Chapter Text
Throughout his time in The Manor, there have been multiple attempts made on Tim’s life. He’s been stabbed, shot, poisoned and even gotten his throat slitted by more people than he’d like to admit. The fact that certain offenders are still in his life, is an aspect of his personality he does not want to explore anytime soon. All to say, he’s put up with a lot of shit from both Jason and Damian.
He wants to say it’s because he’s above needing anything from anyone, including apologies, but it probably has more to do with Bruce. Tim isn't about to start more family drama just because of a couple ill-intentioned pranks. God knows this family has had its fill. At least that’s what he tells himself standing in the kitchen at eight-thirty AM staring at his coffee-grounds drenched in a mysterious white powder, with murder on his mind.
He stares for longer than what is probably socially acceptable, the grandpa-clock ticking away in the background. Jason is cruel, but not cruel enough to take away their main source of caffeine, being the night-dwelling creatures they are, especially considering that he’s an enjoyer too. And Tim is pretty sure he hasn't done anything to piss him off lately. He’s been nice to everyone all week, actually. Tears of frustration spring at the corner of his eyes. God, what has he done to deserve this hell on earth? He’s just so tired.
Last night was spent gathering intel on their next drug bust which, mind you, Jason is participating in, so there is no way he would compromise Tim like this. He has to drive to work, and yes he can get coffee from the office, but he needs something to keep him awake during the drive with only two hours of sleep under his belt. That leaves Damian, which makes sense, that cretin doesn't need a reason to make Tim's existence hell on earth.
He looks longingly at the bag of filter coffee and briefly considers brewing it anyway, but he realizes it could be flour or corn-starch so he kills that line of thought instantly. He can buy more coffee, but a new coffee machine is not worth the hassle. There’s also a real possibility that the white powder is some exotic Himalayan poison pulled from the bottom of hell. He looks around the empty kitchen, Alfred is coincidentally away on his once-in-a-year trip with some old war buddies, so the kitchen is definitely not up to the man’s standards. A cup next to the sink catches his attention, star-fire themed. He shuffles towards it, and sees black liquid inside.
Tim is not proud to admit that he drank that cold, black sludge like his life depended on it. He sniffed it first, of course, he was not stupid. It smelled right and tasted kind of like coffee and he did feel more awake after, so how bad could it be? The texture was slightly off, so it must’ve been sitting out for a while. Crisis averted, he makes his way to the garage, ready to take on the day.
Damian is sick of playing nurse in Pennyworth’s absence. Grayson has developed a mild fever and sore throat and has been hiding out in his room to avoid infecting anyone. Damian thinks he’s being dramatic.
Grayson is supposed to take point on tonight’s drug bust, but with him out of commission, they need Damian to step in, which he’s more than happy to do. What he’s not happy to deal with is Richard’s whining. Really, you'd think the formidable Nightwing would be less whiny when faced with a mere sore throat.
“I brought you tea”, Damian mumbles as he steps into his room, maneuvering through the landmines of used napkins and sweaty clothes. Pennyworth would be aghast at the mess.
“Hnnnnn- m’face hurts”, is wheezed from underneath the mounds of blankets that represents the miserable form of Richard Grayson.
“I’m sure it’d hurt less if you’d sit up so your sinuses could drain properly”, Damian says matter-of-factly while placing the steaming mug on the nightstand.
“-ur’e not nice”, he says with a nasally voice.
Damian holds back a biting retort in favor of placing the pills on his bed-side table. “Leslie prescribed you antibiotics, take one every six hours for the next four days.”
Richard pokes the top of his head out to peek at Damian, eyes glassy.
“She also said to keep you as far from Drake as possible.”
Richard sniffs miserably, “on’ worry- stayin’ right here”.
Damian snorts lightly, his attention diverted when a knock sounds from the door. Bruce leans in, eyes darting between the pair, “How’re you holding up, Chum?”
Richard clears his throat aggressively in reply, and Damian grimaces in disgust.
Bruce steps into the room, impressively unphased at the mess. He helps him sit up, places a cup of water in his hand and makes him take the medicine. He also sets up an alarm to remind him to take it at the right intervals.
“We’re taking over the drug bust, worry about getting better, okay?” Bruce says, seated on his bedside.
An inquisitive look from the ill man is enough to prompt Bruce to speak, “Jay is taking the lead, with Tim and Damian as support. I’ll be nearby if anything happens.”
Grayson closes his eyes in agreement, clearly exhausted.
They leave him to rest, closing the door quietly behind them. Bruce looks at Damian, a question clearly on his mind.
Damian raises an eyebrow, which prompts the man to speak. “Did you put something in the coffee?” Damian blinks.
He thinks back to yesterday afternoon when Grayson begged for a cup of coffee, thinking it could help his sore throat and low energy. So of course Damian made some, like the good brother he is. He doesn't drink the stuff so the ratios were off, something Richard had no qualms about making known, and he might've accidentally spilled a decent amount of flour from the overlying shelf into the bag when he put it away. He didn't think it would be that big of an issue. Bruce, of course, doesn't need to know all this.
“No.”
Bruce swallows back what he wanted to say and they both go on their day, Bruce subtly adding ground coffee to their shopping list.
Tim had a surprisingly good day at work, maybe the angels were finally smiling down on him. There were no delays, the meetings went smoothly and most importantly he finally got access to some good ass coffee. He will never regret investing in those expensive coffee machines for every floor of Wayne Inc.
He even catches an hour-long nap between work and patrol, so that’s a huge win. Bruce refilled the coffee grounds and even stocked the fridge with Zesti. He’s inclined to write off his horrible morning as a fluke, even ignoring the uncomfortable flush on his face after waking from his nap, quickly forgotten after he put on his domino mask.
Dick is apparently sick, so he’s not allowed anywhere near his wing of the manor. Something about his lack of spleen or something. Bruce all but sprayed him and every other surface in the manor down with sanitizer. Tim thinks they’re all doing too much.
He’s done gearing up, already sitting up the comms for the mission when Damian walks down into the cave. Tim takes the mature route and ignores him, he will not let him ruin the rest of his day too.
Damian gears up in silence, glancing back at Tim’s uncharacteristic silence. Tim starts his stretches and Damian observes him quietly.
Tim pretends not to notice.
After an unsettlingly long bout of staring, Tim breaks, “What?”
“I challenge you to a warm-up spar.”
Tim grits his teeth, of course the cretin will take any excuse for a fight. Though. He has been wanting to get revenge after this morning. They’re meeting up with Jason on the field and Bruce is already out on patrol, so no one is here to stop them.
“Bet.”
Damian walks up to the mat. Tim settles into an offensive stance, moves to throw a punch at Damian’s head that he dodges effectively. Damian does a somersault over to the other side of the mat. Tim switches to a defensive stance, letting Damian come to him. Damian runs over and goes low. Tim jumps over him, only for his ankle to be grabbed mid air, ending his momentum in a violent lurch. The angels are definitely not smiling down on him, after all. Because he manages to land face first just outside of the matt-bounds. He grunts on impact, disoriented but painfully aware of his face.
Damian snorts, and Tim holds himself back from throttling the kid in favor of nursing his now certainly broken nose. It's bleeding sluggishly, but not horribly misaligned. He’s spared from horrible disfigurement by attempted murder. Lucky him.
“Not a word,” he says with a nasally voice. Damian grimaces when Tim shoves gauze up his nose. He hopes the bruising won’t be too noticeable under his mask.
“Let’s go.”
Damian doesn't say anything.
They take Redbird to the location, park a ways off and head to the meetup point, everything planned to the nines. Tim made sure of that. Jason is more of a shoot and ask questions later kind of guy, but he has more experience with these types of operations than any one of the other bats could claim. He’s waiting on the roof, binoculars in hand.
“You look like death.” is the greeting Tim receives from Jason the second he lays eyes on him. He took out the gaze on their way there, bleeding mostly under control. Tim would be more offended if he didn't know the exact reason he probably looked like shit was standing next to him.
Jason raises a singular eyebrow, clearly waiting for an explanation.
“Had some shitty coffee.” What, Tim can be petty sometimes. Sue him.
Damian snaps his head towards Tim, unimpressed. “So that’s why you’ve been so petulant? Don't you have coffee at your office?”
“I fucking knew it was you!” Tim grunts.
“Fighting already, I see”, Jason sighs.
Tim wanted to throttle them both, but he just couldn't muster up more than a heavy sigh.
“Can we just get this over with?” Tim says, sliding down a nearby wall to sit on the grimy roof.
Jason eyes him dispassionately, before chancing a glance at Damian who looks as exasperated as a former assassin has the capacity to look.
“Alright-o, the shipment is set to arrive in the next hour, give or take. We attack when it’s all in the warehouse, not a moment earlier. You guys can focus on not letting anyone leave, I’ll deal with the big guy.”
Tim blinks at him sluggishly, “That was not the plan.”
“It is, now.”
“I was going to disable electricity and gas them, which is much smoother and more efficient.”
“You know what else is? The shit I took this morning.”
“I planned everything, Hood. Why do you want to change it now?” Tim tried not to mourn the hours wasted on a plan Jason didn't even want to use. Hours he could've spent sleeping. Maybe then his headache wouldn't hurt as bad.
“I want to exchange some words with the big guy, nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about.”
“Stragglers ahead”, Damian mutters looking down at the warehouse.
Jason looks down through his binoculars for a few moments. “Looks like this is a bigger operation than expected, that’s another big alley fish.”
The hour moves fast by Tim’s standards. He keeps getting lost in his head and his vision blurs in tandem, playing tricks on him. He must be more sleepy than he thought, good thing he chugged that Zesti before patrol, he just wishes he grabbed an Advil for his head and now neck-ache. Is that a thing?
Just when he’s about to nod off, a pointy foot meets his kneecap and he snorts awake. Damian, the demonic offspring, looks down at Tim in disgust. “It’s here”, he says. Tim sits up to watch the last shipment being moved into the warehouse.
Tim rises to his feet, finally time for action. “Secure the shipment,” is all Jason says before they’re moving. They each grapple to their predetermined entrances, entering through various windows and ducts.
“In position”, says Damian, Jason not far behind with his confirmation. Tim wiggles through the last stretch of his vent, neck uncooperating. Finally he makes it, “In position” he grunts between heavy breaths.
“About time.”
Tim ignores Damian in favor of surveying the scene from his vantage point, swiping a hand through his sweaty hair. Multiple crates sit in the middle of the warehouse, what must be millions-worth of Fentanyl ready to be mixed with Heroin, Cocaine and various other drugs. Greedy bastards.
The business talk is happening on the part of the warehouse furthest from Tim, leaving most of the men guarding the shipment to him. He doesn't bother focusing on what’s going on in that side of the warehouse. Jason wanted jurisdiction, he can have it.
He rests his forehead against the cold metal of the vent, grimacing at the crick in his neck but needing a moment's reprieve from the uncomfortable heat. It feels nice. It’s only Mars and it feels like he’s boiling inside his suit.
Alright, focus. All he needs to do is secure his exits and take down any goons that get in his way. Easy peasy.
He lifts his head back up to observe, careful to avoid any strain on his neck. Their intel said this operation would involve about twenty men. They accounted for inaccurate numbers but Tim counts at least thirty, which is significantly higher than expected. Unless he’s seeing double, of course. That would be hilarious.
Six entrances, three on his side of the warehouse. Somehow, Jason’s voice pierces through the ringing in his ears, “Attack at my signal.”
He moves around so he can kick down the vent and land feet first on the catwalk. He can appreciate the lack of discretion on Jason-led missions. It’s chaotic, yes, but also less to think about which feels like a mercy with how too-big-for-his-body his head feels right now.
“Now!” pierces painfully through his comm followed by a loud metallic bang. Tim kicks out his vent and jumps to land on his catwalk, momentarily blinded from the bright lights. Vertigo hits him quickly at the change in altitude, but his feet stay under him which is another win. Look at him being all positive.
He grapples down the warehouse, boots sliding off the steel beam. Mid-descent, he flicks a compact bat-puck toward the nearest exit. It clings to the metal frame with a soft magnetic snap. The moment it activates, a faint pulse runs through the door. One of the goons rushes the door and grabs at the device, quickly making an example of himself when it electrocutes him and he passes out. “Two birds with one stone,” he grins.
He brandishes his Bo-staff, a tight ache runs through his neck the instant he moves wrong. He swallows it down, head pounding with the beat of his heart, already mapping his next opponent. A man with a metal bat rushes him from the side. He pivots but his neck lags behind his body by a fraction and the metal bat grazes his ribs. Great, that’s going to bruise. He quickly hooks the man’s wrist, and drives him into a stack of pallets. Relying more on muscle memory than senses.
He maps the next door, puck at hand, when two men rush him from the front. He stabs down with his staff to pole vault over them, using his momentum to toss the puck to its rightful place, his landing less graceful than the jump. Dick would have pointers.
It connects with a click, just one more to go.
He turns his attention to the men rushing him, noting the gun-shots that sound in the background. He hopes it’s friendly fire, or not. He still doesn't know what he's supposed to feel about guns.
He hears movement to his left, but his stiff neck lights up and causes him to leave his blind spot unattended. A beginner’s mistake.
The movement registers a fraction too late, a blur enters his peripheral vision, closing distance fast.
The impact is immediate and ugly, driving his head sideways and stealing the only sense he could rely on and for a fraction of a second, the warehouse disappears.
His body follows the force a step too far, boots scraping concrete as he stumbles into the edge of a crate stack. Wood bites into his forearm hard enough to keep him upright. His neck lags behind the motion, stiff and uncooperative. The heat drags everything a half-step behind.
The pain catches up.
Heat blooms across his cheekbone, sharp enough that it makes his jaw feel misaligned.
The metallic tang of blood lingers in his mouth when he exhales, nose still uncomfortably out of commission.
Tim straightens slowly, correcting his posture in increments instead of one clean motion. He exhales slowly through his mouth and forces precision into the movement anyway.
“'kay,” he grunts under his breath, trying to gather what’s left of his dignity.
The man lunges at him, and Tim dodges only to be met with a new guy. This one’s tall, wide and has a gun. Tim changes priorities and lunges at the weapon, hoping to disarm it before it becomes a problem. He angles inside the barrel line, shoulder turning in as he drives forward with his shoulder.
Metal bites into his palm through the glove as he forces the barrel off-axis. The man reacts with brute strength, pulling back.
Tim stubbornly doesn’t let go.
He drives his shoulder into the man’s center mass, using the momentum to break the hold. The man shoves back hard, trying to regain control. Tim hits the man’s wrist and finally the gun hits concrete and slides under the crates.
For a second, neither of them move. Tim too caught up in relief to realize that he probably should move away from Mr. Tall and Wide.
The man doesn’t attack.
He grabs.
Big hands clamp onto Tim’s shoulders with violent certainty, dragging him off balance, disorientation lingering from the punch he took to the skull.
Tim moves to grab at the wrists of the man holding his shoulders. The attempt works against him, because the man takes the opportunity to grab his wrists, one at a time, in a crushing hold.
Pinned like a butterfly.
His hair is flattened to his forehead, breaths heavy and uncoordinated. Shit.
“keep him still,” someone says. Tim can only make out the gleeful blurs of the men slowly gathering around him. Someone shows up in his line of sight, holding a small plastic bag. Tim manages to make out his features this time. Ginger hair and a goatee.
His shoulders strain against the hold, muscles firing in useless patterns. Tim drops his weight, attempting to escape the hold. It does nothing but strain his shoulders into an uncomfortable angle.
Tim fights the hold, his strength waning pathetically. His flailing must eventually do something, because Mr. Tall and Wide changes his hold so Tim is crushed into his chest, both arms around his middle in a ghoulish display of a bear hug. The sheer power behind the hold steals the air from his lungs. His boots scrape concrete as he searches for leverage, vision still swimming uncomfortably.
His own arms trapped, Tim lashes out with kicks in a last, desperate attempt to break free. It doesn’t last long. Both legs are caught and controlled, stripping away his remaining leverage.
“It’s rude not to treat your guests”, ginger goatee says.
Tim spits out a glob of blood, “appreciate the hospitality, Ed”
His bruised face is grabbed in a crushing hold, the offender's face uncomfortably close.
“Ed?”
“Sheeran”, he can't help the glee slipping into his strained tone, smile coated in blood.
He hears a snort, and realizes he must've closed his eyes. A finger digs into his mouth, grabbing his bottom lip and stuffing a pill in the space between his gums.
He goes to spit, but a big hand is slapped on his mouth. The pill melts, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake.
“Let us know if the product is worth buying, aye?”, deep laughs resound from around him and he’s helpless to do anything.
He keeps his eyes closed against the hot, pulsating headache. Agonizingly, he can’t help leaning into the cold hand on his mouth.
Time slows, like he's moving through molasses. He doesn't realize how fast he’s been breathing until it slows. The aches in his body lessen and hey, maybe this isn't the worst thing in the world to be dosed with. His muscles relax and he melts fully into the hands holding him up.
“Looks like it’s good!”, laughs echo and Tim is too drowsy to care.
The last thing he hears before being pulled under is gunshots and painfully familiar yelling.
Jason makes quick work of the first men that tried to stand in his way. He bulldozes towards Sionis. Shooting to incapacitate, not kill. Batman is a headache he does not want to deal with tonight.
He throws his last puck securing all his exits, smiling to himself. Time for some fun.
Black Mask teaming up with the Falcones is an unexpected turn, but it goes to show that money can unite even the worst of rivals.
“Times must be tough, huh, Sionis?” Hood smirks underneath his mask as he stands over the crumbled forms of the goons he demolished with his entrance.
“What brings you bats to my humble establishment?” Sionis says, seemingly unbothered at the ambush.
Jason was hoping Sionis would be pissing his pants by now, that won't do.
“Oh, you know. Just the average gossip mill mentioning a huge fentanyl purchase scheduled for-” he dramatically looks down at his wrist, looking at a non-existing watch. “right now.”
“And you thought it appropriate to interrupt adult business? You kids never learn, do you. Where’s daddy bats, huh?” yells Carmine Falcone, hiding behind his men.
“I’ll show you who’s daddy” Jason grins, shooting the thigh of the goon standing in front of Falcone. Falcone stumbles back, grimacing at the man’s screams of pain.
“You’re next.” He walks leisurely towards them, stepping over the writhing form of the man he just put a hole in. “Unless you give me extremely detailed descriptions of how you got your hands on 250kgs of Fentanyl, of course.”
Sionis nods subtly towards his men, and they quickly jump to action. Jason gets swamped by them all at once. He punches the lights out of the first two, delivers a knee to the third’s stomach. He turns and knocks the heads of two idiots together, leaving them out cold on the warehouse floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a fleeting glimpse of Sionis and Falcone sprinting toward Tim’s side of the warehouse, just before a sharp kick cracks against his shin. He stumbles slightly before releasing his unfiltered wrath on the culprit, leaving another poor soul bleeding on the cold ground.
He spots Damian holding his own well enough against his opponents, so he turns to give chase. Guns blazing, he grazes Falcone with a bullet, causing him to tumble to the ground.
He walks slowly towards them, leveling his gun at Sionis, daring him to run. He pulls another handgun out, one trained on each of them.
“Talk.”
“Why do ya wanna know anyway, you want in or something?” Sionis glances down at the pained form of Falcone in silence, “That can be arranged.”
Jason tries not to let his anger at the statement show.
“Something like that.”
He glances between Sionis and Falcon, debating the repercussions of ending their bloodlines tonight.
“We can do this the easy way, or the easy way.”
They watch him waringly, Falcone gasping in pain.
He sighs dramatically, looking up at the ceiling for effect.
“You can tell me all you know, or I can get it out of you.” He crouches down, so he’s eye level with Falcone. “Torture is my thing, as you know”, he whispers. Other gun still trained on Sionis. “So it doesn't matter much to me which, I will get what I want.”
Sionis smirks defiantly, “I like you, hood. You have a future in the game, unlike these useless wannabes. There’s room for you in this operation.”
Falcone whips his head in his direction. “We did not agree on this.” He grunts, face dripping in sweat.
“You’ve proved yourself worthless to me, Falcone. Your men were useless tonight. The contract is void.”
Falcone’s eyes widen, and Jason wants to laugh at the dramatic display. How he loves when people get what they deserve.
Falcone looks back at Jason, “you want information?” He licks his lips nervously, “He’s the one you want. I was only involved for the manpower, Sionis sourced it all.”
“You-”, Sionis steps forward only to be rewarded with a bullet threateningly close to his toe.
Jason tilts his head to the side. He had assumed as much, but decides to entertain the drama. “Is that so?”
He moves to stand up, stepping over Falcone, leaving him to bleed in misery.
He crowds Sionis, daring him to move.
“Information isn't free, Hood.”
“For me, it is.”
“Come work for me, Hood. I'll make it worth your while.”
“Begging, are we?”
“Hah. I don't beg. I’m simply a business man, looking for business.”
“Business built on ruining people’s lives?”
“And?”
A resounding bang sounds from the other side of the warehouse. Tim’s side.
He looks up, but can't catch a glimpse of him, line of sight blocked by the huge crate. He does see a gaggle of men, unfortunately conscious, which does not bode well.
“Red Robin, report.” He mutters into his comm. He waits.
No reply, fuck.
Sionis glances back and smirks, “looks like we were the better men tonight.”
Jason grabs him by the scruff of his jacket, gun trained on his forehead. He grits his teeth, holding himself back from blowing his brains out.
“On it.” Sounds from his comms.
He glances up to see Damian jumping off the crate towards Tim’s location.
Alright, time to get this over with.
“Where”, he digs the gun in, “did you source it from?”
“And if I tell you?”, Sionis offers a crooked smirk.
“There’s no if.”
Yelling sounds from the men gathered behind the crate, and Jason itches to know what’s going on. He should’ve made Tim sit this one out.
He can't help glancing in their direction again, they're filing away through one of the exits. The one Tim was supposed to secure.
“Red’s down.” Damian says in between heavy breaths.
Jason already deduced that.
Sionis laughs in his face. Jason rewards him with a violent kick to the stomach, leaving him to writhe in pain.
He presses his comm, “secure the fucking entrance!”
“Trying!” Damian grunts.
Jason turns to look at Falcone, only to find a bloody trail. Great.
He runs towards his teammates, deciding that Sionis's funeral can wait a little longer.
He rounds the corner, gun in hand. He sees Tim on the ground, more still than he’s ever seen him. Splayed like he didn't even try to catch himself before he fell, fuck, is he even breathing?
The exit is wide open, making the electrocution pucks useless. He sees Damian fighting three people at once, fatigue peeking in his movements. He shoots to incapacitate two of them, leaving Damian to finish off the last one.
Jason falls to his knees, flipping Tim over on his back. His nose is definitely broken, blood smudged on his jaw. He puts his ear to Tim’s mouth, watching his chest for movement. He’s breathing shallowly.
Jason grabs his head, angling it back and opening his mouth to check for obstructions. He’suncomfortably hot to the touch. There’s no obstructions, but there's chalky residue on his gums. Shit.
“Ayo, Timbit”, He says while slapping his face lightly. “I need you to help me out here.” He rubs a knuckle to his sternum, earning no response. Double shit.
He ignores his own shakiness, putting two fingers to his comm. “We need extraction, stat. Red is down.”
He hears Damian walking over, gaze locked on Tim’s still face. “They fucking dosed him.”
He looks up, “Did you see what happened?”
Damian shuffles uncomfortably, “Not all of it, he was already unconscious when I got here.”
Jason turns to look at the crate, gaze hardening and shoulders settling. He pulls Tim into a fireman’s carry, careful to observe his breathing. Damian furrows his brows in question.
“We need to leave.”
“What about the crate?”
“Move your fucking ass.”
Jason picks up speed, running impressively fast for someone carrying a vigilante on his shoulders. Damian bites his tongue and follows Jason out of the warehouse and into cover behind a building three blocks down. “Why are you mov-"
A loud, concussive whoosh echoes followed by an explosion of warmth and light echoes behind them as the warehouse goes up in flames.
Damian watches in stunned silence as the building filled with 250kgs of Fentanyl and unnamed mob-muscle burns in a golden fire.
“Sionis is way too proud to let his work end up in the hands of Gotham PD.”
He carefully places Tim on the ground, putting him in the recovery position. “Did Tim seem off to you?”
Damian grimaces, “not more than usual.”
Jason grabs his phone, turning on the flashlight. His lips are blue. He peels the mask off, careful not to disturb his nose. When he shines the light on his pupils, they remain unchanging. small pinpoint pupils. His heart drops.
“Fuck! He’s overdosing.”
Damian freezes.
Jason swiftly grabs a box of narcan from his belt, inserting it into the sluggishly bleeding nose, praying that it will still work. He depresses the ejector and watches in terrified silence, like he’s still the kid holding his mother’s hand through overdose after overdose.
His ears are ringing, vision tunneling while waiting for a gasp or a grunt. Anything.
He doesn't even hear the car screeching to a stop behind them or Batman running out, demanding a report from his Robin.
It isn't until Tim coughs violently, that Jason is back in his body. Batman suddenly on Tim’s other side, helping him not choke on his own vomit. Tim is shivering violently, like a wet cat. Eyes wide and unseeing.
Damian hands Batman a water bottle, which he uses to wet the kid’s face. Even through combat gloves, the heat radiating off the kid was unsettling. He fights for each breath, hair stuck to his skull like he just went for a swim, but it’s all sweat.
Watching Batman move through his trauma sweep, calculating and focused, is enough to snap him out of it. He stumbles up, ashamed of the relief at having someone take over.
He turns from them, pinching his nose bridge and tilting his head up at the dark sky.
“Jay.”
“They got away.”
“I know.”
“I’ll kill them.”
Batman sighs.
He picks the kid up effortlessly, moving to place him carefully in the backseat. Damian settles in the back with him, Tim’s head in his lap.
“I’ll meet you there.”
Batman stays eyeing him, a pointed look waiting for elaboration.
Jason stubbornly does not give.
Batman sighs.
Jason watches them drive away. He pulls out his gun, cocking it.
Someone's dying tonight, and it ain't Tim.