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Chapter Text

A thick layer of acrid smog had bonded with the Gotham skyline in holy matrimony, its thick veil obscuring the moon and stars; a recent rain had further eroded the city's gaping potholes, leaving shiny, rainbow puddles and a layer of grit on the roads; and the air felt sticky with humidity and a distinct sense of unease.

In other words, it was a perfect night for photography.

Tim had approached that night of Batwatching with his usual routine, the beaming light of the Batsignal cutting through the smog to shine brighter than the moon, an artificial beacon of hope and a promise of some excellent shots. But despite the ambiance serving all the elements of a typical Gotham night, Tim still hadn't found a trace of Batman and Robin. He'd calculated their route for the evening, and his calculations had never led him astray before. Therefore, there was only one conclusion to be drawn: their patrol had deviated from plan. But why?

It was just as Tim came to this realization that the city's emergency alarms began to blare through the streets. Tim nearly fell off the ledge of a rooftop in surprise, heart pounding in his chest.

"This is a Level-Three City Emergency! This is not a drill! Seek shelter indoors immediately!" a recorded voice pleaded with the citizens on repeat. 

Most would have heeded the warning; Tim had always been a curious cat.

A Level-Three Emergency included problems ranging from questionably-toxic air quality to full-scale domestic terrorism. The screeching, teeth-rattling alarms were annoying, but not concerning enough to induce panic.

Still, as a rationally-minded person, he deliberated for a moment while he took stock of his resources. His phone held a decent charge, so he could call for help if need be. His thermos was still half-filled with hot coffee—a potential weapon, although his pepper spray would have been better for that; he'd used it on a mugger a couple of weeks before and the poor guy had actually cried.

As he audited his belongings, Tim sipped some coffee to keep his mind alert and decided to stay at it for a little while longer. It really was a beautiful night, and the trek from his family's silent mansion to downtown Gotham was a bother. He didn't want to go home with nothing to show for it.

As he jumped across rooftops in search of his heroes, Tim noted that the streets truly were dead. With the emergency alarms constantly polluting the air with noise, the city seemed silent, and it was only through visual input that Tim was able to take stock of his surroundings—and his eyes told him that even the petty criminals had stayed in. Even after schlepping to the seedier neighborhoods of the city, Tim had seen nothing more than a couple homeless people peering around corners before running to whatever buildings they'd been squatting in. And still, no sign of Batman and Robin.

Breathless from sprinting halfway across the city, Tim paused to catch his breath beside a rooftop water tower. It had seemed like a safe bet—he'd gotten a few pictures by this particular water tower over the years—but luck was not on his side. Batman and Robin weren't around… But it was wrong for Tim to assume that he was alone.

"Well, hello," a voice spoke from the shadows.

Tim jumped upright, the breath that he'd just caught fluttering free.

A familiar face stepped into the light with a smug look and a wink. "What's the one thing you can lose without ever noticing it's gone?"

Oh. That explained it: there had been an Arkham breakout. That certainly did count as a Level-Three Emergency.

Tim puzzled over the riddle for a moment. "Sanity," he answered, and the Riddler tipped his hat in his direction. "But I wouldn't say it's the only thing. I broke a vase last year and swept it up before my parents got home. I moved a plant there instead, and they were none the wiser."

"Very clever," Riddler unenthusiastically praised, spinning his cane in one hand, "but you've forgotten the most important one."

"And what's that?" Tim asked, fingers gripping the straps of his backpack while his toes flexed in his sneakers, preparing to bolt.

The Riddler looked him in the eye as he answered: "Your life." He let the sinister declaration hang in the air for a moment before looking away dismissively. "You're better off scurrying home. The streets are running wild with jokers even crazier than me."

A stone of nausea settled in his gut. "Do you have any more advice?" He wasn't sure how advisable it was to trust in the Riddler's counsel, but it wasn't like Tim had many options.

A distant police siren began to cry in the neighboring streets, adding to the cacophony. The Riddler tilted his head before stepping back into the shadows. He hesitated only to deliver a quick parting tip: "Go to the first police station you see and don't quit bangin' on the door 'til they let you in."

"…Thanks," Tim responded, because he wasn't one to forgo basic politeness even around convicted killers.

"What's available to all, but only the most humble ever have?"

Manners.

When Tim opened his mouth to answer, he saw that the Riddler had disappeared.

At first, Tim truly intended to do as the Riddler said. Although the police were out of the question, seeing as they would have had many questions that he would not have been able to answer without revealing that his parents were gallivanting across the globe and he had no nanny to speak of, he angled himself back towards Bristol, supposing that the spirit of the Riddler's message had been to get off the streets.

But as he passed through Little Odessa, he ducked out of view when a cop car came racing down the street and peered over the edge of the rooftop just in time to watch that car fly backwards, end-over-end, landing upside-down. The metal screech as it slid down the road spiked through the air, audible even over the sirens which had become less urgent-warning and more white-noise by that point.

The officer who crawled out of the car immediately booked it on foot back in the direction he'd come from.

Obviously, this was a good omen.

His flimsy intent to return empty-handed to his equally-empty house forgotten, torn clean through like the paper-thin membrane of an eggshell, Tim roof-hopped a couple of buildings over until he had a visual of what had managed to scare the GCPD away. It was even better than he could have hoped.

Tim raised his camera, zoomed to the limits of its lens, breathing out slowly as he pressed down the shutter. Click. Tim pumped a fist in celebration. Batman had released his Batarang with perfect timing, nailing Killer Croc right in the eye and gifting Tim an excellent pose at once.

A second click captured the moment Killer Croc lashed out in return, sharp claws falling just short of tattering Gotham’s beloved hero to gore. Before he could make a second swipe, a figure draped in flashy reds and yellows stole the stage, flipping onto the scene from above and drawing the camera towards him with magnetic attraction.

A grin spread across Tim’s face as he captured the fight, only growing wider as Nightwing eventually arrived on scene. Although the new Robin had quickly hooked his loyalty, Tim knew he would always look up to the man who'd pioneered the role as the Dark Knight's hope. And besides, alongside being just as flashy as he had been as Robin, Nightwing also kicked serious ass.

Killer Croc quickly caught on that he was hopelessly outnumbered and promptly curbstomped the sewer grate until he made a hole large enough to squeeze through.

After a quick discussion between the three heroes, Batman and Robin followed Killer Croc into the sewer while Nightwing swung down the street, in search of whatever other threats were haunting the city that night.

Tim's camera followed Nightwing until he swung around a corner and out of sight.

Ecstatic about the unique shots he'd managed—this had been his first Killer Croc encounter! What luck!—Tim unpacked his thermos and settled down a couple feet back from the edge of the rooftop to play back what he'd gotten.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” a voice suddenly spoke from behind him, and it was only Tim’s youth and clean bill of health that kept his heart from going into full-blown cardiac arrest. Instinctively, he scrambled to his feet and spun around, thermos still clutched in one hand and his camera smacking hard against his chest, saved from shattering on the ground by the strap that tethered it to his neck. “It seems the Caped Crusader has a fanboy.”

Following the accusation was a high-pitched, growling giggle that caused Tim’s instincts to white out in a warning even louder than the emergency sirens. The giggle rapidly rose to a laugh, which rose to a cackle. Meanwhile, Tim grew stiller and stiller, cursing his knees for locking up like a deer trying to camouflage itself from a truck.

The Joker stepped out from the shadows, dressed in a black-and-white-striped Arkham jumper and twirling a crowbar in his hands like a baton. “What’s wrong, Kiddo? Bat got your tongue? Hoo-hoo!”

Tim managed a waddling step backwards, with the same grace and effectiveness as an infant giraffe.

The Joker cooed at him like he found him pathetically adorable. "There, there, no need to make that scared face." He took a matching step forward. As Tim made another step back, his heel brushed against the ledge of the rooftop. The Joker grinned, baring his full set of yellow teeth. "I just want to chat about our shared interest. I'm sure you've learned oodles of titillating information, following Batman the way you do."

"I don't," Tim denied, taking quick glances around them and over the Joker's shoulders. Nightwing was nowhere in sight, but the rooftops looked shortly-spaced in the direction he'd gone… "I was just in the area, I swear."

The Joker chuckled. "Bristol's at the other end of the rainbow, Shrimp Boat. Pull the other one!"

Tim gulped, hands shaking. He'd been trying to smooth over his accent to something more neutral, but the Joker was more perceptive than he would've thought.

"Well, you see," Tim started—then he threw all of the coffee in his thermos into the Joker's face. The thermos itself came after, and though he'd instantly turned to bolt, he heard the metal BONG of it hitting its mark.

"You punk!" the Joker cried. His voice came far too close for comfort even several rooftops later. "Some waiter you are! Where's the milk and sugar?!"

Tim threw himself across the gaps between rooftops, less careful than he normally would have been as he heard the hollow ring of the Joker's crowbar whiffing through the air just behind him. If his cries for help rose above the emergency sirens, there was nothing to show for it.

With a well-timed throw, the Joker's crowbar snapped against Tim's knee, bringing him down. He transitioned his momentum into a roll and jumped back up immediately, but he'd been injured, and his knee buckled beneath his weight. A limping jog wasn't enough to outrun the Joker.

Cornered, Tim fumbled in his pocket and spun around to make his last stand.

The Joker received a blast of pepper spray directly to the face.

The mugger from the other week had fallen to his knees, choking and gasping on the spray; the Joker only coughed out laughs, tears streaming down his pale-white face as he prowled forward.

So that was it, then.

Tim stumbled back, tripping onto the ground. He crawled backward, heart racing, lungs stuttering.

"Naughty little boys like you," the Joker growled between giggles, "ought to be taught a lesson." He raised his crowbar gleefully. "I guess I'll have to step in, if your momma and pops are failing you."

Tim's palms scraped the edge of the rooftop. Looking behind himself showed a multi-story drop straight down. Death by fall or death by beating?

Tim didn't have to make a decision; before the crowbar could strike down, a blur of black and blue crashed directly into the Joker, sending him sprawling onto his back.

Nightwing saved his life.

Tim's hands itched for his camera. When he raised it and peered through the viewfinder, he discovered that the lens had shattered in the bedlam. He snapped a single shot that probably amounted to nothing more than wasted space on the memory card then settled for memorizing this moment: Dick Grayson taking down his almost-murderer with quick quips and hard hits.

He took a moment to recover from what, at the time, had been the scariest moment in his life. Eventually, he gained the courage to slip away, watching Nightwing incapacitate the Joker then turn his head in search of the victim—in search of Tim.

Tim stayed hidden until Nightwing gave up, staying with the Joker until a squad car pulled onto the scene.

It wasn't until he watched the Joker get loaded into the back of the police car that Tim was able to draw a full breath. He watched Nightwing follow the car in the direction of Arkham, personally overseeing the transport.

A relieved laugh barked out of Tim's chest. He quickly silenced himself; it was too soon for mood-inappropriate laughter. He shifted his focus to how he was supposed to get home.

Since the city was as good as under attack, the buses had been shut down. And he knew it was a long-shot, but when he called the cab company, they actually laughed at him before hanging up. So for transportation, Tim had his Chucks and one-and-a-half working legs. Without further ado, he limped westward.

He had never felt more comfortable than he did as he collapsed into bed, the blankets feeling like some kind of forcefield against the dangers of the world.

It had been an intense night, but it was over now. Oh well. It was as they said: all's well that ends well.

Months Later…

It had taken hours of sawing with a butter knife—spread out over the course of a week—to flay open the outer shell of the machine, exposing a tangled mess of wires and plugs. Tim spent a long while staring at the disturbing attempt at electrical work, following the twisting paths of each wire until he could make sense of it all. Once he figured out what he was looking at, he didn't hesitate to stick his hands into its guts, strategically untangling and pulling out specific wires.

The tremor that never seemed to leave his hands—currently worsened by his nerves—made slow work of it. He hated this thing and would've loved nothing more than to wield the butter knife like a machete and hack away—but too big of a change in the electrical output would have been suspicious. Small alterations would have to do.

He was hardly convincing himself.

As a thin wire slipped from his shaking fingers once again, he would have cursed, except none of the swears allowed in this house would have been strong enough to withstand the weight of his frustration. "Aw, beans!" simply didn't pack a punch that was worth the squeeze.

He looked up, surveying the entrance to make sure he was still alone. A hundred Tims stared back at him from the mismatching mirrors scattered across the walls and ceiling. They all smirked and winked at him before he turned back to his work. He had time. He had this.

Above his beating heart, the phonograph continued to spin a torturous, neverending loop of the same lullaby, equally scratchy and catchy, and frankly an ill-fitting soundtrack for a moment like this, when the clock's ticking was akin to a bomb counting towards detonation.

The wire finally pulled free with a victorious cheer. He snatched a couple of plugs out of their sockets before piecing the machine back together, ensuring that nothing looked out of the ordinary.

He retreated to his corner on the opposite end of the room as he twisted the wire, searching for an imperfection in the outer shell. Eventually he found a weakened spot and set to ripping it apart. He had three fingernails left—five if he counted the ones on his broken fingers, which he didn't—and he was determined to use them wisely.

Tiny chunks of rubber were plucked away, scattering onto the floor. The floor was already so dirty that it didn't matter where they fell; what was a little extra debris in the grand scheme of things?

Tim laughed as he pulled the copper wire free from the casing, grinning around the hand that he pressed against his mouth to muffle the sound.

The sound of the chain lock at the top of the staircase coming undone caused the smile to fall off his face. He grabbed his bed—a half-limp beanbag chair which had clearly been rescued from a dumpster and was filled with a mystery substance that Tim could have sleuthed out, but he chose to blissfully ignore the clues at his disposal in efforts to salvage the little peaceful rest he was able to manage these days—and snatched it away from the wall, revealing an air vent. He quickly shoved his wire and butterknife through the grates.

As the entry door squealed open, Tim tossed his bed back in front of the vent and limped over to his workbench, collapsing onto his milk-crate chair just in time.

"Daddy's home!" a sing-songy voice called while tap shoes rhythmically danced down the stairs.

"Welcome home, Pops," Tim dutifully said, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his distaste from showing. "How was work?"

"It was hard work today, Junior," Joker said with a wistful sigh. He swung a plastic bag around as he added, "But somebody has to bring home the bacon!"

The bag landed on the table, opening enough for Tim to catch a peek: loose fried rice, jellybeans, and some concerning mystery meat. It looked like he'd gone dumpster diving again.

"Yum," Tim said, trying to sound like he meant it.

Joker cackled. He pulled out another milk crate and sat across from Tim, clasping his hands together and resting his chin on top. "Show me what you've been working on."

Tim held up a clip-on bow tie. He'd sat in on enough of his parents' meetings before that he had mastered the art of the elevator pitch, so it was with wholehearted conviction that he described the device.

"It seems like an ordinary bow tie. Batman will think so, too."

Joker sat forward, interest glimmering in his eyes.

"But what he won't know is that there is a secret water chamber in the back. And then—blam!" A thin spurt of water sprayed from the center of the bow tie in an arc, misting over the table.

Joker stared at him, face deadly serious. "That…is—" He grinned and cackled. "—genius! How do you come up with this stuff, JJ?"

"I was taught by the best," Tim said, shoulders falling down in relief.

"That you were…which is why I'm going to give you a tip: put acid inside instead!"

Tim choked, coughing a couple times. He recovered his composure to diplomatically reason, "We would need metal tubing, in that case; the plastic would melt."

"Perfect, you can make it like that."

Tim sighed through his nose. "I'll add it to the grocery list."

Joker clapped his hands together. "What about your other project?" He waggled his eyebrows, letting out a drawn-out string of low chuckles.

Tim cleared his throat. "It's almost finished… It just needs some finishing touches."

With an exaggerated pout, Joker whined, "That's what you said last week! You're not pulling my leg, are you?"

"Never," Tim swore. "I'm just getting…stage fright. I want to make sure it's perfect before you use it."

Joker leaned forward, rifling through the bag to find a radioactive-green jellybean. He crushed it between his teeth with an overly-forceful bite, a wild glint appearing in his eyes as he stared at Tim.

Tim swallowed, feeling like he was next on the chopping block once the jellybean was swallowed. "Let me show you," he offered, desperate to keep control as he could feel it slipping through his fingers. "And you can give me pointers. Since you're so good at this stuff."

With an indulgent nod, Joker flipped his greasy hair out of his eyes while making a rolling motion with one hand. "Make it fast. The moon's playing peek-a-boo."

Tim had to glance around the room to find the device. He could have sworn that he'd last left it by his workbench, but now it was at the far end of the room, where Joker liked to play Tim's least favorite games, and where Tim had just been playing Handyman.

Even rushing under the pressure of Joker's watching eye, the trek across the room took twice as long as it should have: Tim's knee still twinged even a full year after Joker had hit him with that crowbar, although his main concern was his opposite ankle—the foot was turned inward at an unnatural angle, healed all wrong after a separate injury, and every step caused lines of white-hot pain to spike up his leg.

Joker giggled as Tim limped across the room. This was certainly why the project had been moved so far away; he loved to watch Tim struggle to walk after what he'd done to him—he thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

As he passed his "school chair," Tim was careful to keep his posture neutral and his eyes away from the small imperfection he'd left in the bottom corner. As long as he didn't acknowledge it, his intervention would fly under the radar.

The device he was looking for was beside the phonograph. Once he retrieved it, Tim retreated from the "Playroom" as quickly as possible; this place gave him the creeps, and even just the sight of the alphabet-patterned and copper-stained carpet beneath his feet was enough to make him start breaking out in a cold sweat.

"Here it is," Tim announced as he dropped it onto the table with a metal bang. He pointed to different parts quickly as he explained, "The toxin goes in this chamber here. Then the explosives wrap around. Once it detonates, the toxin is spread through the air."

Tim swallowed his nerves as Joker stared at what would soon be a homemade bomb. It felt like crossing a line that he would maybe never come back from. Assisting in domestic terrorism wasn't Tim's first career choice.

But the Joker was crazy, not stupid, evident by the way he picked apart the build with his eyes, reaching in to rearrange wires even as his eyes had already moved on, the process of building a bomb second-nature to him. "I've never been able to add my toxin to a bigger bomb like this," he pointed out. "It gets burnt up before it can do anything."

Tim steadied his breathing as Joker's eyes trailed over the most important parts of his build—the vulnerabilities he'd added to mitigate the fallout. Joker's eyes were drawn to the brighter plastics on the other side, bright greens and pinks that Tim had strategically added with hopes of keeping his attention away from the actual mechanics.

"It's all about the inner-chamber," Tim bullshitted with confidence. "It's metal on the outside and plastic on the inside."

Joker hummed undecidedly. "Won't the plastic just melt?"

Tim nodded. "Yes, that's the point. When the plastic casing melts, the toxin will trickle deeper into the machine, where it will be safe from the explosive."

The logic didn't check out, but he was banking on Joker taking his word for it.

"Just make sure there's a big bang," Joker said after a long pause, miming an explosion with his white-gloved hands and grinning at his own imagination. "How much more dynamite do you think we'll need?"

"What we have is perfect," Tim insisted quickly. He spared a wary glance at the loose TNT that he'd unfortunately been sleeping next to for the better part of a month now.

Joker cackled, and Tim went deathly still as one of those gloved hands landed on top of his head to ruffle his hair. "Don't worry!" Each word was punctuated by a broad laugh followed by a gasping inhale. "It's perfectly safe!"

Tim nodded with a tight smile. The imagined danger of being blown up in his sleep was nothing compared to the real danger that had become his daily life. He forced out a half-hearted chuckle.

After gathering his composure, Joker patted the seat beside him. "Come sit with me."

Tim rounded the table on shaking legs. He sat on the crate beside Joker and let himself be pulled close to his side.

Wrapping his arm around the back of Tim's shoulders, Joker gestured with his other hand as he said, "Daddy and Mommy were talking lately."

"About what?" Tim asked, trying to steady the tremble in his voice. Joker and Harley's ideas were rarely good news for him.

"It's fun having a son," Joker said. He gestured to the bomb as he added, "We get to have so much fun together!"

Joker's hand tightened on Tim's shoulder as a moment of silence stretched on. "Y-yeah," Tim belatedly agreed.

"Well… We were thinking it's about time to start trying for another!"

"Another?" He was hesitant to ask for clarification; the last thing he wanted was to give him ideas. "You mean like a…brother or sister?"

"Just like that! Picture if we had two JJs running around." Joker tapped the bomb indicatively. "We'd have twice the fun! What do you think, Junior?"

Tim wasn't sure why Joker was suddenly bringing this up now; that first night, there had been four other kids here, too. Over the course of a couple days, that number had been slowly whittled down to one. Why hadn't he given those other kids a chance, if he'd wanted more than one child to torture all along? He supposed it was all moot; it's not like the Joker was known for his logical reasoning and foresight.

He imagined how nice it would have been to not be the only sane one around. Plus, if there was another kid here, they would have shared half of Joker's attention and "games." The idea of it caused sudden desperation to surge in his chest. When he forcefully swallowed it back down, he was left with the familiar hollow dread that had been slowly eroding away his chest cavity as weeks turned to months in this cellar.

"I've always been an only child," he politely declined. "I don't think I want to share."

Joker stared at him for a silent moment before screaming cackling laughs into his ear. He wrapped a hand around Tim's neck to stabilize himself.

Tim's heart raced as Joker's thumb pressed down on his pulse-point. He pushed a nervous laugh out of his throat before Joker decided to force it out of him.

The cool glass of the window quelled the fire that seemed to constantly flame inside him. With each deep and orderly breath, Jason felt sparks kicking up, eager to ignite. He watched the buildings blur past instead, catalogued them coming closer and closer together as they passed through the well-to-do neighborhood of Bristol to the slightly-less-rich suburbs.

Normally, old-school jazz hyped Jason up before school; today, Bruce was driving him to save Alfred the trip, since he was on his way in to the office anyways—so it was only an uncomfortable silence that hung heavy in the air. It was one of Bruce's tactics, Jason knew: make the atmosphere so awkward and inhospitable that Jason would feel the need to fill it himself. He needed to update his tricks; Jason wasn't falling for it and let the discomfort envelope them both.

Bruce cleared his throat as Gotham Academy came into view. "I know that last night was…unsatisfying," he said. When Jason glanced over, he saw that Bruce was facing forward, looking out the windshield as he joined the drop-off line that extended out of the school driveway. "Half of our job is about being patient. We will take down Garzonas, but only if we wait for the right time and do it together."

"Yeah. You know best. I get it." Jason couldn't help that his words were clipped close enough to nick the skin. Bruce had already served him this same bullshit on the way home from patrol the night before. Jason was not hungry for the leftovers.

The line crept forward.

After an intentional deep breath, Bruce said, "You haven't been acting like yourself lately." His voice was flat, making the note as though it were an objective fact from one of their cases. "Alfred is worried, too."

"What, so you're talking about me behind my back now?" Jason fired back. Tension rocketed his shoulders up to his ears. "Making plans for how to handle the out-of-control street rat?"

"Alfred is worried about your emotional state. With how reckless you've been lately, I feel the same." His intense delivery suddenly broke, tone turning hesitant. "What's happening inside your head, Jay?"

Jason swallowed, turning to stare out the window. He was tempted to tuck-and-roll, but the manicured lawn had turned to mud after last night's rain. The threat of Alfred's lecture should he have muddied his school shoes was enough to keep Jason in his seat. "It's just not fair," he said, taking them back to Garzonas. "The longer we wait around twiddling our thumbs, the longer she has to live in fear of her assaulter."

"You're talking about Gloria," Bruce noted.

Jason nodded curtly. Her cries still haunted him almost a full week later: her pleas for help, followed by her devastation after Garzonas had been let out of the precinct scot-free. Every night that they waited to take down Garzonas was another night that she had to live in fear. Bruce didn't seem to get it.

"We will nab him, Jay." Bruce's sugar-spun promise was spoken with certainty and it glided in one ear and out the other. "But you need to trust me."

Jason huffed, grumbling, "Trust is a two-way street."

"I do trust you," Bruce said earnestly. "We wouldn't patrol together otherwise. Speaking of, will you come out with me tonight?"

His claim went entirely counter to the months-worth of evidence that had been piling up like dogshit landmines—but even more damning was the smooth deflection which might have worked on Jason when he'd first come to the manor, but he was too aware of obvious tactics like that by now; Bruce had taught him most of them personally.

"Of course." Jason attempted a cocky smirk but settled for a weak dupe. "Gotham needs its Robin."

They pulled up in front of the doors. A mutual hesitation wavered in the air.

"I better go," Jason said eventually. "Don't want to be late."

Just as he touched the door handle, Bruce's hand fell onto his shoulder. Jason looked up to meet Bruce's eyes.

"Jay…be safe," Bruce said, voice heavy.

Jason lifted an eyebrow, though his concern was revealed in his weak smirk. "It's just school, B. I'll be fine."

Bruce nodded, holding the eye contact.

Jason nodded back before turning away to open the door. He raised his hand in goodbye as Bruce slowly drove away.

The line of cars driving away went even slower than the line going in—the school driveway was filled with other helicopter parents. So was the life of the modern Gothamite.

The sensory overload of the high school's hallways was a welcome change of pace. It was the kind of discomfort that Jason thrived in, turning on his mental white noise machine as he centered his brain on the mission—traveling to English class—and danced around cliques and groups of teens with all the grace his Robin training had provided him.

After sliding into his seat, he cracked open the book they'd been reading for this unit. His bookmark was already a quarter-inch from the end, but he dutifully opened up to the second chapter to reread the assigned section before the bell rang.

Gotham Academy was stricter than the public schools Jason had grown up attending, but it was still full of spoiled rich kids. All of them had been handed a college app-worthy education on a silver platter. They didn't understand the struggle of street kids who had to give up what was often the only safe place available to them for fear of being found by Social Services. Even after the bell rang and class began, his peers continued to whisper and pass notes to one another. 

It was only midway through roll-call, when his teacher's tongue hesitated on T, that the classroom fell into eerie silence. Even the kids shooting spitballs respectfully paused until a shuddering breath gave their teacher the strength to move on to the Vs.

Timothy Drake.

The kid had blent in so well that he'd looped back around to standing out among his other classmates. He'd been unusually young for a high schooler and small for his age. He'd never raised his hand but had always had an answer when called on. He'd sat in the back, as though that would have made his frequent absences to go unnoticed. Timothy Drake, it seemed, had been a serial skipper.

It hadn't been until the second week that Timothy hadn't turned up for class that Jason had realized something was wrong. He'd spent five consecutive English classes mentally mocking the kid for fumbling a top-tier high school education (and skipping out on Jason's personal favorite subject), unaware that the Drakes had been among the victims of the Joker's latest attack.

The playhouse downtown had gone up in flames during a matinee performance of Annie, a bomb detonating halfway through Act II and making orphans of dozens of children instantly. It would have been ironic if it hadn't been calculated.

It had taken days for the city to sort through the wreckage. An additional tragedy wasn't noticed until nearly a week after the attack: five children were unaccounted for, their bodies not among the victims excavated from the disaster site.

One of the children was found shortly after this news was delivered to the press. His body had been brutalized both pre- and post-mortem, and deep cuts drew a jagged grin across his cheeks.

Now, months after the attack, additional victims were still turning up, and Bruce grew antsier with every day that the Joker remained at large. Even as he obsessed over the case, he refused to bring Jason along on some of his investigations. It was as if he didn't trust Jason not to mess up the investigation. It was bullshit.

Now, Timothy's name went unspoken, only uttered by Batman late in the night, when another night of searching turned up nothing and his hope well was running dry, and he sat at the computer for hours, staring at the same facts and lists of victims that he'd reviewed a hundred times.

And Jason obediently sat on the sidelines when all the arguing in the world couldn't change Batman's mind. At the end of the day, Bruce would be Bruce—the self-reliant, overly-paranoid man who took Jason in and gave him everything except for what he needed the most.

But if Bruce wanted to shut Jason out, then Jason could play the same game. And he had a secret ace hidden up his sleeve: a mom he'd never known about until he saw her name in waterwashed ink on his birth certificate.

Chapter Text

They were halfway across the room before Tim realized what was happening. His lungs seized at the same time that his legs locked up. "No, please," he gasped, stumbling as his arm pulled taught. His head whipped around wildly, landing on his workbench. "I-I didn't finish my homework!"

Joker's grip tightened, mercilessly crushing his broken fingers. He ignored Tim's pained cry, saying cheerfully, "There's no excuse for missing school, kiddo."

"But I-I-I think I'm coming down with something." Tim's legs were all quivering muscle and no bone. He fell to his knees and was dragged across the floor. "Can't I take a sick day?"

"Too late! Class is already in session." Joker tossed him onto the electric chair.

His wrists were tied down first and his legs after. Even if his body could have responded to him, he wouldn't have tried to fight back; he'd learned long before that the punishment was always worse—and he only had six unbroken fingers left.

The worn leather straps were cinched tight, each embedded with a round metal disc through which the electricity was conducted. These discs slotted perfectly into the scarred divots that had formed in his flesh.

"Don't worry," Joker crooned with a sinister chuckle. "I know how to help you recharge."

Tim choked on air, every gasping breath forced right back out of his chest as his lungs heaved.

Once he was locked-in, Joker took a step back and looked him over. He huffed, waving as though flicking away a fly, remote in hand. "Oh, don't give me that look. You know how the game works: just don't get any questions wrong and you won't get shocked."

"I just—" Tim's fingers spasmed, broken ones included, and the pain was enough to make him gasp a full breath of air into his lungs. He managed to level out his tone to something less panicked and more logical. "It's not fair that I'm always the one who gets to play. Don't you want a turn, too?"

Joker stared at him.

Tim's stomach was twisting itself into knots. He would have thrown up, except he hadn't been given breakfast that morning. Now he understood why.

Joker blinked twice. Then he burst into hysterical laughter, folding forwards from the force of it. It went on and on, and Tim debated whether he ought to laugh along until Joker finally managed to catch his breath and wipe away a tear. He looked at Tim again.

"That was funny," he said seriously. Then he flipped the switch.

Every muscle in Tim's body instantly contracted. His basic senses were halted—vision turning red, taste and smell flooding with a metallic tang as he bit his tongue, and hearing fizzling to a buzzing ring. It was only his sense of touch that remained intact, and the pain was immediate and overwhelming. He was paralyzed from the outside in, the electricity arcing through his body and tearing apart his thoughts.

He didn't register himself screaming until it finally ended. It took long seconds for his system to reboot, muscles spasming as sparks exited his body.

While Tim heaved desperate, panicked breaths, Joker tisked. "We only have room for one class clown, kiddo. Do you think it's going to be you or me?"

"Y-you," Tim wheezed.

"That's right!" Joker clapped his hands. "I knew you were a smart one. I hope you studied because your quiz starts now!"

The first questions were easy, now that Tim had had plenty of time to learn the routine:

"What's your name?" Joker Junior.

"Who's your Pops?" You are.

"Who's your Mama?" Harley.

The answers spilled from his lips automatically. Joker seemed pleased with his fast responses.

Likewise, Tim had learned Joker's sense of humor well enough to succesfully guess the punchline to many of his jokes. But the thing about Joker's games was that Tim always lost. He could never fully understand Joker's thought patterns; it was hard to win when his opponent was certifiably insane.

"What do you call a bat in a minefield?"

"What's red and moves up and down?"

"What did the snail who was riding on the turtle's back say?"

The answers were dead, a tomato in an elevator, and wheeeee! Joker informed him as he twitched through the aftershocks. It was certainly only because of Tim's sneaky rewiring that the chair hadn't killed him yet like it had one of the others. He was sure that his heart would have given out by now if the voltage was the same as when Joker had first used it on him.

"I want you to think real hard on this next one, Junior," Joker said, pacing in front of him.

Somehow, Tim's heart sank deeper into his chest. It was probably safer there; he knew what was coming next.

Joker bent forward to face Tim head-on. "Who are Batman and Robin?"

"I—I don't know," Tim promised.

Joker grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, nails piercing his skin. "Their names! You know something, Junior; I can see it in your eyes."

"I don't, I swear. I only ever took pictures of them. There was no way to ask them their names."

Joker let him go and took a step back. "Is that your final answer?"

There was no room for second-thoughts. Tim nodded definitively. He would never have given up his heroes, no matter how many times he was interrogated.

The electricity seemed to last longer this time. Blood spilled down Tim's chin and tears down his cheeks.

Joker consulted a faded and wrinkled takeout menu as if it were the exam booklet. "Maybe you can bring your grade up on the essay; it's worth double the points: tell us a joke."

Tim had a whole arsenal prepared. "How do you make a waterbed bouncier?" Tim waited for Joker to hum in question. "You add spring water." He flinched automatically before Joker even had time to react.

Thankfully, he passed; Joker laughed and laughed, dancing around. "Spring water! Spring water! It's genius!"

Tim didn't have the energy to feel relief, his heart racing.

"Alright, Kiddo, we can be done now," Joker said. His light tone suddenly turned serious: "But first, laugh."

Tim's breath hitched. He didn't have the time to force out a laugh before Joker was electrocuting him again.

"Laugh," Joker commanded when he turned the chair off.

Tim's lungs spasmed in a laugh, which soon turned into a scream when Joker flipped the switch again. Fresh tears cut down his cheeks. He felt his heart trembling in his chest, throbbing in his head and stomach and legs. He was going to die like this.

Joker turned off the electricity and waited for Tim to suck in a gasping breath before demanding again, "Laugh!"

This time, the laughter came as naturally as breathing. When the electricity came on again, he fought through his natural reaction to scream and transitioned it into laughter instead.

Even as the electricity turned off again, his lungs spasmed, giggles spilling out of his throat.

"Good job," Joker praised. He patted Tim's cheek then left him there.

Tim may have blacked out for a bit. When he came around again, the entrance door was opening, and Harley was skipping down the stairs, singing, "I'm home!" When he blinked, Harley was suddenly standing in front of him, bent over with her hands on her knees and her face mere inches from Tim's own. "How was school?"

It was then that Tim realized that he still hadn't caught his breath, choked laughter continuing to stutter from his lungs.

"Junior failed his tests again," Joker informed her.

Harley pouted. She waggled her finger at Tim. "You need to study harder." She turned to Joker and held up a bag, saying, "I went grocery shopping."

Through the rips in the sides of the plastic bag, Tim could see that it wasn't groceries inside, but rather a variety of prescription pill bottles, scrap metal, zip ties, and other materials that they were probably going to creatively torture him with. But god, Tim would have killed for a Twinkie without visible grime or mold spores.

"Goodie!" Joker cheered as he rooted through the bag.

Tim blinked and suddenly Joker was in front of him, shoving a pill down his throat. He nearly waterboarded him, chasing the pill down with his homemade "iced tea." It tasted like a mixture of blue raspberry and glowsticks—which was what it very well could have been; those were both substances which Tim had ingested during his time here.

Harley and Joker sat on the stained carpet, filling a bright red balloon with a metal can and passing it back and forth between each other, taking turns sucking out the air.

"Even though you failed your classes again, you can still have a reward," Joker told him as he pushed the stem of the balloon into Tim's mouth.

It was laughing gas, but not Joker's toxic variety. Tim had been on the receiving end of both before, and he'd come to recognize that the toxin came in obvious and concerningly-DIY packaging while the medical kind came in a professional can.

It was with a Catholic-helping of shame that Tim greedily sucked in lungfuls of the air. Had Robin been in his situation, he would never have stooped to such a low indulgeance—but Tim was his own witness, and soon the gnawing dread floated away like helium. Light-headed and numb, he watched Joker and Harley share puffs of laughing gas, giggling to each other, the squeaky sound of the balloon seeming to stretch wider until it formed a protective layer over the whole room.

"Jesus Christ," Jason mumbled, looking down at the dance floor with disgust.

Sloppily bouncing around in the mess of bodies, Felipe Garzonas was sweaty and jittery and looked like he was seconds from falling flat on his face.

"Just wait," Bruce advised, his cowl lit up in pulsing reds and purples and blues from the club lighting. "He'll have to visit his supplier after this."

"You really think he's in the headspace to be planning his next high?" Jason asked dubiously. "I know crackheads, B: the only thing he's going to be worrying about is finding a hooker to get his rocks off."

"We'll see." Bruce sounded pretty sure of himself, but they never got the chance to find out for certain; a notification on his BatPager made his jaw clench, the flicker of amusement disappearing in an instant.

"What is it?" Jason asked, leaning into his side to see.

Bruce angled the pager so he could see: COMMISSIONER: MUTILATED CORPSE FOUND BY DOCKS. J VICTIM?

"Shit," Jason muttered.

"We have to get down there before the trail runs cold," Bruce said, standing from their perch.

Jason looked back down at the club floor, where Garzonas was stumbling away from the dance floor and towards the bar.

"You have to get down there," Jason corrected. "I'll stay and keep an eye on Garzonas."

"Robin," Batman growled, tapping his foot impatiently. "We stay together."

"I'm just trying to do what you trained me to do." Jason huffed. "You think I can't handle watching one guy on my own?"

"I know you can. We don't have time to argue about this. The Joker has to be our priority. Or do you want him walking free on the streets?"

Jason scowled. He looked back at Garzonas, who was now throwing back a glass of what Jason could pretend was water but was certainly straight liquor. With any luck, he'd black out in a booth for a couple hours.

"Fine," Jason huffed, abandoning their stakeout position and stalking towards the window.

"Thank you," Bruce said as he passed.

Jason ignored him, firing his grapple across the street.

Down by the docks, a fleet of GCPD cars had already blocked off the area. Commissioner Gordon was standing just outside the doorway of a cautioned-off warehouse, murmuring into his walkie-talkie, when they landed next to him.

"Batman, Robin. Thank you for coming. It's gruesome," he warned.

"Is it another kid?" Jason hung back to ask while Bruce entered the warehouse, smoothly sliding under the caution tape.

"Between maybe eight and ten years old," Gordon confirmed. "Same schtick as the others: numerous contusions, limbs removed, and face cut. Nobody would blame you for choosing to stay outside for this one."

"Thanks for the heads up," Jason said, following Bruce into the building. He saw Gordon shake his head as he passed.

The police had already set up spotlights inside the warehouse. Jason joined Bruce, who was in conversation with one of the detectives.

"—we still need to get the coroner out to confirm, but based on the decomposition? I'd estimate time of death as at least a week ago. Maybe more," the detective was saying. Jason recognized him and the lady next to him as a couple of the good ones.

"I'm thinking longer," the other detective piped up. Her camera's shutter was rhythmically snapping pictures, bright camera flash illuminating different angles of the victim's body. "Look at the cross section. It looks like the body was stored in a freezer for some time."

"Disgusting," Jason commented. He raced after Batman, who had begun pacing the room, observing the other marked-off clues the detectives had taken note of. "What are you thinking?"

"This victim makes three of five. Did you notice the feathering lesions on their forearms?"

"Kind of hard to miss it. It was spiderwebbing, like—"

"—like an electrical injury," Bruce confirmed, their words overlapping. "This gives us a clue as to where he could be hiding out."

"We can check the power grid," Jason theorized. "He'd be using a lot of power for electrocutions like that—assuming he's not on some kind of generator."

"If his hideout is on the city's power grid, we might be able to find him based on unprecedentedly-high levels of electricity being used."

"And if he is using a generator?" Jason asked.

Bruce exhaled a steady breath. "Then we'll find him some other way," he concluded.

"We'll get him," Jason reassured him. He was sure of that fact: the only question was how many more victims there would be before they nabbed him.

A weak smile upturned Bruce's lips for an instant.

"Do you think…" Jason swallowed. He sighed before starting again, "Do you think those other kids are in a freezer somewhere? Is there a chance they might still be alive?"

Bruce thought about it for a moment. "We have to hope that we can still save them," he said. "But to be honest with you, chum, the Joker is a psychopath. I'm not sure which would be the worse fate."

"Batman, Robin," Gordon called from by the door. He gestured for them to come closer.

Jason's intuition started pinging in alarm halfway across the room, something in Gordon's grim expression tipping him off.

"Robin, I know this is going to be upsetting for you," Gordon started apologetically, "but I just got word that Gloria Stanson was found dead in her apartment tonight."

"You're kidding," Jason said, grief morphing into fury and sending static prickling through his arms. "What happened?"

"The neighbors reported hearing a gunshot shortly ago. When paramedics arrived, Gloria was already dead. It might have been self-inflicted."

"Bullshit!" Jason's shout echoed metallically in the empty warehouse.

"Robin," Bruce warned.

"They're investigating it as a suicide," Jason hissed back. "It was Garzonas and his lackeys. We know it was!"

Gordon set a hand on his shoulder, which Jason quickly shrugged off. "Nobody has written it off as a suicide yet. We will investigate Felipe's potential involvement—"

"That's not good enough!" Jason felt like tearing his hair out. "He should never have been walking free in the first place! We all failed her!" He rounded on Bruce, shoving him back a step. Bruce took it without reaction. "We should have brought him in when we had the chance! This wouldn't have happened if you'd trusted me!"

"Garzonas will be brought to justice," Bruce started, but Jason was done listening to his platitudes.

"—But not by you," Jason cut in. "You stay here. I'm going to confront Garzonas."

"Robin!" Bruce called after him, but Jason was already grappling away.

He brushed tears from his eyes with one hand as he crossed the city. He should have listened to his gut all along. Gloria never should have felt like she was fighting this alone.

When he got to Garzonas's apartment, the asshole was stumbling around, clearly still heavily intoxicated. Jason watched him from the building across the street, making sure he was alone in the apartment.

"Robin!" Batman shouted as he landed behind him. "Don't you ever run off like that!" He snatched Jason by the arm right before he could leap, yanking him back from the ledge.

Jason stumbled backwards, flinging a vicious elbow at Bruce's face, which Bruce easily redirected, using the leverage to pull Jason to his chest. He was about to throw his skull back into Bruce's nose when he suddenly realized that he wasn't being restrained—he was being…hugged?

"B?" Jason asked, sagging in Bruce's hold.

"You can't do that," Bruce said, the harsh edge draining from his uncharacteristically loamy tone. He turned Jason around, looking him in the eye as he cradled his hands on either side of his face. "It's not safe. Not—not with the Joker at large."

"I can handle myself," Jason muttered, feeling his face tinge red under Bruce's care.

"Don't. Please. I—" One of Bruce's hands pulled away to flip up the lenses of his cowl. His blue eyes met Jason's earnestly. "Every time another one of the Joker's victims is found, I imagine if it had been you or Dick instead, and I… You have to understand that I can't lose you. I couldn't handle it, I…"

"Nothing's gonna happen, B," Jason reassured him. "You trained us too well."

"There's nothing that can prepare you for him. He's not like the other criminals we've fought. If something were to happen to you… I can't." Bruce's voice cracked. "I can't bury my son."

Jason swallowed, feeling tears prickle his eyes again. "You won't have to."

"Stay with me," Bruce ordered, the lack of heat in his voice as good as a tremble and revealing it as more of a plea than a command. "We'll confront Garzonas together."

"Okay," Jason agreed, his own tone equally tremulous.

Bruce nodded once before flipping the cowl lenses back down. He squeezed Jason's shoulders before turning towards the apartment.

It was the least celebratory post-patrol ice cream of Jason's life. The chocolate-vanilla swirl made a brave effort, but it was hard to overcome the bitter grief that came alongside child murder victims.

Batman certainly wasn't faring much better. Alongside the Joker's latest victim, he was grappling with Garzonas's unplanned demise.

Jason certainly wasn't complaining about the guy dying on them. He thought it was a great thing, even, karmic justice being served—but he was considerate enough not to say that to Bruce, who was certainly replaying the whole interaction, looking for where it had all gone wrong. He gave Bruce his brooding time, even though Garzonas's death hadn't been his fault either; the guy was high off his gourd and falling all over the place. And with how high up his balcony was, he probably hadn't even felt it when he'd hit the ground.

Jason wrapped an arm around Bruce's shoulders, pulling him close. "There there, big guy. You tried. We can't save 'em all."

Bruce grunted, but his posture seemed to gentle at Jason's touch.

His words from before were replaying on a loop in Jason's mind. He knew that he could take care of himself, but he supposed he couldn't fault the guy for fearing the worst when it came to the Joker. Of course Bruce was a paranoid bastard with massive hang-ups: he ran around dressed like a bat, for Christ's sake.

"Listen…" Jason said, pulling away to face him. "…there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

Bruce turned to him, Jason's eyes reflecting in the lenses of the cowl. "What is it, chum?"

Jason dropped his gaze, twisting the ice cream cone around in his hands. He'd been keeping it from him, taking Batman's lack of trust in him as a personal judgement. But if it was never truly about Jason in the first place, then the situation was completely different. Maybe…maybe Bruce wouldn't immediately write him off.

So Jason pulled in a steadying breath then told him what he'd discovered about his birth mom. He found himself bracing for Bruce's reaction. The last thing he expected was to be pulled into a hug. Jason blinked over Bruce's shoulder.

Pulling back, Bruce said, "I'm happy for you, Jay. What have you figured out so far?"

Jason stumbled over himself in his haste to explain where his investigations had led him. "—and I narrowed it down to three potential candidates. I just…have to figure out which one is my mom."

"We can start by looking at hospital records. From there—" Bruce cut himself off, his Detective Voice falling away to uncertainty. "That is…if you want my help with this."

He'd gone in expecting a shit-show. Nothing could have prepared him for how smoothly Bruce was taking this.

"I can't bury my son," Bruce had said.

"Yeah, dad," Jason said, turning away pink-cheeked as Bruce's lips quirked up. "You're good with this stuff."

"We'll figure it out together," Bruce assured him.

Jason relaxed into his side, looking out over the city. The reassuring weight of Bruce's arm over his shoulders whispered promises that they could make this work—together.

Chapter Text

Tim adjusted his grip, palm slick with sweat, squeezing his fingers tightly around the metal bar. The good news was that his hand and shoulder had gone numb, so it didn't hurt anymore. The bad news was that a butter knife was not a very effective tool against steel; he had sawed about halfway through the top of one of the four metal bars that created a cage around the window, and he'd been hanging there for at least a half-hour.

Wherever they were keeping them, it was underground, and his only access to natural light was from a handful of windows, the closest of which to the floor being maybe fifteen feet up. Tim had managed to squirrel his way up the cinder-block and mirror-scattered wall. He hadn't come up with a surefire plan for getting back down, but he'd dragged his beanbag chair down below just in case.

The metal-on-metal screech was making Tim's brain buzz. He welcomed it; it was a refreshing break from the endless lullaby record. How the record player hadn't wheezed its final breath yet was beyond him, but he was counting down to its eventual demise.

He grinned as he managed to saw clean through the top of the first bar. It would take two cuts to remove one bar, multiplied by four equaled eight. He was an eighth of the way free. He loved math.

The rattle of the chain lock coming undone made him fall right off the wall, landing with a thump on the beanbag chair. Ignoring the way his ribs pulsed in agony—injured from a punishment after a separate and admittedly-ill-conceived escape attempt—he quickly dragged the chair back to his corner of the room, hiding the butter knife away.

To his surprise, Joker and Harley had brought guests.

"So this is where you've been hiding out, eh?" a high-pitched male voice said.

Multiple pairs of feet descended the stairs.

"Maybe at first, but we've really made this hideout a home," Joker responded, punctuating it with an overlong laugh.

"Right…" the voice from before said, after the laughter had finally tapered out.

The baldest man on this side of the Gotham Bay was the first to arrive at the bottom of the staircase: Egghead, he belatedly realized.

"Oh," Egghead said when he made eye contact with Tim. His mouth twisted awkwardly. "There's a child."

Joker cackled. "Fellas, I have something to tell you: I'm a family man now!"

The Riddler—Edward Nygma—was the next to appear, and he openly laughed. "You're finally telling a funny joke," he commented. He looked at Tim and tilted his hat. "What do you call an eternal guest?"

"A prisoner," Tim muttered.

Edward grinned.

"I don't know, a son?" Joker guessed as he reached the bottom of the staircase.

"Exactly that, Jack," Edward told him.

Holding up the back were Harley and the Penguin—Oswald Cobblepot. Harley was grinning, a bounce in her step as she raved about his signature umbrella. "—then when you open it up, the spikes come out the sides like BAM!"

Cobblepot humphed dismissively, although he held it up consideringly. "I'll take it under advisement."

"This way, fellas," Joker said, leading the group to the dining room table, the most passable furniture they owned.

Tim waited, confused as he could still hear feet slapping down the stairs. At last, two penguins appeared, each a couple feet tall and wearing tiny metal helmets. One was faster than the other, hopping down the stairs like a champ. When it got to the floor, it scurried after its owner.

The other was slower. Tim could tell that one was a kindred spirit. When it got to the final step, it faceplanted onto the floor with a useless flap of its wings.

Tim hurried over to help, heart bursting from how adorable they were. When was the last time he'd seen something cute? He wanted to hug it and shake it.

He held the penguin's belly to help stabilize him as he got up. The penguin looked Tim in the eye and honked in his face before waddling after its friend.

"Junior, come greet our guests!" Joker called. He stage-whispered to the others as Tim limped over, "So antisocial. No idea who he got that from! Haha!"

Just as the penguins came to wait obediently at their owner's heel, Tim waddled to Joker's side. By the time he got to the table, Tim still hadn't decided what he was leading with. "Hi," he said lamely. A sharp look from Joker had him adding, "My name is Junior."

Joker humphed, correcting, "Joker Junior. Or JJ for short. Named after his pops!"

"Yup," Tim agreed. "That's me."

The other Rogues suddenly turned uncomfortable.

"What's wrong with him?" Egghead mumbled.

"Oh, he's fine! JJ's spacey sometimes." Joker laughed, jabbing his elbow into Cobblepot's arm, seeking a reaction.

Cobblepot looked like the whole situation stank, but he didn't leave or pull away, nor did he give Joker the laugh he was looking for.

Joker turned back to Tim. "Why don't you get us some drinks?"

Tim was happy to get away. He was a little offput by the spaciness comment. He was sure he hadn't gotten distracted or started daydreaming.

"Iced tea for me!" Joker called. "Harley will have the same. What suits your fancy, fellas?"

"Tea will do," Cobblepot said.

Tim braced his stomach as he opened the fridge. Unfortunately, the tea was hidden in the back, and uncovering it meant having to move a severed arm to a different shelf. It was still frozen solid, only just starting to defrost after being taken out of the freezer. He wondered whose it was. Unidentifiable juices sluiced from the amputated limb down his own hand and arm. Tim dry heaved.

"On second thought, I'm not thirsty," Cobblepot said, sounding disgusted.

"More for us!" Joker said with a giggle.

After pouring two glasses—taking a moment to observe what was steeping at the bottom of the jug, which actually was glowsticks, who would've thought?—Tim returned to the table.

"Do you gentlemen want anything?" he asked, looking between Egghead—and the man would continue to be referred to as such because, truthfully, Tim didn't know his civilian name—and Edward.

"I brought my own refreshments," Egghead announced, pulling unseasonable eggnog out of his jacket.

Tim had to hold himself back from begging for a taste. He didn't even like eggnog, but it looked far more palatable than anything he'd eaten in the long months since he'd been taken. Suddenly, he regretted turning it down when his dad had offered him a glass at Christmas last year. His mom and dad had sat together on the couch, drinking eggnog while carols played on the radio, and Tim had drunken a giant mug of hot chocolate with at least ten marshmallows stuffed on top.

The sudden nostalgia scalded him with its intensity, sizzling as the pot boiled over. Tim slammed on the lid and cut the flames. Those memories wouldn't help him here.

He returned his focus to Edward, who leaned back in his chair. "What's nowhere but everywhere, except where something is?"

Air…displaced water… Ah.

"Nothing," Tim answered.

Edward grinned. "Sharp kid," he commented.

"Junior loves sharps!" Harley said, making a list on her hand. "Needles, knives…"

"He had a lot of fun when that mirror broke," Joker added.

Tim scratched his palm, the scar itching. That was the day he'd learned Joker was stronger than he looked. If Tim had any hope of escape, it was going to be by either sneaking out or waiting for Batman and Robin to save him. And the latter was taking longer than he'd originally expected.

"Isn't that right, Junior?" Joker prompted.

Tim directed a conspiring smile his way. "It's certainly not left," he responded, sharing a wince with Edward. Tim held his eye contact, shrugging because he played with the cards he was dealt and the cards he was dealt made a full hand of jokers.

Joker and Harley both burst into cackling laughter. Joker slapped his knee repeatedly while Harley sagged onto Egghead's shoulder. Egghead intentionally moved his chair away with a squeaking SCOOT-SCOOT-SCOOT.

"Classic Junior," Harley said, wiping away a tear.

"He gets it from my side of the family," Joker boasted.

Tim nodded safely and sagely.

"Didn't you say you have a business proposition?" Cobblepot asked. He was glancing around the room with a curled lip and a sour-milk aura. Even his pets—henchmen?—were waddling side to side like they, too, were displeased with the amenities.

"Oh, Oswald." Joker pulled a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket to dab at his eye. "It's all work and no play with you."

"I, too, would like to hear what exactly it is you gathered us here for," Egghead chimed in.

Joker waved the hanky like a white flag. "Fine, fine. Party poopers. JJ, haul over the blueprints, wouldja?"

Tim saluted. As he turned, he shared a thin-lipped moment of eye contact with Egghead, as a warning of what was to come. Egghead's expression wavered, and he briefly eyed the staircase like he was considering making an Irish exit.

"And turn off that record player, while you're at it!" Harley added.

"Yes!" Tim whispered to himself, his personal celebration carried on the wind of relief. He picked up the needle with a heavy hand, hoping to streak a couple breaks in the ridges of the record.

When the lullaby music cut out, the air wavered with a dizzying vacancy. It was exhilarating.

The chalkboard's rusty wheels squealed through the sudden silence as he pushed it across the floor. It was like music to everybody's ears—the only way it could have gotten better was if Tim had scraped his nails down the front of it.

When he'd finally stumbled his way from across the room, Tim looked at Joker and awaited his command.

"Gentlemen, the wait is finally over. Soon, we will deliver a punchline that will leave the people laughing for years to come!" Joker paused to take a deep breath, gesturing to the chalkboard.

Tim flipped the board on cue, revealing a scrawl of semi-legible, mostly-illogical notes. Dead-center was a clear doodle of Batman's cowl with Xs over the eyes.

"And dear ol' Batsy will laugh his last laugh," Joker declared gravely.

Tim had heard the whole schpeal numerous times at this point, both directly and through eavesdropping. He'd been caught between his natural impulse to work the plan into something that would actually work and his moral duty to sabotage the direct threat to public safety. His decision to be a Yes-Man had worked well; Joker's ideas were generally fundamentally flawed. Tim was perfectly content to let him dig his own grave.

"Me, Ed, and Harls will be on bomb-duty. Meanwhile, Eggie, Ozzie, you'll be team two. We will need approximately one-hundred penguin eggs—"

"Absolutely not," Cobblepot said. "What makes you think I even have one-hundred penguin eggs?"

"Penguin eggs," Egghead repeated dreamily.

"What? Don't tell me they're all neutered," Joker said. He reached out to pat the Penguin Henchman closest to him, which flapped its wings at him and hissed, attempting to bite his gloved hand with its beak.

"There will be no eggs," Cobblepot said, leaving no room for argument. "I don't see where your plan benefits me."

"Fine, fine. Eggsy can stop by the grocery store," Joker said, pouting as the fun was taken out of it. "As for the benefits—just think about it! With the Big Bad Batman out of the picture, business at the Lounge will boom!"

"Business is already booming," Cobblepot said. He straightened his monocle and stood from his chair. "I'm out. You fellas have fun with all…this." He spurned the chalkboard with a limp-handed gesture. Directing one last pitying glance at Tim, he made for the staircase, his penguins flip-flapping behind him. One was generous enough to step on Tim's foot on its way.

Tim's entire body twitched as he aborted a lunge. He wanted to hug it. He added a pet penguin to his List, which had been marinating in his mind in the long months since his life had been flipped inside-out. Once Batman saved him, Tim was going to climb a tree, eat a Twinkie, and now get a pet penguin, apparently. The actual logistics of how he was going to source and care for a penguin would come later.

Once he was free again, fantasy would turn into semantics. For now, Tim daydreamed about tiny penguin feet echoing in the halls of Drake Manor. He wasn't going to go home to an empty house like he'd imagined. Not if he had penguin friends there with him.

And maybe if he was lucky, his dad will have woken up from his coma by the time Tim was rescued. And then they could go home together after all. Taking care of penguins was probably a much easier task with two pairs of hands.

Egghead cleared his throat.

Joker huffed. "Come on now, Eggsy," he goaded, "this is your chance to really shine!"

"Your gas eggs really would be the perfect addition to our plan," Harley said. "Haven't you been dreaming about being taken seriously? It doesn't get any more serious than this!"

Egghead hummed indecisively, looking at the chalkboard again. Eventually, he shook his head. "It's an egg-ceptionally poor time for me," he said. "Sorry, Harley. I'm out, too." He pulled an egg out of the inner pocket of his coat and set it in front of her on his way out.

Harley snatched it up and stuffed it into her pocket, sighing wistfully. She turned to Edward and batted her eyelashes. "Eddie," she said goadingly. "Forget all that stuff about the eggs. I know we can count on you."

Eddie hummed and hawed for a moment. He looked at Tim as he said, "I'll admit, I'm intrigued. And I've been looking for a new project." He lounged back on his chair. "Tell me how the kid's involved in all of this. Don't tell me you haven't gotten him into the 'family business.'" He added appropriate air quotes.

Joker laughed. "Of course I have." He snapped a finger like Tim was the hired help. "JJ, your project, if you will."

Dutifully, Tim retrieved the bomb he'd made, making a show of setting it gingerly on the table. In reality, the wires had been connected all wrong so that the detonation was going to be more like a New Year's party popper, but if Joker found out about the sabotage, Tim was going to be the one getting popped.

"Impressive kid you have," Eddie said, looking over the bomb, but thankfully not investigating too closely.

"It was all my doing," Joker said proudly. He added half-heartedly after Harley cleared her throat, "And Harley, too, I suppose."

"Hey, JJ. Which president wore the biggest hat?" Eddie asked.

Tim chuckled. "Lincoln?" he guessed with a shrug.

Eddie shook his finger, making a tisk-tisk-tisk sound with his tongue. "Lincoln's was the tallest. Think about it."

After thinking about what he remembered from history class, Tim came up blank. He considered the context of the riddle and realized: "The one with the biggest head."

Eddie winked. He turned to Joker. "Alright. How much for him?"

Tim's heart jolted.

"For JJ?" Joker frowned. "He's not for sale."

Please. Tim stared at the side of Eddie's head, telepathically begging him. Please, please, PLEASE.

"Come on, I'm sure you can make another one." He dug out his checkbook and flipped through the pages. "Name your price."

"You can't put a price tag on family, Ed. You'll have to adopt one of your own."

Eddie shrugged. He turned back to Tim as he put away his checkbook. "Sorry, kid."

Tim deflated.

"What are you sorry for?" Joker complained. "He loves it here. Right, Junior?"

Tim swallowed the ashy taste that had settled on his tongue. He dug his fingernails into his palm. "Yeah."

His visual disappointment triggered a manic flare in Joker's eyes. He glared at Tim, growling, "Fix your tongue before I cut it out of you."

Basic self-preservation caused Tim to straighten, emotions fizzling back out to a safe void of grey.

Joker grinned, mood flipping. "Tell us a joke, JJ."

Tim considered his audience before deciding. "I was going to tell a joke about time travel, but you guys didn't like it."

Eddie smiled indulgently.

Joker's eyebrows drew together. He rolled his hand in a get-on-with-it motion. "Okay? So tell a different one, then."

Tim almost facepalmed, but he realized that would have probably been a death sentence. With that knowledge, he considered it again but ultimately decided against it, this time well-informed of the potential benefits.

"What grows dull the less you use it?" Tim asked. He looked at the audience, encouraging participation.

"A knife," Joker answered, because he was stupid.

"Good guess, but no," Tim said.

"Pencil," Harley said, because she had her moments but often wasn't all that bright when she was with the Joker, either.

"Nope."

Eddie suddenly cracked up. "Your brain," he answered.

"Ding-ding-ding!"

Joker humphed. He looked at Eddie, who was still giggling with excitement and, seeming to feel left out, let out a chuckle of his own. "I guess that was pretty funny," he said, although Tim wasn't sure if he understood the joke at all, let alone that its intent was to make fun of him.

Eddie was looking at Tim like he was a puppy he wanted to adopt from the shelter. Tim tried to look like man's best friend, even though Joker had already shot that idea down.

"Alright, I'm in," Eddie decided. He gestured to Tim, saying, "If the kid's involved, then the plan can't be half-bad. Run me through your vision again."

Jason crept up behind Bruce, peering at the map of Gotham that was starting to look more like the backs of the embroideries Jason made with Alfred on rainy afternoons.

"How's it going?" Jason asked beside Bruce's ear.

"Hello, Robin," Bruce said, not even being so gracious as to pretend Jason had surprised him. He pinned a short string of red yarn between a spot by the docks and an intersection a few blocks away. "I have made progress since you last asked five minutes ago."

"Almost finished?" Jason asked.

"Are you?" Bruce retorted.

"Heh. Touché." Jason plopped back into the desk chair. He poked at his calculator then scribbled the answer to the next problem. Alfred always gave him his Judgemental Eyebrow when he brought his homework "downstairs," but Alfred was currently busy organizing the fine china or something along those lines and Bruce was a bit of a pushover, at least when it came to etiquette rules.

Midway through solving for X, Jason had a thought. "Have you considered looking over the petty crime reports?"

"The petty crime reports," Bruce repeated. It was his way of asking Jason to elaborate.

"The guy's a monster, but he's still a person. Guy's gotta eat, wipe his ass—"

"Language."

"—and I mean, it's not like the Joker can just stroll into the grocery store or Seven-Eleven. Maybe he's stealing the necessities to help him lay low."

"Hm." The fact that Bruce actually paused what he was doing to consider it was pretty much high praise coming from him. "If they found clear signs of the Joker or Harley Quinn, Gordon would have informed me."

Jason laughed. "Right, because the patrolmen are always so good at looking for clues."

"Hm. Are you finished with your homework?"

X's attempted subterfuge had been systematically broken down. Jason wrote the last of the answer then tossed the pencil aside. "I am now."

"Search Gordon's database. Print a map of recently-reported petty theft."

Already typing in the password, Jason called over his shoulder, "How recently are we talking here?"

"…Start with reports from the last quarter." It seemed to pain Bruce to say it, and Jason winced. The Joker really had been at large for an uncomfortably-large fraction of the year.

Jason typed in the parameters and studied the map, having a feeling this wasn't going to work. Just as suspected— "Uh, B… This map is a blur."

Good ol' Gotham, where it was actually unusual for a business to go unrobbed for more than a month or two at a time.

Bruce sighed.

"How about I go ahead and run it through the algorithm?" Jason suggested. "I'll compare it to reports from the last year or two. See if there are any glaring differences."

They zoned into their work. Jason wasn't seeing much of note. Theft rates in Crime Alley were up, just like they were every year. As long as the murder and battery reports were down—which they were—Jason was content.

He stared across the room at Bruce's string and sticky note case wall. He'd marked the locations where each of the victims' bodies had been found in the months since the Joker's last attack and his own theory as to where his hideout could have been.

After narrowing his search to that area, Jason finally started turning up points of interest.

"Alright, get a load of this," Jason said, spinning around in the chair. "The same mom-and-pop grocer's been robbed six times over the last few months. It's in your little trapezoid."

"Is there anything useful in the reports?"

Jason was already skimming through them. "Back window smashed in every time. Investigators suspect teenagers, since it's mainly candy and toilet paper getting stolen. Sometimes medicine. Oh, damn."

Bruce crossed the room, Jason's tone catching his attention. He didn't even bother lecturing him on the slippery slope that he and Alfred seemed to believe swearing to be.

"They invested in a camera for the back door. The burglar spray-painted it last time they robbed the place." Jason turned to Bruce with eyebrows raised. "Green spray paint."

"It could be teenagers," Bruce said, leaning over Jason's shoulder to read the reports for himself.

"…Or it could not be," Jason finished.

"Or it could not be," Bruce agreed. He turned to Jason. "Do you want to be my second set of eyes?"

Jason snatched a domino from beside the computer, slapping it on his face with a grin.

The grocer in question was a step above a convenience store, Jason realized as he peered through the storefront. It was the kind of place that couldn't afford to hire additional help, so the light fixtures and top shelves were sprinkled with dust and a broom was leaning next to the cash register for when there was downtime. Despite that, it had a decent selection for an inner-city, family-owned grocery store: four whole aisles, one devoted to fresh produce and other perishables. A glass-half-empty kind of guy would have complained about the state of the bananas; Jason, on the other hand, knew that Alfred could have made a killer banana bread out of them.

The front of the store faced the street. The road received a fair amount of traffic even this late at night, so it was no wonder that the front windows had been spared from breaking and entry. Batman and Robin looped around to the back.

A chunk of plywood had been nailed over the back window and a handmade sign reading, "Smile! You're on camera!" was taped overtop. Said camera was situated above the window, still thoroughly coated in green paint.

Jason turned to Bruce, who had begun walking around the small alley in search of clues, but they both stilled when they heard a singing voice approach the edge of the alley.

Bruce jerked his head upward, and the two of them quickly zipped onto the roof of the building next door.

They watched a single figure dance into the alley, a backpack on her shoulders and a baseball bat in hand, singing "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" to herself. "Well, lookie here," she said when she approached the window. Her gloved finger traced the black sharpie warning before ripping off the paper, tossing it over her shoulders. She tilted her head up towards the camera, flashing a peace sign and saying, "Cheese!"

Laughing to herself, she backed up a step and lifted her baseball bat. The plywood split so easily, she actually stumbled forward as the bat went through. "Wow! Maybe I should try out for the Knights," she said, lifting her bat for a couple of test swings.

Jason turned to Bruce, eyes wide as he recognized the voice. "Harley," he mouthed.

Batman nodded.

They watched Harley creep in through the window. Then they dropped down.

"Stealth," Batman whispered to him. "Follow my lead. We'll try to interrogate her first. If that fails, then we'll capture her."

Robin thumbs-upped and followed Batman through the window.

Aside from Harley humming to herself and a couple of mosquitos buzzing around, the store was silent. The streetlights shone through the front windows, casting rays of light down the aisles but leaving a handful of shadows for Batman to play in. While he ducked behind a display of wilting lettuce, Robin snuck up behind Harley.

"Charcoal's a scam," he told her. "What you really want is fluoride."

Harley squealed, the boxes of toothpaste she'd been comparing bouncing harmlessly off of Jason's gauntlet. "Robin!" she said, heaving a sigh. "You scared the bejesus out of me."

"My bad," Jason said with a grin. "Long time no see. What have you been up to?"

Harley turned back to the toothpaste, grabbing some of the bubblegum flavor meant for children and tossing that into her backpack. "Oh, you know. A little of this, a little of that. By the way, where's your pops?"

"He's hanging around," Jason told her while Bruce lowered himself from the overhead light fixture to land silently behind her.

"Harley," he greeted. He let Harley's backpack smack his shoulder, taking the hit like a brick wall. "We have some questions for you."

"What are you thinking, sneaking up on a lady like that?! I'll have you know I'm on the up-and-up these days." Harley humphed, shoving past Batman to retrieve a pack of toilet paper. She shoved it down into the bag, crushing the boxes of toothpaste and squishing the toilet paper rolls without hesitation.

"I am aware that your release from Arkham was…administratively-approved." Batman spat the words out like a half-chewed mess. He'd long-since discovered exactly who had made the decision to approve her release and creatively coerced them into resigning, but that couldn't put her back in Arkham, where they knew she should have stayed. "This isn't an arrest."

They followed Harley as she stalked to the next aisle, dragging packages of candy off the shelves and into her bag.

"I mean, I did witness you breaking and entering. And you're kind of robbing this place right in front of us," Robin pointed out threateningly. "So maybe you'd better answer our questions so we can all forget this happened."

"Where is the Joker?" Batman growled.

Harley groaned, shaking her fist in the air. "I already told Gordon that I ain't seen Mistah Jay."

Batman followed behind her while Jason looped around to the other end of the aisle. He picked up a package of donuts and pretended to read the label, leaning casually against the shelf.

"But you know his habits," Batman countered. "You can help us find where he's hiding out."

"What makes you think I want to find him? I have my own agenda these days."

"Aren't you two together?" Jason asked.

Harley blushed, snatching the box of donuts out of his hand as she passed. She ripped open the packaging and pulled out a powdered one. White dust coated her lips as she took a large bite; more flew into the air as she spoke with her mouth full: "It's complicated, kid. You'll get it when you're older."

"There are lives at stake," Batman said. Harley tossed the donut in with the lettuce and left the box on a shelf. She snatched a couple of apples without pausing, shoving them into her backpack then zipping it shut. Batman followed her. "There are two children still missing."

Harley tripped.

It was an obvious enough tell that Jason stilled, dread filling his chest.

"What do you think Jay would be doing with a kid?" Harley asked, swinging her backpack onto her shoulder. She breezed down the aisles, looking for something.

Jason had already taken the liberty of hiding her baseball bat behind the loaves of Wonderbread, so she was going to be searching for a minute.

"Where are the children, Harley?" Batman's cape billowed behind him. As he turned down an aisle to follow her, he blocked out the streetlight, casting a shadow over her. "Are they still alive?"

"There's no kids." Harley whirled around to face Batman, planting her hands on her hips. "They're all dead, so—so you might as well give up!"

"Tell me when the Joker's going to attack," Batman demanded. His voice gentled from steel to something more like a charred steak. "You won't get in trouble."

Harley backed away from him, towards the back of the store. Jason ducked down by the register, deciding his role without waiting for Batman to make the call.

"It's too late," Harley said. "Jay's jokes are already in motion. You'll never stop him in time."

Jason waited until she approached before lunging for her. He caught a metal broom handle to the face for it—her reactions were tuned in better than he'd expected.

Harley kicked him in the stomach, and he stumbled backwards, caught by Batman, who in turn stumbled back into the lettuce display. "Nice chat, fellas! See ya!" she reached into her pocket and smashed something on the ground, disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

"Hold your breath!" Batman hissed as they fell onto the floor, the lettuce avalanching after them.

Jason was trying not to panic as he realized that he'd definitely already inhaled some of the sulphuric gas. As Batman slapped his own gas mask onto Jason's face, Jason reoriented himself. He crawled off Batman, sitting on a lettuce. "Uh, B?" he said as the cloud started to clear and he got a better look at what he'd assumed was a canister of Joker Venom. Batman sat up. "Is that an egg?"

CLANG-CLANG-CLANG.

"You buffoon!" Joker turned to kick the metal shelf, causing the variety of junk on it to tilt over, rattle, and, in some cases, smash onto the floor.

CLANG-CLANG-CRACK.

"You're dismantling everything I've built!" The accusation came out as a veritable screech, spit flying from Joker's mouth.

Harley fell back a step, crossing her arms as hurt flashed across her face. "Who do you think you're talking to like that?"

It was just like how Tim's parents used to fight when they were at home—screaming matches turned to stomping about until some precious antique became a casualty, at which point they'd usually find a way to let bygones be bygones. Somehow, he started to feel nostalgic. He used to hide out in his bedroom when his parents were getting into it, headphones blocking out the noise and crafting fanticized earthquakes out of the vibrations that shook the house as doors slammed.

At the time, he'd hated it and only ever wanted it to be over; now, Tim realized just how good he'd had it. What he would give to be alone in his bedroom again, glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and music from his IPod keeping him safe from the world.

"You let them see you!"

"They didn't follow me!"

Tim turned his gaze back to his workbench, where he took advantage of the racket to hide the metal-on-metal scrape as he finished etching a message inside one of the bombs. Every square inch of table space was taken up by piles of tangled wire and metal; after finalizing the details with Eddie, Joker had decided that he'd liked Tim's bomb so much that he wanted more. Seven more. And Tim wasn't allowed to eat until they were finished.

"Don't you see that Junior's busy?" Joker snatched a glass bottle off the shelf and threw it at Harley, who ducked out of the way. The bottle shattered onto the floor, glass spilling everywhere. "The last thing he needs is to have to adjust to a new home."

"Quit it, Jay! We don't even have to move! I threw one of Eggy's nasty gas eggs at them. They weren't getting up." Harley swung her backpack around, unzipping it and dumping out the contents onto the dining room table. "I can't believe this is the thanks I get for bringing home groceries."

"Groceries won't matter if Tall, Dark, and Insipid comes swinging in to stomp on our parade!" Joker stalked over to sweep Harley's groceries off the table and onto the floor. He stomped on an apple then started hopping like it'd hurt his foot.

Cotton-candy hope started to gather in Tim's ribcage, sweet but soluble. How many times had Tim lied awake, dreaming of Batman and Robin busting down the door and sweeping him away to safety? His heart could only break so many times. Add enough water and the sugar would dissolve.

But even as he tempered his expectations, Tim saw the opportunity—because maybe Batman had followed Harley here. Maybe he was making plans to rescue Tim right now. Blind pessimism could only carry him so far; at some point, the optimistic possibility actually became viable. The chance was slim, but it was still a chance. Tim was ecstatic that his chances of being rescued had just increased from zero to five-percent.

"She probably wasn't followed," Tim chimed in, his tongue tangling as Joker turned to look at him with frenzied eyes. A small shake entered his voice as Tim continued, "You teach us too well…Pops."

"Flattery will get you anywhere." It was one of his mom's Old Money society lessons. Tim was sure that this method was part of the reason he'd been able to survive for this long when so many others hadn't.

Joker turned away with a theatrical humph, snatching a pack of sour candy from the floor and stepping on the rest. He muttered under his breath as he crossed the room, "Stupid, dim-witted, numb-skulled…"

Tim was impressed that he knew so many adjectives. A sniffle brought his attention to Harley, who was standing frozen in place, stance ridged and fists clenched.

"I'm going to meet up with the guys to finish last-minute prep," Joker said before stomping up the stairs.

A silence descended upon them, broken only by Harley's sniffling and the scrapes and clatters of Joker unlocking the door. After he left, he reengaged all of the locks. Then, to Tim's surprise, he set up the outside chain lock. Normally, they only locked that one when Tim was home alone. This time, Harley was locked in with him.

"He didn't mean that, Harley," Tim said when it was only their ears listening.

"Who's he to criticize me anyway?" Harley said, voice splitting into pieces. "It's not like it was my fault."

"You were only trying to help," Tim agreed. "I, for one, appreciate you."

Harley breathed a teary laugh. "Here, I brought you something."

Tim gasped as she presented two apples to him, one red and one green. His reaction was only partly exaggerated; the mere sight of fresh food was enough to make his stomach growl. He'd gone from charcuterie boards and fine dining to eating last week's Dumpster Special. How the mighty fell.

He cradled a perfect red apple in his palms. He hesitated and asked, "You won't tell, will you?"

Harley eyed the door then shrugged. She gestured to the mess on his workbench as she said, "You're almost done anyway, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Sort of."

Harley flipped a pigtail over her shoulder, huffing. "Whatever. Screw what he has to say about it. Jay's not the only one who gets to make decisions around here."

Channeling his inner anaconda, Tim's jaw unhinged to bite off a massive chunk of apple. The crunch hit his ears first, delightfully crispy. When the juice dripped onto his tongue, his tastebuds burst into fireworks. His mouth and eyes watered.

"Thank you," he warbled through the mouthful, breath hitching while tears leaked past his eyelashes.

"Aww, don't worry about it, kiddo," Harley said, plopping down next to him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Tim continued chewing, hindered by the sobs that were spilling out of his chest. "Sorry," he mumbled, scrubbing his wrist over his cheeks to catch the tears that were rolling down them. Harley had seen him in worse states, but something about crying over a piece of fruit felt irredeemably pitiful.

Harley scrubbed his hair then gestured to her own red eyes. "Don't worry about it. I'll keep your secret if you keep mine."

"Deal."

He was planning to eat the entire apple, core and seeds and all. Maybe if he was lucky, those old wives' tales were true and he could grow his own apples in his stomach.

Harley bit into the green apple, letting out an exaggeratedly satisfied sound. "How'd you know I only like the green ones?" she asked through a mouthful.

"Lucky guess," Tim lied, although it made sense in retrospect. "They're sour."

Once she was halfway through the apple, Harley crossed her arms and huffed. "I can't believe he thinks he can get away with ranking on me, calling me stupid and stuff."

Tim didn't mention that he did get away with it. "He's wrong anyway. You're plenty smart. Which one of you has the PhD again?"

Harley laughed. "Me! Of course."

Tim nodded affirmatively, settling as her confident grin returned. It hadn't taken him long to realize that Harley was one of Joker's victims, too. For as different as their situations were, Tim saw that they were in this together.

"He doesn't know how good he has it," he told her. "You could do so much better."

Harley shushed him, but her delighted laugh spoke for itself. "You know he's not all bad."

Tim sighed, turning his attention back to savoring his apple.

"He loves us," Harley insisted. "He just has a funny way of showing it."

Tim shrugged. "Maybe," he half-heartedly agreed, if only because he heard her voice starting to crack again and he hated seeing her cry.

Joker had a way of shattering everything that he touched. It was probably too much to expect Harley to stand up for herself. But he was still going to try.

Chapter Text

Jason's knee had started jiggling immediately after he'd solved the mystery. Jittery glee-terror vice-gripped his stomach, cranking tighter the longer he kept the news to himself.

At long last, the Batmobile came roaring through the tunnel.

"Hey," Jason called when Batman climbed out of the car.

Batman grunted in response, kicking the door shut behind himself. Bad news on his end, then.

Jason set to spinning in the computer chair, graciously granting him his post-patrol grumbling time.

Once he'd gone through his routine—storing away his utility belt and suit, showering, and changing into civvies—all while audibly huffing and puffing, of course—Bruce met Jason by the computer, leaning over his shoulder to look at the screen.

Jason tossed him a protein shake. "I take it you couldn't find Egghead?"

"Hng." It was only after chugging the whole bottle that Bruce dropped into the chair beside Jason, tossing the empty bottle across the room and into the recycling bin with Michael Jorden-levels of accuracy. "The gas egg may have been a red herring. None of Eggheads usual goons have heard from him lately. He's been lying low."

"Are you sure they weren't just covering for him?"

Bruce's lips cracked into a smirk. "Their compliance was heavily incentivized."

"Wouldn't want to be them," Jason snorted. He'd watched Batman dangle goons over the edge of a rooftop more times than he could count. The way they all immediately started sniveling never got old. Something about seeing the ground a couple hundred feet below evaporated people's sense of logic: they all instantly forgot about Batman's non-lethal crime-fighting philosophy—that or they thought that they were finally seeing the day that he cracked.

Bruce nodded to the computer. "Did anything turn up from your research?"

"You could say that," Jason said. He reached for the mouse, pulling up the window he'd minimized; Batman and Nightwing weren't the only ones with an affinity for the dramatic.

Sheila Haywood's profile filled the screen.

"The flight records line up," Jason reported, somewhat redundantly as Bruce was already reading Jason's notes for himself. "She was in the phone books up until my birth year, and she was admitted to Gotham General Hospital the day before my birth."

Bruce's eyebrows raised at the damning evidence.

"I mean, the reason she was admitted wasn't recorded. So it could be a coincidence," Jason admitted.

"But you're confident," Bruce finished.

Jason nodded. He waited, clenching his jaw to lock down his fluttering nerves. He hated that Bruce's opinion mattered so much to him. Jason knew he was right, but like a houseplant reaching desperately for the sun, he found himself anticipating Bruce's judgement.

"Okay," Bruce said finally.

"Okay?"

Bruce turned to face him. "What do you say we reach out and try setting up a meeting?"

Jason grinned.

As the clock ticked down towards what Joker had started referring to as J-Day (which didn't stand for Joker, Joking, Jesting, or Junior Day—he'd made Tim guess, and Tim had gotten repeatedly electrocuted until he'd eventually correctly guessed Jubilee…and was promptly informed that Jesting-Day was a much better name and Joker was changing it to that instead!), Tim had erroneously assumed that Joker was going to be too busy to harass him.

As he was tossed into the half-rotted salon chair, Tim saw how wrong he was.

"I would never neglect my only son," Joker said cheerfully. "It's been forever and a day since we've played Spa, huh?"

"I really think I'm still mostly clean," Tim said. "We can put it off a little bit longer, don't you think? Let's play Music Class instead. I want to hear your rendition of Brady Bunch again."

Joker tapped his chin, looking up as he thought about it. "Meh!" He waved the idea away. "Maybe later. What kind of father would I be if I let you run around so filthy?"

"I really can't run anywhere," Tim reminded him. But he already knew that he'd lost.

Taking Tim's hand, Joker jerked him around, tisking with theatrical disappointment as he looked at the black oil that'd filled up his fingerprints and gathered under his nails. "Who would've thought making bombs could be such grimy business?"

"They're just going to get dirty again," Tim said as Joker slammed his wrist against the chair, locking a handcuff around it. "Especially if you decide you want some last-minute touch-ups." His other wrist went next. Tim's fingers clutched the arms of the chair. "What if we painted the bombs green and purple? So everybody knows they're yours."

"They're going to blow up, Junior," Joker said, pausing to raise an eyebrow at him. "Duh! Nobody's gonna see it."

"We could do it together," Tim said. "Doesn't arts and crafts sound like a blast?"

The pun was enough to set Joker giggling but not to draw his attention away from the tray of tools he was perusing.

Turning to him with a scalpel, Joker faked a pout. "We're not going to be able to save all those nails, kiddo."

"But aren't we already a couple screws loose around here? We should really try not to lose any more nails."

With an exuberant laugh, Joker gripped Tim's thumb and stabbed the scalpel underneath the nail.

Tim cried out, hiding his face in his shoulder. He knew from experience that seeing it happen only made it hurt worse.

Normally, Joker didn't stop until he managed to drag truly tortured screams out of Tim's throat. He could always tell the difference when Tim was hamming it up to appease him. It was going to get worse and worse and worse until Tim wasn't able to breathe or think. He could feel the panic gathering in his lungs already.

But there was exactly one time that Tim had managed to make him laugh hard enough that he'd ended the game early. The odds were not in his favor, but jokes spilled off his tongue nonetheless. "How do you talk to a giant? …Use big words!" Call him an optimist.

Once the thumbnail was gone—which really sucked since that was his strongest one and he'd already lost the other as punishment a while back—Joker removed a nail from his middle and pinky fingers. He was kind enough to rip them out of the fingers that were already broken, which were functionally useless anyways, As another benefit, the burning ache as he squeezed the broken fingers distracted Tim from the scalpel stabbing his nails off.

"Ow," Tim said, three fingernails lighter. He held perfectly still. He had two fingernails left and really wanted to keep them.

Joker tossed the scalpel aside, satisfied with the manicure session. He looked back and forth between the tray of tools and Tim, searching for inspiration.

"Not the eyes," Tim thought, pleading with any higher being who might have been listening. "Not the eyes, not the tongue."

"How many of these do you need anyways?" Joker said thoughtfully as he toyed with Tim's fingers.

"I'm not sure if this game has a point." He twitched his pinky, instantly picking that one as the sacrifice.

Zeroing in on the subtle twitch like a predator spotting a tiny rodent hiding in the grass, Joker snatched his pinky, looking it over then grinning with excitement. He selected a large pair of kitchen scissors from the tray.

Tim tried to feel grateful. It wasn't eyes. It wasn't tongue. Besides, Joker may have been on to something. How many fingers did he really need? He had ten of them, after all. As the scissors drew closer, his breaths grew shorter. On the bright side, the scissors looked really sharp. His tiny finger didn't stand a chance; it was going to be cut through as easily as butter.

The rust on the blades surely wasn't going to be a problem. He'd had his tetanus booster before last school year.

Tim cringed away as the blades touched his skin.

"Hey, Jay!" Harley suddenly called, skipping over to them. "C'mere, there's something I've been meaning to show you!"

The scissors dropped away from Tim's skin. "Can it wait?" Joker tapped his foot impatiently. "Junior and I were in the middle of a game."

"You've been playing all day," Harley complained, pouting with her hands on her hips. Her eyes went to Tim before quickly flitting away. "Mommy's starting to feel neglected."

A demonic pigeon possessed Joker for a moment, responding with a growly sort of coo. "Oh, fine," he relented. "I wouldn't want Schnookums to feel left out!"

The keys to the handcuffs were tossed onto Tim's lap as Joker sauntered up to Harley and settled his hands on her hips. Disgusted, Tim turned away as they started making out, focusing on unlocking himself, a task which he knew was going to take a ridiculous amount of time and concentration, considering he had to figure it out without using his hands.

What had seemed like a solid lead ended up not being all it was cracked up to be. Batman and Robin spent days searching for Egghead only to discover that the guy had been laying low in his egg dungeon all along. A hen looked Robin in the eyes as she popped out an egg. It was quickly scooped up by Egghead, who held it up to the light with excitement shining in his eyes.

"Now that's a beautiful color," he commented, holding it out for Batman and Robin to see.

"…And you really know nothing of the Joker's recent scheming?" Batman asked, after the silence had gone on for long enough.

Egghead turned away, beholding his piles of eggs. He eventually decided to set the fresh egg in a basket that was balanced on the arm of his egg-shaped couch. "I have no interest in returning to Arkham. I told Harley the same and gifted her an egg before going on my way."

"Where'd you get the couch?" Jason asked. When Batman gave him a look out of the corner of his eye, he held his hands up defensively. "What? It's a cool couch. Not the kind of furniture you can find at any old thrift store."

"It was custom-made by a fellow egg-enthusiast." Egghead looked Jason up and down. "Do you like eggs?"

Jason shrugged. "I like 'em scrambled."

The grin that crossed Egghead's face sent a shiver down Jason's spine—not because it was particularly sinister, but because it was the same one that all the proud gala MILFs wore when they whipped out their photo galleries to show off their newborns for lengthy periods of time.

"Then you'll savor this," Egghead said before leading Jason on an incredibly-thorough tour of his egg furniture collection.

Batman faced it like he was smelling something rotten, but all of the eggs were certainly fresh. He followed along, equally enraptured. Most likely, he was using the time to search for more clues into the B-Rate Rogue's psyche, but Jason liked to imagine that he was equally compelled by Egghead's obsessive love for all things egg-related.

Egghead's recent activities, they determined, had been strange, no doubt, but not illegal. He even gifted Jason a painted egg on their way out the door. Batman confiscated it once they got back to the cave, but not before Jason named it Shellman.

Shellman now lived on the Batcave trophy case next to a travel-sized mustard bottle, courtesy of the Condiment King, and a broken watch they'd gotten from the Clock King. Combined with the Joker playing card they'd gotten from some scheme or another a couple of years back, they almost had the full royal court of villain knick-knacks. Once a queen-themed Rogue came along, they'd have it made.

The days of research and searching they'd done for Egghead's hideout hadn't been a complete waste; Shellman was awesome. Jason could convince himself of this, but Bruce wasn't buying it—especially when bombs started detonating across the city.

As the Batmobile raced towards Gotham, the Commissioner's grim voice briefed them through the speakers: "…two city orphanages and the waterpark. No casualties so far. Bombsquad is working on defusing another that they found in Central Park."

"The Children's Day fair," Batman said, gloves creaking as his fingers clenched around the steering wheel. "He's targeting kids. Have your men search in parks and other play areas."

"The amusement park's closed, right?" Robin chimed in. Honestly, anybody who chose to go there with the Joker at large was fatally stupid, and bringing kids there was borderline neglect in his eyes.

"They voluntarily shut down business once the news broke. So far, we haven't seen evidence of the Joker's involvement."

At least there was some good news.

"Send someone to check out the Main Library, too," Robin advised. "They were planning a whole shindig. Probably the Community Center, too, now that I think about it."

When they screeched to a halt in front of the waterpark, a group of GCPD officers were waiting for them. The most grizzled looking one—who Robin immediately pinged as being the guy in charge—held out a glass bottle decorated with painted black question marks.

"Message in a bottle." Robin snorted. "Riddler's playing pirate now? He's gone off the deep end."

Nobody else laughed, but Jason was undeterred. He leaned closer to Batman as he pulled the cork and shook out a rolled-up sheet of paper.

"We haven't made sense of it," a younger-looking officer said. "It's the Riddler—how can we even start looking into the mind of a madman?"

"Sometimes it feels like we're going in circles—but on a sweltering day like today, there's one activity we can really see ourselves doing." The single sentence was written in the middle of the paper, with no other clues on the front or back.

"Going in circles…like a Ferris wheel?" Robin theorized. "They have that new air-conditioned one by the pier."

"You can see yourself in the reflection of the window," Batman added, although he didn't seem convinced.

By the time they'd cleared the Ferris wheel, two other bombs had detonated—one in a park and another at the mall. The explosions had been small—unusual for a Rogue attack. So far, only a handful of injuries had been reported, but Jason knew that the day was only starting.

Jason leaned back against the Ferris wheel, longing for a cigarette and watching Batman pace. "Think," Batman redundantly growled. "What activity can you see yourself doing?"

"I'd say the Maze of Mirrors, but Gordon's already checking out Amusement Mile," Jason said.

Batman hummed, muttering various options to himself. His phone rang with a call from the Commissioner.

"I'll start with the good news," Gordon said: "they've successfully defused the Central Park bomb and are working on two others that were found."

"And the bad news?" Batman asked.

"They found a canister of Joker Venom attached to the bomb."

Jason swore.

Batman stilled. "None was reported at the other scenes."

Resources were starting to stretch thin. First responders were reinvestigating the rubble of the demolitions, searching for more evidence of the Joker's involvement even as reports of other bombs started coming in.

"What are the odds the Joker Venom could survive an explosion without going off?" Jason asked.

"Slim. But not zero," Bruce said.

The Ferris wheel was a bust, so they made for the Batmobile. After another brainstorming session, Jason suddenly remembered something that he'd overheard some of his classmates talking about: "The roller rink just got some mirrors put in. They're trying to be trendier to teens."

"Going in circles," Bruce repeated, strapping on his seatbelt and yanking the gear-shift into Drive. "An activity you can see yourself doing. I think you have it, Robin."

Jason preened.

The mood couldn't last. The roller rink was a disaster-zone. Strap wheels to people's shoes then pump them full of Joker Venom and it made a truly heinous combination.

At the center of the chaos was the Joker himself, grinning and screeching his maniacal laugh. As he waved at them with a remote, the disco ball suddenly broke in half, falling to the floor; in its place was a bomb with a red, ticking timer. They had only minutes.

Batman ordered Robin to evacuate the civilians while he went after the Joker.

Even as he followed his orders, Jason could see that the math wasn't going to check out; these civilians were too far gone to help themselves, paralyzed by the toxin. He had to manually drag most of them out.

"Let me take a crack at the bomb!" Robin yelled across the room.

Joker was on a pair of skates and was unfortunately incredibly well-coordinated in them.

Batman paused in his chase, looking between the bomb and the civilians and doing the same math as Jason.

"Decisions, decisions," Joker laughed. The wheels of his skates squealed as he stopped by the emergency exit. "To give chase or to save the helpless. What will you choose? Ta-ta!"

After having the last word, Joker disappeared out the door.

Batman looked after him but grappled up to the bomb instead. Jason met him up there, hanging from a light fixture.

"I think I can do it," Jason insisted, although his eyes widened when he got a closer look at the bomb. He'd studied the Joker's handiwork as training before, but this was different, messier. "You need to go after the Joker."

Batman shook his head definitively, studying the bomb and peeking through tangled wires. "We stick together."

Hopeless anger welled in Jason's eyes. He couldn't defuse the bomb, and Bruce didn't trust him to go after the Joker on his own. How many would die because he wasn't smart enough, strong enough?

"Somebody needs to stop him!" Desperation seeped into his words, almost a plea. "The police won't be able to catch him. They never could."

"The police won't be coming, Robin." Bruce looked up to meet his eyes, wrist-deep in the wiring of the bomb. "If we don't help these people, then nobody will. There will be time to pursue the Joker later—together."

Jason knew that Bruce meant it. But he also knew that he was wrong. And he thought that Bruce knew it, himself, too.

When all was said and done, they found three separate clues from the Riddler and successfully defused four bombs scattered throughout Gotham. They managed to nab the Riddler, but the Joker had disappeared after his escape from the roller rink.

Although they managed to survive the day without mass destruction and minimal civilian casualties, Jason couldn't take solace in it being "better than it could have been." People had still died, most of them having succumbed to the maleffects of Joker Venom, and those orphans—many of them victims of the Joker's last attack!—had lost their home and meager belongings.

Jason found it hard to even look at Bruce after they returned home to the Manor. The following morning, he poked at his breakfast without much of an appetite. He nibbled some bacon to appease Alfred and only acknowledged Bruce to voice his agreement when he was invited to accompany Batman to the police station to meet with Gordon.

At the precinct, an officer directed Batman and Robin to where they were storing the bombs that had been located and defused in the attack.

"Do you remember the design of the bomb from the roller rink?" Batman asked him.

"It looked the same," Robin noted as they studied the half-constructed bombs. "They're wired differently than the Joker and the Riddler's usual MO."

Batman nodded. "The ones that did detonate had relatively contained explosions. There were no casualties as a result of the bombs."

Hidden behind his domino mask, Jason found it easier to forget where he'd fallen short the day before. "Why would they change how they made them? It's not like they've ever had problems with blowing people up before."

"Normally their explosions are highly-fatal," Batman agreed. "It doesn't make sense…unless it wasn't the Riddler or the Joker who constructed these bombs."

"Harley?" Jason asked, even when he knew it wouldn't have been her. But as he remembered their last chat with her, he realized: "No…the kid?"

"Maybe," Bruce said.

When the officer watching over them headed off for lunch, they started cracking open the bombs. It would have been polite to invite the police to investigate alongside them, but it was time for the real detectives to work.

Gordon entered the evidence room right as they found the proof they needed.

"It's worse than we could have thought…" Gordon murmured.

Carved on the inner-casing of one of the bombs was a message like those hidden by child sweatshop victims:

HELP

TIM

Short, sweet, and to-the-point. "Timothy Drake." Robin said the thought that they were all having out loud. The list of missing kids from the Joker's latest attack was still fresh in all of their minds.

Batman replaced the plate and turned to Gordon. "Let's keep this under wraps." His Batgrowl brought it a step up from suggestion.

Gordon raised an eyebrow. "Of course. The last thing we need is for the likes of Vicki Vale to get her hands on this." His eyes flashed back over the bombs, grief hollowing his face.

That was something that Jason respected about Gordon: even after decades on the job, he'd never grown desensitized to the injustices in their city.

Taking a deep breath, Gordon's expression hardened. He turned back to Batman. "There's a reason why I approached you: the Riddler reached out. He says he has a message for you."

Chapter Text

If Tim closed his eyes, he could have pretended he was standing outside in a drizzle: the chill in the air was from the wind; raindrops were falling onto his face because he'd forgotten his umbrella; his ankle was sore from the barometric pressure.

But if he closed his eyes, Joker would have cut them out. It was cold because he was trapped in a cellar. His ankle hurt because he'd spent long hours pacing on it while Joker and Harley were away. And the water drops hitting his face was spit flying from Joker's mouth as he screeched.

With no connection to the outside world besides the occasional half-torn newspaper that sometimes got mixed in with the trash, Tim had had no option but to wait to hear how his interventions had played out during Joker's plot. Now, as the clock was officially striking the end of J-Day, Tim was receiving the result.

"Nobody was laughing, Junior!"

"I don't understand." Tim blinked his eyelashes innocently. "Did the bombs not go 'kaboom?'"

"The kabooms were small! And there was no laughing gas!" Joker crossed his arms with a growl. "I'm starting to think you messed it up on purpose."

"I made them just like you showed me." Tim shrugged, doing his best to project bewildered. When Joker didn't respond, looking at Tim with blank silence like he was thinking, Tim gulped. Quickly, he continued, "Batman must have done something. He defused them."

Joker smiled. Cheerily, he said, "Junior, I'm crazy, not stupid. If Bratman had defused them then they wouldn't have blown up at all."

A chill spread down Tim's back and through his arms. He felt twitchy all of a sudden, like he'd just been zapped in the electric chair. His intuition had carried him this far, his ability to read Joker's mood the greatest weapon in his arsenal. Right now, his instincts were blaring a bright red warning: DANGER-DANGER-DANGER.

"I really tried. I followed what you taught me, I swear." Tim's pitch was raising as he attempted to plead his innocence. He added, as the pièce de résistance: "Please don't be angry, Dad."

"I think he's telling the truth, Jay," Harley cut in. She was unbraiding a pack of Twizzlers, piling them up on a plate like candy spaghetti.

"Oh, Junior." Tim stiffened as Joker's hand cupped his jaw, brushing strands of hair back behind his ear. "I'm not angry—just disappointed." Joker heaved a sad sigh. "If you're not funny and you're not smart, then what use are you to me?"

Joker's grip was tightening with each passing moment. Tim had to work against the press of Joker's thumb to say, "I'll do better. Show—show me again. We can make them together this time."

"You never found my jokes funny," Joker bemoaned. His other hand came up to cup Tim's cheek. With his hard grip on Tim's face, he tilted Tim's head back, looking at his neck. "You just need a little extra love, don't you?"

Tim jerked his head in the best semblance of a nod he could get in the current circumstances. He thought that Joker's version of love sounded like a better option than the execution he had been sure was incoming, but he was forced to reconsider when Harley cleared her throat.

"Jay…" She hesitated. Her words came out slow and haltingly. "Maybe you can go out with the guys tonight…get some laughs in… I'll take care of Junior."

Stroking his fingers through Tim's hair, Joker ignored Harley, saying, "Don't you worry. I know just the thing to make you more like your pops." He suddenly dropped his hands and walked away.

Tim blinked. He looked after Joker, but it didn't seem like he was meant to follow. He hesitantly sat down at his workbench.

Harley looked between him and Joker, biting her lip. She hadn't been particularly concerned when Joker had broken his ribs, torn off his fingernails, or scrambled his brain in the electric chair…but now, she looked nervous. She scurried after Joker.

"Jay, I don't know," Harley was saying. "I thought we agreed Junior's too young for all this."

Joker didn't share her hesitance. "The boy's gotta grow up sometime. He can't learn with all your coddling."

"But he's still so new. It's too soon. We have to let him settle into the family first."

The sound of sloshing water carried across the room. "I'm through waiting! I tried your way and look at what happened!"

"Don't try to say you're blaming me for this!"

Listening to them argue back and forth, Tim waited, sitting perfectly still. Maybe if he really believed, he could camouflage himself. Maybe he could unlock some latent meta powers. Invisibility or super strength would have been really handy right about now.

They'd moved out of sight, into the box of a room that was their bathroom. Ironically, it was the only place in their living space that lacked mirrors. Despite the distance, their voices carried over clearly, high-quality acoustics perfect for echoing tortured screams or aiding in eavesdropping.

"He's my kid, too!" Harley yelled. "I should get to have a say!"

"You can't even take care of yourself! Do you really think you know how to be a mommy?" Joker cackled, hysterical laughter cracking out in drawn-out bursts. "It's a good thing I'm running the show around here or we'd've been locked back up in the looney bin months ago!"

Harley let out a frustrated cry. "That's not true! I'm plenty capable on my own!"

Joker's laughter almost drowned out Harley's words completely. "Face it, Harls: you're like the brakes on a motorcycle…consummately useless!"

Tim tensed, indignated on Harley's behalf.

"But that's okay," Joker said gently, "because I love you anyway."

A long moment of quiet drew out. Nobody spoke, and Tim prayed that Harley was finally going to stand up for herself. She didn't have to take this from him.

Eventually, Harley started sniffling. "Don't do it to Junior," she pleaded.

"Oh, Cream-Puff, don't give me that look. Why don't you go play some games at the pier? I'll take care of the tough parenting while you're gone."

Harley was still sniffling as she moped out of the bathroom and towards the stairs. She hesitated at the bottom step, looking at Tim with teary eyes before turning away without a word and trudging up to the door.

That did not bode well for him.

The bright gala lighting had caused Tim to squint as he'd looked up. He'd been tugging on the bottom of Mom's dress, which she'd been pretending not to notice as she and Dad talked to another couple. Tim hadn't recognized them, which meant that they couldn't have been that important, but he had been wholeheartedly ignored up until they'd finally made their farewells.

"Timothy," Mom had hissed when it was finally just the three of them. "What?"

"Mother." Tim had strategically used a more formal term of address to butter her up as he'd lifted his arms, reaching up for her.

"What do you want, Timothy?" Mom had impatiently asked, pretending not to understand his nonverbal request. "Use your words."

Still reaching up, Tim had taken a deep breath to recite, "I would like to be picked up, please."

As a reward, he'd been lifted up onto Mom's hip. "There you go. Was that so hard?"

The memory came to mind as Joker pulled him to his feet, taking him by the hand and leading him across the room.

His parents had been travelers, much preferring to spend their free time exploring cave temples or mountaintop villages over the endless grime of Gotham. Their postcards had littered the fridge, and Tim had dutifully marked Xs on the calendar every day until they'd returned.

When he looked back, he saw that he'd spent his whole life on tiptoes, stretching up to meet their high standards, reaching across oceans and continents for their attention. When they'd visited home, he'd proven his competence. Depending on the setting, he'd have been the prodigious son or the witty Drake-heir. At galas, luncheons, fundraisers, and the theatre, he'd displayed his obedience.

Joker led him into the bathroom. A single lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering as the filiments reached the limits of what they had to give.

In the corner of the bathroom was a rusty, claw-footed bathtub, which was currently filled to the brim with a bubbling green liquid.

"W-wait!" Tim dug his heels into the ground. When his broken ankle gave out, Joker dragged him across the floor. "Wait, I can do better. I can learn."

He'd never seen it before, but he knew what it was. He'd heard all the same rumors about the Joker and Harley as all the other Gotham kids—he'd heard about how they'd used acid to bleach their skin and hair.

It didn't seem like it should have been possible to still feel fear after everything he'd survived. Nevertheless, fresh horror clawed up his throat.

He didn't want to be here. He longed for home. He was far too old to be carried around, but his heart yearned to be held by his mom one last time.

The last time Tim had seen his parents, it had been during one of their rare return trips back home. They'd gone to the theatre, and after—

"You'll learn," Joker agreed, forcibly moving Tim's body until he was sat on the edge of the tub. "I'll teach you."

—after the theatre had gone up in smoke and flames and laughing gas, Tim and his parents had joined the masses trying to escape. The last time he saw his dad, he had been clutching his stomach as he'd laughed and laughed, stumbling as Tim's mom carried him through the burning building. When a large hand had grabbed Tim's shoulder from behind, he'd had a second to believe it had been Batman.

The last time Tim saw his mom, she'd been reaching for him. "Tim!" she'd cried, what she had normally considered an undignified nickname slipping naturally from her lips as he'd been pulled away.

Joker's hand wrapped around Tim's neck. "Deep breath, Junior," he said.

That was all the warning Tim got before he was being shoved backwards into the bathtub. As his back hit the acid, he had enough time to suck in a gasp before his head went under.

There was a brief moment of blissful numbness. His nerves were instantly overwhelmed, struck silent in shock.

'Then it burned.

It burned like dry ice spilling over him. The acid soaked through his clothes and saturated his skin. His muscles contracted, limbs locking as his body paralyzed in pain.

After the theatre, he'd awoken in a room with four other boys, the oldest in his mid-teens and the youngest no older than eight. The youngest had had bright orange hair and freckles. Joker had liked that. He'd switched between calling the boy Annie and Carrot-Top, but Tim remembered that his name had been Leo.

Leo had been the most vulnerable of them. The second he'd seen the Joker's terrifying face, he'd cried and cried and cried.

"Don't worry," Tim had whispered to him as they'd sat huddled together that first night. "Batman's coming. He and Robin are going to save us."

Leo had whimpered, nuzzling into his side. "But how does he know where to find us?"

"Are you kidding?" Tim had wrapped his arm around Leo, holding him tight, as his other hand gestured in front of them. "Batman's the smartest detective in the world! I bet he'll be busting down the door by morning."

Tim's body jerked, instinct driving him to fight against Joker's hold as his chest tensed with the need to breathe. Bubbles escaped his mouth as he exhaled but were quickly cut off as Joker's grip tightened, forcibly closing his esophagus. Acid stung the soft skin of his mouth and gums and nose, but none of the acid was able to go down his throat and into his lungs, protected by the hand that was choking him.

It was only after weeks with the Joker that Tim had discovered a torn and waterlogged newspaper mixed in with their "groceries." Remembering the Victims of the Joker's Latest Attack, the headline had read. It was then that he'd learned that if he was ever going to escape, he would return to an empty home once again.

His hands clutched Joker's, at first trying to pry him off but eventually slackening as he grew lightheaded. The tension flooded out of his muscles. Joker's nails dug into the sides of his neck as he adjusted his grip. Compared to the stabbing pain over the rest of Tim's body, it was almost unnoticeable. In fact, the longer he focused on Joker's hand around his neck, the easier the rest of the pain became to bear. His fingers curled weakly around Joker's wrist, holding him there.

He'd lost awareness by the time he was pulled out. Next thing he knew, he was lying limp on the bathroom floor, shaking and gasping in deep lungfuls of air.

Joker left him there, the light flickering out as he went.

The bang of the door slamming and footsteps pacing down the stairs shattered the doze Tim had fallen into. He squirmed, dread mounting until he recognized Harley by her gasp.

"Did he really just leave ya lying on the floor?" she asked, sounding offronted on his behalf.

Tim had the energy to lift his head to look at her, but not to do much else.

"Oh, JJ," she whispered. "Let me see."

Harley knelt down beside him and lifted his limp hand. The gentle touch of her finger rubbing over his skin felt like sandpaper.

Tim whimpered and pulled his hand back.

"He didn't wash it off," Harley murmured. A little louder, she asked, "Junior, did Jay clean you up after?"

Shaking his head, Tim moaned out a vague no, curling up in the fetal position with his arms held close to his chest.

The bathtub faucet started gushing water moments later.

Harley squatted back at his side and nudged his back. "C'mon, kiddo, let's get you cleaned up." When Tim didn't move, she lifted him upright, shushing his protests. "You've still got all those chemicals on you."

Stronger than she looked in more ways than one, Harley lifted him completely when his legs were too weak to hold his own weight. She set him back in the bathtub, holding him down when he instinctively tried to jump out.

The water was glacial.

"No," Tim moaned, shaking so hard he bit his tongue and could hear his joints squeaking.

Harley splashed the water over his torso. "Junior, I need you to do something for me."

His next exhale came out as a sob.

Harley continued, "I want you to think of somewhere safe." When Tim made a questioning noise, she said, "It can be anywhere: home, school, or even somewhere you've never been before."

He'd spent his childhood hopping between boarding schools then raising himself in a lonely mansion. He'd never had the opportunity to feel particularly secure in his home. No—for him, safety wasn't a place: it was three people.

Safety was climbing up fire escapes and jumping across the gaps between rooftops, snapping pictures of his heroes, confident in his conviction that they would always be there to save the day.

The safest place he could imagine was the backseat of the Batmobile. He'd only ever seen the car from the outside, but he had a wide arsenal of daydreams to pull details from. He imagined the black leather interior, the tinted-out windows keeping him hidden from the outside. Batman was in the driver's seat, but Tim could see the reflection of his face in the rearview mirror. His cape was draped around Tim like a blanket.

"Are you in your safe place?" Harley asked, her voice softer than before.

Tim nodded.

"Good." Harley brushed some of his hair back from his forehead. Her other hand grabbed the shower head. "Stay in your safe place, okay? You're not gonna like this part."

She was right, of course. Ice cold water started pouring over him from above, each drop feeling like it was slicing a fresh cut into his skin. When he lifted his arms to protect his face, Harley pushed them back down.

He squeezed his eyes shut, calling back his imagination. Robin was sitting beside him and Nightwing in the front passenger seat. Tim reconsidered. Suddenly, Nightwing was seated at his other side, instead. Normally, Tim preferred a window seat, but he would have happily taken the middle with his heroes on either side.

Distantly, Tim could hear himself sobbing, but he drowned it out with the sound of the Batmobile's engine revving and the good-natured back-and-forth of Robin and Nightwing one-upping each other with anecdotes from patrol. Nightwing tucked Batman's cape tighter around him. Nothing could hurt Tim under there. Nothing, nothing, nothing…

"Come back now," Harley said, her voice a distant echo, repeating closer and closer.

Tim blinked a couple times, suddenly aware of how dry his eyes had become. He wasn't in the bathtub anymore. Harley must have dragged him out because he was in a dry pair of clothes and lying on his beanbag chair.

"There you are." Harley waved from where she was sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the floor beside him. She scooted closer. "How are you feeling?"

Tim's head flopped back down with a weary sigh like a sad, old dog. He had the passing thought that he should have tried to say something, but he didn't even have the energy to sit upright, let alone actually compose a thought into words and move his mouth and vocal cords into the correct shapes to speak them into existence.

"Yeah, I've been there before, too." Harley tilted sideways so she could look him in the eye. "I let ya borrow my softest shirt."

"Thank you," Tim whispered. He was too polite to say that even her softest shirt felt like it was grating his skin like a soft French cheese. Based on the sad angle of her eyebrows, Harley already knew.

"Poor thing. Hold out your arm." When Tim didn't move, she took Tim's hand and pulled it onto her lap, uncapping a bottle. "I know it hurts, but put some of this cream on and you'll be good as new."

Tim hissed through his teeth as she spread the lotion on. His arm jerked, but he didn't try to yank it back. The process repeated for his other arm and legs. He was grateful that he wasn't alone. He tried not to think about how she'd known this was going to happen and had left Tim here, let Joker do this to him.

"Let's leave him." The words spilled from Tim's tongue without thought. Harley paused and Tim desperately continued, "We can run away and do our own thing. You and me, together."

Harley slowly squeezed some extra lotion onto her palm before carefully applying it to Tim's neck. "You don't mean that," she said eventually. "You're just hurting. It'll get better."

"He's using you," Tim said, lifting his head to try to meet her eye. "Using us. We deserve better."

If Harley took in what he was saying, she didn't show it. It looked like his pleas went in one ear and out the other. "Just relax. I'll talk to Jay, see if I can convince him to give you some laughing gas to make the pain a little better."

Tim sighed, closing his eyes. Tears leaked out of the corners, the salt leaving a burning trail down his temples. "I don't understand what you see in him."

Maybe she agreed, or maybe she realized he didn't want to hear her justifications anymore. Either way, Harley let them fall into silence.

Arkham Asylum was as much of a shithole as it'd always been. The guards were expecting them and opened the gates the instant the Batmobile pulled up. Batman shook hands with two dudes and a chick as they were led inside. The dudes were wearing business suits, so Jason immediately clocked them as the least important people there.

The chick, on the other hand, looked grizzled as hell and was visibly packing heat. She silenced the inmates' jeering with a single sharp look.

"So…how long have you been doing this for?" Jason asked, emphasizing the vagueness since he wasn't actually sure what her role was, just that it was important enough to be respected.

With evident exhaustion, she said flatly, "Too long."

They paused in front of a thick steel door. The chick entered three separate passcodes—Jason got the first two but was sure Bruce had committed all three to memory even as he remained engaged in conversation with the suits.

In the high-security block, guards were stationed between every other cell. Considering the rate of prisoner escapes, Jason figured this must have been a double-edged sword. More guards seemed like the obvious solution—provided that they were all on the level; it only took one crooked guard, tempted by the grand promises of the criminally insane, for the likes of the Joker to break out.

The prisoners' dark eyes stared at them as they passed. Jason supressed a shiver, holding his chin high. Some of these people had a bone to pick with them. Understandably so—Batman and Robin had personally delivered half of them here.

Riddler was in a single cell—a mercy for the other prisoners, considering how annoying the guy was. He looked up upon their arrival with a surprised grin.

"Visitors already," he remarked.

"Didn't you have a message for us?" Robin asked with a raised eyebrow.

The theatrics were unnecessary, although Jason supposed it was probably too much to ask for Riddler to make this easy for them. They were the most entertainment he was going to get all week.

"A message for Batman and Robin, yes," Riddler said pointedly.

The chick sighed. "Behave," she told Riddler, who had the nerve to wink. She turned to Batman and said, "You'll be fine on your own."

It wasn't phrased as a question, but she waited for a response anyway. "Yup, we've got it covered," Jason said.

"What's your message?" Batman asked directly when it was just the three of them. "The Commissioner said that you've already confessed to your crimes."

Riddler sighed, lounging back in his wooden chair like it was a La-Z Boy. "It's information that will be of immense benefit, I assure you. But first, riddle me this, Batman and Robin."

Batman and Robin let out twin sighs.

Riddler smugly continued, "What kind of ship has two mates but no captain?"

Without lives hanging in the balance, working through the riddle was actually kind of fun. Why was Eddie in the murder business? He probably could have made a killing giving school assemblies or something.

Batman turned to Robin once he'd solved it, waiting for him to answer. Jason scrolled through a mental list of every type of boat he knew. When that didn't go anywhere, he focused on mates, which eventually led him to—

"A relationship," Jason answered. Batman nodded in approval.

"Correct." Riddler grinned. "Have you taken a look at Harley and Jack's lately?"

"I try not to. Even just the thought is nauseating. To be frank."

Riddler didn't voice his agreement, but he didn't look like he disagreed. "They've adopted," he said, remaining at ease even as Batman took a menacing step closer to his cell.

"What do you mean?" Batman growled.

Jason hung back, letting Bruce take the lead while he tried to figure out how they were playing this.

"A child. A little prodigy, actually." He smirked at Batman, adding, "He solved my riddles in half the time it normally takes you, big guy."

"Where is the child?" Batman asked, doing his darndest to loom despite the bright fluorescent lighting and the paintings of blue skies and daisies on the wall behind him.

"I tried to buy him, but Jack seemed really attached." Riddler sighed, a flash of regret tensing his expression before it evened back out to indifference. "They've probably already moved hideouts, but I'll tell you what I remember about the place."

To their mutual surprise, Eddie told them the block he remembered the hideout being on straight-up.

Once they'd gotten the details, Batman immediately pivoted and made for the door.

Jason hung back. "No riddle?" he asked—not ungrateful, just confused.

Riddler shrugged. "Kid's got a spark. It'd be a shame to see it extinguished before he has the chance to bloom."

Jason held his eye contact, reading his expression and tone and eventually determining that he was telling the truth. "You're not all bad, Eddie," he said over his shoulder as he turned to follow Batman.

Even though Riddler wasn't able to provide an exact address, he was able to point them to a small radius. After cross-referencing with their maps of recent high energy use, they were able to pinpoint the location.

As they tiptoed down the stairs of the creepiest cellar known to man, Jason knew they'd found the right place: the walls and ceiling were covered in mirrors like a funhouse, the floor was splattered with the telltale rust-colored stains of dried blood, needles littered the corners, and—no bullshit—there was an actual electric chair at one end of the room.

"Jesus Christ," Jason murmured, swallowing down his nausea. So this was how little Timmy had been living?

"Stick close," Bruce muttered back, even though it was already apparent that the Joker had cleared out.

In the center of the room was a dented metal table piled high with junk. "Looks like the same trash he made the bombs out of," Jason remarked. Batman hummed in agreement.

They approached the side of the room with the electric chair, where the blood stains were most concentrated. The worn leather straps on the arms of the chair sent a shiver down Jason's spine. He imagined tiny Tim strapped into that thing, helpless, and quickly turned away.

While Batman investigated the chair, Jason stepped over to the record player that was slowly croaking out a broken lullaby. It was clearly a children's toy, made of cheap and cracked plastic. The needle was short, worn down to a nub, and the record skittered, jerking around in an uneven pace, like it was ready to give up the ghost.

The place was a certifiable torture chamber. Every square inch was covered in clues, and it was all too easy to imagine the variety of ways a child had been endlessly abused within these walls.

The electric chair haunted him in his peripheral. He wondered if Tim had been subjected to it in the time since the Joker's last attack. Could he have been spared even a fraction of his hurt had Robin worked faster?

They dropped into matching fighting stances as the door creaked open.

"Finally," Harley Quinn sighed. She appeared midway down the stairs, looking more pale than usual with dark bags shadowing her eyes. "It's about time you showed up. I need your help."

Chapter Text

"But imagine the romance, Strudel," Joker beseeched. "Picture the strolls through the mountains under the stars, the baboons hooting all around us."

"I don't care for mountains," Harley complained. "I get altitude sickness. And besides, there's plenty of monkeys at the zoo."

"But you can't just walk into the zoo, can you? How about the hyenas? I know you've been missing Lou and Bud ever since animal control—"

"I don't want another pet," Harley cut in. "Gotham's my home—it's where we met, where I've had all my greatest adventures."

Joker sighed and walked over to the fridge. He pulled out the "iced tea" and held it up. "Do you want a drink?"

Harley pouted. "I'm not thirsty."

Joker uncapped the pitcher and drank straight from the spout. After a few large gulps and a commercial-worthy satisfied sigh, he said, "I know it's hard leaving our home, but it's only for a little while. If we want to have a chance of staying on the outside, we're gonna have to lay low for a while. And what better place than the horn of the world? Getting back to where humanity first began!"

"I don't care about Ethiopia!" Harley cried. "The Jay I know would never run away scared like this."

This was the point where Tim knew he should have chimed in in support of Harley. It was bad enough being held captive in Gotham, but being transported halfway across the world would certainly have been worse. His odds of being rescued were going to decrease dramatically, he was sure. But his mouth was raw and full of blisters from the acid, and emotionally, he was weary, too scared of the consequences to willingly risk drawing attention to himself. So he sat still at his workbench, watching the argument in silence.

"You're being emotional." Joker placed the pitcher on the kitchen table and uncapped the lid. Then he shoved his entire hand and arm down inside, not even bothering to push up his sleeve first. He pulled out a glow stick, arm soaked with tea, and bit into it with a crunch. His words were mumbled around the glow stick but still clear enough for both Tim and Harley to understand: "It's making you stupid."

Harley growled out her frustration. "Quit sayin' stuff like that! Who between us has the PhD?"

Joker guffawed. "That paper won't help when you're behind bars again. If it wasn't for me, you'd already be cold in your cell!"

"I take care of myself!" Harley stomped her foot. "I'm a smart girl and far more capable than you say."

Tim's eyes widened. He silently applauded Harley for standing up for herself, even as a foreboding dread started to mount inside him.

Spitting pieces of glow stick down his chin, Joker said through derogatory laughter, "Fine, then, Miss Smarty-Pants, let's see how long you last out there without me!"

"Fine!" Harley crossed her arms. "Just watch: me and Junior will do just fine on our own."

"Oh, no you don't." Joker raised the pitcher like a weapon. "You're not taking my son from me."

"He's both of our son! And you're the one walking out on us!" Harley gasped as Joker slammed the pitcher onto the table, replacing it with a knife.

Joker scowled, waving the knife menacingly even as his grin stretched wider. "Oh, Harls. You're no mommy. I'm taking my boy to Ethiopia. And I really don't care what you do."

Tim pulled in a breath to say something, but as Joker's wild eyes flashed to him, the words died in his throat. Tim froze still, like a deer trying to look invisible to an oncoming car.

At his continued silence, Joker smugly turned away from him, focusing on Harley again.

"So that's it, huh?" Harley sniffled, wiping at her eyes and stumbling back a step as Joker juked closer. "It's that easy for you to say goodbye? They were all right. You really were using me all along."

"Don't you get it? There's no use for you. Now get out." When Harley stared at him in shocked silence, Joker stepped forward, crying, "Go away! Scram! How many ways do you have to hear it before it gets through your thick head?"

"You never deserved me. I'm gonna do just fine on my own." Harley jumped back as Joker stepped closer, knife held out. She stumbled as her feet hit the bottom of the staircase, but she managed to regain her balance, meeting eyes with Tim.

They held the eye contact for a long moment, the air thick with words they didn't have the freedom to say.

"Goodbye, Junior," Harley whispered. Then she turned and raced up the stairs, Joker hot on her heels.

"And stay gone!" Joker yelled after her before slamming the door. He stormed back down the stairs, muttering to himself.

While Joker stomped over to the kitchen, Tim stared at the staircase, blinking slowly as he tried to process what had just happened. Harley was coming back, right? She wouldn't have just left Tim with Joker for good…right?

Tim jolted when Joker suddenly paced towards him, unceremoniously stabbing a needle into his neck.

"Shhh," Joker whispered, holding a finger to Tim's lips while the other hand pressed down the plunger.

Whatever was in the needle, it felt ice cold in Tim's veins.

"What was that?" Tim asked, and he hadn't realized the emotions swirling around inside of him until his words came out hysterical.

Joker ignored him. He tossed the used needle and syringe on the floor and went back to the kitchen, returning with a grey, metal canister of laughing gas. He stood in front of Tim as he filled the balloon then held it to Tim's lips.

"Breathe," he demanded.

Tim pulled in a breath at his command, but he was too jittery and his lungs didn't want to work right. He managed only a small inhale that escaped his lungs again a moment later.

Joker sighed. Then he punched Tim in the gut, forcing the air out of his lungs and diaphragm. Before Tim could suck in a gasping breath, his hand clenched around Tim's neck, cutting off his airway. He giggled as Tim clawed at his hand, natural self-preservation instincts overcoming his usual obedience.

The tip of the balloon was set by Tim's mouth again right before Joker said, "Breathe in." When Tim's neck was released, he gasped in a deep breath. Joker's hand returned before he could exhale, closing his esophagus and forcing him to hold the breath in his lungs.

The process repeated, Tim's breathing forcibly regulated until he wasn't sure if it was more the laughing gas or the lack of oxygen making him lightheaded. Eventually, Tim's body stopped resisting, his tense muscles relaxing and his lungs making peace with the air he was given. Joker's hand moved from his neck to his hair, combing through it while Tim breathed in the laughing gas on his own.

"Good boy," Joker praised, scratching behind Tim's ear.

Tim teared up, emotions twisted into one knotted mess. He leaned into the touch, craving it the same way a moth flew hopefully into an open flame.

"Don't worry about her, Junior," Joker murmured, fingers picking apart the tangles in Tim's hair. "We can still have plenty of fun just the two of us."

Tim nodded jerkily, standing when Joker told him to stand and following him around the room, helping him pack. This was it, then. They were really leaving Gotham. There wasn't time to leave any clues behind for Batman. Then, Tim wasn't sure if there was a point to it anyway; he'd lost track of how long he'd been here, waiting for rescue.

They packed light, bringing only the essentials. The less Tim had to find, the better; the floor had turned into rolling waves, and he was falling all over like a shipwreck. When he crashed into the wall, Joker laughed and laughed and told him to sit down for a minute.

Tim collapsed into his beanbag chair, blinking at the hundreds of Jokers reflected off the walls and ceiling. He waved his hand and watched the Joker's mirror it. It was only when he noted the blue eyes that he realized he was looking at himself.

While Joker was rooting through the rest of their stuff, Tim snuck his butter knife and other treasures out of the air vent. These things were his and only his. Like hell was he letting them get left behind.

Once they'd gathered up what they were bringing, Joker ordered Tim to fall into step behind him. It was time to get out of Dodge.

As he stumbled to the top of the stairs, Tim stared up past Joker, into the night sky. He saw a splotch of yellow and wondered whether it was the corner of the moon or the Batsignal.

"Don't make me break your other ankle," Joker warned.

Tim nodded, breathing in fresh air through the crack in the door. He hadn't left this room since he'd been taken. The taste of freedom was exhilarating. Ankle be damned, the second he was out that door, he was making a break for it.

Joker sighed. He cupped Tim's face between both hands, giving him an indulgeant smile. Their eyes met right before he bashed Tim's head into the wall.

Batman and Robin followed Harley at a distance as she wandered around the room. Jason could hear Batman gritting his teeth as he held back from beating the information out of her faster.

"I don't even remember his real name," Harley sighed. She stood in front of the table with all the garbage on it, and Jason tensed, watching her hands to make sure she wasn't planning on pulling some weapon out of the pile. But Harley just stared wistfully at the metal and plastic scrap. "It was something like Tom or Teddy. We just called him JJ." She scowled and kicked a milk crate before turning and walking across the room. "Figures Jay would name our kid after himself. Such an egomaniac."

Jason met eyes with Batman. Joker Junior?

"His name is Tim," Jason spoke up.

A response didn't come. Harley kicked a pile of clothes until she uncovered a particular shirt, which she snatched from the floor and clutched with both hands. "I didn't think he was serious at first, about having a kid." Harley hands clenched into fists. She had the nerve to sound choked up as she said, "He really was such a sweet boy."

"Where is he, Harley?" Batman asked, his words firm but calm. "Where is Tim?"

Harley looked up at them, eyes shining with tears. "Jay took him. I should've just took him with me, but Jay woulda sooner killed him first, I know he would. You should see him when he gets angry and starts yellin' and throwin' things."

Jason sighed. Harley wasn't irredeemably evil like the Joker, but she should have known better.

Batman took a careful step closer, saying gently, "You're safe now. Where did they go?"

Wiping her eyes with the shirt, Harley sniffled. "They're already long-gone. Jay was planning to run. He kept talking about an old friend in Ethiopia."

"Ethiopia?" Jason blurted. His teeth clacked together from the speed at which he shut his mouth. To cover, he disinterestedly added, "That's random."

Harley shrugged. "That's all he told me. He wouldn't say nothing about who this friend was or how they could help."

Jason faded into the background while Batman finished interrogating Harley. She didn't seem to know anything more—not that Jason would have been able to make anything of her intel; his mind was whirring with explanations and excuses for the coincidence.

"Are you gonna let me go?" Harley asked, arms crossed. She looked Batman up and down.

Remembering last time's egg gas, Jason's fingers twitched for his rebreather.

Evidently, Bruce wasn't any more eager to find out what tricks Harley had up her sleeve this time. They really didn't have time to waste playing her games anyways. "Tonight," he agreed. "But you know that you're a fugitive again, right? The GCPD will be searching for you."

Harley sighed. "I know. And I won't put up a fight." She held up her hand in a scout's promise then winked. "But they'll have to catch me first."

Jason shifted in the passenger seat of the Batmobile as they raced back to the Cave. "It doesn't mean anything," he said. "Ethiopia is a big country."

"You're right," Bruce agreed. "We can't draw conclusions until we find out more."

His easy agreement was wholly unsatisfying. Jason swallowed and turned to look out the window. Without an outlet to vent his emotions, they were left to stagnate and grow stale inside him.

Back in the BatCave, Batman kicked out the extra desk chair, but Jason elected to pace behind him instead.

Jason stared at the computer screen, anxious fury building up inside of him. He stiffened when Batman turned around to address him.

"Jay." Bruce pulled off the cowl, baring his face. The cowl was dropped onto the edge of the desk while his fingers hesitated on the keyboard. "What should we search?"

Feeling a mixture of watched and seen, Jason ran through a quick breathing cycle. When the pins and needles left his arms, he said, "Let's look for suspicious shipments into or out of Ethiopia. Joker Venom components—that sort of thing."

Bruce nodded, holding Jason's eye for an extra moment before turning back to the screen. His fingers sped across the keyboard but hesitated for an instant before pressing "enter."

After a series of trial-and-error searches, they eventually stumbled on sporadic receipts from over the last decade, between an unknown buyer in the United States and a nonprofit organization in Ethiopia—but of course, not just any nonprofit: thenonprofit…the one Sheila Haywood was employed by.

"Damn it," Jason sighed, hands clenched on the back of Bruce's chair.

Bruce hesitated. "Well… It might not be your mom," he offered.

"But it's not not my mom," Jason said. He hung his head.

Bruce reached up to place a hand on his shoulder. "Very few individuals work with the Joker willingly. If she is working with him, she might be a victim as well. Either way, do you see where we need to go?"

Jason exhaled, feeling like he was losing a lot more than carbon dioxide with it. "Yeah." He steeled himself and nodded decisively. "If we're going to save Tim Drake, it's going to be in Ethiopia."

The flight to Ethiopia was hectic with last-minute surveillance. They expedited plans for a meeting with his birth mom under the guise of a sudden and coincidental business trip. Jason took charge of the communications with Sheila while Bruce held phone calls with his mysterious contacts from the area, hoping to hear any intel on the whereabouts of the Joker or his associates.

Eventually, Jason was sent out of the cockpit with orders to rest. Even sprawled out on a comfortable armchair in the body of the plane, he could hardly keep his eyes closed, peering out at the endless expanse of ocean. He wondered if the Joker and Tim had made it to Ethiopia yet. He wondered if they'd stowed away on one of the hundreds of cargo ships crossing the sea. How could the Joker have even travelled out of the country? It wasn't like the creep could blend in with a cap and sunglasses.

That worked to their benefit. Because the Joker had made it to Ethiopia, Bruce discovered after finding a report of a "car stolen by a foreign clown." He was able to trace Joker's path to some extent, but the trail eventually grew murky.

While Bruce searched for leads, Jason reread the messages with Sheila. Now that he knew of her possible connection to the Joker, all of their correspondences over the past weeks had been veiled with suspicion. Her initial reaction of hesitance when he'd first reached out had eventually switched to optimism—and she'd wholeheartedly agreed to this last-minute meeting. But if she was expecting the Joker to visit, then why would she have approved of plans for her son to come at the same time?

It hadn't made sense until Jason had remembered that it was Jason Todd-Wayne visiting. If she was truly caught in the Joker's trap like they suspected, then she was probably banking on Bruce's money and influence helping her escape.

Somehow, it became easier to view this as a rescue mission. Whether or not Sheila was family material could come later; right now, Jason's priority was saving her and Tim.

"I'm excited to finally meet you tonight," Jason's last message read.

Sheila had responded with a simple, "You, too."

Jason wasn't sure how Bruce planned on getting information out of her during their civilian meeting, but after working by his side as Robin for so long, and after witnessing Bruce's quick wit in spite of his oblivious front during interviews, he knew that Bruce had his ways.

They touched down just outside a city, hiding the plane in the accumulated foliage surrounding an abandoned house. The headquarters of his mom's nonprofit was only a couple miles' drive towards the city center while factories and warehouses stretched out for a few miles into the surrounding desert.

By the time Bruce joined him in the body of the plane, Jason had moved on to searching for Bruce's stash of protein shakes. He knew they had to have been somewhere—Batman was practically addicted to the stuff. Low and behold, they were on the top shelf of the refrigerator, stored above the blood bags and emergency medicine.

Jason grabbed two, throwing one at Bruce without warning. Bruce, of course, reached a hand up to catch the bottle without looking.

He was sitting at a small table, looking at his phone with his reading glasses perched on the tremulous land that was the bridge of his nose. It was truly a feat that the glasses managed to stay on his face as the skin between his eyebrows scrunched into a deep crevasse.

Jason sat across from him, shaking up his bottle and pretending to read the label as he asked, "What's the plan?"

Bruce sighed. He set his glasses aside so he could massage away the geological wonders of his facial landscape.

"I've received a tip about the Joker's potential hideout." Despite sounding like good news, context clues—namely, Bruce's grave tone and the tense slump to his shoulders—revealed it as anything but.

Jason cracked open his protein shake and drank half of it, expecting Bruce to elaborate eventually. Once he realized no additional information was coming, he prompted, "Are we going to go check it out?"

"We will not," Bruce said, placing intentional emphasis on the we. "The intel seems suspicious. I suspect it may be a trap."

Jason leaned forward, attempting to meet Bruce's eye. "If it's a trap, then you shouldn't be going in alone. And if it's not a trap, then you definitely shouldn't go alone."

"Nightwing is off-planet, otherwise I would send for him to join us."

Jason stiffened, hiding the twitch of his nose with a drink of his protein shake. Bruce's blatant disregard for his experience and competence grated against him.

If Bruce noticed his emotional reaction, he didn't say. He looked at Jason as he reasoned, "If it is a trap and I am unable to escape, you will be on your own. In that possible outcome, you are expected to contact the Justice League and wait for backup."

Jason shifted uncomfortably under Bruce's earnest stare. "I don't like this," he said. "What happened to sticking together?"

"Sometimes, being a team player means taking the support role. Alfred doesn't come into the field with us, but he's just as important to the success of the mission, isn't he?" Bruce reasoned.

Jason huffed, embarrassed to be visibly sulking but unable to mold himself into faked dignity. "It's evil to play the Alfred-card," he grumbled.

Bruce's eyes crinkled. "Keep your comm online. We'll be in contact the entire time I'm gone."

And that was that, all of Jason's logic and reasoning brushed aside. Despite the sensibility of Bruce's explanation, Jason had above-average test scores in English and could read between the lines: Bruce considered him a detriment to the success of the mission.

Jason moped around the Batplane while Bruce suited up and drove the Batmobile out of the cargo. His mood persisted even when he was alone, self-loathing and inadequacy simmering to a boil during Bruce's hours-long drive through the desert.

"What happens if this doesn't end up going anywhere?" Jason asked after a period of prolonged silence.

Bruce's response came after a moment of either reflection or hesitation—it was hard to tell without being able to analyze his expression. "Then we'll hope Sheila knows something and is willing to work with us."

So they were banking on their hopes and dreams sweeping Tim and Sheila away to safety.

Jason scrubbed his face, casting considering glances at his Robin costume.

Ever since they'd discovered the nightmare fuel that was the cellar the Joker and Harley had been keeping Tim locked up in, Jason's heart had felt like it was made of lead, like it was so heavy it was at risk of falling right through his chest and down into his stomach. He couldn't stop thinking about the Joker and Riddler's latest attack and wonder where he'd gone wrong.

If Jason had worked faster at dragging those civilians out of the roller rink, then they wouldn't have had to worry about defusing the bomb; and if he'd had more experience, he could have defused it alone. If he'd been a better fighter, stronger or faster, Bruce might have trusted him to go after the Joker alone.

All of his deficiencies stacked atop one another, and Tim was the one who suffered for them. And he wasn't the only one: had Jason trusted his own instincts over Bruce's, Gloria might still have been alive today.

Gloria, Tim… Batman and Robin had let them slip between their fingers—and Jason couldn't be responsible for that happening again.

"It was a red herring," Batman reported after finding and scoping out the location his source had given him.

"It wasn't even a trap?" Jason asked, an anxious anger tightening his chest. It was a wild goose chase, a phony tip to keep Batman out of the way for the afternoon while Joker buried his trail.

"I'm coming back," Batman said. "We'll meet with Sheila as planned."

The Robin costume seemed to call to him, a promise of confidence and capability and magic.

Why shouldn't Jason use all of the tools at his disposal? They were banking on Bruce Wayne's power being enough to get Sheila to crack—but wouldn't Batman and Robin be an even better bet? If she knew that Jason was Robin, they could have sped this along—she would have had to help them.

He wasn't going to let the trail run cold again. Tim deserved better.

He composed a new message to his mom then quickly changed into his Robin costume.

Sheila's response came only minutes later: "How soon can you meet, Robin?"

Jason grinned. He stuck the domino over his eyes and scrunched his eyebrows to make sure it was secure. "Now."

The journey to Ethiopia was hazy, a shifting sludge of colors and noise and movement. Tim must have been considered a flight risk because every time the world started to reorient itself, Joker stabbed another needle into his neck or a balloon stem into his mouth.

He watched the ceiling of the boat as it pulsed in time with the dubstep music pounding in his ears. The ocean was really choppy. He spent a long time calculating where exactly they must have been in the Atlantic by this point when he looked out the window and realized they'd been in an airplane all along.

He turned his head to the side to ask some variant of "Are we there yet?" but instead of the Joker, he made eye contact with the pilot.

The pilot didn't answer. After a few slow blinks, Tim realized that his brains were spilling out the back of his head and his clothes were soaked with blood and cerebrospinal fluid.

"When did you get a pilot's license?" he asked Joker, who was seated in front of the controls, wearing a pair of aviator goggles.

Joker laughed.

The next time Tim looked out a window, he saw through the darkness that they were on the ground. Joker was behind the wheel of a car and looked away from the road to grin at Tim over his shoulder.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead!" he cheered. "Papa's getting tired from all this travel. Why don't you tell us some jokes to pass the time?"

Sprawled out in the backseat, Tim's head dropped back down and he noticed there was a sunroof. They must have been far from the cities because there were dozens of stars in that tiny rectangle alone. He had the instinct to search for the North Star to orient his sense of direction. When he couldn't find it, he let himself get lost.

"Junior," Joker growled warningly, "I know we had to leave your chair behind, but I found this so we can still play."

The telltale hum of electricity made Tim flinch, all of his muscles tensing and his mind whiting out in panic. It took him a moment to realize he wasn't being electrocuted. When he looked, he saw that the electricity was coming from a stick in Joker's hand: a cattle prod.

It took two jokes for Joker to put the cattle prod away, satisfied with his entertainment. After another two, Tim started slipping away from Joker, the idle rocking of the car transporting him to the Batmobile.

Robin was on one side, bright grin in place after patrol; Nightwing was on the other, pretending to be embarrassed after some brotherly ribbing. Tim told the next two jokes to Batman, who sat in the front seat, laughing.

At some point, the stars were replaced with the rusty metal rafters of an old warehouse. Tim was lying on concrete flooring, this time without even a dumpster beanbag chair for a bed.

Joker poked him in the eye then lifted his eyelid back open when it slammed shut. "I'm going to meet my friend. I think we're finally getting the chance to adopt your brother." He winked.

"Brother?" Tim asked, the single-word question bubbly and incomprehensible.

"Be good, JJ," Joker called. It took a moment of swimming through his bleary vision to locate him by a door at the end of the room.

When he blinked again, he was alone. He worked to catalogue his surroundings. There was bright sunlight streaming through the windows that were about three-quarters of the way up the walls and only one door.

Fading sunlight streamed through the windows. The windows were too high to be reached, at least three Tim-lengths up the walls.

The door was locked.

If he ran, he might have been able to squirrel up the wall like he had in the basement.

He found their luggage set against one wall. After a bit of digging, he found his treasures where he'd buried them in the torn inner-lining of a duffel bag. He had a wire, some scrap metal, and a butter knife. The weight was reassuring in his pockets.

Pink sunlight streamed through the windows.

Tim traced the rafters with his eyes. He wondered how he could get up there.

The door squealed open.

By the time Robin walked down the ramp and out of the Batplane, the sun was beginning to shift west.

Originally, the plan had been to meet by the headquarters of his mom's nonprofit after she'd gotten off from work; now that they were meeting earlier, she had asked Jason to meet her at one of the nonprofit's storage warehouses ASAP. It was all the better to Jason; if the Joker actually was keeping an eye on Sheila, then catching her during work hours was probably the safest bet and most likely option for escaping his influence.

Sticking out like a sore thumb with his colorful costume in daylight, Robin stuck to the shade and meager shadows he could find, slipping past traffic and factory workers without detection. The warehouse his mom sent him to was a ways out of town, down an old road riddled with potholes. He walked around the back, as directed, suspicions flaring from how quiet the building appeared from the outside.

He was starting to wonder if he was the one walking into a trap when he finally noticed a couple of cars parked in the back. He paused, looking at Sheila Haywood where she was sat in the driver's seat of one car, staring in the rearview mirror and adjusting the part to her hair.

Jason swallowed, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around himself. This was her, the mom he'd been anxiously awaiting meeting for weeks. Now that the time was finally here, he felt a sudden hesitance. His hopes for her warred with the knowledge of her actions up until now: she'd abandoned him as a baby but went to work for a nonprofit; she'd never reached out but agreed to meet with him when asked.

As Jason, he had the instinct to cage his hopes to keep them from flying away from him; the intrinsic optimism that he donned alongside the pixie boots and cape reached out to set them free.

Sheila looked over to him with a start, surprise raising his features before evening out to neutrality. She turned off her car and stepped out while Jason convinced his legs to continue their approach.

"Hi," Jason said inadequately when he could not longer use distance as an excuse for his tongue-tie. "I'm really glad to finally meet you, Sheila."

"Jason," Sheila greeted, sounding at once surprised and awed and terrified. Her voice shook with twisting threads of emotions that didn't show on her face. "I'm—you, too."

Jason's eyes fell away to scan around them. The location was strange, and the detective in him noted that her car had been on even though she'd supposedly already been here for work. "This is where you're working today?" he asked.

"I was sent to retrieve a few boxes from storage. We have a clothing drive coming up." Her voice was gentle, not unlike how Jason remembered Catherine's when she used to read the library books they'd picked out together.

"There's something else I wanted to talk about." Suddenly, Jason worried that Sheila would think he was only here on vigilante business, but they would have plenty of time to smooth things over in the future—Tim, on the other hand, may not have had any time left. "Batman and I have reason to believe somebody at your organization is working with a notorious American terrorist and mass-murderer."

Sheila's tanned complexion paled. She looked around and lowered her voice to a murmur before saying, "Come inside. Let me carry these boxes out and we'll talk in the car."

"I can help," Jason offered, following her into the warehouse.

The warehouse was pitch black for a concerning few steps before Sheila hit the lights. Even then, the overhead fluorescents buzzed and flickered and provided only dim lighting.

Undeterred, Sheila walked confidently across the room to where stacks of boxes were piled up. She lifted one into her hands without checking its contents then pushed over a heavy box of canned food with her foot. Jason lifted it and fell in line behind her.

"I thought you said you were having a clothing drive," he commented.

Sheila didn't look back, hefting her own box higher. "Our food pantry is very popular," she explained. She worked fast, pushing out the door while she was still a few steps ahead.

The door had just fallen shut by the time Jason got to it. When he leaned his shoulder against it, it remained steadfastly closed. He pushed harder, confused that the handlebar pushed down despite the door not budging; it wasn't locked—it was being held closed.

A high-pitched and eerie giggle sent a horrified chill down his spine right before his head was struck with something metal. A high-pitched ring reverberated through his skull in the instant before he blacked out.

Chapter Text

Evening sunlight beamed through the doorway as Joker's silhouette stumbled in, encumbered by the body he was dragging behind him.

"Daddy's home!" he sang, his loud voice echoing off the metal walls and ceiling.

Tim took a halting step forward. He must have been hallucinating again because the body on the floor was dressed in bright reds and greens and yellows. He blinked rapidly then rubbed his eyes when his hazy vision didn't clear.

"Change of plans," Joker said cheerily: "Your new brother turned out to be Robin. So you and me are gonna pull a joke on Batman instead!"

Tim's mouth moved speechlessly for a handful of beats. "What kind of joke?" he eventually managed to squeeze out.

Joker smiled at him indulgently. "It's a good thing you're funny," he said as he dragged Robin across the concrete floor. "What could be a better punchline than Old Long Ears's face when he finds his birdy's wings clipped?"

He dropped Robin ungently in the middle of the room, and Tim flinched as Robin's head cracked against the ground. Not bothering to check on him, Joker skipped across the room to their bags and rooted around until he found a roll of duct tape.

Tim hesitantly hedged closer as Joker bound Robin's hands behind his back and his ankles together.

The sticky squeal of the tape scraped Tim's skull raw. Every moment he found his words, they were peeled away as though bonded to the tape.

"I have a better joke," he eventually managed to force out. He gulped when Joker flashed a disbelieving look his way but confidently proposed, "You should continue with the original plan to make him your second JJ. Adopting Batman's son as your own would—would be really f-funny."

Joker giggled, his amusement growing with every passing moment until his cackles were echoing off the walls. "That's a real knee-slapper, JJ." Once the roll of duct tape was finished, he tossed the cardboard core away and stared at Robin with eyes that were full of ideas. "Fine. We'll play your game. Let's find out if Robin is family material."

Waking up was decidedly unpleasant, but Jason pulled through thanks to copious swearing. His stomach—the organ itself—felt like it was climbing up his thoracic cavity, like the drop at the top of a roller coaster. Meanwhile, his head was pounding, each rapid beat accompanied by a flash of piercing white light in his eyes. His body would have been a hit at a rave, but instead he was lying on a cold, hard floor while somebody was shaking him.

"Fucking stop," he whined, trying to push them away and belatedly realizing that his hands were tied behind his back.

His eyes snapped open.

"Robin. Robin. Jason," a voice was whispering.

Through bleary vision, Jason eventually realized it was the Joker, leaning in close with his pale white skin and bright green hair, shaking hands dragging skinny fingers all over him. Jason flinched back, pulling and twisting his hands to no avail.

"Jason. Where's your panic button?" the Joker whispered, frantically tracing his fingers along the shoulders of his costume. "We have to hurry—he'll be back any second."

"Fucking…Tim Drake?" Jason muttered, blinking hard to try to clear his vision. Through the haze, he realized that it definitely wasn't the Joker in front of him—but god damn did that guy fuck him up.

Every time Tim exhaled, a string of breathy giggles fell out. Jason wasn't sure if he even realized he was doing it. "Hi, Robin." He leaned back to look Jason in the eye. "You have a panic button, don't you?"

Beyond Jokerized Tim Drake, Jason couldn't see for shit. Based on the blur of blacks and greys and the musty smell, they were in a warehouse. Jason had smelled enough warehouses to recognize one even while half-blind.

But why was he with Tim Drake in a warehouse? How the hell had he gotten here? And where was Batman?

Disoriented, Jason manually forced his attention away from the environment and to himself. He wiggled his fingers and determined that his gauntlet was wholly inaccessible. "Cape collar," he said.

Tim jolted into action, shaky fingers tracing the edges of his cape until he found a tiny bump.

"Are your hands broken?" Jason asked, eyes crossing as he tried to get a good visual. He ended up having to squeeze them shut when all he managed to do was make his headache and nausea worse.

"He—he broke so much, Robin," Tim said, the admission shaky and bookended by hiccuping giggles.

Jason shivered, guilt stabbing him in the gut. It should never have gone this far. They should have gotten Tim out of here sooner. He should never have been taken in the first place.

"Do you have any weapons on you?" Tim asked.

Jason took stock. He could tell that his utility belt was gone, and his gauntlets were completely covered in tape. The emergency knife he kept at his hip was gone, but when he wiggled his feet he realized— "There's a Batarang in my boot—"

A metal squeal sent spiky vibrations through his head, and Tim jumped away.

Following protocol, Jason closed his eyes and went limp. Bruce had advised him to act unconscious and focus on gathering intel if he ever ended up kidnapped, and Jason may have had a tendency to pick and choose which of Bruce's rules he'd follow, but this one had some sense to it.

"You weren't starting the fun without me, were you, JJ?" Joker asked, his tone surprisingly calm when he wasn't putting on a show for Batman. His voice was low and sing-songy and took on a warning tone towards the end.

"Never," Tim swore, his voice suddenly steady and his giggles cutting out. Under the Joker's attention, he sounded completely normal. "I wanted to see if my new brother was awake yet. How long has he been sleeping?"

"He's a real sleepy-head like you, Junior," Joker said, his tap shoes clicking as he crossed the room. Jason tensed when his steps brought him closer, but they continued past him, towards the other side of the room. "He slept the whole ride over."

"That must have been at least an hour," Tim commented. "You were gone for a long time."

Jason realized that he was fishing for information. He was quietly impressed by his foresight. Joker may have fucked up his appearance, but the kid still had his wits.

While Joker's attention was elsewhere, he took stock of the rest of his body. He seemed uninjured besides the obvious concussion, but he was wrapped in layers of duct tape on his calves and forearms, tying his wrists and ankles together.

The wrists were a no-go, he quickly decided; the tape wasn't budging. But he had a couple of fingertips that he could wiggle out the top of the tape. If he could just get to his boot…

"Aww, were you lonely while Daddy was away?" Joker cooed.

Distaste curled Jason's lip. Daddy? This freak was sick. One of his ankles shifted in the tape and instant relief lightened the oppressive weight that had settled on his chest. It was going to take some shimmying, but that was his ticket.

He paused as Joker's steps walked past him again, the loud clomp of his heels sending pain vibrating through his headache. It was accompanied by a high-pitched squeal as metal was dragged across concrete.

"Don't worry: I could never neglect my firstborn."

Jason worked the tape at his ankles, moving back and forth by mere millimeters—it was hardly efficient, but he was limited on options. If he could take advantage of this time while Tim distracted Joker…

Tim was silent but evidently not without reaction, considering the giggle Joker let out.

"Remember this? What do you say we give it a couple practice runs, for old time's sake?"

The horrible laugh that came from Tim's chest was more like a cry.

The tape was immediately forgotten. Jason let out a groan and shifted, covering the squeal of the tape shifting at his ankles and dragging the attention off Tim.

"Lookie who's waking up!" Heeled shoes danced close. Jason had to hold back a flinch. "Rise and shine, Little Birdie!"

Hard metal prodded Jason's shoulder, shaking him.

Jason cracked his eyes open. He took in the crowbar first and followed it up to Joker's white-gloved hand at the other end. The view of the clown's horrific face was terrifying enough in his peripheral. After a hesitated second to build courage, he dragged his gaze to the wide red smile and wild green eyes staring down at him.

"There he is!" Joker cheered, drops of spit flying from his lips.

Jason made his disgust known, wiping his face on his collar. "Fuck you," he spat.

The pronged end of the crowbar dug into his shoulder. Joker tisked then looked over his shoulder at Tim, commenting, "No manners in this one."

"You got me," Jason said firmly. "Let the kid go."

Joker laughed. "JJ doesn't want to leave. Isn't that right?"

Under threat of violence, of course Tim nodded in agreement.

Joker seemed to sense this. He scraped the crowbar off Jason's shoulder as he turned to step up to Tim. He snatched Tim's arm to bring it up close to his eyes. "You see this white skin?"

Tim jerked his head in a nod.

Joker snatched a fistful of Tim's hair, pulling it into view. "You see this green hair?"

Tim gasped, face scrunching in pain. "Yes."

"Who do you belong to?" Joker shook the fistful of Tim's hair, and Tim's head went with it.

"You!" Tim gasped.

Immediately Joker's grip gentled. His fingers combed soothingly through Tim's hair. "Everyone can see that you're mine."

"He doesn't belong to you, you freak!" Jason called over. Tim's shattered expression felt like a shadow curling over his heart.

Ignoring him, Joker continued, "Nobody will want you like I do, Junior. They'll see your face and persecute you, just like your old dad."

"I—I know," Tim said when Joker's cruel grin widened, waiting for a response.

Suddenly, Joker let him go and spun back around to face Jason. "I don't think you're worth the effort, Number-2, but I guess we'll find out." He tossed the crowbar into the air and caught it without looking. "What's your name?"

"Robin," Jason deadpanned. He wasn't looking forward to concealing their identities under threat of torture, but he was more stubborn than Joker and he wasn't afraid to show it.

Joker seemed to know this. He clucked his tongue. "Who's your daddy?"

"Don't have one." When Joker raised an eyebrow, Jason tilted his chin up defiantly.

"What would Daddy Bats say if he heard you saying that?"

"It's mutual: he's not my dad, and I'm not his son."

The crowbar swung up to rest on Joker's shoulder as he scratched his chin in thought. "Interesting." He pondered for a moment before chuckling and turning back to Jason with a sour grin. "And who's your mommy?"

Jason opened his mouth to repeat the same sentiment but a flash of a memory struck him. His chest seized with betrayal and rage.

That bitch. Sheila sold him out.

Jason's teeth ground together. "Go fuck yourself."

When the crowbar crashed into his torso, it bruised two ribs and forced a sharp cry out of his lungs.

Joker tisked with exaggerated disappointment. Over his shoulder, Jason saw Tim make an aborted movement towards them before pulling back. The crowbar slapped into Joker's palm while he shook his head. "Poor Birdie, tossed from the nest. Even your own mommy didn't want you."

"Whatever you said to her—"

A screeching cackle drowned him out. "Hate to break it to you, but it didn't take much convincing, Birdie. Sally was practically begging me to take you off her hands."

"I'll believe you when you get her name right," Jason shot back, punctuating it with an eye roll that he instantly regretted when his stomach rolled with it.

As Robin, he could put on the bravado as easily as the cape and domino. That didn't change that it was just Jason underneath—he could lie to Joker, but he couldn't lie to himself. And the facts were right there, slapping him in the face and asking him what he was gonna do about it. Willingly or not, Sheila had sold him out to the Joker.

And Jason could play pretend all day that maybe she just thought this was part of the plan. Civilians could be dumb. Maybe she really thought Robin could take the Joker solo. The last Robin probably could have. She probably had no idea that her son was the stupid Robin, distinct from the Golden Boy who came before… But under the cape, under the mask, the truth was as undeniable as the solid-metal crowbar Joker was taunting him with.

"No daddy…" Joker rested his chin on the curved tip of the crowbar with a pout. "No mommy…"

Jason could practically see the rusty gears turning behind Joker's eyes. He didn't bother hiding his expression the way the Bats had learned how to, baring his curiosity, joy, uncertainty, and hate clear as day for Jason to see.

His lips settled on a smirk as he returned his focus to Jason. "What happens to a birdie cast out of the nest too soon?"

"It learns to fly on its own," Tim chimed in. Standing at Joker's back, he didn't see the paradoxical mixture of anger and joy that flashed in Joker's eyes before he turned around.

"Can you fly, Clownlet?" Joker asked, resting his crowbar hand on his hip.

"No, but I'm not alone. I have you and—" Tim cut himself off, eyes widening. Harley, Jason guessed. She must have been a touchy subject, then. Tim finished, "—and that's all I need."

"Sit down," Joker demanded, and immediately, Tim sat. Joker chuckled. "Roll over."

This time, Tim hesitated, cheeks flushing pink as he made eye contact with Jason. Then his eyes went back to Joker's as he laid himself onto the floor and rolled.

"Good boy!" Joker praised, petting Tim's hair. Tim didn't cringe away from his touch—he actually seemed to stretch up into it. "Speak!"

"I told my suitcase there will be no vacation this year. Now I’m dealing with emotional baggage."

Jason and Tim remained dead silent as Joker cackled. Jason felt like he was going to be sick.

Turning back to him, Joker tilted his head. "Do you know any jokes, Birdie?"

"The biggest joke is standing right in front of me," Jason retorted.

Making a loud buzzer noise, Joker crossed his arms in an X. "Too predictable," he complained. "Why can't you trust acupuncturists?"

"They're all back-stabbers," Tim answered.

Joker's eye twitched. Over his shoulder, he called, "It's not your turn to play, Junior. Give Birdie a chance." He stalked around Jason in a circle, crowbar clinking on the ground like a cane with each step. "Why shouldn't you tell secrets in a cornfield?"

Jason glared at him defiantly. He wasn't giving Joker the satisfaction of playing his stupid game.

Joker tisked then slammed the crowbar into Jason's shoulder.

Jason took the hit like a brick wall, biting his cheek to keep his reaction internal. He was going to have to wear long sleeves on Monday; that bruise was going to be nasty.

"There's too many ears!" Joker told him then burst into voice-cracking laughter. He turned to Tim, who quickly started laughing along.

When he turned back to Jason, who gave him the same stony face, Joker's laughter slowly died down. He clapped the crowbar in the palm of his hand a couple of times. "What's red and goes up and down?"

Joker allowed a brief pause. The crowbar landed on Jason's hip this time, and he couldn't quite hold back his gasp. That felt like it had bruised to the bone.

"A tomato in an elevator!" Joker's grating laughter echoed off the metal walls and ceiling, making Jason's concussed brain vibrate.

"That's not even funny," Jason complained, ignoring the way his hip was throbbing.

"Not funny?!" Joker cried. "I'll show you funny—what kind of award does the world’s top dentist get?"

He only had half a second to think before the crowbar was swinging down towards his head.

"A little plaque!" Tim quickly cut in, and the crowbar paused an inch from Jason's head.

“Hey,” Joker scolded, and Tim flinched as the crowbar snapped in his direction, stopping just before it could make contact with his fragile bones. Joker seemed to reconsider and pulled some sort of metal—no, he pulled out an honest-to-Wonder Woman cattle prod from where it’d been holstered at his hip like a sword. He held the tip of it to Tim’s shoulder, the prongs digging warningly into his skin. “No cheating allowed.”

Tim rapidly nodded, eyes wide with fear.

Joker watched him, finger twitching towards the on-button and breaking into giggles when a two-syllabled cry of hysteric laughter burst out of Tim’s chest.

Jason’s breath hitched, the fury in his chest burning hotter than the throbbing pain of his bruises. It was one thing for him to be on the back-end of Joker’s crazy; he’d signed up for this shit. But Tim? He was just a civilian, another kid whose innocence and youth was stolen by a Gotham psychopath.

They may have been too late to save Tim from being victimized—but the least Jason could do was keep the Joker’s eyes off of him until Batman arrived to save their skin.

“Nobody knows what you’re talking about, you psycho,” Jason called out, his Robin instinct to protect overcoming his trial-by-fire-learned sense of self-preservation. 

He tried not to think about how far away Batman might still have been. Depending on the direction they’d been taken, it could have been another hour or two, even with the panic button routing his location directly to Batman’s gauntlet.

“Oh, Junior, you’re a riot.” Joker sighed wistfully then pulled the cattleprod away, pointing it at Jason. “You’ve got some stiff competition, Little Bird. We'll see if you’re Abel.”

“I’m sure he can do it,” Tim chimed in, and Jason would have signaled for him to keep quiet had Joker’s eyes left him.

But to Jason’s simultaneous relief and dread, Joker continued his hungry-lion circle around him.

“You’re a sad fuck, you know that?” Jason taunted. “Can’t find anybody to love you, so you gotta kidnap kids to play your sick—”

He choked off in a wheezing grunt as the crowbar came down on his knee, which, shit. It didn’t feel broken, but there was something not right—maybe a dislocation.

His teeth flashed at Joker in a mean grin. He feigned looking around the room. “Hey, where’s Harley? She finally dump your sorry a—”

This time the crowbar came down on his thigh, and the crack of his femur breaking was almost entirely drowned out by his pained yell—almost.

He sucked in a stuttering breath and held it in, recalling his training—breathe, breathe; pain management was mostly breathing—but had to force the air back out when it got caught in his lungs.

“…very disobedient,” he heard Joker tisking, shaking his head disappointedly. “I think this one might be busted, JJ.”

“He can learn,” Tim insisted. “Give him a chance.”

Jason gasped in another breath. Batman had better be quick.

Joker sat criss-cross-applesauce on the floor beside him, and Jason attempted to squirm away, further loosening the tape binding his ankles in the process. It hurt like a motherfucker as it jarred his broken leg, and he was almost grateful for the excuse to lie still when the cattle prod pointed in his direction.

"On a drowsy Hump Day in a stuffy old school, there's suddenly a great clamor."

When Joker stared at him, waiting for a response, Jason raised an eyebrow. He was still audibly out of breath as he said, "Okay?"

Undeterred, Joker continued, "All across the school, kids are having a ball! They're laughing! Why?"

"Somebody pantsed the principal," Jason guessed with visible disinterest.

Joker cackled, leaning back from the force of his amusement. He wiped away a tear as he said, "Good one, but no. Try again."

"You dosed them with Joker Venom," Jason amended.

"Ding-ding-ding!" Joker tapped the end of the cattle prod against Jason's forehead with each ding then left it there, metal prongs digging into his skin. "Where's it coming from?"

"The air vents?"

Joker hummed a negative. He shook his head then flicked the switch.

A trillion volts of electricity directly into a concussion was a decidedly-unpleasant experience. Jason's eyes rolled back into his head and he heard himself cry out as what felt like every single one of his muscles contracted. This wasn't Old MacDonald's cattle prod—it wasn't a quick jolt for herding animals: it was torture.

As he recovered from the shock, he squinted at the device and noticed the wires poking out of the sides of the handle. It was definitely DIY.

When he could hear over the rushing in his head, he picked up on Joker laughing. Over his shoulder, Tim was looking on in horror. Jason remembered with clarity the electric burn scars on Joker's other victims and had to wonder how many times Tim had been victim to this.

"Try again," Joker said cheerily.

Jason huffed, the sound coming out with an audible waver. "I'm gonna kick your ass."

With a fake pout, Joker flipped the switch again.

He braved it in stone-cold silence, save for an involuntary choke as his lungs locked up. Coppery blood filled his mouth as he bit his tongue.

"Play the game, Birdie," Joker scolded.

He only had to hold out until Batman arrived. Once B was here, it would be lights out for Joker—Batman's cruel vengeance was always at its worst when his Robins were hurt.

Jason spat a wad of blood into Joker's face. "Go fuck yourself."

He braced himself for a shock that never came. He watched Joker pull out a handkerchief and calmly wipe the blood off his face.

"Brave Birdie won't play to save himself," he said, "but what if it was somebody else on the line?"

Before Jason could do more than shout, Joker suddenly turned the cattle prod on Tim.

Tim's gasp cut off as he seized, Joker stabbing the cattle prod directly into his fucked ankle.

"You piece of shit!" Jason cried, squirming harder against his restraints, for all the good it did.

An agonized groan poured out of Tim's mouth. He fell hard onto his side. Even after the electricity had turned off, he shook like a leaf.

Jason glared at the door all the way at the other side of the warehouse. Where was Bruce? Surely the Batmobile could drive faster than this.

Joker watched Tim for another stretching moment before turning back to Jason with a wide grin. "What'll it be, Boy Wonder? Where's my special toxin coming from?"

"The cafeteria," Jason guessed. "It was mixed into the food."

"Wrong." Joker looked ecstatic about it.

A hysterical laugh shot out of Tim's throat as the cattle prod was jabbed into his lower ribs, cutting out into eerie silence when Joker turned it on.

"Wow. Everybody knew there was a massive downgrade from the first Boy Blunder, but you really are no detective, are you?" Joker cut the electricity and reached out to ruffle Jason's hair. It was only the threat to Tim that kept him from biting at those grimy gloved fingers as they came near him.

"Ask the principal," Tim choked out.

"Cheating again," Joker sighed.

A pause hung heavy with anticipation between them.

He turned around to face Tim slowly, setting the cattle prod aside. "Sit."

Tim watched him warily, wild eyes unblinking. He pushed himself to sit up, arms shaking under his weight.

"Give me your hands." Joker's voice had lost its hysterical pitch, falling to an uncharacteristic low growl.

"Some host you are, ignoring your guest," Jason bit out. When his goading went ignored, he raised his voice, desperate to get Joker's attention back on himself. "Hey! Do you hear me, asshole?"

Tim's shaky hands lifted to settle atop Joker's waiting palms. They were fucked—half of his fingers were visibly broken, and it looked like he didn't have any fingernails at all.

Jason saw red. This clown deserved everything that was coming to him, and broken leg be damned, he was going to deliver some personal vengeance the second he worked himself free.

Tim accepted what was coming before Jason fully figured it out and turned his head away right before Joker took him by the pinkies and snapped them outwards.

Crack.

Only a short cry fell from Tim's lips where a grown man would have started bawling like a baby.

Jason growled, "You're sick," but Joker didn't pay him any mind.

"Is it funny?" Joker asked Tim, massaging the broken fingers as if to ease the pain.

Tim shuddered, face pinched as his bones ground together. "Yes."

"Who am I?"

Tim answered without hesitation: "Dad."

"Is it funny?" Joker asked again.

"Yes, Dad."

Joker leaned close, whispering just loud enough for Jason to pick up: "Then why aren't you laughing?"

When Tim immediately started laughing, Joker chuckled. "Palms together," he demanded, leaning to the side to pick up the cattle prod.

"Are you even gonna finish the game?!" The tape around Jason's ankles was loosening too slowly. His arms were duct taped from his fingers to his elbows, but he was considering dislocating his thumbs just to see if it could miraculously make a difference. "There's nothing funny about sitting around."

Pulling in a shuddering breath, Tim said, "Wait."

Surprisingly, Joker paused, waiting for him to go on.

"I think this is getting out of hand."

Joker tilted his head.

"Any more of this and I'll be hand-icapped," Tim added. Despite his emotionless delivery, Joker howled.

Manic grin stretched wide, he turned to look back at Jason, seeming conflicted. His head swiveled to look between Tim and Jason before he settled on setting the cattle prod between Tim's broken pinkies.

"You look like your pops and crack jokes like your pops," he commented while the little hope that had built up drained out of Tim's eyes. "Let's hear if you can still laugh like him, too."

This time, tortured laughter cracked out of Tim's throat as he was electrocuted.

Jason squeezed his eyes shut, nauseous as he saw tears slip down Tim's cheeks. He imagined kicking Joker's balls back in, breaking his face, stomping on his larynx.

Jason was failing, and he’d already lost all control but he could feel the situation rapidly deteriorating.

It seemed to go on forever, Tim's limbs twitching even after the sparks had ended, haunting laughter bubbling from his chest like a pot overflowing despite being taken off the heat.

Joker laughed and laughed, his body rocking from the force of it. He reached out to pat Tim's shoulder but yanked his arm back with a surprised hoot as he was shocked. He turned back to Jason, switching the cattle prod on and off just to watch it spark.

"Where were we?"

"The principal," Jason said, voice breaking. He pulled in a shaky breath, envisioning layers of steel forming over him—protecting him, and making him stronger. If Tim was the stakes in this game, then Jason needed to win. "I'm talking to the principal—searching for clues."

Joker hummed with visible intrigue. "What will you ask?"

Jason took a moment to think it over. "If he saw anybody suspicious."

"Anybody suspicious? No." Thankfully, Joker seemed amused enough just watching the prongs of the cattle prod glow blue that he didn't bother turning it back on Tim.

"What about anybody new coming in?" As Joker shifted, Jason was quick to add, "Like—cleaners, or maintenance."

"Now that I think about it…" Joker tapped his chin thoughtfully, grin widening. "A gaggle of plumbers stopped by this morning."

The answer to the puzzle was obvious from there. Jason didn't need to consider alternate options before deciding, "It's in the water fountains."

With a cheer, Joker clapped his hands around the cattle prod. "Winner, winner, chicken dinner!" He leaned close to stage-whisper, "You're full of fun ideas, Birdie. Maybe we will have fun together."

An icy-cold dread pooled in his limbs. Had that been a trap? Had Jason just supplied the Joker with his next act of terrorism?

"I'm on the fence about you," Joker continued, tapping his chin thoughtfully with the butt-end of the cattle prod. He looked up at the ceiling as he thought. Then his eyes widened with sudden glee. "I guess we'll do one more for all the marks. Show me that you can laugh."

"Ha-ha," Jason deadpanned.

A groan wheezed past his gritted teeth as he was shocked.

"Laugh, Birdie, laugh!" Joker crooned.

With labored breathing, Jason forced out, "Your jokes aren't funny."

Weakly, he renewed his struggling against the tape on his ankles. His muscles felt numb and weak and then they were fully paralyzed as he was shocked again.

"Fuck you," Jason gasped, shuddering. He met Joker's wild eyes with a challenging glare. He wasn't giving Joker the satisfaction. He was stronger than this, he reminded himself as the cattle prod jabbed him again.

"Well, JJ, looks like I was right after all," Joker said after, turning back around with the cattle prod resting on the floor like a cane. "He's no you."

Tim was sitting there with a thousand-yard stare and didn't react as Joker waved a hand in front of his eyes. He must have been in shock.

When Tim didn't respond, Joker turned back to Jason with a shrug. "He's spacey sometimes."

Tied up and defenseless, Jason had no way of conveying how much hate he had in his heart for this clown. Joker must have seen it in his eyes because he guffawed.

Joker holstered the cattle prod back at his hip then looked around the floor. His eyes lit up as he found the crowbar.

The crowbar scraped loudly against the concrete as he picked it up. Jason felt the sound like an ache in his teeth.

"Why so serious, Birdie?"

Jason wanted to cover himself up as Joker's eyes roamed over his body. He could tell that he wasn't a person in this moment; he was a living body, something to poke at for a reaction. Joker wanted to push his buttons and hear him sing.

As solid metal slammed into his shoulder, Jason wearily held tight to his spirit. B was coming. He had to have been.

Evidently, Tim came back to himself because he pleaded, "Cut him a break! He's still new to this!"

Jason needed him to shut up and preferably run the hell away. His ankles rubbed together, tape withering looser with each pull.

But Tim went ignored; for better or worse, Jason had Joker's full attention now.

"A break, you say?" Joker cackled.

Jason screamed as the crowbar was jabbed into his broken femur. When he rolled onto his side to protect it, the crowbar shattered his elbow.

He felt the tape giving under the pressure. Just a little more and he'd have the leverage to rip it up the calves. If he had the use of even just one leg, he thought he could beat this clown.

"It's funny!" Joker screeched as he beat him. His horrifying cackling echoed off the walls.

When the crowbar hit Jason's skull again, his vision briefly whited out. He remained cognizant as his ribs were battered after. But he felt something breaking, something more precious than bone. Like a stone hitting a windshield, a tiny chip in the finish quickly turned into a crack spreading across the surface. It didn't take long for the whole thing to shatter.

Bruce wasn't going to make it.

The crowbar came down again. Again. He twisted to the side just in time for it to crash into the ground where his head had just been.

Jason had to save himself or he was going to die like this.

As his cognition struggled to make sense of these facts, bodily instinct kicked in.

Jason's mouth opened and broken laughter spilled out.

"Stop! Stop!" Tim cried.

The beating instantly stopped. When Jason cracked open his eyes, he saw the crowbar raised in the air, Joker having been winding up for another hit before Tim intervened, pulling on the other end.

"Please," Tim gasped, pale and wild-eyed. "He-he-he needs time to learn."

Rage built up like a storm in Joker's eyes. "You're the one who hasn't learned," he spat. He spun around, pulling the crowbar from Tim's grasp. He built up to an ear-piercing screech as he accused, "You've never been loyal! I know Batman and Robin are your best buddies!"

Tim shook his head rapidly. "No, I—never, I was just helping my new brother. Family sticks together." Expression pleading but words stuttering, Tim said, "You taught me that. Right, Daddy?"

Lightheaded and shivering, Jason fought against his freeze response to make use of Tim's distraction.

"Aww," Joker cooed. One hand reached out to cup Tim's cheek.

Then he hit Tim upside the head with the crowbar.

Chapter Text

A jolt travelled up his body as Tim's knees hit the ground. He blinked against the black spots in his vision. He couldn't pass out, not now—not when he wasn't sure if Robin would still be there when he woke up.

When he managed to pull himself together, he found that Joker was no longer between himself and Jason. Hearing Jason's sharp intake of breath, Tim followed his line of vision to where Joker was pulling a mess of wire and dynamite out of a crate.

He dropped the bomb on the floor like discarding a pair of shoes, uncaring of the volatility of the device. It bounced and landed on its side with a beep, analogue numbers beginning a countdown.

Jason squirmed on the ground, battered and tear-streaked but fighting to the bitter end. His will despite the circumstances buoyed Tim's resolve. He watched as the duct tape restraining Jason's ankles gave away and steeled himself.

"I love to gamble as much as the next guy, but even I know when to cut my losses." Joker prowled back towards them, crowbar resting on one shoulder. "What kind of Daddy would I be if I let you get away with these attitude problems?"

Tim pulled in a breath, sorting through potential lines of reasoning to deescalate the situation, but Joker cut him off with a finger pressed to his lips.

"It's time for Birdie to fly the coop. And you're going to help me." Joker's smile grew wider with each passing moment. "After all, what could be funnier than brotherly betrayal? Like Cain and Abel!"

The only things Tim had were a butterknife, a couple of scraps, and a piece of wire. He was broken and ruined, body and mind. Yet despite the dismal odds, he knew it was now or never. He met Jason's eyes with what he hoped was a reassuring stare and waited to follow his lead.

"What should I do?" Tim asked, allowing his nerves to flood his tone as he blinked pitifully at Joker.

"You teach him a lesson," Joker said with a dark chuckle. He held the crowbar out to Tim.

Tim's heart jolted in his chest and he had to clench his teeth to keep his emotions from showing on his face. Could it really be this easy?

He accepted the crowbar and walked around to Jason's side, at once standing sentinel and with Jason between himself and Joker. Jason's eyes locked on his for a long moment before he gave a barely-perceptible nod and returned his attention to Joker.

"I… I don't know how," Tim said, fingers loosening and tightening on the crowbar. His grip was weaker than expected, half of his fingers broken and his tremor worsened by adrenaline and nerves. He resisted the urge to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants.

"You hit him with it," Joker said slowly.

Normally, Tim did everything within his power to keep that frustrated strain out of Joker's voice. He had to work to keep the acted uncertainty on his face.

"Maybe we need another demonstration," Joker said. He stepped closer and held his hand out for the crowbar.

The moment he was within reach, Jason's leg shot up, foot connecting in a direct hit to the groin.

As Joker bent over in pain, Tim immediately went to bat, slamming the crowbar into the back of Joker's head with all the strength he had.

The clown remained standing.

Tim managed a second swing, but Joker's hand shot up and caught it on the third. He ripped the crowbar from Tim's weak fingers. When his head lifted up, Tim saw murderous fury in his glare and felt the air leave his lungs.

With a well-placed kick, Jason sent the crowbar flying out of Joker's hand.

When Joker automatically turned for it, Tim leapt, tackling him to the ground. He landed on Joker's back and reached desperately into his pocket, his few belongings falling out as he snatched the copper wire and looped it around Joker's neck.

He leaned back and pulled, Joker's choking gurgle bolstering him. He could almost feel the phantom weight of Batman's cape around his shoulders.

Then Joker bucked him off, flipping Tim over his head to land hard on the concrete floor. He was stunned for a moment, air forced out of his lungs and the various breaks throughout his body glitching in agony. By the time he got his bearings again, Joker was back on his feet, albeit hunched, and kicking Jason hard in his broken ribs.

Tim squirmed, crawling towards the only tools he had at his disposal.

Joker bent over to pick up the wire, holding it up to the light. Abruptly, he laughed, a coughing, stitched-together sound. Each individual laugh sounded forced, completely unlike the wild joy he felt when he tortured Tim.

Joker wasn't laughing because he found it funny; he was laughing because he was furious—a type of anger Tim was suddenly sure most had never seen before and nobody had lived to tell about.

He'd feared for his life every day since the Joker had first taken him; but now, Tim saw with startling clarity that this was it. Everything was riding on this moment in time. Joker was going to murder him, and then he would murder Jason, and who knew what would happen to Batman—to Gotham—after that.

Joker stuffed the wire into his pocket. Then he pulled out the cattle prod. "Betrayal…from my own son!" he roared. He took a step towards Tim, abandoning Jason, who was still gasping into the floor.

"No," Tim choked. "Dad, please—"

"You never thought my jokes were funny!" Joker looked him in the eyes, grin manic. "I'm going to fry that orderly brain until there's nothing left."

He stabbed the cattle prod into Tim's shoulder and shocked him.

God, Tim hated being electrocuted. His mind went back to every session of "School" Joker had put him through, strapped into the electric chair with no hope of escape. A cry gurgled out of his throat. His head flopped to the side as his limbs twitched.

His trusty butterknife was lying on the floor, practically glowing in the moonlight.

Tim had been vulnerable to this clown for months, fully at his mercy. But Tim wasn't strapped down right now.

And honestly? The electric chair had been way worse.

Only partially in control of his movements, Tim's hand scrabbled across the concrete for a few buzzing moments before he got the knife in his grip. Then he bodily threw himelf at Joker, stabbing him through the calf.

Joker's giggling spiked to a shocked cackle as the electricity conducted into him. His laughter turned manic as his muscles paralyzed before he gained enough control to drop his grip on the cattle prod.

The electricity left their bodies at the same rate, but Tim recovered from it first.

He snatched the cattle prod from the floor, stumbling to his feet, and stabbed it right between Joker's eyes.

He watched as Joker seized, limbs twitching and high-pitched laughter slowly fading to choking.

How many times had Joker put Tim in this state? Even after the laughter cut out, Tim heard echoes of it looping in his mind, a Pavlovian response to the buzz of electricity. Adrenaline sizzled in his veins. It was Joker or Robin, and Tim wasn't going to let his hero's light be extinguished.

Eventually, his vision came back into focus. The electricity cut off as the cattle prod slipped out of his fingers.

Joker was silent, blood dripping from his mouth. He didn't move as Tim stared down at him.

"Tim. Tim. Tim," Jason was chanting.

It was only through great effort that Tim managed to drag his eyes away from Joker.

Jason had rolled onto his stomach. He'd slipped the Batarang out of his boot and was uncoordinatedly slicing away at the duct tape binding his arms.

"Robin," Tim pleaded, desperation saturating his tone and revealing just how lost he felt.

He looked back at Joker, who was unresponsive on the floor. After everything he'd been through, he felt like he should have had a one-liner ready on the tip of his tongue, some witty remark to really cement his victory. But Tim was no Robin.

He was too exhausted to think anything up.

"Tim," Jason said, his voice a manufactured calm too tight to be authentic. "The bomb."

Tim jolted at the reminder. He spared him a hesitant glance before arranging his priorities. Jason could take care of himself.

The bomb was Joker's original work. Even with the timer rapidly ticking down, it should have been a piece of cake to defuse. He'd taught Tim his design methods, after all.

Tim's eyes traced each wire to its root, picking apart the mechanism behind each. He wanted to get a lay of the land before he started pulling anything out; it would've been just like Joker to add a couple extra surprises for anybody attempting to defuse the thing.

His hand trembled as he reached in, refusing to steady even as he drew slow breaths deeply into his diaphragm. He pulled a couple of wires but quickly had to yank his hand back out when his arm started spasming. He clenched his teeth together, grasping for control like holding tight to a withering thread.

He glared at his uncooperative limb and blanched at the oil that was already coating his fingertips. Phantom laughter echoed in his ears and he whipped his head around to make sure Joker was still on the floor where he'd left him.

Writing that arm off as a loss, he switched to his non-dominant hand. He tried to push the dull ache in his fingertips out of his mind, tried not to remember a scalpel stabbing under each nail. Nervous laughter clawed up his throat, heedless of his efforts to swallow it back down.

Not in front of Robin, he begged himself. Joker wasn't even conscious—there was no reason for Tim to be laughing right now. His body didn't seem to get the message.

"You got this, Timmy," Jason called to him. "Take a deep breath."

"I'm working on it," Tim called back. "Half of my fingers are broken, in case you missed that."

A surprised laugh popped out of Jason's chest. It was followed by a groan. "Well, I'm pretty sure my concussion has a concussion," Jason retorted. "Shape up."

The crashing waves inside him settled. This was real. They were both getting out of here, a little beaten but not defeated.

He uncrossed a couple of wires, pinched one while he pulled another. He reached for—

"—my god Tim, please." Tim blinked and suddenly the timer was ten seconds shorter. Jason's voice was also considerably closer and higher in pitch.

He deftly detached the final wires. "Done," he announced, and black spots grew across his field of vision as he stood. He stubbornly blinked them away and spun around. Jason had dragged himself across the floor but sagged in relief when the timer's countdown froze.

"Shit," Jason said with feeling. He lied face-down on the ground, speaking into the concrete. "You really waited 'til the last second there. As if today wasn't more tension than I'll ever need for the rest of my life."

"…Batman doesn't have a monopoly on drama," Tim said. He limped over to Jason, more sore than usual but pushing through. He wasn't sure how long Joker was going to stay down for, and he really didn't want to be here to find out. "Can you walk?"

Jason shifted but quickly stilled with a strained curse. "…Yeah," he decided eventually, "if you can take my left side."

"I can do that," Tim lied with confidence. Truthfully, it was a solid maybe, but they were short on options. "Let's get you up."

Through mutual stubbornness and persistence, they managed to stumble to the door, Jason's arm slung over Tim's shoulders and Tim's screwed-up ankle determinedly holding out under their shared weight. They left Joker lying unconscious on the floor, stumbling out the door right in time to come face-to-face with a panicked Batman.

Chapter Text

Blinking away his shock at the sudden sight of Batman in the doorway, Jason opened his mouth to speak, but his words got caught in his throat.

Bruce seemed equally speechless. His eyes flicked immediately to Tim, and Jason saw the way the muscles in his biceps and quads tensed with the instinct to lunge.

Once his brain caught up and put together that it wasn't the Joker and was actually his torture victim, Bruce's eyes went back to Jason, scanning him from head to toe.

"Robin," Bruce breathed.

Jason waited for his face to twist in anger, waited for the frustrated rant that was surely incoming: Jason was impulsive, Jason was reckless, Jason was out-of-control.

And really, what could Jason say? The situation had derailed wildly out of his control. Whatever Bruce had to say to him, he deserved it.

But it seemed like Bruce wasn't going to make the first move, so Jason shrugged. "I found Tim Drake."

Wordlessly, Bruce grabbed him and pulled him against his chest.

Jason slumped into him, clutching him back just as tight. Robin should never be separated from Batman like that.

Even as he fell bonelessly into Bruce's arms, a piece of Jason's mind was still stuck in the warehouse, watching in horror as glowing red numbers counted down.

Bruce didn't make it in time. If Tim hadn't defused it, the bomb would have detonated, and Jason would have…

He pushed himself away.

"The Joker—he's still in there. I don't know if he's…" He trailed off, not wanting to point fingers at Tim if the Joker was dead.

Bruce started to respond but went silent as Tim started giggling breathlessly. Jason saw the gears turning in Bruce's head, his emotions a swirling mixture of concern and horror and disgust before he closed himself off. He turned to Tim, lowering himelf closer to his level and shifting his shoulders forward to decrease the perceived volume of his mass.

"Hi, Tim," he said in his Victim Voice. "We've been looking for you. You're safe now."

Tim looked up at him with the saddest, wettest cow eyes. He choked and gasped as he tried to swallow down the laughter. "Okay," he eventually managed to force out.

Jason couldn't blame him for his disbelief; he didn't think that he, himself, would feel safe until he was back in Wayne Manor, wrapped in blankets and drinking tea with Alfred.

Transferring his weight from Bruce back to Tim, Jason said, "I'll get Tim to the Batmobile. You deal with all…that."

Bruce tensed, hands twitching like he wanted to pick Jason up and carry him away himself. He looked between Jason and the warehouse, fighting against the sole conclusion that he needed to deal with the Joker.

"B," Jason insisted, raising his eyebrows in Tim's direction.

"Open your tunic," Bruce insisted finally. He started digging around in his utility belt.

"Are you for real?" It was more an expression of disbelief than a true question; Jason knew he was being serious. He delivered a judgemental glare his way as he unbuttoned his outer layer.

Bruce didn't defend himself. He slid a handful of tools into the inner pockets of Jason's uniform: knockout gas, a batarang, a gas mask, among a couple of others. They were in the middle of the freaking desert. Joker was the only potential threat for miles…but Bruce's paranoia was unrivaled.

"'Kay, thanks, let's go, Tim." Jason tugged Tim in the direction of the Batmobile, leaning heavily on him and biting on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying about how bad the pain was in his legs and ribs and arm and head and—well, the list was long enough already. When they collapsed inside the Batmobile, Jason considered using the knockout gas on himself, but the promise of quick relief wasn't worth the risk of silently dying from a secret brain bleed while he was unconscious.

"Thank you," Tim whispered.

"What for? All I was good for was getting myself caught. You're the one who saved us."

"That's not true." Tim's voice was so loud and scandalized that Jason cracked an eye open to look at him. Tim was staring at him seriously. "I couldn't escape on my own. Believe me, I tried."

The haunted look in Tim's eyes was impossible to argue against. "We can call it a team effort," Jason offered.

It didn't make him feel any better about the situation, to be honest. Robin shouldn't need the help of a civilian to escape a mess of his own making. If Tim hadn't been there, he would have died, painfully. Banking his survival on luck was terrifying—when had Jason ever been lucky in his life?

In the end, all four of them made it onto the plane. Bruce pumped Joker full of enough sedatives to put Killer Croc to sleep, he assured them. There was little relief to be found. That psycho had gotten away with too much under their watch. It was antithetical to Robin's role to riot against Batman's main philosophy, but still he wished. He wished Batman would do something final to keep Gotham safe—to keep Jason safe.

Bruce had been late.

Jason didn't know how he would ever make peace with that.

"Breathe out in three, two, one—"

The air rushed out of Jason's lungs as Bruce straightened out his knee. Whatever was out of place reset with an audible pop.

"That should start feeling better soon," Bruce assured him.

"Yippee," Jason deadpanned. He adjusted the ice packs on his ribs—at least one of them was broken. The good news was that it was mainly his lower ribs, so he shouldn't have to worry about his lungs getting punctured.

Bruce turned his attention to Jason's opposite leg. The instant his hand grazed against his thigh, Jason curled up with a warding, "HNG!"

"Give me a number."

Jason sucked in deep lungfuls of air. All that did was make his ribs hurt worse, and it took all of his self-discipline to not give in to the urge for shallow breaths. The science checked out on the physiological and chemical need for deep breathing under stress, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

"Fucking—stop touching it and it'll go back down to an eight," Jason gritted out.

Bruce winced. His eyes were heavy with pity. "It looks broken, Jay," he said apologetically.

"Yeah, I probably could have told you that." Sarcasm was an essential part of the healing process, which was probably why Bruce let it bounce harmlessly off his armor. "Don't bother with the arm. It's fucked. That clown broke my damn elbow."

Bruce sighed. He rested a hand on Jason's shoulder. "Let's try a localized anesthetic. I'm worried the codeine will make you drowsy, and with the concussion…"

"Yeah. That'll be fine."

He was relieved that Bruce made the decision for him. He hated the idea of taking narcotics and had always promised himself that he would never get to that point. Not after what had happened to his mom.

But something had shifted inside him. Even now, with the Joker locked up in the Batplane's containment cell and Tim dozing on a cot, he felt overwhelmed and overpowered. Robin wasn't meant to be so weak. He couldn't have felt further from a hero.

Everything hurt. Even his will had taken the backseat. He didn't think he was in the condition to trust himself to make decisions he wouldn't regret right now.

He stared out the window of the cockpit while Bruce took a trip to the infirmary. They'd engaged the autopilot a little while back, and looking down at the mountain range they were passing over, he assumed they were crossing into Nigeria about now. He lied back, eyes falling shut and letting out a long sigh. It would be a while yet before they were back home.

He couldn't drag his eyelids back open even when Bruce returned and injected the anesthetic. "B. Make sure you check on Tim every now and then." His voice was a hardly-intelligible mumble, but he trusted Bruce to be able to parse it. "Don't let him sleep too much… He took a couple hits to the head, too."

He sighed, melting into the copilot's seat as Bruce's hand carded gently through his hair.

"I'll take care of it," Bruce assured him. "Rest for a bit."

Jason didn't need to be told twice.

The rest was fitful, but that was to be expected. Even private jets weren't all that comfortable, especially on long-haul flights when half his body was broken.

"How's Tim?" Jason asked when they were decently into the journey and he didn't think he'd be capable of dozing anymore any time soon.

He felt bad for leaving the kid alone while he chilled with Bruce in the cockpit, but he also did not want to go through the ordeal of getting up.

"Tim's fine. He's been resting. He looks really exhausted; he probably hadn't had an option to rest much when he was…a captive." When Jason opened his mouth, Bruce added, "Yes, I've been following concussion protocol. He isn't showing any signs of catastrophic injury."

"He'll be okay," Jason said.

"He has a long recovery ahead of him," Bruce said bluntly, not disagreeing.

Jason studied Bruce's face, seeing the expected signs of sympathy and compassion—but an unexpectedly-impersonal shield stiffened his features.

"He's coming home with us," Jason said, the obvious conclusion something that he hadn't realized was an uncertainty until now.

"Jay," Bruce said gently.

"He already knows our identities," Jason cut in. It was redundant to point out; Bruce had quickly figured that out and had been walking around without the cowl for the majority of the flight.

"It's not about that. Tim's been through more than we can imagine or understand. He'll need continued and specialized care if he's going to recover."

"Come on. He's not in that much worse shape than me," Jason said, exasperated. "We'll get him some crutches and finger splints and he'll be fine by Spring. He's not an invalid."

"It's not the physical injuries that I'm concerned about."

Understanding knocked at the door. Even just a glimpse through the peephole made rage spark in Jason's chest.

"I know what it looks like." His voice was low and trembled with barely-constrained rage. "But he is not a mini Joker."

"I never said—"

"He stood up to the Joker!" Jason shouted Bruce into silence. "He had so many opportunities to—to join the Joker, or at least make a break for it and save himself. But he made the choice to get us both out. B, I—" Royally fucked up. Overestimated his own capabilities. Went on a suicide mission without backup. "I wouldn't have made it out on my own."

Bruce's disappointment was drawn in every curved line of his slumped posture. When he spoke, his voice was firm but gentle, like he was speaking to a little kid. "I understand that you went through a traumatic event together, but you need to keep a hold of the big picture."

He probably deserved to be patronized to considering today's rap sheet, but that didn't make him like it any more. He sighed, frustrated. "Be for real. He's basically an orphan. Do you really think it's in his best interest to release him into the hands of the state?"

Despite the endless night outside, Tim had spent his every waking moment glued to the window, counting the stars in the sky and tracing the patterns of moonlight reflecting off the dark waters of the Atlantic. He was really hoping to see the sunrise, but since they were traveling West, he supposed it wasn't in the cards.

"B, come on," Jason said in the cockpit, "the system fails even the most well-adjusted kids. They wouldn't know how to help him."

There was a long pause as they deliberated Tim's fate. Bruce—because not long into the flight, Batman had asked him a couple of questions and Tim had quickly revealed that he knew both of their identities—eventually admitted, "You're right that Tim would do better with a family."

"And we're the ones who are best prepared for it," Jason pointed out. "We have the space, the resources, the security…"

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. In all of Tim's daydreams, his rescue ended here, with Batman driving him home and Tim shaking his hand with a heartfelt thanks before going their separate ways. In retrospect, he supposed it was unlikely to imagine that Batman would have been okay with letting a traumatized child live alone in an empty mansion.

"If we do this, you need to understand that I'm going to put Tim's best interests first," Bruce eventually said. "If we decide that Tim would do better in a facility, I'll make that hard decision."

Tim shivered, swallowing the laugh that tried to bubble up his throat. A picture came to mind of himself housed in the cell right next to Joker's—after all, what were the Arkham guards to think if Tim was brought through the door? He looked just like him. This was one of those times when even the broken clock was right: the second people saw Tim's paper-white skin and green hair, they wouldn't have the patience to determine just how deep his Jokerization went. Better to lock him away preemptively rather than take the risk. His hands covered his mouth to muffle a wheeze.

He turned back to the window, counting the stars again. They were a reminder that he was free now. The hard part was over. All he had to do was keep a handle on his situation. Once his dad woke up from his coma, Tim could go back home and hide away at the other end of the mansion and work on breaking his laughing habit in peace.

All he had to do was hold it together until then.

Chapter Text

The BatCave was massive, even more impressive than it'd been in Tim's fantasies. There was a line of glass displays for outdated Robin and Nightwing costumes. There was an entire rack of extra Batman costumes.

"Tim, can you—Tim."

He blinked and turned back to Bruce, who was looking at him with stiffening patience.

"Raise your arms," Bruce said, lifting his own in demonstration.

"Oh." Tim quickly did so, taking deep breaths when directed to and holding still for the X-ray.

The BatCave was in an actual cavern. There was a moist chill in the air and a slight draft, implying that the cave system sprawled further than the enormous space he could already see. There were also a hundred bats flittering about, chittering and swooping in their erratic flying pattern.

A hand on his elbow caused him to full-body flinch.

Bruce pulled his hand away with a murmured apology but added, "I really need you to face forward for a minute."

"Sorry."

Tim pushed his toes into the ground, focusing on holding still for the imaging. His head felt a lot clearer now that he wasn't receiving Joker's mystery injections, but he supposed it probably needed a bit more time to fully flush out of his system. His brain felt like it was being pulled in a hundred different directions, trains of thought derailing then rerailing then missing the station entirely.

"Deep breath," Bruce directed.

"Deep breath, Junior."

His arms spasmed as they automatically went to cover his throat. He flexed his toes, focusing on the chill seeping into the pads of his feet from the cold stone. He steadied himself and pulled in a deep breath.

Joker was in Arkham now, Tim reminded himself. Batman had personally delivered him there, a quick pit stop before coming back to the Cave. Tim had watched through the windows, so he had seen Joker's unconscious form be carried inside with his own eyes.

"Okay," Bruce said, and the air rushed out of Tim's chest. "That's good."

Bruce led him around the med bay, X-raying everything very thoroughly. The best were the lower-body scans, since he was able to crane his neck to look wherever he wanted without impacting the imaging. The worst was the brain scan, since there was nothing at all to look at inside the MRI machine.

Jason was at the other end of the room, hidden behind a curtain while Dr. Thomkins and Alfred treated his breaks. From what Tim had overheard, it sounded like the fracture in his femur was closed and wouldn't need much more than stability and rest to heal. The arm seemed to be another story, and he overheard harried discussion as they decided whether surgery would be necessary to correct it.

"Try placing your palms against the table," Bruce said. Even after Tim followed the direction, he didn't seem satisfied. "Can you hold them still?"

Tim knew that all the focus in the world wasn't going to make a difference, but he still tried to eliminate the tremor in his hands. "This is as steady as I can get them," he admitted.

"There's a solution," Bruce assured him. He pulled out a thick piece of fabric and looped it around the bottom of the table.

Tim saw the Velcro with his own eyes. He knew logically that this wasn't a true restraint. But still, the moment Bruce pulled the strap tight, Tim's brain whited out.

He blinked and found himself several feet back, heart racing and shivering.

"Easy," Bruce said, palms raised and watching Tim like he was a wild animal.

"Sorry." His words stumbled limping out of him. "Sorry. Maybe—Maybe we don't need X-rays of my hands."

"You're safe." Bruce lowered himself to meet Tim's eyes. "We're in the BatCave. And I would never do anything to hurt you."

"I-I-I know."

"The immobilizer attaches with Velcro. And now you know that it's very easy to get out of."

Bruce's steady and calm reasoning eased Tim's panic, gently nudging it into the peripheral. He hesitantly nodded to show that he was following along.

Bruce nodded, too. "Do you think we can try one hand at a time?"

He didn't want to and wasn't sure if he could even if he did, but it was Batman looking at him expectantly right now, and Tim couldn't bear it if he let him down.

They took it one hand at a time.

"Breathe," Bruce reminded him as he positioned the lens.

"Stop talking," Tim begged him, skin burning from the memory of bubbling green acid and phantom buzzing echoing in his ears. He'd misspoken—the meaning came out all wrong—but it worked nonetheless and Bruce stopped repeating it.

At the end, Bruce set a hand on his shoulder. "All done. You can relax for a minute."

Tim wasn't sure that he remembered how to, but he nodded his agreement anyways.

"Perfect timing." Alfred ("Please, just 'Alfred,' Young Master.") approached Tim with kind, attentive eyes. "Master Tim, I would be most pleased if you would accompany me on a tour of the Cave."

"Is Jason okay?" Tim asked, his concerned tone juxtaposing against the way he jumped excitedly to his feet.

"My dear boy, I have found that there is nothing that love and rest cannot fix."

Tim wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be an outlier. He had always been called "exceptional." It would be just like him to be the sole exception to this rule.

"As such, I must insist that you rest that ankle," Alfred added, unfolding a wheel chair and presenting it to him.

"I can walk," Tim insisted. "I've been getting by like this for months."

"Be that as it may, I cannot in good conscience approve of any further strain on that injury until cleared by Dr. Thompkins."

He could see that Alfred's mind was made up, so he hopped onto the wheel chair. He eyed the wheels dubiously, uncertain of how effective his couple of unbroken fingers would be at moving himself, but Alfred was prepared for this as well.

"Please, allow me," he offered, holding the handlebars at the top of the backrest but looking Tim in the eye as he waited for the go-ahead.

Quickly, Alfred's name launched to the top of Tim's list of favorite people.

"Okay. Thank you."

Alfred looped them around the Cave, explaining the history of each point of interest and whispering fun facts that Tim "didn't hear from him"—like the Batman suit design which had quickly been retired when a seam tore up to the crotch and the storage locker they'd had to bat-proof after one too many surprise bat-to-the-face incidents.

It was just a taste, and Tim would definitely need to find the chance to explore more on his own—especially the BatComputer, which was singing to him like a siren's call.

By the time they returned to the medbay, Bruce had printed off Tim's X-rays and was giving them a glanceover. Tim sat up and craned his neck to take a peek but only caught a glimpse before Bruce was stuffing them into a folder.

The tests continued, and thank goodness, Tim had plenty of opportunities to show off his incompetence. When Bruce measured his height and weight, Tim managed to trip stepping onto the scale then tripped again getting off. As if that wasn't humiliating enough, his clumsiness wasn't left to fly by without comment. Alfred glared at Bruce, chewing him out for making Tim walk on his obviously-broken ankle.

When Tim spoke up in defense of Bruce, commenting that he was pretty sure it wasn't the ankle's fault—his body was just prone to failure these days—nobody seemed reassured.

He promised himelf that he would get through the rest of this day without further embarrassment, but then Bruce got out a needle, and all of those hopes washed away.

He vibrated in his chair, arm stretched out across the arm rest and trying to keep the memories away while Bruce wrapped an elastic strap tight around his bicep then tapped the veins of his inner-elbow.

Tim didn't understand why he couldn't get his brain to turn off. He'd done just fine all those months with Joker and Harley, blocking out everything except for the present to relegate things like grief and loneliness and nostalgia to the far corners of his mind. But now, it felt impossible to keep himself in the BatCave, every blink bringing forth images of Joker injecting him with hallucinogenics and liquid Joker Venom and whatever that stuff was that had made his veins feel fizzy for an entire week after.

"Wait." The word forced itself out of his throat against his better judgement.

It probably would have been better for Bruce to pretend he didn't hear it, but he paused with the needle an inch from Tim's skin, looking at him expectantly.

"Why did the nurse bring a red pen to work?"

Bruce's eyebrows furrowed.

Resisting the urge to walk off into the darkness never to return, Tim finished: "In case she needed to draw blood."

Ever kind, Bruce pity-laughed and looked thoughtfully between Tim's face and the needle.

"When I was young, I used to hate when the doctor would do blood draws. Of course, sometimes they were unavoidable."

Tim nodded, unable to hold the eye contact as shame simmered in his stomach. He needed to stop being a baby over something Bruce was doing to help him.

Recapturing Tim's attention, Bruce said, "One time, I was really scared. So my dad sat beside me and held my other hand like this."

Bruce cradled Tim's injured hand in his own, careful not to jar his broken fingers.

"He told me to squeeze his hand five times, a little bit stronger each time. How many of these fingers are unbroken?"

Tim squeezed his hand between his thumb, index, and middle fingers. This hand was in decent shape, actually.

Bruce hummed. "That's good. You still have a solid grip. How tightly can you grip something like this?"

The answer was not very tight, but Bruce praised his for it nonetheless.

"By the end, I hardly even noticed the blood draw," Bruce finished.

"Maybe we should try that," Tim suggested, still nervous about the needle but feeling more brave about it.

"We just did."

Tim blinked as Bruce pulled his hand away to blot a cotton ball on his elbow then wrap it with gauze.

"Woah." Tim eyed the handful of blood samples Bruce had collected, wondering how he'd managed that one-handed. "You're good."

Dr. Leslie Thompkins—Dr. Thompkins, according to Alfred but Leslie, according to the doctor herself—was gentle yet steady as she introduced herself to Tim, visibly unshaken even as she took in his Joker-like appearance. She asked him how he was feeling and he said he wasn't sure. She asked him if Bruce had remembered to feed him, and Tim assured her that he had—he'd enjoyed the finest airline food, the best thing he'd eaten in months. Alfred promptly strode away, promising to return with a proper meal.

Bruce delivered the folder of X-rays to her, and Tim sat patiently, gauging her reactions as she analyzed each image. She squinted at a couple of them, adjusted her glasses to get a closer look at others. The one of his ankle was quickly set aside with no outward reaction, which was how Tim knew it was bad.

She multi-tasked, listening to Tim list his known injuries while she worked. He tried not to let his mind drift off to how he'd gotten those injuries. He daydreamed himself grinding the railing on the grand staircase of the Drake Estate, maybe taking a tumble halfway down. That would have been a much more fun story that what had actually happened.

Leslie paused long after he'd finished talking. "There's a healing hairline fracture on one of your vertebrae," she noted. That had absolutely not been in his recount. "Are you aware that you had a spinal injury?"

Tim's eyebrows furrowed. Suddenly, he remembered the day that Joker had played "Chiropractor" with him. He'd assumed that he'd tweaked a muscle or something when his back had been screaming in pain for weeks afterward. He winced as he remembered the moment he'd felt something pop after Joker had bent him backwards and pulled and pulled…

When he blinked, he saw that Leslie and Bruce were both staring at him in concern.

"Oh." Tim wasn't sure what else to say about it. "Yeah… I guess I do remember that happening."

Leslie looked over his hand imaging again, setting the rest of the folder aside. "Can you rate your current pain-level for me?"

"Um." Tim considered his current experience in comparison to the grand scheme of things. "A three?"

Leslie looked up from the X-rays. "Jason just described his pain as a nine. Bruce." She nodded at him, and he detached a laminated sign from the wall, handing it to her. She showed it to Tim. "The scale that I use only takes the present into consideration—not past experiences. Look this over and tell me your number."

He studied the sheet as it was handed to him. He appreciated the setup; whoever had made this had a decent eye for graphic design. After reading over the options, he opened his mouth, looked at Bruce, and said, "Five?"

Leslie set aside the X-rays. "Bruce, please leave," she said sharply. "Go check on those blood tests. I want a list of everything—from toxins to vitamins to blood cell count."

Once Bruce had left to analyze the samples by the BatComputer, Leslie leaned forward to face Tim. "I need you to be honest with me or I won't know how to treat you. Don't be brave. Tell me the truth."

Tim nodded, cowed. He looked at the chart again then admitted, "According to this, I guess it's about a seven."

Leslie kept her gaze on him for another moment before nodding and jotting his answer down on her clipboard. "Untreated pain can have side effects ranging from insomnia to impairment of brain function and heart health. Nobody will be impressed by you stubbornly trying to tough it out. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now, let's get those fingers set."

"Any history of seizures or muscle spasms?" Leslie asked as she placed her stethoscope on his chest and back.

"No seizures, but my arms spasm sometimes."

"Was anybody in your family ever diagnosed with heart disease or arrhythmia?"

Tim dutifully drew in deep breaths when directed to, wiggling his fingers in their new splints. They were awkward and clunky, but Leslie had said they shouldn't take too long to heal. "I don't think so."

"Does your heart ever suddenly beat faster or feel like it's skipped a beat?"

"Only when—when I'm scared," Tim admitted, spitting out the word like it had personally wronged him. The embarrassment of admitting to being a scaredy cat was just barely preferable to the shame of being scolded again.

Leslie set aside her stethoscope and wheeled over a device. "Have you ever heard of an EKG?"

"Electrocardiogram," Tim translated. "My parents' company makes and distributes half the devices in Gotham."

"Correct. Do you know what it does?"

Tim had never actually seen one in action before. He shrugged, using context clues to figure out: "It measures the electricity in your heart?"

Leslie nodded. "We're going to stick these electrodes on your chest, arms, and legs. The test is quick and will only take a couple of seconds. Do you have any questions?"

Tim had many questions, but the second he started thinking about electricity, his ability to think rationally left the building—or, well, the Cave. He shook his head, feeling distant as he watched things be done to his body.

He followed the electrodes from his limbs to the machine. Leslie paused at his arms, observing the scars and open wounds on his wrists from electrodes not too dissimilar to these. Tim felt himself shivering. His stomach turned when he heard phantom laughter in his ears, and he looked over his shoulder to make sure Joker hadn't somehow escaped Arkham and infiltrated the BatCave in the past couple of minutes.

"How are you feeling?" Leslie asked.

Tim blinked quickly, trying to keep his vision in the present. His brain was sabotaging him, replacing his current visual perceptions with flashes of memory. He saw that Leslie had paused, crouched beside him and holding his arm.

Tim's breath was catching in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, imagining that if he could just hold the breath in his chest, he could hold himself together just the same. Leslie seemed nice, but she was still a doctor. If anybody could make the decision as to whether Tim was too far gone to be helped, it was her.

"Tim." Leslie's voice gentled. She placed a steady hand onto his shoulder. "You need to breathe."

He managed to force another quarter-breath into his lungs.

"Good. Now let it out."

Lungs shaking, he didn't have a choice. When he finally managed to exhale, it was in the form of loud, cackling laughter that echoed off the ceiling and caused a colony of bats to fly away.

"Good," Leslie said, as though this were anything other than Tim writing his own one-way ticket to Arkham.

"I'm—" Tim gasped in a lungful of air and choked on it as he tried to force words through: "I can control it."

He could feel Bruce looking at him from across the Cave, watching, debating whether Tim needed to be sedated or strapped down. He would not have done well in a straight jacket—he imagined his arms locked down at his sides in one and felt his panic rise tenfold.

Leslie shifted into his view. "I believe that you can," she reassured him.

"I'm—I'm not crazy," he said, like a crazy person.

"Nobody thinks you are," Leslie said, like a liar.

Tim shuddered. He leaned into the solid, reassuring weight of Leslie's hands on his shoulders and imagined them as Batman's cape instead. He closed his eyes. He'd been in the Batmobile once now, so he had plenty of real details to immerse himself in. It was more spacious than he'd thought it'd be.

Leslie was still there when he finally came back, waiting patiently for him to meet her eye. "Which part of this process is triggering you?"

It took another forced breath to hold the laughter at bay. "I…" He looked at the EKG machine again, feeling silly. Leslie waited for him. "I don't want to be shocked."

It would have been perfectly reasonable for her to laugh in his face. Instead, Leslie rolled the machine over to give him a closer look. "The electricity goes one way. It's not possible for it to shock you." She flipped it around, pointing to various parts of it. "Even if it shorted out—"

It probably wouldn't have even shocked him that hard. It wouldn't have been like Joker's electric chair—probably more comparable to a static shock.

Leslie stopped talking, looking at him expectantly, and Tim realized he had no idea what she'd said.

"Okay," he said.

"Did you hear me?"

"No."

Unoffended, Leslie nodded like that was what she had suspected. "The electricity goes one way," she repeated. "It's not possible for it to shock you. If it were to short out, the current would—"

"Wait." Tim shivered, rubbing his ears as memories of laughter echoed in them. When it quieted down, he said, "Sorry. Please—please continue."

"The current would—"

The grey floor of the Cave wasn't too dissimilar to how it was in the cellar. If they were to add a couple blood stains…

"Sorry." Tim wanted to bash his head into the wall. "Can you repeat that?"

"Don't feel sorry. The current would ground itself here, if there were an electrical short."

Tim looked over the mechanics and decided it all made sense. "Okay. Let's try again."

Bruce came back as she was sticking on the last electrodes. Leslie gestured for him to hand her the reports, and she adjusted her glasses to skim them over.

Although her face showed no reaction, she visibly sighed. "Please tell me you have some of Dick's O-negative lying around." She didn't wait for Bruce to respond, confident that he did. "Pen."

Bruce handed her a bat-shaped pen from his pocket. "Jason thinks he's funny," he explained when Leslie gave him a look.

Leslie scribbled a list and pushed it and the pen back into Bruce's hands. "Bring me all of this and a bag of the O-negative." She spun back around to face Tim. "Ready?"

"No, but let's do it anyways."

After everything—after the EKG—after Alfred had returned with the best stew Tim had ever tasted—after all the transfusions and antitoxins and immunizations—Leslie sat him down to enumerate the many ways his body was failing.

Joker Venom…traces of Fear Toxin…fibrosis of the liver…hypersplenia…

"I don't want you to worry about this part," Leslie told him. "Bruce will keep an eye on it and make sure everything's clearing out the way it should."

Bruce nodded affirmatively, making notes on his BatTablet.

"And Alfred will take care of the vitamin deficiencies and malnutrition," Leslie continued.

"It would be an honor," Alfred promised.

Leslie presented some crutches, turning to Tim. "Here's your part. The good news is that the knee looks like a sprain; that should get better with time and rest. But that ankle? I won't even touch it. It'll need surgery, and you need to not injure it worse before then."

Tim honestly thought the ankle was a lost cause, but for once, he decided not to be a contrarian.

Seeming to sense his apathy—or maybe hardened from repeated incompliance from the Bats—Leslie gave him a serious look. "I expect you to use these even when you're just walking a couple of feet. And, please, nothing crazy—no gallivanting on rooftops, no jumping from the chandeliers."

"I'll make sure not to put weight on it," Tim assured her, already envisioning how he could use the crutches to achieve his goals without breaking doctor's orders.

Leslie sighed. She pinched the bridge of her nose, looking exhausted. "That's probably the best I'll get. Welcome to the Wayne family, Tim. I think you'll fit in just fine."