Chapter Text
Tim woke up in Monarch Theater from a pleasant dream with a sore throat and the distinct feeling he should be somewhere else. He glanced at his watch. He stared at it. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he was seeing things correctly. The letters did not change.
It was Saturday evening. It had been Thursday a moment ago, or so Tim thought.
He was missing the entirety of Friday. Friday was the night of a new moon—well, Tim was supposed to meet Umbra at five in the morning with Umbra on Saturday, but the thought is the same. He somehow missed both his meeting with Umbra and his weekly meeting with the nymphs. His clothes smelled of blood that only came from war filled nightmares. Tartarus, Tim realized with horror. He had been in Tartarus. He began to take off his contaminated shirt (the smell would never leave) and nearly called Alosa.
Why would he call Alosa? Florian would probably know more if it had something to do with the spell over Gotham. But that felt wrong.
He hadn't spoken with Florian in a long time. He hadn't spoken with Florian since…since Tim left Gotham to look for Bruce. But something felt off with that statement, like there was more to it. Tim got up to look through his journals to find an answer only to stop when he realized when he couldn't straighten his leg. Fear flooded Tim's veins as he yanked up his pant leg.
It wasn't swollen. He felt along his knee and cringed when his fingers easily depressed the flesh above his knee cap. He had a completely torn quadriceps tendon. It was his only injury—not even the bruise he had yesterday from walking into a table was there. There was no pain. It was an old injury.
An old injury Tim couldn't remember getting.
Memories flashed through his head. Him hobbling around on a brace, unable to outrun monsters as he looked for evidence of Bruce being alive. Michael's poorly concealed horror and anger at the sight of his leg. Hestia's quiet sadness at her inability to heal it. Isabel's pride in the brace she forged so that he would be able to fight in the war.
But Tim couldn't remember injuring his knee.
Tim began to hop towards where his journals were stored. He opened up the filing cabinet to pull out the correct journal only to pause when his phone started to ring on the couch. He hopped over to it and picked it up on the last ring.
"Hello—"
"Oh, thank Pan you picked up," Anguilla breathed. "We got worried after you wouldn't give us an update, so we were taking turns calling you once an hour."
"Update on what?" Tim asked slowly as he hopped back towards his journal.
"Jonathan Crane," Anguilla said, equally as slow. "You were supposed to tell the Bats he escaped Arkham." That's—Tim didn't remember that. He was uninjured. He didn't even have an injection sight that would point to him receiving the antidote to fear toxin. Alosa didn't ask why he failed to attend the meeting; either Tim was able to make it, or it was known he was going after Crane.
His clothes smelled like Tartarus. He was missing memories.
Did he go off the rails? Was he confined to Tartarus for it and then released when the madness passed?
"Sorry, the Bats are calling me," Tim lied. "I'll call you back later." Tim hung up the phone as Anguilla began to cuss him out. There was another option as well that could have been the reason for his stint in Tartarus.
He could have been rescued.
Demigods were resistant to Crane's fear toxin; the man had to dilute it when he was experimenting on mortals in order to stop them from dying so quickly. What if Tim was lucid enough that the Bats were unaware he was under the effects of fear toxin?
What if they threw him in Arkham for it?
What if Umbra saw what the Bats did, misunderstood the situation, and attacked the Bats for it?
Tim dialed the batcomputer. No one picked up. Tim dialed it again. No one answered. Tim dialed a third time and nearly collapsed in relief when the line connected.
"Look, we're busy—" An annoyed Barbra Gordon said, but Tim didn't have time for that.
"Is everyone safe?"
"Second?" She asked, which didn't make sense because Tim has never spoken with Barbra as Second. "What's your current situation?" Tim was quick to recover.
"I woke up ten minutes ago with no memory of the past thirty-six hours and my shirt smells like Tartarus," he reported as Barbra began to type. "No injuries beyond my bad leg." Barbra stopped typing.
"No injuries?" She parroted. "Not even your hand or cheek?"
"No," Tim frowned, jarred out of his mild panic. "Did you give me nectar or ambrosia?" He knew it was likely he was divinely healed, but he still wanted to cover his bases.
"No, you refused when you were lucid and we later didn't want to run the risk of you aspirating."
"Why would I refuse nectar and ambro'?" Tim couldn't help but ask and Barbra paused at the absurdity of the question but Tim didn't notice. Was he under a delusion that he would be poisoned or drugged? No, that was wrong. He remembered avoiding consuming the divine refreshments except in life threatening situations and when he did consume them, they tasted horrible. Why? Why did the very thing that made him safe in Gotham become poison to his tongue?
"It would be best for you to come into the Batcave in order for you to be assessed," she said, brazenly not answering Tim's question. "Bruce is the only one currently in the Cave, but we have others searching for you. Who do you want to retrieve you and where would be a good pick-up point?"
"No preference on who picks me up," Tim answered easily; it would be best for him to be with the Bats in case Umbra showed up to attack them. "As for location, pick me up at the Northeast corner of Crime Alley." It would be a bit of a walk, but he had his brace—
Isabel's brace. It wasn't in its usual spot.
"Barbra, what happened to my knee brace?" Tim asked with a hint of hysteria in his voice.
"We have it," Barbra was quick to assure. "We also have your costume and weapons." A pit began to form in Tim's stomach. It was looking to be more and more likely that he was sent to Arkham, or at the very least detained by the Bats.
"Noted," he sighed, refusing to let his anxiety show itself. "In that case, Jason should head south down the eastern road. I'll be walking north to meet him."
"Confirmed," Barbra hummed. "Anything else we should know?" Tim hesitated. Does he admit to having holes in his memory? Or would that make appear to be more unstable?
"No," Tim ended up saying. Barbra hung up. Tim let out a sigh of relief before glancing at his journal. His journals were written in his personal ancient Greek short-hand, so he wouldn't have to worry about the Bats snooping. They could try of course, but it would look like chicken scratch. Probably. As long as Tim made sure they didn't see it translated, he would be fine. On second thought, it would be best for Tim to leave it here. He could always come back later and read it.
Tim changed his clothes, but the stink of Tartarus still lingered. He would need to take a shower or scratch his skin off in order to completely remove the stench. But he didn't have time for that.
🦇🦇🦇
Jason passed Tim on his motorcycle and had to turn back for him. Jason skid to a stop in front of Tim, taking off his helmet to get a better look at the demigod.
"No injuries?" The older man asked as he crossed his arms.
"No injuries," Tim confirmed. Jason's eyes narrowed.
"Then you wouldn't mind drinking nectar," he said as he pulled out a vial of nectar. Tim shrugged and took the vial without argument. He drank it slowly, savoring the familiar taste of sour cherries that coated his tongue. He handed the empty vial over to Jason with a pointed look.
"No anxiety, paranoia, thoughts of self-harm, hallucinations, elevated heart rate, or nausea?" All of those could be caused by fear toxin.
"No lingering effects from fear toxin," Tim decided to say. "I wouldn't have known I was exposed to it if I wasn't told." Jason's eye twitched.
"Did the hellhound tell you that?" He asked with false humor.
"Friend," Tim waved away as he put on Jason's spare motorcycle helmet. He wrinkled his nose at the smell. "Apparently, I didn't check in after I went after Crane; they were calling me every hour until I picked up." Jason hopped on in front of Tim and he was quick to kick his bike into gear. They couldn't talk over the ride, so it was a quiet trip as Tim was left to his thoughts.
Tim was exposed to fear toxin. It was nice to have it confirmed, at least. But where did that leave him? Jason and Barbra didn't react poorly when Tim called, so it couldn't have been that bad of a reaction. Barbra also didn't specify that someone was out of commission; Tim could assume that every Bat was active in Gotham and that no one was grievously hurt by him. He had to have been at least partially lucid in order to keep damage to a minimum. But how could he have lost his weapons and brace? Especially when he was exposed to fear toxin; only an idiot would give up their weapons and mobility willingly. So the danger was somewhere in between them confiscating his weapons and him being a threat to others.
Or he was a threat to himself. Anxiety twisted in Tim's gut. Did he see his future evil self? Did he hold a knife to his throat? Did Damian witness his weakness? Tim was surprised he wasn't thrown in Arkham or some other mental asylum if he nearly killed himself.
Jason's motorcycle screeched to a stop in the Batcave. Jason got off the bike and removed his helmet, gesturing for Tim to do the same.
"Bruce saw your face, so it doesn't really matter if you keep on your helmet," Jason explained. Tim sighed as he acquiesced. Jason wouldn't stop staring at Tim.
"What?"
"You look like someone I know," was all Jason said. Bruce and Alfred were walking over quickly and Tim decided to meet them halfway. Bruce had a constipated look on his face which he usually only got when someone had a particularly bad reaction to fear toxin. The face was not helping matters.
"It's good to see you healthy, Second," Bruce said stiffly. "That being said, I would still like a physical conducted; you had an abnormal reaction to the anti-toxin and we're concerned about lingering effects."
"Yeah, I can't imagine Tartarus would be good for my heart," Tim tried to joke. Wait. He had a watch that tracked his heart rate; he could try to determine how bad it was that way. As they led Tim to the med bay, Tim accessed his health data from Friday. He stared at it.
"What time did the hellhound grab me?" Tim asked as he sat down on the cot.
"Six-fifteen in the morning today," Bruce grunted. Tim pursed his lips.
"My heart stopped for ten minutes at six-twenty-one in the morning." Bruce nearly stumbled in surprise.
"Are you sure?" He asked, a frown plain on his face. "That's—your watch tracks that. Are you sure they didn't remove your watch?"
"Yes, I'm sure," Tim said, mildly annoyed. "The data would be displayed differently if my watch was removed. My heart stopped for ten minutes, was really high after I was resuscitated, and then it declined to a healthy resting heart rate. If I open up my sleep tracking…I apparently slept for twelve hours today." Bruce sighed and ran a hand down his face.
"Okay," he muttered to himself as Tim took off his shirt so that Alfred could easily administer a health check. "We've got a timeline established, but you—"
"Second, have you always had a tattoo on your back?" Alfred asked and Tim immediately tried to twist around to see his own back and was largely unsuccessful.
"No," Tim said and no one present missed the tension in his voice. "What is it?"
"It's a black dog. It's quite lovely, if I may add." Tim ran a hand through his hair. A hellhound, most likely. Was it like Hestia's and gave him the ability to do something? Would it stop shadow-traveling from hurting so much? Could it be a warning to the Bats—would Umbra seek out retribution against them?
"Not a good sign," Tim decided to say.
"It's a hellhound," Bruce said wryly. "I thought you had a good relationship with them."
"I'm missing some very crucial memories," Tim glared. "Their opinion of me could have changed in the last twenty-four hours. Now, are you going to actually explain what happened in the last twenty-four hours, or am I going to have to deduce that for myself?"
"All in due time," Alfred replied. "Your health is the current priority, Second." Tim sighed and suffered through the mandatory health check. Alfred took a sample of his blood to run it through a basic screening, although Tim doubted any abnormalities or contaminants would be found.
"So, are you going to tell me what happened?" Tim asked in the stiff silence.
"You were exposed to fear toxin, had an abnormal reaction, then a hellhound kidnapped you," Bruce grunted. "In the future, I would like some sort of guide so that we would know how to approach you while—"
"Stop dancing around the question, Bruce," Tim said in a cold voice. "Tell me what happened. Otherwise, I'm going to assume you made some colossal fuck-up and you're trying to hide it from me."
"If you don't show him the recording, then I'll show him," Jason pipped up. Tim was surprised and grateful for the man on his side.
Bruce sighed and ran a hand down his face. "Are you sure? It's not exactly…pleasant."
"I've seen kids get torn apart by monsters, Bruce. I can handle an unpleasant reaction to fear toxin."
Bruce had no choice but to acquiesce.