Chapter Text
Tim had been hit with fear gas.
He hadn’t been fast enough with the mask. He’d felt the canister rupture, the sharp chemical bite in the back of his throat, and then—too late. One breath became two. Two became a mistake he couldn’t undo.
He told himself to keep moving. Fear gas fed on panic, on spirals, and on letting your thoughts run unchecked. Tim had lectured many others through the painful process, and despite his expertise, it was always easier said than done. His brain was scattered, and trying to repair it felt like swimming through static. Tim locked his breathing down to counts and steps and routes. He recited street names, Safe exits, Contingencies. Anything to keep his mind busy, while his hands shook violently enough to throw off his grappling aim.
His vision warped first. The city stretched, edges melting, shadows pooling where they shouldn’t. Every sound arrived half a second too late, like the world was lagging behind him. His heart was pounding hard enough that it hurt, each beat echoing in his ears until it drowned out rational thought.
Okay. Antidote, his brain supplied, overly calm. Nearest safe house. Don’t stop.
Going back to his apartment crossed his mind—curling up on the bathroom floor, riding it out alone, letting it burn through his system like it had before. But he was out of antidote, and the idea of navigating stairs in this state made bile rise in his throat. His hands felt wrong. Too big. Too heavy. Like they didn’t belong to him. By the time he would make it to his apartment, he might as well be dead.
So, safehouse it was.
By the time he reached the safe house, the fear had stopped feeling sharp.
(That was worse.)
It settled in his chest, thick and suffocating, like wet cement poured straight into his lungs. Thoughts slipped out of sequence. Past and present tangled together until he couldn’t quite tell which memories belonged to now and which ones were just his brain trying to hurt him.
He punched in the code.
Access denied.
He groaned, slamming his head weakly into the door, trying the code again.
Access denied.
He almost felt like slashing it with a batarang, but he also didn't exactly trust himself to make his target.
He punched in the code for the third time. (Work, useless brain!)
The mercy of the heavens shined down upon him as the door opened.
Inside, the air smelled wrong—metal and oil and something faintly familiar that made his stomach twist. The lights were too bright. Or maybe too dim. He couldn’t tell. His skin crawled, nerves screaming that he was exposed, that something was watching him, waiting for the moment he slipped.
You’re safe, he told himself. You chose a safe place.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Tim took one step into the kitchen—
—and froze.
The first thing Tim saw was Jay’s red helmet sitting at the kitchen table.
Well shit.
---
To put things simply, Tim Drake and Jason Todd were currently number two on the informal but very real Batfamily list titled Do Not Leave These Two Alone Together Unless You Want a Medical Emergency. (Number one, naturally, was Bruce and Jason. That one had earned its spot through years of unresolved everything.)
Tim and Jason’s ranking sounded almost funny, if you ignored the fact that Jason didn’t have a no-kill rule, and Tim—despite what everyone liked to believe—could be pushed far enough to break his.
Jason pushed him often.
It wasn’t something Tim advertised. He worked very hard to be the reasonable one, the mediator, the brain. The Robin who talked instead of punched. But there was a specific, raw place Jason seemed to poke at with surgical precision, dragging up old fear and older anger until Tim’s thoughts went cold and frighteningly efficient. Jason liked to act as if Tim was harmless. Tim knew better. So did Jason, really. That mutual awareness sat between them like a live wire.
They had history. History that never quite stayed in the past.
Jason had only recently started coming around again—actually coming around, not just dropping in to antagonize Bruce or steal supplies. He lingered now. Sat on furniture— perching like he was ready to bolt— and spoke in full sentences that weren’t insults. Even tolerated Bruce’s presence with gritted teeth instead of immediate violence, which counted as progress by Bat standards.(Hell, by Bat standards, it was the equivalent of jumping into Bruce's arms and swirling off into the sunset.) Dick, somehow, had earned himself a golden star on Jason’s invisible chart of tolerable people. Tim, on the other hand, was deep in the red. Not just red—hellfire red. Jason interacted with him like he was a problem that refused to go away. Every conversation became a contest. Every look felt loaded. They couldn’t exchange a simple greeting without it turning sharp around the edges.
Jason had sworn off killing him after the Titans Tower incident. He’d said it plainly, blunt and almost resentful, like the promise itself offended him. Tim had nodded and filed it away under things to remember but never trust blindly. Jason had died once. He’d come back wrong. Tim knew better than to treat vows like guarantees.
So, they coexisted carefully, like unexploded ordnance stored too close together. Bruce enforced distance. Dick redirected. Alfred watched them both with the quiet patience of someone who had already planned three emergency responses.
And still—still—there were moments when Tim caught Jason looking at him like he was remembering something vivid and unpleasant. Moments when Tim’s chest tightened, his body bracing before his mind caught up. They didn’t mesh. Never had. Maybe never would.
Which was exactly why, standing in the safe house kitchen with fear gas crawling through his system and his thoughts starting to slip sideways, the sight of Jason’s red helmet on the table felt less like bad luck and more like a personal, deeply cruel joke.
Maybe I should leave.
The thought came sharp and instinctive, a clean exit strategy snapping into place the way it always did when things went sideways. Turn around. Out the door. Don’t engage. Distance was safety. Except it was already too late for that. He could feel it now—how heavy his limbs were getting, how the world lagged half a step behind his thoughts. The fear gas wasn’t a spike anymore; it was a slow, invasive fog, seeping into every crack he hadn’t sealed in time. There was no way he’d make it home like this. He’d collapse halfway there, disoriented and alone, and that would be worse.
Okay, he thought, clinging to the logic like a handhold. Antidote. Take the antidote, then leave.
Good plan. Right. If he could get it into his system fast enough, maybe he could still avoid Jason entirely. In and out. No confrontation. No—
Tim moved toward the storage cabinets, movements precise in his head and sluggish in reality. He yanked one open. Empty. Another. Med supplies, but not what he needed. His fingers fumbled, clumsy and numb, knocking a kit onto the counter with more force than intended.
He checked the fridge.
Then the drawer beneath the sink.
Then the fridge again. (Why was he checking the fridge? Hadn't he already checked the fridge?)
Some detached part of his brain noted the pattern with growing alarm. He knew where the antidote should be. He knew he was moving too slowly. He knew he had already checked these places.
It just didn’t feel that way.
Time stretched, elastic and wrong. Each second felt rushed and endless all at once, panic humming beneath his skin like static. His thoughts started looping, biting their own tails.
This drawer. No. That drawer. No, damnit!
Where did you put it. Where did you put it. You always put it here—
“Tim?”
Jason’s voice cut through the fog.
Tim flinched violently, stumbling back like he’d been struck. His shoulder hit the counter hard enough to rattle glass. His heart slammed against his ribs, breath shattering apart as the fear gas surged eagerly, latching onto the spike of panic like it had been waiting for it.
Breathe, he ordered himself. Slow. Controlled. In for four—
“Hey. What the hell is going on with you?”
Jason was looking at him now—confused, irritated, a wrinkle of disgust pulling at his mouth like Tim had tracked something unpleasant across the floor. That look should have grounded him. Jason annoyed was familiar. Manageable.
Instead, Tim’s vision swam.
He has a gun. I'm going to die.
The room tilted, edges bleeding together, the present slipping out of alignment. His breathing picked up despite his best efforts, chest hitching as the gas tightened its grip, thick and sticky and suffocating.
Jason took a step closer.
Tim took a huge step back.
He wasn’t seeing Jason anymore.
He was seeing him—the Jason from that night. Green eyes burning too bright, too sharp. A predator’s focus locked onto him with terrifying certainty. The air felt colder, heavier, like the tower all over again, like gravity itself had decided Tim didn’t deserve to stand.
I’m not afraid of Jason, he told himself desperately. I’m not afraid of Jason. I’m not—
The mantra collapsed when he looked down.
Blood soaked his hands. His suit was torn, ripped open in places his body remembered aching. Pain bloomed everywhere at once, phantom and vivid, his knees threatening to buckle as the memory slammed into him full force.
This shouldn’t have scared him this much. He knew this wasn’t real. He knew fear gas distorted perception, weaponized the past, turned memory into a living thing. It didn't matter.
Stupid fucking fear gas.
Tim yelped, the sound torn and humiliating, as he scrambled backward, boots skidding on tile. His heart was trying to tear its way out of his chest now, breath coming too fast, too shallow, his body forgetting how to obey him as survival instincts screamed over logic.
The kitchen felt too small.
Jason was going to kill him.
Now, Jason Todd had never liked Tim Drake.
That fact had survived death, resurrection, multiple uneasy truces, and several forced apologies ground out through clenched teeth. Jason had said he was sorry for Titans Tower—had acknowledged, in stiff, bitter words, that trying to beat the kid to death maybe hadn’t been his finest moment. That didn’t mean he liked him. It didn’t even mean he trusted him.
Tim Drake was stuck-up in a quiet, infuriating way. All sharp intelligence and moral high ground, like he’d personally audited the universe and found Jason wanting. The kid had been a replacement. A temporary fix. And yet he walked around like he belonged, like he had every right to look Jason in the eye and judge him.
Jason hated that most of all.
He avoided Bat-bases when he could. Too many ghosts. Too many expectations. Too many people who looked at him like a bomb that might or might not go off. Unfortunately, some jackasses had doxed his current address, and laying low had suddenly become non-negotiable. So here he was, squatting in a safe house, keeping his head down until he could find a new place that wasn’t compromised. He hadn’t expected company.
When he heard rummaging—drawers slamming, cabinets opening and closing too fast—his body reacted before his brain caught up. Gun cocked smoothly in his hand, he moved toward the kitchen, steps silent out of habit. He cleared the corner slow and ready, prepared for anything from an assassin to a stray junkie who’d gotten lucky.
Instead, he found Tim Drake. (Just his luck. The universe had a sense of humor.)
The kid was standing in the middle of the kitchen like a feral raccoon caught in a floodlight—wide-eyed, breathing wrong, hands shaking as he tore through the same few places over and over again. Jason paused, thrown just enough to lower the gun an inch.
“…What the hell,” he muttered.
Then Tim flinched like Jason had fired.
Jason said his name, irritation sharp on his tongue, but the reaction was immediate and bad. Tim recoiled hard, slammed into the counter, eyes unfocused, chest hitching like he couldn’t get air in. Jason took in the details fast—the way Tim’s pupils were blown wide, the sweat, the tremor running through his whole frame.
Fear gas, Jason realized grimly.
That explained the frantic movements. The panic. The way Tim’s gaze slid right past him like Jason wasn’t even there.
And then it got worse.
Tim backed away, hands coming up to claw at his hair, nails digging in hard enough to redden skin. He was gasping now, breaths sharp and shallow, words tumbling out half-formed and desperate.
“Stop—just—stop—”
Jason froze.
Because Tim wasn’t looking at him.
He was looking at something else entirely. Jason didn't want to think about what he thought it was.
Jason took a step forward on instinct, then stopped when Tim scrambled back like he’d been lunged at. Tim’s heel hit the wall. He didn’t even seem to feel it. He was shaking his head violently now, like he could dislodge whatever nightmare had sunk its teeth into him.
“Okay,” Jason said, low and careful despite himself. “Okay. That’s fear gas. You’re tripping. You gotta—”
Tim slammed the back of his head into the wall.
Once.
Twice.
“Shit,” Jason breathed.
Alright. Options.
Option A: Leave.
Jason liked this one. A lot. Fear gas wasn’t his mess. Tim Drake was a big boy. The genius Robin. He could ride it out, find the antidote, save himself like he always did. He wasn't supposed to be here, anyway. He could leave now and fly under the radar.
Option B: Stay and stand here like an idiot.
Which, annoyingly, seemed to be what his body had already chosen.
Option C: Give Tim the antidote.
Heroic. Responsible. Also damn near impossible, considering how Tim was reacting to Jason. (Note: This plan will take maximum effort, effort that COULD be focused into escaping.)
This isn't my problem.
The Replacement had always liked doing things himself. Always so capable. So sure he didn’t need anyone. Jason could respect that. He could let Tim handle this on his own too.
He turned slightly, testing the idea of walking away.
His feet didn’t move.
Tim made a broken, choking sound and slammed his shoulder into the wall this time, like he was trying to escape his own skin. His hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t seem to get them to do what he wanted. Blood was starting to bead where he’d been hitting himself.
Jason swore under his breath.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, voice rough.
This was bad. This was really bad.
And Jason, apparently, wasn’t heartless enough to leave a kid—even this one—hurting himself to pieces.
He slowly set the gun down on the counter, raised his hands where Tim could see them, and took a cautious step sideways instead of forward.
“This is not gonna be fun,” Jason muttered.
And for once, he wasn’t talking about himself.
The second Jason so much as shifted his weight toward him, Tim broke.
A sharp, terrified noise tore out of his throat—too raw to be anything but instinct—and he lashed out, boot connecting hard with Jason’s hip. It wasn’t a clean kick. It was desperate, uncoordinated, fueled by pure panic.
Jason staggered back a step with a startled curse, more offended than hurt.
“Jesus—!” His temper flared hot and immediate, reflexive and ugly. “What the fuck is wrong with you, you little shit—”
The words barely left his mouth before he knew he’d fucked up.
Tim crumpled inward like he’d been struck.
His shoulders hitched, breath stuttering into something broken and uneven. His eyes went impossibly wide, glassy and wet, and his lip started to tremble so hard it looked painful. He shook his head violently, like he could physically reject the sound of Jason’s voice.
“No—no—please—” Tim choked out, hands flying up to cover his ears. “Stop—please stop—don’t—”
Jason’s blood went cold. ( He didn't see current Tim. He saw the same 14 year old boy he had beaten to death that day—)
Tim wasn’t hearing this conversation. He wasn’t reacting to a snapped insult or a raised voice. This was fear gas digging its fingers into something old and deep and specific, dragging it to the surface and refusing to let go.
“It hurts,” Tim whispered, voice cracking apart. “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts—”
He dug his nails into his own arms, raking down skin hard enough to leave angry red lines, then deeper. Too deep. Jason saw the thin crescent marks blooming, saw blood well where Tim didn’t seem to feel it at all.
“Hey—hey, stop that,” Jason said automatically, then froze again when Tim let out a strangled sob and pressed himself harder against the wall, like he was trying to disappear into it.
Jason swallowed, throat tight.
Okay. Okay. You can’t yell. You can’t snap. You can’t be—What he fears.
He forced his hands to unclench, to stay open and visible, even as his pulse hammered. Tim was shaking now, whole body trembling, nails still biting into skin like pain was the only thing cutting through the terror in his head.
Jason took a slow step back instead of forward.
“Alright,” he said, quieter this time, rough but controlled. “Alright. I’m not coming closer.”
Tim didn’t seem to hear him. He was rocking slightly, shaking his head over and over, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps like every inhale burned.
Jason looked at the blood on Tim’s arms.
Then at Tim’s face—wrecked, terrified, young in a way Jason hated noticing.
“Fuck,” Jason muttered under his breath.
This wasn’t a fight. This wasn’t even a panic attack anymore. This was a kid drowning in his own head, and Jason—of all people—was the shape the fear had decided to wear.
And somehow, that realization hurt worse than the kick ever could.
Tim sucked in a breath that hitched halfway through and came out as a broken sound.
“I—I didn’t tell Bruce,” he blurted, voice thin and shaking. “I swear I didn’t—just—just stop, Jason, please—”
The room seemed to tilt.
Jason went very still.
That did it. That one sentence slid into place with sickening precision, locking everything together. The way Tim flinched from his voice specifically. The blood, the backing away, the look in his eyes like he was already resigned to dying.
Titans Tower.
Jason’s stomach dropped hard, like he’d missed a step on a staircase that went on forever. Guilt hit him in waves—hot and nauseating, rolling up his spine and settling heavy in his chest. He remembered that night. Remembered being angry enough to see red, remembered how small Tim had looked when he stopped fighting back.
Jesus.
Jason swallowed it down roughly. Whatever this was clawing its way up inside him, he didn’t have time for it. He could unpack his own shit later—preferably somewhere far away, with a bottle in hand and no witnesses.
Right now, Tim was falling apart.
“Okay,” Jason muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He moved slowly toward the counter, careful to keep his hands visible, then angled away from Tim entirely to open the drawer by the sink. His fingers closed around the familiar injector, cold plastic biting into his palm.
He pulled it free and grimaced.
“Of course,” he breathed. “Of course it’s a needle.”
Why was it always him? Why was it always the worst possible version of things? A fear-gassed kid reliving the one night Jason wished he could erase, and the antidote required getting close enough to touch him. Let alone touch. Jason would have to stab him.
Jason glanced back at Tim.
Tim was shaking violently now, arms wrapped around himself, nails still digging in like he was trying to anchor himself in pain. His eyes flicked up when Jason moved, panic spiking instantly.
“No—no—don’t—” Tim gasped, scrambling sideways along the wall. “I won’t—I won’t fight back, I swear—”
“Fuck,” Jason hissed.
How the hell was he supposed to do this? Tim wouldn’t let him within arm’s reach without losing his mind. And forcing it—grabbing him, pinning him—would only feed the hallucination, turn Jason into exactly what Tim thought he was seeing.
Jason ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into his voice despite his efforts to keep it low. “Alright, Replacement,” he muttered. “Guess we’re doing this the hard way.”
He clenched the injector tighter, jaw setting.
This wasn’t going to be clean. It wasn’t going to be gentle. And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be easy.
Jason moved.
Fast—because thinking about it would only make it worse.
He crossed the distance in two long strides, and Tim reacted like a cornered animal.
Tim screamed.
It was raw and tearing, the kind of sound that scraped straight down Jason’s spine. Tim kicked wildly, heel catching Jason’s thigh, then his gut. Teeth snapped at empty air and then bit, sharp and desperate, catching fabric and skin alike. Tim clawed, sobbing so hard the sound broke apart into ugly, incoherent noise.
“Goddammit—” Jason grunted, wrestling him down.
They hit the floor hard. Jason pinned Tim’s wrists with one hand and braced his weight through his legs, trying not to crush him, trying not to hurt him more than he already was. Tim bucked and twisted beneath him, thrashing like he was drowning, tears streaming down his face as he wailed and screamed and begged all at once.
“Stop—stop—please—please—!” Tim sobbed, voice cracking into something animal.
“Hold still!” Jason yelled, panic bleeding into his voice despite himself. “Just—stay the hell still!”
Tim froze.
It was instant and horrifying.
His body went rigid, eyes blown wide, breath so shallow Jason couldn’t even see his chest move. He looked small like that. Younger. Terrified in a way Jason recognized too well.
Jason’s chest clenched painfully.
“Shit,” he muttered, quieter now. “Kid—I—”
He didn’t finish the thought. He couldn’t afford to. With shaking fingers, he pressed the injector to Tim’s neck.
“I’m sorry,” Jason breathed.
And stabbed.
Tim screamed again immediately, renewed and feral, body jerking violently as the needle withdrew. He fought harder now, like pain had confirmed every nightmare the fear gas was feeding him.
“LET ME GO—!” Tim shrieked, slamming the back of his head into the floor with a sickening crack. “LET ME GO—YOU’RE GONNA KILL ME—!”
Jesus Christ.
Jason tightened his grip just enough to stop Tim from cracking his skull open. His heart was hammering so hard it hurt.
“Goddammit, Drake, stop!” he snapped, then corrected himself instantly. “Stop—stop hurting yourself, alright? Just—hold out a second.”
Tim only grew more violent, sobbing and thrashing, fists slamming uselessly against Jason’s chest.
The knife had cut against Tim's throat, a trail of blood—
Jason had almost slit his throat that night.
Of course Tim was fighting like this. Of course his brain was screaming run.
“What utter bullshit,” Jason growled under his breath. “Universe’s got a sick sense of humor.”
He could feel the seconds dragging. Too slow. Way too slow.
Jason grabbed Tim’s shoulders, firm but not shaking, forcing him to still just enough to be heard. “Hey. Hey—look at me.”
Tim screamed over him.
“Look at my eyes!” Jason demanded, desperation creeping in. “What color are they?”
“GET OFF ME—!” Tim sobbed.
“Are they green?” Jason barked. “Are my eyes green, Tim?!”
Tim faltered.
Just for a second.
He blinked, eyes glassy and unfocused. Focused. Then unfocused again. His breath hitched.
He shook his head weakly.
Relief hit Jason so hard his knees nearly buckled.
“Good,” he said quickly. “Good. Where are we, huh? Are we at Titans Tower?”
Tim’s gaze slid around the room—the cabinets, the table, the dropped gun on the counter, the ugly, ordinary kitchen tiles beneath them.
He shook his head again.
“Good,” Jason repeated, softer now. “That’s good. You’re here. You’re safe.”
Tim went very still.
Jason watched his face carefully, fear clawing at him now in a different way. “Do you remember what happened?” he asked quietly. “Tonight. With the gas.”
Tim stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Too long. Jason didn’t rush him.
Finally, Tim nodded.
And then—like someone had cut his strings—he collapsed.
All the tension drained out of him at once, body going limp, a broken sob ripping out of his chest. Jason immediately loosened his grip, shifting his weight back, hands lifting away in case Tim bolted.
Tim didn’t.
Instead, his hands fisted into the front of Jason’s jacket, fingers curling tight like it was the only solid thing left in the world. He pressed his face into Jason’s chest and sobbed hard enough to shake them both.
Jason froze.
“…Okay,” he said after a moment, voice rough but steady. “Okay. That’s fine.”
He hesitated, then carefully settled one hand between Tim’s shoulder blades, not pulling him closer, just… there. Solid. Present.
This was fine. He could handle this.
It was only Tim—hyper-competent, emotionally closed-off Tim Drake—clinging to him like a lifeline and crying his heart out.
Yeah.
Jason could handle that.
---
Tim only stopped crying after time stopped meaning anything at all.
At some point, the sobs tapered off into quiet, broken breaths. The kind that caught in his chest and refused to settle, like his body had forgotten what calm felt like. They were still slumped on the floor, backs pressed to the wall, the space between them barely there. Tim’s knees were drawn up, his forehead resting against them, shoulders still trembling with the aftershocks.
Jason didn’t know how long they stayed like that.
Long enough for his legs to go numb. Long enough for the adrenaline to burn itself out and leave behind something heavier and uglier. Long enough for Tim’s grip on his jacket to loosen—though not all the way. When Jason shifted, Tim’s fingers twitched, tightening reflexively, like he was afraid of losing his anchor.
Jason noticed.
He pretended he didn’t.
Eventually, he pushed himself to his feet, movements careful, slow enough not to startle him. Tim made a small sound at the motion, half-swallowed, like he was about to protest. His mouth opened, then snapped shut again, teeth catching his lower lip as he bit down hard. The words stayed trapped behind it.
Jason looked away before he could think too much about that.
“I’m grabbing water,” he muttered, voice rough, like he needed the excuse more than Tim did.
He crossed into the kitchen, rolling his shoulders like he could shake off the image of Tim like that—wrecked, shaking, small. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, then rifled through the med kit with more care this time. Bandages. Antiseptic wipes. Gauze. His hands moved automatically, muscle memory taking over while his mind lagged behind.
When he came back, Tim had curled in on himself.
He was sitting on the floor where Jason had left him, knees hugged tight to his chest, rocking ever so slightly. His head was bowed, hair falling into his eyes as he muttered under his breath—nonsense phrases, half-formed reassurances, fragments of grounding techniques Jason recognized just enough to know what they were.
“Okay. Okay. You’re okay. It’s over. It’s over,” Tim whispered, over and over, like saying it enough times might make it true.
Jason stopped a few feet away and just… watched.
This kid was really worse off than Jason had ever noticed.
Not just shaken. Not just rattled. This was ingrained. Layered. The kind of damage that settled deep and learned how to hide itself behind competence and intelligence and that calm, infuriatingly rational voice Tim used when everything inside him was screaming.
Jason crouched slowly and set the water bottle within arm’s reach, careful not to crowd him. He slid the bandages beside it, then sat back on his heels.
“Drink,” he said quietly.
Tim didn’t look up, but his rocking slowed a fraction.
Jason leaned back against the wall again, giving him space, eyes drifting to the faint red marks on Tim’s arms, the places where his nails had broken skin. Guilt stirred again, sharp and unwelcome.
He shoved it down.
One thing at a time.
Eventually, Tim spoke.
His voice was rough, scraped raw, like it hurt just to use it—but he used it anyway.
“…Thanks,” he said quietly. He didn’t look up. “For. You know. Everything.”
Jason glanced over at him, then away again just as fast. He shrugged, broad and dismissive, like this hadn’t mattered. Like he hadn’t just wrestled a panicked kid through one of the worst nights of his life.
“Yeah. Whatever,” he muttered. “Didn’t feel like scraping you off the floor later.”
Tim huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t cracked halfway through. The silence that followed settled thick and awkward between them, not hostile exactly—just unsure. Like neither of them knew what the hell to do now that the crisis had passed and they were left with each other.
After a minute, Tim shifted.
“…Why’d you stay?” he asked.
Jason scoffed, short and sharp, like the question itself annoyed him. “What, you think I’d just walk out?”
He shot Tim a look. “I might be a crime lord, Replacement, but I’m not heartless.”
Tim blinked at him.
That… hadn’t been the answer he was expecting. He opened his mouth, closed it again, clearly searching for something clever or appropriately deflective to say. Nothing came. So he just nodded, small and uncertain.
Jason cleared his throat, the sound rough. “Anyway.”
He leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling like it might have something useful to contribute. “You were seeing it,” he said, tone deliberately casual. “The...Tower. Weren’t you?”
Tim stiffened instantly.
Jason watched the reaction carefully—the way Tim’s shoulders tensed, the way his hands curled into fists before he consciously forced them to relax again. He took a slow breath, schooling his expression back into something neutral.
Tim nodded once.
Then, before Jason could say another word, the dam broke in the opposite direction.
“Yeah, okay, that night sucked,” Tim said quickly, too quickly. “Obviously. I mean, objectively bad experience, would not recommend. But I’m not—” He shook his head, words tripping over each other now. “I’m not scared of you. I wasn’t then, either. Not really. It was just the fear gas amplifying stuff, that’s all. Messing with my brain chemistry. You know how it works.”
Jason raised an eyebrow.
“I’m over it,” Tim continued, voice tight with effort. “Emotionally. I processed it. Years ago. So you don’t have to—” He winced slightly, like the word tasted bad. “—feel sorry for me or anything.”
He stopped, chest rising and falling a little too fast.
Jason dragged a hand down his face slowly.
Oh. Oh.
So this was what it felt like. This maddening, infuriating urge to shake someone and tell them to stop lying to themselves. He’d spent years on the receiving end of that look from Dick—concerned, tired, painfully patient.
Now he got it.
“Kid,” Jason said finally, voice low, not unkind. “You were crying on my jacket ten minutes ago.”
Tim’s mouth snapped shut.
Jason sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I’m not saying you gotta unpack it right now. Or ever, if you don’t want to. But don’t piss on my boots and tell me it’s raining.”
Tim stared at the floor, jaw tight.
Jason leaned his head back again. Yeah. He was starting to understand Dick way better than he ever wanted to.
Tim repeated it, stubborn and sharp. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Jason’s lips twitched. God, he hated this. Hated watching the kid try to convince himself of things that weren’t true, hated the way his voice wavered despite the words. Tim hated it too—he hated having to gauge Jason’s every movement, every breath, every subtle tilt of his weight. He knew Jason had sworn not to kill him, but that didn’t mean he’d sworn not to leave him close to death. And—and—Tim’s words started tumbling out faster than he could stop them, rambling, logic twisting in on itself.
“I mean, you swore you wouldn’t kill me, but you didn’t swear you wouldn’t—oh god, you could’ve just—ugh, what if you—” His voice cracked. “You—you don’t get it—you never get it—you’re always like—”
Jason held up a hand, sighing, cutting the rant off before it could spiral completely out of control.
“Yes,” he said, voice low and rough. “I’ve never liked you. Ever. But let’s be real—right now, you’re under fear gas, completely off your guard, and we’re off radar. You already believe I could hurt you, right? You think I could have killed you by now? Well, you’re right. And I haven’t. So—” His tone softened a fraction, grudgingly, carefully. “…You’re just going to have to trust me.”
Tim froze mid-gesture. Trust? His brain did a double-take, because that wasn’t supposed to happen. Any other day, any other time, Jason would’ve said that, and Tim probably would’ve snapped back with a smartass remark, and they’d have argued for fifteen minutes over semantics, tone, and the infuriating fact that Jason always got under his skin. But right now—right now, Tim blinked at him like he’d just been asked to wear a clown costume to a funeral. Confused. Disbelieving. Slightly horrified.
Jason’s stomach tightened.
Oh no.
Tim was giving him that look—the one that usually meant, “I’m judging you and you’re the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.” Only now, somehow, it was mixed with the tiniest thread of… compliance? Of openness?
Jason felt heat rise to his ears. Heat he didn’t want, heat he was fairly sure he’d never felt when dealing with anyone else. Since when was he doing emotional crap like this with enemies? (And technically, Tim wasn’t an enemy. But the logic remains the same.) Yet here he was, flustered, shifting awkwardly, trying to get words out without sounding like a complete idiot.
Jason cleared his throat, pretending to adjust the injector case at his feet. “Uh…right. Anyway. You—just, you know…don’t die on me again. Deal?”
Tim blinked, mouth opening, closing, blinking again. Not a snarky remark, not a smartass comeback. Just a small nod.
Jason groaned softly. Yep. He was definitely embarrassed. And somehow, he had to figure out how to deal with this whole trust thing without losing the last shred of credibility he had left. Which, frankly, wasn’t much.
They never talked about that night again. Not really. Neither of them had the courage—or, honestly, the desire—to unpack it, and there wasn’t anyone else who needed to know. Not Bruce, not Dick, not Damian. Not anyone. It was a quiet understanding, an unspoken line drawn in the air between them, invisible but undeniably there.
And yet… something had shifted.
The next time they crossed paths, there was a subtle difference. Less snapping, less instant friction. Not a truce, not even civility yet—but a hesitation before escalation, a fraction of patience neither of them could quite explain. Dick’s eyebrows shot up so high they nearly left his hairline, and Damian stared like he’d just seen the sky turn purple. They noticed. Oh, they noticed.
As for Tim and Jason, well… they still had work to do. Plenty of work. There were old habits, old resentments, and old wounds that weren’t going away anytime soon. But for now, there was that one small step. That one quiet, fragile step forward that neither of them could put a name on, but both could feel.
And sometimes, that was enough.