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The first thing that registers is the pounding in Tim’s head. Report, a small Batman-like voice demands. Okay, Tim can do that. His belt and comms have been removed—no way to call for backup then—along with his staff. So far, only the sharp pain within his skull and chest are noticeable. Definitely two-to-three broken ribs, and probably a pounding to the head for good measure. A slick warmth drips down his mouth and chin—a broken nose as well. Breathing is difficult, especially since he seems to be sitting in a chair, wrapped in some restraints. Opening his eyes only confirms his suspicions. He’s sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair, wrapped in some thick ropes in a classic, non-descript, Gotham warehouse. Because of course he is.
Two henchmen walk into Tim’s line of sight.
“I’m just saying, Johnny, I think we could sell the kid for a nice little price. I bet even ol’ Penguin would pay a fair share to get even,” A man with the worst case of a butt-chin matched with the world’s ugliest haircut jerks into view. Buttchin beams at his friend like he’s just come up with the smartest plan known to Crime Alley. Tim wonders who these two work for; they clearly can’t have planned this themselves. The friend, who’s completely bald and is a much welcome respite from Buttchin’s terrible haircut, rolls his eyes.
”No way, Brandon-“ Shiny-Head confirms Tim’s suspicions by adding, “The boss would kill us if we defected.”
“Yeah, but we’d be rich.”
“Rich don’t matter if yer dead.”
Tim tunes them out almost immediately. Shiny-Head’s completely turned away from Tim, and Buttchin’s only kind of looking at him, allowing Tim to snake his mostly unharmed arm up into his sleeve. He pulls a little blade from the carefully sown hiding place Alfred had lovingly added to Tim’s Robin suit after the last time he was careless enough to get caught by some idiot cronies. He begins to saw away at the ropes near his wrist, careful to hide the action behind his back in case either of the goons turns around.
“…just think of the promotion Hood’ll give us for the bird…” Tim perks up immediately at the mention of Hood, because he is so incredibly fucked if they are talking about-
“…Red Hood also ain’t easy a’talk to. Which one o’ us gonna make the call?” Buttchin asks.
Fuck. Tim is dead. He is absolutely getting brutally murdered. He can already envision his head getting mailed to Bruce with a bow on it.
Tim feels a ghost-burning sensation on the front of his neck—directly where a thin scar sits, handiwork of the Red Hood himself. The echoes of Hood’s taunts rattle around his head, making his skin crawl. Tim’s hands grow more frantic as they slide the knife back-in-forth on the rope. Finally, he feels a layer fall, pooling at the ground by his chair. Only one more to go.
Meanwhile, Shiny-Head has picked up a shitty phone and is now holding it up to his ear.
“Who is this and how did you get this number?”
The voice is barely audible from where Tim’s sitting, but he can make it out enough for shivers to run down his spine. He almost freezes, but he mentally shakes himself. He’s so close to not having to hear that voice in person again, to having to relive that awful night.
A grin crosses Buttchin’s face—the type that one might see on a jock in an 80’s movie after calling a nerd, ‘nerd’—as he replies, “It’s Brandon Fawley. I work for you, you remember me, right, Hood?”
As if magnetic, Tim’s eyes shoot to the ceiling at how proud Buttchin sounds. Yes, working for Red Hood is such an honor. You’re so cool.
“Uh-huh…” Jason’s voice crackles through the speaker once more, holding more confusion than recognition.
Shiny-Head smiles an award-winning smile, “I have something that I think you’ll find real interesting… Real interesting, indeed.” His missing front tooth makes him somehow appear even dumber.
Tim saws the blade against the rope faster; he’s getting real sick of listening to this idiot. While Shiny-Head continues talking to Jason over the phone, Buttchin starts pacing—which shouldn’t be an issue, but it is because of course the best route to pace is circling Tim.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Tim tries to quickly slide the blade back into his sleeve, but this only results in cutting himself. He prays to whatever god exists that Buttchin is too stupid to notice, but as always, his prayers are not answered.
“Ay! Brandon, the little shit’s got a knife!” Tim feels the small blade being yanked from his grip.
Shiny-Head, who has now finished his phone call, looks over, “I tol’ya to check ‘im for weapons!”
Buttchin walks back around, once more in Tim’s line of view, and throws his hands up in the air exasperated, “You’re blaming me? You’re e’ one who forgot zip-ties!” Tim finds it funny how the once pale shiny head is now turning a shade of red.
Shiny-Head walks out of Tim’s line of sight, “Rope, zip-ties, doesn’t ma’er if th’ kid’s got a knife, ya meathead!” A beat passes before he speaks again, “Now, get o’er here and help me.”
Tim feels the rope being removed, replaced by large hands, firmly digging into his wrists as if he’s going to lash out any second—which, granted, he would—as metal cuffs replace the previous ropes. As the cuffs are locked into place, the clammy hands detach themselves from his wrists, leaving just the cold bite of metal.
“Why didn’t you dunces just use the cuffs the first time?” Tim can’t help but cut in just as Buttchin moves to a more comfortable distance from Tim’s face. Regret washes over him as Buttchin leans back in threateningly.
“Wha’ didya just call me?” Tim isn’t sure if he means this threateningly or if he literally does not know what the word means.
“Man, you have terrible breath.” Tim continues, wincing when calloused hands dig into his shoulders. He really should stop baiting the guys who are in near complete control of the situation without a way to call for backup. But making fun of low-level imbeciles is the best part of being Robin.
He hears the blow before he feels it. A sharp hit right to the jaw causes his head to twist to the right. Before he gets a chance to process, another comes from the opposite side, throwing his head to the left. The taste of blood is noticeably present in his mouth—which means the only thing there is to do is-
Buttchin wipes the bloody spit from his face. He looks as though steam is about to come from his ears.
Tim expects another punch to the face; what he does not expect, however, is to be shoved backwards. The chair tilts back—seemingly in slow machine—before landing on the hard cement with a sharp crack. Pain shoots up his arm, eliciting a cry of pain from his lips.
The men snicker in response. Tim’s chair is then shoved onto the side—for reasons he’s unaware of, but his question is quickly answered with a kick to the ribs. Better access then, he supposes.
Kick after kick lands on various targeted areas on his abdomen, each drawing an unwilling gasp of agony from his lungs. A sickening crunch sounds through the warehouse.
“What the fuck are you doing?” A low, grumbling voice echoes through the room, reverberating off of the concrete walls.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. This is bad. This is so bad. Tim’s head is about to be served on a silver platter to Wayne Manor. Hopefully Jason will pick out a good bow to put on top. Maybe some lace around the edges.
“Boss!” Buttchin perks up upon hearing his employer. It’s pathetic how badly this guy wants a nineteen year old’s approval, not that they know they’re taking orders from a teenager. “Just in time to finish the birdie off!”
“Now tell me,” The Red Hood looms towards the man, “What is my number one rule?”
Though Buttchin has good height on him—enough to make Tim jealous—, Jason easily towers over him as he stalks forward. Buttchin shrinks back, looking suddenly unsure of his decisions.
“Well- I jus’ mean-” Buttchin stutters, “I thought since it was Robin…”
“What is it?”
“Don’t hurt kids,” The goon concedes. That’s true; however, Tim has never failed to be the exception. Voicing Tim’s thoughts, Buttchin shouts out, “But he’s not a kid! He’s a bat!”
Shiny-Head speaks up, “Surely you ain’t seriously angry wit’ us, Hood-”
The man is cut off by a loud gunshot ringing through the air, followed by a scream of agony. Tim looks over at Red Hood in shock from where he’s holding a gun, still aimed at the man’s crotch—or at least what existed of it before it became a bloody mess.
“How seriously angry do I seem?” Hood says, not reacting at all to the screaming mess of a man that lays before him.
He moves to point the gun at the other—who holds up his hands in surrender, “Waitwaitwait- I was only list’ning to him! I ev’n told him not to hurt the kid. You gotta believe me, Mr. Hood, you gotta!”
There’s a moment of silence, a beat of hope for the man, before the second bang ricochets through the room, followed by more cries of pain.
“If you were so loyal to me and my rules, you wouldn’t be here, now would you?” Hood says, squatting down in front of the man, tilting his head in mock-pity. He reaches into the man’s pocket and pulls out what looks to be a key. He then stands and moves his attention towards Tim.
Panic floods Tim’s system as he walks over, slowly, as if he’s not about to aim his gun right at Tim’s forehead. Hood bends down to come more level to him—Tim cannot see his expression beneath the helmet, but he assumes it’s something of a smirk. He still remembers the feeling of strikes hard enough to knock him to the ground. Strong hands gripping his throat before being replaced by a cold blade. Being left alone on the cold floor—red alarms still blaring overhead—to die.
“How did you manage to get caught by those idiots?” Hood asks—which fair enough, Tim isn’t quite sure himself. It feels like a taunt.
Between his sore chest to his foggy head, all Tim manages in response is a weak, “J’son…”
“I’m going to assume that a concussion is to blame for that slip. I know B taught you better than that.” Jason talks so casually as he moves around Tim to unlock the cuffs that were locked far too tightly, “Yikes, your wrist is real fucked up.”
Tim isn’t sure what is happening, but he wishes that Jason would get it over with already and kill him. Uncuffing him can only mean that he’s about to be taken somewhere to be tortured further. Or maybe dumped in a lake. Pushed off a building? No, Jason is too creative for that. Maybe he’ll give him a few hits with a crowbar before blowing him to bits—to give him the proper Robin experience and all that.
He’s picked up—surprisingly gently—and slowly supported out of the warehouse. Tim knows he should be trying to fight or thrash or do anything, really, but he is in far too much pain to want to go through the effort of it, especially with the knowledge that Jason will beat him.
He is then dumped onto the back of a motorcycle seat. His ribs throb as he’s forced into an upright position. Jason makes quick work of sitting himself on the front of the bike and pulling Tim’s arms around his midsection. “Now listen here, you better hold on or I swear I’ll kill ya,” Jason mutters, which is quite funny, because isn’t he going to kill him anyway? Maybe those two idiots rubbed off on him because he cannot comprehend what Jason’s angle could possibly be.
The motorcycle revs to life with a loud grumble from the motor. The vibration of it causes a throbbing pain in Tim’s ribs. When it finally accelerates, shooting further into the city with dangerous speeds, Tim subconsciously burrows his face into the back of Jason’s jacket to evade the sharp wind.
Despite the rough start, the majority of the ride is smoother than expected—smoother than one could expect while riding to his death—with only a few swerves or bumps. Tim briefly thinks of letting go, letting himself fall from the bike to hopefully make an escape. At this speed, though, he would likely only cause more damage to his already injured body, and then he definitely would not be escaping. They eventually slow down near a dim alleyway on a more residential street near Crime Alley; not many people are wandering around despite it being in the peak of the crime hours of Gotham.
Jason drives the vehicle into the alley carefully before coming to a full stop. Perfect, Tim thinks, his death venue will be this grimy, dim alley in which there will forever be a blood stained bit of concrete in the shape of one Tim Drake.
Tim is once more pulled up by his arms—the pain in his shoulder causing him to wince—as Jason discards the bike behind a dumpster. Instead of his brains immediately being shot out, Jason pulls Tim’s good arm over his shoulder in order to help him walk towards a door. Tim complies easily, because he is really not in the mood to fight with the Red Hood after tonight. It would be pointless, anyway.
Inside, they are met with the view of windy, concrete stairs, because this is exactly what Tim wants to see. If he were still feeling witty, he might even complain or crack a joke. It takes what feels like thirty minutes—though probably closer to five—of Jason occasionally grunting and Tim attempting to hold some of his own weight until they finally reach what must be the correct floor, given that Jason stops to pull out some silver, jangly keys from his pocket.
-
Jason breathes a sigh of relief as he is met with the familiarity of his favorite safe house—yes, he has a favorite. “Sit down,” Jason commands, nodding his head towards the black leather couch. He used to have a white one that much better fit the apartment, but blood stains are such a pain to scrub out of anything white.
“I don’t understand,” the kid replies. How one doesn’t understand how to sit down is beyond Jason’s knowledge, but he chooses not to comment on it; Tim eventually does sit down either way.
“Well, what I don’t understand is how you got captured by the two dumbest dicks alive,” Jason rolls his eyes at Tim and reaches out to grab his wrist. Tim flinches back, making Jason pause, gently adding, “I just want to take a look.”
Tim blinks at him dumbly as Jason inspects his broken wrist and starts wrapping it up. His wrist is swollen terribly—looking like the wrist equivalent of cankles—and his shoulder looks to be completely out of place.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s broken?”
“No,” Tim shakes his head, “What’s the point in fixing it if you’re just gonna kill me?”
Jason freezes and slowly lets go. “Why do you think I’m gonna do that?”
“Because last I saw you that’s exactly what happened.” Tim mutters. And fuck, that’s right isn’t it? Jason spent so much time trying to patch things up with Bruce and Dick, that he hasn’t really thought to talk to the replacement since. Did he just assume that fixing it with Batman would fix things with Robin? Here he is, and this 15 year old is looking at him with such fear that it hurts. Jason takes a step back, and Tim visibly relaxes ever so slightly, which ouch.
Jason isn’t really sure what to say to that, so he instead turns to his kitchen—–whenever he or Dick came home from patrol upset, Alfred always knew just the right meal to make them feel better. Jason isn’t really sure what meal is best in this scenario, but points for trying. He wracks his brain for some of Alfred’s cooking that would be simple enough to replicate quickly with the few ingredients he has on hand.
…Pancakes. Yeah, those work. Every Sunday, Alfred would put Jason in charge of pancakes for family brunch. Alfred would do everything else of course, while Bruce was banished to the dining room and forbidden from attempting to “help”.
Jason starts measuring out the ingredients while Tim awkwardly fidgets on the couch.
“You’re not hiding any other injuries over there, are you?” He’s pretty sure he canvassed all the kid’s wounds, but with Robins you can never be too careful.
“No.” A little tension knocks itself loose from Jason’s shoulders.
“Good, I don’t want to clean any blood off my new couch.” Tim tenses and starts checking underneath himself to see whether he’d already bled on the furniture. “I was joking, chill out, Birdie.”
Tim does not chill out. The kid looks paranoid as all hell as his eyes dart around, scanning his surroundings. Whatever, he can freak out then. Jason’s given up.
With each ingredient that Jason mixes in, the silence grows heavier. Flour. Baking soda. Sugar. Milk. By the time he’s heating up a pan on the stove, he’s opening his mouth to speak again.
“I ain’t gonna kill you, Kid.” He says, his voice coming out heavier than intended. There’s no response, which Jason takes a sign to continue, “That night, when I… my head wasn’t quite right. I didn’t mean-”
Jason cuts himself off and takes a breath. What is he even supposed to say in this situation? He did technically mean to hurt Tim. He had been angry, and the pit had only fueled his rage, causing him to do unforgivable things. He flips a pancake.
“Look, it doesn’t matter. I just- I don’t want to hurt you, anymore. And I regret that I ever did.” He flips another pancake. Tim doesn’t say anything; he seems real intent to keep this conversation one-sided, so Jason has to ask, “Can you say something?”
It’s silent for a moment, and Jason wonders for a moment if Tim is still too out of it to even process what Jason has just said, but then he hears, “Okay.”
It’s quiet, and it’s not a lot, but it’s something.
Jason plates the pancakes. Two for himself, and three for Tim, because the scrawny motherfucker could use an extra. Although, Jason remembers himself looking similarly when he was the one wearing green tights.
They eat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. Tim, eating at a much slower pace than Jason, takes his third bite as Jason is already clearing his plate. Clearly Tim has never had to be the first to finish with dinner in order to get second helpings of Alfred’s cooking. Jason places his own plate in the sink before turning back to face Tim, “So, am I calling B or have you already contacted him?”
Tim’s head snaps up, causing him to almost choke on his food, before he swallows and answers, “Don’t call him. Please.”
Which, weird, because Jason remembers being Robin and immediately running to Bruce after any of the more violent encounters. Hell, he ran to him even after the most boring of patrols. As a kid, he had just been so excited to have someone to run to for comfort.
“…Okay. Can you tell me why you don’t want me to call him?” Jason says with a hesitant tone. He knows that Bruce is capable of being a bad father, but surely he’s been good enough that Tim knows he can find safety in him after failed missions.
Tim chews on his bottom lip for a moment before replying, “I’m not supposed to be out as Robin tonight,” he mutters.
Which is somewhat of an excuse, but why would it really matter? Jason remembers far too many occasions when he had committed the same crime. One in particular comes to mind: Jason had gone out as Robin when he was benched. Things were going smoothly enough until a few of Maroni’s men had snuck up on him and beat the shit out of him, demanding ‘that the bat stick his nose out of their business’, which is quite comedic looking back, because Jason hadn’t even been trying to stick his nose into their “business.”
Anyway, he had hurt his arm badly enough that he didn’t trust himself to get back to the cave without being able to defend himself if anyone else were to come along, so he had called his dad.
B had been stern of course, going on and on about the dangers of going out without someone on comms. He had gotten benched for a week after that incident, sure, but he had never once questioned his decision to call Bruce.
What had changed in the four years that Bruce was now someone to fear rather than seek out?
Instead of asking that, he simply furrowed his brow and pulled out his phone, “How about Dick?”
Tim pauses his chewing to hesitantly nod, which is good. Jason can work with that. He himself also prefers talking to Dick than Bruce.
The phone rings once. Twice.
“Yello?”
Jason has to turn down his volume; he underestimated Dick’s ability to transfer his loud, overly-peppy energy to a phone call. “Hey, Dickwad. I got something of yours. Can you swing by?”
The other side of the line is quiet for a moment before Dick speaks again, “...now whatdoyoumeanbythat?”
Jason, feeling both too lazy to answer and the never-ending urge to rage bait his brother, hangs up. He sends a quick text of the address before turning back to Tim. Jason nods to the stack of pancakes still piled up on the plate, “You might wanna pick up your pace there. He’s on the way.”
Tim does in fact not pick up the pace, so there’s still two and a half—now cold—pancakes remaining on his plate by the time a knock sounds at the door.
Jason sighs and turns to walk towards the door, but this proves useless as Dick Grayson has already, unnecessarily, picked the door lock and invited himself inside.
“Why’d ya even knock, then?” Jason mutters, but his question is ignored as Dick strides right over to Tim.
Jason watches with amusement as his brother starts efficiently examining each of Tim’s injuries, twisting him this way and that, subjecting him to much poking and prodding.
”I’m not completely shit at First Aid, you know,” Jason rolls his eyes at Dick’s antics. “I made it this far. Well, with a little break in the middle.”
This seems to suddenly remind Dick of Jason’s existence.
“Thank you for… whatever it is you did to get him here in one piece.” He says solemnly, clearly trying to convey gratitude through his body language as well.
“Yeah, well, you might not want to go that far if you wanna stay in good graces with Batsy.” Dick just keeps staring at him with those overly-emotional eyes. Jason decides to turn his attention back to Tim. Tim shrinks under his heavy gaze. “A little birdie decided it was a good idea to go off on his own without telling anyone. Got captured, and was luckier than hell that it happened to be some of my guys.”
“What did you do?” Dick asks, not sounding too invested in the answer. Jason keeps watching Tim as he closes his eyes.
“I set them straight,” Jason rests his hands on the guns tied to his hips. “Like I always do when a kid’s involved.”
“Good.” Dick’s voice is harder than Jason expected it to be, and he finally looks at Dick again. Dick’s gaze is piercing as he scans over his brothers. “The safer you two are, the better.”
“For the record, I had the situation handled until Jason got involved.” Jason is surprised to hear a full sentence come outta Tim, but it’s good to hear his speech capabilities haven’t been permanently affected by the brain damage.
Jason mock-rolls his eyes, “Sure you did. I didn’t know that getting beaten to a pulp was a way to handle a situation.”
Dick cuts in, “While we’re all enjoying this bonding time, I’d like to get you properly checked up at the cave, Timbit.”
Tim protests, “Really, it’s not that bad! Jason took care of most of it anyway.”
“No dice, kiddo,” Jason intercepts, “You’ve definitely got a dislocated shoulder that needs some attention. Plus, with that concussion, someone’s gotta stay up with you so you don’t slip into a coma or something.”
“That’s a myth and you know it.” Tim glares at him.
“Concussion?” Dick’s worried voice interjects. Then he shakes his head and puts on a (clearly performed) gentle smile. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just go home and get some of Alfred’s hot chocolate.”
“Yeah, okay,” Shockingly, the kid breaks, smiling at Dick hesitantly. Then again, Jason would probably kill (more) for Alfred’s hot chocolate, so maybe he can see where Tim’s coming from.
Dick pulls Tim up to lead him towards the door, but Tim turns back towards Jason, “You coming?”
That was unexpected; the kid definitely has a concussion if he wanted to be in Jason’s vicinity. Jason shakes his head, “I’d prefer not to see the big bat tonight.”
“I would have preferred not to bleed out on Titan’s Tower’s floor, but we don’t always get what we want.” Tim grins. Jason winces and realizes that he’s losing ground. “Come on, Jason. You owe me.”
“I thought I just saved your life.”
“That was for Titan’s Tower. This is for making me eat soggy pancakes.” Tim starts out the front door.
“Soggy?!” Jason follows. “This is what I get for trying to be nice.”
Despite his complaints, he still follows his brothers all the way home.