Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1

~1~

There is occasionally a certain point one reaches during the attempt to attain a goal where one decides that the goal is just not worth it.

Unfortunately, this also often coincides with being at a point in the attainment of that goal where it’s too damn late and you’re just gonna have to suck it up, buttercup, and get your shit together and do it anyway.

Tim is pretty sure this shit is absolutely not worth it, but it’s too late now and even if it wasn’t, Mama ain’t raise no fuckin’ quitter. 

Well. Mama ain’t raised nobody, she was neglectfully absent, and Daddy certainly didn’t do jack (ha) shit— but Janet at least taught him a thing or two. Tim should probably give up, probably should have already given up months ago, but he’s come this far and if he ever gives up in regards to anything, it sure as fucking bloody hell isn’t gonna be to Ra’s Al Ghul. That would be a complete and utter indignity. He would actually rather die, thank you very much.

Janet’s first rule of life is if it is going to shame you in any way, you are not to concede no matter what the cost. Your dignity is worth more than your life and visible embarrassment is an unforgivable sin. 

So Tim is firmly refusing to be embarrassed by his current predicament, even if that means fiercely lying to himself.

The last thing this situation needs is Janet rising from the sands to scold Tim for his disgraceful conduct.

Everything was going– not well because nothing has or ever will go well for Tim when it comes to anything even remotely involving Bruce, but it was going about how he expected. So everything’s working, but just kind of sucks on principle. The important part was that it was working!

Tim had proof of Bruce’s existence in the time stream. He had proof the man could still be alive, is still alive. He had solutions, information he needed to get to the Justice League as soon as possible, and most importantly, Tim had one big Told You So to deliver to everybody he knows.

Well. Everybody left.

Which is depressingly less than it had been… But Tim doesn’t think about that for too long, because avoidance and a kill-yourself work ethic is the healthiest, most painless way to cope! Trust him, he’s a genius.

And what a genius situation he’s gotten himself into now.

Everything he needed in the palms of his trembling hands, and bam! Z dead. Owens dead. Pru’s throat has been slit and Tim has a strange inkling that that sword is not supposed to be coming out of his torso. Maybe it’s the blood, or the wrenching pain, or perhaps the knowledge that there’s definitely some kind of organ there that he might need, but he isn’t sure which one.

A couple devastating (nonlethal) head-shots later, and Tim has a strip of Z’s shirt wrapped chokingly tight around Pru’s throat, the rest of it tied around his torso, and he’s dragging the two of them to vehicular semi-safety.

He knows there’s more, but he really doesn’t remember too much after that.

He remembers waking up, however. And unfortunately, everything hence-forth.

Like suddenly finding himself to be Ra’s prisoner.

Tim woke up on the floor of an elegant hall, 10 feet ahead of him and up a few feet sat Ra’s on a stupid throne, like the dramatic, murderous narcissist he is. Tim squinted in confusion, going to move– but hissing in pain and grabbing just shy of below his heart, where a horrible, sharp pain was radiating. The subtle bump of stitches under whatever the hell he was wearing at the moment reassures him that there isn’t a big gaping hole in his torso anymore, but he’s more likely to tell Ra’s to go fuck himself for sewing up Tim’s brand new secret pocket than to thank the man for saving his miserable life.

And Ra’s was saying something, blah blah blah impressive, detective blah blah I have plans for you blah blah blah I’m super creepy and your spleen is mine now, but Tim was having a hard time hearing over the construction worker on coke in his brain that was given a jackhammer covered in maracas. The man also has a passion for playing the harmonica, but to tell you the truth, he should really find a different passion. The screeching catterwaul does not compliment the maraca-jackhammer noises.

Tim’s head hurts.

To summarize for Super-Migraine Post-Surgery Tim, Ra’s commends him on his skills, and has decided that Tim should have a nice vacation. At Hotel Murder Palace, guest of honor to one Ra’s Al Ghul. There’s room service, an indoor pool, and a hot tiki bar! Oh, and Tim 100% does not get a choice, the vacation is mandatory and enforced. And everybody is ready and willing to continuously drug Tim to keep him there.

So a bit more like getting put in a looney bin, yeah?

The refusal to let Tim have shoes definitely echoes that sentiment. Give him some grippy socks and he’s set.

Ra’s kept being a fucking weirdo whack-job (which is actually his official profession, he has a doctorate in Uncomfortable from the university of Evil), starting with the outfit Tim woke up in. Which by the way, fuck everything and everyone for him being changed in his sleep without his consent. Somebody saw his dick. Probably several somebodies. His ass was out and he isn’t even gonna get paid for it!

Anyway, Ra’s Creepy Clothing Boutique dressed him like a tasteful ritual sacrifice. A red half-sleeved brocade robe that goes over a black sleeveless shirt with many strange symbol-like adornments on it. Flowy pants that are wrapped tight at the ankles up to mid-calf. No shoes, for obvious reasons.

Tim would like a sweater and some pajama pants, but instead he is ‘presentable,’ as Ra’s said. Apparently there’s some sort of plan for Tim to stay here and train and play mind games until Ra’s gets bored of him, but what Tim is actually going to do is find Pru and get them the hell out of Dodge City. He's sick and tired of the constant stream of rohypnol being used on him and getting injected with what he's pretty sure is ketamine when he gets violent.

Tim manages to beat his guards despite his injuries by managing to avoid being drugged again and taking them by surprise, then sneaks around well enough to find out where Pru is, kept in containment (but alive, blessedly alive) due to Ra’s suspecting her loyalties lie more with Tim than they do Ra’s. But he doesn’t sneak well enough to avoid being caught and dragged back to time-out.

Attempt two, involving a poster broken from his bed, also failed… but he gets so close. 

Attempt three involves disrupting dinner and accidentally ruining someone's ability to flip people the bird ever again. Oops. Well, they didn’t need that finger anyway!

Tim suffers the greatest punishment for this, namely, Ra’s bells him like a fucking cat. So he can’t ‘go sneaking around’ anymore. Because, ‘if you can’t act civilized, Detective, then I shall treat you like the animal you are insistent on being.’ 

Tim should have succeeded by now, and now he’s super fucked because after another fucking drugging (is he gonna get addicted? Does he need to watch out for that? What are the negative effects of being drugged this often? Shit.) he wakes up with restraints on. Manacles around his wrists and ankles that have fucking bells on them (one on each) so he can’t even shift without jingling like a goddamn Christmas elf. Now his hands and feet only go about a foot apart.

Ra's told him he's lucky the man didn't just dislocate Tim's legs, and only hadn't because of the risk of permanent damage. And he wants Tim in pristine condition.

Tim figures ‘fourth times the charm’ and spoiler alert; fourth times not the charm. He manages to split the wrist manacles open during the guard change with a floor tile he pried up, but he kicks himself for not doing his ankles first so he could run and fight easier. He figured ‘wrists first will make getting the anklets off easier’ but he didn’t have enough time and they heard him and now he is just so fucking fucked it isn’t even fucking funny.

Tim knows he’s being sloppy. He’s being so sloppy. Humiliatingly so, and he knows why… He wants out of here as soon as possible. He can bring Bruce back, he has to bring Bruce back, he has to be useful and fulfill his purpose and even if he isn’t family to the bats, they are all he fucking has, okay?!

So Tim is trying to get out of here as soon as he can, and that isn’t working.

He needs to sit for a minute and wait. He needs to let everything cool down. He needs to think, and plan, and have patience. Tim spent his entire childhood just watching, taking photos and keeping his distance– he can sit and watch for a little bit, planning whilst Ra’s and his assassins grow complacent.

But now his job is even harder. Tim’s restraints got an upgrade.

New manacles, different appearance– less bulky, and flat, almost like a bracelet— but undoubtedly strong. Ra’s said some complete bullshit about not wanting Tim to look entirely like a prisoner, as it is unbecoming. Which is just total gutter garbage, because Tim couldn’t feel more like Princess Leia with Jabba the Hutt. The manacles are still on the wrists and ankles, with bells so any movement will be heard, and loops for further restraints. Without the connecting chains, so yeah, more alike to bracelets. These allow him to be moved around easier and locked down to whatever is available in the room he’s currently in.

The Big Winner? They’re one solid fucking piece. Welded together. Tim has no clue how Ra’s did that without burning him. They’ll have to be cut off, because this is the worst forced-vacation-kidnapping ever. Mortifyingly, there's one around the neck as well– more round, like a thick, solid wire… that is, most unfortunately, also belled. Probably for the sheer humiliation of it, and as a sort of ‘final reassurance,’ because maybe you’re willing to risk injuring your wrists and/or ankles to get off restraints, but how willing are you to risk injuring your neck?

Tim isn’t going to be trying to smash a rock against his prison necklace. Too close to the important pieces, like the esophagus and his most winning trait, his vocal cords. He makes all his smart-ass remarks with that!

They rub his skin horribly raw due to him shifting and fidgeting with them. Half because he’s as restless as a caged tiger, and half because if he jingles them constantly enough he can see Ra’s getting annoyed by it, and maybe if he’s annoying enough they’ll take the bells off. At the very least, he gets the pleasure of watching everyone around him squint with irritation.

Night after night of having to sleep with those fucking things making noise has basically resulted in Tim’s brain going crazy and learning to completely tolerate the sounds. He’s just dead inside to the noise. Now it’s just a tool to annoy those around him. The second he gets these things off, if he ever hears another damn bell in his lifetime it’ll be too soon.

Tim would really love some bolt cutters right about now, but he isn’t gonna find those just lying around, and he isn’t going to be given any. These things are putting red, irritated rings around his limbs and neck from all his restless movement. But he’s frustrated, and worried about Pru and Bruce, and he’s been here for way too long and he doesn’t even know how long that is, and he wants coffee, and it might be the constant drugging but he’s been feeling really sick all the time.

But Tim waits. He watches, and he waits.

He’s a walking Marco-Polo loser and he spends his day being on a limited-length chain in whatever room he is currently occupying, recovering from a lethal wound and overly drugged and tired. Tim has his work cut out for him.

At least only his legs are chained when he’s in ‘his’ room.

He’s been here for Way Too Fucking Long days (and nobody has come for him, nobody has tried to rescue him, do they even realize he’s gone—-) when he finally launches mission Fifth Times The Charm.

At (what he’s assuming is) night time (he’s not entirely sure, he just knows this is when everything is less active. Do assassins sleep during the day though?), when his watch is used to the sound of Tim fidgeting and squirming to try and get comfortable even though the only time he really sleeps is when they drug him, Tim works quick. He manages to rip open one of those stupidly durable pillows he was given, and smirks at his success.

Tim crams pieces of pillow stuffing into the bells so that the metal balls in them can’t move around and thus, they can’t jingle. The bells on his wrists go blessedly quiet. He eagerly shoves one into his collar bell, but forces himself to refrain from doing anything to his ankles yet. Sudden silence would be extremely suspicious.

Tim walks with a strange gait so that the bells do not jingle in the sound it makes when he takes steps, moving over to the area passed the door. Then, he stuffs the cotton in the ankle bells. 

The room goes eerily quiet.

It’s the best noise he’s heard in his life.

It only takes a few seconds for the two assassins posted as guards to rush into the room. Tim grabs the long chain restraining him, tugging it tight from where it’s hooked on the wall, using it like a trip-wire to send the assassins off-balance.

Tim moves closer to said-wall to get plenty of slack, kicking the one that hadn’t yet gotten up in the head hard enough that he can mark that one down as out of commission. The second assassin rushes him, but Tim has been wearing these fucking restraints for way too long now and they’ve practically become a weapon. He kicks his right leg so that the chains slide across the floor smoothly, then he pulls a leg back, and the assassin stumbles once more. Tim grabs him by the neck, tugging him to the ground and grabbing some of the chain’s slack, doubled up and held with both hands to look like a large, folded-over belt. Tim uses the heavy slack to slam it down on the assassin's head like a floppy baseball bat.

Tim frisks both assassin guards, and neither have the key to the chains, because at least those aren’t welded to him. So no key, however, one of the guards has various bits and bobs that he is able to use to pick the lock on the chain. It just took a bit longer than he would have liked.

He shoves both guards under the bed and leaves swiftly.

Tim is quiet for the first time in a while, and nobody is expecting it. He moves through the halls like a shadow. He has a few goals, and the first is most urgent, because Tim might not get out of here soon enough and he needs this done now.

Tim finds a computer. Efficiently takes out the league member monitoring the information on it, and then makes his move.

Tim goes as quickly as he can, working out a way to contact the Justice League and send them his information on Bruce being in the time stream. Bruce needs to be rescued as soon as possible, so this comes first. He does not cheer when he manages to successfully send it out, but it does give him some hope. Tim uses the computers to then locate Pru, which he’s glad he did, because they moved her to a lower area. She’s still alive, which he almost didn’t expect, but he’s thankful for nonetheless. Then, Tim decides he’s extremely pissed about all of this, and the bells were just too fucking far, so he sets up a nice little surprise for Ra’s and his people.

Burn, baby, burn— disco inferno. Tim’s turning this place and all it’s friends into smoldering ash.

Tim was going to set off the alarm right away so everyone had ample time to get out of the base, but he cannot even word how pissed he is about the bells. So, Tim sets the alarm to go off merely 3 minutes before the whole place will blow. Enough time for everybody to get out, but not nearly enough for them to go and grab anything important. Once the alarm goes off, the clock starts, and this place will be turned to rubble soon after.

And so will every single other base Tim was able to get his grubby digital paws on.

Tim gets to Pru. Finally. She’s a bit frail and hungry, dirty, but her neck wound is in the very beginning stages of healing.

Pru blinks at him blearily. Her voice is terribly rough when she asks, “The fuck? Who turned you into the bloody liberty bell?” 

Tim almost leaves her here for that one. (Not really, but his unimpressed face managed to get an amused snort out of Pru, and that's the biggest success he's had since he got to this hellhole.)

He and Pru don’t find anybody else in the cells, so they get a move on. Finally, finally, Tim and Pru launch a viable escape attempt.

It starts to go horribly, awfully wrong.

Because the universe fucking hates Tim.

He and Pru get near an exit right as Tim feels the whizz of a knife past his ear. They both turn, and fuck his entire life, because they are so busted.

Tim and Pru split up. Pru is more injured, so she heads for the exit they’re already near, and Tim heads back into the base to run these motherfuckers around like it’s one big game of tag and everybody but Tim is It.

Pru gave him one parting command:

“If you get fucking killed, I’m going to throw your ass in the pit and then I’m going to use you like an infinitely regenerating practice dummy. Since you want to be so fucking dumb.”

Tim might actually shed a tear; he didn’t know she cared so much!

Tim is at a severe disadvantage with his bare feet and injury, but he’s skilled and he’s willing to do damn near anything to get out of here at this point. There’s only so many dinners one can tolerate with Ra’s. Yabbering on about all his ‘plans’ for Tim. Various weapons and hits graze Tim, slowing him down, but not stopping him.

He’s Tim right now, not Red Robin, and certainly not Robin; he’s had that made clear for him. And Tim still has work to do.

Tim runs deeper into the base, searching for another exit. Doors, and doors, and halls, and door, and halls, and– ooooohhhhh shit.

It appears Tim has made it to the Weird Magical Treasure room.

It’s a large cave-like area full of clearly mystical artifacts. Tim avoids touching whatever he can, starting to panic. Shit. Ra’s might actually kill him after this.

Then, the alarms start going off.

Three minutes till this whole place blows to smithereens.

Tim finds himself breathing faster, getting shakier, sweatier. He’s cornered. He’s being chased through this room of potentially hazardous items and he’s pretty sure that he’s finally come to a dead end.

Tim is now at a stand-off with a group of assassins.

One of the assassins steps forward, holding a box.

Tim discovers it is a speaker when, a moment later, Ra’s voice comes from it.

The alarm blares, the lights blink red, and it all overlays the words of the madman he’s spent the last few months ( possibly more depending on how long surgery was and how long he was out of it) trying to get around.

“Is this really worth it, Detective?”

Tim shakes with adrenaline, wide-eyed with panic.

There is occasionally a certain point one reaches during the attempt to attain a goal where one decides that the goal is just not worth it. Unfortunately, this also often coincides with being at a point in the attainment of that goal where it’s too damn late.

Fucking— get your shit together!

It’s too late. He’s going to die here. It’s too late. He isn’t getting out, and neither are these other people. It's too late. Assassins they may be, but they are going down with him because it’s their job to keep trying to catch him. Seven people he will have killed once the base blows.

“You still have time. Allow my people to capture you once more, verbally agree to indulge my plans for you, and you might escape with your life. Really, you are wasted with those vigilantes. We could be so powerful, Detective. At this point, your rebellious nature is no longer amusing; I am very willing to let my assassins kill you to take you out of here, and then I will simply bring you back. You can come willingly, or you can be taken and revived."

Janet’s first rule of life is if it is going to shame you in any way, you are not to concede no matter what the cost. Your dignity is worth more than your life and visible embarrassment is an unforgivable sin. 

Tim’s fists clench. His eyes drift from object to object.

“So what will it be, detective?”

It isn’t worth it. It’s too late. And Tim still has one final requirement…

To pull himself together, and go out with dignity.

And conceding is utterly undignified.

Tim’s done what he needed to do. Bruce will be rescued. There’s a new Robin. He is obsolete now. Tim has served his purpose, and it’s time. 

It’s okay. It’s okay, it is, because he’s done everything necessary, which means it’s okay.

He whips a manacled arm out, picking up a random artifact. Tim grins, a feral, terrified thing. His entire body is shaking.

I don’t want to die.

He has served his purpose. 

I want a new one.

Sorry. There’s only one purpose left available.

I’ll take it!

Then take it. Grab it by the throat. Grip it tight.

Serve your purpose.

Tim is gonna die here, and he’s taking all of Ra’s shit with him.

Tim holds up the item he picked up, a twisted branch with a glimmering bark. “Sorry, Ra’s!” Tim laughs manically, because this is it. This is it. “But I have a much better idea!”

A few assassins make for him, but Tim backs up, purposefully into shelves and displays and pedestals with items on them. Knocking them over, sending them to the ground. Kicking stuff over. Things spill and break and smoke and shine and ring.

The voice comes over the speaker once more, frustrated and disappointed. “Do you truly believe you will escape this building with your life without my assistance?”

Tim cackles, “Fuck no! But you can't revive me if I'm a pile of smoldering ashes under various tons of rubble, and I’m in your room of magical, mystical bullshit, and I have no clue what any of this shit does!” 

Tim holds the branch out at the assassins, he picks up a dripping glass shard that burns his hand, and he holds that out as well, like a shitty knife. The assassins hesitate. 

"Do not be foolish, Detective! Are you truly so idiotic?!" Ra's growls through the speaker, clearly pissed.

"Maybe so," he bites out. Tim’s grin has something dark in it, something sad and gut-wrenchingly apologetic. He runs his eyes over the assassins before him. “I don’t know your names,” he speaks, just barely heard over the alarms. “But you have about a minute. You have shoes, and uninjured bodies. Run, and you might be able to get out. The blast might still get you, but you could live if you’re at least outside.

The assassins look between each other.

Then, they leave in a blink.

Tim collapses to his knees, dropping the items and putting his hands against the shaking ground. The entire place begins to rumble, and sweat drips off his face. That’s a lot of sweat dripping–

He’s crying. Oh. Okay.

Tim can't even support himself on his hands and knees anymore, so he collapses to the cave floor and rolls onto his back. The broken and mixed artifacts crunch under his back, and some burn, or sting, but he hardly cares. He stares up at the ceiling, breathless in a state of liminality. It doesn’t feel real. The shine of blinking red from the lights in the hall. The blaring alarms. His body, lethargic and in pain. It feels like the world is spinning around him.

He just lays there.

No bells jingle, and it feels quiet despite the cacophony of terrifying sounds happening all around him. 

Tim doesn’t know what he wants to feel. Fear? Peace? Anger?

All he feels… is dignified.

Tim asks the shaking air one question,

“Did I serve my purpose?” he whispers. "Did I do good?"

The earth shakes.

The alarms blare.

The air doesn’t answer.

But Tim’s used to not getting an answer to that particular question.

Everything explodes into a blinding, blistering light.

The world is so hot and yet so cold.

There’s no up or down.

Everything’s spinning.

It all seems so strange.

Smells, sounds, crushing and suffocating.

And racing through your head is everything you loved.

And everything you wanted.

And everything that terrified you.

He didn’t think it would hurt this much. He hoped it wouldn’t hurt this much. 

It all hurts.

It hurts.

Please.

It hurts.

“I’m scared…”

Tim awakens with a throat-clawing gasp for air.

Tim sits up with a shout of pain– in the same desert he thought he should have died in, back at the cave where he got stabbed. Tim gasps for air, skin burning in the blistering sun and his entire being throbbing. 

He’s alive.

He’s alive.

He definitely blew up.

He’s alive.

Fuck. Tim hates mystical artifacts.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2

~2~

He didn’t think it would hurt this much. He hoped it wouldn’t hurt this much.

It all hurts.

It hurts.

Please.

It hurts.

“I’m scared…”

Tim awakens with a throat-clawing gasp for air.

Tim sits up with a shout of pain– in the same desert he thought he should have died in, back at the cave where he got stabbed. Tim gasps for air, skin burning in the blistering sun and his entire being throbbing. 

He’s alive.

He’s alive.

He definitely blew up.

He’s alive.

Fuck. Tim hates mystical artifacts.

~2~

Tim heaves, his entire body alight with agony. 

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck---

He drags himself through the blistering sand, weak and wracked with shudders due to— everything. The shade of the cave— the cave?!— calls to him, and Tim coughs raggedly through the exertion of getting himself into the blessed shadows. He rolls onto his back, shivering.

His skin burns.

Tim doesn’t know how long he was out there, how long he was laying prone and cooking in the desert sun but— but—

Tim is unable to stop himself from rolling onto his side and gagging. His wounds all scream in protest, his skin aches. 

Because he died. Because everything was heat, and pressure, and burning and stabbing and crushing and pain and pain and pain pain pain—-

Tim vomits onto the cave floor, tears welling pathetically in his eyes and falling to join the bile. He died. He died. He died.

It hurt. It hurt so much.

Tim had always… had always kind of thought it would just be— he’s not sure. A flash of bright light? Then, nothing at all? A flare, hardly a moment of heat, turned to a smudge, or dust, and then peace?

He doesn’t know what he expected. He knows what he hoped for.

  Is that how Jason felt?

Did he feel his flesh scorch?

Did he feel his bones crack under the rubble?

Did he feel debris stab into him? 

Did he feel that crushing acceptance that nobody could save him, nobody would, and he was all alone?

Did he feel the pain of the overwhelming noise damaging his hearing, the torturous ringing noise that felt like ringing bells that wouldn’t let him hide or move without eyes on him—?

Tim trembles uncontrollably, heaving as he hyperventilates. He died. He died and he felt it and it hurt and he fucking died.

And now he’s woken up in the same desert he should have died in. Back at the cave where he got stabbed.

Tim died but that’s okay, everyone dies every once in a while and he’s just going to put this all behind him and pretend it never happened, because he’s so good at coping and this is very healthy and he clearly didn’t really die, or at least he’s back, and since it’s not happening anymore he’s fucking fine! 

He’s fine. Tim is alive at the moment, which means his issue has been solved, and he’s fine. He didn’t die. He didn’t.

Tim is back in the cave where he was stabbed, and—

Pru!

Tim forces himself to stand, no matter the pain, no matter his vision deciding to take a smoke break and leave him with an eyeful of spotty void. He stumbles as quickly as he can out of the cave, and—

Tim whips his head from side to side, squinting in the glaring sun as his vision comes back and the dizziness recedes a little. He spins around, searching, confused. Looking for Pru, who had to have gotten out, looking for at least the bodies—

 But there’s no Pru, Z, or Owens.

Tim runs into the cave. Maybe Pru is hiding from the desert heat, yes, that must be it, and she brought the bodies in because they deserve some respect even though they’ve surely been cooking in the desert sun and smell foul, but maybe Tim couldn’t smell them, because all he can smell is burning and ash ash ash—-

Tim stumbles to a stop in the cave.

No bat symbol on the wall.

Oh god. Oh lord. What the fuck?

No bodies, no vehicle anywhere nearby, no bat symbol on the wall, nothing. Just Tim. Just Tim, and his burning skin in the searing heat, except he looks at his arms and there’s no burns besides a light sunburn. No melting flesh or healing blisters. The only place he’s actually burnt is the bottoms of his feet from stumbling around in the searing desert sand.

 Tim starts to panic– did he imagine all that? Did he make it all up in his head? Oh god, was everyone right? Did he go crazy?!

 Tim stumbles back out of the cave, before hissing and jumping back into the shadow. The hot sand scorched his feet painfully, a shock to his system. Good, because he needed that; the shock has made him get his head together a little more. Tim knows he didn’t make all that up, he isn’t crazy, he would know. He knows Bruce is alive, and no matter what Dick says and tells the other capes in the community, Tim isn’t going mad. He found the evidence. He… he sent it to the Justice League before everything went to shit. Maybe the Justice League saved Bruce so the remnants of his time travel are gone now! Maybe one of the magic users… teleported Tim out of the base before it killed him?

Maybe, they are looking for wherever he ended up. Maybe he just needs to sit tight, and he’ll be picked up soon. But why no bodies? Maybe Ra’s retrieved the bodies of Z and Owens? And… the Spider assassin too...?

It seems unlikely, but it’s the only plausible course of thought he finds himself capable of.

So Tim sits in the shade, trying to calm his breathing, and waits.

…

He only manages to do that for about 5 minutes before he gets impatient, restless, and paranoid.

Ah, Paranoia, my old friend.

Paranoia has kept him safer than any teammate or friend Tim has ever had. She is his most trusted advisor, and he listens when she speaks.

Maybe Tim wasn’t saved by the Justice League. There’s a very good possibility that Ra’s has some sort of magic user on his side, or had a magic object within reach, and pulled Tim out of the frying pan and back into the fire. Which means that he could be waiting here like a sitting duck for Ra’s. Mr. Agree-to-join-my-evil-ninja-empire-and-contribute-your-dna-to-the-creation-of-my-perfect-soldier-children-of-intelect-and-skill himself.

Tim has to get the hell out of dodge.

He assesses his resources past the throbbing in his skull and the dull sense of dizziness-- he has none of his belongings, only the clothes and restraints Ra’s put him in, in all their weird, creepy glory. They will have to make due. Tim has to get somewhere where he can access more resources, request backup.

Even through the fire and brimstone, the bells are still stuffed to silence. They only clink dully against the metal encircling his various extremities. Tim is grateful for that.

His head still feels horrendously fuzzy, and everything aches in a bone-deep, simmering way–- but Tim has no time to lament his own misfortunes, never has. He just does what he always does.

Ignore his issues. Straighten his spine. Move to the next step.

The next step is getting to civilization.

Tim might be strong, but he knows that trekking all the way back barefoot on desert sand is not going to work. His feet are already somewhat burnt, and he’s still weak and shaky. His feet will be raw blisters in minutes, cooked by dunes so hot they cause heat distortion. He needs to at least put something on them. He can’t sacrifice what sleeves he has on his robe, his arms will be sunburnt if he does. He’ll already be required to tuck his lower arms into the opposite sleeves to protect the bare parts. Tim can use the thick sash-thing tied around his middle to wrap around his head and protect it from the sun, as well as protecting him from identification to an extent. He could unwrap the fabric securing the pants tight around his lower legs, but it might just be better if…

Tim grabs the edge of his shirt, the one under the robe, and rips the entire bottom off until it’s the world's least tasteful crop-top. He tears the thick circle of fabric into one very long strip, winding around until it’s torn into one lengthy, connected piece. He rips the long ribbon he made in half, to have two even-length strips.

He takes one strip, wrapping it around one of his feet as best he can to cover as much as possible. He makes sure to cover the most sensitive parts first, like the arch of his foot, and then finishes with the heel and pad. Those areas will be thinner, but he has calluses on his feet there, so it will probably be fine…ish.

Tim wraps the other foot as well. He takes the thick sash off (about 7-8 inches in width, but it’s folded in half. Unfolded, it’s a usable size) and does his best to wrap it around his head. He has enough that he manages to cover the collar as well, the bell making a weird lump in the fabric.

Tim tucks his arms into the sleeves of his robe to protect them from the beating sun, and begins his walk.

The first pressure of his burnt and achy feet against the sand makes him hiss; the sand is hot. He can feel it through the wraps on his feet. Without them, it would probably be unbearable–- especially considering he already burnt them somewhat in his panic.

A minute into the walk, he’s dripping sweat.

Five minutes in, he’s drenched.

At the half-hour mark, he’s breathing heavily, drool pooling in his mouth.

One hour and his feet are in agony. 

He stops paying attention to the time when he notices how hot the manacles have become. His wrists and ankles are already raw from being rubbed by them, now the metal is burning. At least the collar is fully covered.

Tim’s mouth goes paper-dry at some point.

He stops at one point, brows furrowed. He feels like he’s going to vomit. He feels confused, and he isn’t sure why. What is he doing again? Walking. He’s walking. Trying to find people. But walking hurts, he wants to stop walking. He can’t. He has to keep walking.

Why?

He must.

His feet ache horribly, and he starts to drift away from himself, blocking everything out. The manacles are lava-hot. Tim drifts a little further. He doesn’t want to feel them. Or anything.

Then, he sees structures.

Oh thank fuck—

Tim’s wants to pass out right here and now, he has no clue how long he’s been walking, but too fuckin’ bad because nothing is gonna stop him from getting to those as soon as possible. So he walks, and walks, and walks and the pain swamps him again and he walks–

And the buildings just. Keep. Changing. Every step he takes, they look a little stranger, the heat-haze warping them clears a little.

That’s a fucking rock formation.

You have got to be kidding…

Tim keeps walking.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3

~3~

Tim’s wants to pass out right here and now, he has no clue how long he’s been walking, but too fuckin’ bad because nothing is gonna stop him from getting to those as soon as possible. So he walks, and walks, and walks and the pain swamps him again and he walks–

And the buildings just. Keep. Changing. Every step he takes, they look a little stranger, the heat-haze warping them clears a little.

That’s a fucking rock formation.

You have got to be kidding…

Tim keeps walking.

~3~

Eventually… Eventually Tim makes it to civilization. And he’s 67% sure it’s all real and not a heat stroke-induced hallucination this time. Which is more than half, so he’s gonna round up to 100.

He’s absolutely miserable, don’t even ask.

His feet are searing, aching horribly. The manacles have been steadily heated by the desert sun to the point where they have created a horrific amalgamation of chafing his skin raw whilst also burning at the same time, which is just fan-fucking-tastic. He feels like he shoved his face into the sand and took a nice, deep inhale. Tim is pretty sure he’s sweated himself to looking like he had done the water bucket challenge, he's itching like a motherfucker but too exhausted to actually itch at anything, and he’s just sore all over and utterly miserable.

So all in all, it was a total walk in the hell-reminiscent park. He’s making daisy chains and everything.

Tim would have rather done literally anything else, he’d jump at the chance to replace the last numerous hours experience with Lady Shiva Part Two, Electric Boogaloo, but alas. He is stuck with sand and wind burn, and enough sweat to classify himself as a local waterpark. Ya know, until he stopped sweating and started getting super concerned–

Actually, Tim would like to correct his previous statement. He would rather have been doing anything else, except spending his time in Ra’s Vacation Resort for Vigilantes. If he just continues to remind himself that that is the alternative, he can keep going. He will take ‘Sand In Places I Didn’t Know Existed As Part Of My Anatomy’ over dinner with Ra’s Al Ghul any day. Or the regular force-snacks of rohypnol and occasionally ketamine. And some other bullcrap that was ‘for his health’ or whatever, which Tim could scoff and roll his eyes at all day long. Ra’s Al Ghul, feeding him vitamins or whatever the fuck.

All this to say, Tim isn’t feeling bright and bushy when he gets back to the cloying cradle of humanity. The first thing he does is wrap the fabric that was mostly around his head around his neck instead, like he’s some sort of moron wearing wearing a scarf in this heat– but it better hides his lovingly dubbed ‘prison-necklace’ (because he’s gonna vomit if he calls it a collar) so that he can step into the very first convenience store he comes across. 

The cold tile on his feet and air conditioning to his damp face is like an electric shock. Tim actually sways, like a frail damsel, when the coolness hits him with the force of a bullet train. The guy at the counter gives Tim one of the top-ten most judgmental stares he’s ever received, which is a fucking accomplishment. But either Tim’s reached sweet salvation, or he’s completely entrenched in some very vivid heat-stroke hallucinations and his body is becoming cold to signify he’s going to fucking die soon, so Tim cannot confidently say he cares about the impressive side-eye the store worker summoned up.

The tile is a weird mix of agonizing and relieving on his poor feet, chill soaking through the sandy wrappings, and Tim wobbles to the convenience store restroom and hopes he can get himself in working condition before somebody calls the police on him.

Tim starts by shoving his entire head in the sink and turning the faucet on.

He almost yelps with the stark temperature contrast, but resolves to not be a pussy about it and just enjoy the cool liquid soaking his hair. Tim momentarily lifts his head to remove the ‘scarf’, deciding he doesn’t give enough of a fuck to be that diligent about concealing his oddities. He’ll put it back on when he leaves. 

The removal of the scarf allows Tim to run water over the back of his neck and it’s heavenly. He swears he hears the damn metal of the collar sizzle when the water hits it, but he knows it’s in his head. The ones on his wrists and ankles are significantly hotter. The water does soothe the rubbed-raw circle around his neck from said collar, however.

He wrings a bit of the water out of his hair so he can stand up straight once more, shrugging off his robe and putting it on the sink counter. Tim shoves his hands under the water, leaning down to drench one arm at a time all the way up to his shoulder. The cool relief that trickles off his limbs and to his torso causes him to shiver.

It hurts a concerning amount when he rinses over the manacle injuries, but yeah, that was kind of what he expected.

Tim looks down at his legs. Now, he is not too prideful to take his pants off and climb on top of the counter to get his everything walking associated into the sink to cool off, he’s rather shameless in fact, but… he’s a little afraid to look at his feet, to see what state they’re in. If he just doesn't look at them, then whatever might be wrong with them doesn’t exist! Like Schrödinger’s Infected Second-Degree Sand Burns.

Tim isn’t dead yet (can he say that? Does it count if he isn’t dead anymore but possibly was for a little bit? Did he die? [he knows he did he felt it]) so he’s sure it’s fine.

Tim dries off a little, rewraps the fabric around his neck and puts his robe back on. He spends the next five minutes gulping down cupped handfuls of water, not even caring about the drinkability of convenience store bathroom water.

He eventually forces himself to scurry out of the bathroom and store, back into the heat.

Tim wanders around on sore feet, ignoring all the looks sent his way, in search of a map. He eventually finds one, a little tourist outpost with paper maps and a big map on a board. Tim grabs a paper map, searching through the key and marked points for a library.

There’s one not too terribly far from his current location.

~3~

The relief of air conditioning is just as glorious as it was the first time back at the convenience store.

Tim garners slightly less looks once he’s inside the library, mostly just because there’s less people to look. 

He heads straight for the computers.

Tim swiftly signs in with the guest user available, heading straight to the gmail log in. He types in his username and password—

Couldn’t find your Google account.

The words blink mockingly at him on the screen. Okay… so Tim is a little more out of it then he thought, he never types his info in wrong.

Tim retyped everything and logs in again—

Couldn’t find your Google account.

Okay. What the hell.

Tim tries one of his back up emails he created.

Couldn’t find your Google account.

He tries another.

Couldn’t find your Google account.

Tim tries to log into all 75 alternative accounts he has. He has to re-login to multiple computers because it keeps locking him out due to false tries.

Couldn’t find your Google account.

Couldn’t find your Google account.

Couldn’t find your Google account.

This is hell. Tim is in hell. Tim died in that fucking explosion and now he’s in hell, where none of his emails work.

Tim logs into his father’s email—

Oh thank fuck.

It works. One and done.

Tim goes to email his secretary about needing a plane out of he—

What. What. You’re fucking with him.

There’s recent emails from his father.

Emails from Jack Drake to various company managers. An email about flight plans. An order confirmation.

Tim’s hands shake, a painful tremble, as he cracks open Google and begins to look things up.

Jack Drake

Janet Drake

Drake divorce proceedings

Janet Lynn 

Tim Drake

Timothy Drake

Timothy Wayne

Tim Drake Wayne

Alvin Draper

CEO of Wayne Enterprises

…oh god. Tim suddenly feels very, very suspicious that maybe, perhaps, possibly something did the funny through space when he went kaboom in a room full of magic.

And that something is probably Tim.

He types in a few more searches, about events and places and Tim has this dreadful feeling that maybe he isn’t supposed to be here.

Jack and Janet aren’t even married, haven’t been since forever ago, neither of them currently have children, Bruce is the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Alvin isn’t an active alias (all existing Alvin Drapers are real people) and none of Tim’s digital anything seems to exist. 

Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore… Mama Kent would be taking way better care of him if he were.

Tim doesn’t exist in this universe.

Tim would say ‘pull the other one, it’s got bells on it,’ but that’s a little too real for him at the moment, and his legs distinctly both have bells. Jingle away, universe. Jingle away.

Fuck. Tim hates mystical artifacts.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4

~4~

He types in a few more searches, about events and places and Tim has this dreadful feeling that maybe he isn’t supposed to be here.

Jack and Janet aren’t even married, haven’t been since forever ago, neither of them currently have children, Bruce is the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, Alvin isn’t an active alias (all existing Alvin Drapers are real people) and none of Tim’s digital anything seems to exist. 

Tim doesn’t exist in this universe.

Tim would say ‘pull the other one, it’s got bells on it,’ but that’s a little too real for him at the moment, and his legs distinctly both have bells. Jingle away, universe. Jingle away.

Fuck. Tim hates mystical artifacts.

~4~

Tim has lived this long for a reason, and that reason is not because he sits on his ass and wallows like a little bitch. It’s because he puts his big-boy stilettos on and gets shit done.

So Tim makes a plan.

Firstly, it’s imperative that he gets the hell out of an unfamiliar environment. He’s been on the hunt for Time-Displaced Batman for forever now, and he needs a few things. Food, a shower, new clothes, and a place he fucking recognizes. Tim needs to get back to Gotham.

He needs to gather resources, and he can’t do that where he doesn’t know what restaurants are down the street.

(And a part of Tim just really, really wants to go home. Or as close as he has to one.)

His plan is as so– from his research, Bruce is still Batman in this universe. Tim didn’t look too deep into it, but he got enough to confirm that Bruce is in Gotham and functioning as the Big Bat. That means that any failed attempts to get access to any of Bruce’s bank accounts or accounts in general will set off some sort of digital trap or alert, which is trouble Tim can’t afford to deal with. It’ll just be wasted time. Normally, Tim would be 110% sure he could seamlessly get into Bruce’s accounts from various angles– but this is a different universe. Who knows what’s changed? Hell, maybe computers and technology in general are different, how would he know? So far they seem the same, but he’s too exhausted at the moment to have the confidence required to figure it all out.

So Tim is doing this the old fashioned way. Theft, impersonation, and illegal boarding.

Tim looks online for the nearest airport and the next plane to New Jersey. Nothing crazy happens, like him finding out that Gotham is in Florida in this universe, or that Florida doesn’t exist, but he still triple checks that the plane is going where he thinks it’s going. Tim has time to kill until the plane leaves the next morning, which he uses to prepare.

He needs to time this precisely. Because it depends on him getting certain difficult tasks done in time to get on the plane, but not with so much time that someone notices what has been done and causes complications.

Tim plans out a route on his map, heading to the nearest gym. He really doesn’t feel safe showering in this unfamiliar place at the moment with his affixed décor, but he has to. He has to look nice for this plan, and besides that, you can become sick from dried sweat on your skin. The last thing Tim needs is illness. 

Tim waits in the library, doing research and checking plane routes and current Gotham rogues until the gym should be closed. The darkening sky has cooled the air a bit, but it’s still a harsh, dry heat outside. Tim makes his way as fast as he can to the gym so that he can escape the cloying warmth.

He sneaks his way into the gym, hiding securely amongst equipment until the last of the closing crew and clean-up leave. Tim gets into the showers with a modicum of ease, sits on a changing bench and pries himself out of his clothing. It sticks to him, even after all the time he’d been cooling in the library. It’s utterly unpleasant, and reminds him immediately how itchy he is.

Tim peels the wraps off his feet and– oh. Hm. Yeah, that– that’s not great.

His feet are fucking burnt.

Not like, red-neck-sunburn burnt like a few lines on his arms are. Like, ‘hey so that joke about Schrodinger's second degree burns wasn’t as much of a joke as I thought,’ burnt.

No wonder walking hurts like a bitch, he’s walking on heat and friction blisters. The fuck did he not pass out? How has he not been screaming his head off with every step?

Well, pain tolerance, adrenaline, and dissociation probably.

Tim’s just gonna keep doing that– if it ain’t broke– uh, if it ain’t not working, don’t fix it?

Anyway, Tim has already resigned himself to sitting in the shower. He lays one of the gym’s towels down first because he doesn’t trust the floors here-- Tim isn't exactly High King Hygiene, but gym bro sweat and foot fungus is probably running around somewhere on the tiles. He probably shouldn't have his injured feet on the tile at all.

Tim sets his clothes aside, but close to the shower. He’ll have to wash them and wear them again. Unfortunately.

So now the waters on and he’s naked— well, almost. There’s five bands of metal that count for something, but he isn’t looking at them, because he chooses to and for no other reason.

(Entirely bare and they’re still there, fully clothed and they’re still there, covered up they’re still there, he can hide them all he wants but he’s still collared and belled like a particularly feisty pet or perhaps like a secured, labeled object—-)

The water is sweet relief.

There’s no gym-provided soap, but Tim busted into some poor fucks locker (it’s easier than you’d think) and stole his 3-in-1 Old Spice. He washes to the best of his ability, wincing and gritting his teeth when he has to wash the tender skin underneath the manacles. He gently washes the throbbing sore skin around the stitches on his torso, washes his hair thoroughly, and carefully rinses his damaged feet—

-tink!

Tim freezes.

He isn’t sure why, but he shudders—

Ding! Ting—

A wave of pure, concentrated dread and nausea fills him, Tim scrambles out from under the spray, like he can escape it, but it just follows him.

Jingling, ringing. Those stupid fucking bells.

Tim sits on the freezing tile, shivering and not breathing, trying his best to be as still as possible. If he moves they’ll hear him, he’ll make noise and they’ll know where he is and they will find him and take him back.

He moves a leg. No noise.

He moves his other leg. Silent. 

His pushes himself up with his right hand—

Clink!

Tim startles, the bell ringing like mocking laughter at his flinch.

The water had washed the stuffing he’d shoved in there out. The metal bit inside moves around freely, making contact with the metal walls of the sphere and making sound. Tim can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe—

Tim stumbles over to the sinks, ripping a paper towel from the dispenser and tearing a small piece off. The bells swing wildly with him, and one makes noise and it sounds like a million church bells ringing in his ears, like an alarm wailing the whole place is about to blow, an alarm screeching here, he’s here, here here here!—

Tim shoves paper towel pieces into the bell. And it’s quiet again.

He swears he can still hear it echoing, though.

He compacts the paper towel as much as he can into the bell, and then does it in the others. They are all silent, except the metal of the bell’s sphere hits the metal of the manacles every once in a while and makes a dull clunk, and normally that’s okay but right now he just can’t stop hearing it.

Tim curls up on the floor, eyes tracking all around the room. He stays as still as he can, waiting.

Searching.

Coiled like a snake.

Ready to fight for his freedom once more.

Eventually, he can breathe again. Eventually, he turns off the shower and brushes through his hair while staring blankly into the distance. Eventually, he doesn’t feel safe, but he feels less like there’s a crosshair actively trained on him. 

Tim turns the shower back on to wash his clothing, and avoids his wrists getting wet as much as he can.

He’s such a fucking mess. Stop being a goddamn baby, get your shit together, and be a fucking adult.

He’s been doing it since he was eight, he should be able to do it at twice that age.

Stand up straight.

Your dignity is worth more than your life and visible embarrassment is an unforgivable sin.

Tim pulls himself together, because he has to.

~4~

 Tim tries to use the bathroom hand dryers to speed up the clothing drying as he begins to shiver from the cold, but they make a ton of noise and it makes him insanely jittery and paranoid. He resigns to just lay the clothes out as well as he can on some towels spread over a changing bench. He uses some more towels as blankets for the time being, finding the most defensible place in the restroom to get some sleep. He picks a bench in the corner, and lays his miserably exhausted body down. He closes his eyes…

And curses every god he doesn’t believe in, because Tim is wide awake.

He’s spent the last who-the-fuck-knows-how-long either sedated by drugs, half awake, drowsy, wide awake in paranoia, or just horribly restless in general— and over all, unsafe. Tim doesn’t feel much safer now than he did in Ra’s base. At least there he had medication to knock him out.

Here, injured, in the cold gym bathroom? 

Tim isn’t gonna get much rest.

Tim closes his eyes and hopes that if he’s pretending to be asleep, it’ll do something. It’s the best he’s got.

~4~

When his time is up, Tim redresses himself in his somewhat-dry clothing once more. It’s still a little cold and damp in some spots, and putting it on wracks his body with shivers, but he’ll be outside soon enough. He’s cramping with hunger, but it’s not the first time he’s dealt with such a nuisance and it won’t be the last.

Standing on his injured feet, even once they are wrapped, makes him want to scream. Instead, he bites his cheek until he tastes blood, then moves to trying to chew off his bottom lip for the sake of not having a hole in the side of his face.

He breathes slow and stilted, remembers what he’s doing and why he has to do it, what could happen if he doesn’t—making his brain go into that mode where everything’s a little easier and it all hurts a little less.

Tim slips out of the gym and the dry, hot morning air almost shocks him back into his body, but he makes to ignore it. He starts heading towards the airport.

On his way, he carefully enters a drugstore when nobody is around the entrance to see him and be suspicious of his appearance. Tim doesn’t pay the cameras too much mind, he doesn’t exist here to find and he’ll be gone in under a minute, as he tucks some makeup into the waist of his pants and palms a small bottle of over-the-counter pain meds. Ibuprofen, his dear friend, it is good to see you again. He immediately dry swallows a few once he’s outside.

Batman would be extremely disappointed, but Tim is painfully aware that sometimes you have to be a less-than-upstanding citizen to survive. The multimillion dollar company that owns the drugstore will survive him taking twenty bucks of drugstore makeup and a travel bottle of ibuprofen.

His ability to do so? Well, he’s sending hugs and kisses Selina’s way. And 10 million in cash when he gets back.

Tim secures the makeup and ibuprofen the best he can in his waistband (literally he could not hate Ra’s more, Tim doesn’t even get pockets?!?!) and when he makes it to the airport, he sits down somewhere out of the way and waits. Eyes on the clock.

When the right time comes, Tim stands up and walks through the sea of people. Trying to find the best subject as soon as possible— there.

One of the airline hostesses, having just gotten off one of the overnight flights, is heading towards one of the employees’ doors. Tim waits a few minutes, and eventually sees her exit once more-- in regular clothing and holding a medium sized purse. He was hinging his whole plan on the likelihood that one of the airline hostesses, at least one, would be clocking out and heading home. 

Tim walks past a cart of luggage and kicks it as hard as he can, sending the entire thing toppling over loudly,

He walks away so smoothly and swiftly, nobody even notices his departure. However, it is taking every desperate little shred of strength in his soul not to shriek.

Fucking fuck fuck me fuck my life fucking fucker my fucking foot oh my god—

Burnt skin+foot+no shoes+kicking=fuck him and all he’s ever done.

He hopes Ra’s gets scabies.

The crash causes utter chaos in the crowd as people freak out from the mess, or scream about their precious luggage, etc, etc. Tim keeps his eye on the hostess, sweating from pain but not swaying from his mission. 

Tim’s luck seems to take a quick detour into Good land when he’s given an alternative from the snatch and grab during the hustle and bustle he was going to do. One of the other employees recognizes the hostess, and requests her help with the mess. Bless his singular lucky star, because she sets her bag down a few feet from the mess alongside other employee equipment and gets to helping.

Tim steals her bag.

Cool your jets, he’s gonna give all its real-valued stuff back. He would feel terribly guilty taking anyone's (civilian's) wallet or phone. He’s trying to minimize his damage here.

Tim gets back into the employees area. It’s no sweat getting into the locker rooms, digging the hostesses keys out of her bag (and getting a glimpse at her ID, he’s so sorry Miss Amani Yusuf) and finding her locker. His lucky stars seem to hold up for just a little bit (as they should, they fucking owe him) because she keeps all she would need— and subsequently all he needs— here in her locker.

There are other ways he could do this, but all of them are more complicated or significantly less likely to work. Tim needs an overt reason to be on the plane and he needs to blend in. 84% of airline hosts are female, so this is how it’s gotta go.

Tim snatches the clothing and shoes, empties the purse of all personal items into the locker and shuts the locker before anybody comes in and realizes they don’t recognize him. He slips into a bathroom stall with the now-empty purse to change.

Tim puts his stolen items in the bag and strips all his clothes off, except the wraps on his feet for now. He takes what was originally the cloth wrapped around his waist, having since served as a scarf to cover his collar, and uses it to wrap widely around his waist once more. He tightens it to an uncomfortable level, using it to cinch his waist, it being the only available tool he has at the moment to make his form appear more feminine. It’s gonna have to make due. Tim winces at the painful pressure it puts on his wound, but it’s still not as bad as his feet, so he’s probably fine.

He puts on the white button up over that, and then the navy suit jacket. The locker contained skin-tone stockings, thank fuck, because Tim has not waxed his legs recently.

…yes, recently. Shut up, it’s so much easier to wear a skin-tight armored suit when you don’t have body hair. If you had leg hair ripped out by sweat-tacky suit pants you’d understand.

The navy skirt follows the tights, and then Tim uses the weird neck thing every airline seems to have as part of the uniform (do you call it a scarf, or an ascot?) to conveniently cover the suspicious collar. No-show socks replace the wraps on his feet, and… hm.

Tim can pretend that the wrist manacles (maybe even the collar, if he didn’t have the scarf) are an odd fashion choice, but the ankle ones just aren’t going to slide. 

Tim rips off the bottoms of the legs of the pants Ra’s dressed him in and he folds the raw edge in, pulling them onto his lower legs. He can let them slide down some and scrunch up (they aren’t elastic enough to hold themselves up anyway) and they can probably pass as poorly-chosen leg warmers. It’s the best he’s got for covering the anklets.

Tim sits down on the toilet so he doesn’t fall and goes to put the shoes on— oh. Aw, hell.

Tim stares at the navy heels like they killed his dog and stole his lunch money.

The last thing Tim wants to do to his burnt feet is put them in a pair of heels. Unfortunately, Tim is going to have to. As he has said before and will say again:

Tim has lived this long for a reason, and that reason is not because he sits on his ass and wallows like a little bitch. It’s because he puts his big-boy stilettos on and gets shit done.

So on. They. Go.

So far everything has fit him surprisingly well, and the heels follow that trend. They’re a tad tight, but it could be way worse. He doesn’t stand yet, staying seated to use his stolen makeup to further sell his female role and follow the airline dress code for makeup. Neutral eyeshadows (his best friend, as the compact has a mirror) also double as contour, well-applied eyeliner and mascara do insane things for looking more feminine, and lipstick doubles as blush. Concealer was necessary for him not looking like a sickly patient escaped from the hospice ward, and one of the nearly-white eyeshadows works as powder.

Tim makes sure his hair looks nice and his bangs frame his face well— he finds himself glad for having no time to cut it all in the past few months. It’s about shoulder length all around. He could maybe manage a half-up-do, but not the tight bun that many of the flight attendants have. So Tim leaves it down.

Tim fits all his remaining clothing from Ra’s into the purse. He can’t afford to leave anything. He’s in survival mode, and that means anything he has he needs to keep. He has quite literally nothing but the clothes on his back, anything he can utilize without feeling too guilty, he needs to hang on to.

The wallet, ID, keys and phone would be so very helpful. But Tim can’t do that to the poor woman he’s already stolen so much from, so he settles for what he has. 

Tim stands up and his vision goes white.

It comes back all too fast, Tim holding onto the stall walls with white knuckles, shaking and sweating. Fuck. He can’t do this, he can’t—

He has to.

The plane to New Jersey is leaving soon, and if Tim doesn’t get out there right this second, he’s completely fucked. He needs to leave now. Once it’s reported that one of the attendants had her locker raided for her uniform, security will likely be up and then good fucking luck to him managing to hop a flight.

Tim has to.

So he stands up straight. Nails stabbing into his palms.

Your dignity is worth more than your life and visible embarrassment is an unforgivable sin.

Tim doesn’t feel a single thing in his feet. Or anywhere else. He’s just… not Caroline Hill, because not here, not in this role, it feels wrong. Caroline is an intelligent, sophisticated medical worker with long blond hair and a cool, calm persona. No, he’s just Jenny Lynn. Jenny Lynn, flight attendant, uninjured and normal and ready to go work on her next flight.

Maybe having Janet’s last name will lend him some strength.

Jenny walks gracefully out of the bathroom, glancing at her clearly-female form in the mirrors as she goes. She naturally speaks with her clearly-female voice. She works here, obviously. Perfect. Impeccable. A slight pep to her. Her steps don’t falter. Because she stands up straight, and doesn’t embarrass herself, or anybody else.

Don’t be weak. Get the job done.

~4~

Curious as to how Tim got on the plane? So is he! So is fucking he. That wasn’t even skill for the most part, just the most insane luck he’s had since he got to this godforsaken hellscape!

All he did, essentially, was bat his eyes and slip right through when the other attendants were boarding. He had a whole excuse lined up and everything for his lack of credentials, he had eight back up plans— and in the end he just walked in.

It always astounds him how much you can get done when you wear a uniform.

The other attendants asked if he was new, citing they didn’t recognize him— and Jenny took over, ditsy and excited for her new job. She's peppy, and has never needed to feel truly afraid or trapped. She's nervous in this new experience, but good spirited and looking for a bit of guidance on her first cross-ocean flight. 

It, miraculously, went off without a hitch.

Hours later, the plane lands in a New Jersey airport, and Jenny steps foot onto American soil.

Jenny, Tim, slips out of the airport with ease and releases a tense breath. He looks around. No car, no money for a cab, no phone, no contacts— just some heels, bells, and a tube of lipstick.

“Shit. What now?”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5

~5~

It, miraculously, went off without a hitch.

Hours later, the plane lands in a New Jersey airport, and Jenny steps foot onto American soil.

Jenny, Tim, slips out of the airport with ease and releases a tense breath. He looks around. No car, no money for a cab, no phone, no contacts— just some heels, bells, and a tube of lipstick.

“Shit. What now?”

~5~

Tim really didn’t think he’d get this far, so he’s kind of flying by the seat of his pants— well. The seat of his skirt, if you want to be picky about it.

He needs to ditch the attendant outfit as soon as possible, but his only other option currently is Ra’s creepy clothes, which is not gonna blend in at all. Plus, he has no shoes besides these damn heels, and his feet were already hurting before he put them on. He’s not returning to the whole barefoot situation, and in New Jersey? He’d lose both legs to gangrene within the day.

Money. Money is first. You can’t do a lot without funds, and transportation to Gotham is gonna cost him.

Tim needs to find a bar.

Jenny needs to find a bar.

~5~

Tim dresses down Jenny’s look. He takes off the suit jacket, he removes the scarf— he can pass the whole collar situation off as a fashion choice, tons of people wear stuff like that. It even matches his bracelets. He leaves the ugly leg warmer situation as it is, because there’s no alternative. He shoves those into the purse as best as he can beside his other clothes. The dress shirt would look better untucked and tied into a crop-top situation, but it would show the wrap around his waist.

Some extra makeup here, a risque-but-still-gender-concealing number of buttons undone there, and Jenny looks a little more like she’s just out to have some fun. Tim’s got enough for pecs that having removed the suit jacket isn’t an issue, he can pass as a generally flat-chested woman.

A tad more lipstick-for-blush gives him a little more of a flush, and Jenny’s stage is set.

It’s not hard to find a bar around these parts, and Jenny clocks various just fine. She can even afford to be picky about what kind of bar it is. Not completely trashy, but certainly not anything shiny, new, or expensive. Just a bit sketchier than your average-joe’s bar. Nowhere you’d lose an organ (ha, too late to avoid that one) but also not somewhere you’d take a date, even an extremely casual one.

Most importantly, it advertises the use of its pool tables.

It is astoundingly and disturbingly easy as a girl. The bar was far more willing to let Jenny in despite her clear baby face, simply because she appeared to be a woman (which is awful because he knows why but right now it’s an advantage, so he won’t think about it) and men are so easily tricked by a pretty lady. 

Jenny doesn’t even manage to take a seat before there are eyes on her and she has a few targets offering themselves up for her slaughter.

A man slides himself into her personal space, calling for the bartender to get the sweet thing a drink, would ya? Take your pick. I’m Alex, by the way. Tim finds himself a little surprised at the speed with which Jenny was approached. Maybe she’s this guy's type.

She smiles coyly, accepting the offer. Jenny orders a Mojito— not particularly high in alcohol content, similar in concentration to a glass of wine when fully drank, and sizable enough that you can get away with only drinking half of the thing and not looking rude. Also it has a straw, and lots of men have a weird attraction to that. (Tim knows why, but he really doesn’t get it. The only appeal he personally sees is not putting lipstick stains on the glass.)

“Thanks,” she says airily, looking up at Alex in a way that isn’t overtly flirtatious, but adds to her whole persona. “My names Jenny,” she introduces herself.

“So, you here to have some fun, Jenny?” Alex asks, looking her over with a smirk. He’s tall, maybe mid-late twenties. His tan and build suggests manual labor. His hands confirm it.

Jenny smiles cheekily, tilting her head playfully. “Maybe,” she giggles. Alex leans in, and Jenny leans back with a smirk. “Was going try to play some pool. I love games. They’re tons of fun,” she says, standing up with her drink. 

Alex stands up to follow her, trailing behind as Jenny saunters over to the pool tables. Her heels click satisfyingly against the ground and two other men approach the table she was heading for.

She didn’t even have to invite anyone over. Perfect.

First, Jenny chums the water. “I haven’t played pool in years! This is going to be so much fun! Hopefully I’m not too rusty,” she giggles, smiling at Alex and the other two who approached.

Then, the first two-rounds is putting the bait on the hook. The other two men introduce themselves, (Don, who looks a bit old to be going after someone like her, and Noah, who looks too young to be in this establishment, not that she can say anything) and everyone (mostly Alex and Don) is so eager to help her learn how to play, kindly correcting her stances (although he knows none of them were incorrect, Tim isn’t an idiot.) and putting their hands on her. Encouraging bends over the pool table that feel slimy and gross. She doesn’t like it, not one bit, but she doesn't have much of a choice. Maybe if it was because she wanted to look hot, if she felt hot, felt safe, it would be fun to flirt around and play coy– but it isn’t. A few uncomfortable ‘joking’ comments are made about her ‘interesting jewelry’ that she tries to just laugh off. They play her versus Noah, and Don versus Alex. Noah actually seems to know what he’s doing, and Jenny can clearly tell he lets her win their round; Alex beats Don in their round, who doesn’t look too happy about it.

Next, she casts the line. “Hey! I actually think I’ve kind of got it!” she chirps, bouncing a little. “Ooo– what if we do a bet round?! That sounds like so much fun, I’ve always wanted to try placing money on a game! Uh– is 15 a normal amount?” They jump to play the round with her, everyone putting down 15 dollars, although Noah says he’ll stay out and just watch. Jenny has a feeling that he’s getting some kind of vibe from her and can sense he’s in danger. Good for him.

They set it up to play Cut Throat, and the game begins. The hook and bait floats in the water, a tantalizing prize. Jenny loses with a faux pout, Don taking the game. She whines a little, holding her pool cue in one hand and mojito in the other. Alex groans, pulling a ten and a five out as Don extends a hand to both of them with a smirk, looking to collect his cash.

Jenny pouts, but then grins. She sets her drink down. “Wait!” she exclaims. “I don’t wanna end the game yet, I’m having fun! ...what about one more bet? A bit of a double or nothing, kind of thing?” She leans forward, batting her eyes and resting the base of the pool cue on the floor.

Hook.

The two look at her with interest, and Noah listens from the sideline.

Line.

“If I win…” she smiles innocently, “You pay up triple the amount the first round played for.” Before they can look too affronted by the idea, Jenny continues. “If you win…” she leans in, as if sharing a secret, “You both keep your money, I go home with the biggest winner for the night,” she finishes in a soft, flirty voice.

Sinker.

Both Don and Alex accept without a thought. Jenny loves when people are predictable.

She sees Noah’s eyes widen, his head snapping up with realization as the two other men approach the pool table with arrogance and swagger. Jenny sends Noah a wink, and he visibly suppresses a grin. He leans back with a smirk, taking a sip of his beer.

“What, not gonna try your hand at this round, kid?” Don jeers.

Noah just shakes his head, still smirking, totally relaxed. “Nah. I’m having plenty of fun over here. I’m just gonna watch. You guys have fun though!”

They set up the game once more, Don and Alex glaring at each other and occasionally glancing at her and chuckling smugly. Jenny can’t wait to tear them both apart.

Maybe it's a little survival. Maybe it's a little revenge for the hands they put on her and the words they said with leers and intent.

It’s almost too easy. Pool is math, angles he can do in his sleep—- and the two men are too busy posturing at each other to even notice her set the table within her first few shots. They aren’t even trying to sink her billiards, too focused on sinking each others’ to remember that they still have to beat her to win.

A few minutes later, and they finally seem to notice that they’re awfully short on billiards, and she is awfully rich in them. Jenny cheerfully proclaims that it’s her turn now after Alex’s shot misses its mark. She lines up her cue, eyes scanning the table; everything in its place, angles as they should be.

Clonk! The ball clacks, set rolling across the table.

Sunk.

Sunk.

Sunk.

Jenny raises her hands above her head, the cue narrowly missing Don’s head. The bartender glares at her. “Whoo!” she cheers, grinning. She hops a little, and grits her teeth at the horrible wave of black spots that plague her vision for a second. But ignores it, of course, because Jenny Lynn is just out to have some fun and is uninjured and normal. “Three in one shot! What a lucky line up!”

She takes her next shot, allowing herself to grin sharply. A shark-tooth smile pulls across her face, lipstick looking a little more like blood.

Clack!

Sunk.

Sunk.

Don is out.

“Oh!” she chirps, “Those were yours, right Don?” Don’s eyes are wide, and he stares at the table with shock and disbelief. “Aw, that sucks! Well, better luck next time!” Jenny takes aim once more.

Clack! 

Sunk.

Sunk.

Next shot.

Clunk!

Sunk. 

Alex is out.

The men don’t even say anything. They both just stare, frozen in shock.

Noah walks up to Jenny, holding out a lowball with a finger or so of whiskey in it. He’s grinning just as sharply as she is. “Here. For a bit of courage,” he smirks. 

Jenny grins widely, eyes narrowed mischievously. “Aw, thanks, Noah! I was getting a little nervous there for a second,” she giggles. Maybe it’s a drinking crime not to appreciate the flavor or whatever, but Jenny shoots the whiskey effortlessly, setting the empty glass down on the nearby table. The half-drunken and clearly neglected mojito stands pitifully next to it. She’s not really a rum girl, sue her. Mommy and Daddy were rich, she grew up on sophisticated drinks; wine, and whiskey. She's a classy girl.

Noah leans in with a smug grin, a cover for the words he whispers to her. “Nice hustle, sweetheart. They’re ‘bouta be pissed though, and if they catch on to your extra equipment downstairs, they’ll turn you into pavement art. I got you a cab, you got like, a minute.” She startles momentarily, a jolt of panic going through her as she realizes he’s figured out the Tim behind the Jenny. But Noah leans back with some satisfaction, not looking angry or vengeful. He reaches forward and tucks a bar napkin with a number on it into the waist of her skirt. “You’re my type, sugar. Hit me up sometime if you want to play another game. Maybe next time, I’ll take you up on that bet,” he says cheekily, giving her a wink.

The panic turns into pure mischief. Finally having a bit of fun, Jenny plants a flirty kiss on Noah’s cheek, leaving a red lipstick mark. “Good luck with whoever you play next!”

Noah saunters off with a cheeky wave.

Jenny just wants to make her point, so she lines up once more…

Clack!

Sunk.

Sunk.

Sunk.

Sunk.

Her last ball, the 8 because she’s dramatic, sinks.

Jenny is out.

5 in 1 and she’s done.

“That was so much fun!” she cheers, grinning. Jenny yawns dramatically, “Well, I think I’m done for the night. Maybe we can play again sometime! I’m gonna head out.” She struts up to Alex and Don, who still look like they’re trying to wake up from a weird dream. Alex hands over 45 dollars in a total daze, and Jenny has to take the initiative to claim her 45 from Don’s wallet, before tucking it back into his pocket. Jenny gleefully slides the 90 total into her purse.

“Bye, boys! Have a nice night!” she bids farewell, wiggling her fingers in a cheeky, flirtatious wave. She peppily heads for the door, grinning as she spots Noah playing a game of pool a few tables over, smugly collecting bills from a few grumpy-looking patrons. They catch each other's gaze, nodding in solidarity. 

Jenny leaves the bar, the bell on the exit door lighting her nerves with horror and anxiety. But she ignores it, because Jenny Lynn has never been kidnapped, and has never felt trapped, or humiliated and scared. The air outside is cold, and she shivers in her white button-up, but makes her way to the cab waiting for her.

Jenny slides into the vehicle, answering the driver’s where to? with ‘the nearest thrift store.’ She takes the ibuprofen out of her purse, popping a few.

Jenny relaxes, breathing out a sigh of relief. Tim pulls the napkin out of his waistband, looking at the number and the '-Noah'  labeling it. He hums, shoving it into the purse. Who knows, maybe it’ll be useful.

He really should play pool more often.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 6

~6~

Jenny slides into the vehicle, answering the driver’s where to? with ‘the nearest thrift store.’ She takes the ibuprofen out of her purse and pops a few.

Jenny relaxes, breathing out a sigh of relief. Tim pulls the napkin out of his waistband, looking at the number and the -Noah labeling it… He hums, shoving it into the purse. Who knows, maybe it’ll be useful.

He really should play pool more often.

~6~

Thankfully, the taxi fare isn’t too bad since the thrift store isn’t far, but Tim still cringes a little when he hands over 15 of his 90 dollars. Because city prices. Worth it though, to not get his ass kicked and/or have to walk or run in heels with foot injuries.

His legs are still agonizingly sore from the trek through the desert and standing on the plane.

Tim gets out of the taxi with 75 dollars, a purse of stolen makeup, stolen ibuprofen, and some pool hustler’s number. He goes to walk into the thrift store and immediately has to let a little Jenny through, because fucking ow.

One can only wear heels so long when they aren’t injured– the first thing Tim is buying is new shoes.

Jenny peruses the isles, starting with the shoe racks containing boots. There’s quite a few options, but in particular, there’s a pair of somewhat-ratty work boots that still look strong where it matters. They’re brown and well-soled, but more importantly, they are just a bit big for him and they go up to about mid-calf. Which means they’ll be tall enough to cover the ankle manacles, and loose enough to actually go over them. Perfect. Jenny– Tim– they check the insides thoroughly to be sure of no hard-to-see problems, and decide they’ll work. 10 dollars isn’t bad.

They move to the clothes racks with bags piled on top, and quickly find a decently sturdy dark-green backpack. They’ve been stuffing all they can into the purse for now, and it’s long since looked quite awkward– having clothing from Ra’s shoved in there, parts of the attendant uniform stuffed in, the makeup— it’s getting a bit tight, looking a little like a lumpy, overstuffed pillow. A backpack is also just more convenient overall. They shove the boots in the backpack for the moment so it's easier to carry.

The backpack is 5 dollars, so that brings their total up to 15. The weather can be brutal in Gotham, so they find a black long-sleeve for 5 dollars, a hefty, oversized hoodie for 8, and some sturdy jeans for 7 dollars. The thrift store doesn't sell underwear for sanitary reasons, but they find a pair of unopened, fuzzy socks for a dollar and a thick scarf for 2 dollars.

A total of 38 dollars is gonna hurt, but it’s a small price to pay for warmth and comfort.

They walk up to the checkout and Jenny takes over once more.

“You ready to check out?” the girl at the register asks. 

“Yup!” Jenny chirps, setting her items down. The girl gives the required spiel about thrift store items not being returnable, and Jenny nods along. Before Jenny hands over the money, she pauses. “Oh, actually– do you guys sell combination locks?”

The worker thinks for a moment, then nods. “Yeah, I think we have some. Sporting goods section, the combination will be taped on the back. I can hold this for a second while you go grab one?”

Jenny nods with gratitude, making a quick trip to the sporting section. She finds a decent, sturdy looking lock, hustling back over to the checkout. An extra 3 dollars is added to the total.

41 dollars lighter now, (34 dollars left isn’t awful, it could be worse. It can always be worse.) Jenny receives her plastic bags of clothing and related items. “Do you mind if I change here?” she asks. The worker nods, gesturing to the changing rooms and watching to make sure Jenny doesn’t bring anything in with her that she didn’t just purchase.

Jenny sits down on the changing room bench, putting all her bags on the floor, and unbuttons her shirt. She shrugs the dress shirt off, and then removes the leg warmers and the skirt. The heels come off, and they bite their tongue hard enough to taste blood when their feet are allowed to go back to a flat, natural position. Starbursts of white flare in their vision, but that’s probably fine. He unwraps the waist cinch, and fuck, that was almost worse than the heels!-- He rewraps the waist situation, but not tight and cinching, more like a wide bandage now. The surgery site is red and irritated, and Tim cringes at the sight. Yeah, he’s just gonna cover that back up. The no-show socks come off because they aren’t really comfortable, and Tim–

Tim almost fucking blacks out.

The socks are wet. They peel off miserably, and Tim breathes heavily, mouth open and saliva pooling in his throat. He dumps one of the plastic bags of thrifted items on the floor to empty the bag because he feels the urge to heave and there's a very real threat of him vomiting.

The worst part about not being Jenny is that Jenny gets to be uninjured. Jenny doesn’t have to be in pain. Tim doesn’t get much of a choice.

Tim can’t– he can’t look at them. He can't. Not here.

He can’t do anything about them. There’s nothing he can do right now. They probably aren’t even that bad. He’ll be fine. He will be. Which is perfect, because he’s helpless to his injuries and there’s nothing he can do right now.

Tim pops a few more ibuprofen, swallowing them and the thick, nauseous saliva. Because it’s really all he can think to do.

He pulls down the tights, and peels those off his feet with the dress shirt shoved in his mouth. His teeth dig into the fabric as the nylon comes off, and when he’s done and spits the fabric out, the white of the dress shirt has little red splotches on it. Some of it is lipstick, some of it is definitely blood from the various bitten parts of his mouth. His lashes are somewhat damp now, and he better not have ruined his eyeliner. This shit said waterproof and he’s gonna sue if that turns out to be a lie. The last thing he wants is to come out of this dressing room looking like he was crying like a little bitch.

(No, he isn’t using a superficial problem to deflect from his crushing, suffocating anxiety regarding something he can’t change or control— oh how Tim misses control.)

Tim rips up the ugly leg warmers he made and uses them to bandage his feet, still avoiding actually observing and cataloging his injuries. He’ll do all that when he’s in an actual secure location where he can have the privacy and time to deal with wounds. He shoves his new fuzzy socks over the makeshift bandages, and suddenly notices just how cold he is. Actually… he’s been cold for a while. How long? Since leaving the bar? Since before? Since the plane? Since the shower?

Tim puts the jeans on, then his long sleeve and hoodie. He puts the scarf on and feels better once the collar is covered. He winces when he puts the boots on. They cover the anklets however, which is a win.

Tim folds everything salvageable up, shoving the disturbingly damp socks and the partially-ruined tights into the stained dress shirt and wrapping it up in one of the plastic bags from his purchases. He shoves everything, makeup, money, plastic bags and purse included, into the big pocket of the backpack. Then, he takes the combination lock, memorizes the numbers on the tape before peeling it off and wadding it up to throw away, and hooks the lock through the holes in the two zippers. The lock “chink”s shut, giving his bag a little more security. Won’t stop someone from cutting the bag open, but it will stop pickpocketing and will generally deter theft.

Tim stands, doing his best not to groan in pain and succeeding. He checks his face in the mirror, and deems it okay. No running mascara or anything. He grits his teeth, forcing himself to put on a neutral expression, and leaves the dressing room.

The girl at the register glances over with the opening of the dressing room door, and does a double take. She blinks hard, as if trying to clear her vision.

They stare each other down.

Tim purses his lips.. “It was, uh– amateur drag night.” He clears his throat awkwardly.

The girl just nods. “Shit. Yeah, damn, okay. Uh, have a good one, mis– uh-! Sir!...”

Tim snorts. “You too.”

Tim leaves the thrift store, feeling far more secure and far more prepared now. Back when he first discovered that he wasn’t quite home-sweet-home universe wise, Tim made a checklist of things he needed before anything else. A shower, new clothes, a place he recognizes, and food. He’s pretty much achieved one through three (‘pretty much’ referring to the fact that he isn’t in Gotham yet, but at least he’s in the US and on the East Coast), and food can wait a little bit longer. He’s set enough to think of a plan while he walks to the nearest train station. He’s going on day-something with no sleep and he hasn’t had caffeine in even longer, so he’s probably all over the fucking place but he’ll feel better if he has an idea of a plan.

He needs to find his way back.

How?

Welp. Fuck if he knows.

Tim has no ID, no funds, no connections, he has jack-didly-shit. He’s got a goal, and that’s about it. 

He could contact the Justice League and explain his situation, but his best evidence is just that he knows the identities of tons of them, but that doesn’t exactly prove that he’s from another universe. He might just sound crazy. Tim would normally say 'of course they'll believe it, it's the Justice League! They deal with crazy magic everyday!'--- but nobody believed him about Bruce, and time stuff is way more familiar than dimension travel. The Flash family, people! And Bruce's 'death' was super suspicious. And yet... nobody would believe him. They all treated him as if he were insane. So suffice to say, Tim has a few trust issues regarding other heroes and vigilantes at the moment. But with enough accumulated evidence and luck, it could work, so that is an option. He could definitely do it, or at least he'd like to think so, but then he’ll get all wrapped up in the Justice League, and what if they can’t find a way to get him back? And he really doesn't want to risk being seen as some crazy villain startup throwing them a story to get into their shit. He’ll... think about it some more.

…or.

Tim can go with his specialty-- not bothering anybody else and figuring it out on his own. Tim can get his shit together. Heal up. Gain some power so he can infiltrate Ra’s base in this world and pray that he can find the same artifact/combination of artifacts that did this to him in the first place, and recreate the whole scenario. Maybe minus the kidnapping and drugs. Blow the place to high-fuckin-heaven and pray that clicking his sparkly heels together three times and saying there’s no place like home will bring him back to the same dimension he left. Hopefully not right where he left, because thousands of pounds of rubble, and fire, and yadda yadda but if he wound up outside of Ra’s base here, there’s a decent chance he’ll wind up outside the base there.

He can’t believe “Ra’s, artifacts and explosions-- Part Two" is his best plan. Well.

He’s already died once. What’s once more?

~6~

Tim spends around 10 dollars for a sleeve of crackers, a cup of coffee and a water bottle at the next convenience store he sees. He’s down to 23 dollars and change.

They were the best damn crackers he’s ever eaten, though.

Okay, so here’s the current plan; Tim is going to take a train as close and as cheap as he can to Gotham. Then, he’ll see what’s more reasonable; a bus, or walking. Reasonable distance wise, and funds wise. His cash has gotten real low real fast.

Being broke as a joke is not a feeling he is familiar with– Tim has been a rich kid since he was conceived, and oh boy this whole ‘limited budget’ thing is stressful. 

He gets the ibuprofen out of his bag and takes just one more.

~6~

Three trains and a bus later and Tim is as close as he’s getting.

Also he has 4 dollars.

Tim starts walking.

~6~

Tim is starting to have extremely vivid ‘trekking through the desert for miles searching for humanity’ flashbacks. The aching legs, agonizing foot pain, exhaustion– yeah, this is Desert 2, Jersey Shore Edition.

His feet hurt.

Good (bad?) news is Tim is definitely getting closer, because he’s had to start sneaking around to avoid being the victim of a crime. It sucks major ass, because Ouch All Over isn't conducive to stealth, but he’s a professional. 

…

Don’t laugh, Tim is very professional!

He trips over a crack, “Oh you fucking bitch fucker—-”

~6~

When Tim gets to Gotham, it’s the next day. People are beginning their morning commutes, and Tim is about to pass out on the sidewalk like a supremely drunk college student.

Tim stands in the middle of the bustling human traffic, just staring in a daze. A rat is eating a cheese puff the size of its head in the alley next to him. He thinks the rat might be giving him a side-eye. It’s somehow even more judgmental than the one he received from the convenience store owner.

Why did Tim want to come here again?

Screaming starts somewhere down the block.

Ah, right— familiarity.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 7

~7~

Tim stands in the middle of the bustling human traffic, just staring in a daze. A rat is eating a cheese puff the size of its head in the alley next to him. He thinks the rat might be giving him a side-eye. It’s somehow even more judgmental than the one he received from the convenience store owner.

Why did Tim want to come here again?

Screaming starts somewhere down the block.

Ah, right— familiarity.

~7~

Tim likes to be useful. He likes to help. To assist.

He is not in the right shape to be helpful at the current moment.

So while normally Tim would run towards the terrified screaming, right now he’s just going to be pretty much useless, so he’s going to make an intelligent decision and proceed in the opposite direction. For his health and safety.

SIKE!

Tim is walking towards the screaming. As per his job description as a whack job vigilante.

Nobody who puts on themed skin-tight Kevlar and flips off buildings is sane (or straight), and Tim likes to make sure he represents his species in all situations. So fucked up feet or not, he’s gonna go fuck around and find out.

Tim weaves through the crowd expertly despite his condition, his mind settling into the space carved out for Red Robin. He had to take a hammer and chisel to the space not too long ago, expanding what was made to fit just Robin, and the growing pains were agonizing— but now Red fits comfortably in the cavity. He's a little darker now, a little more cynical, a little more red.

The mission-mindset helps him to block out the pains and aches, focused on doing what he can to help.

Scarecrow gas rolls across the ground in chemical waves, and Red Robin groans. Great. Fantastic. Guess that good luck ran out, huh?

It’s early morning too, so there’s a chance Batman just left the streets. A very good chance. Which means this is on Red Robin to deal with, as a currently active vigilante.

Red Robin runs towards the chemical clouds, pulling his scarf up and over his mouth, as well as holding his breath once he’s in the thick of it. He ties the ends of his scarf behind his head to better secure it.

Red has a little over a minute until he needs to breathe again. He’ll run in and out, getting who he can. If there are any goons with filtration masks, he’ll incapacitate them, remove them from the affected area, and take the mask for himself. Solid enough plan.

Red Robin searches through the fog for civilians. He finds a woman curled up on the floor and hyperventilating, and a man lashing out in fright not too far from her. Red picks up the woman, who struggles against him, and removes her from the area as fast as he can. There are EMTs already on scene outside the affected area; it seems they work faster in this universe– or maybe it's just luck. He’d like to think it’s normal here.

Red runs back into the fog for the man, restraining his arms behind his back and shoving him along until they’re out. He takes a deep breath of the safe air. 

He goes back. Finds three more people, gets two out at once, and goes back for the third. His muscles burn with the exertion and lack of oxygen. Burn like fire and rubble and alarms blaring, explosions as he lays helplessly on the ground. Red Robin turns to head back in–

Red Robin can hear one of the EMTs yelling, calling for someone.

“Kid! Kid, stop, get back here!” the EMT calls, sounding anxious. “Somebody get him out of there!”

There’s a kid? There’s a kid. There’s a kid somewhere in the gas. Red Robin needs to find him.

Red runs deeper into the gas.

He doesn’t see anyone. The kid. Where’s the kid? He’s probably afraid. Scared.

Red Robin runs in circles, head snapping from left to right. Nobody. He makes sure the cloth is covering his mouth, calling, “Kid! Is anyone out here!?” Red looks down alleys and behind cars.

He should leave, they probably got out– no, no no no he needs to find them. He needs to find the kid-- the person. She’s here, he knows she is. Somewhere, alive, but afraid.

She’s still here. “Pru!” Red Robin calls out. “Prudence! Where are you!?” He runs, searching desperately. The sounds of bells start to reverberate from him, ringing in his ears. Jingle, jingle, jingle.

She’s here somewhere. He still has her. They need to get out. Red can hear them, he can hear the alarm going off. He needs to find Pru soon, they need to get out of here. The whole place is going to blow. He can hear it, the base rumbling and his bare feet hitting the ground, his bells ringing. He can hear the people pursuing him, chasing him. To bring him back to Ra’s.

Red Robin is grabbed from behind, and he lashes out desperately. He shouts out praying she hears him, “Pru, run! Get out of here!” He kicks at the sizable mass behind him, twisting in their arms as they grunt from the impact. Red hits the ground, falling on his side. White-hot agony explodes in his side, and he lets out an inhuman shriek.

He grits his teeth, kicking out again when a hand tries to grab him by the arm. “Kid, calm down!”

Red Robin’s eyes shoot upwards, a crazed, terrified look in them.

It’s Red Hood.

He’s looming over Red Robin menacingly, covered in blood. His– his throat is slashed. Just like Red’s was. Like Pru’s was.

Hood stumbles back when Red twists his body, sending a punch to his head. “Fuck! C’mon, kid, let me just–” Hood reaches for Red again, who dodges with expert grace. “What the f–?!”

Red sweeps Hood’s feet out from under him, sending the man to the ground like a bag of bricks. The ringing of the bells gets louder, louder, louder.

Red Robin turns tail and bolts.

Footsteps follow behind him, getting louder, louder, louder. The alarms– sirens– alarms blare louder, louder, LOUDER. Red turns corners, one after the other, weaving through obstacles and juking sharply to try and throw his tail.

Hood follows at his heels, and the whispers of insults and berates follow Red Robin. Replacement, pretender, imposter. Cuckoo. It starts to sound like Bruce, a little bit.

Red turns another corner, and—

Slams right into somebody at full speed, sending them both to the ground.

“I got him!”

“Quick!”

Red struggles, eyes widening further as he feels a needle go into him. No, no no no, not again, if Ra’s drugs him again he won’t be able to get out and get Pru and she’ll die, and they won’t know how to save Bruce from the timestream and the building will explode and Tim will die—

“Get it out!” Tim shrieks, thrashing. Some sort of mask is shoved over his face, and he’s restrained tightly by multiple people.

He struggles, and struggles, and—

The fear gas begins to be neutralized by the injection, and the oxygen mask, and Tim is staring up at multiple EMTs. He pants heavily, mouth flooded with saliva and entire body trembling. He’s on the concrete, held down for the safety of others.

Tim forces himself to relax. There are no bells ringing. There are no alarms, only distant police sirens. He’s in Gotham.

Fuck.

Familiarity.

Eventually, the EMTs trust him enough to help him sit up and drink some water. Tim doesn’t say a word as they try to ask him check-up questions, the standard procedure for fear gas. 

He’s waiting for that split second when they all take their eyes off him, and when they look back, he’s gone.

~7~

Tim grunts in pain, dragging himself into an alley far from the scene. He leans against the alley wall, breathing heavily and clutching his side. 

Fucking hell. That was about the Welcome Home he expected from Gotham, no matter the universe. What is scarecrow putting in his gas in this universe? Tim would expect that from one of Scarecrow's injections, but his gas is usually a little more mild... Fucking hell.

He should take some ibuprofen about that.

Tim needs to get his shit together fast. What’s the plan?

Heal up. Gain power. Get to Ra’s. Recreate situation. Blow up.

Ugh! No! That isn’t a plan! Those are just goals. Tim needs to make a real plan. How is he going to heal? How is he going to gain power? How will he get to Ra’s? How will he make sure to recreate the exact situation? How does— well, no, he knows how he’s gonna blow up. So that’s something.

Tim’s head snaps to the right, sure he heard something. It snaps to the left, positive a ringing sounded off from that direction. But no. Nothing that ain’t supposed to be there.

Plan. Healing. How does Tim heal? Well, he needs bandages and disinfectant— which he can’t afford. So, not healing first. Money. Money first. Tim can—

He whips around, staring down the alley again. Feeling a chill down his spine. Tim listens, but hears nothing.

…oookay. So. The fear gas might have resulted in Tim having his paranoia cranked like that Soulja Boy.

Plan change, sleep first. It’s been days, and he doesn’t think the time he laid on the concrete in a daze due to fear gas counts.

Tim doesn’t have a lot of options, so he’s gonna be roughing it. He could break into Drake manor, but he has no way of guaranteeing they still even own that manor considering his parents aren’t even married here, there could just be some other unassuming rich family there that didn’t expect Tim would be crashing their dinner party. Plus, he really can’t walk there right now, not with his injuries, and he has no money for a cab. Hitchhiking in Gotham is holding up a big neon sign that says ‘murder me and sell my organs’ or whatever is left of his— and nobody going to Bristol is gonna pick up a hitchhiker.

Tim… Tim is gonna go shoplift a pocket knife. Guess he’s taking his chances sleeping on the streets.

~7

Tim stares at the Hello Kitty pocket knife.

He’s pretty sure this is for cutting fruit, but like— humans are kind of like fruit, right? Skin. Pulp, of a sort. Seeds— ew, disregard that one. Humans and bananas are practically twins, genetically. Anyway, it’s probably the shittiest little knife he’s held in his entire life, but it’s what the store had that wasn’t more closely watched.

And it has a little heart-shaped clip so it can attach to your bag! Tim has to give it style points, at least.

Tim shoves his hand holding the knife in his pocket, a finger held carefully over the release. He feels a little safer, now that he has some sort of weapon. Anything is an advantage over nothing. Except for like, those mall weapons. Fuck those things. Tim would rather take a good rock than a shitty aluminum replica of the halo sword that broke immediately, almost blinding him when it sent shrapnel his way.

…if he had ever tried using one, which obviously he hasn’t.

Moving on.

Tim treks his way to his desired location, wincing at the pain in his side. He’s aware of a decent hiding spot near the docks, somewhere he’d camped out in his photography days. Off the ground, well hidden, dark. Perfect for a post kidnapping-death-universe-hopping nap.

It takes him a while to get there, the going slow and painful. By afternoon, he’s dragging his feet through the dangerous streets leading to the docks, and soon after he’s climbing through a broken window and into an old shipping warehouse.

Shipping containers of varying states of disrepair are scattered throughout the warehouse. Tim goes to the back right corner, gritting his teeth and scaling the two stacked containers over there.

There used to be stairs leading up to a file room, above all the shipping containers. You can see the door and the railed platform outside of it— however, the stairs are crumbled to concrete rubble and bent railings. There’s three steps at the bottom and two crumbly ones at the top, with a 30 foot gap between them where the steps used to be.

Standing on top of the two back shipping containers, Tim can get onto the platform and into the file room. There’s a window overlooking the docks inside, which he often took advantage of back in his photography days.

Tim bends his knees, eyes on his target. He runs across the top of the shipping container, putting all his power into jumping— the railings come closer, and Tim grabs onto them with both hands.

“AHK—“ 

Tim chokes on his own scream, hands locking up tight as his entire vision whites out when a screaming, wailing agony pulses from his surgery wound. He sucks in a ragged breath, following it with heaving, wet panting as his mouth floods with saliva and an uncomfortable heat.

Tim’s legs hang in the open air, 20-30 feet from the hard, concrete floor.

He forces himself to drag his body up and over the railing, a high-pitched whine reverberating through the space. Tim drops down over the rail and onto the platform, flat on his back and crushing his bag without care.

That doesn’t last for long, because Tim has to roll over and lean over the open edge lest he choke on his own vomit. The bile hits the ground far below with a nasty splatter, Tim’s throat burning too much for him to cringe about it. He’s probably not the first person to vomit in the building, and probably not even the first to vomit in that specific spot. Oh, Gotham— what a charming city you are.

Perhaps Tim should talk to somebody about his constant need to distract from and downplay his pain using humor.

…nah.

The wound in his side throbs, unrelenting and burning. Tim forces himself into his knees, spitting the sour taste of vomit out of his mouth. So much for those crackers and the water he drank. What he wouldn't give for something to wash the taste out of his mouth...

He’d like nothing more than to lie down right here and rot away, but Tim has a job to do. He has a duty. He has to get home, to return to where he belongs— he has to make sure they get Batman back from the time stream, he has to do his job as a bat himself, he has to be useful.

Tim puts his hands on the ground, bracing himself as he rises to his feet with a bitten-groan.

He turns to the door, eyeing the chain and padlock on it. Tim turns back to the railing, going to the weaker side where the stairs fell. He wiggles a heavy rail bar loose until he can break it loose from the concrete. Tim raises it above his head, swinging down with all his currently available force— most of the time if you just hit one of these things hard enough they— clack!

The padlock pops right open. Perfect. 

Tim opens the door to the file room, stepping in. It’s dark and dirty, the afternoon light struggling to penetrate the layer of dust on the window. Particles of dust float in the air as well, prompting Tim to cover his mouth with his scarf.

Tim shuts the door behind him, but it doesn’t feel like enough security. Someone could come in at any time, right behind Tim, and incapacitate him. The padlock on the other side is fucked and Tim doesn’t have the key for it anyway, but he has a solution. Tim takes the chain that was holding the door closed before, turns the dial on the combination lock on his backpack, and removes it. Then, he uses those to secure the door from the inside, locking himself in the file room. He doesn’t need to lock his backpack if the backpack itself is locked in here with him. He’ll switch them back when he leaves.

Tim is pretty sure he ripped some stitches, so he takes the shitty leg warmers he made out of his backpack, partially unwraps his make-shift bandage, and puts them over the wound before re-tightening the wrap. He'd feel it if he were going to bleed out, so he's sure this will be fine for now.

Tim walks over to the dust-covered window, unlatching it. He tries to lift it up, grunting with the effort– ugh. He needs something to pry it up a little, get it started. The salty air has stuck everything together. He doesn’t want to risk breaking his knife, it’s definitely too cheap not to, so Tim searches the desk, because there should definitely be– ah, yes! A solid-looking letter opener. Tim wiggles the letter opener under the window, levering it until a solid crack sound happens, the wood and paint of the window frame separating from the wood and paint of the sill.

Tim shoves the small window up, dust flying about the room as not-so-fresh Gotham air sweeps into the room. He grabs a manila folder, stepping back and fanning to try and air out the room some, send some of the dust out the window. It’s windy, which helps just a little, a sort of suction-effect happening as air is pulled out of the room.

Tim would do a little more cleaning, dust surfaces off, and sweep– since he’s probably gonna be staying here a while– but right now he just wants to clean the place up enough that he can pass out and not suffocate in his sleep.

Tim decides he’s done enough after a minute or so, and tries to decide if he wants to keep the window cracked just a bit to let fresh air in, or if he wants to shut and latch it for more security. In the end, the paranoia screams over the idea of ease-of-breathing, so Tim shuts and latches the window. Thankfully, not only are these Gotham-built windows made in a way so that they can’t be unlatched from the outside with the usual tricks, but this window in particular is pretty small. Kid Tim could slip right through and Current Tim has no problem shimmying through, but someone like Jason, or your average-build Gotham crook (or vigilante) would have a tough time fitting through. 

Tim unzips his backpack, removing the purse, and then removing the makeup and heels to shove into the purse. He sets that to the side, next removing the Biohazard Bag. The plastic bag from the thrift store tied shut containing the gross socks and tights wrapped in the blood-spotted dress shirt. Tim doesn’t dare open the bag, even though he should probably examine the wound discharge just in case, but he just really, really wants to sleep.

Tim shoves the Biohazard Bag into a corner of the room, dubbing it the trash corner for now. Next, he identifies the most defensible section of the room— in the corner next to the window, not visible to anyone looking in, is the desk he got the letter opener off. There’s no chair, and underneath is covered in dust and cobwebs, but at the moment it looks all too comfortable.

Tim uses the manila folder he had been using as a fan to knock out as many of the cobwebs as he can. He overturns a cardboard box of files, covering the dusty wooden floor under the desk with papers and folders. He empties a second to make his padding and insulation a little thicker. Then, Tim unfolds both empty cardboard boxes so he can lay them out flat on top of the layer of papers. He tosses his backpack, now emptied of hard items, down there to be a pillow and bam! A bed. 

Tim would for sure give this hotel room a 5-star review. He has a balcony, a window view, and the mattress is like sleeping on a cloud!

Tim crawls under the desk, holding his pocket knife tight in his grip as he lays his head down on his backpack. He practically blacks out. See? Comfy.

Tim would kill for a blanket, though.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 8

~8~

Tim would for sure give this hotel room a 5-star review. He has a balcony, a window view, and the mattress is like sleeping on a cloud!

Tim crawls under the desk, holding his pocket knife tight in his grip as he lays his head down on his backpack. He practically blacks out. See? Comfy.

Tim would kill for a blanket, though.

~8~

When Tim wakes up, he’s freezing.

Tim breathes heavily, half expecting to see a puff of condensation escape his lips. He’s shivering, curled up into a painfully-tight ball under the desk, hands (which are white-knuckle gripping the knife) shoved between his chest and legs. He’s all clammy too.

Tim unwinds from his balled up position, wincing at the soreness from the hours he spent like that. The whole world feels like thick jelly, and he must have been asleep for a while. It’s starting to become dark outside. Tim wipes the crust from his eyes with a shaky hand pried from the knife, wincing at the sour, grody taste in his mouth. His breath probably smells caustic.

He doesn’t want to, but he forces himself to stand up. When Tim puts pressure on his feet, he can’t help the pathetic whimper that comes out of him— they practically scream at him, and when he’s vertical, his entire vision turns black.

Tim stumbles, grabbing onto the desk for stability as the pure concentrated essence of nausea and dizziness hits him. He’s fucking nut-shot by a pounding migraine, too.

Tim has decided on his new catchphrase: He should take some ibuprofen about it.

This is probably what happens when you don’t drink anything for way too long and then vomit what you have consumed. It’s only been… two days since he’s had a proper meal? Three? Was it two or three? How long ago did he escape from Ra’s? No, wait, because he had secretly expelled his last few meals there to avoid being drugged again. So longer than the time he’s been in this new universe.

So yeah, Tim feels great. Fantastic, even. Rejuvenated. Invigorated. Maybe if he keeps naming synonyms for positive it will manifest into reality. Relaxed. Ready to take on the world.

Tim’s feet stop hurting quite so bad, and start to get this weird, tingly feeling. Like– fuzzy and staticky. Oh, great, his manifesting worked! That’s definitely what this is. And it’s not anything else that would be extremely concerning, like how with every ailment ever they tell you that if you suddenly feel better or the opposite of how you felt before for no reason you should be very, very concerned. Which is not this. Tim has just stopped being a little bitch about it and now he can’t feel his feet at all, besides that weird electricity sensation. Good. He’ll take it. 

Tim feels like maybe that should concern him– that he should be worried and… something. But he just feels out of it, all scrambled and strange.

Did you know that septic shock can set in within 12-24 hours? That feels important for some reason. Tim isn’t sure why, though. He doesn’t have to worry about that. You also need an initial infection for sepsis, and Tim is sure he won’t get any infections. He’s got a strong immune system. His immune system can kick any infection's ass. He used to have a really weak immune system, but after his nanny was fired, there were lots of times when Tim had to cook for himself or eat questionable leftovers. He eventually stopped getting sick! Now his immune system is buff, or whatever.

What was Tim doing again?

He’s thirsty. Tim wants water. Oh! Tim wants coffee!

He’s hungry too, he was already thin due to stress before the whole Ra’s thing and now he’s ravenous, but if he just drinks caffeine the hunger pains he’s feeling will probably go away. Is that hunger pain? Or is it the injury in his side? Doesn’t matter, it’ll go away, whatever it is.

Tim, in a daze, pulls his backpack out from under the desk, then grabs the purse of less-pillow-suitable items, pops 3 or 4 ibuprofen (or was it more? How many is too many? He can’t answer either of those question) and then shoves it the purse inside the backpack. He can’t leave anything behind. He isn’t sure why, but he can’t. Tim can’t leave anything behind, he needs it all. He cannot leave anything behind.

He fumbles with the combination lock, fingers clumsy. It takes him two whole minutes to get it open, getting the passcode mixed up and then missing numbers on the turns. But he eventually gets it, yanking it out of the chains holding the door shut. Tim hooks it through the zippers on the backpack once more, clicking it shut.

He walks out onto the landing, staring at the gap from the landing to the storage containers. Tim stands there, swaying. For a minute– or– two? Five? Tim stands there for longer than he wanted to. Maybe ten minutes. He kept singing the ABCs in his head over and over to keep his eyes open, and at some point he started free-styling the letter order. Ayo, remix!

Tim shakes himself out of his stupor, climbing up onto the rail, and then jumping.

His feet hit the storage container with a head splitting BANG and Tim’s legs collapse out from under him.

okay.

Tim just lays there, nauseous and shivering on the cold metal.

He thinks he might have fallen asleep again, but he isn’t sure. Time seems to pass in a sludge, but at a million miles per hour all at once– his heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest, a heavy thump-thump-thump-thump.  Eventually, Tim drags himself to the edge of the shipping container and climbs down. One, two– then, his feet are on the warehouse floor.

Tim trips and almost eats shit on the ground, but he catches himself. Water. He needs water.

Tim leaves the warehouse, shivering in the now-night air. His teeth chatter, and he feels out of breath. He keeps sucking in breaths, but they don’t seem to do anything for the breathlessness consuming him, holding his chest tight and uncomfortable.

Something tells Tim he shouldn’t be out and about right now, like this. It’s probably nothing though; it’s just Gotham’s docks, at night. He does this all the time. He’s Red Robin.

Tim treks through the shadowy bends and alleys of the docks, blinking sluggishly. He stares at the bay for a few seconds too long and has to remind himself that he absolutely cannot drink the bay water. That shit is probably radioactive.

He makes his way around, slowly but surely heading towards a main road. He’ll walk to the nearest convenience store, and get some water. Tim was getting a little emotionally attached to that 4 dollars, but literally everything and everyone he’s ever been emotionally attached to in the past has died or left him in some way, so he has practice. It’s okay, he’ll just let that 4 dollars, who he spent his life with, planned a future with, rip his fucking heart out and kick it into the gutter like everybody else he knows, leaving him behind. He’s not taking you back this time! You can stay gone! Just don’t leave him to tell the children why you aren’t around anymore! Deadbeat! What was the point of this again?

Apparently, Tim is a little emotional at the moment.

Tim turns another corner, and decides that the universe hates him. Because there’s Some Fucking Guy there. Tim doesn’t want to deal with Some Fucking Guy, he just wants to go to the store and drink some water or coffee and feel better, okay? He doesn’t even have anything worth shit on him.

The Fucking Guy approaches Tim quickly, and begins saying something— some kind of threat, but Tim can’t even process what time it is, much less this guy’s shit. “Look man,” Tim slurs, feeling worse and worse. “I’m not doin’ real great, can’ I jus’ go? I’m broke. No’ even’a wallet,” he tells the man, breathing heavily through every word.

The man scowls, sneering nastily. “Ya? What's the lock for, then, kid?” He steps closer. “No one locks their bag unless they got somethin’ worth lockin’ up.”

Tim groans, closing his eyes and looking up, as if asking a cruel god why he's dealing with this. “I’m sick, and broke. And paranoid.”

The man grins maliciously. “Thas’ what they all say.”

Tim’s brows furrow. “I seriously doubt that-–”

The man comes swiping at Tim with a knife.

Tim’s eyes widen, and he jumps back. The man keeps advancing, and Tim takes his own pocket knife out of his pocket, hitting the trigger and letting it flip open. His hands are weak and shaky, clammy and clumsy, which doesn’t make this situation great for Tim. He can’t get a good grip, despite his white knuckles. His hold is tight, painfully so, but not secure.

Tim deflects an attempted stab at his side, snarling at his attacker. That was almost his surgery site! Fucking rude.

He’s definitely taking some ibuprofen about it later.

Tim manages to fend off a few more severe stabs, wincing and gasping with pain as some shallower slashes get him. He just got this hoodie and shirt! And even his jeans, come on, man!

The mugger goes for Tim’s shoulder, but what Tim sees is a knife heading for his neck. Again. Again. And all thought goes out the window– where Tim would go into overdrive normally, kick everything up a notch and end this fight fast and bruising, that doesn’t happen this time. Everything– everything is just too much. He’s overwhelmed in every sense of the word, servers overheating with all the things he has to process. And so, the system crashes.

Tim freezes up.

The man cuts Tim’s shoulder, then lunges and barrels into Tim, sending him to the ground. Tim thrashes, panicking as his pocket knife is tossed to the side. He feels so betrayed; Hello Kitty, why? He thought they were in this together! But no, the pink knife slides across the alley floor pitifully. He can at least give the thing credit for not breaking during any of his deflections. He did not have that much faith in it, like Tim has zero faith in himself and that 4 dollars had zero faith to their relationship.

The man rolls Tim onto his stomach and shoves his face against the concrete, kneeling on Tim’s arms, causing Tim to hiss in pain as he’s pinned to the ground.

The mugger tears the backpack off Tim’s back, slashing it open. Tim squawks with offense, feeling weirdly upset over a materialistic item. He feels tears well in his eyes, and frustration because he doesn’t understand why.

The man grunts with confusion, then curses with frustration and anger when he finds what Tim said he’d find; nothing, really.

“Are you fucking joking?!” the man shouts. “Four dollars? Four fucking dollars?! And some damn makeup and heels. Ugh, what, you some kinda’ boy-whore or somethin’?” The man sneers, not happy in the slightest. “You’re probably on fuckin’ drugs, huh? All shaky n’ shit. Fuckin’ bitch,” the man spits, hitting Tim in the back of the head with the butt of the knife.

Tim’s forehead bounces against the concrete, sending fireworks off in his vision. He gasps against the ground, coughing as the inhaled dust rakes his throat. 

The mugger grins meanly, grabbing Tim’s hair. “Yeah, well you owe me somethin’ at least. I was lookin’ for at least a 20, so you better make this worth 20 dollars—”

Before Tim can go into a panic attack too horrendous over how he’s gonna get out of here, he hears the familiar sound of somebody the weight equivalent of a sack of bricks hitting the ground.

Tim feels dueling relief and dread when a rough voice interrupts the scuffle. 

“Hey. Hope I’m not interrupting something.” Tim hears the sound of a gun’s safety clicking off. “Just kidding.”

His first thought is oh thank fuck I’m saved and then his second is oh fuck I’m so fucking dead. Then it’s, ‘if I get shot I don’t know if I can take ibuprofen about that.’

It’s The Red Hood.

~8~

Jason drops down into the alley, vision burning with an emerald inferno.

The vile man has some poor kid pinned to the ground, the boy hardly able to struggle as he pants for breath. The disgusting creature curses at his victim, insinuating what he’s going to do next.

Jason levels his gun at the man’s shoulder.

“Hey. Hope I’m not interrupting something.” Jason scowls, turning off the safety. “Just kidding.”

The criminal freezes, looking over his shoulder with a tremble. Jason would grin viciously, but he isn’t in the mood.

The man scrambles off of the boy, stepping on the poor kid's back in the process and whipping around with his knife, as if he could possibly get Jason with it. 

Jason doesn’t even bother shooting him at first. He pistol-whips the guy, sending him to the concrete. Then, for fun, he shoots the guy in the leg.

By for fun he means for threatening to rape a child.

It doesn’t take anything more than that. The man limps down the alley, and Jason just watches him. It would be so easy, to lift his gun and just…

It’s times like these when Jason struggles with the pit, the kill, kill, kill.

But then, there’s always something that brings him back; the victim. They still need help. They don’t need further trauma. Jason sends the details of the area to Barb, she’ll see if she can get the guy arrested. Fat chance around the docks, but one can hope.

There’s something— someone, more important for Jason to deal with.

The boy on the ground pushes himself up on shaky limbs, sniffling and whimpering. He manages to get himself up against the wall, staring at the ground with wide, wild eyes— looking hunted.

Jason takes a step forward, hand out. Wait— his eyes narrow— that… that’s the same fucking kid. That’s the kid from this morning, the scarecrow attack! Small fucking world. Does this guy just attract trouble to him? Well, going by earlier, it's likely he runs skull-first into it.

Jason is halted from pondering the chances further when the kid flinches back hard from him. It’s honestly a little shocking; kids like Red Hood. They know he’s safe. Especially the street kids.

“Hey, it’s okay—“

“Stay back!” The kid yells, teeth clenched and pupils dilated. He quickly scans the alley, and then throws himself onto the ground.

Jason jerks forward to catch him, but the boy rolls expertly, picking something up off the floor— a pink pocket knife. The kid points it at Jason with a shaking hand, his other hand clenching his side. “I’ll fuckin’ stab you! I mean it! Don’t get any closer,” he threatens, breathing uneven and heavy with a terrified look in his eyes.

Jason holsters his gun, now holding up both hands in the universal sign of peace in the face of this kid's pure terror. “I’m not gonna hurt you, you’re safe—“

The kid jerks back, face splitting into a manic, highly amused and shocked laugh. The sound is bitter as poison, full of mirth. “Y’think I’m gonna trust tha’ from you?!?” His speech is a little slurred, and he sways on his feet.

Jason pauses, confused. “…Red Hood doesn’t hurt kids,” he states. 

The kid snorts, grinning sharply. “Yeah, laugh it up. I’m not a kid and I’ve never counted, anyway.” He blinks, then backs up a little more. “I’ve… I’ve never counted…”

Jason narrows his eyes, but then notices the kid's grip. His shoulder is bleeding, as are various other cuts in his body, but he’s holding his side. “Are you hurt there?” Jason asks.

The kid, because no matter what he says he’s definitely a kid, just snarls at Jason.

Then, the kid falls to his knees.

“Kid!” Jason rushes forward, knowing that little knife won’t do a single thing to his body armor. The kid has dropped it anyway. He’s breathing extremely heavily, better described as panting.

Jason tries to help support him, but the boy whimpers and tries to back away further. “Please, jus’— pleas’ don’ hurt me, just leave me, leave me alone here, please,” he sobs, shaking like a leaf. 

Jason doesn’t have much of a choice here. Clearly something worse is going on— the boy looks violently ill. “I’m taking you somewhere you can get some help, kid, okay?”

The boy stares at him, eyes fluttering. “But… my stuff, my stuff, I need— I need to make sure it’s safe, I need it, I—“ he starts hyperventilating. “I don’t have anything else, please! I—“

“I’ve got it, I’ve got your stuff, kiddo,” Jason reassures, gathering everything into the torn backpack, including the pink knife (once safely closed).

The kid clutches at his chest now, seeming to choke on nothing. “I— I can’t—“ his eyes flutter, and then roll back. Jason feels sharp panic flare in his veins, able to do nothing but watch as the boy seized concerningly and then falls unconscious.

Oh fuck. Jason has to get this kid to Leslie’s and fast.

~8~

To say the least, Leslie is not impressed.

“Oh my god! Christ, where did you find him?!” Was the first thing she asked when Jason brought the boy in.

Jason had carried the boy and his backpack the whole way here, and you don’t even want to get him started on that trip. Jason now understands the appeal of a car in certain situations. Motorcycles can’t do everything, he’s discovered.

Jason helps adjust the kid on the cot in the room Leslie brings him to for the newcomer. “By the docks,” Jason answered, “He was being attacked by some jackass, but I think something else is wrong with him.” Jason sets the backpack down in a chair in the corner of the room.

Leslie grinds her teeth in stress, a deeply worried expression on her face. “I’d say,” she replies, assessing the kid’s wounds from the fight. “The shoulder cut could be trouble, but none of these should be making him pale and clammy like this, and his breathing is abnormal.” She sets two fingers on his pulse, brows raising. “Shit, his heart rate is extremely high, I really don’t like that.”

Jason’s expression must look blank to her, the mask and all, but his face is marred with worry. He’s gotten… weirdly attached, but it happens sometimes. He’d stay updated with Leslie about victims in especially rough shape, it’s not too uncommon. He’ll stay long enough to know the kid will be fine, then head off. “He took a hit to the head— it didn’t look that hard, but he passed out later, couldn’t stay lucid.”

Leslie’s eyes get this sharp look to them. “Hood, get out. I need to examine him.”

Jason leaves without question, letting Leslie do her thing. He’ll wait outside and she’ll update him, they’ve done this dance before. He can give the kid some privacy.

Jason is only waiting out in the hall for one minute before Leslie exits the room with urgency. Jason is instantly concerned.

Before he can even ask, Leslie is telling him, “I called an ambulance.”

Oh, fuck.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 9

~9~

Jason is only waiting out in the hall for one minute before Leslie exits the room with urgency. Jason is instantly concerned.

Before he can even ask, Leslie is telling him, “I called an ambulance.”

Oh, fuck.

~9~

Jason tries to look into the room, but Leslie puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping his advance. “The hell do you mean you’re calling an ambulance?! You never call an ambulance, you’ve sealed all us up from actively bleeding to death—“ Jason interrogates, deeply concerned for the street kid he brought in.

Leslie unlocks a cabinet and starts pulling out equipment. “I’m going to get an oxygen mask on him until they get here, but I can’t help him as much as he needs. This is a clinic; that kid needs a hospital, like, right now.”

“What—“

Leslie turns to Jason. “He has sepsis, he just went into septic shock. Help me set up the oxygen.”

Jason freezes.

One of the very first lessons you learn on the street is to not get infections. If you get hurt, you bite the bullet and pour alcohol on that shit. It’ll burn like hell, but you’ll be alive.

1 in 5 patients who get sepsis die. Going into septic shock makes that statistic much, much worse. 

This kid’s chance of survival is really, really bad. If Jason hadn’t been there to take him in after the attack, the boy's death would have been guaranteed.

Jason is only still for a moment before he’s jumping into action.

Leslie lets him into the examination room, and the first thing Jason logs is the smell.

The room has this foul, rotting odor. Jason looks at the kid on the table and feels chills. The kid is lying there still and pale, like a corpse.

His hoodie has been removed and set aside, as well as his scarf. His shirt has been pulled up to his chest, and some sort of— scarf? Some sort of fabric strip has been unwrapped from the kids torso.

And there on the kid’s torso is a line of red, oozing stitches. It doesn’t look like a surgery site, it looks way worse. But it’s clearly infected.

“Update me,” Jason asks, helping Leslie attach the necessary items as she affixes the oxygen mask to the boy's face.

Leslie answers promptly. “He was impaled. Due to the location, it either means he had to have his spleen removed, or it’s still in there and it’s just rotting inside of him. He’s not dead yet, so I’m going with removed. I looked through his bag, and he has no medications. So he’s immune compromised on the streets, recovering from a surgery— with no antibiotics. He didn’t stand a chance.”

Immune compromised on the streets is a death sentence already. And then Jason takes in the other details of the kid’s visible torso.

He looks starved. His ribs and hipbones are showing, skin stretched thin. And when Jason has nothing left to do to help Leslie, when it’s all stuff she has to do, he has the time to look closer… 

…what on earth—

Leslie has finished affixing the oxygen mask, and is now facing Jason, able to tell what he’s noticing. “He’s covered in scars, and I’ve only seen his torso.” She grabs the kids arm gently, lifting it up. Jason balks at the item there— he thought it was some kind of bracelet, but fucking hell. He finally notices the matching one on the other wrist, and the one around his neck. “Hood, I think you need to go on the lookout for human trafficking rings again.”

Yes. Yes he does.

Leslie continues. “Aside from the horrifying shackles with bells,” Jason feels green bleed into his vision, thinking about the purpose that would come along with putting bells on a person, like they’re some kind of animal, “there’s also the contents of his backpack. No medication, but there are very strange articles of clothing that aren’t exactly US standard, and would definitely draw a lot of attention. Some of them are all torn up. There’s a more standard pair of heels and a skirt, but I don’t really have an explanation for those. And makeup too, but none of the packaging is in English. I’m not sure what language it is, but I would be surprised if it were bought anywhere around here. That’s about all I got with just a quick check, so there might be more, but I’ll leave that up to you guys.”

Jason takes some deep breaths, trying to focus on what he can do now and what would be stupid to just go out and do (ie, start cracking skulls). “He spoke English just fine. I didn’t really notice any accent.”

Leslie shrugs, a sad look on her face. “I don’t know. I really don’t…”

Jason thought he’d dealt with the human trafficking problem in Gotham. But apparently not. Apparently, there’s kids being hurt in his home. 

Jason stares at the scars on the kid’s torso, the haze of the Lazarus pit pulsing with violence. The number of them, the kinds. Some are old, some are new. New enough to not even be scars, but to be healing injuries. Leslie has taped some gauze to the shoulder wound, not bothering to start stitches when an ambulance would arrive soon and interrupt her work. Bleeding is the last of this boy's problem.

Fuck, that ambulance better get here fucking soon.

Jason is so very glad that he took the time and stress of coming back to life legally and publicly. Because that allows him to make a big, dumb, emotional decision.

Jason rushes to the private room Leslie keeps for them specifically. He removes his helmet. Jason strips himself of all his gear, grabbing a more normal shirt, and heading back to the kid’s room with his wallet in hand.

Jason Todd Wayne is going to flash that pretty little ID Bruce got him and maybe that shiny credit card too, and he’s going to go on a field trip to the Gotham General ICU with Johnny Doe over here.

~8~

It hardly takes much at all to get Jason in the ambulance with the kid.

Jason went ahead and helped transfer the kid to the back of the ambulance, (being sure to grab the backpack first, watching to make sure nothing fell out of the rip) and medics were already assuming they were brothers. Jason just kept his mouth shut, because nobody asked him directly in any way, too busy dealing with the child that has about a 50% chance of dying right now.

He’s forced to hang back when they transport John Doe into the emergency unit, in a seating area outside. But Jason’s here, and he’s going to make this work.

This kid is officially on The Radar.

~8~

In the uncomfortable hospital chair outside the emergency room, Jason goes through the backpack.

The heels are taken out first, being the most obtrusive item in the bag. Classy. Jason would be more amused if the kid who had them wasn’t a possible human trafficking victim.

He then finds a purse inside the backpack. Bagception, alright. The purse contains the makeup Leslie mentioned— the language on them is Arabic. So yeah, not from around here. Honestly, the Arabic makeup is just confusing. The contents of the kid’s backpack is a mystery and a half that’ll have to be solved when the kid wakes up, most likely. There’s also a mostly-empty ibuprofen bottle (mood) and a napkin in the purse.

It has a number written on it and the name -Noah. Maybe a contact? Some sort of help? Could be how the kid got out– assuming he is out, but Jason thinks it’s a safe assumption. He won’t call this ‘Noah’ guy yet, he wants to be prepared. And if the guy is a lead to some sort of human trafficking ring, then Jason needs to have his call go perfectly the first time. Jason quickly memorizes the number, putting the napkin back in the purse. The only other thing in the purse is a sad, crumpled four dollars.

Moving on to the rest of the contents, Jason understands now what Leslie meant when she said 'strange articles of clothing that aren’t standard to the US.' He was wondering about that. But now that he’s seeing them– yeah, she was spot on.

There’s a skirt that looks normal enough, but past that it’s odd. A sleeveless shirt that is adorned with embroidered decor, but torn to shreds at the bottom, making it uncomfortably cropped. There’s a shiny red robe that looks stupid fancy. These big flowy pants. Every article is just kinda strange.

Collectively… if the kid was trafficked all the way from the middle east, then not only is his English crazy good– a brand new layer of confusion, because what human traffickers are teaching English?-- but also why the hell did they bring their operation (or just this specific kid?) all the way to Gotham? His other option is that only the traffickers themselves are from across seas, set up here and got the kid, and they have some sort of weird emotional attachment to makeup from home. Either way, Jason feels fucking sick because that means they had the kid in makeup, which implies certain reasons for that. Ones that nobody should ever have to experience.

Not all human trafficking is for a sexual purpose, but a lot is. It’s vile.

It makes Jason burn.

He hasn’t killed anybody in a very long time. He has his family, there are rules and they help him stay on the straight and narrow in regards to that particular subject. But that kid in there… fighting for his life, in agony, having possibly finally grasped freedom, only to now be so very likely to die? It makes Jason want to do horrible things.

Jason breathes deeply, repacking the bag. He smiles fondly when he sees the pink pocket knife– heh. Now that he can see it better, he sees that it’s Hello Kitty themed. Cute. He wonders if the kid picked it out on purpose, or what. Maybe he likes pink? Jason should get him something from the gift shop.

If he lives. If he makes it. The mortality rate of patients who go into septic shock—

Jason is going to find the kid something he’ll like in the gift shop, because the kid will make it, and he’ll be alive to receive gifts.

Jason takes his phone out of his pocket, opening the family group chat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The Big Kid’s Table

Gotta Catch Em All (PokeOrphan!): 

-Barbara, sweetheart, please change my chat name.

Government Hacker Barbie: 

-No <3

IAmKenough: 

-say wat u want, shes never inaccurate 

TalkToTheHands: 

-😂☝🤝✨💖

TheEvilOfTheThriller: 

I am in Gotham General’s ICU ✌-

– Multiple People Are Typing•••

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Half a second later, Jason receives a phone call.

He picks up immediately. “Heya, B—”

Dick’s voice greets him from Bruce’s contact. “Jason! Oh my god, hang tight, we’ll be there as soon as we can!” There’s the sound of screeching wheels over the phone. “You’re on the car's bluetooth. What happened, are you okay, did you have to go as your night—?!”

Jason cuts him off. “Dickie, calm the hell down. I’m not like– in the ICU. I’m in the ICU area. I’m fine.” He pauses. “You’re with B, right? Anybody else?”

“Oh thank god… You scared the hell out of us, Little Wing! You couldn’t have worded that better!?” Dick sighs tiredly, and Jason can imagine him rubbing his forehead in stress. “Oh– and yeah, it’s just me and B. I’m going to text the chat and tell them you’re okay, but stay on call! Ugh, I can't believe you started it with that message— actually, yes I can.”

Bruce’s voice briefly interjects. “I’m glad you’re alright, chum. We’ll be there soon, okay?”

“Don’t hit anybody on the way,” he snark. Jason proceeds with updating them. “I was…” he looks around the hospital hall. Nobody is there, but he’s gonna play it safe. “I was out working the nightshift , and I found this kid. I took him to Leslie’s because he was injured, but he was exhibiting behavior like he was way more injured than he should have been from what I’d seen. Leslie had to call an ambulance— the kid has sepsis, and was going into septic shock. I went with. I’m… I'm waiting to see if he– uhm, if he makes it,” Jason tells them, swallowing thickly.

Waiting to see if he makes it. They’ll understand how this makes Jason feel; a kid in his area, possibly going to die, likely ultimately due to poverty– an inability to buy medication previously. The Alley is his. It’s His.

“Oh, Little Wing…” Dick says softly, hurting for his little brother.

Jason clears his throat, changing the subject by getting to the meat of it. “We– the police need to start looking for human trafficking rings again.” There’s a sharp intake of breath over the line. “The kid has a bunch of signs, I think he escaped a ring. You… we should talk in person.”

Bruce answers this time. “Hn. I agree.”

“We’ll see you soon, Little Wing!”

“See you soon, kiddo.”

Jason huffs, his cheeks flushing a little. He’ll never get used to that. “Yeah, see you both soon.”

He hangs up, putting his phone back in his pocket. He sits in the hall, now dead silent— Gotham’s hospitals are almost always busy, but it’s Damn-Early morning, so they’re in one of those rare times that doesn’t tend to have as many people. The silence is oppressive.

Jason sits in the deserted hall. Not sure what to do while waiting, no clue how long he’ll be waiting.

…

…

…

…Jason should go check out that gift shop.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 10

~10

Jason sits in the deserted hall. Not sure what to do while waiting, no clue how long he’ll be waiting.

…

…

…

…Jason should go check out that gift shop.

~10~

Jason never quite realized how much random shit hospital gift shops have.

The restocking orders for a hospital must be insane. Drugs, needles, bandaids and 80 different types of beanie babies. Which is great news for Jason, because there is a whole section for Hello Kitty stuff in the kids area.

Jason is trying to decide between a Hello Kitty plush, and a Hello Kitty bracelet when his phone starts vibrating in his pocket. He pulls it out, not even looking at the ID; he knows who it is. “Yo,” he greets, not taking his eyes off his choices. The plush would be more comforting, but the bracelet would be easier to keep ahold of long term. 

“Jason,” Bruce speaks from the other side. “We are in the waiting room. We do not see you.”

Jason nods, even though he’s aware his dad won’t be able to see it. “I’m in the gift shop– the kid won’t be out of surgery for a bit. Actually, can you both come here? Thanks.” Jason hangs up, not waiting for an answer.

He’s still there when two pairs of footsteps approach from behind him. “Jason–!”

Jason holds his hand up, shushing Dick. “I’m fine.” He turns around, glaring. “You worry way too much.”

Dick’s face is the essence of offense, and Bruce just looks done. “You texted the chat that you were in the hospital, Jay!”

Jason nods. “And then I said I was fine.”

“Oh well excuse me for not believing you, considering you didn’t tell anybody when—”

“Oohhh do not start this shit, you are the last person I want to hear complaining about downplaying injuries Mr.CircusFreak—”

Bruce finally has enough of them and interrupts them both. “Boys!” Both Jason and Dick shut their mouths grumpily. Bruce sighs, putting a hand on his head. “Dick, Jason is clearly fine. Jason, Dick is allowed to worry about you. Now what did you need us here for?”

Jason picks up the plush and the bracelet. “I’m trying to pick out a gift for the kid, but I don’t know if I should get the plush or the bracelet,” he tells them

Dick and Bruce both stare at him, twin expressions of exhaustion and confusion on their faces. “And you are… sure that Hello Kitty is the best choice here?” Dick asks.

Jason grins cheekily. “The kid has a Hello Kitty pocket knife. It’s the best I have to go off. Now pick one.”

Bruce sighs. “Jaylad, you can get both. We’re rich. You don’t have to pick. You can buy the entire kids section if you feel like it.”

Jason scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Hell no, are you even thinking? He’s off the streets, if I get a bunch of stuff he’ll be completely fucking overwhelmed and freak out. Shows what you know,” he states, and he has a very good point. Jason looks at Dick. “Pick. One. I’m thinking the plush, because it’ll be more comfort-associated, but the bracelet is easier to keep on you, ya’know?”

Dick hums. “Good points, both of them. But what about, like, something the kid can use more? They have jackets and stuff. Wait– how old is the kid? Would any of the Hello Kitty jackets fit him?”

Jason chuckles, “I don’t think that’ll be an issue, he’s tiny. I don’t know how old he is, but like, maybe 13? The jacket is kind of a good idea actually…”

As his sons bicker over gift choices, Bruce can’t help but smile. He’s glad he has this. His precious, caring boys.

Bruce is glad things worked out the ways they did, that he gets to have this now. Life in Gotham is never easy, but he’s happy. Happier than he’s ever been.

All those years ago, when Jason died, he never thought he’d be happy again. Bruce thought it was the end of him. He was done for, and nothing would ever get better, or heal. He went off the rails. Batman was crazy, unstable, a menace. He made people afraid. Bruce never wanted to make people feel afraid— he wanted to make them feel safe.

So god bless Alfred, for all that he is and all he has done. 

The butler, Bruce’s second father, has helped Bruce stand more times than he can count. And he did so by putting. His. Foot. Down. 

Bruce did many things he isn’t proud of during his grief– a few months in, Alfred watched over the mask cam as Bruce beat a man half to death over stealing food. That was the line for Alfred; Alfred doesn’t mess around when it comes to stealing food, because when people steal food it’s usually because they need it. They can’t afford to eat, and that breaks Alfred’s heart. Everyone should be able to have a meal. And if they can’t afford a meal, how can they afford a hospital visit?

Alfred used Bruce’s accounts to send the man money for his hospital bills and a little extra to help him get back up on his feet, not even going behind Bruce’s back to do it. He stared Bruce down, scolded the flesh off his bones, and shook his foolish boy awake.

Alfred seared his thoughts into Bruce’s skin; that could have been Jason. That could have been his beloved grandson. Jason lived on the streets, he grew up in the alley that man came from, he loved the people who struggled there and spent everyday he breathed trying to help them. Alfred knows Jason had to steal food at times— and Bruce beat a man for the same crime his son might have done.

It certainly gave something for Bruce to stew over, a broken, guilty heart in his chest.

Alfred later called in other adults in Bruce’s life to be on standby while he had a frank talk with his son. He told Bruce that if he, a grown man, needs a child to control him— then he should not be able to dictate what he does for himself. If he can’t control himself without a fucking minor to leash him, then he just can’t control himself. Plain and simple. They were all broken in some way by Jason’s death, but they still have a responsibility to their actions.

Alfred gave Bruce an ultimatum. His options were either Alfred hands him over to mental health services and outs him as Batman– a claim Bruce could hardly believe Alfred would threaten him with, but he could tell the man was serious and Bruce could not stop him if he decided to do so– or Bruce pulls on his big-boy-britches, and seeks therapy himself. 

Bruce got shoved into those big-boy-britches so fast he got a wedgie.

He seethed, and figured that he’d go for one week and then that will be sufficient enough to show Alfred that it cannot fix what was broken in him.

Big whooping surprise, it actually helps. 

Present day Bruce cringes at his childish behavior at the time. That first session was… something. He almost refused to go back. Thank god he did.

Bruce worked through a lot. He had to admit at a certain point, logically and practically, that Alfred was right. The old man was quite proud of Bruce for taking that step– even if it took the death of his son to get there.

Realizing that that is what it took spurred Bruce into realizing other things that needed to change.

Really, it should have seemed obvious before that mandatory mental health services for all heroes were a need. Same as physical health services. A med bay for a stab wound, a couch for a mental wound. The things they deal with are insane, and nobody who joins the life just decides to fight criminals, there is always a trauma. Mental Health Services should have been a given.

Bruce made his most important change not long after he started actually giving therapy the credit it deserved: no more Robins.

Bruce decided there couldn’t be anymore, there wouldn’t be. The name, to this day, is tainted permanently. The name Robin is spoken rarely and with a heavy weight in the Wayne household. No more Robin, no more child soldiers of any kind– because that’s what they were. Child Soldiers. 

Bruce had a talk with the Justice League: they can train successors, but it is to follow the way the law trains people for combat. You can prep all you want, but physical training and combat situations do not start until someone is at least 16, and no live combat until 18. Same as joining the military, or the police. And it is to be done under the supervision of a trained professional, someone versed in handling minors. There needs to be counseling to ensure this is really what they want. If the mentee wants to quit, they can do so at any time for any reason. And all minor heroes-in-training must be getting a proper education, receipts provided by their guardian and able to be verified. Some people in alliance with the Justice League abhorred this, and left, and some League Members were upset over it, but the rules became official. Once Bruce mentioned Robin, many understood.

So things changed, and for the better.

And they kept getting better.

Jason came back. Bruce’s son, his sweet boy, he came back home. And he brought someone with him.

Talia tried to turn Jason against Bruce– but there wasn’t enough. Bruce had changed things, had made things better so that nobody was ever hurt again as Jason has been. No more child soldiers. More help towards the alley. No more Robin.

Jason broke free from his Lazarus Madness in the moments of privacy he had, coming to know and love the little brother he managed to meet. He wanted to go home. He wanted to get this child out of here. No more child soldiers.

Jason died in a blaze when he was 15, and at 17 he stepped foot in Gotham once more, a lot bigger, taller, stronger, and an 8-year-old Damian at his side who he’d snatched from the League with the promise of love and a father.

But Jason wasn’t so sure he could go back to Bruce. Fears and worries and some lingering Lazarus rage had consumed him at the time, the Joker was still alive and walking, and he feared Ra’s and Talia’s retribution. Jason tried to take care of Damian himself for a little while, debuting as Red Hood and setting up in the alley.

Eventually, he sent Damian to Bruce; he couldn’t take care of the boy, not properly. He was still a boy himself. He was still unstable. Damian wasn’t quite broken yet, not like Jason– Jason believed Bruce would take Damian, at least.

What Jason learned was that Damian is a little snitch, because he told Bruce exactly how he arrived on the Waynes’ doorsteps despite Jason’s request for him not to. And Bruce is so eternally glad for that– his little boy, looking out for his big brother.

Bruce set out to get his other son back. Jason fessed up to his life, and Bruce welcomed two boys into his home. One old, and one new. And even the something blue– He and Dick were already healing, but this just pushed it along, Dick coming home for his old little brother and his new little brother. Next they just needed something borrowed.

And oh boy… did Bruce begin to borrow.

Cass showed up looking for love, not getting it with the monsters who first had her. She came to Batman, not wanting to kill any longer, and Bruce took her without hesitation. He was nervous about what the boys would think, but the general consensus at the time was, “Fuck it, we already got three, what’s another?”  Now, they have a sister whom they love dearly, and Bruce has a beautiful, wonderful daughter who he’d die for.

Damian experienced some jealousy issues– it was a bit of an ordeal. But Bruce dealt with it.. Bruce had a talk with him using metaphors, asking Damian— if when he rescues a new animal, does he suddenly not love his other pets? Does he love them any less? Damian tells him no, no Baba. And Bruce explained that it’s the same. Cass needed help, just like Damian had once needed help. Bruce helping Cass now does not mean he loves Damian any less, and he has no intention to replace anybody. They worked with family therapy, and now Damian channels his strong feelings into protectiveness; this is his family, and anybody who wants to mess with that has to deal with him. If this is a way his father protects, then he shall as well. Unintended side-effect being that Damian talks about his siblings in veterinary terminology— but it’s not hurting anyone, so they can’t be too upset when he says stuff like, “I got Jason a new book. I feel he does not have enough enrichment in his enclosure.”

Really, this whole ‘managing behavior’ thing is way easier than he thought it would be. Bruce just can’t understand parents who won’t find an effective and kind way to teach their children. His kiddos still drive him up the walls (often) sometimes, but they care for each other.

Stephanie came crashing in like a whirlwind, and while she’s still got a mom around to care for her, Bruce considers her his daughter. Getting her to stop trying to play superhero was a battle, but he got her to at least agree to wait until she’s 18. At 17 now, she still is adamant about being a vigilante, but they’ve got a year to go.

Duke comes along, Bruce was honestly just collecting at that point. Duke needed a family to care for him, and they were there. The boy is so incredibly sweet, and so brave. He was worried about how they’d receive his meta status, but those worries were soon after put to rest.

Bruce really can’t say anything about Metas with how often the Kents crash his house. The “no metas” rule is pretty much just the best he can do to keep Barry and Hal from constantly coming to his home and harassing him.

And now he’s here. Watching his two eldest argue over what version of Hello Kitty plushy they should get. And while things aren’t always perfect, he wouldn’t want them to be, and Bruce couldn’t possibly be happier… he has everything he needs, and can’t imagine feeling incomplete, or as if he were missing a single thing.

Thank God for Alfred Pennyworth.

~8~

Eventually, Jason and Dick agree on a plushy of Hello Kitty holding a little strawberry, deciding to pick out a red gift bag to put it in; Jason claims the kid looks like a red kind of guy. The girl running the register also gave them a little card for it, apparently they come with any purchase. None of them were sure what to write on it, so they just put it in the bag for now. They’ll think of something.

Jason leads them back to where he had been sitting before, in the eerily empty hall. He and Dick sit down next to each other, and Bruce moves a chair so he can sit facing them. With Dick’s body turned a little towards Jason, they make a sort of triangle-formation, a bit of a feeling of privacy. 

Now, business.

All three of them get serious, addressing the situation.

Jason jumps right into reporting what happened earlier. “So, I was doing a morning patrol–”

Dick immediately interrupts, because he’s the worst, “Wait, how long have you been here?!”

Jason goes to smack his brother, getting deflected. Jason settles for glaring. “Fucking listen, and you’ll figure it out!” He rolls his eyes, huffing. “Anyway, I was on morning patrol. Scarecrow, you guys know. And when I got there, it was a pretty easy take down– so I started helping get people out. But there was this kid, ya’ know? The kid. And he’s running around in the gas, no mask or anything other than a scarf covering his mouth, helping people out. He even carried a few, which I could hardly fucking believe because he looks like a fucking stickbug.”

Bruce’s eyebrows raise, looking mildly impressed. “That was kind of him, to help people.”

Jason huffs, “Yeah, and wildly stupid.” He grits his teeth and moves on, “I followed him back to the spot he was dropping them off at, with the EMTs, just in time to hear one of them calling for him to get back– or for somebody to grab the kid and take him out. But he just ran back in, like he’s got a death wish or something. I think he had inhaled some of the gas or something, and from what I saw, his fear response was Help. So he ran in to try and help more people, except everyone had gotten out already. So he was running around, calling for somebody named Prudence, telling them to run– and just inhaling more and more fear gas. Positive feedback loop,” Jason explains.

He sighs now, looking a little conflicted. “I tried grabbing him, but then he… kind of kicked my ass…” he trails off, mumbling. 

Dick blinks. “...what?” Bruce looks equally shocked and confused. “Elaborate,” Dick demands.

Jason groans, looking to the heavens for strength. “This fucking 10-year-old looking child tried to deck me, and he almost fucking did! And then he twirls out of the way of me grabbing him, and then he sweeps me. Took my legs out right from under me. He’s fucking vicious, okay?!”

Dick starts cackling like a dick, eyes dancing with mischief. “Okay, I don’t even need to meet him, I like him,” he claims. “So, Stewart Little trounced you, then what?” He prods with a wide grin.

“Paramedics managed to tackle him,” Jason answers, unimpressed by Dick’s teasing. “They got an oxygen mask on his face, a bit of antidote, flushed the worst of it from his system. I don’t know, after that, I left.”

Dick went to say something, but Jason interrupted him. “I’m not done yet, shut your yapper and save all questions for the end of the presentation,” he said with a supremely impatient glare.

Jason takes a breath, trying to prepare himself before moving on. “Earlier this evening, I was out for patrol. And there was some sort of commotion by the docks…

“There was a man attacking a kid. He had ruined the boy's bag, sliced it open to rob him, but there was nothing of worth inside. The man was going to… further attack the boy. So I intervened. I shot him, he scuttled off to some dark corner. I went to try and take care of the victim, and it was him. The same fucking kid. I tried to reassure him that he was okay now, but… he was afraid of me.”

Dick and Bruce both balk at that. They subtly glance around the hall, confirming it’s still entirely empty, and leaning in closer to whisper.

“He was afraid of the Red Hood?” Dick asks, incredulous. “But… kids love the Red Hood! Especially the alley kids!”

Bruce grunted in agreement. Red Hood struck fear into the hearts of criminals, and awe in the eyes of kids. The alley kids know he’ll keep them safe. That’s his thing. He shoots drug dealers in the knees for using kids as runners, he leaves pedophiles with a mouthful of crushed enamel, he protects children.

Jason nods, looking wrong-footed. “I’m.. I’m not sure he even knows who the Red Hood is. He pulled his knife on me and basically said ‘why the hell would I trust you, rando?’ I even told him, ‘Red Hood doesn’t hurt kids’ but he just seemed… amused. And then sad, and incoherent. Insisting he didn’t count as a child, even if he did believe I wouldn’t hurt him, which he clearly didn’t. Before going scary fucking pale and passing out,” he explains.

Bruce’s brows furrow, “…even a trafficking victim would be aware of who Red Hood is, or at least most would.”

Jason shrugs. “I’m not sure— there’s evidence to suggest he’s not from Gotham, or even the US.”

Bruce gives him the nod to continue, and so he does. “I mentioned the kid had a backpack,” Jason lifts up the ripped bag from his lap. “This bad boy right here. Ibuprofen, non-American clothing, 4 dollars, somebody’s number I need to check out, heels—“

Dick blinks with confusion, “Heels?” He asks, interrupting Jason.

Jason just shrugs again. “Yeah, I don’t know. I guess he was wearing them? Whatever, moving on— there was also a purse, lots of the clothing was shredded to an extent, and makeup. All of the packaging is in Arabic.”

Dick blows out a low, stressed exhale. “The middle east is a long way from Gotham. I just… are you sure it’s trafficking? We cleared them out pretty good; and I can’t imagine us missing traffickers from overseas moving in.” Dick never doubts that the world can be cruel and evil, but he just really, really doesn’t want it to be trafficking. It took so much work to clear the rings that had been running in Gotham. For various reasons, he’d rather none come back.

Jason’s eyes look old and weary, his face streaked with hatred and despair. He glanced at the door leading into a cacophony of doctors and nurses and the kid. Jason grits his teeth, clenches his fists— “The kid was collared and cuffed.”

Two sharp inhales come from Jason’s side, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the door to look at them. “He was covered in scars. Like fucking— fucking B covered. His whole torso that I could see, anyway, from his waistband to his ribs. Some were really new— he had this— this wound in his side, like somebody had run him through. It was what got infected, I think. Leslie says he either has no spleen now, removed after he sustained the injury, or it's still in there and rotting inside of his body.” Jason tries to keep his breathing controlled, but the hate fills him further, the need to break something.

The boy… he’s just a kid. He was probably afraid. Alone. All on his own somewhere, dark and with nobody to come, no matter how loud he screamed. Someone bigger than him, stronger than him, crueler than him. 

And how many times did that happen? How many times? How many years of living like that, all alone and hurting?

(Jason can’t breath, he’s small and he’s scared and nobody is going to come for him and he hurts and bigger, stronger, crueler stands before him, drunk and staggering, and then he’s older but still small and he’s still scared and alone and nobody is coming no one and bigger, stronger, crueler is there and he has a crowbar—-)

“Jason, Jaybird, come on, buddy, it’s okay—“

“Jaylad, listen to me now, okay? We’re gonna breath together, kiddo—“

Jason is yanked back into his body, and he whips his head around to glare at his father and brother, a snarl on his lips, “I’m fine!” he snaps, green in his blood. Jason shudders, trying to force himself to calm. “Sorry, i– sorry.”

Dick gives him an understanding and forgiving smile, and Bruce sets a careful hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, chum. You’re okay,” he reassures, and Jason can tell Bruce needs to say it for himself as much as he feels he needs to say it for Jason.

Jason leans back in the uncomfortable hospital chair, breathing out. He just hopes the kid will be okay.

A doctor walks down the hall, and instead of passing them as a few have, he stops before the three men.

“Are you the family?”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 11

~11~

Jason leans back in the uncomfortable hospital chair, breathing out. He just hopes the kid will be okay.

A doctor walks down the hall, and instead of passing them as a few have, he stops before the three men.

“Are you the family?”

~11~

“Are you the family?”

Jason didn’t confirm or deny that, he just answered, “I’m the one who brought him in.”

Apparently, Bruce wants to make everything harder for everyone, because he steamrolls Jason’s subtle lies of omission. “We don’t know the boy or if he has a family, but my son here found him wandering around and brought him to safety, and we’re all rather invested now, I’m afraid,” Bruce answered, a sort of sheepish-but-tired smile on his face.

The doctor relaxes, and Jason realizes that Bruce made the right choice. Ew. “I must say, I’m rather glad for that,” the doctor tells them. “I’m going to be frank; I’d be calling the police on you currently if you were his family.” The doctor then sighs, a pitying, tired sound. “Then I suppose we can’t get any information about him from you, we do not have anybody to contact for him. We’ll have to wait until he wakes up. Thank you, gentlemen, for bringing him in—”

Wakes up. Wakes up. He’s alive.

Jason blows out a sharp breath of relief, a little tension leaving him. The kid is alive. Jason got him help in time. He didn’t fail him.

“Can we stay with him?”

Jason looks at Dick with wide eyes, but then a small smile grows on his face. His big brother, always so predictable; Jason can’t say he isn’t happy about it though.

“Excuse me?” 

Dick asks a little firmer this time. “Can we stay with the kid? I– we’re all a little attached, and just– we want to make sure he’s okay,” and gather evidence to find out where he came from and deal with it, “My dad is a registered foster parent, if that helps? And I’m an officer,” Dick informs the doctor, gesturing to Bruce and fumbling for his wallet to show his ID.

Dick is bending the truth a little; he put in his two-week notice a week ago. He’s taking up a new job as a gymnastics instructor. Police and vigilante was getting to be a lot, and this gives him more time with his family. But he still has a badge, and his little brother wants to stay with the mysterious kid he saved.

The doctor blinks, raising an eyebrow. “Foster parent, cop— and let me guess, you’re schooling to be a child therapist?” He asks semi-jokingly, and yeah, Jason’s gotta admit that it seems awfully convenient that they appear to be so set to take on a traumatized kid like this. But that’s just because his family is insane.

Jason barks a laugh of pure amusement, because him, a child therapist? Whoo buddy… “Nah, if they could be so lucky,” he grins and raises a brow, “I’m an English major.” He didn’t feel much like laughing about the whole situation, but the idea of Jason being a therapist for anything is hilarious.

The doctor seems to think for a moment, silent, then furrows his brows, looking between Bruce and Dick’s badge. He taps on the chart he’s holding, then lets out a long sigh. “I– must say that it is not exactly conventional, but this is Gotham. We’re not capital convention. And I think… he needs somebody to look after him,” the doctor says, kind eyes and a tired smile. He holds out a hand, “Dr.Lawson. After he wakes up, we’ll ask if he’s okay with you continuing to follow his case. For now, however, I suppose I’ll be seeing you more in the future.”

Bruce takes his hand, a firm shake. “Thank you, Doctor, for allowing this. Just call me Bruce,” he says. It won’t be long until he’s recognized, but he’d like to hide from the fuss for now.

Dick and Jason shake hands with the doctor as well, introducing themselves.

Dr.Lawson stays standing, and Bruce moves his chair back so all three of them can easily face the man. He begins to explain the kid's condition.

“We’ve currently got him hooked up to pretty much everything, so I’m sorry to say, but we can’t let you in to see him yet. He’s more stable now, but we’re not out of the woods. We’re going to have someone on watch 24/7. It’s amazing that he survived the septic shock so far, and we have hope that he’ll recover from the sepsis entirely— but this means nothing for the after effects. We can’t completely predict what he’ll deal with following the sepsis, as there are many post sepsis symptoms and they often vary from person to person.”

Jason knew it wouldn’t be that easy, but he still finds himself worried and disappointed. The kid could still die. It’s great that he’s in a hospital now, it significantly increases his chances, but still…

The doctor continues, “We drained the wound on his torso, and with some feeling around, confirmed he’s missing his spleen. This means his immune system is compromised. He might have a tougher time recovering, and he needs regular antibiotics following his recovery. He will have to take extra care to avoid infections. Luckily, in this case— while the torso wound was infected, the area that started the sepsis wasn’t so close to his other organs, it was the injuries on his feet—“

Jason jolts in his chair, “His feet? What injuries?”

Dr.Lawson visibly stutters, verbally backtracking a little. He looks a bit hesitant, but the openly worried expressions in the three mens’ faces convince him to go into more detail. “His feet have second degree burns on the bottoms. It appears he’s just been… walking on them. Extensively. They are extremely damaged and very infected. We’re concerned about nerve damage… it’s possible that’s how he was even functioning with them in the first place. I wouldn’t be surprised if, near the end there, he was only able to walk because he could no longer fully feel his injuries.”

His feet. Have second degree burns on the bottom of them. He might have nerve damage.

God fucking damn it all—-

Jason needs a break. He needs to take a break. He needs to step outside right now.

The doctor continues, unrelenting. “We don’t have the tools to cut off any of the cuffs or the collar, so we can’t do any MRIs— not that we could currently anyway, he’s not going to be moving from that hospital bed for a little bit. But they seem very strong, it might take some kind of saw, and we don’t want to risk that at the moment. He began to seize earlier, and it’s just a lot more than we currently have accessible here, and not something we are capable of doing.”

Jason is too busy trying to breathe through his anger, so it’s Bruce who asks, “Is there an estimate for how long until we can see him?”

The doctor tilts his head, grimacing. “Well– we aren’t entirely sure. He was given treatment within the hour of septic shock being identified, which significantly increased his chances. Your son’s speedy action and Dr.Thompson’s ability to identify the problem probably saved this boy’s life… he’s currently hooked up to antibiotics, and he seems to be taking them well, so… he could possibly wake up by tomorrow morning. He might not—  but if he’s stable by then, nurse-accompanied visitors probably couldn’t hurt,” he explains, smiling sympathetically at the three.

Bruce nods. “Thank you, Dr.Lawson. For the information, and for all the work you and others did tonight to help him.”

The doctor leaves after Bruce hands over his contact information.

And then Jason leaves.

He needs to go shoot some shit.

~11~

Dick and Bruce watch Jason go, knowing he needs some time all to himself. He’ll come back a little ragged, but calmer. Prepared.

Dick sighs, resting his head in his hand with exhaustion. “He’s really attatched to that kid, huh?”

Bruce nods. “Jason saved his life and still doesn’t know if the boy will actually survive. He’s used to being able to stop the danger, and then the victim is safe. He’s stopped the danger but the victim may still die, and there’s nothing he can do about it,” Bruce says, because he knows his son, he knows all of his children— they all care so, so very much. And Jason hates being unable to do anything. If Bruce could help his son with that feeling of helplessness, he would, but—

Bruce stares at the hospital door, thinking.

Dick side-eyes his father, an eyebrow raised. “That’s your thinking face. You should probably stop,” he advises, but there’s a grin growing on him.

Bruce sighs, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Mhm. Yeah.”

“…”

“…”

“…he probably has a family out there, missing him. Worried about where he is.”

“Ahuh.”

“And… suitable to take care of him.”

“Mhm. Go on.”

“…I’ll call the guy— just in case.”

“You do that, B.”

Maybe Dick is predictable, but so is Bruce.

~11~

If the doctors had access to Tim’s medical records, firstly they’d launch a study into how he’s currently alive, and secondly, they’d know that he’s prone to easily waking up from anesthesia.

Tim’s eyes snap open, and panic sets in immediately.

He— he can’t move— he can’t move, he can’t get away, he can’t move—!

There’s something shoved down his throat, and in his nose, and a loud beeping noise starts to go crazy. Tim tries to roll over, vision weirdly foggy as he tries to analyze the room.

The sound of voices explode into his space and Tim attempts to thrash as hands land on him, holding him down. He chokes against the tube down his throat, not understanding where he is or what’s happening.

It hurts, it all hurts, it burns and throbs and he just wants to get somewhere secure and safe and sleep forever instead of all this.

Instead, more sedatives are administered into his IV to prevent him from harming himself or others.

He goes back down with one final, terrified thought.

He has me. Ra’s has me.

~11~

Eventually, Jason comes back.

They don’t ask where he’s been, or what he destroyed, or anything else. Bruce and Dick just meet Jason’s eyes with a look of sad understanding.

Tired sighs are exchanged, and they agree that it might be time to pull back.

Bruce, Jason and Dick are leaving the hospital for the night, knowing they need to get in what patrol they can, and that staying there isn’t going to change the kid’s condition. They cross the street, quickly finding their car— Bruce gets in the driver's seat, and leaves the hospital parking garage with his eldest son in the front and his second in the back.

Only five minutes down the road, Bruce receives a phone call. He picks it up with the car’s Bluetooth.

“Bruce Wayne speaking—“

He’s interrupted before he can even finish his greeting. “This is Dr.Lawson, I don’t want to alarm you, but I would like to inform you that the boy woke up. He came out of his anesthesia much, much earlier than we anticipated and was quite panicked.”

Dick lurches forward in his seat, and Jason audibly sucks in a sharp breath. Bruce nearly turns the car around right then and there to head back.

“Is he okay?” Bruce asks, knowing that there’s no way the kid can be okay, but wanting some sort of answer as to his current condition.

“He tried to pull various medical items out of him, so we resedated him. We suspect that his anesthesia dosage was supposed to be higher than is usual for his size.” Dr.Lawson briefly talks to somebody else in the background of the call, but it’s largely inaudible. He addresses the Waynes once more, “He’s fine, and he’s going to be out for a while longer now, so there’s no need to come in. We don’t know when he’ll wake up tomorrow, but judging by today, he likely will.”

Dick gives Bruce a look, brows furrowed in worry, searching for some sort of decision in his gaze.

Bruce nods decisively. “We will come in first thing tomorrow morning.” He will do his patrol, and his boys will get some sleep.

Bruce and Dr.Lawson hash out some more details and say their farewells, before the car is silent. Bruce does not let it linger for long. “You two will go to bed when we get home, I will take care of patrol.”

There are immediate objections.

“Are you fucking shitting me, why the hell would I skip patrol after that?! You think that I’m gonna find out there’s traffickers on my streets, and then skip patrol?!” Jason growls out at him, incredulity palpable. He leans through the middle of the seats so he can look at Dick, “I think pops is losing it a little, now might be the time we start thinking about care facilities.”

Bruce restrains himself from commenting on Jason’s lack of seatbelt, because contrary to popular belief, he does know how to avoid escalation. Sometimes.

(Also maybe it makes him feel all warm and fuzzy when Jason calls him anything related to dad, so he can let this one slide— even if it was to insult his age and sanity.)

Dick, regretfully, agrees with Jason. “I really can’t imagine just… going home and sleeping, either,” he says, fidgeting nervously.

Bruce does not bend to his sons’ protests. “Jason, you said there was a number in the boy’s bag that you needed to check out. Use the equipment in the cave. Dick, talk to Alfred about… what we spoke about.”

Jason leans forward once more, a dramatic expression of confusion on his face, “Whoa, hey, hello, that was smooth as fucking gravel. What you spoke about?”

Bruce sighs, “It’s just a possibility, it probably won’t even happen, so there’s no need—“

Dick smashes his excuses to bits, tap dancing atop Bruce’s attempt to talk around the issues. “If we can’t find the kid’s family or he doesn’t have one, Bruce is gonna add him to his collection,” Dick says with a bright grin.

Jason completely deadpans, unimpressed to the highest degree. “You have a problem.”

Bruce frowns, eyes narrowed in indignation and definitely not any embarrassment at all. “He will likely have a family somewhere— and he may not wish to stay with us if he doesn’t. And I’m not completely sure yet that we should take him in. I am just making sure there is a contingency, we likely will not be taking him in, and certainly not permanently.”

Jason snorts loudly, “Yeah, you tell yourself that.”

Dick and Jason can laugh all they want; when they arrive at the manor, they both head inside, and Bruce patrols alone. His boys, safe at home.

Ha. Gotcha.

~11~

Jason isn’t going to call this Noah guy yet. He needs to do some research first.

Jason puts the phone number into the batcomputers system, and is surprised to find that it brings up a registered phone.

He looks through the guy’s info— 18 year old Noah Klemon— and finds… that he’s just some guy. Just some regular shmuck.

Jason looks more extensively. Social media, records (minor criminal record: shoplifting, trespassing in an abandoned mall— the average amount of record for a Gotham citizen), purchases… he’s literally just some guy. Jason even sends the number to Barb, and she just sends him a message back asking why the hell he’s looking into the guy, he’s totally clean.

So either this is the stealthiest criminal in all of Gotham, with insane tech skills able to outmaneuver Babs, or he’s literally just a random person who… gave a street kid his number? And something about the video on his Instagram story of him trying to put up RGB lights in his room, wildly unsuccessfully, is telling Jason it’s not door number one.

Huh. Maybe this one is a question for Mystery Kid.

Well. Another question.

~11~

The look Alfred gives him when Dick tells him about their new friend in the ICU is certainly something.

“Oh, the young sir is in the intensive care unit for not taking care of his injuries or seeking help? Then I suppose he shall fit in perfectly,” the old man remarked sassily. He gave Dick an absolutely acidic side-eye. “And oh my, how surprising, Master Bruce, taking in an injured, traumatized child. I never could have seen this coming,” he deadpans, “I already have spare rooms ready.”

Dick laughs tiredly, “He even has dark hair. If he wakes up and his eyes are blue, I’m gonna register Bruce as a meta who has a magnetic pull for children with baggage and certain features. Then again, Jason is the one who found him…”

“Oh goodness help us, it appears that Bruce’s habit is rubbing off on you boys.”

That makes Dick dissolve into giggles.

Ohhhh how Jason would punch him if he hit him with that ‘like father like son’ line. But this is child number two Jason has brought to Bruce. Damian, and now this kid.

Yeah, Dick is gonna go say that to him.

~11~

In Bruce’s spare time between fights on patrol, he researches dutifully on his bat phone— and yes, that is a perfectly fine name for his night work phone, it is not silly in the slightest. 

We’re not taking the boy home, Bruce tells himself, because this is a ‘We’ situation. His sons absolutely have some blame here. I am not adopting him. Bruce is just making sure he’s prepared for any and all possibilities. We will find his family and return him to his home, I do not have a problem. We are not keeping him. 

If he had a search history on this thing, the pages and pages of articles on assisting somebody with difficulties walking, helping someone adjust to a wheelchair even though he’s already learned most of this from Barbara, and what nerve damage entails for someone would be a little incriminating.

Bruce orders a hefty delivery of compression socks that one of the medical websites mentioned could help and it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just… good to have, in case anyone needs them in the future.

Oh, they have Hello Kitty ones!

Bruce adds those to his cart.

But like… it doesn’t mean anything. He is— definitely a responsible adult here, with self control, who is not going to take another kid home. Permanently. Maybe just temporarily, if he has to. If he’s forced to.

I don’t know his shoe size, but Jason said he’s a kid, so probably not too big? Hn. Best get a variety of sizes. And some bigger ones, so he can have some to grow into…

These are just a gift. So the kid can take them with him wherever he goes, which won’t be the Wayne Manor, because they aren’t keeping him.

Bruce is very proud of his iron will and unshakable self control. Not that there’s anything to resist—- it’s not like he wants to have another child. There isn’t even a stray hair of a desire to take home the small, afraid, traumatized, lonely young boy who probably needs a lot of love and people to take care of him and someone to protect him and care for him and maybe some hugs and ooh he’s probably hungry, so some warm food and he’ll want some comfort, so maybe a fun, relaxing movie? 

….which he will find with the excellent foster family Bruce will pick out for him, if he doesn’t have a family out there they can locate and vet.

Yup. This self control stuff is easy. Bruce is Batman. 

…

…

Speaking of, there’s absolutely no choice but to add the Batman themed pack of compression socks to the cart.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 12

~12~

Yup. This self control stuff is easy. Bruce is Batman. 

…

…

Speaking of, there’s absolutely no choice but to add the Batman themed pack of compression socks to the cart.

~12~

When Tim opens his eyes, he isn’t sure that was the best idea.

Because his first thought is fucking ow, and his second is Ra’s gave me ketamine again, didn’t he?

Everything feels very dreamlike and strange, and while things hurt, Tim just knows somehow that he should be feeling so much worse. Tim tries to lift his arms, but they just flop pathetically. There’s a mask over his face and all sorts of stuff attached to him.

Tim’s head lolls to the side clumsily as he attempts to look around the room, eyes lazily rolling around rather than scanning with the pointed focus they’d normally have. His entire body feels so heavy.

He’s… he’s in a hospital.

Why is he in a hospital room?

Tim tries to remember what happened before this, but it’s all so… mixed. Swirly. Hah, swirly and mixy. Mixy. How do you spell that? Mixey? Mixxy? Micxy? Mick C? Mixie. Mixxie. One of those. Is that even a word? It should be.

Ooo, he likes the blanket. Blankey. Fuck yeah. He’s taking this with him when he leaves.

Okay, ketamine fucks him up pretty bad, but this feels different. There’s a distinct lack of that ‘ gonna puke my guts out’ sensation. And if he’s in a hospital room… then hopefully regular pain meds? How did Ra’s get him in a hospital—- never mind, that’s easy for him, Ra’s probably owns a few hospitals.

Tim flinches when the door to the room opens, and a woman enters. A nurse, by the look of her. She starts adjusting machines and such, and then glances at him— and jumps with startled fright when she sees him staring at her. “Oh! Oh, my, I’m sorry dear— I didn’t expect you to be awake! I’ll go tell the doctor,” she smiles kindly at him, and Tim nods blankly, eyes glossy.

A few minutes, or hours for all that Tim knows, she comes back. “Dr.Lawson is aware you’re awake, but he’ll hold off on questions for now. Are you up for visitors, sweetie? You have some people here to see you,” she tells him with her soft, comforting voice.

Tim doesn’t want to see Ra’s. He doesn’t want to answer questions ever . But Ra’s doesn’t take no for an answer, so either Tim lets him in or he deals with the consequences. He can use the drugs and oxygen mask as an excuse not to talk, see how far that stretches.

Tim nods, and the nurse gives him a smile, “I’m glad you're up for it— just tell someone if you’re tired, we’ll let you get back to sleep, okay sweetheart?” She tells him, before leaving again.

Tim stares at the hospital ceiling, eyes half lidded. He’s so tired.

The door opens, and his adrenaline begins to flood his veins, his heartbeat speeding up. Tim watches the screen by his bed, watches the lines get closer together. 

He looks at the door— and his heart rate spikes high enough for the monitor to start audibly making noise as a warning.

Tim’s pupils dilate and he begins to shake.

Oh god.

Ra’s has decided to kill him.

~12~

As promised, Bruce and his eldest sons got to the hospital first thing in the morning. It was definitely unnecessary to get there so early, but alas.

A nurse lead them to a different area— the kid was newly assigned his own room, since they have no clue how long he’ll have to stay in the ICU. They each set up with their own individual work in the waiting area, occupying themselves. Jason has a book he’s absolutely devouring, Dick is filling out some sort of report on his laptop, and Bruce is reading emails on his phone.

In an odd stroke of luck, they don’t have to wait long. Only an hour in and Dr.Lawson comes down the hall towards them and the kid’s room, accompanied by a nurse who had passed by them earlier. 

Dr.Lawson greets them all with handshakes and a smile, cheerily announcing, “Nurse Xia tells me he’s awake! Early riser, I guess,” they all sit up expectantly, Jason immediately snapping his book shut without even bookmarking his place. “He’s on pain medication at the moment, so he isn’t all there, but he told Xia that he’s ready for visitors. Brain fog, memory loss, and confusion are normal, so take it easy on him— he’ll probably have a few days of waking up for only short periods of time and sleeping for most of it, but judging by him being awake and semi-coherent today, he may be doing better than we suspected he would. We don’t want to overwhelm him, so we’re going to start with one of you guys, and I will be accompanying you until we get confirmation from him that he’s okay with you visiting him independently, since he doesn’t know you.”

Jason turns to Dick and Bruce at light speed, “Dibs!”

Dick pouts, huffing, “That’s not fair, you can’t just call dibs!”

Jason sticks his tongue out, equally immature. “Yeah, we’ll see what you think about that next time you call dibs on some bullshit,” he mocks, standing up decisively. Dr.Lawson chuckles at their antics, sharing a look with Bruce.

Dr.Lawson takes Jason to the door, and Bruce and Dick both stand up, looking to catch a glimpse of the kid while the door is open.

And catch a glimpse they do.

“Christ on a cracker, you’re kidding…” Dick laughs, a sort of hysterical look on his face. 

The kid is laying there, clearly out of it. He has an oxygen mask on his face and all sorts of machinery hooked up to him, and his blue eyes stare off to the side, his black hair making his sickly pale skin stand out even more.

Dick grins. “Bruce. You’re fucked.” Black hair, blue eyes, traumatized— Check, check, and check. Now all they need is a strong sense of justice and above average intelligence.

(And if Dick jokes about it, it hurts a little less to look at the horrible state the poor kid is in, all connected to machinery in an imitation of the underneath of someone’s desk with poor cable management.)

Bruce makes an unamused grunt in response.

Jason gives them a salute as he enters the room, but as the door is closing, they can see the kid’s eyes drift to the doorway and lock on to Jason.

The door shuts, and there’s silence. Silence.

And then shouts of panic.

~12~

When Dr.Lawson leads Jason into the room, Jason has to make himself take a deep breath to calm himself.

The sight of the kid’s injured form is disquieting, tucked under the hospital bed blanket with an oxygen mask on and a dazed, 100-yard-stare.

Then, the kid’s eyes latch into Jason and he goes… still. Jason thought the kid was still before, but he turns to stone practically when his eyes land on them, flickering frantically between Dr.Lawson and Jason.

The heart monitor starts making audible beeps to warn of the patient’s rising heart rate. 

Dr.Lawson holds his hands out in a calming manner, “Hey, it’s okay, we’re just here to say hi, okay?”

Instantly, the rate on the heart monitor slows. Unnaturally swift a change, Jason would say— but what does he know? Plenty, nobody calms down that quickly, or is he just biased?

Jason pauses, cautious of the cornered look in the boy’s eyes. A cornered animal is dangerous, and he’s staring one down. Dr.Lawson does not stop his approach.

“Hello, I’m Dr.Lawson. I just need to ask a few, simple things from you, nothing too difficult, okay?” The kid doesn’t say anything, eyes still shooting between Jason and the doctor. “Can you hold up two fingers for me?”

The boy lifts his arm. It’s slow, terribly slow, and seems to be taking a lot of effort. He shakily folds his pinky, ring finger and thumb in to give a weak peace sign. Dr.Lawson gives the kid a smile, nodding.

“Thank you. Can you tell me today’s date?”

The boy stares at them with visible confusion, as if he isn’t sure why he’s being asked. “I…” his voice is a tired croak, rough and painful sounding, “I’m not sure. I haven’t looked… in a while,” he chokes out. The words are muffled by the oxygen mask.

“Do you know where you are?”

“I’m… am I still in Turkey? Or did he move me?” The boy asks.

Travel theory confirmed, fucking hell. Turkey. The kid is a long way from home. He has to know, or have known, that he isn’t in Turkey anymore. He was walking around outside and English was the primary language. The pain meds and/or the trauma might have his brain lagging behind a little.

Did he move me? He. Jason makes note.

Dr.Lawson sighs quietly, “Are you okay with us removing the oxygen mask? It’ll be easier for you to talk. We’ll have to put it back on immediately after, you cannot keep it off.”

The boy’s eyes sharpen, and he nods weakly. Dr.Lawson approaches, but the kid shakes his head. He turns to look at Jason.

Jason startles, worried— the kid tilts his head, looking up at Jason and blinking tiredly. Jason approaches. The kid doesn’t move. Jason moves closer, slowly. He reaches out, and gently pulls the oxygen mask off the kid's face. He stands there, holding it and matching the boy’s stare.

The boy’s eyes still hold this wild quality. “Thank you,” he says.

“No problem—“

And then he pounces.

Jason shouts with surprise as the kid jerks forward and bites him. “Fucking hell!” Jason tries to gently get the kid off his arm, the fucker has a damn strong jaw, he holds on admirably and Jason can't get him to release-- but the kid lets go on his own and lunges off the bed. Jason tries to catch him, but regrettably misses as the kid pulls the hospital blanket over Jason’s head, and the kid hits the floor. Jason rips the fabric off his head so he can have his vision back.

A medical machine tips over, pulled by its attachment to the boy, and various tubes and such are ripped out of him. Various awful sounds of alarm begin to whine from the machines. He scrambles for the door. Luckily for the kid’s dignity, the gown doesn’t have an open back.

But between Dr.Lawson’s panicked call for assistance over his device and the injured child running on fucking burns on his feet what the hell how the hell, Jason could care less about accidentally seeing a stranger’s ass. Open-backed or not, that kid is going back in that fucking bed.

The kid makes it into the hall, where Dick and Bruce are standing with wide eyes. The boy freezes, staring at them. His face twists into a fierce snarl. “You’re not real!” He screams, and then turns to run down the hall. “Pru! Pru, help!”

But he doesn’t get far, because Jason had enough time to gain his bearings and run after the boy, scooping him up from behind.

The kid thrashes in Jason’s arms, held tight to the larger man’s torso. “Let me fucking go! Let me go, I’ll fucking— let me go!” He kicks Jason in the side, but by now he’s prepared for the ferocious little beast and keeps ahold of him. “PRUDENCE!” 

The name is shrieked in Jason’s ear, causing him to wince, but he doesn’t let go. 

The boy shoves at Jason, and he’s a slippery little fucker, because he manages to get free. His feet hit the ground and he starts to collapse, but he’s caught by Bruce, who was waiting at the ready. Bruce wraps his arms around the boy's torso from behind, carefully above the spleen area, trapping his arms to him and lifting a little so his feet are off the ground.

“Please, let me go!” The kid wails, “he’s gonna kill me! You have to let me go, he’s gonna kill me!”

The kid’s eyes are locked onto Jason, his begging desperate, terrified, and Jason feels his chest ache and crack.

Dr.Lawson steps aside as a nurse comes running down the hall to him, carrying a sedative. “I need you to hold him still, he’s going to further injure himself if he keeps going like this. We have to sedate him for his own safety,” Dr.Lawson instructs, and Bruce nods sadly. It’s going to break his heart, but the kid has already been damaging his injuries.

The nurse begins to approach with the sedative and the boy’s eyes nearly pop out of his head with the way they widen. His pupils do something Jason isn’t sure is normal, and the kid goes completely limp— aside from the way he leans back into Bruce’s hold, away from the nurse. The needle.

His voice is a swelling tide of desperation as he begs once more, but with a different request this time. “No! No no no, you don’t have to— I’ll behave! I’ll stop fighting, I will, you can put me back, I’ll stay. I promise, I promise I’ll stop fighting, I don’t need to be—“ his words choke off at the end, shaky and pleading. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I hurt your people, I’ll behave.”

The nurse looks to Dr.Lawson for instruction, and Jason meets the man’s eyes with a shake of his head. It’s clear that the kid is delirious from the sepsis and pain medication and is extremely traumatized at the moment. They don’t want to make it worse. Dr.Lawson sighs, and shakes his head at the nurse. She puts the needle back into its sterile casing for now. Not gone, but in a sort of unarmed position.

The boy doesn’t relax, but he stops his panicked babbling and just watches now. His eyes are like little microscopes, picking Jason apart. Jason averts his eyes, looking down, and regrets it.

The kid's legs are all scarred up like his torso, thin and pale and bony, but that’s the least of Jason’s horror. No, what really kicks his ass out from under him are the bandages wrapped all up from the kid’s toes to covering his ankles—- and the belled cuffs there as well. 

Wrists. Neck. Ankles. There’s really no way for Jason to explain it away anymore; this kid was being held prisoner in some way. 

Dr.Lawson approaches calmly, and Dick stands back behind Bruce, blocking that hall in case the kid gets free again. “We’re going to put you back now, okay?” The doctor holds his hands up in a sign of peace and calmness. “We’ll put your IV and everything back in, and then we can leave you alone, okay?”

The kid’s eyes jump from Dr.Lawson to Jason. “He isn’t killing me yet?”

Jason’s heart breaks a little bit more. “No, kiddo. Nobody is going to hurt you—-“

The kid’s previously growing calm retracts immediately, and teeth bare in a snarl.

The kid begins to struggle again, panicking, “Liar! You’re lying, you’re a fucking liar, put me down!” He whips his head back, the back of his skull connecting with Bruce’s neck, causing the man to cough— but not let go. “I’m not stupid, I’m not falling for that!”

The boy gets a hand free and reaches back to scratch Bruce across the face, but Dick lunges forward and grabs the hand before it can do any damage. Dick steps around Bruce to stand in front of the kid, blocking his view of Jason, the doctor and the nurse.

“Hey, hey hey hey, it’s okay, buddy, it’s okay. Nobody is going to kill you,” Dick reassures softly.

The boy's eyes go wide, his eyebrows raised in pure shock. “You… what are you doing here…” he murmurs. A distressed, overwhelmed whine starts in the kids throat— high pitches and upset. “No, you aren’t him, he isn't here,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

There’s no telling what he’s seeing at the moment, so Dick doesn’t make any comment on any of that, in case it makes things worse. “We’ll get you back to bed, and you don’t have to take anything, okay? Jason forgives you for biting him, I promise, I’ve done way worse to him,” Dick says with a tight grin, trying to relieve the tension a little. “I’ll make sure nobody gets to you, I’ll protect you, okay?”

The boy snarls again, but doesn’t struggle. “Lying. You’re lying again, you just let them hurt me! Over, and over again!” He takes a shuddering breath, eyes watery but no tears falling. “You won’t protect me, you won’t help me.”

Dick doesn’t know who he’s reminding the boy of, but it breaks his heart to hear those words all the same. He’s going to throttle someone. The kid sounds betrayed, and heartbroken. Hopeless. He’s given up on being held, helped, protected. 

Dick nods resolutely, brows set. “This time, I will. I promise. Would I let someone kill you?” He asks, crossing his fingers and fucking praying.

The kids brows furrow, his mouth a tight frown. “I don’t know…” his hand twitches where Dick is holding onto it. “I really don’t know.”

Fucking hell, Dick is gonna strangle somebody.

The kid shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut and grunting. He opens them again, scanning the hallway frantically. Jason knows the kid must not be able to see her through Dick, but the kid’s eyes perfectly aim towards where the nurse is as if he could see through Dick’s body. “I want to go back now. I can protect myself.” He tries to wiggle free from Bruce’s arms once more, but more calmly this time. Or just less aggressively, but still jittery. 

Jason can see the way it hurts them all, that that is the kids conclusion, that he can rely on himself and himself alone and that has to be enough. But he says he’ll go back, and that's progress. The trust issues can be dealt with when he isn’t high on pain meds and freshly out of a sedative-induced nap from his first time waking up and freaking out.

Bruce attempts to adjust his hold on the kid so he’s not just hanging there, but the kid takes the opportunity to swing his legs up and kind of roll out of Bruce’s arms. He lands feet-first on the ground, and just kind of sways there for a second before taking a step towards the room.

“Woah! Hey, wait a second, kiddo,” Jason rushes forward, and the kid flinches back, violently. He holds one arm up in a block and the other covers his neck. Jason freezes, a sick, tired feeling stirring in his gut. The boy is afraid of him. Of course he is. “…you aren’t supposed to be walking,” Jason says in a low, quiet voice.

The kid glares at Jason, then lowers his arms and clenches his fists. “I can walk just fine.”

“It’s amazing that you’re even capable of coherent speech and moving, much less standing or walking,” Dr.Lawson comments, a disapproving expression on his face. “You are going to hurt yourself further.”

Tim stares him down with a slightly delirious and entirely deadpan expression. “I’ve made pain my bitch.”

Jason starts to choke.

Bruce’s face does something really complicated that conveys a feeling of ‘oh god’ and Dick looks like he’s either gonna laugh or cry.

Bruce takes a deep breath. “You shouldn’t walk on them,” the boy whips around incredibly fast, startling the spectators. Bruce hesitates, then continues, “…you can protect yourself better if you heal quicker, and if you walk on them, it’ll take longer to heal. I can carry you, if that’s okay?”

The kid stares at Bruce. And stares. And keeps staring. “Are you real? Or did I make you up?”

Bruce reaches a hand out, “I’m real. Is that okay?”

The kid’s eyes water again, and he nods, sniffling. He holds his arms close to his chest, but takes a wobbly step towards Bruce. “I would like to go back now.”

Bruce moves very slowly. He puts one arm behind the kids back, and reaches down with the other, hoisting the kid up into his arms. The kid keeps his hands against his chest, not touching anything. This is about the point where Jason is calm enough to realize that the bells don’t actually make any noise. They swing from his ankles, but don’t make a sound. As if they’re just for decoration.

Bruce carries the kid, who’s now shaking in his arms, towards the door. Dr.Lawson opens it for him, and they cross the threshold. The doctor relaxes a little with a quiet sigh of relief.

Jason and Dick follow, even though they maybe shouldn’t.

Bruce sets the kid down in the hospital bed, and the boy makes this pained face. But he doesn’t do or say anything.

Bruce stands to the side with his boys as the doctor and the nurse begin hooking everything back up. The boy doesn’t so much as twitch when the IV goes back in. He doesn’t bite when the oxygen mask is cautiously placed back on his face. He stays scary still, like a corpse.

Jason picks the blanket back up off the floor, moving slowly. “D’ya want me to put this back?” He’s half asking the doctor and half asking the kid.

The doctor shakes his head, and the boy stays the same sculpture stillness as he has been. “It was all over the floor and he already has an infection,” Dr.Lawson tells him, and oh, now Jason feels like an idiot. “I’ll send someone to get him a new blanket.”

For the first time since reentering the room, the boy speaks. “I’m cold. Can I have more than one?” He asks, dead monotone. He stares them down with a challenging look, like this is supposed to be some kind of test. 

This is a test Jason is pretty sure he can manage. “Of course, kid, I’ll help carry them,” he tells the boy, trying to give his best ‘harmless smile.’

Dr.Lawson tapes the IV securely to the kids arm, not taking any chances. “If this happens again, we’re going to have to put mitts on you, okay? You’ve gotta help us to help yourself, everything here is meant to help you heal and pulling it out will only make everything worse,” he scolds gently. The kid nods stiffly. “Good. Can you tell me your name?”

The kid’s brows furrow, as if confused by this question. “Tim. My name is Tim.”

“That your full name?”

“Uhm… Timothy, but I don’t like Timothy. It’s Tim.”

Tim.

Jason smiles. “I’ll go get those blankets for you, Tim.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 13

~13~

The kid’s brows furrow, as if confused by this question. “Tim. My name is Tim.”

“That your full name?”

“Uhm… Timothy, but I don’t like Timothy. It’s Tim. That’s it.”

Tim.

Jason smiles. “I’ll go get those blankets for you, Tim.”

~13~

The boy— Tim, Bruce’s brain supplies, his name is Tim— lays deathly still in his hospital bed.

He’s awake. He’s watching them. But he’s still as a statue, hands placed palm-down on the bed.

“I need your full name, last included— if you know it, Tim,” Dr.Lawson continues.

Tim stays still. “It’s just Tim.”

Dick keeps a healthy distance from the boy, aware that whoever he’s reminding the kid of isn’t the best person— he’d rather not frighten Tim— but he asks, “Do you know either of your parent’s names?”

Tim still doesn’t move, letting the doctor continue to set his medical equipment up with the help of the nurse. “They’re gone.”

“Oh,” Dick breathes softly, “I’m sorry, kiddo.”

Tim just blinks up at the ceiling. “It’s okay, they didn’t like me.”

Every adult in the room exchanges awkward glances. Yikes. Ouch. Bruce can’t help but want to give the poor kid a hug or something. The sentence wasn’t anything particularly gruesome or cruel, it wasn’t explicit, just… it was brutal. Brutal and merciless sounding. ‘They didn’t like me,’ said bluntly. Plain fact. No real emotion behind it.

Dr.Lawson clears his throat awkwardly, “Any extended family or foster family we can contact?”

Tim finally moves, shaking his head a little. “No, they didn’t like me either,” his brows furrow, “I might have gotten kicked out? In a way?”

Ow, his heart.

Jason chuffs lightly from where he’s leaning against the wall, waiting for the nurse to finish helping the doctor so he can accompany her to get blankets. “That’s fucking tough, kid. I feel ya’, I got kicked from a home or two the short time I was in the system.” He tries to make it sound light, but Bruce can tell it distressed him.

Tim sighs, staring at the ceiling some more. “I mean, it was less like kicked out and more like fired, so I guess that’s okay.”

“Fired? ”

“The ceiling is spinning,” Tim comments, ignoring Dick’s question. “Is the ceiling spinning for everybody, or is it just me? Did you give me drugs? I said you didn’t have to give me drugs, I promise I won’t move,” he says weirdly casually. “I hate feeling weird, get rid of them.”

Nurse Xia answers him, “It’s just pain medication, no sedatives. Without it you’ll be hurting really bad.”

Tim huffs, wiggling a little. “I don’t care, this is like, kiddie shit. I’ve gotten shot, did you know that? With a gun n’ stuff. Like, pow!” One of his hands makes a little finger gun, but he’s too weak to lift it up.

Dick makes an absolutely horrified face, and Bruce and Jason just have their poker faces equipped. Because if Bruce doesn’t at least pretend he’s emotionally made of concrete, he’ll do something awful.

“How’d you get shot?” Jason asks with a tight voice.

Tim turns his head to glare at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know, leather boy,” Jason’s eyebrows raise, and he crosses his arms over his leather jacket with narrowed eyes. “I thought you said I didn’t have to answer any questions right now. Oh yeah, the room is definitely moving more than it should. I’m cold.” He rambles, scowling

Jason just blinks. “I’m gonna go get those blankets.” This kid is high as balls. 

Jason heads out with the nurse, leaving the muffled conversation behind to continue. He hears Dick introducing them to the kid, telling him their names. Jason needs to be helpful somehow, and this he can do.

The nurse leads him to a storage closet with a wall of blankets and pillows, all sterile smelling and mostly white. The nurse just grabs a basic white blanket, but Jason takes a second to look. He spots a few fuzzy-ish ones, in very light color variations, and feels victorious when he finds a pinkish one. Score. Maybe he can start making up for scaring the shit out of the kid…

Jason grabs the pink blanket, and then one more just in case, a baby blue. Can’t have the little guy getting cold.

Jason and the nurse head back to the room, and knock lightly on the door. There’s some faint murmuring, a barely heard ‘you’re sure?’ and then the doctor says they can come in.

The kid is sitting up on the bed, gown folded down from the top so the doctor can check on his surgery wound. 

Dr.Lawson sighs. “It’s a miracle you did not tear any stitches, Tim. Your wound is irritated, but still together. If you want to keep it that way, I hope you have the good sense to stay in bed, yes?”

Tim nods, not even looking at the doctor as he wiggles himself back into the part of the gown he’d removed. He looks at Jason, eyes narrowing, but then looks at what he’s carrying and his eyes widen a little. His pupils are absolutely blown, definitely on the good shit. “Blankets. Give!” He makes the most demanding grabby hands Jason has ever seen, and he took care of Damian for a good while.

Dr.Lawson and Nurse Xia coax Tim to lay down, mumbling about him stressing his wounds, and manage to get him down. The oxygen mask on his face shifts as he makes a grumpy expression. Nurse Xia puts the plain blanket over him first, and Tim immediately kicks it down the bed.

“Tim!” Dr.Lawson scolds. “No using your legs!”

Tim crosses his arms, which then get grabbed in a panic and moved back to his sides so he stops fucking up the needles in him. The nurse is quietly stewing, grumbling about how he needs to stay still and stop messing with his medical devices. Tim huffs. 

Jason is momentarily confused. He thought Tim wanted blankets? Tim’s eyes are still locked on him. Oh! Right, fuzzy first. It’s Dick’s golden rule of blankets. What’s the point of having a fuzzy blanket if you can’t feel it?

Jason walks a bit closer, and Tim tries to lift his arms to take the blankets, a suspicious eye on Jason’s face. His arms just kinda… flop there. A moment of panic flashes over his face when he realized he’s having trouble moving, and he glares with a look that just says ‘fucking try me and see what happens,’ but it’s a little bit cute. A little terrifying, he’s seriously got that batglare down, but a bit like a little ducky looking angry.

Jason sets the blue blanket on the side table, then cautiously unfolds the pink and lays it over Tim. The kid hasn’t bit him yet, so that’s good. Jason notices the kid is shaking just a little, but he can’t tell if it’s from fear or the cold. Hopefully the latter… drugs can make you a little cold sometimes. “You want another?” He ventures.

Tim wiggles under the blanket, sinking a little lower. He nods, still glaring at Jason. Jason slowly and carefully layers the blue blanket on top, then pulls up the white blanket. Aw. That’s cute. He’s just a grumpy little head now. Jason gets a little lost in thought, adjusting the blankets around Tim’s head like he’d do for Damian.

Tim gives him a wide-eyed, very confused and worried look. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Jason freezes, backing off. He clears his throat. “Sorry. Habit.” He didn’t mean to invade the kid’s space again, Jason clearly reminds him of somebody he doesn’t like.

Dr.Lawson pauses. “Tim… are you sure you're okay with these individuals being here currently? At any point you can tell me you want them gone, and they’ll be out of here in an instant.” 

Tim glares. “Don’t care anymore. They… they’re fine.” His face goes carefully blank. “I was mistaken before. I don’t know them.”

“Are you up for a few more questions? Maybe you could tell me your parents' names, even if you don’t live with them anymore?”

“…”

“Tim?”

“…”

The doctor frowns. “Can you hear me?” Tim doesn’t reply. But then— he nods. And then sticks his tongue out. “Can you speak?” He asks. Tim does nothing.

Jason hears Bruce very quietly release a puff of laughter, one of those that’s just a short little exhale. Jason, Dick and Bruce all catch on at once. Silent treatment. “I think he’s attempting to let us know he’s done,” Bruce comments.

Dr.Lawson looks tired, but not annoyed. He probably deals with worse as a Gotham doctor. “Would you like to try going back to sleep? Or attempt to eat something? You have to pick one. Lift one finger for the first, two for the second.

Tim shuffles a hand out of his blankets, and then flips off the doctor. Jason hears Bruce facepalm. Jason is unashamed to admit he’s amused.

Dr.Lawson just sighs, smiling tightly. “Well, I’d say that's a clear ‘one’. We’ll leave you alone to get some sleep, but we’ll be checking in. Don’t pull anything out, you need it.”

Jason, Dick and Bruce take this as their cue to leave, so they start gathering their stuff. Tim tracks them with his eyes.

They head for the door, following Dr.Lawson. The nurse leaves just before Jason. Jason is about to shut the door behind him when the kid speaks, taking him by surprise. “Jason?”

Jason immediately turns around. He suspects the others have paused, waiting to see where this goes. “Yes?” It’s the first time the kid has said any of their names, and Dick introduced them a few minutes ago, so hopefully this means the kid is realizing they aren’t who he thought they were? That he has been confusing them with other people due to distress and being loopy from the meds? Hopefully.

Tim’s eyes flicker to the people behind Jason, likely the doctor and nurse. “I want him to stay. In here.” He looks at Jason again. “I want him to stay.”

Dr.Lawson seems unsure, and Jason looks over to where Dick and Bruce are standing out of sight of the door. Dick is grinning at him and giving dumb thumbs up. Bruce just has a fond smile, and nods. “If you’d like to, and it’s okay with the doctor.”

Tim glares. “He stays. Or I pull shit out.”

Dr.Lawson and the nurse quickly come to an agreement following that threat, and Jason finds himself back in the room, staring at Tim with no real clue why he’s decided Jason can stay.

~13~

Dr.Lawson rubs at his forehead, greatly stressed. He has a hushed conversation with nurse Xia, making notes. 

Dick looks at his father, his grin that he’d given Jason fading. This entire situation is shit. The kid is fucking terrified, and they probably look so suspicious. Tim, as he told them to call him, clearly thinks they’re people they aren’t. He’s seeing people who aren’t there. Something about Jason terrified him, and something about Dick distresses him. He seems okay with Bruce, maybe he doesn’t resemble anybody? But now he’s asking for Jason to stay in the room with him. Hopefully nobody gets bit again…

“…I’m concerned about his insistence on getting up out of bed and taking his IVs out. He clearly doesn’t want medication, but if he doesn’t have it he’s not going to make it,” the nurse whispers a little louder, arguing now with the doctor and losing a bit of control on her volume.

“I just don’t think restraints are the best idea,” Dr.Lawson says back, in the same hushed-bite. “If he hurts himself again, we can talk about it.”

Bruce turns to them, butting in with no attempt to be discreet. “I agree with the doctor. Restraints don’t currently seem like a good idea.” He looks back at the door, brow furrowed. “I have a child at home who was similarly defensive and aggressive when he came to me. Restraints would have been the absolute worst thing we could have done for him. Tim is scared, so he’s fighting everything. He needs to adjust.”

Dr.Lawson has a worried furrow to his brow. “He’ll be dealing with post sepsis symptoms for a little while, which I believe is causing some of his current reactiveness. It can cause confusion, disorientation, concentration and memory problems… even hallucinations, in some cases. We haven’t done blood work yet, so who knows what else he has until we get on that. He probably isn’t sure how he got here. He’ll remember eventually, but at the moment it’s likely he’s very confused. Restraints will scare him further,” the doctor muses.

The doctor and nurse both seem to think on this, looking at each other. Nurse Xia sighs. “Just… if he harms himself again, we have to do what keeps him alive.” She huffs with annoyance, “We still don't have any information on him, and we can’t keep him forever. CPS will have to be involved at some point, soon, possibly police.”

Bruce takes a step forward. “I have a proposal.”

~13~

Jason stares.

Tim scowls in the now-dimmed lights of the room. “Take a picture.”

Jason snorts. “Such a tiny kid to contain all that sass,” he snarks. Tim glares at him fiercely.

He bares his teeth, honest to god hissing. “I’ve bitten you once and I’ll do it again.” Tim hopes he takes the threat seriously. Maybe the room is spinning like the teacups at Disney, but he can aim upside down and blind. He’ll land it.

Jaaon takes careful steps, eyes on Tim the whole time. He takes a seat near the bed, but far enough away that Tim doesn’t feel like starting shit. The whir of machines is a constant background noise, and Jason opens his book.

Tim stares at the ceiling, snuggled under the blankets. He doesn’t close his eyes or even attempt sleep. He keeps flickering his eyes to Jason. Jason has never had much patience, so he bites the bullet. “So… what made you change your mind?” He murmurs softly, trying to not be too loud in the dim room. “You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to.”

Tim shifts. “Recently, I haven’t been sure I’m not crazy. I don’t know if… they’re real, but I think you are. It makes sense. And you aren’t going to kill me,” he proclaims with confidence. Now that he’s said it all, he wishes he said less, but drugs have always made him more loose-lipped. Go fuck yourself, Ra’s.

Jason seems to slump, relaxing. Relieved.

Tim continues. “I figured it out. If you were here to kill me, I’d be dead a long time ago. You’re a guard. I’m worth more alive.” Ra’s doesn’t want him dead. He’s useless dead. Him being dead punishes Ra’s. Jason is guarding him, to make sure he doesn’t leave and nobody else gets in.

Tim feels like he’s missing something, but he can’t figure it out. Where is he? How long has he been here? Why would Dick and Bruce be here? Where the hell is Pru? He knows something is clouding his mind. He suspects it’s whatever is running through his IV. Logic seems to slip away from him at every corner, nothing makes sense. Tim shifts under his blankets, moving his arms— he looks at the things hanging around his wrists, and is hit by a bout of nausea. Quickly, he shoves them back under the blanket.

Jason is giving him this weird look, so Tim sits up a little and glares back, not one to back down. Tim huffs, flopping back down with force. He pulls the blanket over his head in defiance that isn’t childish at all, deciding he deserves more sleep. Ra’s wants him alive. Tim needs to gather strength while he can.

From outside the blanket, Tim hears Jason stand up. “Shit, almost forgot…” he mumbles. Tim peaks out, suspicious eyes following the man. He readies himself for… whatever happens next.

Jason glances his way, “Give me just a second, I’ll be right back. I promise.”

Tim shifts uncomfortably. As if the promises of someone working with Ra’s, especially the Red Hood, mean a damn thing to him.

Jason isn’t gone for long. In fact, he isn’t even gone. He doesn’t leave the room. Just opens the door and leans out, talking to whoever is outside. It only goes on for 30 seconds or so, before Jason is holding open the door and possibly-Dick-but-maybe-a-figment-of-his-mentally-cracked-imagination slash Dick’s-likeness-he’s-projected-over-a-stranger and the nurse come into the room. The nurse keeps a sharp eye on them all, supervising possibly.

Possibly-Dick has a red gift bag with him, and Jason drags his chair a little closer to Tim’s hospital bed and sits down. Possibly-Dick stands behind him, handing him the bag.

Jason clears his throat awkwardly. “Uhm— we got you something.” He holds the bag out, and wow, that looked almost painful. Probably the most awkward sentence he’s ever heard from Jason, and that’s saying something.

Tim shuffles upwards just a little bit, eyeing the bag with extreme suspicion. It… probably won’t kill him, right? Jason said we. Does that mean him and possibly-Dick? Or him and Ra’s?

Tim carefully reaches out—- then snatches the bag, getting out of range as quick as possible. He keeps his eyes on Jason for a moment, then looks at the nurse, but nothing happens. He analyzes the bag—

Gotham General Hospital.

In the corner of the bag it’s stamped. The shitty little logo and the name. Tim feels his world slow down. He continues to stare at the bag, confusion overtaking him.

Gotham General? He’s in Gotham? That isn’t possible. How did he get to Gotham? Is— Tim looks at possibly-Dick— is that Dick? 

Something prods at the back of Tim’s mind. Something is eating at him, on the tip of his tongue, there’s something he knows but it’s all so scrambled up. He feels like he almost has it—

“You’re supposed to open it,” Jason hesitantly teases. Tim bares his teeth, not responding.

Tim sets aside this new information for later, opening the bag. On top is just a blank piece of paper he puts on the side table— “Shit, we totally forgot to write something—-“ but underneath is something soft and squishy. But fabric, not slimy, thank god. Tim knows Ra’s is not above giving him organs. Getting a gift bag containing his spleen is a total Ra’s move.

Tim pulls the item out of the bag, and it’s… he tilts his head, expression carefully blank. It’s a HelloKitty plushy. Holding a strawberry. 

What the hell?

Tim squishes its head a little, suddenly doubly concerned he’s seeing shit. But it feels just like a stuffed animal. When it unsquishes, a faint strawberry scent comes off of it. A scented plushy. Jason Todd, the Red Hood, just gave him a scented plushy.

Tim looks at Jason and… the other one… and they both are staring at him in anticipation. Of what, he isn’t sure. Tim keeps his face blank.

Part of him wants to be offended. Part of him is a little offended. He’s not a fucking baby. A larger part of him is just too confused to be very focused on the offense. What is even happening? What is this? Is this some kind of mental fuckery? Convincing him he’s completely crazy?

And… a little part of him is feeling weird and shy. When did he last receive a gift? He’s never really done anything for his birthday, with his parents and the bats, and his team didn’t know when his birthday was. Was it… was it the Robin costume? Was that it? Was the Robin costume his last gift? It was hardly a gift, he strong-armed his way into it, but Alfred did give it to him. God, that’s pathetic.

They got him a gift. That’s…

He doesn’t need some stupid toy. He’s not a fucking child. Be an adult, Timothy.

Tim wants to throw the bag at their stupid faces, but the careful eye of the nurse who seems very eager to sedate him keeps him from doing so.

Tim keeps a carefully blank face, but his eyes narrow minutely. “I hate it.”

They both instantly make this strange expression. Like… it’s very close to disappointment but different. Definitely an upset expression. Possibly-Dick seems to deflate, and Jason purses his lips. He stands up slowly.

“Oh… sorry,” Jason apologizes, which is just confusing, because what is he apologizing for? What is even happening? Jason reaches out for the plushy, going to gently grab it from Tim, “I’ll get you something else, if you tell me what you’d rather have—“

Tim doesn’t know why his body does it. He certainly did not want to do it. But he snatches the plush to his chest, leaning back and away from Jason, gripping it tightly. “No!” 

You can’t have it you can’t have it back it's mine—

Tim blinks, and he feels like his brain just came back online. Everyone is staring at him, and they were before, but it’s different this time and he doesn’t like it. Tim feels embarrassment creep up his face, and he just knows his ears are red. He instinctively hides his face, which means he hides it in the plush, which is just even more embarrassing. Like a fucking child.

Tim forces himself to take a deep breath, and hates that he smells strawberries and it’s kind of nice. He wills his face to cool off, gritting his teeth. Visible embarrassment is an unforgivable sin. Stop it, Timothy!

Tim lifts his head, jaw clenched. He avoids eye contact, even though he knows that’s wrong. “I- I meant,” he curses himself for the stutter, slowly holding out the plush. “Yes. You can have it back.” His arms and hands are still weak, and they shake a little.

Jason doesn’t have that weird expression anymore. Instead he looks amused. “No, I think you should keep it. I don’t want it back.”

Tim slowly brings it back to him, cautious, as if it’s going to be snatched away. Whatever. Fine. If they want him to have it so bad, he’ll keep it then! 

Tim’s attention snaps to possibly-Dick when the man tries to hide a quick laugh. He scowls, embarrassed and pissed off. He lays down and turns away from them all, pulling the blanket over his head. 

Go away. He’s sleeping now. Jackasses…

Tim resolves to ignore everybody, staying in his warm blankets. They can go fuck themselves. He doesn’t even care if Jason leaves this time. Assassins can come for him at this point, the hell does he care?

He hears the door open, followed by a cheerful-but-quiet, “Goodnight, Timmy!” from Dick. Jason grumbles something about it not being anywhere near night from what sounds like the chair, so Tim assumes he’s staying. The sound of another pair of shoes accompanying the dull thud of sneakers tells him the nurse is also walking out, the sound of the door closing behind them signaling their departure. Just him and Jason again.

The sound of book pages fills the room, and it gives a weirdly calm feel to the relative quiet. Tim glares at nothing, frustrated and confused by literally everything at the moment.

He pulls the stupid toy a little closer, because the strawberry smell covers up the smell of metal and disinfectant, and that’s it.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 14

~14~

The sound of book pages fills the room, and it gives a weirdly calm feel to the relative quiet. Tim glares at nothing, frustrated and confused by literally everything at the moment.

He pulls the stupid toy a little closer, because the strawberry smell covers up the smell of metal and disinfectant, and that’s it.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

~14~

Eventually, Jason closes his book and stretches. His eyes are drawn towards the kid, cursing himself when he can feel his heart soften. Christ. He’s going to kill Dick for putting ‘like father, like son’ in his head. 

Tim’s head has popped up above the blankets in his sleep, a wiggly motherfucker. One leg sticks out of the blankets, almost hanging off the bed. Jason had been tempted various times to adjust him, but decided it wasn’t worth the risk of sending the kid into a panic due to being woken up by unfamiliar touch. When Bruce first brought Jason home, he’d check his room at night, paranoid about Jason’s safety. At the time, Jason still didn’t entirely trust him, and one night Bruce set a pillow back on the bed that had fallen to the floor… Jason was so panicked when he woke up and Bruce had his hands near Jason’s head, that he hyperventilated until he passed out, then hid in his closet for two days.

He’d rather avoid that with Tim.

Sometimes it blows Jason’s mind. That Bruce has… changed so much. 

It’s what brought Jason back.

Jason had died. He was a child soldier who fell in battle. And Bruce saw what happened, what he caused, and it tore him to shreds. He became violent. Then, he reached out for help. And he changed things. Big things. And small. That’s what brought Jason back, shy on the doorstep of a man he had tentatively called dad before, and is tentatively calling dad again– Bruce changed for Jason.

Nobody changed for Jason. No one had ever done it before, not for him. Willis didn’t love Jason, of course he made no effort to change… but he wouldn’t change for Catherine either. Catherine loved Jason. She really loved him, he has no doubts about that. Jason’s mom loved her son, unshakably.

But she wouldn’t change for him. Drugs held her hand tight, and Jason tried to hold tighter, but it wasn’t enough for her to change. Maybe that’s unfair. It probably is. Jason doesn’t care.

Bruce changed for him.

No more macho no-emotions bullshit. No more children in the field. No more Robin.

There were ups and downs, of course. Rough patches. There will be more, undoubtedly. But if things need to be changed, they can; anything can change. Bruce proved that to him.

Jason’s eyes lock onto the leg sticking out from the fuzzy blankets. Scarred and freshly wounded up till it disappears back under the blanket. Wrapped in bandages from the foot to the ankle. The manacle there, the bell hanging silently from it.

Life is going to change for this kid. Right fucking now, if Jason has any say in it.

Things are going to change for Tim, they’re going to be better. Jason’s gonna help it along, the family as a whole is going to help it along. Bruce can say what he likes about temporary, but Jason knows he’s already locked in. At a certain point, probably child 4, numbers stop meaning anything. 

Tim shifts again in his sleep, frowning with a furrowed brow. He takes a heavy breath, but then seems to calm down, holding his gift closer. Jason smiles— hopefully getting the scented one has helped.

It helped him.

(Dick getting him a lavender scented pillow. Easier to calm down from flashbacks, or realize you’re dreaming, when the smell of lavender is in your face, because the smell of distress was never lavender, it was a mild chemical smell and smoke and dirt and beer, never flowers. Lavender means he isn’t hiding in his moms room. It means he isn’t in a warehouse. He isn’t in the ground.)

Jason has resigned himself to being here awhile. The kid wanted him here, so he’ll be here when Tim wakes up. Dick texted him saying they’d bring Jason some more stuff to occupy his time, as well as some snacks.

A few hours later, a few nurses come in, telling Jason he has to leave for a little bit so they can change the bandages on his feet and clean his various wounds. Keeping infection away is vital at the moment. Jason sits in the hallway, anxiously bouncing his foot as he waits.

When he eventually is allowed back in, he’s surprised to find Tim still asleep. “He didn’t wake up?” Jason asks, having assumed someone as on-edge as Tim would have woken up the second the lights turned on. Poor kid must be exhausted.

A nurse nods, a large and strong looking man, picking up and throwing away a few things before he leaves. Little brown paper scraps that definitely look like crumpled garbage, but Jason isn’t sure what those are from. “We administered a mild sedative into his IV to keep him out for a bit, so he could sleep through it— less stressful for him and the staff. We also finally managed to take some blood.”

Or not.

Jason feels a little put-off by the staff giving the kid drugs when he clearly is not fond of them, but sometimes workers just have their orders. Jason still doesn’t like it, and shifts his chair a little closer protectively. He can see how still Tim is now, deeper asleep than before. Completely still, no more fidgeting in his sleep. Combined with his too-thin face and sickly pallor…

He almost looks dead.

Jason takes a shaky breath, pulling the blankets up a little more around Tim’s shoulders and neck to reassure himself. Covering the collar also helps calm him down, not having to see it, belled like a cat that keeps killing the birds at the birdfeeder. Jason takes a few more deep breaths.

He opens his book, because if there’s one thing that calms him down— Jason reads aloud.

“Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Alice, ‘without pictures or conversations?’…”

~14~

No DNA match.

Barbara huffs in frustration, leaning back in and typing up notes.

Bruce thoroughly updated her on the new kid, and handed over a sample of DNA. Probably the most hilarious gathering of DNA ever, because he swabbed it from Jason’s arm after the kid bit him. 

Damian is gonna have a field day with this one

So far, Barbara can’t find a match in any missing persons database, or criminal database. She can run a paternity test, but that depends on the parents having their DNA registered. She runs one just in case: nothing. 

So Barbara decided it’s about time she tried camera tracking him.

“Bruce, I got information for you,” Barbara calls the second Bruce and Dick get home, having kept an eye out for them over the Wayne manor security cameras. She doesn’t wait for a response before hanging up.

It’s only a minute or so before the two are down in the cave, approaching the computer eagerly. Ordinarily she’d be at her own base of operations doing this, but hey, when you’re around you’re around.

“Did you find a missing persons report?” Bruce asks, eyes fixated on the screen, scanning over her notes.

Barbara knows he’s already read it by now, but shakes her head. “No. No paternity match either. So good news, this one isn’t, as Jason would say, ‘one of your crotch goblins.’”

Dick does even try to hide his amusement, and Bruce is thoroughly unimpressed, but it’s been a while since Barbara cared about impressing Bruce. 

“However,” she continues, “I did manage to track his movement, for the most part. At least, once he entered the US.”

Dick and Bruce both eagerly lean towards the monitor, wanting any information at all about their new mystery. “So he is from out of the country?” Dick asks.

Barbara pulls up airport security from a New Jersey airport a few cities away. “It took me a minute to realize where he came from when I was backtracking his movement and he seemed to just appear from a thrift store like magic. Didn’t see him go in and out. That is, until I remembered the clothing you told me about that was in his bag.” Barbara zooms into the camera feed of the airport, showing a girl— no, Tim, when he first appeared on American soil. He walks off a plane, wearing a flight attendants uniform, skirt and heels included. He blends in perfectly. “I’m assuming he was in disguise. Snuck onto the plane by pretending to be a worker. Which begs the question: why come here? It’s possible he just chose the first plane he had the opportunity to get on, but I’ll look into it.”

Dick and Bruce don’t show any sign of shock concerning Tim’s disguise, but Bruce does tilt his head in that way he does when he’s adding something new to his mental folders. Dick just watches Tim walk out of the airport in concern. “He’s wearing heels. Do you think… is it possible his feet are injured already at this point? The damage was extensive, but I don’t see how he could walk in those conditions.”

Barbara hums. She’d heard about the foot injuries, and it made her a little nauseous. Just altogether an unpleasant mental image. “I never see any event that would explain him getting them later, and they were quite infected by time he was found, so it’s possible he was already injured here.” But there’s no way of knowing from this one instance. She hopes not, that there’s something she missed, because walking in heels with burns sounds excruciating. She has a feeling that hope is worthless, however.

Barbara moves on. “From the airport, I could follow him through the city. He makes minor adjustments to his clothing, and then enters a pool bar. I’ve marked the location, business owners, employees and history in my notes. Nothing outright suspicious or relevant, but if you want to look through it, it’s there.” Tim is seen entering the building, looking perfectly content and jaunty. But there’s something off about it, knowing he’s injured, that can be picked up in hindsight. “There are no cameras inside the building, so I don’t know what he did whilst inside, but when he leaves again, he’s tucking money into a purse. So somehow he earned money.”

Dick grimaces. “Hopefully from being surprisingly good at pool for a trafficking victim…” not finishing his sentence, knowing the other logical answer.

Bruce grunts. “…possibly by other means.” He has that worried furrow to his brow, and his hand twitches, like it does when one of his kids gets hurt. “It would probably be a good idea to get those blood tests, in case he has any illnesses that need to be treated. The doctors haven’t managed to draw his blood as of yet. Apparently, he starts bodily threatening anyone who approaches him with a syringe,” he informs them.

From the bar he leaves in a cab, which is interesting. Because somebody called it for him. Barbara rewound earlier and saw a young man leave the bar and speak to the cab driver, and then go back inside, before Tim emerges less than a minute later. She’s taken a screen grab of the man’s face and will be checking that out.

He leaves the cab at a donation store, getting out and briefly stumbling. Evidence to him being injured at this point. Bruce and Dick both catch it too, Dick visibly wincing and Bruce doing his hand-twitch thing again.

When Tim leaves the thrift store, he’s more recognizable to them.

“From here on, he seems to make a straight line towards Gotham. Maybe he just picked a direction and took it, but,” Barbara clicks through separate camera feeds she saved, “he spends a good deal of money traveling. Three trains, then a bus. Then he gets out and walks.” She winces, “All night. For hours. Probably on those burns. Thankfully wearing boots now… but still not ideal.”

There aren’t great videos of the scarecrow attack, but she manages some traffic cam clips of Tim running around dragging people out, as well as confirms Jason’s story of fighting him and getting swept, which is a video she saves for blackmail purposes. Tim enters a convenience store at one point, but there’s a single camera inside showing the register, so she hardly sees anything.

Barbara huffs, frustrated. “From this point, I lose him.” A video of Tim disappearing in a certain, anxiety-inducing direction is all she has. Brief. “He heads towards the docks, and disappears for a while. The next time I manage to find him on camera, which was a bitch by the way, is right before Jason found him again,” she pulls the feed up, “He was stumbling around, not going particularly anywhere, visibly ill. He comes in and out of view, sometimes in alleys and sometimes more visible areas. That’s it, chronologically, as far as I could find.” Barbara quickly shows Bruce the location of these files, a folder titled CaseT. “I’m still working on getting videos of the airport he came from. The flight number I could trace easily; the flight he came off of came from Iraq.”

“Long way from Gotham,” Dick comments, eyes tracking the videos as they repeat in the background. “If he decided to come here, do you think maybe he lived here at some point? The plane might have been a random choice, but once he touched down in New Jersey, he seemed to head right for Gotham,” he points out. Something intensely sad is in his eyes. “Maybe this was his home…”

Bruce leans in, watching the videos again. He’s silent, tracking Tim’s movements, eyes narrowed. “He is from here. He knows these streets, you can see it…” And Barbara can, now that she’s looking for it. Tim isn’t just picking directions, he knows where he’s going. “He knows exactly where he is, where he’s heading, and how to get there. He isn’t phased by the attack. He blends into the crowd. I have little doubt that Tim at least lived here for some time, if not born and raised, until he was taken in whichever way he was.”

Barbara cracks her knuckles, going back to her keyboard. “And that,” she emphasizes, “-narrows down my missing persons search just a little bit.” Who are you, Timothy?

If only he’d give them a damn last name.

~14~

When Bruce arrives later in the day with a bag for Jason, a weird sense of relief comes over him when he lays his eyes on Jason and Tim.

Jason lets him into the room quietly, the both of them keeping it down for the sleeping patient. Bruce looks at Tim, noting how peaceful he looks asleep. None of the confusion and distress he felt awake. His chest rises and falls, alive and breathing, and Bruce can’t help but smile when he sees that the boy has the plush his sons picked out.

Jason glances around the hall momentarily, checking for staff, before motioning Bruce in. In a quiet voice, he tells him, “They gave Tim some kind of sedative earlier when they changed his bandages.” Seeing the look on Bruce’s face at that, Jason grunts. “Yeah, I wasn’t exactly stoked about it either. The doc told him they wouldn’t…” Jason sighs heavily, sitting back down next to Tim’s bed.

Bruce quietly moves another chair over. He catches Jason up on the video feed they got, comparing it to the contents of Tim’s bag, which the hospital is currently in possession of. But while they don’t have it on hand, it’s not hard to recall the contents. Some of the items start to make sense. The shoes and makeup, especially.

“Maybe we can find out what he was doing around the docks,” Jason proposes. “If there’s a very real possibility he lived in Gotham before, it would have been a while ago considering he doesn’t recognize Red Hood. But he may have some kind of place near the docks. If you’re desperate and homeless, anywhere that’s dry can work.” 

Bruce intended to respond, but at that moment, a nurse comes in. Not somebody Bruce recognizes, not nurse Xia. Some other worker. She’s carrying a tray of food, covered. The nurse just barely startles at seeing them, but smiles politely. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you. You can just call me Julie— I’m currently in charge of Timothy’s food.”

Bruce sits up a little, politely turning towards her. “Anything I should know about diet?”

The nurse sets the food down of a table off to the side. “His chart specifies gentle things to start, soup and crackers. Dr.Lawson sent me up to see if he’d be willing to eat something or if we’ll have to address the possibility of a feeding tube.” She takes a look at Tim’s IV and vitals, humming. She looks at a little notepad she has, tilting her head. Now that she’s closer, Bruce can see that her lanyard does indeed say Julie. “How long has it been since they medicated him?” 

Bruce looks at Jason. “Three, maybe four hours?” His son answers. Jason’s been here all day. He probably needs a proper meal, not just the snacks they packed in his bag. Maybe he’ll come get lunch with Bruce if he asks casually enough.

The nurse nods. “Okay,” she addresses Bruce, “Are you okay with waking your son up for me? I work with dietetics, and I want to get a feel for his food situation. I’m not fully informed on his situation, but his chart notes malnourishment and some sores in his mouth. If you have any information for me, it would be greatly appreciated.” Julie clicks her pen, notepad at the ready.

Bruce startles at being addressed as the kid’s dad, thrown off entirely. He blinks at Julie, then quickly gathers himself. “Oh, I am not his father. I’m sorry, but I don’t know much— or anything, about his food situation. My son here found Tim, and we requested to follow his recovery.” 

Julie seems a bit embarrassed to have mistaken Bruce for Tim’s family. “Oh! Sorry, you just— look alike, and you were watching over—“ she clears her throat. “My apologies.”

“It’s not a problem,” Bruce reassures her. 

Turns out the question of whether to wake Tim or not is answered for them, because during their conversing, he wakes up himself.

The boys eyes open, clear crystal surveying the people in his room. He blinks slowly, looks at Jason, then around the room itself. 

Jason speaks with a soft voice, “Hey, kiddo. How’re you feeling?”

Tim grimaces, eyes struggling to stay open. “They drugged me, didn’t they? I can feel it.” His voice is a little raspy and weak.

Everybody stays quiet, lips pursed. Jason slowly nods. “Yeah. I’m sorry kid, they kind of kicked me out. But they changed your bandages and cleaned up a bit, yeah?” Jason looks over at the tray Julie brought in. “Hey, think you’re up to eat a little? We gotta get somethin’ in ya or they’ll put that tube in your nose. Been there myself, not a great feeling,” Jason says with a small smile.

Tim gives him a weird look, but huffs, then sits up from his blankets.

Ting! Clink—

The sound of softly ringing bells fills the room, and Bruce, Jason and Julie startle. Bruce looks at Tim’s collar and visible wrists. Those didn’t make noise before…

Tim, however, has gone deathly still.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 15

~15~

Tim gives him a weird look, but huffs, then sits up from his blankets.

Ting! Clink—

The sound of softly ringing bells fills the room, and Bruce, Jason and Julien startle. Bruce looks at Tim’s collar and visible wrists. Those didn’t make noise before…

Tim, however, has gone deathly still.

~15~

Oh. So those bells do make noise. Bruce was wondering why they were there.

The soft chiming of bells stops, because Tim freezes like a statue. His entire face changes, becoming blank and tense, different. And steadily, his heart rate on the monitor climbs. Tim’s eyes slide over Bruce, and Bruce knows that look. It’s a dangerous one, something desperate and feeling cornered.

Tim is a high-risk patient, and it’s easy to forget when he’s laying there, asleep. But right now, Bruce remembers that he’s hit just about all of them, ran around on injuries, carried various full grown adults through the streets, knocked down the Red Hood and bit Jason.

He can be dangerous if he feels threatened.

Bruce stays entirely still. “Miss Julie,” he whispers, addressing the nurse. Tim’s eyes lock onto him in an instant. “Slowly back up and get by the door.” Bruce can see her carefully follow his instructions from the corner of his eye. Bruce slowly moves forward a little, and Tim shifts back.

The bells jingle.

Tim snarls at him and lunges. 

Bruce and Jason jump into action, ready for Tim to attack one of them, but he doesn’t. He just jumps to the floor, various items attached to him pulling, surely painful. It doesn’t deter him. Bruce tries to gently grab him, but Tim evades him and manages to reach the table with the food on it without pulling everything out of him. The bells continue to ring, and Tim seems more panicked by the second.

He ignores the food, shoving his hand between the table and the wall, wedging it sideways, and then hip-checking the heavy table forcefully before anybody can stop him. There’s a nauseating crack!

Bruce and Jason don’t freeze, because there’s no time to freeze, but there’s a moment of just. Pure concentrated panic.

Tim has tears rolling down his face, his breathing heavy, as he grips the wrist manacle in one hand and tries to tear it off. Bruce can see now that he dislocated his own thumb.

The tinkling of bells continues as Tim frantically moves around.

Jason has jumped over the bed, and tries to grab Tim’s arms, but the boy struggles against him. “Kid! Tim, it’s okay, you’re okay—“

Tim roars with frustration, unable to even get the cuff over his wrist to get it off his hand, as Bruce realizes the purpose of the boy dislocating his thumb. He’s trying to get it off. Tim’s teeth are bared. Face red. “Shut up, shut UP, SHUT UP! GET IT OFF!” He glares at the bump of his ulna, in the way of the tight cuff being removed. He wrestles out of Jason’s arms, knocking his head back and into Jason’s chin, with a solid thunk and the clink of bells, then shoving his wrist between the table and the wall—

Bruce doesn’t even have the time to think ‘he’s going to try and break his wrist’ before his body is moving.

Bruce rushes in and lowers his body, grabbing Tim around the chest with his arms and quickly lifting him up. Tim tries to kick at him, snarling and yelling, punching Bruce with his damaged hand as well as the uninjured one. He takes the hits with no more than a grunt. Technique doesn’t change the fact that Tim is small, and currently weak and sick, while Bruce is over 6 foot and made of muscle.

Bruce reaches down with one arm, getting it behind Tim’s legs, lifting him entirely up, then boxing him in against the wall and sitting on the floor— and basically folding him up into a ball in his lap. Bruce readjusts his grip on the boy, grunting with the effort as the kid tries to fight his way out. Tim slams his head back into the wall, and Jason swoops in quickly to put a hand behind Tim’s head. He winces as the skull crushes his fingers a little.

Tim tries to slam his head back again, only for it not to have the same effect. He seethes at Bruce and Jason, nose scrunched, teeth bared in a hiss and eyes hateful. “I’ll fucking break it, he can’t use it if it’s broken, I—“ he hiccups on a sob. His hands push again Bruce, and the bells ring, and ring, and ring and—

Bruce moves quickly and lets go of Tim to carefully but tightly press his hands over the boy’s ears.

Tim is still panicking, registering Bruce basically grabbing him by the head, and turns his own head as much as he can and bites into the meat of Bruce’s wrist. The pierce of teeth stings. Bruce winces, but he doesn’t move. He stays steady, holding the sides of Tim’s head, covering his ears completely and pressing firmly. Tim’s teeth dig into his arm, enough that Bruce sees blood, but he doesn’t let up.

Tim’s expression waivers, falling from hateful and desperate to something afraid and fragile. His jaw relaxes just a little, not letting go but no longer actively attempting to take a chunk out of Bruce. His breathing is still fast and heavy and panicked, wheezing breaths in and out of his nose and through his teeth. Tim makes a broken little sound, and Bruce gently rubs his thumbs against Tim’s temples, keeping his palms pressed tight over his ears.

The bells keep ringing, jingling quietly as Tim trembles in Bruce’s hold on the floor. But now he can’t hear them.

Jason moves his hand from behind Tim’s head, releasing an extremely stressed breath.

Bruce keeps his eyes locked on Tim’s, unwavering as the boy stares back at him. But Jason glances towards the door and curses.

Dr.Lawson and Nurse Julie are gathered by the door accompanied by a much larger, stronger nurse. They haven’t moved forward yet, but there’s a sedative waiting and ready for the violent patient. Jason steps around Bruce, standing in the way and crossing his arms. “You fucking stay over there,” he warns, eyes blazing. “He’s got this. If you take a damn step in this direction, Tim is gonna lose his shit again. Just… give us a chance to deal with this.”

The medical professionals don’t nod or say anything, but they stay by the door.

Jason looks at Tim, who’s now less biting Bruce, and more holding his arm with his teeth. He runs his eyes over the bells. Jason turns back to the doctor and nurses. “What was done when I was gone? Those didn’t make noise before. Now they do, and the kid is having some sort of PTSD reaction. What. Did you. Do.” Jason demands.

Jason’s seen enough PTSD, hell he’s had enough PTSD to see it. He knows Bruce can, too. The bells ringing is bad news for Tim. For some reason or another, bells mean danger, they mean fight for his goddamn life, they mean do anything to make them stop. Just like crowbars and ticking sounds for Jason. 

The male nurse exhales. “We changed his bandages. Took blood. Cleaned and drained his wounds and that included cleaning around the cuffs. They… they had some sort of trash or something stuck inside of them. We took it out. It was dirty and slightly damp, it was a health risk for him,” he explains.

Jason nods. “Understandable. Next time? Fucking tell somebody.” Whatever was in there, Tim probably shoved it in there on purpose. It was probably keeping the bells quiet. Yes, it was probably filthy and needed to be replaced, but someone should have been informed it was there in the first place.

Over by the bed, Bruce is calmly trying to get Tim to breathe with him. Tim doesn’t seem to be listening. Bruce increases his volume a little so hopefully Tim can hear him through his hands, but if it works, the kid shows no sign. He’s calmer than before, but not in any way calm, still very clearly panicked and on high alert.

Slowly, giving Tim the choice to resist if he wants, Bruce gently pulls the boy’s head forward and down to touch his forehead to Bruce’s chest. He winces when Tim finally lets go of his wrist, teeth pulling at the skin slightly when he releases. Bruce keeps his hands over Tim’s ears, returning to the action of gently soothing the kid’s temples with his thumbs. Bruce takes deep, deliberate breaths, chest expanding under Tim’s head. Finally, Tim starts to follow him, curled over and now moving his own hands to grip Bruce’s shirt in a white-knuckled hold. His breathing is watery sounding and shaky, but he’s trying to follow, which is good.

Jason picks one of the blankets up off the bed and the scented plush, crouching down and holding them low to show Tim the items first, so he knows Jason is there and what he has. Jason takes the blanket and puts it over Tim’s back, tucking it around his shoulders. He holds onto the plush for now, because Tim has a death grip on Bruce’s shirt, and for some reason Jason doesn’t think he’s going to let go anytime soon.

Bruce feels tempted to place a kiss on the crown of Tim’s head, because that’s what he does for Cass and the head of dark hair is reminding him vividly of his daughter. Counting her breathing for her never works well, she stops listening and comprehending words if she’s in a state of panic. Action is better. Seeing it, feeling it is better. He wants to tuck him in closer, shielding him. But Tim isn’t his child, and Bruce doesn’t want to scare him by holding too close, behaving too close.

Jason is saying something to the workers again, but then he walks to the table with the food tray. Bruce watches him grab a few paper towels, before sitting back on the ground next to them.

Jason starts with Tim’s left wrist, slowly and gently moving his hand into Tim’s view. Then touching. Tim doesn’t react in any way, so Jason continues. He turns the cuff until the bell is facing him, then tears off a piece of paper towel and shoves it inside the bell. He makes sure it’s packed as tight as he can get it without a tool or something, then taps the bell experimentally. A dull thunk. No ringing. Jason moves onto the injured hand, fixing that bell as well.

The ankles are a little difficult. They have to adjust Tim to get to the bells at all. He lets it happen, still trying to match Bruce’s breathing. Tim flinches a little when Jason grabs his ankle, but allows him to silence the bells.

When Jason goes to turn the neck collar around to get the bell to the back so Tim doesn’t have to lift his head, Tim does not like that.

His head pops up, and Bruce just barely manages to keep his hands over the boy's ears. Tim’s eyes narrow at Jason, face set in a threatening baring of his teeth. Which is pretty effective, considering there’s a smear of Bruce’s blood on his face. If Tim bites everyone this often, then they really need to do those blood tests.

Jason holds his hands up in surrender, but the sight of Jason’s face just makes Tim lean further back and into the wall again. 

Jason holds the mangled paper towel up. “Hey, I just want to put some of this in that bell, yeah?” He says quietly, pointing at his own throat. “I can’t imagine how annoying that thing gets,” he tries to leaven, but Tim remains unchanged.

Bruce looks at the final bell, eyes narrowed. He can understand Tim not wanting anybody near his neck, just in general as an instinct most creatures have, and especially due to his circumstances. Something catches his eye.

This close up, Bruce can see that just barely under the collar is a long, jagged scar that tears all the way across Tim’s throat.

Bruce does not clench his fists tight enough to sting, because his hands are over Tim’s ears, so they are gentle and kind. But he grits just teeth so hard his jaw creaks. Because someone tried to kill this kid.

“Jason,” Bruce says as quietly as he can. “Don’t go for his neck again. He will hurt you. It’s scarred.”

Someone tried to kill his kid.

~15~

Tim wishes he knew where he is.

He has no fucking clue. It feels like he’s been in and out for days, surely he’s dead by now? And sometimes people are there and sometimes they aren’t and sometimes they’re dead people and he doesn’t know where to even start.

And often, more often than before, he thinks, Tim feels like he does when he really pisses Ra’s off and gets in the way and he gets Tim with something to knock him off his feet fast.

He doesn’t like the feeling he wakes up with after being drugged. It makes him more paranoid than usual, and considering that Tim’s usual paranoia is insane compared to the average persons— like tinfoil-hat-to-keep-the-gov-mindreaders-away paranoid— one might say that Tim is a bit… aggressive after he’s been doped up.

Like. Almost giving himself a bald-patch once because his hair brushed his shoulder and he thought it was somebody touching him, so he reached back with the intent to rip the skin off their hand.

And now he’s in a room he doesn’t recognize, with people he knows aren’t there, and people he just plain doesn’t know. And it’s that fucking. Noise, again.

Always, always, always! Always ringing, all the time, ring, ring, ring he can’t even fucking sleep without bells in his ears. Tim thought he was a still sleeper, he was sure of it, he can sleep frozen like a corpse, but apparently he’s not as still as he thought because those bells make noise all night.

It’s unbearable. He can barely breath without hearing it. If he turns his fucking head the one at his throat jingles.

He’d cut off a hand just to have one less in the choir.

If he cuts off his head he won’t be able to hear them at all. 

Now there’s an idea. Ra’s wants him for his intellect, for his mind. He wants the bits and pieces of Tim that tick and think and act, all for himself.

Tim should take a brick and smash his fucking skull in like he’s a soon-to-be walking-dead zombie. He should throw himself around and cause enough frustration that he’s drugged to the point of it all just melting in his skull. He should use his sheets and deprive it of oxygen long enough that the bits and pieces Ra’s so desperately wants just die off.

Maybe he can kill off the parts that remember—

Forget forget FORGET—-!

The ringing stops.

Chapter Text

To be prudent is to be cautious and show care for the future.

Prudence Wood knows that her name doesn’t fit her scrawl, but it’s hers, and she likes it just fine. She never claimed that it was accurate, and she never will, ya know why?

BEEP, BEEP, BEEPBEEPBEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEPBEEPBEEP—

Sirens blare overhead. Red lights flash. This entire compound is gonna fucking blow, and so is every other compound Tim dug his nails into like the rabid little beast he is. The heavy breaths she has to take due to running are hellish on her throat, but Pru has to get out, because Tim—

“Leave, Pru! You’re in worse condition, I can find another exit!”

She wanted to scream in his face, no no no, don’t be a fucking idiot, two of our friends, my brothers in arms, are already dead and gone, if you die too I won’t ever forgive you for leaving, boss.

But instead she tells him, “If you get fucking killed, I’m going to throw your ass in the pit and then I’m going to use you like an infinitely regenerating practice dummy. Since you want to be so fucking dumb.”

Tim just grins at her, sharp and vicious, before saluting and turning around and running.

Pru forces herself to turn back her own direction and run. That self sacrificing fucking idiot.

So she’s here. She’s at the exit. At this point nobody is even chasing her, they’re all evacuating and then only people going after anyone are those ordered after Tim.

Pru stares at the sand outside. She can leave. She can escape. Just as Tim meant for her to do, as she meant to do, as she should do.

Shouldn’t she?

And maybe Tim’s stupid has rubbed off on her. Because what the hell is she thinking? Why hasn’t she left yet?

Because she has no family. What she had of family was killed by a filthy spider. But she has Tim left, Tim is here, her little brother in arms and her Boss but not like a boss, but her, their Boss. Her. Zedmoore. Owens. Their friend. 

And he’s going to die down there.

Pru turns around and starts sprinting back into the depths.

“Fucking bloody hell, fuck me,” she grunts to herself, like scraped gravel through her still healing throat. Because what the actual fuck is she doing?

She’s going back for him. Because either she drags his scrawny white ass out of this burning shithole, or she dies with him. Because either she succeeds or she leaves her one remaining friend behind to save her own ass as she’s done time and time again to those who care about her, and she’ll be all and completely alone. 

So she’s still a selfish fuck. Prudence doesn’t care. 

“BO—SS..!” she tries to yell for him, but her voice tears in the middle with a straining squeak, and her throat burns.

She runs, and runs, and it’s getting hot, she can feel the heat radiating from frying servers as the air bakes, and she doesn’t know where Tim is.

Because she knows he didn’t head towards an exit. She doesn’t know how she knows, but she knows.

Prudence isn’t getting out of here. It’s been too long. Pru isn’t getting out of here. She sees other assassins run past her, towards escape. Pru isn’t getting out of here. She goes against the grain. 

Pru isn’t getting out of here. She runs into a dark cavern, where the emergency lights only peer in through the entrance, as there are none inside, and Tim is laying on the ground— bleeding and staring at nothing, dead-eyed and among a pile of strange artifacts, shattered. Whether that describes the items or the boy, she cannot say.

“BO—SS!” Prudence croaks, running towards her boss, her friend, her brother, her Boss.

Pru isn’t getting out of here. They aren’t getting out of here.

But he’s watching Oblivion, and oh god they’re both going to die her little brother is going to die and she only just manages to grab his hand for comfort, “Boss!” and for the first time since she was a very young child, she tells somebody—

“I’m scared,” she chokes out on gravely breath, when the world—

Explodes.

Prudence Wood wakes up in a League base, standing in an armory with a gun in hand, perfectly alive. And alone.

“Fuckin’ hell,” she coughs, hunching over as the burning in her skin recedes. “Last bloody time you ever’ catch me being vulnerable, that’s for bloody fuckin’ sure.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 16

~16~

Now there’s an idea. Ra’s wants him for his intellect, for his mind. He wants the bits and pieces of Tim that tick and think and act, all for himself.

Tim should take a brick and smash his fucking skull in like he’s a soon-to-be walking-dead zombie. He should throw himself around and cause enough frustration that he’s drugged to the point of it all just melting in his skull. He should use his sheets and deprive it of oxygen long enough that the bits and pieces Ra’s so desperately wants just die off.

Maybe he can kill off the parts that remember—

Forget forget FORGET—-!

The ringing stops.

~16~

Bruce gets his arm disinfected and wrapped by a nurse, sitting beside Tim’s bed. He’s not asleep, but he’s curled up under the blankets with his head between his knees and pressed to the mattress, curled around his plush. He’s been dead quiet now for a while.

The bell around his neck was… a situation.

Tim wouldn’t let Jason get his hands near it. He quite literally hissed at Jason, practically frothing. By that point, everybody was very, very aware that Tim can and will bite people with little regard to the consequences. And it wasn’t like they could unarmed him of his teeth.

The solution ended up being easier than expected.

Tim had a death grip on Bruce’s shirt. The fabric is still a little deformed from it. Jason tore some napkin apart, and nudged the pieces against Tim’s hand. Sometimes you just have to let somebody deal with something themself, for their own comfort. This was one of those times. Eventually, Tim took hold of the paper towel and let go of Bruce to cram the stuffing into the last bell.

Eventually, they got here.

Jason sits off to the side, still incredibly tense. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like Tim being here. Clearly, a general hospital is not equipped to deal with him. The kid needs special attention and care that a place like this can’t provide.

Bruce needs to hurry his ass up and bribe some people, because Jason is anxious to get the kid to a care room at the manor

They finally talked the staff into letting Tim off the harder pain meds. They clearly have a terrible effect on him. There are milder medications he can take, and he seemed to be recovering before they re-dosed him and sent his mind into survival mode.

And maybe Jason is thinking about all this stuff still because he doesn’t want to think about how somebody slit the kid’s throat. It wasn’t clean, either. After Bruce pointed it out, Jason’s eyes found the scar, and it was jagged. A real nasty thing. 

Every hour on the hour Tim’s situation gets more confusing.

He was a some kind of captive, that much Jason is sure of. But they also clearly tried to kill him? But he lived, so he was healed in some way? Were they just doing it to torture him? It seems like a lot of effort, to deal such a life threatening wound just to prove some point or cause pain— but Jason is betting on ‘prove a point’ because there are much better ways to inflict pain. 

He would know.

How did Tim escape at all? What happened to his feet? What about the rest of him? Why doesn’t he have a spleen? Where is it?

The bells. The fucking bells.

That’s fucked up. Are they just a decoration? Or are they to track him? Hard to escape when it’s impossible to be quiet. Tim was smart to silence them how he did. They need to get a locksmith in here, they’ll do that ASAP; maybe he can get Roy to come in and bust them. Jason should have taken a better look while he was silencing the bells, but he was a little distracted at the time.

Jason watches with a hawk’s eye as Tim allows a brace to be put on him for his thumb, holding the plush still. Nobody in the family is really a stuffed animal person— Damian prefers the real thing, he’ll find Titus or one of his other beasts, and Cas will hunt down a human to hug if she wants comfort. Jason wasn’t a plushy kid, couldn’t afford them before and felt too embarrassed once Bruce had taken him in. Dick has Zitka, and he had a whole collection of carnival plushies he's acquired over the years, but besides Zitka they’re more of a display. Duke just wasn’t interested. Stephanie grew out of stuffed animals awhile back.

Alfred once told Jason that Bruce used to use his stuffed animals as characters to arrange murder mystery games of play-pretend.

Anyway— Jason’s point. Tim seems to like his, and it’s… admittedly adorable to Jason. And sad. Because he definitely likes it, but pretended he was okay giving it up. Jason used to be like that with a lot of things, when Bruce took him in. Act like you hate the things you like so they aren’t taken away. If nobody knows you like it, it can’t become part of a punishment. Tim was a bit too out of it at the time to completely manage it in a convincing manner, but until he snatched it back, he had Jason convinced.

He might like more, but he definitely won’t ask for them. Jason will add it to the list. Hello Kitty, and plushies. He wonders if Tim has any favorite heroes.

Jason needs to figure out what kind of food Tim likes. He’s way too skinny, and Alfred will want to know what to make the boy. They should get him some stuff he can keep in his room as well, if he was starved (which seems likely) he’ll want to hide stuff. Jason knows that urge, the one to hoard things away just in case.

Jason can probably relate to him the most, in a lot of aspects. He’ll try his best to help Tim. Jason would like to stay and watch over him, but he, Bruce and Dick all have various responsibilities they can’t keep avoiding… they’ll file for some time away from their various responsibilities, but unfortunately, they’ll have to be going soon

But not before Bruce has a long, stern talk with the staff.

Tim rolls onto his back so he can have the necessary implements reinserted and adjusted. A nurse Jason doesn’t recognize (thankfully. Jason’s a little frustrated with the nurses Tim had before…) is exhaustively disinfecting and rewrapping Tim’s feet. Again. Because he was walking around on them again. When he wasn’t supposed to.

Again.

Something tells Jason that this will continue to be a struggle. 

Tim clearly does not understand the meaning of ‘bedrest’.

(Little does Jason know, this is just the start .)

~17~

When Tim wakes up, his room is dark, it smells a little like strawberries, and there’s a stranger puttering about.

A handful of extremely blurry, extremely weird memories fill his head and Tim is instantly on alert. He’s injured. He’s missing an organ, and looking for Batman. He’s in a hospital, Ra’s put him here and then Jason was here to keep an eye on Tim, to make sure he doesn’t escape—

Wait… no, that doesn’t make sense. Jason would never work for Ra’s. Ra’s hates him, he thinks he’s an abomination. Hell, Jason hates Ra’s right back. Maybe Talia could call in a favor, but not to this extent. And why would she use up a favor asking Jason to watch Tim? This doesn’t make sense.

And— Bruce and Dick were there? Okay. That was definitely a weird dream. Tim’s head is fuzzy, and everything hurts. And he fucking means everything. He can’t help the pained groan that escapes him as an aching spasm echoes from his feet and abdomen. Tim then notices the— stuffed animal in his bed…? Why the hell does he have this?

The person who was moving about the room approaches slowly, with an extreme amount of caution. Tim’s eyes, although his vision is blurry, tracks them. They come into focus a little and he… he thinks he knows who that is? Tim lifts a hand to rub his eyes, but he’s… wearing gloves? Mitts? They remind him of boxing gloves. One of his hands also feels like it’s got a brace on it, and his thumb aches.

A flash of memories fade back into his head, and Tim doesn’t flinch, but he does feel a jolt of adrenaline. The cuffs. Everything else is… really blurry. 

“Tim? Do you understand me?” The man asks.

Tim… nods, scanning the man’s face. “Yes,” he answers, startling when it sounds strange and kind of— echoey? But not quite? Tim brings a hand to his face, and the man moves as if to grab him, but stops, leaning away with caution. There’s something covering Tim’s face, plastic and oddly shaped. It’s not an oxygen mask, he’s very familiar with that sensation…

The man watches him cautiously. “We had to put a bite mask on you. We don’t like to, we know they seem very scary to patients and family— but there was a risk to you and others,” he explains, leaning back as if expecting Tim to jump at him.

Tim looks at his mitts. Ah. That explains these, too. They’re patient mitts. Tim nods, understanding. “I… hurt people?” He asks, brows furrowed in distress. Hm. Well that’s not ideal. Hopefully they deserved it.

The man nods. Doctor. He’s a doctor, he’s Tim’s doctor, he remembers that. The man seems to relax a little. “You bit two of your visitors and repeatedly attempted to injure yourself. We can remove them when, or if, you prove you aren’t a threat to yourself and others,” he explains. 

Tim nods. “I understand.” Goddamn, what the hell was he on? Who was he biting? He hopes it was Ra’s. Actually, no, Ra’s probably has diseases. 

Wait.

A baseball bat of images smack Tim upside the head, and he thinks— shit, did he bite Jason? He totally did. Okay, evidence Jason was actually here. Tim moves his jaw, feeling an ache in it. 

At the thought of Jason, another memory follows— no, Tim definitely made that one up, Jason would never get him a toy of all things.

At his response, the doctor seems to relax, letting out a soft sigh of relief. “Your b— your visitor, Jason, was right,” he mumbles, seeming to only be half talking to Tim, mostly to himself. “You seem a lot calmer now. We took you off a large portion of the pain medication we had you on. You still have antibiotics, and you’re now on a much milder medication.”

Tim winces, finally recognizing the feeling crawling in his skin. Post-drugs. Thanks Ra’s, that’s something Tim has always wanted to say he recognizes. Awesome. Fuck Jason for being a giant raging asshole, but Tim will apologize for biting him as a thanks for telling the doc to get Tim off that shit. If there’s one thing Jason won’t stand for, no matter who it is, it’s mistreatment of drugs.

“I am— sorry for any trouble I caused,” Tim tells the doctor, trying his best to speak clearly through the mask. The doctor seems to relax further, even deigning to give him a small smile. “I feel much more rational now.” He does not at all. No rationality currently. Tim feels like he’s fucking losing it, to be entirely honest. Also he’s definitely not sorry until he can 100% prove this fucko doesn't work for Ra’s.

The doctor nods. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he says with genuine kindness. “I’m… sorry. I must admit, a portion of our staff, and even I myself, were treating you incorrectly. Many mistakes were made that escalated the situation,” he explains. The doctor clears his throat. “How do you feel about eating? We need you to talk to a nutritionist, and we really need to get some food in you. It’ll be something mild and gentle, like broth, nothing too difficult to get down.”

Tim nods. He… he’s going to be honest, he’s gotten to the stage where he doesn’t feel the hunger. But he definitely needs to eat, this he’s aware of. He needs the strength to escape if necessary. “I’d like that,” he answers. “Um— does the,” he gestures to the mask, “-come off for that? I understand it going back on afterwards, I will allow whoever is present to put it back on. I’m sorry for my earlier aggression,” he apologizes. Once again; not yet sorry. 

The doctor's brows furrow, and his head tilts. “Huh. You act like an entirely different person, lucid. Your speech is different, too.” At Tim’s stare, the doctors startles. “Sorry, yes, it will come off for you to eat. Would you like your guardian here for the discussion with the nutritionist?” The doctor asks.

Tim is now the confused one. “My guardian?” He—

A gift bag. Gotham General. A blurry face—

“Ah, yes,” the doctor nods, “I forgot you were not informed. Mr.Wayne has officially filed to be your temporary guardian, at the least until the medical situation is dealt with. We had to ask all visitors to leave do to w…”

Tim stares at his lap, cotton in his head, only vaguely taking note of the doctors muttering about something to do with CPS and  ‘it was faster than I expected, although I think I know why…’ in the background as the sentence whirls around in his head.

Mr.Wayne.

Oh.

Oh no.

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

A whirlwind of memories hits him like a brick to the face, a sensation he knows intimately. Tim feels like when a video game lags, and you click a bunch of shit trying to get it to work, only for it to suddenly stop lagging and everything you clicked activates at once in a cacophony of chaos. Everything drags him under like a tidal wave, drowning him in the past and everything that happened—

Blowing up the bases.

Dying. Dying. Dying—

Tim forces his lungs to take a deep, slow breath, aching as they urge to constrict.

Waking up in the sand.

Walking, walking, walking.

His father’s email.

Jenny.

Red Robin, Scarecrow.

Jenny and then Tim and then Jenny and then Tim—

Red Hood.

Everything after that is less clear. He remembers being sick. Dying. He was dying again. Oh god, Tim has sepsis—

Then the hospital. Jason. Dick. Bruce.

Uh oh.

Tim isn’t where he’s supposed to be. And he’s been causing a lot of problems since he got here.

He can tell he’s still missing a lot of memories, but Tim closes his eyes and tries to sort through what he has. Fucking hell, everything hurts. And Bruce is here. But not his Bruce, this is a different Bruce. Tim still has to save his Batman.

He has to get home.

Tim nods, “Yes. I would like my guardian here.”

~17~

When the doctor leaves, Tim finally has time to think through everything and organize his brain into all the right folders and notes.

He’s in an alternate universe. One where he was never born. Once Tim manages to replay all his memories he can scrape up from his drugged haze— firstly, he’s embarrassed as shit. What is he, a five year old? What happened to ‘embarrassment is unforgivable’? Apparently, ‘Drugged Tim’ has no regard for absolutely anything. Secondly, he’s so, so confused. Because Dick, Jason and Bruce seem to get along in this world.

They act like they don’t mind each other.

They all seem so much softer, too. More affectionate. Sure, Jason thinks Tim is just some hurt kid, but he got him a get-better gift. That is weird! Why do they even care? Why are they hanging around? He’s a stranger to them! And Bruce is definitely more affectionate. The Bruce Tim knows would never do half the garbage this universe’s Bruce did. This whole Caring Father image is not Brucie Wayne or Batman, and that’s all there is to pick from, so Tim has no clue who this is supposed to be. His Batman would stand back and allow Tim to pick his own ass up off the ground, because Tim’s an adult, and when he wasn’t he still needed to be responsible like one.

Bruce Wayne in this universe is a fucking push over. Tim totally attacked the shit out of all of them, and he didn’t retaliate at all! Tim’s Batman would have landed a solid swing and put him on his ass in half a second, saving everybody the trouble. Efficient, effective, necessary. Tim doesn’t recognize the soft-handed, emotionally compromised Bruce of this strange world.

Just… this place makes no fucking sense, and Tim needs to get the hell out, right now. He can’t take any more of this nonsense. Take him home, where shit isn’t confusing and people are aggressive, efficient and rational, where people are predictable, because they’ll always do what’s most advantageous. It’s how life works.

Anyway. Tim needs to get his shit together. They’ll never let him out of this shithole hospital if he acts like a wild fucking animal all the time. Tim needs to put on his game face and get discharged at the soonest convenience. This universe’s Bleeding Heart Bruce will pay the bill, and Tim will get back to the Mission, as he was trained to.

He’s been far too fazed by everything leading up to now. 

I’m glad I’m not dead and all, I guess, but this is so fucking weird…

Apparently, the doctor contact Tim’s “guardian” and tell him when he can come by when he gets a reply. It’s 7 in the evening. Tim has not a damn clue why the doctor was checking in on his room at 7PM, that seems like a nurse's job, but whatever. Hospitals are weird and disorganized on a good day in Gotham.

In the meantime— Time is going to be productive.

It’s nothing to get the safety mitts off. What do they think he is, an amateur? He could take the mask off easy peasy, but it isn’t hindering him, so for now it can stay. One less thing to put back on later.

Tim carefully sits up, the pain in his side searing. He concentrates on his body, keeping his heartbeat at a steady rhythm despite the pain. Lady Shiva would be so proud. His resolve almost wavers when his feet touch the floor, but Tim grits his feet and makes his mind settle into the carved-away space of Red Robin. No being a pathetic child, he has a job to do and this is hardly the worst he’s endured.

Get to work.

Timothy stands up.

He’s got a limited scope of movement due to the crap attached to him— he probably doesn’t even need half this bullshit. There’s a few things he can detach without alarms going off, so he frees himself of those. He’ll put them back later.

Just to be safe, Tim grabs one of the visitor chairs and strains his reach, shoving it under the doorknob. It isn’t the right kind to stop the door from opening, but it’ll give him time.

There’s a TV. Tim can work with this. He searches the surrounding tables and unlocked drawers until he finds a remote, tossing it on the bed. He steals a few clips off his chart, twisting them around until he has a halfway-decent tension wrench and a pick. These hospitals locks aren’t nearly as secure as you’d think they should be. It takes nothing at all for Tim to break into various drawers until, with a deep satisfaction, he cracks one open with prospective weapons in it. No scalpels or anything, no, they keep those in a sterilization area— but there is a long pair of straight tweezers. Tim can definitely stab someone with these.

Tim removes the chair from the door, quickly getting back into bed and re-inserting the removed medical items with a roll of his eyes. Really, these are just excessive. He gets settled back in enough, but doesn’t put the mitts back on. He needs his hands still.

There’s a TV and he has a remote: if there’s a screen, google will be seen.

Tim could find a way to access the internet on TI-80 calculator if you gave him enough time; the hospital TV is kiddie shit. He needs to do more research on this universe, because what he’s seen is fucking freaky. He assumed it would mostly be the same, but the people here are clearly crazy.

Everything is the same up until Jason’s death.

Brucie Wayne turns out to still be a thing here, but he’s in a whole different ballpark than Tim’s universe. They started the same, total party animal disasters, but this version of Brucie has become some weird internet meme more than a celebrity, all uncomfortable-for-Tim-to-see, “hashtag relatable,” and “he’s so wet paper bag core” and “hashtag dad-behavior.” Whatever the fuck that means.

There’s pictures of him straight up full-face openly crying at Damian’s first day of school, because he actually dropped him off. And holy shit, Damian is enrolled in school in this universe. Are the other kids okay? Are their parents aware of what their kid is sharing a building with? Do they have to sign waivers? 

Tim also discovers that Damian was with Bruce two years earlier than in his own universe. And Jason is legally alive here! Bruce also has a son named Duke he adopted. The family is a lot more publicly involved, a popular celebrity family with active twitter accounts.

The family is often seen together. They go on vacations together. Like, real, not-a-cover vacations.

What hits Tim the hardest is that Stephanie, Bart and Kon are all alive in this universe.

Because… because the biggest physical difference he’s seeing? Is his absence.

In a world where Tim doesn’t exist, Jason dies and Tim doesn’t show up, because he was never born. And after that? Everything seems… fine. Absolutely fucking fine. Sure, the bats here have a bit of a soft-touch, one that his own Bruce would highly disapprove of, but they’re a family. They seem to get along, for the most part. His friends are alive and happy. Everything is… fine. It’s all fine. Because Tim never shoved himself in their path.

His hand goes loose around the remote as it sinks in. What a kick in the gut. Confirmation from the universe that you really do ruin everything.

Tim sighs, shutting everything down and turning off the tv. He sets the remote on the side table and puts the patient mitts back on. He leans the bed back, tweezers under his pillow, and stares at the ceiling.

He has to get out of here. He needs to get Batman back, and he needs to get out of these bats way before his “delicate touch” ruins shit.

Maybe when he gets home and makes sure Batman returns from the time stream, Tim should take a bit of a sabbatical. Like. Forever. Find his own city. Because it’s starting to look… like Damian and Jason were right… that Tim should leave, that things would be better without him.

Maybe that’s what Dick was trying to tell him when he took Robin.

Great minds think alike, but fools hardly differ— however, Tim is starting to get that maybe he’s the fool.

Tim lays in a dark hospital room. A long sigh escapes him.

“Maybe I should have died in that desert…” he murmurs to nobody but himself. Whether he means with the Widower or after the explosions, he doesn’t know.

But until something else kills him, he’s going to keep on working.

He has a Mission to complete.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 18

~17~

Tim lays in a dark hospital room. A long sigh escapes him.

“Maybe I should have died in that desert…” he murmurs to nobody but himself. Whether he means with the widower or after the explosions, he doesn’t know.

But until something else kills him, he’s going to keep on working.

He has a Mission to complete.

~18~

At 7:15 PM, Bruce gets a call from the hospital informing him that Tim is awake, and he’d like his guardian present when he speaks to the nutritionist. His guardian. Who is Bruce.

Yeah, he finally got around to bribing people. Probably for the best. Jason certainly thinks so.

After Tim’s meltdown, Bruce and his boys decided to return to the manor. Not a decision they made easily. But Jason needed rest, and Dick had to complete some paperwork for his last week. They’ve spent the last day or so practically living at the hospital. And Bruce… well.

A little bit before receiving that call, Bruce was sat at the dining table with a solemn and quiet Dick and Jason, a curious and inquisitive looking Cass, and Damian, Duke and Steph looking back and forth between the eldest male trio and each other. Alfred just stares at Bruce with a raised brow. He helped call this family meeting— Barbara is busy investigating Tim more, searching his name with Gotham records as well as the name Prudence. The kids not in the know have been eyeing Bruce’s arm ever since he got home, the bite wound wrapped tightly.

Bruce is very much dreading this, but the conversation has to happen.

Cass takes the first approach. “Brothers worried. Dad worried. Arm. What happened?” She asks, titling her head. Her speech has gotten so much better, Bruce is so proud of her. But he cannot comb over his pride for too long, he should answer and get this over with. He has been trying very hard to “communicate” and “tell people things ahead of time.”

Bruce can admit he doesn’t have the most tact, but he thinks Dick’s facepalm is a bit of an overreaction when Bruce comes right out and tells them, “There will soon be a new resident at the manor. Possibly,” he tacks on at the end, because they still haven’t confirmed that he’d like to stay with them at all, but Bruce is determined to ensure that result.

Steph’s eyebrows raise, and she looks at him with the most unimpressed face. “You’re fucking kidding.”

Cass lights up, eyes bright as she makes a happy little squeak. “Another?”

Damian’s eyes widen, going still in his seat. and Bruce can’t tell if it’s surprise or horror or both. “Father…” Oof, Damian only calls him that when he’s discontent with Bruce…

Cass grins, face elated. “New sibling!”

At that, Damian’s eyes pinch in confliction, and the despair of knowing somebody else was thinking exactly what you were thinking. Duke takes a second to process what Cass just said, but when he does, he just blinks blankly at Bruce.

Duke doesn’t seem to know what face he wants to make, but he settles on curiosity. And amusement. “Is… this a prank?… or?” He asks, one dark brow raised.

Stephanie’s head falls into her hands. “It definitely isn’t.”

Damian sits up taller. “If it is a joke, it is cruel. Father, do you really think it’s wise to just— get another child? They are not puppies,” he scolds, leaning forward. 

Jason snorts, lifting his head a little from its tired tilt. His hair is a mess and he definitely needs a shower about now. He’s been spending so much time trying to deal with the Tim situation, he’s been neglecting himself. Bruce frowns in concern. Jason grins mischievously at Damian. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you. Tell me again, were they Dalmatians or Danes we found in your closet last year?” He teases, and Damian turns a tad red in embarrassment. 

“I am simply saying,” Damian continues, “That this family is already large enough as is. We have heard absolutely nothing about this potential new resident. This is without warning. Impulsively picking up a child because Father is having one of his moments is not wise. Animals that are impulse adopted do not receive proper care,” he states sternly.

The animal metaphor was extremely weird to hear at one point, but by now, they’re all very very used to it. Duke slowly nods, brows furrowing. “I get what Damian’s saying. This seems really abrupt.” Suddenly, Duke balks, “Shit, you didn’t find— another mystery kid, right? Right?”

Damian’s head snaps to Duke, then back to Bruce, wide-eyed and pleading. Cass is still beaming.

Bruce is fumbling this so hard, he’s completely lost control of the situation.

“Not this time,” Dick answers for Bruce. “It is sudden. We found him a few days ago— his name is Tim. He’s, uhm—“ Dick clears his throat, brief moment of energy waning. “He’s in the hospital,” he finishes, voice getting quieter at the end.

Suddenly, the energy of the table shifts. Something darker, sadder falls over them. Cass looks at Bruce with big, shiny puppy eyes. “Hurt? New brother hurt?”

Even Damian looks more intrigued than upset now. That simple fact changed his tune quite quick. Duke and Stephanie have an air of focus, finally putting all their attention to Bruce and what he has to say.

Bruce sighs, shoulders slumping. He looks down at his arm. “If I could finish— he isn’t staying. It’s just for a little while, if he agrees to stay here. Until we find a suitable home—“

Jason and Alfred simultaneously scoff, one more dignified than the other. 

Bruce pauses long enough to side eye the two, then continues, “As I was saying… he’s only staying for a little bit—“ and he is interrupted again.

Cass shakes her head. “No. New brother.”

Bruce sighs fondly. “Sweetheart, we can’t just get a new kid. Damian was correct about that.”

“Want.”

“Not how it works, baby…”

“Want. Keep.”

“You haven’t even met him.”

“Doesn’t matter. Brother hurt, stay,” she claims with surety.

“And if he doesn’t want to?” Bruce asks. His daughter can be stubborn, and he loves her to bits for it, but…

Cass’s eyes narrow. “He will want to,” she says, more like a command than a prediction. Her smile pops back onto her face, pleasant and innocent. Bruce feels a headache forming.

Damian clears his throat. “Baba,” Bruce almost collapses in relief; Damian is no longer as irritated with him. “How long will ‘Tim’ be hospitalized? What does he suffer from?”

Jason snorts bitterly, shaking his head and pushing the food on his plate around. “What doesn’t he suffer from is a better question…”

Bruce taps his hand on the table like a judge might call order with a gavel, and all his kids' eyes are now on him. “Tim was found by the docks and brought in to Leslie’s by the Red Hood. She quickly discovered that he was in septic shock,” he tells them calmly, seeing multiple forms go tense at the condition. Survival is low. “So far, Tim has recovered,” Bruce continues, “and is now going to deal with post sepsis syndrome, as well as recovering from being a human trafficking victim. He’s highly reactive, and I don’t think a normal family is equipped to handle him currently.”

The mood at the table plummets further. Stephanie has a heartbroken look on her face that stings Bruce, and Duke’s fists clench from where they rest on the table. Human trafficking gets to them all, but Duke’s experience on the streets and Steph’s own past result in the two of them being especially sensitive to such cases, same as Jason. Cass has a deadly look on her face, and Damian is staring at his lap with a deep, sad frown and furrowed brows.

“Visit?” Cass asks, incredibly soft, voice pleading.

Bruce cringes slightly. He shifts in his seat, sore in many spots from the past couple of days dealing with the firecracker of a patient that was Tim. “I… am not sure that’s a good idea, yet. He’s barely okay with me and the boys. He,” Bruce clears his throat. “He bit Jason. And Me. And has threatened to bite others— often.”

At that, Damian’s head lifts. He eyes Bruce’s arm with curiosity. “Did he draw blood? It would be prudent to check for infections.”

“The hospital finally got a blood sample from him today,” Dick jumps in to inform them. “No diseases, which is a relief. That was probably one of our biggest concerns.”

Certainly. The chance of Tim having some kind of STD with his history was pretty high, so they’re very lucky he doesn't. However, Bruce would like to get his own sample of blood to do his own tests on.

Jason chuckles, tense from the topic of conversation but amused by Damian’s question. “Oh, he drew blood alright. From me and Bruce. The kid bites like he’s aiming to take a chunk out of you, he got me through my jacket,” Jason describes, rolling the sleeve of his jacket up to show the bloody scabs. Duke leans back in his seat and hisses in sympathy, and Steph chuckles. Cass just smiles serenely, and Damian’s eyes zero in with a strange focus. “He got Dad pretty damn bad, worse than me, and the first day awake Tim headbutt him in the throat,” Jason tells them with a sharp grin.

Bruce doesn’t care if Jason’s having fun at his expense, because he’s been calling Bruce ‘dad’ more recently and every time it makes him just as happy as the first. Jason definitely uses it to his advantage and Bruce cannot bring himself to care in the least.

Duke asks, “What do you guys know so far? If he’s traumatized and staying here, we should probably know what to avoid. And I’m guessing you’re working on his case?”

Bruce nods. “Yes. We’re looking into it. So far—“

Bruce’s phone rings.

The kids watch their father take the phone call, discussing with the hospital what he’s needed for (Tim wants his guardian present to speak to a nutritionist), when he will be there (soon as possible), if he should bring anything (the answer was no). Bruce ends the call, and stands. “I’m needed. They’re going to try and get Tim to eat some food on his own, and he asked for my presence to speak to the nutritionist. Dick, Jason, please explain to your siblings Tim’s case so far, what they should avoid doing,” Bruce winces as his bite wound throbs, “Maybe restock the household antiseptic so we don’t have to run down to the cave for it. Wish me luck and the ability to dodge.” Bruce pauses. “I… think I’m going to wear a denim jacket.” It’ll look horrible on him, but Bruce should probably avoid getting bitten again. Maybe he should get Tim a chew necklace.

The hospital said Bruce didn’t need to bring anything, but just because he doesn’t need to doesn’t mean he can’t… Bruce shakes his head. Nope. Don’t be too overbearing too fast. No more gifts.

…for now.

~18~

When Bruce arrives at the hospital, and is led to Tim’s room, he’s expecting the frightened and paranoid boy he’d been seeing. Hissing and baring his teeth, half-feral.

When the door is opened, Tim is sitting up in his bed with patient mitts and a bite mask on, takes one look at Bruce, and the very first thing he says to him is, “ What are you wearing?”

Bruce’s eyebrows raise, and he shifts. He looks down at himself. “A denim jacket.” 

Tim makes a disgusted face. Okay, it can’t be that bad, Bruce thinks. Tim just slowly nods, then composes himself, looking embarrassed. And reaches a mitted hand out.

Bruce blinks in confusion. Does he… want Bruce to—? Hold his hand?

Bruce steps forward, grabbing the hand, and Tim shakes it. Oh. Okay. Handshake. This is… a little bit different than the Tim he’s met previously. The mask and gloves are kind of throwing him off. Bruce narrows his eyes, trying to take in what details he can in Tim’ expression. Looking for aggression or stress.

The boy sits up straight, despite his injuries. He clears his throat. “My name is Timothy. It’s lovely to properly meet you. Thank you, Mr.Wayne, for dealing with the hospital intricacies. I’m grateful for your role as my temporary guardian,” Tim introduces himself, then thanks Bruce. “I sincerely apologize for how I behaved prior to this.”

Bruce stares at the boy with wide eyes. What. The fuck. He was not expecting this at all. It takes him a solid half-minute and the doctor clearing his throat for Bruce to act, which is entirely unlike him. “It is good to meet you as well, at least, not on medication this time. And no harm done,” Bruce tells him, mind running at great speeds to reassess the situation. He’s been thrown off his game. He needs to analyze and regroup— he’s dealing with something entirely different now.

Tim’s voice is clear and poised. He’s toned it into a more aristocratic, although also direct and business like , accent. He sniffs primly. “Judging by my new accessories, there very much was harm done,” he comments, and then chuckles elegantly. Bruce can’t help his shiver; it reminds him of galas, why does it remind him of galas?

Tim’s eyes are creased in the way one's do when smiling, but something in them makes Bruce feel like he’s staring down a shark.

What has he gotten into this time…

~18~

Tim has a plan.

A good one?

…

He has one. That’s all he’ll say. It’ll get him out of here and back to his home universe while causing the least amount of damage to this world and its delicate balance. And getting rid of the bat brood, throwing their interest off his scent? Getting them to all happily move on from Tim’s case after he caused all this ruckus? Probably the easiest step of all, and it’s the very first one. Just a few words here and a smile there, and everything will be fine and dandy and he’ll be free to roam again. They won’t ever have to think about him again, past maybe a one-time case to tell their teammates about.  Everybody can go in their separate directions. Really, how hard can it be?

This will be easy-peasy.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 19

~18~

Tim has a plan.

A good one?

…

He has one. That’s all he’ll say. It’ll get him out of here and back to his home universe while causing the least amount of damage to this world and its delicate balance. And getting rid of the bat brood, throwing their interest off his scent? Getting them to all happily move on from Tim’s case after he caused all this ruckus? Probably the easiest step of all, and it’s the very first one. Just a few words here and a smile there, and everything will be fine and dandy and he’ll be free to roam again. They won’t ever have to think about him again, past maybe a one-time case to tell their teammates about.  Everybody can go in their separate directions. Really, how hard can it be?

This will be easy-peasy.

~19~

 Bruce can deal with violent. He’s probably an expert in violent children at this point. Bruce dealt with Dick as a child, blood thirsty for revenge. He dealt with Jason, swinging a tire iron at him upon first meeting. He dealt with Damian, fond of blades—  far more than Bruce, or anybody really, was comfortable with. He dealt with Steph’s testing, waiting for him to get angry and snap on her, to see if he would and what his limit was. He dealt with Cass, coming in only understanding body and fight. Hell, even Duke had a temper for a time.

He was prepared for violent. For Tim’s snapping teeth and distrustful glare. What Bruce was not prepared for, what is low-key terrifying him, is this fresh hell, this polite and apologetic young gentleman of the upper crust. With a charming and disarming smile and composure and humility, saying he’s regretful of his behavior, and, so very sorry, but perhaps now they can get off on the right foot?

Bruce doesn’t know what he’s looking at.

Now Bruce is no mine reader, or psychology expert… in fact, Bruce’s mind is racing for a while, lost on this all— but it isn’t long before he hits something. A conclusion. His eyes narrow. Maybe he does know what he’s looking at. The manners just took him so off guard.

Sometimes Bruce is dumb, but he isn’t stupid.

If Tim was trafficked, there’s a possibility he’s been amongst all types of people. Low class, high class, thugs and rich politicians alike. Tim has probably had to play many different characters to survive; fawning. He’s in an unfamiliar environment, capable of clear thought now that they have him off the stronger meds, it's very likely he’s reverting to what he knows. They’re in a decently nice place, he might recognize Bruce, or at least his name, and he has adopted a fitting persona for the setting. An attempt to avoid injury when in a threatening situation. Changing his personality, actions and speech to match whoever he’s interacting with. Because he doesn’t feel safe.

Bruce has seen it before. Hell, he has his own version of it— Brucie vs Batman, two different men for different settings. There’s Mr.Wayne, the business man, as well. Adapting to one’s environment.

Tim continues to smile politely, and the Doctor seems unbothered. He just spares Bruce a smile. “I’m sure it eases you to know, you guys were correct. The medication clearly had a strong negative effect on Tim’s psyche. Now that he’s aware and on non-narcotic pain medications, he’s been communicating clearly and rationally. Of course, that means they don’t work as well for pain, but Tim has been rating his pain very low on the scale so far, so they seem to work well on him,” the Doctor informs Bruce. “You made the right call. Since waking, Tim’s been perfectly normal,” he finishes, said with a deep, deep sense of relief.

Tim looks at Bruce with a smile, and eyes that say, Yes, see? As I said, I’d been acting awfully mischievous whilst out of it! I’m quite glad to have come to my senses. Like every socialite trying to laugh off the horrendous behavior they exhibited at a gala after getting much too sloshed on the Champaign.

Bruce doesn’t trust it for a single fucking moment.

Bruce’s personal opinion of inebriation is that it isn’t not you— rather, it’s a you that does not care about consequences. It’s why he doesn’t tolerate the excuse ‘he was just drunk’ in the slightest. Being drunk doesn’t change your moral stance. Bruce could be shitfaced and he wouldn’t dare lay a hand on any of his children for anything, because he intrinsically feels that is wrong, no matter what. Now, if you’re somebody who only doesn’t do bad things because you know there’s consequences, and not because you actually think it’s wrong? Being drunk might make you not care about those consequences enough to slip up.

Tim, somewhere under that unsettling blank expression of pleasantry, is a bitey little shit and Bruce knows it. It’s freaky as hell to see, and in any other case it would fool him, but the gala smile Tim has pasted on means nothing after Bruce watched the boy have various mental breakdowns, harm himself repeatedly, and attack various other people.

But for now, Bruce just stands tall in his denim jacket and smiles cordially at the Doctor. Two can play this game. “Of course, of course!” He turns to Tim, “I’m so glad you’re feeling better, chum,” he tells him. Bruce’s eyes quickly analyze the boy, noting that besides the addition of the mask and mitts, Tim has set his plush aside on the hospital nightstand. A decent distance from him.

Tim smiles behind the mask. “No one is more relieved than I am, I assure you,” he tells Bruce with a perfectly polite laugh. Exactly 3 seconds. Mm. Don’t like that.

The Doctor flips through a few sparse clipboard pages, then clears his throat. “Let’s go over your blood report, shall we? I gave Mr.Wayne the most bare basics over the phone, but I’m sure you’d both like to hear the entirety of the results while our dietician is on her way.”

Bruce and Tim simultaneously nod. Bruce takes a seat, and Tim folds his little mitts in his lap. It should not be endearing, but Bruce can’t help but smile at it.

Dr.Lawson continues. “Well, to start, I’m sure you will be glad to hear that you have no blood diseases, Tim. Unfortunately,” he sighs, “the good news mostly stops there. Your white blood cell count is extremely low, but that’s to be expected. You have asplenia and are recovering from sepsis. Sepsis often results in higher counts of white cells, but in the more severe shock phase and especially in immunocompromised patients— like you— they can go down,” the doctor explains.

“You suffer from some pretty severe vitamin deficiencies. B12, vitamin D, C, as well as Calcium. Concerningly low blood-oxygen levels. Your blood pressure is extremely high, as well. You have too much iron and magnesium in your blood. As well as some zinc and copper toxicity, and mild signs of lead poisoning. Frankly, Tim, I think you can understand that this all… concerns us. You are extremely unwell, and need severe diet adjustments at the least,” Dr.Lawson lists off for them, cringing and grimacing.

Bruce blinks. He looks at Tim, who still had that blank stare and pleasant smile on his face. How on earth is this kid alive right now?

Tim just laughs. Laughs. That stupid, polite, patronizing social-event laugh that makes Bruce’s skin crawl. Tim waves a mitt as if it were a manicured hand. “Yikes, you got me there, doc!” He chuckles elegantly. “I will admit, I have not been treating my body to, well, optimal conditions lately. Or growing up, really. Just wasn’t in the right environment for it,” he remarks. “I’m sure you understand, being a resident of Gotham and all.”

No. Bruce does not understand, and he can say on the Doctor’s face that he doesn’t, either. Sure, Gotham has some lead in its water and routine chemical attacks, but there’s bottled water and filters and gas masks and nobody’s blood work should look like that. That is not normal.

Bruce can only assume it’s a thinly veiled reference to his captivity. But growing up? How long was Tim captive in an unhealthy environment? Enough to say he grew up in it? Someplace he had to drink any water he could get, eat what little food was given to him, possibly sitting in darkness. Lead poisoning. God. This kid isn’t even Bruce’s yet— ahem, isn’t even Bruce’s, and he’s already giving the man gray hairs.

The doctor can only stare at Tim in speechless silence, and Tim stares back utterly unphased. The doctor lightly coughs. “Right…” he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Anyway, this report will be given to your dietician to help you create a plan for returning to proper health.”

Tim nods cordially. “Of course,” he says primly.

“Do you mind if I ask you some routine questions, now?”

“Of course,” he repeats.

Dr. Lawson flips to a different page, much emptier from the brief glimpse Bruce gets, and the doctor clicks his pen. “Name?”

“Timothy,” the boy answers. “No last name.”

Does he not have one, is he not telling them, or does he not remember? Again, Bruce clenches his teeth and wonders how long Tim was held. 

The doctor simply sighs, and takes the unsatisfying answer, writing it on the page. “Age, height, and weight?”

“Sixteen years old, 5’5, and I’m not sure about my weight. It’s been a year or two since I’ve checked, I think.” Tim gets a brief facial expression of discontent when he says his height, clearly unsatisfied with his stature.

Bruce blinks at the age. “Sixteen?” He asks, disbelieving.

Tim’s head tilts towards Bruce, brows furrowed slightly. “Yes? Well, I’m not too far off from seventeen,” he mentions with a slight preen.

They were so off. Honestly, Bruce still isn’t totally convinced Tim isn’t thirteen.

The Doctor hums. “We’ll bring a sitting scale in, and get your weight. Allow me to call for someone real quick, so we know in time for your appointment with the dietician,” he excuses himself, taking out some kind of pager-looking device from his pocket and momentarily fiddling with it. Then, he puts it back, and looks at Tim once more. “Do you know your birthday?”

Tim nods. “July 19th.”

Bruce mentally makes a note of it.

It’s a lot of back and forth from there.

“Do you smoke or engage in any recreational drugs?”

“No,” Tim replies cheerily.

“I was told you had ibuprofen with your possessions. How many would you say you took a day?”

“Hm. Not sure, perhaps a few.”

“Are you aware that overtaking ibuprofen can thin your blood?”

“Cool.” 

The Doctor makes an unimpressed face at that response.

“Do you drink alcohol?”

“No.”

“Any allergies?”

“Shrimp and black walnuts.” A note for Alfred, then.

“On any prescription of over the counter medications?”

“No.”

The doctor humfs. “You should have been on antibiotics after the removal of your spleen, to prevent the sepsis you ended up getting,” he replies with a bit of bite to his voice.

Tim humfs right back. “Is a spleen really so important?” He chuckles. “People lose them all the time, and are fine without medication! They explode and stuff.”

“Timothy… that’s an appendix. That is an appendectomy. Your spleen is vital to regulating your blood cells. The things that carry oxygen and fight infections.”

Tim doesn’t stop smiling that blank smile. He stares unblinkingly, like a robot, at the doctor. “I would like to mention that I did not complete my schooling. I dropped out.”

Jason is going to have a meltdown when he learns that. Bruce might be having a meltdown, right here and now. Dear god, let Tim be making an awful joke. 

Bruce doesn’t think he is.

~19~

Tim is totally fucking with them, for the record. And god, it’s so worth it to see Brcue’s face do that thing it does. He’s so easy to read in this universe, it makes the pained and constipated expression especially clear. And Dr.Lawson’s look of excruciation is just extra icing.

Tim answers the questions as minimally as he can, maybe bending the truth on a few. Yes, he’s been jacked on ketamine and rohypnol a lot recently, but it wasn’t on purpose, and nobody is putting him in rehab. Hell no. He’s getting out of here and back to business, like he’s built to be.

His plan is simple, really.

Tim’s reasoning for not getting involved in this universe, where he never existed, is as sound as v = 331 + ( 0.61 ⋅ T ). He has responsibilities back home— yes, he sent the Justice League all the files on how to get Bruce back before Tim got blown to kingdom come— but he has no way of knowing if they are doing it right, if it worked, if Dick and Damian and Jason have their father back. In all the varying ways that he is their father or not. Tim should go back, not only to check on that, but also because he has a job there. Multiple. He has to defend his Gotham with the others. He has to continue being CEO for Bruce, he has to finish updating the Batcomputer’s defenses, he has to be Red Robin and help the people of Gotham and lighten the load on his fellow vigilantes— Timothy has a job.

Janet and Jack Drake would have his hide if they knew he was being a lazy shit in some other universe while the others pull his weight for him back home. It’s not in Tim’s nature to be a slacker. His work is calling to him, a siren song.

And besides that, they (the bats) are clearly are all… eugh, happy and functional in this universe. Lucky fucking lunatics. So, call it harsh or whatever you like, but Tim only lies to other people. Not himself. Very clearly he’s the poison. In a world where he never exists, life is pre-tty sweet. Which means he has to make sure to keep it that way, for the people here, to not ruin what they have. Tim doesn’t need or want in any way shape or form to get involved with these whackjobs at all. He needs to stay a generous few steps back. Maybe a few thousand. 

So this appointment is going to go nice and steady, and once Bruce is convinced that Tim is well enough not to immediately die, that he is going to heal fine, he will leave. Tim just needs to confirm for the man that Bruce has successfully done his job, he’s saved Tim, he can leave now. No need for this temporary guardian scheme to ensure accurate data gathering concerning the victims health, Tim is going to be a-o-kay, doc. That’s how it works; get confirmation they’re gonna live, leave to do the next important task. Mission over. Tim was taught the process by the Bat himself. It’s the kind of hands-off approach his parents would appreciate.

Tim is going to make sure, for everybody’s benefit, that the bats don’t get involved with Tim and he doesn’t get involved with them.

Eventually, a sitting-scale is wheeled in and Tim goes to get up so he can get over to it. Dr.Lawson and Bruce instantly start floundering, telling him not to get up, which he rolls his eyes at. Fucking hell, these guys treat him like a toddler. The people in this universe are obnoxious.

Tim allows Bruce to lift him up, carefully settling him into the seat. Tim has to bite his cheek when it happens, disgruntled by being picked up. Jack and Janet stopped doing that when he stopped looking so cute to set on their hip as a party prop. His Bruce certainly never carried him around like an incompetent baby. Because he had respect for Tim.

The doctor makes note of Tim’s weight on his chart. He clicks his tongue, “You weigh 105 pounds. That’s not ideal. 125 to 150 is healthy for your height and sex,” he informs Tim. Tim just lets himself be moved back to the bed and nods along.

Sure, Tim will talk to this nutritionist/dietician/whatever, but the second he’s gone he isn’t following this shit. Whatever home they attempt to put him in won’t try to follow it either, not that he plans to stay long enough to even have one dinner there. The Mission takes priority. Anything else is a privilege.

Dr.Lawson asks Tim about his family medical history, which he largely replies to in shrugs. The doctor does not seem to like that.

He sighs once it’s over with. “Alright… our dietician will bring food with her, something simple, just soup and crackers. Do you think you can handle that?”

Of course, why do they keep asking this garbage, do they think he’s a picky, paralyzed five-year-old? Tim nods. 

“Alrighty then,” the Doctor nods, “For the most part, I’m done here. I’ll leave this for Julie, and she’ll be here in just a few.” Then, he nods politely to Tim and Bruce, and leaves.

And converting doctor time to regular time, that’s gonna be… 30 minutes, at least. The few appointments with the pediatrician Tim did have as a child, they’re always like ‘oh, we’ll be with you soon!’ And soon is an hour later.

Tim and Bruce sit in a moment of awkward silence, but Tim doesn’t let even a slip of discomfort show on his face or in the way he sits or holds himself. He can spot Bruce tapping a finger.

Tch. Amateur.

Tim almost wants to try and drag it out as long as he can. He keeps the vindictive smirk off his face. Just stay quiet and see how long it takes this universe’s Bruce to crack and say something. Tim’s Bruce would never, in fact, he’s the one who often imposed the awkward silences— and would even ignore you if you try to break them and he’d just rather not, thus ramping up the awkwardness even more for the victim.

It’s tempting. But no.

Tim can’t help himself, he has to ask. Because Bruce is wearing charcoal slacks, loafers, a nice black turtleneck, and over that perfect ensemble, a denim jacket. Instantly ruined. Tim has to know. “Where did you get your jacket? It’s very… nice.” He asks, as if making polite conversation, and smiles demurely. That would 1000% be a direct insult at a gala.

Bruce shifts uncomfortably, and dear god, he’s so easy to read here. What the fuck is wrong with this place. “My friend gave it to me— it’s more his style than mine,” he tells Tim with a Brucie Ditzy Grin.

Ugh.

Tim has to physically stop himself from rearing back. Batman does not have fucking friends! Bruce doesn’t have friends! This place is so fucked up, he has got to get out of here. Is the implication that Clark gave him that thing? In what ass-backwards timeline does Bruce accept and wear gifts from Superman?

Tim continues to smile. “Hm. That’s nice.”

Bruce twitches. Oopsie. Is little Timmy making you uncomfortable, B man? Suck it, you emotion-expressing weirdo. Just looking at this fucker gives Tim the heebie jeebies. 

That’s Bruce’s face this Bruce is Brucing with! He should do it right or not do it where Tim can see it.

Alright ‘puter, begin Protocol ‘Leave Me The Hell Alone Already.’

Tim fakes a yawn, stretching a little and deliberately not cringing as it pulls at his most significant injuries. Those mild, opioid-free pain meds do absolutely nothing. Tim can feel literally everything and has been low-key clenching his jaw almost this entire time. “Man, I’m beat. I sure am glad this is soon to be over, aren’t you, sir?”

Bruce makes a complicated face, but lands on a kind smile for Tim. “I’m sure all this is exhausting for you, whilst recovering. And really, just call me Bruce, no need for sir or anything,” he chuckles.

Tim nods. “Whatever you say, sir. Aaanyway, I’m glad we’re in the last stretch! Just this cute little appointment, then I think I’ll be all good to go and you can wash your hands of what I’m sure has been a complicated and harrowing process for you,” he says with as much sympathy and understanding as he can muster and fake up extra of. Bruce is probably sick and tired of having to hang around this hospital, cleaning up after some fuck ass kid he doesn’t know.

“…Excuse me?”

Tim stares ahead, smiling like a cheesing face motherfucker. “My memories of rocking this mouse-house when the doc had me on the good stuff aren’t fantastic, but you had two charming young men with you, right? Your sons, I believe? I’m sure you’re eager to get home to your kids and everything. Sit back, kick your feet up, and know you did something good for someone, made a difference” Tim puts a hand over his heart, closing his eyes with a touched expression of complete sincerity (at least, in appearance). “Truly, sir. You have no clue the good you’ve done. I sincerely have no clue what I’d have done without you and your boys advocating for me and temporarily acting as my guardian until I would be aware enough to head off on my own. I feel like brand new!” Perfection. Bruce, or any of the bats back in his original world, never stay past knowing Tim is stable to a decent degree. He’s practically shouted from the rooftop that he’s ready to frolick in Gotham’s imaginary fields. 

How much more stable can a guy get? He’s practically poster-child. Tim has this shit in the bag.

Bruce stares at Tim in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. Bruce then awkwardly clears his throat. “I actually was planning on… continuing to be your guardian? For some time at least? I have no intention of just dropping you the second the option is available, Tim.”

Tim’s eyes go a little frenzied, his pleasant smile tightens. His voice is a tense, high sound.

“… Hm?”

Chapter Text

To be prudent is to be cautious and show care for the future.

Ugh. Pru hates planning.

When Pru drops hot and smoking and fresh out of the oven into a different universe, she knows instantly that something existence-wise is off. That she is possibly somewhere she shouldn’t be. For one, Pru knows what results in dying, and that? Exploding deep underground? That? That results in dying. And secondly—

Her larynx is wholly undamaged.

Now call her fucking crazy, but Pru doesn’t think bein’ blown up fixes a damaged larynx. But in this case? Sure it does!

She does still have one massive, nasty scar across her throat, but internally, everything seems to be healed just fine.

It takes minimal investigation for Pru to confirm she’s in a different dimension/universe/timeline/whatever the hell the correct term is for whatever configuration of fucked up existential shenanigans the Boss has got her mixed up in now. And because she’s here, and because this happened, and because she knows things are only going to snowball trouble-wise from here— Pru knows with a soul-deep certainty that that stupid motherfucker is around here somewhere.

So she’s going to hunt down Tim Drake’s skinny white ass and kick it 8 ways to Sunday.

So she needs a plan. Good thing she can just use her favorite planning template: “make this shit up as I go.” Step one? Get the currently present 75% of their team back.

It’s Pru’s very first day in this new universe, and she isn’t wasting any time. The second she confirms for 100% sure this is a new universe, step one commences, because her method of confirming universe travel— finding Z and Owens alive and eating and playing cards in their boarding— is also step one. 

Pru smashes into the room like a wrecking ball, the door banging solidly shut behind her. The two begin to ask what her fucking problem is today, thankfully as familiar with her as in her own universe. Pru slams her armful of guns she nicked from the armory down on the table, atop their card game. Least to say, she has Z and Owens’ attention.

She smiles bitingly at them, and she knows it must look different, changed from whoever they knew before, because both her boys freeze and stare at her with caution. “Alright, fuckos, listen up!”

Yes, that is her opener. 

Pru feels adrenaline and nervous energy thrum in her veins, a desire to get on the road and get there quick. She speaks stern and fast, summarizing the general gist. She can fill in the holes later. “Whoever the hell I was before, fuck her, I’m in charge now,” whoever this Pru had been, Now Pru does not give a shit. Maybe that’s selfish and horrible, but she does not give a fuck. She has work to do. And if she knows herself, then this universe’s Pru would have respected that. “I’m from another dimension—“ she’s met with wide-eyed confusion, a sort of ‘is this a prank?’ look. “—where we meet this jackass named Tim, ordered to follow him by Ra’s. We ask if we’re supposed to kill him, Ra’s says we can damn well try, we shoot a missile in his window and he comes out and instantly kicks all our asses solo. Then we work for the crazy son of a bitch while Ra’s helps him find his weird dad. Ra’s is a creepy shit who wants to have baby’s with Tim’s brain. We decide Tim is way cooler than Ra’s, we call him Boss and genuinely like him, but we get attacked by a rival organization. Owens, you get your head damn-near cut off, Z, you’re stabbed in the chest, I got my throat slit, and Tim loses his spleen,” She gestures vaguely at the scar tissue on her throat, “Y’all die, Tim and I live. Tim decides fuck Ra’s, but to clarify, in the insulting way, and blows up this base and every single other base Ra’s owns. Tim and I got caught in the explosion and some magic bullshit happened, and now he’s here in this world somewhere and I’m gonna find his scrawny white ass and fucking kill him for getting killed without my permission. Got it?”

And Zedmoore and Owens, her boys, both look at her. Then look at eachother. Then her again, the way she holds herself, and her eyes, and her neck. And then each other again. And they both shrug. Z nods.

Owens sucks in a hiss of breath through his teeth, setting his cards down on top of a rifle occupying the table space. “Alright, if you say so. Where do we find this guy?”

Pru grins. She knew she could count on her boys.

~~~

”So, what is the biggest difference between here and there, in your opinion?”

”The worst thing possible. I’ve learned what it’s like to feel true loyalty to a leader.”

”Ew.”

”Yup, and you two are next.”

”Great…”

~~~

”Is Master Ra’s really a pedophile?”

“I can’t comment on this world’s version of him, but mine? Yeah, pretty bloody sure. He kept Tim’s spleen in a jar. I think he talks to it. I already had to hear what he said to Tim all the time, I can only imagine what he says and thinks in private. Do I need to start quoting him again?”

”Ugh, no thanks, earlier was enough.”

“‘Truly impressive, Detective, I truly hope you comprehend all the ways in which I wish to explore your mind,’”

”Pru, stop.”

“No, the grossed out face he makes is funny.”

~~~

Pru, Z and Owens throw weapons and supplies into the back of a jeep. It’s packed with necessities, multiple gallons of contained gasoline, and what tracking items they could work. Z gets into the driver's seat, Pru claims shotgun, and Owens lays down across the backseat.

”So, Ra’s is going to send people to hunt us down for deserting, right?” Z asks, staring out at the open expanse before them with dread and acceptance.

Pru grins, and it’s all teeth. “Definitely. You better drive fast and hope we find the Boss soon, because it's either that or we die.”

Owens snorts. “Lovely.”

Z hits the gas.

~~~

The three of them are looking for a place to camp out on day four of their desertion/search-and-rescue, and Pru hates computers.

”No fucking record of him online,” she growls. “His fuck ass parents are divorced, so they never had a kid, but I know his frustrating ass is here. I replaced your Pru, but I bet the universe just beamed him here as his own entity,” she grumbles. “Which makes this way bloody fuckin’ harder.”

”Are you sure he’s here?” Owens asks, lounging in the back once more. The jeep bounces over dunes in the cold desert night. “Maybe if he didn’t already have an avatar to possess like a weird ass ghost, then he didn’t come along for the ride. Really, Pru2, it—“

”Call me Pru2 again and I’ll give you a demonstrative recap of how you died in my timeline.” Pru shuts the laptop, giving up on the internet for now. “He’s here. I can feel the aura of desperation and patheticness he leaves in his wake.” 

“I’m having a difficult time discerning if you like this guy or hate his guts,” Z comments.

”Both.” Pru is looking out the window when she sees it. “Stop!”

The jeep sends sand raining down onto itself as it slides to a stop. Pru squints out into the dark. “Turn your fuckin’ headlights that way,” she demands, and Z obeys like they’re a well-oiled machine. Considering how long Pru and them have worked together, they kind of are. Even if these guys worked with a different version of her.

Z turns the jeep until the headlights shine on a rock structure, natural pillars of them and a cave. 

“We need a place to camp for the night, right?” Pru asks Z. He nods with a hum of affirmation. Pru grins. “Great, because I just found the perfect spot. Pull up to that cave.”

Z does so, Owens stretching out in the back seat in preparation to get up and move around some. “How’d you even see that shits a cave? It’s dark as fuck out here. Are we missing some fact that everyone has night vision in your old  universe?”

Owens is right. It’s a near-moonless night, and from where they’d been driving, it just looks like a pile of rocks.

”We visited this place in my world,” she explains. “The three of us and the Boss. It contained evidence to find his father-figure-slash-mentor-slash-boss-but-it’s-complicated. Personally, I’m not a fan of the guy, from what Tim told me he’s a massive fucking jackass, but Boss always had stars in his eyes when he talked about him. He found his final piece of evidence here.” Undeserved stars. The Batman can suck her dick. Tim told them things he’d never told anyone else, and none of it gave Pru a positive opinion of the dark knight.

“Cool, I guess.” Owens grabs a bag, opening his door to get out. Z has put the car in park and gets out himself. Pru opens her door, hopping onto the sand with a feeling of nostalgia. She stares at sand once turned red.

”Yeah, and then you two chuckleheads died here.”

“..what?! Pru, you chose our death site as our new camping site?!”

“Ahuh.” Pru grins. Z and Owens suddenly look ten times more tired than they did a second ago. “Come on, get the shit we need.”

Pru grabs a flashlight from her pack, walking carefully into the cave. Owens and Z bitch by the car, gathering what they need for the night. She looks for a good place for them to—

Pru freezes.

In the beam of her flashlight, is a gross fucking puddle of mostly dried up vomit. Flies buzz around it, covering a significant amount. It’s clearly been sitting there a few days, at least. She scans the cave floor with her flashlight, and stutters over a few wispy shapes, kneeling down in the sand and dust next to them and the bile. Closer now, she sees they’re threads and fibers. She’s torn enough shirts into bandages to recognize what these scraps might originate from.

Funny. The cave that once contained Tim’s final evidence of his mentor's survival, now contains Pru’s final evidence of Tim’s.

Pru jumps to her feet, running out of the cave with a psycho-grin lighting up her face. She cackles into the black of night, garnering the attention of her two companions. When Pru popped into existence here, she damn near chucked up on the floor from the ache and burn and vertigo. That vomit isn’t desert lizard shit, or whatever lives out here, that vomit is scrawny white boy vomit. And she bets those fibers belong to Tim, too.

Hell, what a place to come back into existence. Right where your friends died and stranded in the desert.

”Tim is definitely here!” She booms victoriously into the night, near-manic. 

After explaining her evidence to Owens and Z, their faces a mix of relief and surprise— like, they didn’t doubt her entirely when she claimed to believe, to know that Tim was running around here somewhere, but more confirmation is incredibly relieving. It also means they’ve increased their chances of survival. They start picking stuff back up—

“The hell are you doing?” Pru scowls. “Put that shit back down, we’re camping here.”

”But, you found evidence he was here? It may only have been a few days, we should catch up while we can—“ Z protests, which Pru interrupts.

”No bloody way,” she scoffs. “It’s useless. That slippery little bastard scutters into the woodwork and disappears at incredible speeds, he’s bloody fast. We aren’t catching up with him. Boss could be in fuckin’ China right now, either already set up with a criminal empire he amassed, or in prison somehow. It’s 50/50 with him.” She shakes her head, “Our best course is getting decent rest and getting our bloodhound on tomorrow,” she explains.

Z and Owens concede, and they set up for bed.

They wake up to an attack from the league on their tail.

Pru and her boys fight like the machine they’ve trained for years to be— but Pru finds herself extra ruthless. Which she didn’t know was possible. She lights up the shade of the cave with gunfire, yelling nonsensically at their opposition, until the puddle of vomit is the least contaminated thing in the desert cave. The walls are painted with blood, the ground littered with 9 bodies (2 of the bastards managed to escape, surely to report back), and Z and Owens stare at her— both impressed and concerned.

All three of them sport various injuries now, but nothing life threatening.

Pru helps Owens pop his shoulder back into socket, and they loot the bodies. Fast as possible, the three of them load up the jeep, hopping in and taking off like satan is on their heels. Because for all intents and purposes, he absolutely is.

Z breathes heavily from the driver's seat as they tear across the landscape, the vehicle bouncing along, unpleasantly jostling them as they go. “Are you sure this guy can protect us from Ra’s Al Ghul’s desertion dogs?!” He asks, glancing in the rear-view mirror and seeing the faintest distant silhouette of another vehicle coming after them.

Pru grins, unrepentant, unafraid and wolf-like. She’s died once already trying to go after Tim, and she thinks her chances of survival are significantly better here. That’s practically a guaranteed victory. The second Tim realizes she followed him to ‘and back’ in this whole ‘to hell and back’ deal, he’ll scoop them up in his freaky, hyper intelligent, obsessive claws ASAP. Pru cackles wildly, earning looks of further concern for her mental health. “Absolutely. He’ll fuckin’ smoke these chumps.”

“I really hope you’re right about that!” Owens yells in a panic.

Pru leans back in her seat, the picture of cavalier, smirking. “I am.”

An explosion rocks the ground, the cave transforming into a meteor shower far behind them. Pru watches in the car mirror as the vehicle following far behind them— just passing their previous camp— is thrown fifteen feet to the side, and rolls down the dunes.

”What the FUCK?!”

Tim will keep them alive, but to get to him, Pru’s gotta take a few chapters out of the Boss’s book.