phone.

my place tonight, can you make it 10.30?

That evening, he sat down in the living room, laptop perched on his knees. The film started playing and he changed his position to sit cross-legged on the couch, intent on convincing himself that he was deeply invested in the movie.

He was not.

Unmistakably, there was no way that he was a meta-human, so a superpowered explanation for his not-death was nonexistent. It proved further impossible by Jason coming back to life, this time around with the ability to see ghosts.

Sure, on the off-chance that Bruce might have missed something on the other teen, it might be possible for him to come back with something. But not the thing that Tim inherently had, that was, as previously established, not meta. It was nearly impossible.

It might be magic. That was a horrifying conclusion he’d drawn a long time ago but discarded once he thought about the implications of his next steps for verification. He had decided that it was not that. Which left him clueless, pointlessly wallowing over what was probably the most traumatic thing that had happened in his life… yet.

Did this count as round two?

While his thoughts drifted off into absurdity, the main character was finally done with an outrageous amount of exhibition, right as a noise came sounded from somewhere inside the manor. He paid no mind, figuring it to be the building settling, or one of the Alfred’s. When the noise came again, loude this time, he stilled.

Another sound, a floorboard creaking somewhere deeper into the house, and he was sure that it wasn’t the cat. And it wasn’t Alfred either, who was downstairs in the cave, observing patrol. Which meant there was someone who wasn’t supposed to be there. Tim slowly put the laptop aside, the movie still playing as he didn’t want to alert the intruder that he had noticed him. Or to distract them- whatever case happened.

Quietly, he rose, his ankle cracking above the music from the speaker. He paused. And so did the intruder.

Then there was another creak, closer this time, and for the first time he wondered whether he was dealing with more than one person. His hand went to his back pocket, but he had left his phone upstairs. He kind of wanted to scream at himself for that.

With as much stealth as he could manage, he walked in the opposite direction. He figured that if the intruders had caught onto him, he would surprise them from behind. The downstairs looped if you went through the dining room and some spare rooms, and nobody locked the conjoining doors.

Putting his plan in motion, with every door he put between them his heartbeat calmed down, knowing that he was the one in control there.

He made it through a total of four rooms when he turned the key, stepped over the threshold, and looked right at Jason. Who loosely held a screwdriver in his hand.

“Do I wanna know what you’re doing there?”

“What the fuck.” The tension dropped from his shoulders, replaced with irritation. “Did you break in?”

“We both know the answer to that. Did you seriously try attacking me from behind? Without a weapon? That’s both smart and incredibly dumb.” He shrugged, pocketing the tool in the back of his jeans, sobering up. “Are you grounded?”

Granted, Tim was kind of impressed by the other’s lack of situational awareness. But also, he had enough of seeing his face for another while. So he marched past him, back to the living room to retrieve his laptop, pausing right as some character was being slapped across the face, the subtitles throwing him for a loop as to what the hell had happened in his absence.

This was so not happening. Jason followed on his heel, raising his eyebrow as he turned around.

“What.”

The other raised his hands in surrender, a smile playing on his lips. “Nothing.”

“Good.”

“Good.” Asshole.

“Fine,” he spat, effectively killing the mood for childish games. After a beat, he asked: “What are you doing here?” The ignored message on his phone came back to mind, and he almost slapped his hand against his forehead. “You can’t be serious.”

But sure, as he panned to the grandfather clock in the corner, the time was well past eleven. Which meant that Jason had read his silence as an answer, and still decided to show up. He suppressed the annoyed grumble, opting instead to start walking toward his room. Like a cat, he felt the other on his heels.

“I feel like I need to warn you that I broke into your room first,” Jason admitted and Tim mentally prepared for a smashed-in window, already drafting his explanation to Alfred.

They made it the rest of the way through the hallway, and he found the door cracked open slightly. Something he didn’t have a habit of. With resignation, he swung it open all the way, his eyes immediately falling to the mess below the window. Nearly everything that had previously been on his nightstand was now displayed across his floor as if it had been subject to a police search. The lamp was hanging onto its life by its cable.

“Sorry.”

Wordlessly, Tim let him enter, closing the door behind him. He considered knocking Jason out but thought better of it. Leaning against the door with his hands on his back and bouncing forward and backward, he watched Jason’s struggle.

He was awkwardly looking around, as if he was waiting for Tim to tell him where to go. Like he hadn’t been in this room two times too many. Then he flopped down at his desk, spinning the chair around so they were face to face. Tim waited for him to speak first.

Jason pressed his mouth into a thin line, blowing up his cheeks. “So,” he started, not continuing.

“So,” Tim echoed, mocking him for earlier.

Jason gave him a blank stare in return.

“I’m not grounded,” he started. “Not that you care. But tell me what you’re doing here or I won’t hesitate to call Dick.”

Momentarily, the threat seemed to stun the other. Though a second later it was replaced by a raised eyebrow, the teen leaning forward in the chair with his hands clasped above his knees. “I’m here because you don’t know how to answer your phone. Oh, and because I woke up this morning to a ghost with a bullet wound through his forehead practically re-enacting his death in front of me.” He wrinkled his nose in a nonchalant manner. “But how’s your day been going?”

“What?”

“What ‘you didn’t understand the question’ or ‘what the fuck is happening’?”

“A gunshot wound,” Tim repeated quietly, not really comprehending.

“Yes, through the forehead. Re-enacting it in front of me. Do you want that in written form as well or-“he paused, something in his expression shifting. “You okay?”

They were looking at each other, yet Tim could not have been more distant. He was aware of his breathing evening out, the muscles in his face relaxing, how he stared through rather than looked at. A layer of sweat formed on his skin mixed with a cold shiver. It made his skin crawl as his mind flashed back to the hard concrete below him.

Coughing up the rainwater in his lungs.

The blood on his hands.

The cold.

He blinked, unconsciously releasing the breath he had been holding. With unease, he counted the things in his room before he found himself able again to look at Jason. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“Where’d you go?” The tone confused him. Just seconds ago, he had been on the receiving end of passive-aggressiveness, now he was a startled animal, apparently.

“I haven’t seen anyone today,” he lied. Half-lied.

“Does this have to do with the blood on…”, Jason trailed off.

Tim drew a deep, sharp breath, fixing the other with the least emotional stare he could muster. “No offense but that’s none of your business.” The blood on his hands. “And if this-“ he gestured wildly between them, swatting away the stray thoughts- “is supposed to be a thing now, we need some ground rules.”

“Ground rules?”

“You can’t just show up in the middle of the night like that.”

How long would it have taken for anyone to notice that he was gone?

“What if it hadn’t been me downstairs. How would you have explained yourself to Dick? Bruce? Alfred?”

He should stop. There was a thin line he was threading, the balancing act becoming harder as the tension grew stronger, Jason’s jaw clenching and eyes hardening the longer he talked. But his mouth was running, lest his brain venture further down the road it was slowly tracking along.

“Your threat is empty and we both know it.”

The DNA matching. The relief on all their faces.

“If Bruce finds out you’re here, we are both fucked.”

Outside the window, an owl screeched and both their attention shifted to the still-ajar window. In quick strides, Tim was by his bedside, his back never completely turned to the threat in the room to close it.

Jason watched in silence. Like he had when he-

“What,” Tim snapped.

Just for a millisecond, it seemed as if the other considered saying something. Then he shook his head, the tension dropping from his body as he pressed his mouth into a frown.

“You’re unbelievable.” He was surrounded by idiots. Taking a deep breath, Tim let a hand run through his hair, sitting down on the bed and letting his head hang before looking at Jason once more in contemplation.

For some reason, everything in his life had gone off the rails. And he couldn’t help but find that reason in the person he’d admired for so long.

For fuck’s sake, Tim had died and nobody had noticed. What if he hadn’t woken up? What if that had been that? Out there was a perp who thought they had shot the Red Robin, who had gotten away with the money. Drugs involved or not, what happened would come back one way or another, even if nobody were to ever know about the full story.

It made no difference.

“Do you actually know why you’re back or are you lying about that too?” His voice sounded foreign to him. Maybe that’s what he was now: a foreigner in his own body. Up until now, people had descried him as assertive, self-assured. But now the pitch was low, and quiet.

Jason slowly licked his lips, taking in the still-present mess on the floor. “I’m working on that,” he muttered.

“Get out.”

Chapter Text

Somewhere in Tibet, circa nine months earlier

The man paced up and down the quarters, his hands clutched tightly behind his back as he processed the news that had just been given to him.

“It’s an odd appearance for certain,” he agreed to the woman in the room. She had her arms crossed, watching her father. “And there is no doubt it is him?”

She nodded, a stray brown hair falling across her forehead. “Yes. They say his hair has turned white.”

“And his character?”

“He seems unaware of who he is.” Licking her lips, she carefully voiced her next question: “Are you planning to interfere?” Despite the circumstances, there was someone close to her in Gotham, and there was a flicker of hope that she would be given the task to keep an eye on the boy.

The man paused in his motion and weighed his head from side to side. “If it is the city that has awoken him, then it has unleashed a curse on the planet. It might be wise to supervise his actions.” He raised his chin, regarding his only daughter in contemplation. “Would you see yourself fit to take on the responsibility of him?”

She hesitated. “What if it overtakes him?”

He had expected her question, the implications having run rampant through his mind as soon as the news had reached him. “His madness may affect him for hours, months, or decades. Should he lose himself to it, death might be a kinder fate.”

Gotham, present day

When Jason was gone, there was nothing to distract Tim anymore. He had closed the window as soon as he was out of sight, wishing for one brief second that he would return, but Jason didn’t even look back. If he had, he might have seen the man appearing behind Tim.

But Tim turned around on his own, his body tensing and blood running cold as he faced the intruder.

“Is this funny to you?”

There was no reason for alarm, as the man posed no threat. There was a lot of blood.

In a bout of annoyance, Tim turned his back to him, right as a wave of nausea trickled through him. He picked up the items that had still been on the floor, carelessly piling them onto the nightstand for a sense of tidiness.

The presence was still there with him.

An older man, about in his fourties. Ashy blonde hair coated in blood and dirt, scrapes along one side of his face as though he had been dragged. Tim had only gotten a short glance, but it had been enough to let him know that the man’s end could not have been kind. And yet it was hard to concentrate on his pity for him.

The odds of two dead men with gunshot wounds showing up were slim to none.

If this was the man that had appeared in front of Jason, then it brought on the question what his business was with Tim. Had he attempted to tell Jason what had happened? Was that the reason he had suddenly turned up, because Tim himself hadn’t told anyone?

Or maybe he was getting this wrong, and it really was a coincidence, possibly two different men. Unlikely, he decided, and with that, his need to figure out the truth was battling with every ground rule he had followed since he was a child.

If he interacted, the man would stay. But he had already asked him a question.

If he asked for more, he might find out if he had been following Jason. Yet there was a chance the apparition was just another poor soul that had taken a miserable leap for hope, and he was about to entertain that futility.

When he turned to ask, he was alone again.

The day turned to dawn until he finally made his way down to the cave, willing to put that night’s events to rest. Once he wrote down what had happened, he would make his words the new reality. And maybe one day, he might not even remember the truth himself.

But the words were not coming to him as easily as he had hoped they would. With every truth he put down, he inevitably came closer to the ones that weren’t. Every single letter, each page he filled out dutifully as always became shorter than ever, as if the document was conspiring against him as well.

According to his report, the night had happened as followed:

              There had been the robbery. He had intercepted, but the man had been under the influence of some substance. As he was about to take him down, he was attacked by a third person he hadn’t been aware of, due to the heavy rain. He concludes that he must have lost consciousness for a few seconds, enough time for both to escape with the money. He had spent the rest of the night trying to retrace their steps.

Tim frowned. Making a new reality seemed easy in theory, but he couldn’t help but stare at the holes in his story that glaringly stood out to him. Bruce wouldn’t question him, as Bruce couldn’t even look at him like he was a person. But the flaw in his narrative mocked him, its potential for disaster gnawing into his subconscious.

His chair gave a loud screech as it scraped over the floor. In his standing position, he stared at the words, immediately sitting down again to re-read his entry. He wanted nothing more than to go upstairs and forget, and the sooner he got done, the sooner he could pretend that none of this had ever happened.

But as he read his own words back, doubt started to form in the back of his mind.

The man must have clearly known that he had shot the Red Robin. If it wasn’t for whatever he’d been under messing up his perception, the quicker he was found, the more likely it would be that there would be residue from the gun on him. And if somebody searched the perimeter-

His breath caught.

…had there been a bullet?

He tried his best to remember, yet each attempt brought tears to his eyes and the desperate need to stop. There had been no exit wound on his head, though he couldn’t be sure of that. He hadn’t checked. And now that the blood was gone, there was no way of retracing the blood, so he couldn’t be sure that the bullet wasn’t still at the scene possibly coated in his blood and brain matter.

Distantly, he became aware that his breathing was becoming erratic. Each muscle in his upper body seemed to tense, along with a shiver running through his scalp.

By now, the police must have been alerted on the missing money by the bank. Someone must have been sent to the scene to collect evidence, while the security cameras on the ATM were requested from the servers.

He wanted to scream. The time he had spent trying to run, the time wasted being dormant had put himself at risk even more. Unlike anything he tended to pride himself on, he had let his emotions cloud his judgements, and now it was biting him in the ass, even if it had only been a few hours.

In quick movements, he sent the report and pulled up the police’ pending requests. With baited breath, he waited for the page to load.  

“What are you doing here?”

The curse dying in his tongue, he turned around. “Writing my report.” While he was answering, he minimised the window so that the other would not be able to glance at it. “Don’t you have homework to do?”

Damian mustered him for a few seconds, his eyebrow raised.

“What.”

“Simply here to retrieve my things,” the kid replied slowly, unblinkingly staring him down.

With practised ease, Tim suppressed the shake in his exhale as he nodded. “Go ahead.”

He waited until Damian was gone again, silently counting to three hundred fifty-four, to dare and turn back to his task. The knowledge that the other suspected something was up had second priority. Like last time, he couldn’t afford to wonder what he knew.

As he turned up the page once more, it took one glance to at least ease some of his worries. The bank had no security footage. According to the request form, the ATM had been up for replacement in a few days’ time, so they hadn’t bothered fixing it.

Which tied up that loose end.

Tim closed the window, the chair creaking as he leant back and considered his options. There was a possible bullet that might contain his DNA. It would be useless without anything to test against but would no doubt be flagged by the Bat-computers. Once that happened, it would be a race against time to either a) make the evidence disappear, or b) switch it out. Which would open another mess that allowed even more room for mismatched moves.

Then there was the witness.

Distantly, he was aware that he was biting down on his teeth, his face void of any emotion.

The stolen bills must have been identified, and unless the thief had been smart enough to distribute them as soon as the robbery had taken place, he would be flagged as soon as he attempted to pay for anything with them. A pack of cigarettes could cost him. Which would cost Tim, should the guy talk.

He glanced at the time at the bottom of the screen, his mind running a mile a minute trying to come up with a foolproof game plan. It had been twenty-eight hours and fifty-three minutes since the robbery had taken place.

He needed to find the guy before he talked.

It turned out that stopping the man from talking seemed easier than he had anticipated. At precisely 9.12 am, an anonymous tip was placed for Gotham PD that a man was found dead in his apartment.

Tim closed the man’s phone, staring down at the body. He had less than eight minutes to get out of there and hit his next step on the list. Slowly, he bent down to place the phone next to the man, remaining in a squat as he let his eyes roam over the apartment once more.

He had found him, Terence Watt, as it said on his driver’s license, by word of mouth. Turns out the man had been record-breaking stupid, throwing around the money like it was Christmas to anyone who came across him. Sputtering nonsense, clearly being under the influence.

But the closer he got to the man’s residence, the stronger the feeling of being followed grew. Since it was daytime, he couldn’t just jolly about on the streets, so he had taken to the rooftop route. Which usually meant there were very few civilians around. And yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that his gunshot victim was following him.

The bag that had been used to rob the machine was sprawled out on the kitchen counter, along with countless expired prescription bottles, all under different names. Part of the money had been taken out, the other still mindlessly shoved in the dirty material.

He had seen the body before he saw the man. And while he had gone over to check for a pulse, he had watched Terrence Watts standing by the counter, shouting at him and trying to thrash around his loot. One of the bottles had fallen down, and Tim didn’t manage to suppress the flinch at the gun-shot like sound.

Now staring down at his body, the eyes opened in what seemed like surprise, he couldn’t help but wonder.

From the corner of his eyes, the spirit of Terrence Watts had collapsed by the door and was silently weeping as he seemed to grasp the reality of what had happened. In death, he seemed equally close to the grave as he did a mere day before.

How long the body had been there before he had discovered it, Tim didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. But it meant that he wouldn’t talk. Without a witness, there had been no dead Robin. Check two down his list. Maybe he should feel sorry for him.

He bent down to close the man’s eyes and mumbled a small apology. More to the man in the corner than the body, but his sentiment would be known to nobody anyway. And it wasn’t his fault he was dead. Maybe he was. Had he not been this sloppy, the man might have been in custody as whatever killed him happened and might have been saved. Or Terrence would have attacked an officer, another would have drawn a gun and shot him.

There was very little virtue in speculating on what could have happened. And it didn’t bring him closer to saving himself.

Tim stood up, his ankle cracking lightly while Terrence Watts hollowly stared at his body on the floor, his skin an ashy tone that matched. Tim wouldn’t be able to help him. He doubted there was anyone that could. So he averted his eyes, trying to make out the location of the gun.

Technically, there was no need for him to collect it, now that he knew nobody would tell who had been shot with it. But should the bullet still be there, and the gun be found and brought in connection to it, his dilemma with the other Bats would start. At the same time, should there be no bullet and gun residue on the man’s hands but no gun, it raised questions all the same. At least it would be questions that wouldn’t concern him.

That was as long as the potential bullet had not been found already.

Moving back toward the bag, Tim rummaged through the compartments with his hands sweating underneath his gloves. A quick glance toward the time confirmed that he had about two minutes before the police would arrive. With every empty space, the fear of the weapon having been discarded grew, and his movements became erratic with it.

One of the prescription bottles fell onto the floor, and Tim recoiled, stepping back from the island with his hands reaching toward his staff. Heart thudding in his ears, it took him a second to realise what had happened. He stared down at the bottle, rolling across the scratched-up vinyl flooring, and knew that he had to get out of there.

So, without another glance to the room’s other occupant, and with no choice but to leave through the window, he hit his next stop.

His heart sank the closer he came to the location, the night’s events curling around him like a mist meant to suffocate him. With every cat behind a dumpster, every faint yell from the distance or a siren mixing into the cities chorus,  his pulse shot up, sweat dampening his forehead and itching underneath his mask. All the while his body rebelled, as he had forgone eating that day yet felt nauseous all the same.

On the walk - because he couldn’t run, not when he was risking seeing his stomach contents once more in a 48-hour frame- he went back and forth wondering whether it had been a good choice to leave the gun behind.

There was no guarantee that he would be in the clear should he find a bullet. Neither would he be so if he didn’t, if just for his own conscience that would eat at him from inside.

In three more days, Barbara would be back from her extended stay overseas, and that would mean another pair of watchful eyes on him. He might have managed to evade her so far, but his DNA would be enough to set her on his trail.

He simply had to stay a step ahead.

With a last deep breath, Tim swung himself down the same fire escape he had used last night, the rusty metal seeping into his gloves and stinging in his nostrils as he descended. His boots crunched heavily as he swung down.

He nearly expected another cat in the distance, or to find someone loitering on the street, but he was by himself. Eyes trailing along the concrete, his body involuntarily stilled. A few metres from where he was, his body had been.

His hands went to his pulse without thinking. Mind flashing back to his nightmare, he paused inches from his skin. It was stupid. He was breathing. He was alive.

Forcing his feet to obey, he deliberately tried not to assess the rest of the scene, the police tape haphazardly flung about telling him enough about what he needed to know. They had already been here.

Slower than before, his eyes scanned the concrete, each stone and pebble carefully skimmed over as he searched for an indication of where he had been. Where his body had been. Somewhere in a five-metre radius was where he had taken his last breath.

He was breathing. He was alive.

And somewhere there must be evidence that it had happened at all. Yet there was not a single thing. No bloodstain, no scrapes, no glowing arrow pointing toward the only piece of evidence that had the potential to damn and save him simultaneously.

He stared at the slot of concrete that was indistinguishable from every other part on that street, any other identical one spread throughout the city. Somewhere in this sea of grey was supposed to be evidence. He was supposed to find something that would ring true and work it out from there.

His breath was starting come in quick inhales, but it wasn’t sadness that had him tight in his clutches. He was breathing, he was alive, it was him that was breathing and it was him who was alive.

Anger was thrumming on the temples of his forehead, his thoughts zeroing in on his plan failing at something he hadn’t had control over.

Did the police find the bullet before he had gotten to it and could they, now that they had the suspect, bring it in connection to the weapon? Would his choice to wait, his order of operation, throw out his only chance of keeping this to himself?

His upper body vibrated with fury with every long exhale he forced himself to make. He was breathing, he was alive, he was breathing, he was alive, he was breathing therefore alive, alive and-

It wasn’t his fault. All of this wasn’t even his own fault and yet he was the one who had to make sure that it wouldn’t certainly and irrevocably fuck him over for good. Screw explaining that he could see dead people, try explaining you died yourself.

With an un-accounted for weapon and bullet that might contain his DNA, his earlier report would put him in jeopardy. An action he had taken in thought that it would help him now falsified his statement and made him untrustworthy. Yet another wrong choice.

If there was even any doubt, B would not hesitate to investigate this himself. And if he dared to do so, he might come across another secret Tim had kept in the blindness of his own negligence. Jason. The only other loose end he had to tie up in order to keep his own secret.

Not even a proper plan in mind, he started heading toward the way he had apparently memorised, even though he had zero recollection of how he had managed the last time.

The apartment complex looked worse in the daytime but he couldn’t care less. The paint cracked along the railing, a tenant stared at him with eyes wide as saucers as he stomped up the stairs in pursuit of his next target.

Had he formulated a plan in the time it took him to get there? No. Was he under the impression that he had any chance to truly get Jason to shut up when his best chance would be to gaslight and deny should it ever get that far? Nope.

Arriving at the door, he briefly considered kicking it down, his newfound frustration weighing against his lack of sleep. But then reason crept into his train of thought, and he opted for hammering against the wood in three loud bangs that went unanswered.  Reminded of that night, he refused to wait in the hallway like the castaway mistress, and made quick work of the lock, granting himself access quicker than he had probably ever managed to.

The door clicked in place behind him and he stilled. There were no noises apart from his still-elevated breathing, nothing coming from deeper in the apartment, which meant that Jason wasn’t home.

Involuntarily, Tim’s shoulders relaxed, the fight drained from them as he realised that the subject of his determination was not even there to receive the blow. Not that he had had any idea what he was going to do.

But his anger had left simultaneously, leaving him to crash down on an emptiness and the realisation that he had just potentially jeopardised himself even more. He cursed. Loudly.

So with nothing left to do, and the desire to go back home even smaller, he advanced through the apartment, finally having the time to look at anything through the daylight. The bathroom was empty, his suit hanging above a laundry line by the washing machine. Experimentally, he felt the material, and decided that he would take it with him as he left. He was briefly surprised that Jason had indeed taken care of it.

As he exited the bathroom, he finally took the time to take in the piles of books that seemed to be breaking the fragile bookcase they were partially trapped in. Most of them had stickers on them from charity shops, proclaiming fifty cents or less, their spines broken and edges flared. Others were obviously newer, bought full price and published within the last year, but they were few.

His interest was satisfied and Tim’s eyes swept over the living and kitchen area, his newfound object of curiosity lying in the only room he hadn’t been in yet.

Walking to the right, he took the door at the end of the room, carefully cracking it open as it revealed mostly darkness. His hands roamed for a light switch, stance widened in case Jason was unexpectedly home, but once it came on, it revealed just a bedroom.

Tussled sheets, case files and even more second-hand books piled on a nightstand made off of a wine box. A dresser went along the whole right side of the room, a dead plant in the corner next to the window. No clothes were strewn about, and a glance under the bed revealed that there was no murderer hiding underneath. Just like the rest of the place, it was neat, even the chaos seemingly practically arranged.

Tim turned around and shut the door behind himself. Outside the bedroom, he paused, taking a deep breath. He had no business snooping around Jason’s place. And that was when he saw movement.

Immediately ready, the Bo staff was in his hands before he had clocked the person, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as it was not Jason that was there with him.

Her hollow face staring at him, the thin strands of hair willowing in a non-existent breeze, the woman’s pale lips slowly morphed into a grimace that might be mistaken for a smile. It revealed yellowing teeth, and skin cracking along the edges of her mouth.

In horror, Tim stared at the very first undead person he had ever seen.

She stretched out her hand toward him and he stumbled backwards. He couldn’t look away, not when her appearance was downright impossible. The last time he had seen her had been more than a decade ago, it couldn’t- She made a step forward and he fled into the sanctuary of the bedroom.

Slamming the door behind him, he uselessly looked around for anything that might help him barricade himself in, when he knew that there was nothing that could stop her from entering should she desire to do so.

It wasn’t possible.

Yes, he had seen her then, back at the funeral, but she had vanished. She had never shown up, had never made a peep and she hadn’t looked like that.

His staff clattered to the ground as he tried to lock the door with one hand and he nearly let out a wail in desperation.

She had died of a heart attack. When his father had guided him toward the open casket to say his goodbyes, she had looked like she was simply taking a nap. She didn’t look like… like the guy that had been at Jason’s apartment after he had kidnapped him.

Slowly, he put down his weapon.

The man had made no movements to hurt him, and neither had she seemed to. Replaying back the interaction, he supposed that she might have been happy to see him. It might bring him closer to finding out what was going on. It might be the dumbest thing he’s ever done. He reached for the door handle, mulling over whether he was seriously about to do this.

But as he tentatively stepped outside, he found himself alone again. Deciding to fuck everything and run, he grabbed his suit and left, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Tim?” When he reached his room, Dick was leant against the doorframe, his arms crossed. Seeing him, he bounced away from it, uncertainly looking around. “I was hoping we could talk.”

He had half a mind to shout at Dick for having the nerve to show up at his room now. “About what?”

The sight of his distant aunt had him still shaken up, along with his failure to locate anything. Arriving at the cave, he had put in an alert that would be sent to his phone should there be any mention of a weapon or evidence in the case from the police. That had been all he could do for now, along with erasing his activity on the computer.

Not for the first time that week, he had expected to finally get some peace.

He pushed past his brother into his room and swept it for anything out of the ordinary that would alert him. Behind him, Dick left the door open, uncertainly coming to a halt in the middle of the room. Not that Tim had invited him in, but he supposed at this point he might hang up a ‘free vacancy’ sign.

“I talked to the chief earlier. I’m going back to Blüdhaven tonight.”

Tim paused, uncertain how to reply. “Good for you.”

Dick squared his jaw, searching his face for something. But Tim didn’t give him the satisfaction, having expected this to happen soon. He hadn’t expected Dick to come and tell him himself, more something along the lines of leaving without telling anyone apart from Alfred.

“I’m…“ Dick groaned, blowing a raspberry. “Can we sit down?”

Tim motioned for his bed, both of them sitting down next to each other. He folded his hands in his lap, his back straight as he waited for what he knew was supposed to be one of Dick’s ‘talking it out moments’.

Not that there was anything to talk out.

It had been half a year since they had anything remotely close to a normal conversation, ever since Dick and Bruce had thought he was crazy for thinking it was Jason at the Tower, and then later when Tim had tried everything to prove it and got Dick to play protector over him. Not that Dick had believed him either.

And with everything else that was going on, it kind of felt like too little too late. Not to mention, he really, really wanted some peace.

“I know I’ve been a shitty older brother to you,” Dick began, kneading the skin of his hand, “and I know this apology isn’t going to fix anything and I understand if you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You should be.” Dick fixed him with a stern look that faded into remorse. “And I wouldn’t hold it against you. God knows I’ve caused B white hairs for less. I know it’s not your style- it’s not anyone’s style in this family- but I’ve talked to Leslie and she knows someone you could talk to and-“

“You want me to go to therapy,” Tim repeated.

“I want you to have someone you can talk to,” Dick fiercely clarified. “Because you definitely aren’t talking to any of us.”

Tim’s eyelid twitched, disbelief at the accusation – that did ring true -  clear in his body language. Before he could stop himself, he hissed: “And why do you think that is?”

Dick recoiled, his expression falling. He shook his head. “Tim, that’s not…”

“I tried talking to you, okay? I brought you undismissable evidence, and yet-“ he huffed out a humourless laugh- “You expect me to talk to you when Bruce can’t even look me in the eye, Damian hates me as much as he always has, and you keep switching between avoiding me and overcompensating for pulling the same shit with Jason.”

He catalogued the twitch in the other’s hand, deciding that he might as well sever all connections he had left. “I’m not going to therapy. I’m not talking to anyone about this, about anything. It’s my fucking problem and I can deal with it on my own.” He nodded. “You can leave.”

They stared at each other for another second, then Dick put his hands on his knees and stood up. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Dick crossed the room in quick strides and paused with his hand on the door right as he was about to step over the threshold. “You can talk to me if you need to. I’ll at least listen.”

He died without anyone noticing and now he had to act like it never happened while everything was falling apart around him but hey, he was dealing with it in a happy and healthy way, so it was alright, right?

“Bye, Dick.”

“Love you.”