Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The second Tim hears about what happened, he rushes to the hospital, but he’s still too late. Greeting him is the entire rest of the family, staring as he bursts into the room, everyone crying except for Bruce, who he’s pretty sure can’t, and Damian, who takes after his father in the worst ways.

“Is he awake yet?” Tim demands, his heart pounding still from his desperate sprint from the parking garage.

“He’s not out of surgery yet,” Stephanie responds, voice desperate with her anger, and Tim blindly wishes he could fix it.

Bruce turns towards him, something broken in his eyes, and Tim knows that if Jason dies here, his father will not survive it. “The doctor said there was a good chance of full recovery.”

Out of habit and practice, knowing that spoken language was still difficult for Cass sometimes, Tim had positioned himself in such a way that he could see their hands if they spoke. It is this that allows him to see them sign, He was lying.

There is a moment of silence, to allow Tim to respond. How is he supposed to respond to this? He wishes Dick were here, because his brother would have known what to say. He wishes Duke were here, to calm the ratcheting tension in the room. He wishes that Jason were here, completely fine, even as Tim thinks about him in the same category as the dead. It is the five of them, now, separate from the three, staring at the door, the five of them that are still alive.

“Do we know–” Tim begins to ask, cutting himself off before the question could be answered. It is not the place for these things, these work things, in this hospital lobby, where other sick and worried loved ones waited for news of their own. Tim will have to wait, and find out later, and rid himself of the distinction between himself and the vigilante; he knows that any answers about Jason are worth tearing down the mental wall he had crafted slowly, carefully, right under Bruce’s nose. Tim is one of the world’s best detectives, if not the best, although Bruce claims to hold the title. He was not the one who figured out the identity of Gotham’s mysterious Knight, or Smallville’s shining hero, nor was he the one who once fished a man out of time, nor was he the one who orchestrated the single-greatest heist / con that finally took out the Black Mask. That was Tim, who was planning to separate himself from the Hero world entirely, who had been discreetly drafting his Letter of Resignation to submit to Bruce because he thought it would be funny.

Tim, who had a brother lying in surgery, attacked as a civilian when the entire world adored Jason Peter Todd-Wayne.

And it will be Tim who figures it out.

He paces the room, and can see Stephanie’s shoulders rising every time he passes her, and to her credit she lasts about fifty paces before she finally snaps, “You doing that isn’t going to make it go any faster.”

“I’m thinking,” Tim properly snaps back, biting with the force of a wild dog that has been cornered.

“Think somewhere else,” a third voice pops in, unexpected from Damian, who had remained silent until then, and Cass reacts like this is the first time he’s spoken all day. And when Damian speaks, in a nonverbal episode, they listen, and so Tim walks out into the hall, Stephanie following after a moment.

She watches him carefully, making sure that the wilderness in his posture has vanished, giving him a moment to calm. He starts pacing again, just to piss her off. “I didn’t mean to kick you out,” she says, and it’s hard to remember that Stephanie is grieving too. She never did manage to hide it well, and it shows in her face, her shoulders, the worried creases around her eyes. She’ll get wrinkles, eventually, if she keeps frowning like that, and Tim will too, and their faces will grow old and creased, a paper that’s been folded with too much force. Dick died far too young to get wrinkled. Dick was twenty nine, and right now Tim was twenty seven, and in two years he will have to deal with the fact that he lived more life than Dick ever did. Jason is twenty nine, too, and Tim wonders if there is something about the age that is cursed. If Dick left something behind, when he died, and now none of them will live past it. If sometime in the next two years Tim should expect to die too.

“What do you want?” He asks her, too tired to voice his thoughts, but something must leak through because she sighs, and leans against the wall, and puts her head in her hands.

“Everyone knew, didn’t they? Everyone except for me.”

Tim knows exactly what she’s saying, though he wishes he didn’t— it’s true, though, that there’s been some silent agreement between the four remaining kids, that Jason would be the first one to— to make a mistake, or be sloppy for one second too long, or have something happen to him, where his would be the next funeral they attended. At least, Tim thought it was an agreement, but the devastation in Stephanie’s features makes him reconsider. Tim wants to start pacing again, his body antsy with the tension of the room. He settles for cracking his knuckles, instead, and his lack of answer is confirmation enough for Steph, who sighs again.

“I’m gonna take Damian home,” she says, turning to walk back into the hospital lobby. She pauses, right before the doors, and looks back at him. “Call me?”

“Always,” he promises, and he even means it this time.

He takes another second, out in the hallway, to just be alone. These next few weeks are going to see him surrounded nearly every second, and so he allows himself just a moment to just be alone. And then he walks back into the room.

It's just Cass and Bruce left, both staring at the door they were earlier, presumably the one that Jason was behind. Bruce looks even stiffer then he did before, and Tim hopes he wasn't too pissy with Steph. Looking at him now, at his hair that has started to turn white, he just looks old, and tired, and run down. Whatever's happening in his head, it's enough to push past any sense of the self-control Bruce normally has in public. Tim wouldn’t be surprised if Bruce was disassociating, on some level, it’s clear that he doesn’t want to be here, with Jason in surgery. Or if he had to, if Jason was doomed to the smell of antiseptic, then Bruce would want to be in the darkness of the Cave, the place he’s most comfortable, and there’s something to be said about that.

Cass turns to him, when he enters, and from the look on their face it’s clear that they are almost at their limit as well, and he tilts his head, another firm promise, and they tap Bruce on the shoulder, expertly bringing him back to reality. Bruce draws in a sharp breath, glancing between the two of them, drawing the same conclusion. Cass smiles, then darts towards Tim, pulling him into a tight hug.

"I'll be back soon," they whisper in his ear, and Tim clings to them like a lifeline, burrowing his face in their shoulder to try and cover up the tears that well in his eyes.

They pull away, after a moment, and Tim reluctantly allows them. "Be safe."

There's another smile, quick and pained, and then they're out the door, and it's just Tim and Bruce left in the waiting room. Tim walks over, standing next to Bruce, who still hasn't moved.

It's completely silent, between the two of them, the way it has been for months. The way it's silent between two coworkers who catch each other outside the office. He had seen comfortable silence, had even seen Bruce share it with Damian or Cass, but they never had that type of connection or relationship. He's had years to be angry about it, bitter about it, and now all that's left is a dark resignation. Just as known as Jason's fate, they were all aware that Tim was different. He had parents, and they even loved him sometimes. Never enough to stay, but it’s alright. They had a job to do, and above everything else Tim can understand that. After all, Tim was only Robin in the first place because there was no other choice. It wasn’t a choice, either, when it was taken away. There’s something dark in him, that is still bitter about this.

But it's not his place, to be upset. Tim was never really a Robin, not in the way that the others were. He wore the cape and the colors, he pranced around rooftops, he certainly got beat up enough to fit the bill, but he was never a true Robin. The others chose it, out of a desire to make the world better, to fix the wrong they saw, like they had any chance of scrubbing the grime completely from Gotham’s streets. Tim… signed up. Robin was a job that had to be done, for him. It was never– it gave him the best years of his life, but it also was the reason for the worst ones, and he’ll never be able to fully separate the cape from the hurt behind it.

Tim was never really a Robin, and he never really connected with Bruce beyond WE, and if Jason dies now then the fragile bridge between the two of them will have snapped altogether. It’s Tim’s fault, for the way he couldn’t stand to look Bruce in the eye after Dick’s death, for the fact that he moved out of the Manor and almost cut all familial contact. Tim has really only known Bruce as a coworker for the past five years, and so it’s silent between them. The main thing about Tim, though, is that he’s smart, and he knows that this is a situation that requires Red Robin, and he will put on the mask because it is needed, because that is what he has always done.

Bruce draws in a breath, getting ready to say something, but his mind changes halfway through, and he falls silent again. Tim waits, solid and steady, easily falling back on old routines. He wonders if Bruce just wants to be alone, if that’s what Cass picked up on, or if he just wants Tim to leave, specifically. Tim is not leaving, not until Jason is stable, but he moves away from Bruce’s side to sit in one of the hard plastic chairs, making his presence smaller, and hopes that it’s enough to keep him here.

He pulls a leg into his lap, fiddling with his shoelaces, trying to keep his hands busy until he eventually gives up and starts chewing on his nails. Jason was the one to buy him that bitter nail polish, the one that worked a little too well, but Tim had lost the bottle last year, and the habit has come back with a vengeance. There’s nothing to do except wait, and think, and wait. Bruce doesn’t say anything. Neither does he. He bites his nails down until he tastes blood. Waits some more.

Cass does come back, eventually, with three coffees, and Tim takes one gratefully, downing half the cup in one sip. It’s probably only going to serve to make him more anxious, but he doesn’t particularly care, because the drink is at least some form of distraction. Cass grabs his hand, pulling it up to examine his nails, and frowns at him when he jerks away.

“I’m fine,” he says harshly, shoving his hand in his lap. He takes another forceful sip of the coffee, and they move on, lips pursed. They talk with Bruce, in silent, hushed tones, until the doctor enters the room, and beelines for Bruce.

He’s a skinny man with hardly any muscle, wire rimmed glasses sitting crooked on his face. Probably not a threat, but Tim isn’t ready to rule anyone out, just yet. Bruce stands up straighter, his hands gripping the paper cup, and Tim rockets over, hoping for good news.

Jason was stable, they said, he’s lost a lot of blood, and he’s asleep, and they don’t know when he’ll wake up, or if he will wake up at all. But he’s stable, and they can go see him now.

There’s no discussion between them, because of course they want to go, and so the doctor leads them through what feel like hundreds of twisting hallways until finally they enter a room that makes Tim want to throw up. Lying in the hospital bed, with far too many tubes and wires sticking out of him, is Jason, Tim’s brother, small and pale and weak. He’s never seen Jason look so weak, before, had somewhat thought it impossible. Cass stumbles forward, their eyes widening, pulling up a visitor chair directly next to the bed. There’s soft voices in the background, as the doctor talks to Bruce, but Tim ignores them both in favor of staring at Jason. He’s angry, he realizes, furious at whoever did this. A little scared, too, his heart pounding even now, scared and angry enough to do something desperate.

Cass can see it, when he moves over, taking Jason's hand, which is just warm enough to remind Tim that he’s alive. His sister reaches up, their fingers gently tracing Jason’s jawline until they come to a rest at the pulse point on his neck, and Tim realizes that they're crying, and something dries up inside of him in turn, until he just feels numb. Tim lets go of Jason’s hand, because he would never tolerate it if he were awake, and steps back.

Jason’s alive, that’s the most important part. But now that’s been settled, it’s Tim’s job to fix the next thing, and do what little he can. Someone’s got to figure out why Jason was targeted, and Tim has been that someone his whole life.

“I”m gonna call Steph,” he says, because that will make Cass let him out of the room, and he wanders away, until he’s out of sight, and then his steps turn purposeful, until his feet take him out of the hospital and back into his car.

There was a thermos in the cup holder, left over from that morning, before his world had shattered. Tim picks it up, and, before he can stop to consider, chucks it outside the car window.

He does call Stephanie, he made a promise, so he connects his phone to his car and calls her. She picks up on the first ring.

"He's stable," Tim bites, in lieu of a greeting. "They don't know when he'll wake up. Cass is in there with him right now."

"Thank god," she says with breathless relief. "Wait, Tim, are you in your car right now? Why are you– where are you going?"

"My place. I'm gonna pack a bag. My team can handle our projects for a bit, we're still sorting out the funds from the memorial gala. This was too public to take Jason home, at least until he's awake, and I'm the best suited right now to be around Bruce for a bit." He's lying through his teeth, but Stephanie seems to buy it, enough to leave him be for now.

There isn't much left to say, Stephanie promises to be back there soon, and tells him to call if he needs anything, and Tim just keeps agreeing until she hangs up. He doesn't remember the rest of the drive home until he's there, taking off his shoes, stumbling into his kitchen, reaching on top of his fridge for the cheap rum he bought at the party store across the street.

He takes a shot, setting the glass upside down on the counter and taking the bottle with him, hunkering down in the corner of his sofa with his laptop. His reasoning goes like this: Jason's not an idiot. Even in broad daylight, there's no way Jason would have gone into any alley with no comeras as Jason Todd-Wayne, who's cover is street rat turned rich boy, who would be a really easy target to mug. There's no way he would go out of sight, even to spite Bruce or Babs, because if something did happen, it would ruin the rest of them, and Jason cares too much. And, something did happen, and Jason still cares, and so he must have been in sight of a camera last night.

Tim takes a swig of his fifteen dollar rum and starts typing.

Barbra had gotten him a new laptop for his twenty-seventh birthday, tricked out with everything she could think of, so he had access to the police records, including the 911 calls, and so he plays them back until he finds the report of a mid-thirties (ouch) man with a gunshot wound to the side from a .357 caliber bullet, probably some sort of Wesson gun, popular with the gang mobs in Gotham. The call didn't have that last detail, mind, but the investigation report did, and Tim had access to that as well. He also could see the hospital report, and there's a split second of hesitation, where he wonders if he should be looking at this, if he really wants to know, but he shakes the doubt off quickly.

It's bad. Worse than the doctors let on, and Tim is forced to remember Cass', He's lying, because he really was. Jason was shot in the chest, and the bullet hit a rib, fracturing bone and bullet alike, and the shards tore through bits of heart, lung, worse than a straight through-and-through would have been. He scans through the surgery reports, not stopping to read every word, not needing to to know that he is going to take down whoever did this with prejudice.

He takes another drink, ignoring the way the bottle was already unhealthily lighter, turning his attention back to the 911 call location and the nearest camera, hacking into the business that hosted it and running back the feed until it matched the time of the call, running into a small snag when he doesn't immediately see Jason on the feed. Tim falters, for a second, before shaking it off and searching for others cameras in the area, ones that weren't fixed in a single position. He finds two others, one inside a stubbornly small music store, that didn't show the street, and another positioned into the entrance of an alley, that, two minutes before the call, caught Jason walking very stiffly in front of a hooded figure, close enough to be obvious that there's a gun between the two of them.

In celebration, Tim upends the bottle again. It's less than half empty, now, and he cracked the seal today, but it's fine. He's fine. He watches the camera feed, and no one else goes into the alley, meaning that it connects somewhere else, or the person who shot Jason was the one to call for an ambulance, and both are interesting, and neither are likely. A minute after the call, that same hooded figure left the alley, and a rolling wave of hatred blacks out Tim’s vision. He refocuses. The figure doesn’t try to dodge cameras, it’s almost too easy to follow them. There’s one that catches his face, for fucks sake, this guy is such an amateur. That’s the problem, though, because often amateurs are more dangerous than professionals.

It doesn’t matter.

Tim takes another drink, and swings on his coat; there are a couple missed calls from Stephanie, but he ignores it, instead tossing his phone onto his kitchen table where he leaves it behind.

He stops, for just a second, behind his apartment door. Looks in the mirror, hung on the wall, and the light bends to where shadow covers his face, and he can’t see his reflection, properly, and for a second he considers stepping back into his apartment where it’s bright, but instead he steps out into the hallway.

Once he has the face, he has the name, the address. So Tim goes. He’s steady on his feet as he stumbles his way outside, uncovering his bike from where it was stashed, jamming the key in the ignition with anger. He speeds off, his metal map of Gotham as firm as ever, until he eventually finds himself at the mark’s house, the practically abandoned streets silent around him.

The house lock softly clicks, latch coming undone. It’s the fastest Tim has ever picked a lock, but that thought doesn’t cross his mind as he presses forward into the house, using every ounce of his training to slink perfectly into the shadows. The floor plan of the apartment is clear in his mind and he swings around the left corner into the mark’s living room, where he’s watching some shit reality show loud enough to cover up any noise Tim might make. He won’t make any noise, he’s is too good for that, but it angers him even more, that the mark gives so little of a shit, that he’s watching television and eating takeout, that he’s wearing a tanktop and gym shorts, that he’s so brazenly casual when he nearly– when Jason is still comatose—

For a second, Tim stops.

Reconsiders.

There are better times to self-reflect, he knows, times where he’s not in immediate danger of being found and shot. The mark somehow managed to get the jump on Jason, which means he’s dangerous, and so Tim stops, and he thinks, wonders if he should come back later when he’s not mad enough to be blind, when he’s not teetering on the edge of being blackout drunk.

But then he remembers Jason, who looked so small in the hospital bed, and he—

He sneaks up behind the man, who has his couch positioned in such a way that his back is to the front door, another careless sign, one that shows that this guy is either amateur enough or confident enough to think that he doesn’t need to watch his back. It’s okay, though. Tim’s plenty professional for the both of them.

He has his elbow around the man’s neck in a chokehold in the next second, before he can doubt himself again. Immediately, the mark is scrabbling at Tim’s fingers, trying to pry them off as he chokes, making strangled, brutal sounds. Tim doesn’t waver, not even an inch, his entire body wrought with tension and a drunken anger, as he squeezes the mark’s neck tighter. His arms burn with the tension, stomach churning with adrenaline, his jacket hood falling down slightly, enough to feel his damp hair where it lays slick on his forehead. The plan was to incapacitate, and question, but Tim doesn’t feel like following the plan right now.

The man struggles, for what feels like an eternity, and Tim doesn’t budge. Not until the man falls limp, and that’s when he stumbles back, blood rushing in his ears, vision starting to swim in place. He hyperventilates, not fully aware of the world as he watches the man get back up, coughing like a drowned man, before he shouts some curse word and launches himself over the couch to rush at Tim.

They collide, Tim’s hood falling all the way off, now, but he has always been quick and nimble and he twists his way out of the other man’s grasp, sending a roundhouse kick into his solar plexus, which makes him bend in half, and another kick to the balls sends him to the ground. And it’s too easy, once he’s down there, to just keep kicking, over and over until Tim hears something crack and the man screams, a strangled sound, and even then he can’t make himself stop. Another kick, and he hears another rib snap. Tim stomps, now, on the man’s chest, and he convulses, uncontrollable tears streaming down his face. He doesn’t deserve to cry, like he’s human, like he didn’t—

The man screams again, a choked sob, and he starts to beg. “Please,” he says, “I didn’t do anything, stop, s–stop, I didn’t—”

Tim can’t decide if he wants to laugh, or cry, or scream, so he does a little of all three. “You wanna know what you fucking did?!” he explodes, kicking the man again. He curls into a fetal position, exposed skin turning a mottled purple.

“Please, I– I didn’t do anything,” the man keens.

Tim laughs, harshly, stepping back, still feeling lightheaded. “Need a reminder? Because I brought the perfect thing to jog your memory.”

He pulls out the silver pistol, the only gun he’s ever held with intent, and cocks it, his drunken, shaky hands making it hard to aim. Tim knows, in this moment, that he is going to kill. The man flinches back further, like that’s going to help, and tries to beg again. “I have a family, please–”

“I’ll even do exactly what you did to him,” Tim snarls, hatred pouring into his words, a hatred like he has never felt before. “To make it fair. We’ll see if you’re as lucky as he was, hmn?”

“Wait,” the man pleads, panicked, “Is this— about the Todd guy? I didn’t want to take the hit, I didn’t– please, you have to believe me, I told my guys it was a bad idea but they didn’t listen, I— I missed on purpose, please, it’s just that the Red Hood never puts out hits and we couldn’t say no, didn’t know what he would do if we refused, please—”

When the Red Hood… what?

The man cuts himself off with a sob, clearly having expected Tim to shoot him by now, but instead he has stumbled back, moved around the corner and out the door, slamming it behind him, and he leaves the apartment complex without thinking about it. Gotham’s streets are familiar enough to him that he doesn’t notice as they take him down, further into the depths of the bowery, until he’s following the careful path into Jason’s apartment, and he’s picking the safehouse’s lock.

The door clicks open before Tim can even consider that the idea might be a bad one, and he walks inside, flicking on the fluorescent lights of Jason’s apartment, which most likely haven’t been used since his brother bought the place.

Last time Tim was here, Duke was still alive. Friday night cards, every weekend that Duke was in town, a game that Tim would only sometimes win, with his knack for numbers, Duke’s eyes, Steph’s savviness, and Jason’s ability to cheat and get away with it. And back then, the apartment had been– well, it wasn’t clean, Tim’s pretty sure Jason is allergic to that word, but it had been in somewhat order, the subtle signs like all the dishes being washed and the stovetop clean, the lack of a laundry chair or loose trash, things that would suggest Jason in an alright state.

But Duke was dead, and Jason’s apartment was… a mess.

There’s piles of junk everywhere. Not enough to look like a pit, but there was a stack of pizza boxes out on the coffee table that were starting to smell, loose, grease-stained papers covering almost every surface. Mostly case reports, Tim notes, like Jason was trying to work fifteen cases all at once. In the kitchen, the dirty dishes are overflowing onto the counter beside the sink, and there are three hand towels hanging off of the oven handle, all three of them with visible stains. The small, round dinner table is buried under a pile of weaponry, with legs that creek ominously under the weight.

With the table unusable, Jason had pulled a chair over to a cleared-off spot on the countertop, the dishes pushed off to the side and replaced with a laptop, notebooks, three different planners, and sticky notes in colors Tim didn’t know they made. It looks, functionally, like a mental breakdown, but it’s clearly the corner of interest. There’s a clue, maybe, about what he was doing to make his civilian self a target, and that’s what Tim needs right now. A lead, to prove the mark didn’t know what he was talking about.

He opens the laptop, typing in Jason’s password that he had acquired at some point. The screen was already open to a youtube video, and it unpauses before Tim can think about it.

“...for how you want to live your life. If you’re feeling overwhelmed with what is happening in your life and you want to get back on track, then you can’t miss the seven stress management techniques that I will share with you in this video. Stress is a state of tension–”

Tim slams the laptop shut. If Jason– why didn’t he say anything? They were supposed to have systems, now, to communicate and shit, where they all silently promised each other that they would speak up when they needed help. Hell, Jason was the one to start up the group chats and find them all therapists, he of all fucking people should know to– to reach out to the rest of them no matter what petty fucking feud he had going on with Bruce.

Tim picks up one of the planners, his heart jackhammering in his chest. He flicks through the pages, eventually landing on last month, July, every day with something scribbled on it. Flicking through the pages, Tim sees that Jason has days planned down to the minute, even, that hypocrite, because he's the one always going on and on about taking time for yourself, and the importance of delegation and–

Tim slams the planner back down on the counter. Chooses a notebook at random. The first page he flips to has a list of the reasons people go nonverbal, all of the ones that apply to Damian highlighted and extended upon for the next page and a half. Strategies for speaking again listed after that. Another notebook compiles all of the notes and research that Jason has apparently done on autism, the dated pages starting back in 2019, in November. Just a month after, Tim realizes sickeningly. Has Jason been– what, filling in for Dick?

His eyes catch on a framed photo, tucked in the back of the workstation Jason had made, one that has all seven of them. It’s set up purposefully, Tim notes, so that anytime Jason shuts his computer it’s the first thing he sees. A reminder, maybe? For what? Tim hasn’t doubted Jason’s love in years, but this– this obsession with their well being isn’t love. Not for Jason, who seems to resent his relationship with Tim, whom he had never gotten along with, who was still tailspinning from loss, old and new. Because Jason loved them, sure, but he never liked them all that much, too much bad blood for a cut and dry family dynamic. But, there was all this… research, these notes taken like he’s studying for some sort of exam. Nothing like Tim had seen before, from his older brother, who believed that case reports were for nerds and losers with a non-photographic memory.

Tim’s starting to think that he’s misunderstood his brother.

Tim goes back to the laptop, closing the video tab with a prejudice. He dives into the history, but there isn’t much to see besides some freaky shit Jason put in there as a warning. It’s not the first time Tim has dove into his family’s digital mark, Babs had taught him a little too well, but it all came in handy when he had to deal with WE media leaks. There isn’t much to find on the civilian side of Jason’s laptop, but it only takes a second to decrypt and open the work files. Unfortunately for Tim, there isn’t a big file labeled all of my secrets, and most of what he sees is actual work– it looks like Jason was undercover in the Conaradi mob, trying to determine how much of a threat they were, and how much of their presence was the result of the power vacuum after Maroni’s death.

Tim grabs the notebook. That’ll be his next step. He’ll investage what really happened, and he’ll find out the truth, and Jason will wake up, and everything will be fine.

Chapter Text

It works in Tim’s favor, Conaradi’s growing paranoia. 

For one, it gives him proof that it was the mob behind the attack in the first place, and for a split second he wonders if the attacker even knew who Jason Wayne was, or if they were just attacking a rat. 

For two, it gives Tim an opening. More anxiety means more bodyguards, means more people and less time to check backgrounds. His fakes could stand up to government screening, if need be, but these guys are way less through then the government. 

Conaradi’s base is in some old, half carved out fast casual building, with lights that work 20% of the time and a permanent smell of mold that was the reason for the building's abandonment in the first place. This block used to be a bustling stream of activity, but after one of Ivy’s more personal attacks, it was deemed uninhabitable, and mobs quickly jumped on the new space. Tim’s been aware of the shift— how could he not, when it’s literally his job to know things— and so it’s easy to make his way down into the building. 

Once there, Tim bursts in the door, loud as he can, and quickly scans the room. There’s a guy standing by the counter that’s about a foot and a half taller than him, so it’ll be impressive, and he’s favoring his right knee unconsciously, an old injury, and Tim takes the moment of surprise to stride forward, kick the knee out so he crumples with a grunt, and Tim wraps him in a chokehold, holding a small pocketknife to his neck. 

“I’m looking for a job,” Tim says calmly, in a thick street accent he modeled after Jason’s own. Everyone else starts to react, pulling out guns and shouting, but their hands are unsteady. The weapons waver without ever aiming at the vital spots to shoot. These guys are amateurs— another issue with hiring a large volume of hitmen. Mobs tend to be cheap with everything, including their own lives. 

A man walks out from the back, and Tim immediately notes the tension shift in the room. It takes him a second to place it, but he soon recognizes the guy as Victor Conaradi, the second oldest, wanted for drug trade and tax evasion. Not exactly who he was hoping for, but it works. His mind shifts into all the different angles he could play with Victor as the one giving information, and he soon finds many. Victor’s been noted to have a softer side, so Tim flicks back his knife, and shoves the muscleman aside where he sprawls on the floor. 

“Let’s talk,” Victor says. 

Tim steps forward. Bares his teeth in an ugly grin. “I think that would be an excellent idea.”

They move into a small side office, where a desk has been shoved in haphazardly, and there are enough papers scattered around that a single spark would set the whole building ablaze. Victor sits, and gestures for Tim to do the same; he remains standing. 

“What can I do for you, Mr…” Victor trails off. 

“Ethan. Ethan Morganson.” 

“Mr. Ethan. You obviously wanted my attention— congrats, kid. You got it. Now, what idea of yours could be so important it's worth beating up Johnny?" 

"I told you," Ethan crosses his arms, "I need a job."

"You can get a job near any-damn where in the city, kid. Why're you coming to me?" Victor sways his chair back and forth, toying with one of the pens on his desk. It says, I'm comfortable here. I'm in power, and you're not. 

Ethan shifts between his feet. Let Victor think he's uncomfortable. Victor has a softer side, Tim knows. So he shifts his weight around, and he glares, and he says, "I hear you're hiring for the type of work I can do." 

Victor sets down the pen. Good. "You got family, kid?"

Ethan rankles. He's not a kid, he's twenty-four. And he's not entirely sure he wants Conaradi to know about his family, but he's desperate. There's no fucking way he's telling this guy the whole truth, though. "A brother, yeah. Younger." 

Tim should've said older, probably, so Victor relates to him more. But Older Brother means Dick, who's dead, and Jason, who's almost there. So he says younger, because Damian might be a little shit, but he's not actively painful to think about.

"It's for him, isn't it? The job?" Victor asks with a smirk. Ethan snaps back into reality. How did— (Victor's soft. Victor has an older brother. Ethan needs the job desperately.) How did Conaradi know that?

Ethan collapses into the second chair. Runs a hand through his greasy hair. (Tim carefully watches his tongue.) "When Ma died, we lost the house. We tried to stay— squatters rights, and all, but our landlord was— he was a bigger guy then I was. And I had a brother to protect.”

And a sister, Ethan thinks bitterly. Siblings who were barely old enough to know how to tie their shoelaces. What was he supposed to do? This was way before the Red Hood started publicly looking out for Gotham’s kids. So he, like too many of Crime Ally kids, turned to the only other thing he knew how to do. 

“You started stealing,” Victor guessed. 

Ethan shrugs, smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “My brother wasn’t a fan. Stole the fruits of my rotten labor, all of my cash, serves me right. Took off, went straight. Got a doctorate, with some loans. Said he was gonna make up for the shit I put into the world. But he—” 

Ethan grunts, falling silent. Victor pushes his chair out and bends down, until he eventually comes back up with one of those fancy glass containers of whisky that always taste like shit. But he pours Ethan a glass, and Tim knows he can’t refuse. So he takes it. “But, he got into some trouble, medically. Little less then a month after we reconnected, actually. ‘Cause he’d been having these… these headaches. And he finally got it checked out, and— they found it. Cancer. And the treatment— well, between his loans and my… lack of acceptable income, they say he's got a year without it. Maybe two. So I'm looking for a job."

Victor hums, picking up a pen again. I've got power, it says.

Victor has a soft side. 

"I like you, kid." he smirks. "Spunk. Drive. How 'bout this? I'll have my men check you out. If I like what I find, I'll give you a call. Discuss the job. Benefits, income. If I don't, then there'll be no further communication between the two of us. We go our separate ways, and neither of us reach out to the other again. Twenty-four hours. How's that sound?"

Ethan's heartbeat jumps into his throat. Victor has stuck out his hand, and it’s the perfect deal, and it—

Twenty-four hours. Tim doesn’t like that. There’s too much time for wires to get tangled, for people to change their minds. Ethan needs this job, but Tim needs information.  

“I need this job,” he whispers, and he looks into Victor’s eyes. 

And he shakes hands. 

Victor grins, taking a sip from his own glass of whisky. “I know you’re desperate, kid. Why don’t you go talk to the men a little? Dip your toe in the water. I think we’ve fixed up that pool table. And hey, don’t be too nervous talking to these guys. Most of them are like you— fell into the crew for the wrong reasons.” 

“Yeah,” Ethan says, relieved. “That would— that sounds like a great idea. Thanks.”

“Just don’t strangle anyone else,” Victor smirks, waving Tim out the door. 

He walks with a smooth swagger, through a narrow hall until he’s back in the room he came out of. A couple guys turn to look at him, in the way dogs do a new chew toy. Ethan tries to not let it get to him, but it does, just a little. He approaches the pool table in the back of the room, eyeing the unclaimed cue hanging on the wall. There are two men and a woman playing already, each with enough of a height difference to be comical. The tall one moves with a heavy confidence, a hitter. The medium one moves with authority, a leader. The smallest with an easy grace, a thief. 

It is the middle one that Ethan looks at when he asks if he could join. He hesitates, for a second, before raising an eyebrow. “Sure, kid. Cue’s on the wall. Name’s Tony. The runt is Parker, and that’s Danny, in the yellow. You’re new, right?”

“Yeah. I’m Ethan.” He takes the cue down from the stand and begins to chalk it. “Just looking for a job.”

“Has Vic said why we got more guys around?” Danny asks, racking the pool balls. “Eightball, regular set, fouls. I call Parker.” 

“There’ve been some attacks, apparently.” Tony answers. Parker removes the triangle, and he lines up a shot, using just a little less pressure than he should— none of the balls sink. “Damn. Let the new kid try.”

Parker racks the balls again, methodically spinning them into place. Ethan lines up the shot. “Attacks?”

He pots a solid red one, the seven. Jason’s the one who taught Tim how to play. Tim misses the next shot on purpose. 

“Yeah. Bad ones.” Danny cuts in. He shoots for the nine, and it bounces off two rails before hitting a pocket. “The Bats ain’t doing anything about it— probably ‘cause we’re all the same, to them— but there’s been, what, four now? Enough to make it a pattern”

“There was Moore yesterday,” Parker cut in. “He makes five.” 

“He didn’t die, though.” Tony adds, and the others nod like this is a good point, but Tim can’t afford to play along— for just a second, his heart pounds in his ears, and he can taste the rum on his tongue. He had almost gone too far, last night, and it’s— god, he can’t breathe.

But Ethan has no reason to care about that. So Tim swallows his panic. 

“Is it a street issue?” Ethan asks, because that’s the thing he would be worried about. If this would affect his siblings. 

Parker shakes her head. “It’s been gang bosses so far. That’s why the brothers are so worried— why they’re bringing on more men. I doubt it will do much, though.” 

“Parker,” Danny hisses, startled enough to whiff the ball completely. 

“What?” she snaps back. “It’s true. When the Red Hood sets his sights on a target he doesn’t back down. Everyone knows that.”

“I thought Batman was the one that beat up Moore,” Danny frowns. 

Tony strikes the cue ball, sinking two solids. The other two turn back to face him. “Moore beat Todd-Wayne. Someone— not a cape— who’s been beating on bosses all over the place— beat Moore. So Conaradi hired more men.”

They seem to take his words as law, but there was still something bugging Ethan. “What issue did Moore have with a Wayne?”  

Tony shrugs. “Fuck if I know.”

“I do, actually!” Parker piped up. “He didn’t.” 

Danny glances at her. “Obviously, there was.” 

“No, there wasn’t.” she rolls her eyes. “Moore was hired. Like, obviously. Who would be dumb enough to go after Brucie’s Babies? All of Gotham would unite together to find you. It’s not worth it unless there’s some other reason, like money. And there were whispers everywhere that Red Hood put out a hit.”

“But they were just whispers, right?” Tim asks, half-desperate. 

“It would make sense,” Danny frowns. “Suppose Moore worked with Red Hood, and that someone was trying to track down the guy. His known contacts with more findable people would be a good place to start.” 

Tim huffs. “But Hood doesn’t have a reason to attack Jason. Todd-Wayne. Why would he go through the effort of hiring a whole other guy? One shitty enough that he couldn’t finish the job?”

“Ooo, yeah, that’s a good reason too. Red Hood was so mad at Moore for the incompletion that he beat him up.” Parker adds, completely ignoring the actual thing Tim wanted an answer on. 

“But why?” he demands again. Tim needs a fucking drink. 

Tony raises his eyebrows. “The Red Hood doesn’t tend to share his plans with us folk. You alright there, kid? You look like you’re gonna hurl.”

“I’m—” Ethan swallows. “I might, actually, Victor gave me some alcohol and—”

“Oh, yeah, the one that tastes like dust and death.” Parker nods. “Follow me, I’ll take you to the restroom.”

Pool game forgotten for now, Ethan stumbles after Parker, (Tim tries to make it look like the world is spinning around him) and when they’re a good distance away from the crowd, he straightens. 

“Here we are,” she announces, turning to him, and the shift in his posture must have been obvious, because she frowns. “Ethan? Listen, I just wanna say. You seem like a bright guy, with tons of options in front of you. Some men are hiring, down at the docks, they don’t ask many questions. But once you start working with gangs, with the Conaradis, you can never stop. So, just. Keep that in mind, okay? Hey, why don’t you come over to Danny and my’s place for dinner. We make a killer pesto.” 

A small smile graces Tim’s lips. It is not a happy one. “Run.”

“S–Sorry?” 

“Run. Quick as you like. Take anyone you don’t hate, and run. As far away as possible. Get out of here.” She doesn’t move, and Tim raises one eyebrow. He knows his words were clear. And he wasn’t planning on telling anyone, but it seems Victor wasn’t the only one with a soft side. Tim knows she can see the sincerity in his eyes, and after a second she stumbles back, and runs. 

There are not many times where Tim proves himself wrong, but this is one of them— it takes two matches to set the place ablaze.

Somehow, in a blur, Tim gets back to his apartment. When he opens the door, Stephanie is there, sitting at his dining room table just a little past the entryway. Her head whips around to stare at him, expression flickering rapidly through anger and relief as she stumbles to her feet. For a half-second only, Tim feels guilty. 

"Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne," she says, voice steady. "Where the hell have you been?" 

"Out," Tim replies curtly. He slides off his shoes with a little more force than is necessary, placing his keys in the small ceramic bowl Jason had gotten Tim for a Christmas, part of a set. Well, Jason gave him money, and Tim bought the bowls with the money, and that still counts. 

Stephanie scoffs incredulity. "Out? Tim, you've been missing since yesterday afternoon. Babs could track you until nineish, and then you dropped off completely, and— god, Tim, everyone was so worried. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I had something I had to take care of," he answers. 

"What could possibly be so important that you drop off the grid , as a civilian, nonetheless, right after an attack on our civilian brother?" she demands, and, huh. Tim hadn't thought about it that way, but Stephanie's not done. "And why have you been drinking?"

Tim pauses. “I’m not—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Stephanie snaps. “I am so sick of you lying to me.” 

“It’s not a problem.” 

“It’s a problem, when you’re letting us think you’re sober.” 

“I was!” Tim shouts. “And then my brother died! No one is handling it well, Steph, and just because you can’t fix what happened doesn’t mean you need to fix me!”

Stephanie rears back. “I’m not— Tim, no one is trying to fix you. I know you’re… hurting, but this isn’t the way to deal with that! I don’t know why you can’t just accept that you’re not alone anymore, that there are people worried about you, that we’re going to get concerned when you disappear into thin air. I didn’t know if you were dead or dying, or off getting— high, or something— and don’t look at me like that, Tim, because you’ve been lying about this and I know how slippery that slope is, so don’t pretend like—”

“You don’t know anything!” Tim screams. 

Stephanie’s face hardens. She moves, picking up the bottle of rum by the neck and upending it over the sink, draining what little left there was of it, and then she turns, breezing right past him on her way to the door. “Call your dad,” she says, one hand on the doorknob, and then slams it shut behind her. 

Tim scoffs, and moves to follow her, but— all the fight seems to drain out of his shoulders, and he’s just. Tired. There’s still a frozen meal in his fridge that hadn’t gone bad yet, and so Tim throws that in the microwave, staring at his reflection in the glass door until it beeps and then he starts eating. 

He can’t really taste the food but that doesn't matter. 

There’s a buzzing in his ears but that doesn’t matter either. 

The worst part is, Tim is starting to believe it. 

They knew, they all knew, that Jason was not made to live a long and healthy life. That he was too much like Bruce, for that. And Jason’s apartment was a mess, and Jason hates when he comes home to a mess. Jason had avoided the cameras. 

He had asked Tim for help, last week. With a case. Tim was— he was trying to retire from vigilante work, so he had— he had told Jason he was busy and—

On the kitchen table, right where he left it last night, his phone rings. Tim puts down his food, and picks it up; Barbera is calling him. Tim stares at it, for a second. He had known, the second he heard about Jason, that he wouldn’t be left alone for weeks, but it still makes him pissed off, and he debates whether or not he should hang up entirely. 

The phone call ends. For a second, Tim’s relieved, and then it starts ringing again. So he picks up. 

“Babs,” he greets, his voice low and full of gravel. Or maybe that’s the frozen dinner. 

“Tim,” she says back curtly. “Saw you enter your apartment, saw Stephanie leave. I assume she’s expressed all of our sentiments already.”

“Yeah,” he answers. “I’m sorry. Can you tell her that?”

“Sure. But you better make that apology in person soon.”

“I know.”

“So, I was doing some work. Of the Oracle variety. There’s no cameras in the alley where it happened, but there was a face caught on his way out. I’m assuming you know all of this.”

“Sure.”

“Noah Moore,” she says, and then pauses. “He was attacked last night. Do you know about that too?”  

“No,” Tim says quietly. “Can’t say I do.” 

There’s another crackling beat of silence, long enough for Tim to know Babs knows he’s lying. Long enough for him to know she won’t do anything about it.

“Keep an eye out,” is what she finally lands on. “There’s been a rash of gang attacks."

“You got it, Babs.” Tim says, and then he hangs up on her. 

The food is cold now. Tim slides the rest of it into the trash, ignoring the way his stomach lurches. Stephanie didn’t know anything about him and Bruce, who hasn’t been his dad for years, since he got lost in time. Tim can still hear Dick’s voice, far too gentle, saying maybe this isn’t the best thing for you right now, and I know how it feels to lose a parent, like that was ever what Bruce meant to him. Maybe it could have been, at some point. There’s something dark in him, that is still bitter about this. But he never– he never ended up saying anything, because by the time he could admit it to himself Dick had moved on from the whole thing, and Bruce had moved on, like it never even happened, and then Dick died. 

It’s easy to pin the blame on Dick, for the way the family fell apart without him. For a while, Tim did, but he was mostly– mostly angry with himself, truthfully, for not being enough to help, for being too slow, for listening to Bruce when he said that Dick would be fine. It’s not Bruce’s fault either, really, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was everyone’s fault. Somewhere in between. And without him, the family fell apart. 

Tim had been twenty-one, legally old enough to get shitfaced, and that’s exactly what he did. To the point where Tim doesn’t remember much about those couple months after Dick died, until Jason showed up in his apartment and scared him into sobriety. Hypocrite. Jason’s jacket still smelled like cigarette smoke, and Tim had owned it for almost six years. They all had their vices, their ways to handle it, and nobody said it was healthy. Tim almost hated himself for it, the way he knew he had addictive tendencies, the memories he has of his mother stumbling around after one of her hard days, the way he still couldn’t go into the liquor store across the street from his apartment. He had spiraled, unable to cope with the fact that Dick was dead, and dead for good. They had way too many examples of a miraculous revival, where it almost became a joke, between them, and it’s like a switch turned off in Tim’s brain, the one that healthily processed grief. 

He had gotten better. Slowly, but surely— Tim could even say he was happy, sometimes. And then Duke died, and it’s like all of their progress plummeted back to square one. 

Tim’s not going to think about that right now. He can’t afford to. He’s got to focus on Jason, right now. 

Jason, who tried to kill himself—

Tim lies down. He hasn’t slept in about twenty hours, now, and he really should, but he can’t seem to close his eyes, and there’s sunlight streaming in his window anyway. So he gives up after a second and moves into the bathroom, instead, and takes a shower, boiling hot water beating down on him until it turns cold, and then Tim gets out without washing his hair. He’s out of shampoo, anyway. 

Once out, he finally bothers to look at a clock. It’s nearly seven, which is dinner at the Manor time, but he doesn’t really want to go. He picks up his phone, just to see he’s missed even more calls from Stephanie, Cass, and even one from Damian. Must be desperate if they’re using the brat’s phone. 

His head pounds with a hangover, and he stumbles to the fridge, pounding back an energy drink. It doesn’t help much, but Stephanie got rid of his rum, and Tim’s not stupid enough with his history to keep more than one bottle of alcohol in the house. So he chugs the can, and pretends that it will help. 

It’s dinnertime, at the Manor. Tim swears, and, patting his pockets to make sure he has his phone and keys, he shuffles out the door. 

Tim isn’t an idiot. Stephanie’s pissed at him, and Babs’ worried about him, and Damian’s shutting down again, and it isn’t fair to Cass to make them deal with that all on their own. Also, he knows, if he doesn’t show up to dinner Steph would drag him there by the ear. It’s easier for everyone if he just shows up the first time. But if someone says something, swear to God Tim’s just going to get up and leave. 

Alfred greets him at the door, a subtle shake in his hands the only sign that something isn’t right. He looks tired, and he tells Tim that Bruce is still at the hospital, that he wasn’t expecting to be home for dinner. Tim nods— it’s about what he expected. When it came to Jason, Bruce turned into the worst helicopter parent ever, and even if it’s fair this time, it still sends a little sting of jealousy down Tim’s spine that he hates himself for. 

Stephanie won’t look him in the eye, but Cass greets him warmly, even as their eyes promise a different feeling just under the surface. Damian glares at him too. Tim is not a very popular guy around the Manor, and he’s not even sure why, and it pisses him off. He's not the one they should be worrying about right now. It feels like a dirty secret on his tongue, to voice his findings out loud, and Tim can't manage to make himself do it. 

Dinner itself is mostly quiet. Everyone is still too aware of the people missing, compounded by the tension that seems to spike every time he and Damian make eye contact. Tim's not sure, exactly, why the demon is getting on his fucking nerves right now, but he really is, and it throws Tim back in time to when they were fighting 24/7, to the murder attempts and the pounding hatred that dulled his mind. 

They haven’t fought in a very long time. 

Tim almost misses it. 

After dinner, the problem starts, because as Damian is pushing his chair away from the table, Tim sees the glimmer of tears in his eye, and it's concerning enough to knock Tim out of the weird daze he's been in ever since the shower. Jason isn't around, Cass is still visibly shaking, and Stephanie hasn't been paying the brat a lick of attention, so it falls on him, for some reason, to go check up on the kid. Tim follows him up to his room, and they pause just outside of Damian's door. 

What, Damian snaps, whirling around to face Tim.

"Are you okay?" Tim asks, feeling stupid. Damian stiffens, his face growing into incredulous anger. 

I am fine, he signs forcefully.

"Right," Tim drawls back, "That's why you're signing. Because of how fine you are." 

Damian clenches his fist. "I am fine," he says, more to himself then to Tim, and to his credit his voice doesn't waver, not once. There's an undercurrent of danger in his tone, one that Tim would worry about in anyone else, but this is Damian, and fighting is what they do. 

So instead, Tim rolls his eyes, and says, "Sure. Whatever."

Damian stiffens. Tim swipes a finger along his jaw, because he can tell when Damian takes the bait. And so when they lunge at each other, they do it simultaneously, both trying to pin the other down. Damian elbows Tim in the throat, and he kicks Damian's side stitches in return, making the kid roll away for just long enough for Tim to wind up a half-decent punch that hits Damian right as he's getting back up. 

Damian grunts, returning the punch, and Tim falls for the faint, not one of his better moments, and it's clear that Damian didn't expect Tim to take it, because it's his full energy, and Tim feels the tell-tale crack of a broken nose. The kid falters, an apology on his lips that Tim doesn't want to fucking hear right now. Instead he uses the moment of hesitation to his advantage, lunging back with a shout. They crash into a wall, pummeling fists, anger growing into something neither of them could contain, until, finally, they come to a stalemate.

Tim's breathing heavily, Damian too. The silver of their respective daggers gleam in the dying sunlight, both pressed to a throat, each angry enough to have broken skin. Normally, someone, Jason, would have interfered by now, would have stopped the two from getting to this point. It seemed as though Jason had a sixth sense for when they started snipping and always found some excuse to seperate them, or get between them before the knives got brought out. 

But Jason's not here.

Damian seems to realize it the same time Tim does, and he pushes away angrily with a scoff, marching into his room and slamming the door behind him. 

Tim… gets to his feet slowly. Makes his way down the hall, back to the room he normally stays in, and into the connected bathroom. His eyes are already turning black and puffy, but the bridge of it isn't noticeably crooked— it will heal just fine. So for now, he just shoves some tissue up his nostrils, slaps a bandaid over the small nick on his neck, and ignores the way he desperately needs a shave. Tiredly, he puts it on his to-do list. 

Tim really should sleep, now. But he can't sit still, a tremor of anxiety running deep in his bones, and so instead he treads silently through the Manor, not wanting to explain his bruised appearance. So he creeps out to his car, which fires up with a roar louder than it should, something he keeps meaning to get checked, and he drives over to the hospital where Jason's being held. 

The doctor— a different one from before— greets him with, "The E.R.'s in another building." So that's great.

"I'm here to visit my brother," he says tonelessly, and ignoring her protests, Tim pushes his way past her and into the room, where Bruce looks up sharply. 

"What happened to you?" Bruce asks.

"Fell," Tim replies. They both know it's bullshit, but Bruce just purses his lips instead of responding, so Tim falls into the other visitor's chair. "How is he?"

Bruce is so still that for a moment, Tim wonders if he heard the question. "He can breathe on his own, now." 

As if that wasn't the first thing Tim noticed, the lack of oxygen mask, but it's Bruce's attempt to reach out, so he doesn't snap back. Tim does know how to hold his tongue. "And you?"

"I'm fine." Bruce says, a predictable response. 

Tim sighs, dropping his shoulders into a slump. He’s tired of being Bruce’s personal healthcare maid, and he’s been good at avoiding it, lately, but there’s not— everyone else is at the Manor. It’s just him, and Bruce, and Jason. So Tim drops his shoulders, so Bruce knows that he’s being honest, and he thinks of the silence at dinner, and he says, “You should go home, B. Your kids need you.”

“Jason needs me."

"You can't help him like this," Tim coaxes. "You know I'm right."

Bruce stays stoic. "I have to be here, when he's okay to take home." 

Tim scoffs. “Watched pot never boils, B. Jason’s not gonna wake up faster because you’re staring at him. And even if he would, you know he wouldn't want to hear that you fell right back into bad habits. Right? So, please, go home. Get some sleep. I promise I'll call, the second anything changes."

Bruce hesitates, for just a second too long. Tim forces them to make eye contact, and he can see the second Bruce’s mind shifts.

 "I love you, Tim. I love all of you so much that it kills me." He says softly, turning back to Jason, and for a moment Tim forgets how to breathe. "You know that, right? I'm not sure if he knew— if he knows that."

“We know, Bruce.” Tim lies, just as soft. It relaxes something in Bruce’s shoulders, tension released, just for a moment. And so, eventually, Bruce leaves, and Tim doesn’t really pay attention beyond that, because he’s sitting in front of the body Jason alone, leg bouncing, chewing on his nails. 

He still somewhat smells like ash, from the fire; there’s still alleyway dirt creased into his fingernails. He stares at Jason, for a little too long. He paces, back and forth, thinking. Waiting. 

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” He snaps. “You don’t get to do this. Leave like this. It’s sloppy. Did you just not think we would care?” 

There’s no response from his brother, the machines humming steadily around him. 

“You're an asshole," He mumbles again. "Just— please. You have to wake up. We're not ready to lose you too." 

The silence seems to grow louder between the two of them.

Jason has to get better, because there's no other option. 

But he's not better now. 

And Tim— Tim can feel himself crumple, without any eyes on him, and maybe it's for the best he hasn't been left alone, and he's—

When Jason wakes, they are going to have a very long conversation about all of this. But until then… 

Tim clings onto his brother's hand and holds himself together for just a little while more.