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Tim woke when his head was dunked under the water.
Thrashing, arms tied behind him, he kicked out as best as he could. Problem was, he was tied to a chair. The top of it dug into his shoulders, the insides of his arms and elbows. When he kicked, his legs didn’t go very far due to the bindings at his ankles. There was more rope around his chest, his stomach, holding him to the seat. He was being tilted back into the water.
At least he could fight. Timothy Drake couldn’t fight. Timothy Drake didn’t have combat training. Timothy Drake was a normal guy, and he didn’t have the ability to fight back, and he had to wait for rescue no matter the consequences. Here, though, he was Red Robin. The Bats were allowed to fight, they were allowed to thrash, and get free, and drag themselves away.
Then, he was yanked forwards. His body jarred when he hit the ground. Gasping, he blinked furiously, shaking his head as he choked and gagged on the water in his mouth. A hand curled around his jaw and his head was yanked around. Too-bright, too-hot lights beamed down on him. Panting, he tried to shake his head again, tried to clear his blurry vision. The man in front of him was too big, too large for life.
“It’s a shame, really.” The man said, voice thick with a Boston accent. What’s a guy from Boston doing in New Jersey? Hell, what’s he doing in Gotham? Doesn’t Boston have enough of its own problems not to want to deal with ours? Gotham’s kind of a hell hole.
The man stared down at him. He didn’t even have a proper mask, just one of those weird ski beanies yanked down over his head. It was soaking wet, too, sticking to the angles of his skull and his neck. It could not have been comfortable. Maybe Tim was oxygen-deprived, maybe the fashion choice was so bad he just had to roast the guy, maybe it was all of the above. Look, Tim was all for expressing one’s self through fashion, but really? The ski beanie was the ugliest shade of puke-yellow that he had ever seen. Besides, the guy was trying to kill him. Tim reserved his right to judge the man’s—
His current, horribly dressed captor opened his mouth, probably to talk again. Then, he paused. Frowning, he raised his head. Tim’s head was dunked back into the water. It flooded into his nose. He barely had the time to close his mouth. As he did, he distantly heard glass shattering. Writhing around, Tim yanked at the bindings around his wrists. They didn’t give. He twisted, got them rammed up against the edge of the chair. Okay, okay, we need to move fast, we need to work fast. You’re going to lose consciousness soon, you need to—
Someone pulled him out of the water.
Gasping, spluttering, Tim kicked. Hands landed on his face. The callouses were familiar. Blinking past the water dripping from his eyes, Tim shook his head. The hands brushed his hair out of his face. “Red, Red—” Bruce. That’s Bruce. Bruce is good, Bruce is safe. “Red, focus on me. Look at me.”
His vision cleared. Finally. Crouched in front of him, Bruce studied his face. Gentle hands rested on his cheeks. “Br—B.” He cut off. Taking a breath, he glanced around. Dick was perched on top of the dude who had been trying to drown him. “Wh—”
“We got here in time. Dating Tim Drake, huh?” There was a teasing tone in his voice. Snorting, Tim immediately began coughing. His lungs seized. His hair was soaked, he sucked in another ragged gasp.
“I think…I’m going to pass out.” Tim warned. Then, his head dropped forwards. He managed to groan, the world sparked with black spots.
Then he was out.
Great.
“How’s he doing?”
Leaning against the doorframe, Jason didn’t bother turning to look at Dick. On the infirmary bed, Tim was still unconscious. The last Jason had heard, Leslie and Bruce and Alfred had been discussing if he needed a tube down his throat. Something to help him breathe. There was water in his lungs. He’d been waterboarded repeatedly. They’d been trying to drown him.
According to Barbara and Cass, who’d been helping Steph look for why that had all happened, it was an assassin. The man had been the assassin. He’d been hired to take out Red Robin. Supposedly, Tim and Red Robin had been dating. Someone didn’t like that. (Jason had a nasty feeling that the people who hadn’t liked that were, in fact, Tim’s own parents. He’d raise the theory to Bruce later.) And Tim had suffered because someone didn’t like a theory that wasn’t even true. There wasn’t even any support for the theory. No pictures, nothing. Just some crackpot theory that showed up on that one social media Bruce had to buy before Luthor did so Superman didn’t get banned from it.
Tim wheezed into the oxygen mask, face pale. Studying him, Jason noticed Dick crossing his arms. “He’s alive.” Jason replied. “I feel like that’s good enough.” As they stood outside the infirmary, he glanced over. Dick was watching Tim, eyes slightly narrowed. His mouth had drawn into a thin line. Shifting on his feet, he walked over and then settled down by Tim’s side.
Jason watched him for a moment longer.
Yeah, forget it. Glancing back into the Batcave, Jason walked further into the room. He could have stayed out there. He could have stayed standing in the doorway and watched Tim from there. At the end of the day, though, there wasn’t even really a point to it. The Batcave was safe. Tim was safe. Sure, he was in the infirmary, but he was alive. He was breathing. Everything was going to be fine.
This isn’t like the Joker. He dropped down in his seat. Kicking his feet up on the infirmary bed, crossing his arms, Jason stared at Dick. Dick had taken one of Tim’s hands in his own. As for Tim himself—totally unconscious. Eyes closed, mask pressed to his face, he was well and truly out. Good. He needs the time to recover.
The door slammed open, and Jason reached for his gun before recognizing that the door had been from the Manor. Duke almost tripped on the last stair. In a flash, Damian had caught him by the back of his hoodie, pulling him back and walking past him. “Tt. You would do well not to get yourself put in the infirmary as well, Thomas.” Damian commented, slipping into the infirmary. Arms crossed, he scowled at Tim’s unconscious state, “Who did this?”
“Hired assassin.”
“Have we investigated Janet and Jack Drake?” Damian asked. When Dick’s mouth drew into a thin line, he turned around, “I will go investigate, then. You remain here with Drake, Richard.”
“Hold on.” Jason started. Turning to him, green eyes sharp, Damian glared at him. “We haven’t told B yet. He, Alfred, and Leslie are discussing Tim’s further medical plan. He’s got water in his lungs, and that’s before considering his lack of a spleen. Compromised immune system, the potential for dirty water because what assassin cares about whether they’re drowning their target in clean water, not to mention the bruising. Babs, Cass, and Steph are looking into it, anyways.”
“You should have told me.” Damian growled, arms crossed. Stalking over, he sat in the chair next to Jason. Duke took a place by Dick, instead. Touching Tim’s hand, he stared at him with wide eyes.
“You and Duke were at school. Besides, we hadn’t had the chance.” Jason replied. Touching Damian’s arm, he continued, “If they can’t find anything in the Drakes’ house, then I’m sure you can come in and kill them.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Dick sighed.
“I will attack them.” Damian began, mimicking Jason’s way of sitting. His shoes didn’t quite reach the side of the bed, instead resting on one of the lower bars.
“Damian.”
“Viciously.” Damian’s eyes scrunched up ever so slightly. The corners of his mouth tightened. He wasn’t smiling, but he was smiling in his usual way. Sharing a glance with Jason, he had even more of that squint to his eyes.
“Damian.” Dick let out a weak laugh. “We are not going to attack the Drakes.”
“Tt. Very well.” When Dick turned away, Jason put out a fist. Damian fist-bumped him. By the time Dick had looked back at them, having brushed Tim’s hair away from his face, Damian and Jason were back to their crossed arms. “I will trounce them in the arts of law, then.”
“Damian, no.”
“Damian, yes.” Jason and Damian said simultaneously. Sighing, Dick buried his face in his hands.
Curled up in his chair, arms wrapped around his legs, Duke rested his cheek on his knee. He was watching Tim. “Is he going to be okay?”
“I almost killed him once, I think he’ll be fine.” When Duke’s eyes went to him, Jason grimaced. “Coming back meant I was a little bit…” He waved a hand by his head. “Messed up. Don’t mess around with Lazarus Pits. They’re not good for you.”
“Advice heard and taken.” Duke replied. He studied Tim’s slack face, brows furrowing as he stood there. He shifted in his seat. Reaching up, he rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes stayed on Tim. Reaching over, Dick touched his arm. Duke glanced at him.
“He’s had worse than this, Duke. He’ll make it.” Dick reassured. This time, when he smiled, Duke returned it.
Leaning back in his seat, heels still kicked up by Tim’s arm, Jason dropped his head back and closed his eyes.
When he woke, he was lying in the Batcave’s infirmary.
At least the bed was comfortable. There were some pads beneath his back, the kind that they sometimes threw down on the floor when they needed to sleep staking somewhere out. Sure, they weren’t the most comfortable. They were good when it came to layering them, though. There were blankets laid over him, tucked around his sides. He’d been changed into one of their looser hospital gowns, the white fabric soft against his skin.
Slowly, tilting his head to the side, Tim studied the room around him. It was…the infirmary looked typical to what it normally did. Everything looked pretty typical. Some of it was…not new. Just annoying. He had a mask pressed to his face. At least it’s not a ventilator or a cannula. Though…I just know I’m going to get lectured.
Probably by Damian.
Definitely by Dick.
Sighing, he crossed his arms and closed his eyes, resting back against the pillows. When he did, he squished…something. Reaching around him, Tim pulled out whatever it was. Someone had given him a stuffed animal. Specifically, Steph had given him a stuffed bird.
With another sigh, Tim rolled his eyes and then rolled to the side, clutching the stuffed bird to his chest. It was a cardinal, not a robin, but to be fair he was beginning a collection of them on his bed by accident. (Accident as in he didn’t mean to get hurt, he just…ended up getting hurt. Repeatedly. And now he had a collection of tiny plush birds sitting on his bed in Wayne Manor.
When a hand settled in his hair, he flinched. Eyes snapping open, he turned to look at whoever it was. “Bruce.” He rasped, blinking.
Bruce sat down next to him, brushing his hair back again. Slowly, Tim rolled over again so he could face him. He let out a breath. His throat was sore, his body was achy. He clutched the plush cardinal to his chest a little bit more. Bruce continued to brush a hand through his hair.
“The others are going to be so pissed. A and I told them to go upstairs and get some rest, and as soon as they were gone you woke up.” Tim cracked a smile, burrowing further into the blankets. Rubbing a hand over his arm, Bruce added, “Just get some rest, alright? We’ve got everything handled.”
“’t was my parents…wasn’t it?” Tim asked. When Bruce looked at him, his eyes scrunched up slightly with worry. Sighing, Tim nodded and mashed his face into the pillow. “Thought so. Just glad they didn’t find Bernard. You call ‘im?”
“Yeah, he’s been told you got into an accident of sorts. Just another kidnapping.” Bruce said. “Gotham is as Gotham does.”
“Whoo…” Tim trailed off. Burrowing further into the blankets, he mumbled, “Night, Dad."
(Alfred came in later to find Bruce staring, wide-eyed and shocked, at the blue sheets of the infirmary bed. He said nothing.
He didn’t have to.)