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Tim was having a fantastic day. If you ignore the part where he got kidnapped. As a civilian. In broad daylight. As unconscious black faded into swirling-behind-eyelids black, Tim bit back a groan. His head throbbed like someone had turned it into their personal punching bag and his limbs were stiff from being tied to the chair for who knows how long. Zip tied too, so he couldn’t even chaff it off, not without a knife, which was in his Robin gear, which he didn’t have. Like he said, a fantastic day.
The last thing he remembered was the long walk to school after missing the bus. It wasn’t the smartest decision Tim had made, especially since he decided to try a new shortcut near Crime Alley, but it wasn’t his worst either. Cracking his eyes open to the barest of slivers, Tim tried to get a sense of where he’d been kidnapped to.
Metal chair, concrete floor, bright lights, the screech of a door behind him.
“Looks like the brat’s finally awake.”
Well there goes trying to be subtle. He lifted his head, blinking through swirling vision at the newcomer.
“What are you? A Black Mask wannabe?” Tim couldn’t help the jab slip past his lips. Curse his sarcastic self-defence mechanism. Or maybe that was just him. The man was dressed in a black suit and similarly colored mask that covered everything but his eyes. Tim decided to call him Not-Mask. And in the time it took for Not-Mask to reel from the comment, Tim noted the rest of his surroundings.
The concrete continued up the walls and ceiling. His ‘cell’ was twelve feet across and double that high. There were no windows and the only opening was the door Not-Mask came from.
“Shut up, Timothy Drake-Wayne,” the man sneered.
Tim fought the urge to roll his eyes. Five seconds and that was the best he could come up with? Bruce adopted him quite some time ago, so the name drop didn’t hit as hard as it did the first time Tim was held ransom because of his new parentage. “Indeed, ‘tis I.”
Not-Mask’s smile faltered, clearly expecting a more emotional billionaire-child hostage rather than an alter-ego Robin one, not that the man would know that. “Look,” Tim continued. “I know how this goes. You make some big ‘ol speech about how you’re gonna be the next big bad guy, you threaten my dad for ransom money to fund your ‘adventures’.” Tim mimes the air quotes despite his hands still tied behind him. “He pays and I go free. So how about we get this over with and you give me my phone call.”
Now it was Tim’s turn to hesitate. He didn’t say anything laugh-worthy and Not-Mask was laughing. That definitely wasn’t a good sign. “So-”
Tim’s head was suddenly facing the wall, his cheek stinging with the nervous understanding that Not-Mask might be on the same page as Black Mask about interrogation techniques, or any technique for that matter.
“You little shits are all the same,” Not-Mask growled. “One phone call and all your problems disappear.” He took a step closer and Tim fought the urge to lean back. “You’re right. I do need money. But why not kill two birds with one stone and also have some fun with the high-and-mighty Bruce Wayne?” The corners of his eyes crinkled in a sadistic kind of joy.
While Tim was no stranger to torture, that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. His lips pressed together in a thin line. No point in antagonizing the bad guy more than he already had.
“Aww, don’t feel like talking anymore?” Not-Mask tilted his head, a hand reaching out for the boy’s face.
This time, Tim tried to jerk away, but Not-Mask gripped his chin harshly, forcing them to face each other. A new look marked the only visible part of his face as he brushed a thumb over Tim’s lips. Red Robin bit down. Hard.
There were a lot of different ways to hurt someone. Fists, for one, could be quite effective. Robins were trained to withstand such techniques. But this? Whatever Not-Mask was planning was not something Batman could train him on, nor ever would. Tim shuddered around the finger locked between his teeth. He really wanted that phone call now.
It took another quick backhand for Tim to release the digit. A cold line dripped down his cheek and Tim caught the glint of a ring on his attacker’s hand along with a satisfyingly bloody thumb. Not-Mask quickly backed up, nursing his hand and snarled, “let’s see how much Daddy can watch before breaking,” slamming the door behind him.
Well, shit. If this was going to be a video feed, then Bruce would have to stay on camera. Tim’s thoughts flickered to the other members of the batfamily, but quickly dismissed them. Dick was in Blüdhaven, too busy to reach wherever Tim was in Gotham, if he was still even in Gotham. While Tim and Jason had moved past the whole trying-to-kill-Robin thing, their relationship still felt like a frayed piece of rope, and Tim didn’t feel like testing the very limited progress they’d made by asking Red Hood to save him. Tim didn’t even bother considering the Demon Brat. If anything, the kid would show up just to laugh at how stupid Tim was for getting kidnapped in the first place.
It was starting to look like his only option was to endure until Not-Mask got bored. Tim grimaced. He could take it. He was Red Robin. He was good at keeping things together. Tim tried to reassure himself, but it sounded weak even to his own ears, and it didn’t take long for Not-Mask to return.
In one hand, he held a projector of some sort. The other was pushing a rolling tray of instruments Tim knew he was going to get real comfy with real fast. The set up itself was quick, as was the rate at which Tim’s heart rate increased.
“Bruce Wayne,” Not-Mask called into the camera, pale blue light illuminating the room.
“Where’s my son?”
Not-Mask was standing directly between the camera and Tim so he couldn’t see Bruce, but he could imagine the slight pinch between his brows, the only indication he might be worried.
“You rich folk never did know how to do formalities right,” Not-Mask tutted.
Tim swore he heard the man’s lips peel back in a smile as he stepped to the side. Tim’s hands were obviously still tied, wrists raw from mindlessly trying to wiggle them out, and his fear had shoved itself into a box in the corner of his mind. If he squinted hard enough, he could just make out the faded messy letters that spelled out ‘trauma’ across all sides, but Tim didn’t. He would unpack it later. Or never based on the growing pile of dust. But that wasn’t the point. He had more pressing things to worry about, such as the five-inch blade the masked man had picked up from the tray. Tim started blinking.
“Let him go,” Bruce said flatly. “I’ll wire you whatever money you’re asking for.”
“Oh? So you’re asking me to put a price on your boy’s head?” Not-Mask tapped his chin. “Interesting.” He turned around, resting the tip of the blade on Tim’s chest, his shirt catching on the point with each breath. “I know how much money I need. But how much do you think you’re worth?”
The morse code of blinks stuttered to a halt. “What?”
Tim knew how much he was worth. His parents had often paid less than the many vases they’d excavated for him. Much less. And while Bruce hadn’t actually ever needed to pay such ransoms, as Batman and company always saved the hostage before any payment was completed, Tim could guess it’d be about the same. He certainly wasn’t worth more than anything Bruce owned. Still, it was kind of fucked up for the jerk to make the hostage decide his own ransom.
“I don’t know.” Tim shrugged. “Probably not that much,” he answered honestly. Of course, he didn’t see the way Bruce’s jaw tightened and the pinch in his forehead deepen. “A million?”
The creases in the Bat’s face hardened even more, making Tim swallow thickly. “700?” he amended quietly. He couldn’t meet Bruce’s eyes anymore.
“Tim, I-”
“Nope.” Not-Mask flicked the knife up, barely missing Tim’s face as he faced the screen again. “You don’t get a say in this,” he said gleefully. “If the boy wants 700k then I’ll just add a couple million to that, but I think we can convince him he’s worth more than that, don’t you?” Wild eyes darted between the two Waynes before he swept his arm out in a large arc.
Tim just managed to contain his cry of surprise as his shirt was cut open and blood started to bead along the knife’s trail, dripping lazily down his front and into his now-tattered civvies.
“Look at that!” Not-Mask wandered behind Tim, throwing an arm over his shoulder in mock camaraderie. “Kid’s gotta be worth a little more now, right?” He was practically giggling. And all Bruce was doing was watching.
Tim couldn’t blame him though. There wasn’t exactly anything Bruce could do at the moment. Batman wasn’t coming because Bruce was Batman and Bruce had to show face for Not-Mask’s ridiculous torture-for-the-fun-of-it. The knife made its reappearance under Tim’s throat and he tried not to breathe too hard.
“What do you want?” Bruce’s voice was clipped. Whether it was from anger or impatience, Tim couldn’t tell. He was too focused on not slicing himself in the jugular.
“Money, fame, to get out of the shadow of my boss, you know, the usual.” Tim put that last bit of information in a mental file for later. “But right now?” A hand slid down to Tim’s collarbone. “I want to see billionaire Bruce Wayne get off his high-fucking-horse and beg.” Venom spilled from his words as the hand moved lower, fingers lightly tracing blood over his chest and then stomach.
A shudder swept through the boy, bile rising in his mouth and threatening to empty his stomach of the single protein bar he ate that morning. Tim dryly thought he should be glad he hadn’t eaten more. Another shiver ran up his spine, the rest of his morse code forgotten in his brain’s attempt to compute what was happening, to analyze the situation and find a way out. Their heads were close enough for Tim to throw his back. He could break the other’s nose, but Tim’s body was stuck. The hands on his body weren’t exactly restraining him, but they might as well have been. The one on his stomach traced the fresh scars back up, pulling another shiver out of Tim’s otherwise frozen muscles, and the knife slowly raised to his face. A thin line formed from his chin to ear. Tim made no noise as the new cut tugged on the earlier one and the blood ran together. His tongue remained firmly behind teeth, ankles slick with reopened wounds.
“Don’t feel like begging? Then let’s raise the price.” The knife and hands fell away, leaving Tim a little more breathless than he should have been. He eyed Not-Mask fiddling with the tray, ever so often shooting a glance at the screen in front of them.
Bruce was tapping his finger. Tim knew he was taking too long to escape, but just as his eyes were drifting back down, his brain screamed in pattern recognition. Tim’s gaze shot back up, barely wincing at the vertigo.
One long, two short – D.
Two short – I.
One long, one short, one long, one short – C.
One long, one short, one long – K.
He bit the inside of his cheek. Bruce had to call Dick in from Blüdhaven to rescue him. It would take a half hour for Nightwing to arrive, a half hour of Bruce seeing how useless Tim was. The taste of iron filled his mouth. If he couldn’t keep it together, if Batman saw that he couldn’t withstand a basic interrogation, then Red Robin would be taken from him. Everything that made Tim who he was, everything that kept him afloat and alive after his parents’ death, and well before then, would be pulled right out from under him. And Tim didn’t think he knew who he was without the cape and domino. The rational part of him said that that was stupid and Bruce, let alone Dick or Cass, would never let that happen. But the less rational side, the side that’s slowly been taking over for the past however many minutes he’d been kidnapped, said otherwise.
A metal click brought him out of his head to stare down the barrel of Not-Mask’s latest weapon of choice. “What did he just say?” he growled, finger resting on the trigger.
He heard the double meaning as soon as he said it, but didn’t bother clarifying. It would only compromise Nightwing and Tim wasn’t going to bring someone else down with him for his own stupidity. “Dick,” Tim muttered.
“The fuck you say to me, shithead?!”
In quick succession, Tim’s cheekbone exploded in pain accompanied by a dull crack and then a searing burn in his side.
Tim squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in a sharp breath and suppressing the shout that would give Not-Mask his satisfaction. It was just a bullet wound. He would be fine, he repeated to himself like a mantra, tuning out Not-Mask’s rambling about cops and billionaires and a ransom Tim was no longer sure the man even wanted.
“Distracted Bruce?” was one of the few things Tim caught in the conversation above him before a second bullet was embedded in the same spot as the first. This time, a small groan escaped, but he quickly shut his mouth, gritting his teeth until they felt like they would crack. Tim’s pain tolerance was above average. It came with the job of vigilante, but it was nowhere near Bruce’s level, and torture still hurt like shit. The room suddenly spun and Tim dry heaved nothing into the bright red liquid spilling down his side in steady streams.
“Beg,” Not-Mask spat. “Beg for your son’s life. Or do you still think you’re above it, even as your son bleeds out?”
“Please,” the screen crackled with static and Bruce was actually pleading, the pain in his voice making Tim’s heart ache. He would be fine. There was no need to worry about him.
“Please,” Bruce repeated, a little more urgent. “He needs medical attention.”
Not-Mask waved him off, gun still in hand and very visible. “Okay, okay.” He huffed, dramatically. “One more thing though because I’m sure you’ve sent the cops running this way.”
The gun was set aside and replaced by a syringe. Tim fought to stay conscious, dread building over whatever it contained while the pool of blood on the floor continued to grow.
“I was going to give you an option,” Not-Mask teased. “But I think you might just pass out before I get an answer.” He laughed, crazy and high-pitched.
Through hazy vision and a mind-splitting headache, Tim saw Bruce mouth another plea. His knuckles were white against the desk and Tim couldn’t help the thought that, at least he had been loved for a short while. The family would be sad, but they would get over it. Tim was just there as the in-between Robin anyways. The in-between son. His hair was matted, body trembling from the blood loss or draft against his open skin or both. Not-Mask approached and a prickle ran up his arms in unease. Or he thought it was unease until the prickling felt very real and Tim was suddenly screaming at the fire running through his veins. The cuts on his face felt like they were melting off him, and a panicked glance at his distorted reflection in the projection only worsened that thought. He felt as though he had been forced to swallow acid and it was burning him from the inside out. Red dripped out of the corner of his mouth while his sides spasmed, stealing away the breath his lungs fought so hard to get.
This wasn’t fear toxin. This wasn’t anything Tim had records on. Which meant, more concerningly, he didn’t know how long its effects would last or what the antidote was.
Maybe Tim wouldn’t be as fine as he had thought.
The room swirled and Tim was fairly sure he was falling. Though it seemed to be a very far way between the chair and the ground. He vaguely wondered if this was what Jason felt like when he had died. The pain and misery and primal desire for everything to just stop because all Tim could do was writhe in agony and occasionally let out a wheeze or cry.
Then the hands started and Tim nearly blacked out. They pulled him in every direction, at his hair and clothes, prodding his face and arms and chest. His screams cracked. There were too many to be realistic, but Tim couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t anymore. He tried to lean out of their reach, but then the world spun and that made everything so much worse. His limbs were shaking. Frankly, the whole room could've been and he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. His torso felt slick. Tim couldn't hear himself anymore.
Every nerve felt like its sensitivity was dialed to a hundred and then some. The hands assaulting him, his clothes, but pieces of fabric now, it all burned. And then it was all so cold. What felt like liquid nitrogen, trailed over Tim’s thigh, over his stomach and up his chest. The torturously slow — knife, Tim’s brain helpfully provided — continued to his shoulder and buried itself in the space between bone and muscle just as slowly. Tim screamed. And then screamed some more. And then at some point between each cry, cough, and blackout, he started apologizing. Tim apologized to all his siblings and to Bruce, for forcing him to take Tim in (he still had half a brain to keep their identities a secret at least), for putting up with all his mistakes. He apologized for sticking around when nobody wanted him to but was too kind to tell him so, for figuring out who they really were, for getting in Damian’s way at being Bruce’s real son, for pretending like he could be a fraction of the man Jason was. Tim apologized for anything and everything. He was stupid. He was so stupid for thinking he had a place in this family because the others were right. All he was was a pretender and a fool. And now he was going to die as one too.
* * *
Jason was seeing green. He’d better not be too late. Otherwise Gotham might just end up looking like Crime Alley and even Batman wouldn’t be able to stop him.
20 minutes ago, the Dickhead had called him all panicked, said something about the Replacement and torture, and Jason was on his bike, 40 miles over the limit (like he cared about speeding on a good day and this was very much not a good day). Dick was on his way from Blüdhaven, but it wouldn’t be soon enough. Thus, the call to Jason, a location, and a patch-in frequency to the ransom call. Only, it was less of a ransom call and more of a cruel form of torture for Jason. While he couldn’t see anything, his hearing was clear as day, and so was everything being done to the Replace- to Tim. A gunshot, the sharp intake of breath, a second shot, Bruce pleading, and then the screaming. Jason nearly ripped the comm out of his ear.
So. Much. Screaming.
Jason had never heard Tim in so much pain before, not even when Jason himself tried to kill the kid. It was one piercing screech after another. The gasps, the cries. Jason never wanted to hear the boy like this ever again. The comm link screamed louder, more heart-wrenching than the last and Jason’s 60 over limit until he sees the warehouse. As soon as he got Tim out, Jason was going to kill the motherfucker that did this to him a thousand times over.
He missed the kickstand, his bike toppling over behind him without a single glance as Red Hood burst into the warehouse, guns in hand, green-tinted vision looking for anyone to put a bullet through. Except there was no one. Carefully, he moved further in. The building itself was eerily quiet, though he could still hear Tim in his comm, now doing a sort of babbling apology.
“Tim?” Jason’s voice shook. “Where are ya, Timmers?”
The voice in his ear was getting weaker. He was apologizing to Bruce, and Dick, and Damian. Even to Jason.
Hood kicked aside a tower of crates to reveal a hidden door. The two cronies behind it were made quick work of without a second thought. So was every other lackey he came across. The Crime Lord kept going, punching and kicking and shooting every last one. There was a strange number of them, like they had expected more intruders. Unfortunately for them, all they got was one very pissed off Red Hood.
Soon enough, the comm was projecting what he could hear on his own in the underground hallway. Hood burst through the last door at the end of the tunnel and froze.
The assailant was nowhere to be seen, but Tim was right in front of him, missing his shirt and basically sitting in his own blood. The silence of the room made Jason’s thoughts roar.
“Tim?” Jason spoke and it came out a whisper, even behind his helmet’s modulator. He couldn’t move, staring at the broken boy. “Tim, buddy? D’you hear me?”
Thankfully, Tim started muttering something to himself, and Jason let out a quick breath. Gunshot. Right. Jason’s body caught up to his brain and he was next to the boy, helmet discarded somewhere along the way. He needed to stop the bleeding, which was dripping sluggishly down Tim’s side.
“I’m right here, Timmers. It’s Jason. You’re gonna be alright.” Jason’s voice was trembling. The blood, the scars, it was bringing up bad memories of Jason’s own torture, of his murder, but he hastily pushed them aside. There would be no more broken birds. Jason would make sure of it.
His hands shook as he pressed his jacket to the wound. Good leather be damned. His baby brother was dying. Because yes, that’s what this kid was to him, as stubborn as Jason was to admit it to himself. Screw Batman and his constipated emotions. Bruce made Tim family, which unfortunately fortunately made Tim part of Jason’s family. His jacket got darker. “You’ll be alright.”
* * *
Tim wanted to close his eyes as soon as he managed to open them. The floor was covered in fluid that made him instinctually want to scold Jason for the mess that could only be his. But his tongue lay heavy in his mouth and the effort it took to even look up from blood-stained boots to a vaguely familiar domino pitched him forward.
Steady hands barely caught the boy before he gained yet another concussion. “Tim?”
Tim released a pitiful whine. He had hoped that most of the toxin would be flushed from his system by this point, instead, it sat persistent, forcing him to endure another round of mind-numbing pain. At least, his limbs were free.
His limbs were free?
With a lopsided frown, Tim focused as hard as he could. The room still wavered in languid ripples, but he could just make out a mop of black hair with a white streak in the middle and feel a pair of hands gently holding him up. Tim immediately shot backwards out of the man’s grip, the skin that touched the man’s gloves flaring into white-hot agony.
“Sto- stop.” Tim convulsed, driving himself back until he felt the freezing concrete against his skin. Where did his shirt go? “Don’t t- touch me,” he rasped.
He wrapped his arms around his bare torso and over his knees while the room shook and his muscles twitched in unhappy spasms. “I’m sorry. Please.” Tears welled up, spilling over his lashes. “I’m sorry. I- I’m-”
The man leaned forward and Tim flinched back hard, slamming the back of his head into the wall.
Once.
Twice.
Blood dripped from his hairline, warm and sticky, and down his back. The sting blurred at the edge of his consciousness, blending in with the rest of the mounting disorientation. He had to make the pain stop. He had to get away. He had to–. An animalistic scream tore from his throat and his scars seared like molten iron beneath skin. Ripped-open bullet wounds oozed fire with every heartbeat as Tim’s eyes dipped into the back of his head only to roll back down at the blood smeared across the floor and himself. Panic began clawing its way up Tim’s throat like jagged shards of glass.
Then somehow, there’s the barest of pricks in his neck and Tim’s head was pressed tightly under someone’s chin, the pain easing into a dull throb. He could hear a heartbeat, and when Tim scrunched his nose in vague recognition, the man smelled of gunpowder and old books.
And like his older brother.
For the first time that afternoon, Tim could breathe without his ribs hurting. He burrowed himself further into Jason’s chest, warmth seeping through the armor and soothing the lingering ache in his bones. One of Jason’s hands was at the back of Tim’s head, the other wrapped around his shoulders, and although it was technically more restricting than the position he was in twenty minutes ago, Tim couldn’t be more comfortable.
“You scared the shit outta me, ya know?” Jason’s voice wavered.
Tim blinked up at him. Jason was smiling, but it looked pained. Was he scared? Did Tim scare him?
Jason held still for a moment, like he was waiting for the boy to try to run or pull away, but once it was determined that he wouldn’t, Jason rested his forehead against Tim’s. The older boy was trembling so faintly Tim might’ve thought it was him had his mind been any less clear.
“I’m sorry,” Tim started.
A new voice made Tim jump. “Nothing to be sorry about, Timbers.”
The two of them looked up. Nightwing was hovering by the doorway, his hands held up apologetically. There was a soft smile on his lips, but Tim was lucid enough to still see the tension in his posture. Dick slowly approached them, his movement clearly projected under Tim’s wary gaze.
Once in arms length, he crouched, knocking shoulders with Jason, who for once didn’t throw a fist back, and then ruffled Tim’s hair. Tim let himself lean into the touch.
Dick beamed at the reaction before his expression softening into something similar to Jason’s. “We love you, Tim.” The eldest’s hand slowly carded through Tim’s hair. “You’re worth more than anything to us because you’re our family, our little brother. You can’t put a price on that. I won’t deny we haven’t been the best at showing it or telling it.” Dick tried a smile. “But we will always be there for you. So there’s nothing you have to be sorry for, okay? You’ll always have a place in his family.”
Tim hummed a quiet noise of acknowledgement. For once, he didn’t feel the need to justify Dick’s words, to take it apart and analyze each breath for a hidden truth. The words settled somewhere unfamiliar but steady, and it felt… nice. Tim slumped back into Jason’s chest, limbs twitching in the toxin’s fight against the sedative, but he was warmer now, and his brothers had come to rescue him. And for the boy that had raised himself for far too many years, that meant everything.