Archive of Our Own

Robin shouldn't be here. Tim shouldn't be here.

He probably shouldn't have gone out in civvies at all.

The thought passed through his head as he stumbled into another dumpster and fell. That was going to hurt tomorrow. More bruises. Probably a black eye, too. Not the kind that could be explained away, either. The kind that made teachers lower their voices and ask, all careful and quiet, Is everything okay at home, Timothy?

Tim always hated those questions. Not like Jason. Jason. Jason. He giggled. It was a funny name, wasn't it?

Like Timothy. You could sing it! Tim-o-thy. Ja-son.

"You shouldn't be here."

It took Tim a few seconds to realize the voice hadn't sounded from inside his own head.

He rolled onto his back and squinted at a.... someone, standing a few meters away in the streetlight. Someone wearing a Red Helmet. Tim thought, distantly, that that was important. That he should be afraid of this person. But he couldn't remember why. This wasn't Jason.

Jason would be the one to kill him. Not Red Helmet Guy.

"I know!" Tim agreed readily. "Jason's gonna...." What was he saying again? Oh, right. "Jason's gonna kill me!"

The thought made fresh tears well in his eyes.

Tim wailed, scaring away the cat that was apparently sitting on top of the dumpster. It was his dumpster now. Ha. Stupid cat.

"Alright, kid." Red Helmet Guy said. Tim blinked. "In case you haven't noticed, this is Crime Alley. And you—" he pointed at Tim aggressively. Tim wondered what would happen if he bit Red Helmet. Would that be tasty? Did Red Helmet taste like chocolate? Helmet was saying something. Tim focused back in. "—belong in bed. Not…lying on the ground near a dumpster. Get up, by the way."

Tim considered this. It was a very reasonable thing to say, so he tried. He couldn't. His arms worked, but his legs had apparently resigned. Bummer. He flopped back onto the pavement. 

He could use things around him to help!

B always said so. Use your surroundings to your best ability, and all that.

He reached for the dumpster, blindly feeling for it. His hands brushed against it. There. He could use that. Except the dumpster was very far away. Which was strange, because Tim distinctly remembered falling on it.

He tried again.

Nope.

It was very dark. That made it hard to see. Did he have night vision goggles? He patted himself. No goggles.

"Awww…" Tim let out a whine. He couldn't get up. And the dumpster was stinky. He didn't want it anymore.

"What, can't get up?" Red Helmet Guy sounded amused.

"Nope!" The words came out way too cheerfully. Tim didn’t know why.

Red Helmet snickered.

Tim kept going because the words were in his mouth and they wanted out, "Jason left me with bruises, and they hurt." They wouldn't stop hurting any less if Tim said so, but sometimes it helped to say things out loud. Sometimes. Other times it made his parents scold him for whining. But they weren’t here now, so ha.

"What the fuck." Red Helmet said. "Who the fuck. Who's this Jason guy? I think I might wanna have a talk with him…"

"You can't hurt Jason," Tim said, affronted. "Jason's the good guy."

"I'll be the judge of that, kid. He can't be that great if he's leaving you with bruises."

"I deserved it." That was a sad, sad fact. Tim had taken Jason's place—and he'd not been a very good Robin Replacement, either. He deserved everything that happened to him.

"Kid…" Red Helmet Guy sounded weird. "Do you know who I am?"

"Red Helmet Guy." Tim answered promptly.

"What."

"Cause you're…." Tim trailed off. The words felt weird in his mouth. "You have a red helmet. So Red Helmet Guy."

"Right." A choked noise came from Red Helmet Guy. Was he okay? "Call me Hood, kid."  Tim nodded solemnly.  "And I promise you, you don't deserve it. No kid does." he paused. Tim giggled. "No matter how drunk you are."

"'M not drunk!" Tim protested. He knew better than to get drunk on an infiltration mission. Infiltration. Deliberation. Machination. Those words rhymed. That was funny. “‘M drugged. It's a big difference.”

"What the fuck." Hood sounded mad now. Tim wondered why. "You're... you're just a kid. Who the fuck is going around drugging kids? Where was it?"

Tim thought about that. It was a surprisingly difficult question. Where did it happen? He remembered a club. Bright lights. Laughing. A glass in his hand. The neon sign flashing Horizon. But he couldn't say that. If he told Hood it was at the Horizon Nightclub, Hood would ask what he was doing there. And Tim couldn't just say "Oh, not much, just investigating for Batman," could he?

Could he?

No, that was a bad idea. Tim hummed noncommittally to buy himself some time. He hummed. And hummed. And hummed some more. Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmmmmmm. It was a pretty catchy tune.

"Kid."

"Hm?" Tim looked up. He'd said that like B would. B would be very proud of him. He would be so mad that Jason killed Tim. But not too much. Tim was a pathetic excuse of a Robin.

"Kid. Where did you get drugged?"

Oh, right. He had to answer that. Tim frowned. Batman had said something about people asking questions. He'd said—he'd said—Oh, right. "I don't want to tell you."

A pause. It was practically a pregnant pause. Why would someone describe a pause as pregnant? Tim tried to imagine a pregnant pause. For some reason it looked like a big neon pink enter key with a bump.

"Alright kid. You don't have to tell me." Sweet. Tim tried not to look too smug. Judging by the disapproving helmet tilt Hood gave him, he probably wasn't successful. He needed a distraction. Quick brain, think. What could he say?

"Your helmet is very shiny." Tim blurted out. "Do you polish it?"

Hood startled. "What?"

Oh, good, it was working. Tim repeated himself, louder.

"Do you polish your helmet?"

"…No. No, I don't polish it."

"You probably should," Tim told him. "It looks like it has secrets. Chocolate secrets."

Hood considered that. "Right. Chocolate secrets. Remind me to tell the crime lords of Gotham that my most intimidating feature looks like a giant M&M.”

Tim giggled. "You're very funny."

"Yeah? Well you're hilarious." Hood sounded amused again. Good. Everyone should be happy! It was a nice day. Night. Whatever.

Somehow, during the conversation, Hood had gotten closer. Tim hadn't noticed him moving. He was stealthy. Like Jason. Jason. Jason didn't think Tim was funny. Funny was essential to being a good Robin, and Jason had told Tim that Tim was the worst Robin ever.

Tim sniffled.

"Oh, what is it now?" Hood groaned. He was almost close enough to touch.

"Jason doesn't think I'm funny," Tim said.

"Again with this Jason guy. Who is he?"

That was a stupid question. Tim considered telling Hood that, then looked at the muscles, and the gun, and the general Gotham-ness, and decided he knew better.

"Jason's Jason," he said. It was obvious, his tone implied.

"Yeah, I got that." Hood sighed. "But who is he?"

This was all very confusing. "He's Jason," Tim repeated. How else could he explain it? There were no words that could describe all that Jason was. Jason was simply too wonderful for the English language.

Hood sighed again. "Right. That's great. Very helpful, kid." He crouched lower and reached for Tim.

"He's the Red Hood." The arm on Tim's shoulder froze. Hood was still. Hey, Hood!

"You're also Red Hood," Tim said, feeling pleased with himself for coming to that conclusion.

"I know." The arm on Tim's shoulder was squeezing him. Not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough that he could feel it.

"But you're not Red Hood.” Tim warned him. “Only Jason is. You're just Hood."

Hood didn't say anything for a moment. Then,

"Are you sure about that?"

"Of course," Tim felt offended. He was never sure of anything more in his entire life! "Jason would have never talked to me. He'd probably just shoot me, instead."

The hand let go of him, and the red helmet on Hood's head began banging into the wall next to the dumpsters. Tim squinted at it. His brain supplied a picture of another red helmet, glowing ominously. It was a bright red. Like blood.

"Even your helmets are different."

The helmet stopped banging on the wall for a second. Hood turned towards Tim. "They are?"

"Yup!" Tim nodded vigorously, and almost took his head off. Everything was dizzy. He reached up, intending to inspect Hood's helmet while it was still. He missed. His hand caught nothing, then he tipped sideways and fell into Hood's lap, head first, banging against the armor. "Oof."

Tim blinked up at the helmet. "Found you."

Hood was staring at him. Tim refused to be intimidated. He stared back. Or, well, tried to. The helmet was very blurry now.

"Right." Hood said. "Time for little birdies to go home."

Then he scooped Tim up without warning, one arm sliding beneath his knees while the other wrapped securely around his back, and began carrying him in a princess carry as though this were a perfectly normal way to transport a person.

Tim let him. 

There did not seem to be any immediate reason not to, especially since Hood was holding him securely and Tim's limbs had become strangely unreliable, responding to his thoughts several seconds after he gave them. Besides, he could always go limp if he decided he didn't like where they were going.

Speaking of which, where were they going?

"You're taking me somewhere," he asked. Said. He was having a hard time modulating his voice to make tones properly. It was like someone else was in charge of his vocal cords, and they wanted Tim to be the blandest, most boring person ever. Tim tried again.

"You're taking me somewhere," he asked. It didn't really work, but it was good enough.

"Yeah. To a taxi. It'll take you home."

"Why?"

"Because you can't walk."

Oh. That seemed reasonable. Tim relaxed a bit. The taxi would take him home. Home was good. Home had a bed, and water, and probably someone who would know what to do about the strange heaviness in his limbs. Then he tensed again. "Oh no."

Hood stopped. "What."

"B is going to be so mad about this." He tried to sit up in Hood's arms. It did not work.

Hood's hold on him abruptly tightened. "Bruce knows you're here?" he hissed. "And he let you get drugged?"

"Nooooo" Tim said. Then again. "Noooo." Then a third time. This time, Hood shook him. That wasn't very nice.

"Birdie. Hey,” his voice had gone strained. “Does B know you're out tonight?"

Tim hesitated. That was apparently answer enough for Hood, who began cursing. Tim covered his ears. Just like Dick did whenever he started shouting at B.

"Does anyone know where you are?" Hood asked, with the desperation of a drowning man looking for a straw.

Tim thought about that. Oracle might try his tracker, but he'd lost his communicator along with his keys way back. Before he found Hood.

"No."

Another stream of curses. Tim giggled, hands still on his ears. It didn’t change anything–he could still hear Hood clearly–but that was the rule. If someone was cursing, Tim had to have hands on his ears.

"B says I shouldn't lose my communicator," he informed Hood. 

"Oh yea?" Hood sped up. "And what does he say about getting yourself drugged?"

"I didn't mean to."

"Sure." Hood drawled. "Reckless birdie didn't mean to get in trouble. Just like Golden Boy, fuck."

"M 'Robin" Tim argued. It was good practice for when he had to explain everything to B. "I don't go to trouble. It finds me itself. Naturally."

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Tim giggled again. "Don't tell B."

"Kid, I think Bruce is going to notice his Robin got drugged."

"Oh." Tim considered this information. "That might be bad."

"Ya think?" Tim wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve that. He tried to think back over the conversation, but the words kept slipping away from him before he could catch them. Maybe he had said something wrong. Maybe Hood was angry because Tim had been laughing. Maybe he was angry because Tim had been crying. Jason had gotten angry when Tim had cried, too. His face fell. 

"Jason's probably gonna be mad, too. He'll kill me."

"Jason again." Hood jostled him. "Why do you worry about what he thinks so much? He hurt you, didn't he?"

Tim's expression twisted. "He—" The rest caught somewhere in his throat. He cleared it, and tried again. "He's just the best."

For some reason, this seemed to catch Hood off guard. Tim powered on. "And I'm just a temporary replacement, you know? Because B was putting people in the hospital, and he was going to get himself killed, and that's not what Jason would have wanted." He paused. "I don't think so.” The thought was getting harder to hold onto. “But I took his place, and I wasn't very good at it. So I deserved it."

Hood didn't say anything, just kept walking. Tim couldn't see his face.

He was usually good at reading faces. Bruce had told him so, once, and Tim would treasure that compliment forever.

But Hood's face was hidden behind the helmet, so Tim couldn't tell what he was thinking. Couldn’t read him. Couldn't see anything except the shape of a helmet looking down at him.

"Doesn't sound like much of a reason to hurt you." Hood finally said.

Which just wasn't true.

"Jason thinks it was," Tim sniffled. "He thinks I deserve it."

"No."

Tim looked at the street. The few passersby in the alleys were moving away quickly, almost fleeing. 

"No kid deserves that." Hood whispered, voice quiet.

Tim giggled.

"You're funny!" he told Hood. Then he leaned closer, aiming for his shoulder and missing by several centimeters. He frowned at the betrayal of distance.

"Jason doesn't think I'm a kid." he informed Hood. Then he giggled again.

Hood sighed. "He does now," he muttered.

But Tim couldn't care anymore. Everything was funny again! The darkness. The alleys. The fact that he was alone in this world. Whatever he was dosed with almost definitely had Joker's Smile mixed in. He needed the antidote, and soon. He told Hood, who stopped abruptly.

"Perfect!" Hood said, grinding his teeth together. " Just fucking perfect. Change of plans. I'm taking you to my place."

Tim blinked. "No?" he said. It came out as more of a question than he'd wanted it to.

Hood snorted. "Okay. And how are you going to stop me, kid?"

Tim pouted at him. "That's not fair."

"Yeah? Well, life ain't fair." Hood answered. He sounded angry. Tim flinched and tried to move away. Hood sounded like Jason when he was angry.

Hood sighed. He was doing an awful lot of that. "I'm not going to hurt you, kid."

Tim pat his shoulder. It turned out to be more like a series of light slaps, but he tried. "I know that. You're not Jason."

"Right." Hood sounded almost...regretful. "Wouldn't want to be that guy, would I?"

They were walking back the way they'd come from. 

Hood ducked into a narrow side alley, all grime and dirt, and stopped in front of a very shiny, very nice red motorbike. It still had all its tires. Bruce's car didn't have all its tires.

"Did I tell you about Jason stealing B's tires?" Tim asked Hood. "B tells it all the time."

"Yeah?"

Hood sounded bitter as he plopped Tim onto the bike and climbed on behind him.

"What does he say? Dirty street rat took my tires, thank God he's gone?"

There was something sharp beneath the words, something that made Tim's smile falter. That was wrong. Bruce didn't say things like that. Not about Jason.

He shook his head.

"No," he replied. "B loves Jason. So, so much."

"Not enough to kill the Joker," Hood muttered. He opened the storage case at the back of the bike and pulled out a spare helmet. "Or to take care of you."

Tim sputtered. "I don't need to be taken care of!"

"Sure. I bet you get drugged for fun every day, right? I'm not arguing about this with you, birdie."

Hood sat down behind Tim, enclosing him between his arms, the motorbike revved, and they were off. Tim sat in silence for a few minutes, then the words inside his head got too loud, and he had to say them.

"My parents don't want me." He stated.

The motorbike screeched to a stop. "What the fuck." Hood sounded genuinely baffled. "Why the hell are you telling me your tragic backstory?"

Tim looked up at him. It was still impossible to tell what he was thinking through the helmet. Maybe that's why he wore it. 

"So you don't want to hear about me?" he asked. "That's fine. I can hum instead. See?" 

He immediately began humming.

Very loudly.

"You know," Hood said gruffly, "I used to wish for a little brother.” Tim stopped humming. “Probably wouldn't have if I'd known how annoying they are."

"Wow, really?" Did Hood have a new little brother? Did Tim have to offer congratulations? "I used to wish for a big brother to protect me.” He thought about it. “Like Jason."

Jason would have been a great big brother. Only…

"Only Jason is gonna kill me now." Tim chirped. "That's a bummer."

"He's not." Hood said. His voice sounded like a guitar string. Twang.

Tim snorted, watching the streetlights smear together. It was very pretty. Like finger paint. "That's a lie," he informed Hood. "The first one you've told me tonight."

He giggled.

"Jason is definitely going to kill me."

Hood fell silent. Tim took that as permission to continue. "Anyway, they told Miss Mac that she was in charge of raising me, because they "paid her enough". That means they gave her lots and lots of money, you know? But she said she was just a housekeeper. And that she didn't sign up to raise a snotty kid.”

He paused. “I wasn't snotty. But she said that anyway. Why do you think she said that?"

Tim rubbed his nose against Hood's jacket to check if he was snotty. He squinted. It didn't look like he was.

"Because she was annoyed," Hood said, voice flat. But he didn't push Tim away, so Tim relaxed right back into him. "Like I am. Right now."

"I don't think that was the case." Tim snuggled against Hood as the motorbike stopped at a stoplight. Someone should try saying that eight times fast. Stopped at a stoplight, stopped at a—this was very nice. Like a hug. Like Dick's hug.

"Dick hugs real tight." he muttered into the warm jacket. "'S nice. He smells like shampoo. And dirt. And Bludhaven."

"Bludhaven has a smell?"

That was a good question. "Not really.” Tim watched another streetlight smear across his vision. “But if it did, it would be a bad one. Because it's Bludhaven. Anyway, Dick's hugs are nice. He goes away a lot though." Tim's voice went small for a few seconds, then brightened up again. "Which is rude. Because he gives nice hugs. He should stay forever, but he always says he's busy."

"Sounds like the Golden Boy, alright." Hood said, patting Tim's head with one hand. "We're nearly there, kid. You can tell me about your parents' tragic death now, and that'll conclude the Supportive Hood experience today."

"My parents aren't dead!" Tim was mad at Hood now. He pushed himself away. It didn't work. Tim decided he was going to vomit on Hood instead, once he began to feel queasy. "They're in Beijing. Or Egypt now? I don't remember. But they aren't dead!"

The bike slowed down again, the engine rumbling beneath them. "Then how the hell have you pulled off living with B? I think the Drakes would have noticed their only son and heir living in the Manor."

Oh, that. Wait, what? "I don't live in the Manor with Bruce," Tim said. "I'm next door. And B hasn't adopted me. He doesn't even want to."

"Sure. Black hair, blue eyes, smart kid like you? I bet Bruce was all over you."

Well that just wasn't true. Hood seemed to have such weird expectations of what Tim's life was like. Tim erupted into a fresh fit of laughter over it. It hurt his ribs, but Tim couldn't stop. Hood was just so silly! "I wish. I had to basically force him to take me on. Even Dick was against me at first. They didn't want to taint Jason's memory."

Hood was very quiet. The next few minutes, the only sound was the beeping of cars in the distance and Tim's light giggles.

"So why the hell are you Robin then?" Hood finally asked.

That was a stupid question. One villains were annoyingly fond of asking Tim. Honestly. Why was anyone anything? "Because B was being stupid!" Tim announced. "And cracking people's arms like celery sticks. I don't like celery. Do you like celery? I think it's disgusting."

"Kid." Hood snapped his gloved fingers in front of Tim's face making him concentrate on them. "Focus. Bruce was really cracking people's arms?"

"Duh."

Tim tried to show Hood by snapping an imaginary arm in the air but his arms were wet noodles. "Gotham needs a Robin. Because…. Cause Robin is light!" He leaned back to take a look at the blurry helmet. Hood wasn't saying anything. "That's what Jason said. And B needs a Robin so he doesn't go splat on the pavement!"

Then he dissolved into giggles because the word splat sounded incredibly funny. Splat. Splat. Splaaaat.

Hood gripped the handlebars so hard they creaked. He didn't even laugh at the funny word! Tim decided to give him the silent treatment in revenge, then they bounced over a pothole. Tim jumped, and that made him remember the one circus he'd been to and he just had to tell Hood about it. It was bad. 0 out of ten stars. Boo.

The bike was slowing down further, stopping before an indescribable apartment building, one of the many Crime Alley was famous for.

Hood killed the engine and kicked the stand down. "Alright kid, end of the line. We're nearly there. Can you hold on for a bit longer?"

Tim giggled again, and nodded. It wasn't funny anymore, and hurt, but he couldn't care! The streetlights were dancing a merry-go-round around his head.

Hood stood up, and Tim tried to do that too, but his legs were overcooked spaghetti. He began tilting sideways, but Hood caught him.

"I guess that answers the question of whether or not I need to carry you."

"I'm a jellyfish." Tim told him. "Did you know they don't have any bones?"

Hood's teeth gritted audibly. "Yes. Now stay… still." He grunted. Without another word, he hosted Tim up, over his shoulders. Tim giggled.

"Whee!" Tim cheered, scaring away a stray pigeon. The blood rushing to his head was making the giggles come even faster. He watched Hood's boots get onto the fire escape. He was fast. Clang. Clang, clang, clang, clang. The rhythm was nice.

"Keep it down, Mister Jellyfish," Hood said. He was climbing up the fire escape still, one hand on the railing and the other keeping Tim firmly in place. "Unless you want all of Crime Alley to know about you?"

"Okay." Tim whispered loudly. He tried to wave goodbye to the pigeon, but his arms weren't working either. "Bye-bye Mister Pigeon. Don't go to Blud.. Blud… Bludhaven. It smells like sad fish in there."

They climbed up, up, up. Tim was giggling even faster now, his head hurt. Finally, Hood stopped in front of a window, one that looked relatively clean compared to all the others. He shifted Tim's weight, punching a code in near the window, then entered.

Tim was dumped unceremoniously onto a couch while Hood dashed into the bathroom. It was a surprisingly soft couch. Tim bounced a little on the cushion, giggling. Was he going to die here? It seemed like a very comfortable place to die!

"No one is dying on my watch."

Tim blinked. Where had Hood come from? He was invisible! Tim looked around, but still couldn't find him. It was dark. Probably because Tim's eyes were closed, but he couldn't open them.

"Alright, jellyfish." A voice came from next to the couch. "Do you want the injection, or the vial? What does your paranoid bat training tell you will work best with this?"

Tim considered it. The injection would work best. They were standard issue, same in every household, and very hard to get something untoward into. Meanwhile vials were a home-brewed remedy that every household in Gotham had had before the injectors had become common, and still continued to have today. It was very easy for someone unsavory to tamper with them. The choice should have been obvious. But. But Tim hated needles. They always scared him. And Hood was trustworthy, wasn't he? Besides, the vial would be enough. It wasn't a pure strain. Joker's drug dealer didn't really want to kill everyone who ingested Smile.

Decision made, he turned to the vague direction of where Hood's voice had come from, and stuck his tongue out.

A rough snort echoed in the room. "Really? Vial? You do realize it could be anything in there?"

Tim cracked an eye open. It was teary. The vial was the color of black sludge, so everything was fine. He opened his mouth wider.

"Okay, fine." Hood sounded aggrieved, but his white lenses showed no emotion. " Drink up you trusting little weirdo. And don't complain."

A glass bottle uncorked with a soft pop, smelling sharp and medicinal, like mint that had gone bad. Then cool glass was pressing against Tim's lower lip. Hood tilted it carefully, tipping the liquid straight onto his tongue.

It tasted vile. Bitter, chalky, and burning all the way down.

Tim gagged, his whole face scrunching up in profound betrayal as he forced himself to swallow. "Blegh. Nasty. Terrible service. Minus ten thousand stars."

"Yeah, yeah. Save the review for Alfred."

Tim giggled again, but it was more tired than maniac. "Cold." He mumbled. He wasn't supposed to feel cold this quickly. Not even the injection worked that fast.

"Guess I'm still good for something, huh?" Hood sounded amused. Tim yawned. "Hey. Hey, don't fall asleep on me here!"

"I'm tired," Tim whined.

"That's the venom clearing out. Hang on." Hood unzipped Tim's jacket, taking it off carefully. Then he unlaced Tim's muddy sneaker, and pulled off his dirt socks. It tickled slightly. But Tim didn't giggle. That was good. Hood took off Tim's shirt next, carefully unbuttoning it. But the moment he'd taken the fabric off past the collarbone, he paused.

Tim knew what he had found.

The ugly, mottled purple-and-yellow bruises from Titans Tower were still stark across his ribs. Everything else had healed up, mostly. But the bruises had stayed. Like some weird badge of honor from Jason.

Hood let out a slow, shaky breath. Slowly, carefully, a bare, warm hand brushed over Tim's forehead. Tim leaned in. The hand flinched, but didn't move away, so Tim counted that as a win.

"C'mon, jellyfish," Hood said, his voice quiet. "Off the couch. You're getting the bed."

Strong arms scooped him up, gentler this time, supporting his flopping head. Tim didn't even have the energy to open his eyes; he just buried his nose into the warm cotton of Hood’s shirt, shivering as he was carried down a short hallway and lowered onto a mattress. A thick blanket was lifted onto him, up to his chin.

"Jason is gonna kill me," Tim muttered one last time as he settled on the bed. It was very important that he remembered that. A sigh came from nearby, and hand settled on Tim's head. Tim frowned. Where had that come from? Then he decided he didn't care, and relaxed. The hand was petting him. That was nice.

"No he won't, kid." The voice sounded sad. "I'll protect you, okay?"

Tim hummed, imitating B. Then he fell asleep.

The first thing Tim felt when he woke up was a pounding headache. He opened his eyes. Instead of his own, familiar ceiling, he was greeted with a cracked, half painted one.

Training kicked in.

His mouth tasted like bile and mint mixed with dirt, the unmistakable aftertaste of Leslie's vial antidote.

He wasn't wearing a shirt, and he had no idea where it was. He felt around. He still had his pants on though, thank God, and he wasn't tied up. So not captured.

Tim moved into a more defensible goblin crouch on the bed, backing away into the corner. The surroundings were utterly unfamiliar.

Where was he?

Tim d looked at the bedside table. It wasn't really a table, more of a crate someone had dragged over from Somewhere. On it sat a glass of water, twoX white tablets that looked like asprin and— Tim bolted upright. A battered shell of a Red Hood helmet, sans Red Hood.

Tim's stomach dropped to the floor as memories of last night came flooding back.

If he wasn't so worried about what Red Hood was going to do to him, he'd be mortified by all the nonsense he'd babbled.

The memories would haunt him. For as long as he had to live, anyway.

Maybe Hood wouldn't kill him. He'd said he would protect Tim last night hadn't he?

That was a lie though, Tim's brain helpfully pointed out. Hood was probably mad that Tim had needed his help. And he was sure to get it back in full.

No little birdies in my Alley! The words thundered in Tim's brain. Or else…

At this point, Hood had stroked his gun. The threat was explicit enough. He'd given Tim one rule. And Tim had broken it. How stupid was that?

The door creaked open, and Tim flinched, squeezing his eyes shut. Any second now, there would be a voice, saying—

"Good morning, sleeping beauty. Had a nice nap?"

Wait, what? Tim's eyes flew open. Hood was shuffling into the room, wearing faded gray sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, looking nothing like the monster out of Tim's nightmares.

In his hands, he held two steaming, mismatched ceramic mugs.

He looked…almost innocent. It was creepy. The Red Hood was frightening. Terrifying. A boogeyman. This….this was just a man, instead. One who had found Tim drugged, and helped him.

It didn't make any sense. It didn't make Hood safe. No matter what drugged-Tim had decided.

Hood crossed the room in one step, setting the mugs onto the bedside crate. Tim's heart seemed to forget how to breathe, and he scrambled even further away, moving until his back was to a wall, his hands searching for something—anything—that he could use as a weapon. He found nothing. Of course Hood would make sure that Tim couldn't defend himself. Tim glared at him. He still wasn't going to go down without a fight.

Hood raised his hands, like he was talking to a spooked horse. "Easy, easy."

"Don't come any closer," Tim demanded.

Hood stopped, and even took a step back. "Okay."

That was wrong, too. Everything was wrong.

"Where's my shirt?"

Hood pointed a finger back into the main room. "I thought you'd prefer if it wasn't covered in vomit. I don't have any clothes that would fit you."

"What about my communicator? My keys?" Tim was feeling slightly hysterical. Hood was not acting right.

"No idea." Hood shrugged, relaxed. "Probably in the alley somewhere. Best of luck explaining that to B, by the way."

Was Hood drugged? Was Tim still drugged? Was this all just a fever dream? He tried to pinch himself discreetly, and winced. It hurt. Not a fever dream then.

"Why?" Tim's voice cracked, and Hood frowned. The frown sent a shiver of fear down Tim's spine.

"Why what?"

Tim felt like screaming. "Why are you doing this?"

"Kid. Kid, hey, breathe."

Tim was breathing. He was breathing so well. He was trapped in an apartment with a murderer who had promised to kill him, and the murder was calling him kid and apparently worrying about whether or not Tim had clothes. Tim felt dizzy. Everything was slightly unreal. He gasped.

Air flooded his lungs. Someone was helping him, counting his breath, "And out for, six, five, four, three, two, one. And in for four three two one. And again."

Slowly, Tim calmed back down, enough to be aware of his surroundings. His surroundings, that included Red Hood.

"Better now?" Red Hood, who had been helping Tim breathe, asked. Tim felt tears welling in his eyes.

"Why aren't you hurting me?"

Red Hood looked startled. Like he hadn't expected that question. Tim laughed. His ribs ached. "Oh, please. Don't look so startled. I know that I broke your precious rule, and I'm sorry." Tim felt his energy leave him. "Whatever you were going to do, just do it already."

"Kid…" Red Hood trailed off. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Why not?"

"Because you're a kid." Hood was beginning to look helpless and exhausted, rubbing his forehead. Tim didn't like it. Not one little bit.

"That didn't stop you before. Remember?"

Hood looked away, and Tim's pulse hammered in his ears. He was getting to him. Good. Maybe if he pushed hard enough, Hood would stop pretending, hurt him, and then he could just go already.

"You liked it," Tim said. Hood's head snapped back, eyes wide, and he took a step towards Tim. Tim nearly recoiled, but he forced himself to keep going. "You liked hurting me."

"No," Hood gasped.

"You did. You left me with scars and bruises and you nearly killed me and you liked it."

"No! I was wrong." The answer came so swiftly Tim faltered.

"What." It sounded… it almost sounded like Hood was apologizing. But that couldn't be right. Hood rubbed a hand over his face again.

"I was wrong," he repeated. "I shouldn't have done that. I was angry—not at you, not really — but at Bruce. At the world, maybe. But that isn't an excuse. I hurt you. I'm sorry."

"You don't get to say that," Tim snapped. Hood flinched slightly. A flicker of satisfaction passed through Tim. "You don't get to—to hurt me and threaten to kill me and then just—just apologize for it!"

There was silence, punctuated only by Tim's heavy breathing.

"I know," Hood said, finally. "And I'm sorry. I don't have a good excuse for anything I did. I'm sorry, kid."

"That's not my name. Stop calling me that."

Hood looked down on his hands. "Tim, then."

Right. That was enough of that. Time to go. Tim shoved himself off the bed in one abrupt motion, and his legs buckled.

Hood caught him, his hands still warm. Tim screamed. Hood released him, letting Tim stumble back onto the mattress.

"I'm sorry, sorry, please," Tim blubbered. He knew he wasn't in the Tower anymore. He knew that. The room was too small, too warm, and smelled faintly of something sweet instead of disinfectant, and the mattress beneath him was soft instead of hard floor, but none of that seemed to matter when his skin still remembered hands closing around his arms and his ears still remembered the sound of his own screaming. He pressed himself further into the corner, trying to make himself smaller, trying to remember that this was different, that Hood wasn't going to hurt him here, that there was a door and a window and an entire city outside. His body didn't seem particularly interested in any of that logic.

"Tim."

"I'll tell B I was wrong! I shouldn't have been Robin! You can have it back!"

"Tim, breathe." Tim couldn't. Not now. He had to convince Hood first.

"I'll disappear!"

Hood's expression changed. Tim couldn't read it, he couldn't tell whether he'd finally gotten through to him.

So he kept going.

"You don't have to kill me. I'll go away. You won't have to see me again."

Hood's face crumpled. "Kid, no, that's not—" he cut himself off. A flash of green appeared in his eyes. And Tim remembered the lab results.

A Lazarus Pit. One that had come with Lazarus Pit Rage. Which was, in fact, an excuse for hurting someone. Maybe one that wasn't very good. But it was one.

Tim swallowed hard, wrenching his brain back from the brink of panic, forcing his eyes to actually focus on the man standing a few feet away.

He looked… well, like shit, to put it lightly. His broad shoulders were hunched, his hair looked like a rat's nest, and his eyes were swimming with guilt and exhaustion. Had he slept at all? It didn't look likely.

Something in Tim finally loosened. Not much. Just enough that he could breathe without feeling like his lungs were going to tear themselves apart. He leaned his head back against the wall and dragged a trembling hand over his face. It took him two tries to get his vocal cords to cooperate. When his voice finally came out, it was small and scraped raw.

"You know…" Tim rasped, his eyes fixed on the floorboards between them. "You could have just said the Pit made you."

Jason shook his head. "I couldn't," he said, his voice was barely above a whisper. "There's no excuse for what I did to you. It was just wrong."

Tim had no idea how to reply to that. "Oh. So… you don't want to take Robin back?"

A sharp, self-deprecating snort escaped Jason's nose. "I wouldn't fit in those tiny tights. No. Robin… isn't the mantle for me anymore. I'm good with what I have. Besides, I hear you do good work, y'know?Probably better than I ever was."

Tim hadn't expected an actual answer. Much less one that praised him. He ventured forth again: "So…you're coming back home? To Bruce?"

Another flash of green, this time much brighter. Jason breathed in deeply. "I'm not ready to talk about Bruce. Especially with you."

Tim nodded. No talking about Bruce if Tim didn't want a murderous rampage, got it.

The silence stretched between them, thick and awkward. Jason closed his eyes, the green slowly bleeding out of them as he let out a long, rattling exhale.

He nodded toward the small crate by the bed. "Take the aspirin. Drink the coffee. I swear on Alfred nothing else is in it. Cab's already paid for Bristol, it'll be downstairs in a few minutes."

Jason rubbed the back of his neck, keeping his eyes firmly glued to the floorboards like he couldn't bear to look at Tim anymore.

"And hey," Jason added, his voice completely flat. "For what it's worth... I'll leave you alone from now on."

"What if I don't want you to?" Tim blurted. It took him a second to realize the words that had come out of his mouth.

Luckily, Jason had also frozen up, giving Tim the few precious seconds he needed to scramble for an explanation before embarrassment completely overwhelmed him.

"I mean—" Tim seemed to have lost every coherent thought he'd ever had."You don't have to leave me alone."

Jason was still staring at him like he was a talking starfish. Tim blushed. "I mean, you can," he corrected. "Obviously. If you want to. I can't stop you. Because, you know, you're stronger. And you know that! Because of the Tower thing. Except you said you wouldn't do that anymore. So I guess that's good? And since you're not going to do it again, there's no reason for me to be scared of you, except I probably should still be a little scared because you're still you and you have guns. But that's not the point."

Tim stopped. He could hear Jason wincing with every word he said. "I just…" He swallowed. "I just don't want you to think you have to stay away because of everything."

Jason's expression softened. "Kid…"

"You have a spare room right? Maybe I could stay over sometime. I mean, you're apparently good for caring people, and you said you wouldn't hurt me, and I just—"

Tim stopped before he could dig his hole in deeper. Jason was smiling at him softly. "I think you'd need to talk to B and the Golden Boy about that first, kid."

"Not my parents?" Tim quipped.

Jason abruptly stopped smiling. "No, not them. And I have to say, no one is very happy with them right now."

Tim looked at him in betrayal. "You narked on me?"

"I did." Jason nodded. "Tell me that you wouldn't have if you'd heard the same things I heard from you last night from a kid."

Tim….couldn't. Oh well. That just meant fake Uncle Plan was a-go.

Jason sighed. "I can just tell your little squirrel brain has come up with a deranged plan. I'm so glad that's not my problem. Now wait here."

He disappeared into the main room, returning a few seconds later to toss a bundle of fabric onto the foot of the bed. It was Tim’s shirt and jacket, and they were actually ironed. Tim couldn't remember the last time someone had ironed his clothes.

"They do smell a bit," Jason said, apologetic, "But I don't have a washing machine here, and I was pretty sure they wouldn't benefit from a wash in the sink. Better they smell like a dumpster than blood and chemicals, yeah?"

That was true. "Thanks," Tim muttered, a small smile on his face. It felt weird there, considering he was terrified for his life minutes before. But it was there. He pulled the shirt over his head. It was slightly warm, like Jason had put it near a radiator. Like he had cared whether or not Tim would feel cold.

He looked up. Jason was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. When he saw Tim looking, he smirked.

"Might want to get a brush before you see Bruce, kid," he said. " You look like a scrappy alleyway cat."

Tim glared. He did not!

"It's not my fault." He grumbled. "You're the one who made me come here!"

"And that makes it my fault…how?" Jason raised an eyebrow, and Tim blushed.Jason shook his head, but there was a small smile tugging at his mouth.

"You know, for a kid who talks this much, you sure are bad at getting yourself out of trouble."

"I was drugged."

"Uh-huh."

"I was."

"Didn't say you weren't."

Tim narrowed his eyes at him. "You're very annoying."

"Yeah, I've been told."

Jason grinned. Tim grinned back at him. For a moment, he felt like he was back in the Manor with Dick, bantering. It felt good. Jason stood and held out a hand. "Come on, brat. I'll walk you downstairs. There's going to be a cap to Bristol there with your name on it."

Tim stared at the offered hand for a second before taking it. Jason's grip was careful, not quite hesitant, but close. Like he was making very sure he wasn't holding too tightly.

"You're going to tell Alfred everything, aren't you?" Tim asked as they made their way down the stairs, out of the apartment.

"Pretty much."

"Traitor."

"You're welcome."

"I didn't thank you."

"You will, one day."

Tim snorted. "You sound like Golden Boy."

"Don't insult me."

That got an actual laugh out of Tim. At the bottom of the stairs, Jason stopped and looked him over once more. "You sure you're okay to walk?"

Tim groaned. "I'm fine, mother hen."

Instead of stepping back, Jason reached out and grabbed the collar of Tim's jacket, pulling it up slightly to shield Tim's neck from the drafty stairwell. While his hand was there, the back of Jason's calloused knuckles brushed lightly against Tim's forehead, lingering just long enough to check his temperature.

"Fever's down," Jason noted quietly, his voice dropping its teasing edge. He smoothed out the lapel of Tim's jacket with two firm, solid pats. "Don't let B make you run laps today. ND make sure to drink water—no coffee, at least not today."

Then his expression softened again. He reached out, hesitated for half a second, and ruffled Tim's hair.

Tim froze.

Jason immediately pulled his hand back. "Sorry."

"No." Tim blinked. "It's okay."

Jason nodded, looking faintly relieved.

"Just," Tim added, trying to smooth his hair back down, "don't do it when it's actually styled."

Jason barked out a laugh. "Noted."

And then he went back up the stairs. Alone.

The morning chill bit Tim's cheeks as he stepped onto the cracked sidewalk outside Jason's apartment.

Holding the cab door open, Tim stopped and looked up towards the third floor window.

Tim raised his hand and offered a tiny wave. The figure in the window waved back.

Maybe, just maybe, Tim thought as the cab pulled away, I might like having an older brother.