Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The walkie-talkie is an unusual sight. 

In Gotham City you can find most anything littering the streets and rooftops. People are just tossing things everywhere. Muggers running away with a purse, discarding everything but the money. Dumped goods, ditched weapons, Tim even found a gun once. 

He’d stayed pretty clear of it. Didn’t want his prints to get smeared all over what was most likely a murder weapon, with the way this city is. 

So, finding lost or tossed things isn't unusual. But the lone walkie-talkie, laying discarded in the corner of a rooftop certainly is a little strange. 

At first, Tim thinks he might have stumbled upon the middle of a scheme, because it’s impossible to walk two steps in Gotham without ending up in some great, villainous plan. Someone is probably going to come here, grab the walkie, and start talking to whoever’s on the other side, detailing an escape-plan or say some stuff like The Eagle has landed. 

If Tim was a smart child, he’d stay away. Find a different rooftop and forget he ever saw the walkie. 

But the thing is, this rooftop is the best vantage point for Batman and Robin’s current patrol routes. It’s the best spot, because right over there is the glow of the city, and any minute now, Batman and Robin are going to come swinging, and Tim is going to get the chance to take the best photos ever. 

So Tim walks up to the walkie-talkie and locates the talk-button. When he presses it down, a loud kschhh is heard, and he startles and drops it. He casts a quick look around, but no one is sprinting out from the shadows at the sound, so he turns his gaze to the walkie again. He was sure it was going to be broken, or at least cracked. But it looks fine. 

Actually. It looks more than fine. It looks high grade. Sturdy black plastic, slipped into a buttery leather case. A little screen that’s showing what channel he’s tuned into. 

But he doesn’t have time to get distracted. He casts a glance on his watch, shoves the walkie deep into his jacket pocket, and scrambles into a crouched position behind the parapet. He positions his camera, fiddles with the focus and then there they are. 

Batman and Robin are soaring through the sky, capes billowing and the lights of the city making the background a soft, blurry glow. Time feels like it’s slowing down, and Tim is grinning as he snaps photo after photo of the vigilantes. 

Then, in a rush, it’s over. And Tim feels empty again as he gazes at the disappearing vigilantes, now mere dots on the horizon. He packs up his camera, and begins the trek back to his lonely home. 

-

Here’s the thing:

Tim is lonely. 

He’s always been alone, and it’s not that big of a deal. His parents are home approximately 7 days a year. And by home Tim means with him. They’re in Gotham more frequently than a week a year. But they don’t usually spend any time with him when they are. They’re already away in the mornings before he rises, and come home after he’s gone to bed. 

The times that he wakes up in the morning to the smell of his dad’s coffee and the sound of his mom’s smoothie being blended, those are the days when he practically throws himself down the stairs to the kitchen. Because if they’re home, then maybe he can help his dad solve the morning crossword, and maybe he can get his mom’s opinion on some of his photography, and maybe they will even spend the whole morning together? 

And maybe, if he’s really, really, lucky, they’ll even eat lunch together later. 

But those times are rare. Rarer than whatever bones or ceramic shards that his parents are always away digging up. Maybe if Tim had died and gotten buried beneath the floorboards 1500 years ago they would come home and spend some time with his bones, at least. 

Tim is always alone. He should enjoy it. It’s every tween boy's dream to have a mansion for himself. He can skate through the hallways, slide down banisters, eat candy for dinner every day if he wanted to. And though Tim skates through plenty of hallways, and slides down a fair amount of banisters, and always has a jumbo bag of marshmallows stocked in his pantry for when his sweet tooth gets the better of him, he would give it all up in a second for some company. 

But, no company will come. Not until he’s finished school and can move onto university. Not until he can start a new life for himself. Because the one he’s currently living feels more and more hopeless with each passing day. 

Every one of those days passes kind of the same. He wakes up, goes to school, comes home to a house that smells of their housekeeper’s citrus floor-cleaner, does his homework, checks where in the world his parents might be, goes out to photograph Batman and Robin, and then he goes to bed. Rinse and repeat.

It’s not very fun, but at least he has school to keep him somewhat occupied. The real trouble starts on the first day of summer vacation. 

He sleeps in. That’s sort of nice, he guesses. Now that he can sleep in, he can stay out later when he’s photographing Batman and Robin. No need to worry about school. He can sleep however much he wants to. 

But at a certain point, Tim knows, he’s gotta get out of bed. Lest he starts to fuse to it and won’t be able to ever leave it again. So he rolls out of it and onto his floor. Miserable and already bored, even though his day has barely started, he stares at the ceiling from the floor instead of from his bed. Everybody give it up for variety!

He rolls over with a sigh, and stares at the dust bunnies beneath his bed. His jacket is under there. He should probably hang it up. That’d give him something to do, even something boring is better than wallowing in self pity. 

Tim sits up and tugs his jacket out from under his bed, and is surprised at the weight of it. It’s a very light jacket, and it’s heavier than he remembers. 

The answer lies, of course, in the walkie-talkie. It’s still in his pocket, and for a horrifying second Tim thinks that he’s stolen it from a thug, or something. 

But if whoever had left it there would have had a need for it, surely they would have spoken into it at some point. And surely Tim would have heard it. 

So. He’s stolen a walkie-talkie. What now? 

He’s a thief. Should he turn himself in to the police? To Batman? That seems a little extreme. Maybe he should just put it back where he found it. But what if he goes to put it back, and whoever he stole it from is there, waiting to beat him up? Lost and Found services in Gotham are all scams, except for the one at the library. But even so, he can’t leave it there. What if someone sees him and asks him where he found it? Then he’d have to lie, but they probably wouldn’t believe him, and then he’d have to tell them the truth. If he told them the truth, then he’d have to explain why his parents are letting him be out on Gotham rooftops at night, and then his parents would probably end up in jail, and while Tim doesn’t maybe like his parents that much (he doesn’t know them well enough to form an opinion) he doesn’t want them to go to prison! 

Tim swallows and presses the speak-button. Static is heard, and Tim tries to sound like an adult. 

“Hello. Is anyone there? Over.” 

He lets go of the button. Waits for an answer. But no one answers. 

After a while he tries again.

“Hello. Is anyone there? I’ve got your other walkie. Over.” 

Still nothing. Maybe the other one is broken. 

And.. If it hadn’t been for the walkie, Tim probably wouldn’t have uttered a word to anyone all day. Possibly all week, or longer, depending on whether he’d be home when the housekeeper came around. 

It felt kind of nice to speak, to hear his own voice. Even if nobody else heard him. He bites his cheek, leans against his bed, and presses the button again. 

“This is…” He trails off. He can’t use his real name, in case someone actually is on the other end. He’ll have to be a bit sneakier. “This is T, reporting live from my room. All is quiet. A regular, boring morning. Nothing new on any fronts.” 

He snorts, a little embarrassed by himself, but also a little giddy. It’s like having his own radio show. Except no one is listening to him, so it doesn’t matter how embarrassing or stupid he sounds. 

But pressing down the button every single time he wants to speak into it is kind of annoying. He fiddles with it, looks around at the different little knobs and wheels, and finds one that’s labeled PERM. TRANSMIT. When he flicks it to ON, there is a static sound, and then there is just a slight buzzing. He turns down the volume, and it dissipates into a barely noticeable hum.

He speaks into it again, and sees the little meter measuring sound levels on the screen bounce up. His voice is still there. 

Sweet. No need to hold down that button every time he wants to say something. He’s not sure if someone on the other side could talk to him when he’s got permanent transmit on, probably not, but it doesn’t really matter anyway. The other walkie might be destroyed, and it’s not like anyone else is going to tune into his specific frequency anyway. 

Speaking of.. There are a couple of preset channels, but all of them display strange frequencies, and after a quick google search, Tim finds that the walkie-talkie is certainly not a normal one. It’s nowhere near the 400-something megahertz frequencies that most two-way radios use.  

But the static is still there. And it seems fully functional. And no one has tried to contact him. So Tim doesn’t really care. 

He grabs a pair of headphones, plugs them in, and hangs the walkie on his belt Sony-Walkman style. Then, to the kitchen for breakfast, or lunch. Brunch?

“This is T again, coming at you hot with riveting news about sustenance,” He says in his best radio-announcer voice. “Today’s menu features mouthwatering options such as..” He opens the fridge, “Cereal and milk. Or eggs, if I manage not to burn them again.” 

He starts to pour himself a bowl of cereal. 

“Did you know that the brand Batwing Bunches is not, in fact, approved by the FDA, and are also banned in all countries, including America, for their questionable ingredients, 4% of which are dissolved organic matter that most likely is just straight from Gotham Harbor,” He says, grabbing a spoon and marveling at the sound of his own voice. “They’re only sold in Gotham, since we don’t really subscribe to the law anyway, and no one is brave enough to battle thousands of radioactive Gothamite kids for them to be removed from the shelves. Fascinating, truly. Not to mention the GMO’d vegetables. Is it really GMO if they’re grown through Ivy’s magic-” 

He keeps babbling about food as he munches on his cereal, and finds a sort of peace settle within him. A satisfaction that he pretends comes from finally eating breakfast, but which probably stems from finally being able to talk freely to someone. 

Well. He doesn’t actually know if someone’s on the other end. He doubts it. But he can pretend, and that feels like enough. 

-

“This is T again, your faithful sports-news host and commentator, coming at’cha live from today’s epic one-man skateboard championships. We’ve reached the semifinals, and our champion, me. T. I’m the champion, since I’m also the only competitor. Does that also make me the loser? Whatever. I’m setting the world record for most hallways skated through in two minutes. The conditions are wonderful! Carpets, removed. Floors, waxed. The only thing stopping me from a gold medal is the fact that I thought it would be too pathetic to buy one for myself. On your marks! Ready, set, go!” 

Jason snorts as the slightly warped sounds of skateboard wheels rolling over hardwood fills his headphones. 

He doesn’t know who the other kid is, or how on Earth he got ahold of the Bat-grade walkie, but he finds him hilarious. He’s been tuning into ‘the T-show’ ever since he heard his walkie randomly start chattering while checking over his equipment. They rarely use them, relying instead on comms. But Batman is a prepper through and through, so of course they have walkie-talkies. The other one seems to belong to Batman, and Jason is willing to bet that he’d dropped it somewhere while out fighting and forgot to replace it. 

Jason secretly replaced it for him. And replaced his own. And set them to a different frequency. This one, he keeps to himself, so he can listen to his daily summer-break podcast. 

Is it weird, listening in on some random kid talking to himself all day? Maybe. But Jason has burnt through too many audiobooks for him to be able to count, and this one is unpredictable. He never knows when T is going to start talking, if it’s early morning or late night. And the kid is broadcasting on a channel. Anyone… 

Well. Not anyone. Batman’s walkie-talkies are specifically made so that none other than them are able to tune in to the specific channels. But the kid probably doesn’t know that. The kid probably thinks that anyone could tune in, if he knows anything at all about two-way radios, which Jason would put good money on him doing. 

T is smart. If it wasn’t for how young he sounded, Jason would’ve thought that T was older than him. But as it stands, T is probably around eleven or ten years old. He’s also on summer break, but Jason doesn’t know from what school. He’s got a Bristol accent, but it’s slightly dimmed, as if he’s not around Bristol-y people that often. Jason pegs him as upper middle class, since his house is apparently big enough to skateboard in.

Big enough to crash in, too, if the groans and muttering coming from the walkie is anything to go by. 

Which brings Jason to another thought. 

The kid never mentions his parents, ever. In the three weeks that Jason has been listening, not once has T ever spoken about his parents. And, because of the strange times he broadcasts, because of the fact that no one ever interrupts or tells him to go to bed, Jason is starting to seriously wonder where his parents are. 

He wonders sometimes if he should investigate. It couldn’t be that hard to triangulate where the kid is broadcasting from, right? Barbara or Bruce could probably figure it out. 

But… that would mean involving them. And then Jason would have a whole lot of explaining to do. And also, this is one of the few things that he has that no one else in the whole world knows about. Not even Bruce, and Bruce knows everything. 

He’d considered telling Dick about it, but had decided against it for the same reason.

So it’s just Jason, and this random kid who was now proclaiming himself the winner of the epic one-man skateboard championships. Not that the kid knows that Jason is listening, but hey. Maybe that’s for the better. 

-

Tim is having a blast. 

No, for real. He is having the time of his life. Definitely. This is absolutely the best day of his life. He’s never felt better. Truly. This is just wonderful. Everything is so great. 

Okay, maybe he’s a filthy little liar. Maybe he’s having the shittiest day ever. Maybe his parents had promised to come home for his birthday, and maybe he’d been stupid, stupid, stupid and believed them. And maybe they’d canceled their flight home because of some ‘really great opportunity’, and maybe he’s currently sitting on his kitchen floor, trying not to cry into his birthday cake. 

But he’s having a great day! At least that’s what he’s telling himself, because it’s his birthday! Isn’t that fun? That’s supposed to be fun, right? He’s supposed to be happy, so that’s what he’s trying to be. 

He pushes down the talk-button. Listens to the kschhh that he’s come to know so well over the summer. 

“Today’s update of the T-show,” He says, ignoring the way his voice wobbles. “It’s my-” He takes a deep breath. “It’s my birthday. I’m twelve years old. Almost a teenager now. Heh.” He lets go of the button. Listens to the empty silence. The sun is setting, the light coming through the windows is painting the kitchen with glowing orange squares. He’s leaning back against the counters, bare feet cold on the tiled floor despite it being July. 

Tim’s birthday’s have always been cold, in one way or another. 

He presses down the button again. 

“My parents sent me some money, which is nice I guess.” He sniffs and spoons himself a piece of cake, but doesn’t eat it. It’s his favorite, but Tim guesses that it will just taste like ash in his mouth. It would probably feel more appetizing if he hadn’t had to buy it for himself. 

“I would- I would have preferred if they were here to deliver it in person. But I should have known they wouldn’t be. Stupid of me to think anything to the contrary, really. I’m… I’m smarter than that. I should be grateful. At least they remembered.”

He lets go of the button. Picks at his cake. He lets go of the spoon and tips his head back against the cupboards. Stares out the window. There are trees in their garden, crowns dipped in gold from the setting sun. Apple and pear. A gardener comes once a week to pick the dropped fruit off the pristine lawn. The fruit could be used for pies, strudel, any kind of dessert really. Juice. Cider. 

But there is never anyone there to watch it grow from bud to flower to fruit. To harvest the fruit. To take it and actually make something meaningful of it. Tim is the only one there, and he doesn’t even know how to make apple pie. 

He could google a recipe, but what’s the point? Who is going to eat the pie? Who is going to look at what he’s made and say ‘Wow, Tim. Great job! That looks really nice.’? 

Kschhh goes the button.

“Happy birthday to me, I guess,” He mutters. He keeps pressing the button for a little while longer, just to hear the walkie make a sound. He knows the silence after will be too much. 

But he can’t hold it forever. And there is no use turning on permanent transmit mode, because he has nothing else to say. So, he lets go, one final time.

The voice coming from his walkie-talkie makes him freeze up.

“Happy birthday, T.” 

Tim knows that voice.

-

“What?” Breathes T’s voice through the walkie, “Is there someone there?” 

Jason raises his radio. He’s sitting in his windowsill, looking out over the Wayne gardens. The sun is playing with the water in the pond, making it glitter. 

“Is there someone there over,” He says, a small grin on his face. “You need to learn proper walkie-talkie etiquette.” 

“Hey,” T says, the teary voice from before now slowly disappearing, “You’re not saying over.” 

“Not saying what? Over.” Jason holds back a laugh at the groan T lets out. 

They’re quiet for a bit, and Jason thinks through what he’s just done. 

It was a spur of the moment thing, to start talking to T. He’d been listening in since early June, not saying a word. Just listening to T ramble about everything from mundane updates about what he was doing that particular day, to deep dives into crime statistics in Gotham during non-denominational holidays.

(April Fools came in first, with International Women’s day last on the list, because apparently the rouges respected a woman’s right to have one damn day of peace. The solstices and equinoxes apparently had high numbers as well. Interesting.)

Jason has broken the illusion of secrecy that T might’ve had. He has no idea if T had thought that anyone had been actually hearing him, but now Jason had confirmed that someone did indeed listen to his little podcast. He doesn’t know if that will be the end of it. Maybe it will. Maybe T wouldn’t want to continue now that he knows that Jason is listening. Maybe he’d get embarrassed, or something. Jason would mourn the loss of his daily entertainment if that’s the case.

But, it had been worth it. Because T had sounded utterly crushed at his parents being gone. He’d sounded like the loneliest boy in the world, thinking that no one cared about him. 

Jason couldn’t just sit by and let him think that. It’s the kid’s birthday, for fuck’s sake. And apparently, the kid’s all alone in his house, celebrating with absolutely no one. 

Jason knows what that’s like. It sucks. So he’d told him happy birthday. Just to make sure that someone would. 

He’d do it again in a heartbeat. No regrets. 

“Who are you?” T asks, and Jason thinks about it. 

He can’t say his real name. He doesn’t want to get that personal. And obviously he can’t say Robin. T’s name obviously isn’t T. It might be the first letter of his name, or something. So Jason goes the same route. 

“I’m J,” He says into the radio. It’s silent for a moment, and then T speaks again.

“Like J A Y, or just the letter J?” 

“Just the letter.” Jason shifts in his position at the window. Settles deeper in the cushioned seat. It’s his favorite place in the entire manor, this window in his room. The sunset is nearly gone now, just a few tendrils of pink lingering in the sky. The shadows in the garden are turning blue. 

“I’m gonna call you Jay. Like, the name. Just calling you a letter feels weird,” T says, and Jason snorts. 

“Well, then I’m gonna call you Tee. Like, T double-E.”

“What, like a T-shirt?” Tee sounds mildly offended, but amused. 

“Yup. The T-shirt show. I’m remakin’ your brand here. A totally new and fresh vision. You should thank me.” 

Tee is silent again, for longer this time, and Jason bites his lip anxiously in wait for a reply. When it comes, it’s careful.

“You’ve been listening to me?” Tee asks, and Jason wonders how to phrase it without giving away too much. He elects to lie a little, just in case.

“Yeah. I found this walkie while I was takin’ a walk. And I could hear someone talking. So I kept it. Been listenin’ since early June. It’s real fun, I-” He pauses but doesn’t let go of the button. He furrows his brows. “I hope you don’t stop just ‘cause you know I’m listenin’ in. You sound like you’re enjoying it. I don’t wanna take that from you, or whatever.” 

He lets go, hoping he hasn’t made a fool of himself. Tee takes a while to respond this time too. But when he does, Jason breathes a quiet breath of relief.

“I’m going to keep doing it,” Tee says, voice a little dimmed, “I don’t think I can stop. It- Okay, it’s a bit stupid, but it does actually feel a little better to know that someone was actually listening to me.”

Jason doesn’t know why he says it, but the words come out anyway.

“People don’t usually listen to ya, do they?” 

He winces at his own words. It sounded a little condescending. He really didn’t mean it that way. He hopes Tee understands that.

“No,” Tee says with a bitter humor in his voice, “There’s never anyone here to hear me speak, anyway.”

“Well,” Jason says, trying for a light tone, “Now you know that I’m listenin’. I might not be able to answer all the time, but you know I’m here.”

“Yeah,” Tee says, “Thank you.”

-

Tim knows that it’s Jason. He knew it immediately, because he’s been following Batman and Robin on patrol since he was nine. He’s heard Jason speak countless times, and though the voice filter that Robin uses does a little to conceal Jason’s voice, there’s something about the dialect and melody that you can’t really filter away. 

So. Robin is listening to his little podcast. 

Tim tries not to freak out about it. He also realizes that he must be more careful of the information he gives away about himself, because Jason is technically his next door neighbor. Jason is also very smart. Too many tidbits of information and he’s going to connect the dots harder than anyone has ever connected dots before. Tim really can’t afford Robin to get involved with his situation too much. Robin would maybe call CPS if he found out about Tim’s parents never being home, and as already established, Tim doesn’t want his parents to end up in prison. He also doesn’t want to become a ward of the state. 

The less Jason knows, the better. 

But luckily for Tim, he has a million other things to talk about. And though sometimes he still sticks to the T-show radio-host shtick, he now finds himself addressing Jay more often than not. It feels good to have someone to talk to. Or, talk at. Tim usually keeps permanent transmit on, because he doesn’t want to keep pressing the button every time he wants to speak. If Jason wants to interject something, he’ll press a button that makes Tim’s radio buzz once, and Tim will turn off perm-transmit so that Jason can talk.

“-And I don’t know about you, but I thought the last few chapters were lacking in action. Nothing happened, it was just-” He laughs at the frantic buzzing from his radio. Flicks off perm-transmit.

He’s in the garden, swinging in a hammock as August nears its end. The day is sunny and the sky is bright, bright blue, so he’s sticking to the shade. Soon school will start up again, and he won’t be able to talk to Jason as often. They go to the same school, but Jason is a year above him even with the grades Tim has skipped. They won’t see each other, and Tim prefers it that way. 

No he doesn’t. He’d actually love to talk to Jason in real life. Maybe. He could always arrange an accidental meeting between the two. Say something that will make Jason recognize him. But he won’t. He’s too afraid to ruin the friendship that has been budding between them over the course of the summer. There’s not a chance in Hell that he will risk the only connection he has for some childish wish to have a real-life friend. 

No way. 

What they have is good enough. Tim gets to talk to Jason, who seems to like listening to him. They have fun conversations, they're friends. It makes his days less lonely, and he still watches Batman and Robin at night. Not as often, though. He doesn't need to, not when he's got Robin right here in his radio. Not when Robin is his friend. 

It's so surreal. It's so nice. Tim doesn't want to ruin it.

“That’s the point!” Jason practically shouts, “They’ve been through hell, gone to the wizard, found out he was already dead, and have to move onto plan B, which - by the way - sucks! They need a cooldown to gather strength! And it’s a great way to learn more about each character’s inner workings. You’re just-”

“An action junkie,” Tim fills in with a grin after cutting Jason’s signal off. “I know. But come on. It’s three chapters describing different kinds of bread and soup. Please. It’s like the beginning of Lord of the Rings. Bo-ring,” He drags out the last word and flicks off perm-transmit again. 

Jason’s ranting is almost incoherent with how quickly he’s speaking. Tim laughs to himself as he swings in the hammock.  

No. He can’t approach Jason. And it sucks that their talks will have to grow shorter during the fall, but Tim will survive. It’s for the best. 

And, besides. If Jason wanted to talk to him in real life, then surely he would have mentioned it at some point, right?

-

Jason loves school. He really does, it’s a lot of fun and he gets to crush Martin The Asshole in Debate Club on a regular basis. It’s everything a guy could dream of, really. 

But lately, he finds himself longing to go home. Because at home, stashed away safely under the floorboards in his wardrobe, wrapped in a sweater to muffle any noises, is his walkie-talkie. Him and Tee are usually home around the same time, and Jason longs for their talks. 

Because he loves school, but he doesn’t have that many friends there. 

People tend to stay away from him, because he’s the ratty street kid that Bruce Wayne took in. Or they try to get close, because he’s the ratty street kid that Bruce Wayne took in. No one seems to want to get to know him just for him.

But Tee doesn’t know who he is. Tee just wants to talk, and is happy that Jason is listening. Even happier when Jason responds. He can hear it in the other’s voice, how he perks up when Jason buzzes his radio to indicate he wants to say something. How the conversations get livelier when they’re talking. 

And they talk about anything. From helping each other with schoolwork to discussing series and books to debating the best rogue to be kidnapped by. 

As Autumn trods by like a horse on a gravel road, Jason realizes that he might only have one friend. One friend, whose name he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t mind it. It’s alright, because at the end of the day they’re still friends, whether they know each other's names or not. 

And because they’re friends, Jason feels like he owes him this, at least.

He buzzes, and Tee stops his rambling about skateboard wheels.

“Yeah?” Tee says, shutting off permanent transmit to allow Jason to talk.

Jason is quiet for a bit, trying to sort out what he’s going to say. He’s been thinking about this ever since he found out, and Tee is the only one he’s going to tell. Bruce wouldn’t let him, neither would Alfred or Dick. But Tee doesn’t know the gory details of it. He doesn’t know who Jason is. Jason can tell Tee about his plan. Partly, at least.

He finally holds down the button. He listens to the static sound it makes for a second before speaking.

“Hey, Tee. I’m- I’m gonna be away for a while, so I won’t be able to respond. Maybe for a week, at most.” Jason says. Something about the tone of his voice seems to halt Tee for a second. He hadn’t meant for it to come out so serious, but he’s been thinking about it nearly every waking second this past week. It means so much to him.

“Okay,” Tee says, sounding a little wary. “Where are you going?” 

Jason sighs before pressing the button.

“Just some family business that I need to sort out.” To put it mildly. “I’m leaving tomorrow, but I’ll be back before you know it,” He promises.

“I’m holding you to that.” Tee tries for something playful, but Jason hears the carefully concealed anxiety in his voice anyway. 

“Don’t worry,” He reassures him. “I’ve no intention of ditching you. You know I can’t live without my T-shirt show.” He teases, and it seems like it works, because Tee’s next reply is a snort.

“I can’t believe you’ve renamed my highly respected and super-serious radioshow to ‘The T-shirt show’. It sounds positively vapid.”

-

When nightfall comes, Jason tucks in the walkie-talkie under the floorboards in his wardrobe. It’s wrapped in two sweaters so no one will hear Tee if he keeps talking into his radio while Jason is gone. 

Then, he leaves Gotham. Travels to the other side of the Globe.

Just for a little bit. His mother is there, after all. He needs to see her.

-

The Joker leaves Jason bloody and bony and bruised on the floor, and his laugh echoes as the door shuts and locks with a soul-crushing finality.

He wished he’d taken his walkie with him, so he could say goodbye to Tee. He will never know what happened, why Jason just stopped answering one day. 

The timer ticks down and Jason’s breaths are shallow. He mentally pleads one last time for Bruce to come, but closes his eyes in resignation when the timer reaches ten seconds. 

If Bruce comes now, it’ll still be too late. 

He had a good run, he thinks. But he can’t even make himself accept it. He has so much more to give, so many things he wants to do, so many-

-

Two weeks later, in a cold and lonely Drake Manor, Tim reads the news in the paper. 

He picks up his walkie with shaking hands. 

Kschhh goes the button.

“Jason?” He whispers, a childish plea for it to not be true. “Jay, please- please come in.”

He lets go of the button, and the silence after tells him that he is all alone once more. 

He clutches the walkie to his chest and hopes that it’s waterproof. 

At least no one is home to hear him crying. 

But then again, no one ever is.

Chapter Text

Tim doesn’t speak a word for two months. 

It feels kind of meaningless, now that Jason is gone. There’s no one left to listen to him, no one left to talk to. His teachers leave him alone as long as he turns in his work on time and does well on his tests. Tim doesn’t even know where in the world his parents are. He’s lost track. 

The walkie-talkie sits dusty and abandoned in his windowsill. Everytime he sees it it’s like a punch in the gut. It used to bring him joy. Now it’s just a painful reminder that whatever happiness he experiences will always be temporary, and will always come at a horrible cost. 

Tim doesn’t speak for two months, and he thinks that the worst part about it is that no one even notices.

-

Batman’s gone off the rails. Tim gets it. If he hadn’t become some kind of wraith of a boy after Jason’s death, he would probably also have raged. But there is no rage in Tim’s body, just a heavy, dull sadness that washes him out and away. 

No, there is no rage, but there is something else. Something strange and twisty. 

He doesn’t know why he keeps going out to follow Batman at night. Because at this point that’s all he’s doing. There’s no use in taking photos anymore. He used to photograph Batman and Robin because they brought him joy, because they were hope and light and safety. Now, Batman is just beating people up, and it makes Tim feel that other, strange emotion. 

It’s not right. 

Batman shouldn’t be doing that. Batman needs something and Tim knows what. Batman needs Robin. But Jason is- Jason isn’t coming back. 

Batman has another son, though. 

-

Tim is in Blüdhaven and he wishes that he wasn’t. 

The city sucks. Everyone here sucks. Tim wants to go home and sleep until he feels better. Not that he thinks he will, but he’d like to give it a try. 

It’s dark and he’s shivering and rainsoaked when he finally reaches Dick Grayson’s apartment. Tim waits outside until someone exits the building, and then he slips in through the door before it closes. He lets out a quiet breath and locates Dick’s apartment using the mailboxes. 

His apartment is on the top floor, because of course it is. 

There is no elevator, because of course there isn’t.

Tim can barely keep upright anymore when he gets up there. He’s usually quite athletic, but he’s been in some sort of comatose state these past months. He’s barely been eating, hasn’t gone to his parkour or self defense classes, he’s just wasted away in his bed. Sleeping, or wishing he was sleeping. 

(Can’t be sad if you’re unconscious. Life hack.)

Vision double and hands shaky, he knocks on Dick’s door. It feels strangely like it is made of air. 

Okay. 

So, he might have missed the door. 

He tries again, and this time his knuckles actually connect with the wood. He finds that the world is swimming, and puts his hand flat on the door to steady himself. And then he keeps leaning on it, because if he doesn’t he’s going to tip over. He closes his eyes. 

The door opens, and though it isn’t with any significant force, Tim still gets pushed backwards and knocked down to the floor. A small sigh escapes him as he lays sprawled on the cold stone of the stairwell floor, gazing up at Dick Grayson’s mildly horrified face above him. 

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Are you alright, kid?” Dick asks, hurrying over, and Tim allows himself to be hoisted upright. His head starts spinning as he stands up, and he blindly reaches out for Dick’s arm to steady himself. 

“Woah, I’ve got you,” Dick says, crouching down and gripping Tim’s arms so he keeps upright. Tim looks dazedly at Dick, and just a few months ago this would be the coolest thing to ever happen to him. But right now, the only thing he’s feeling is tired and close to tears. Somewhere behind that, there is a small, wrenching piece of hope. Or is it desperation? 

“What’s your name?” Dick asks, and Tim opens his mouth to speak for the first time in two months, but he doesn’t answer Dick’s question. 

“What I’m about to tell you should not be said in a stairwell.” His voice is raspy and hoarse with disuse. The sound of his own voice is jarring and almost makes him tear up. The last person to hear it was Jason. Now, it’s Dick. 

“What do you mean? Did someone send you?” Dick’s face has taken on a new look, and though he still looks worried about Tim, there is something suspicious in his gaze now. 

“I sent myself,” Tim snaps, “Now, do you want me to spill all my knowledge in a place where your neighbors can listen in or not?” 

Tim knows he looks a right state. He looks like a starved shadow of what he used to be. His skin has always been pale, but now it’s sickly instead of containing that healthy flush it used to. He has dark smears beneath his eyes, no matter that all he ever seems to do lately is sleep. His nightly excursions have lessened lately, because it’s physically painful to see Batman without his Robin. Painful to see what Batman has become.

But despite Tim’s haggard appearance, or perhaps because of it, Dick rises and leads him into his apartment. 

The moment the door closes, Dick’s eyebrows furrow. 

“Okay, spill all your knowledge, then. Or, actually,” His eyebrows furrow even more, “Do you want something to eat first? You look dead on your feet. When was the last time you-” 

“Nightwing,” Tim says, to shut up Dick’s rambling about his well being, or whatever it was that he was chattering about. “You’re Nightwing, Bruce Wayne is Batman. J- Jason Todd was Robin.” 

Dick’s laughter is almost good enough to fool Tim. 

“That’s a good one, kiddo. Seriously. Such a fun theory.” His smile is amused and playful. Like Tim is cute, or something. 

Tim decides to show Dick just exactly how not-cute he is. 

“Yeah,” Tim says, the tiredness in his voice only slightly dampening the biting sarcasm, “It’s so funny how you’re the only person in America that can do a quadruple somersault, and it’s just hysteric how I’ve got Nightwing doing that exact trick on fucking video.” 

Dick’s smile pales a little. 

“And,” Tim goes on, “Isn’t it just hilarious how Bruce Wayne is never reachable or in the country whenever a disaster strikes that requires Batman? Or how every billionaire or multimillionaire in Gotham averages around 3 kidnappings a year, but Bruce Wayne has never been kidnapped even once?” He levels Dick, now unsmiling, with a decidedly unamused look. “So funny, right?”

“Look, kid,” Dick begins, but Tim cuts him off.

“No. You look. I’m not gonna use this against you. You do too much good. This is not a threat. No one but me knows, okay?” He raises an eyebrow to make sure that Dick is listening. Dick nods, and Tim continues, having to reach out to support himself against the wall. All this talking is making him lightheaded. “But I can assure you that I possess the ability to make your life absolutely miserable unless you do something about your dad.” The threat kind of falls flat, because Tim looks a bit like he is also going to fall flat on his face unless he keeps supporting himself on the wall.

“My dad?” Dick asks, “What do you-”

“He’s out of control. That’s what I mean. You know he is. Go back. Help him. I don’t care. Just fix it.” 

Dick’s gaze hardens, and Tim wonders if he’s pushed some button that he didn’t know existed. 

“Who do you think you-”

“Are you going to fix it or not?” Tim stares unimpressed at Dick, whose face is currently circling through about fifteen different emotions. “Because if you’re not, then I’m leaving. This city is the worst and I want to go home and sleep.” 

“Where do you live?” Dick asks, and it’s so unexpected that Tim answers honestly.

“I’m your neighbor. In Gotham.” 

Something flashes across Dick’s face. Recognition? Tim’s not sure, his vision has become a bit unfocused.

“You're the Drakes’ kid, right?” 

“Ding ding ding,” Tim mumbles, closing his eyes for a second. Or four. Or a bit longer than that, actually. It’s just that the world is spinning again, and he doesn’t actually know when he last ate something, and overall he’s just not feeling all that great, to be honest.

“Hey, you’re not looking too well.” Dick’s voice is closer than it was before, and much softer, “Do you want to sit down a bit? Eat something? I don’t have much at home but I’m sure we can-”

“You have a week,” Tim says weakly, forcing his eyes open and willing them into focus. Dick is crouched in front of him again, eyebrows upturned in concern. It’s not like Tim is a child. He’s twelve years old, and tall enough that Dick has to look up at him when he crouches. Just a little, though. Tim has admittedly not inherited his mother’s height. Perhaps he will later on. 

Dick is hovering a hand close to Tim’s arm, as if he’s waiting for Tim to topple over. Tim forces himself to refocus on what he was saying. 

“You have a week,” He repeats, more forcefully this time. “And if you haven’t sorted your dad out by then, or at least started attempting to, I’m going to do it myself.”

“And how, exactly, are you going to do that?” Dick asks gently, and Tim wrinkles his nose, mutters something along the lines of I have my ways, which he absolutely does not, and then he turns and leaves Dick’s apartment before the man can even blink. 

He hears Dick calling after him when he trods down the many stairs to the bottom floor. But he doesn’t know Tim’s name, and Tim doesn’t answer to buddy. 

Maybe if Jason had said it, Tim would’ve answered.

But Jason isn’t here. 

-

Tim is curled up in his room, sitting in a corner and watching the night winds whip around the branches in the fruit trees outside. It looks almost like a dance, but not one that Tim likes very much. Still, there is something calming about the way the crowns of the trees are swaying wildly. 

He’s tired down to his bones after this night. He wants to sleep. He should, he has school tomorrow after all, and it is frighteningly late. The day was shitty and awful and no good at all. 

But it had not been as lonely as it usually was. 

It’s all he can think about. He replays the meeting with Dick in his head over and over. Enough times until he has it memorized, every word, every facial expression. And it hadn’t been a super friendly conversation. Tim certainly hadn’t had the energy to make himself out to be some sort of friendly presence. More like a ghoul. Ghost of Christmas Get Your Shit Together. 

But he’d spoken. To another person. To Jason’s brother. 

Which is why he’s holding the walkie-talkie again. 

He presses the button with unsure fingers, and lets go as soon as he hears the kschhh.

He presses it down again. And this time he doesn’t let go. 

“Hi, Jay,” He whispers, feeling stupid and dumb and childish when he lets go of the button. Because no one is going to answer. Because Jay is Jason is dead. 

Kschhh goes the button. Tim swallows thickly.

“I spoke to your brother today,” He says into the radio. There’s no response this time either. 

“Your family,” He begins, voice halting. Is he really doing this? Is he really radioing a dead boy? He doesn’t even know where Jason’s walkie is. If it’s hidden somewhere or if it’s broken, gone alongside its owner. “They- they really miss you. Your dad especially. But I spoke to Dick. And he didn’t look too good either.” 

It’s easier now. His words are low and a bit stilted, but this old routine is like riding a bicycle. 

“I really…” he tilts his head back until it hits the wall. Squeezes his eyes shut and ignores the tears that spill out. “I miss you too, you know? I wish you’d come back.” 

He lets go of the button. 

The radio stays silent.

-

The week that Tim gave Dick is up, and there is no change in Batman’s behavior. 

Tim has been out every night, inspecting and observing. But nothing has changed. If anything, Batman is slowly becoming worse. 

There are also no sightings of Nightwing in Gotham City. Nor of Dick Grayson. 

Tim hacks into his accounts just to confirm, and Dick hasn’t bought any bus tickets. He hasn’t bought gas for his car. Just groceries, the amount of which indicates that Dick has absolutely no plans on leaving Blüdhaven for the foreseeable future. 

Well. Tim did say that he was going to do something about Batman if Dick didn’t. 

“I’m going to do something bad, I think,” He says into the radio as he stares out his window that night. “I don’t know if you’d like it very much. I hope you won’t be too mad. But I have to, because otherwise I think your dad is-” He falters. He doesn’t want Jason to get too worried. 

Not that he can hear Tim. But still. 

“I think it might help your dad, what I’m about to do. And I hope that that’s enough for you to understand why I’m doing it.”

The radio, of course, is silent. 

Kschhh.

“I’m so sorry, Jay,” He whispers, “It’s not right, but someone has to do it. And Dick isn’t going to, and then there’s only me left that knows your identities and-” He takes a sharp breath. “And I have to. Because Batman needs a Robin.”

-

Being Robin is not as fun as it looked from afar. 

Actually, scratch that. Being Robin is amazing. Not that Tim has gone out in the field yet, Bruce is still training him. But Robin is fun. Tim enjoys learning, he always has. 

But being around Bruce Wayne is not as fun. 

Tim doesn’t blame him. Of course he doesn’t. Bruce Wayne’s son died not too long ago. That does strange things to a man. Tim’s only friend died not too long ago. That does strange things to a boy. So they’re both grief-stricken people, but only Tim knows that they are both in mourning. He thinks that Bruce might just assume that Tim is simply a tad bit peculiar. And besides, Tim can see that once Bruce wrapped his head around the idea that Tim actually wasn’t going anywhere, and that if Bruce didn’t train him, Tim would probably last four seconds in the field, the man actually did start to make an effort. 

They don’t talk much. Bruce gives orders, tells him what to do or what he’s doing wrong when they practice. Chides and corrects and most often he just makes some sort of grunting sound that Tim is still working on deciphering. 

So, sure. They say things to each other. But they don’t talk. 

That’s what Tim’s radio is for. 

Because after a long night of practice and training, when he brings his weary bones back to the ever empty Drake Manor, there’s someone waiting for him. 

Or, the idea of someone, at least. 

Someone that Tim knows, if he could hear Tim speak, wouldn’t judge. Wouldn’t be mean or curt or dismissive. Jason most definitely wouldn’t grunt at him. 

(Tim still doesn’t know if the grunts are positive or negative in meaning. Some of them seem to be different. Perhaps it’s some sort of code?)

Jason let him talk about anything. Didn’t care how much Tim went on and on about the same subject. And he talked back. Asked questions, told stories of his own, went on long rants about books and movies and anything else below the sun. 

He might not be here now, but Tim still has his radio. And that’s enough to keep him above the surface. He’s still nearly drowning in misery. Still can’t move from bed certain days. But at least the radio offers him a fighting chance. Gives him something to look forward to. 

He might have lost Jason forever, but he has a piece of him left. 

-

The first time that Tim goes out as Robin is pretty uneventful. 

It’s exhilarating nonetheless, and he tells Jason all about it. 

He imagines Jason being a little gruff about the fact that Tim took his mantle, but maybe he can understand why he did it. Tim hopes that Jason understands. 

Jason was reasonable. He’d understand that Tim is doing it for Jason’s family, and for Gotham. Not for himself. 

-

The night of Tim’s second Robin-appearance, Dick is in the Batcave waiting for them when they get back. 

Tim sees him standing there, in costume and with his arms crossed. And Tim sees Bruce tense up behind the wheel. 

Things aren’t too good between those two. So Tim walks right out of the Batmobile and tears off his mask, heading straight for Dick. 

Dick looks shocked.

“You-?”

“I gave you a week. You didn’t come,” Tim says, quiet and as non-threatening as he can be. “I told you I’d take it upon myself. And I did.”

Dick looks at Bruce.

“You replaced him? Just like that?” 

There is a world of emotions behind his words. Hurt and anger and horrible horrible feelings that are sure to be the start of a long and painful argument, so Tim speaks again.

“He did not,” He says sharply, because if Jason was here listening, he’d be devastated at those words. And besides, it’s simply not true. “I did this. I came here and I forced him to train me.”

Dick looks at him with one raised eyebrow.

“And Batman fell to the whims of a ten year old?” 

“He’s done it before, hasn’t he?” Tim shoots back, raising an eyebrow of his own and giving Dick a once over. “And I’m twelve.”

“I don’t like it,” Dick says, not looking at Tim anymore, but the words sting and Batman is still quiet so Tim takes it upon himself to speak once again. It hurts a little that Bruce apparently isn’t going to come to his defense, but Tim hadn’t really expected him to. 

“You don’t have to like it. But someone had to make sure he didn’t start killing people.” 

He knows the words are harsh. But they’re the truth. He sees Dick’s face fall, just for a fraction of a second. He doesn’t look at Bruce to see how he reacts. He just keeps going.

“You weren’t going to. I asked you to come back and you didn’t. There was only me left. I’m not replacing anyone. I don’t want to replace anyone. I just don’t want people to start being afraid of Batman.” 

There’s not much else said. Not that Tim hears, at least. He heads towards the locker room and the showers and then he leaves. Let Dick and Bruce scream at each other for all he cares. 

He has other things to do. 

As soon as he enters his room he grabs the walkie-talkie and thumps down on his bed. 

“I think your brother hates me.”

-

And just like that, before Tim knows it, a year has passed. 

He’s been Robin for a year. 

His parents were home for exactly four consecutive days that year, and they didn’t notice anything amiss. Neither did they notice anything on the stray days that they went to Gotham to repack, refresh, and hop on a new flight a few hours later. 

Tim spoke fifteen sentences to them. He received answers to nine. A staggering number, all things considered. 

Tim has been Robin for a year when Dick approaches him. 

He’s in the locker room, getting dressed in civvies to go home. The night was slow and pretty boring. It’s the week after Halloween, after all. The rogues are probably all worn out, if they’re not in Arkham. 

“Hey, Tim,” Dick says, and Tim startles a little and turns around, sweater still over his face. 

He drags it down and into place and stares at Dick. He’s leaning against a locker with his arms crossed, looking carefree for all the world except for Tim, who sees the tense line of his shoulders and the way he keeps rubbing the fabric of his hoodie’s sleeve between his fingers. 

He didn’t know that Dick would be here. He probably would have changed quicker if he’d known. He could have skipped the shower and taken one at home instead.

“Hello, Dick,” Tim offers, and sits down on a bench to pull on his socks. 

They haven’t spoken much since Tim became Robin. Nightwing has been in Gotham a few times when situations became a little too dire and Batman needed someone with more expertise and experience than Tim could offer. But then any conversations have been totally focused on the mission.

“You, uh… You heading home?” Dick asks, and Tim gives an affirmative hum as he ties his shoes. 

“Alfred has cooked. Think it’s some kind of fish-situation, though. You wouldn’t…” Tim looks up at Dick’s words. The man is now scratching the back of his neck, looking abashed and uncomfortable. “You wouldn’t wanna grab a bite with me?” Dick finishes, and meets Tim’s eyes.

Tim keeps his face carefully neutral. He’s tired. He wants to go home. 

But Dick Grayson is asking if Tim wants to eat with him. 

“A bite of the fish-situation?” He asks, and Dick is startled into a laugh. 

“No, no. At a diner, or something. I mean, we both know how good Alfred’s cooking is, but-”

“I don’t.” Tim finishes tying his other shoe and stands to grab his jacket from his locker. “I’ve never tasted it.” 

“What?” Dick sounds baffled. Tim looks at him with a raised eyebrow. 

“What diner were you thinking?” He asks instead of giving Dick the explanation he so obviously wants. Tim doesn’t think that there is much to explain. He’d been pretty clear. 

“I- uh,” Dick pulls himself together, “I was thinking Lizzie’s, if that works for you?” 

They take Dick’s car to Lizzie’s Diner. And Tim thinks he’s going to die from the awkwardness at first. But it lets up fast, and Tim finds Dick almost as easy to talk to as Jason. 

It’s still not quite the same, of course. They’re different people. 

But Dick can answer Tim when he asks him something. 

That doesn’t stop Tim from telling Jason all about his day when he finally gets home, though. It wouldn’t be right otherwise.

Chapter Text

It’s year two of Robin. He is over 14 years old now, and he and Dick are friends. 

And Bruce, after Tim’s first dinner with Dick, has taken to inviting him to the Manor. 

Like. All the time. Tim suspects that Dick has something to do with that. 

It’s… Pleasant. Fun, sometimes. Bruce and Tim aren’t exactly best friends, but Tim can see that he tries. Sometimes it’s stilted and awkward, but if Dick is there the tension goes down to a low hum and gets drowned out by a casual air. Like Tim hanging out after patrol, on weekends for brunch, and staying for the occasional dinner is the most normal thing in the world. Like he’s supposed to be there.

It was never the plan to become nestled in with the Wayne family. Tim was just supposed to be Robin. Something steady and solid and helpful, there when needed and invisible when not. But now he’s started to be just Tim around Dick and Bruce. Dick even invites him out to eat at Lizzie’s when Alfred’s cooking is what Alfred calls ‘a healthy balanced diet’, but what Dick calls ‘steamed green sadness with mush.’

Tim isn’t lonely. It’s weird. 

The only times Tim hasn’t been lonely has been when he talked to Jason. And now, Jason’s family is welcoming him with open arms. 

Well, Dick and Alfred are. Bruce’s arms are more of a hesitant one-armed pat on the back. But he tries. He really does. Tim has even made him laugh a few times. 

He tells Jason all about it, of course. 

He’s taken to wearing the walkie on his belt when he goes out as Robin. Because while Robin and Batman are a team, Bruce has started trusting him to stray. Tim is allowed to patrol on his own. Not a lot, and not all of the time, and he has to stay somewhat close to Bruce at all times in case something happens. But in the dark Gotham night, when Batman is a few blocks away and the streets are still and quiet, Tim talks to Jason. 

“You should have seen that guy’s face,” Tim hums into the night air, radio securely fastened to his belt, picking up every word over the peaceful gusts of winds. His legs are dangling over the edge of a roof. The sun is almost rising. “He didn’t know what hit him, his eyes were basically bulging out of his head.” Tim snorts. Can almost hear Jason’s wry reply if he closes his eyes. 

Almost. 

It’s been so long. The hurt lessens with every day that passes, but it comes back tenfold every time that the walkie stays silent. Every time that Tim pauses out of habit to allow Jason to speak. 

Sometimes Tim thinks he can feel it vibrate. And he flicks off perm-transmit just to turn it back on when the only reply he gets is heavy silence. 

Tim doesn’t know if he remembers Jason’s voice anymore, or if his brain just fills it in with some kind of imitation. He doesn’t want to forget. He’s sure that Dick or Bruce or Alfred has some type of video of him somewhere. Sure that Jason’s voice is saved somewhere on the Batcomputer. What he wouldn’t give to hear it again, even if it was just from old cowl-footage. But it’s not like he can ask for it, and it’s not like he’d have a good explanation for it if he got caught snooping after it. 

It’s not like he can tell them that he knew Jason. It would be too weird.  

“Robin,” comes Batman’s staticy voice over comms. “We’re going home. Reconvene at the Batmobile.” 

Tim rises and engages his comm.

“Be there in five.”

He flicks off the comm and sighs into the night. Dawn. Whatever it might be.

“Gotta go, Jay,” He mumbles. “I’ll talk to you when I get home.”

-

On the other side of town, far up in Bristol, someone has broken into a dead boy’s room. A loose floorboard is lifted up without making a sound. 

In and out, quick and silent as death itself.

Well. Not his death. That was a pretty loud affair.

-

When Tim gets to the Cave that night, Bruce invites him up to the Manor for a late dinner (breakfast?). But Tim declines. He’s tired and wants nothing more than to eat a cup of noodles by his desk, watching old episodes of X-files.

He exits Wayne Manor, and brings out his walkie. 

“Hi again,” He says, relishing the way that the road up to his house always stays empty. It’s the last house on the road, so no one goes up there unless they’re heading to Drake Manor, which no one ever is. He can speak as loudly as he wants to without being looked at like a weirdo. Especially now that he doesn’t even have his headphones with him.

Not that he’d need them. It’s not like he’s expecting a response. But when he’s running the risk of being seen, a pair of headphones just makes it look like he’s on a call with someone.

“Sorry about having to cut it short earlier. You know how it is.” He quiets and keeps walking. The morning is misty and golden now, and he pauses for a while to look out over the rolling fields and hills. In the distance he sees the crowns of the apple trees in his garden, painted gold like that first day he heard from Jason.

“I wonder what you’d say if you were here. You know. About everything.” His words are merely a mumble, and for a moment he feels lost in swirling grief again. 

And then, so briefly that he barely notices it, the radio buzzes. 

Just once, so, so, so quickly. But it was there. 

Right? 

Tim’s breath catches in his throat. 

“Jay?” He asks, voice barely there. “Jay, was that you?” 

He feels insane for asking, and even more insane when he doesn’t get an answer.

Jason is dead, he must have imagined it. Of course it wouldn’t-

Wait! Permanent transmit is still on. A last shred of hope, and Tim clings to it like a water-bottle in the desert.

He flicks perm-transmit off.

Kschhh goes the button. 

“Jay?” He whispers, nearly in tears as he lets go. 

But the radio stays silent. 

Of course it does. 

It always does. 

Tim is quiet the rest of the way home. Embarrassed and hunched in on himself, trying not to think about his own stupidity.

-

Somewhere in Crime Alley, a hand trembles as it clenches an old walkie-talkie.

-

Another year, and Tim wonders if talking to Jason is unhealthy. 

Is it something that well-adjusted, sane-minded people do? Talk to dead boys via walkie-talkie? 

He only lets himself dwell for a moment. 

After all, he can’t not talk to Jason. Sure, talking to him does make Tim feel a little miserable at times. It does remind him of Jason being dead. Of how lonely he was, and how his only friend at the time had been ripped away from him. 

But not talking to him would just make him feel worse. This is… Self care. Yup. A habit to make sure he doesn’t go insane and turn into a puddle of misery again. 

“There’s a new rouge, apparently,” He says while his lunch is cooling down. It’s an attempt at lasagna. Heavy on the attempt, light on the lasagna. 

He pokes it with a fork and it wiggles. Like jelly. Lasagna is probably not meant to wiggle. 

“Should lasagna wiggle?” He asks Jason absently, just to make sure. 

No, ya nitwit. ‘Course it shouldn’t! He can almost hear Jason’s reply, laughter in his voice. 

Jason obviously doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything, ever. Because he’s dead. But Tim likes to imagine that’s what he would have said.

“No, I didn’t think so. Maybe I should scrap this and do instant ramen again? Anyway,” He dumps the not-lasagna into the trash and brings out his kettle. “New rogue. The Red Hood, or something. Everyone’s all waah don’t go to Crime Alley, T! Which, like. I wasn’t going to, but now I kind of want to, you know? Just because I shouldn’t.” 

He pours boiling water over his noodles and adds the spices. He flips the block of noodles over in the steamy bowl to ensure it all gets soaked, and carries the hot bowl with the tips of his fingers over to the table and takes a seat.

“I don’t know. I think I’d be safe, though. He’s got this thing, right. Like a whole code.” Tim makes his voice gruff and deep, “No hurtin’ kids on my turf.” 

He snorts and stirs his ramen. 

“I think I still classify as a kid. I mean, not that I’m a child. I can take care of myself fine enough. But, legally, you know?” 

The noodles are still a little crunchy and not nearly cool enough for Tim to eat yet, and as he chews he has to drag air into his mouth in short little gasps to avoid getting scalded. He coughs once and breathes deeply.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Death by noodle. Hm, good name for a band.” He stirs some more, watching the yellow chicken spice first cloud the water and then sink down to the bottom of the bowl again. “I think you’d like him, actually. He’s kind of a murder-machine, but he’s actually doing some good. He’s cleaning up the Alley. He’s taken over most of the drug-trade, and from what I’ve heard, he’s actually managing it pretty well. No selling to kids or people in risk of overdosing, stuff like that. It’s… I don’t know. An act of kindness, I guess. With a side of severed heads. But hey,” Tim huffs, “You win some, you lose some.” 

-

Titan’s Tower is empty and silent. Dark and cold. 

The Titans have been one of the best things to ever happen to Tim. People his age, who understand his life, who he can have fun with and be Robin with. 

They don’t know about Jason, of course. 

They know of him, but the only time that Bart brought it up, Tim had said that he didn’t know too much about it. Something in his voice had obviously made it clear that he didn’t want to talk about it, and it was never brought up again. 

But being around the Titans is fun, except that he can’t speak to Jason. 

He has a room at the Tower, and when he stays there it’s impossible to talk to Jason. Kon’s super hearing makes sure of that. It makes him a little restless, but he endures it.

But this time, he’s alone at the Tower, and his radio is hanging from his belt like it usually does. Perm-transmit is off, and all is silent.

He’s not talking, however. He’s been talking to Jason all day, and now he’s making himself a cup of tea with honey to try to avoid losing his voice. The Tower is dark and a little cold and very empty, but Tim is content and calm. A little sleepy and a little worn out, but content and calm all the same.

At least he is, until he hears the unmistakably loud groan of the emergency metal shutters closing over the windows. 

They… Should not be doing that. 

No alarms have sounded, no lights are blinking, there is absolutely nothing that indicates an emergency. Tim sets his cup down and starts heading to check out the computer systems to look for a glitch. Not that there should be one, since he himself helped improve the new system. 

But when he gets there, nothing is wrong. It just looks as if the emergency shutters have been manually closed. Which they definitely haven’t, because the only reason for them to be manually shut is if the other defense systems are down and they are in a tight situation. It’s a last line of defense to keep enemies out.

He tries to disable them, only to find that he can’t. 

Which is ridiculous. 

“C’mon, you stupid, idiot machine. I made you,” He mutters, fingers dancing over the keyboard, “I’m going to permanently disable you unless you behave,” He threatens, to no apparent avail, since the screen is still blasting a message telling him just how unsuccessful his attempts are. 

In fact, Tim is unsuccessful at everything right now. Nothing is working. The Tower has completely shut down everything and brought up its walls. No one can get in.

Tim freezes. 

Far above, echoing down the stairwell, comes a low, whistling tune. Jaunty and lilting. None of the messages he sent the other Titans are sending. Nor are the ones he sent to Dick and Bruce.

No one gets in. 

And no one gets out.

This is starting to feel less like a defense system malfunction, and more like a cage.

One which Tim can’t get out of. 

After all, he helped design this. He knows firsthand how rock-solid the security is. None of his override-commands are working, they must have been disabled. 

Alright, Tim swallows. Assess the situation. What’s going on?

One: Someone has locked Tim in the Tower.

Two: That someone is currently upstairs, whistling a taunting melody. Almost daring him to approach.

Who has it out for Tim?

No, scratch that. Who has it out for Robin? 

Fuck, dude. Everyone has it out for Robin. This is ridiculous. Tim huffs in annoyance and looks around for a weapon. 

Fine, they wanna come to Titans Tower and pick a fight with Robin? Sure, let them. Tim’ll show them just how stupid of an idea that is. 

He grabs a domino and a collapsed bo-staff from the emergency stash in the floor, and clutches the staff with determination as he starts making his way up the stairs. The whistling continues getting louder the closer Tim comes, and he recognizes it as Bye Bye Birdie. 

Well, that doesn’t exactly make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. 

He makes sure his steps are silent and slow, evens out his breathing and rolls his shoulders. One more landing, and he should be at the right floor. He realizes that it’s the one with the kitchen, and wonders if the person in the Tower was already on that floor when Tim went down to the computer room. The thought makes his blood feel like ice, but he prevails. On, on upwards he goes, as slowly and quietly as he can.

When Tim finally reaches his destination, it’s empty. Save for a small device on the floor that is playing the whistling musical tune. A small speaker, by the looks of it.

The kitchen looks normal. His cup of tea is still there, probably cold and oversteeped by now. Nothing seems out of place, except for the sound-device, at least not that he can see from the doorway. 

No one is there, so Tim approaches the little speaker and shuts it off.

Oh, how stupid he can be sometimes.

His finger has barely left the off-button before he flies forward, launched across the room by the unmistakable force of a heavy boot on his back. 

He rolls and flies upright and into a defensive crouch, bo-staff now unfolded to its full length. 

It’s… 

It’s the Red Hood? 

Tim hasn’t seen him in person before. He’s seen security footage, casefiles. But he’s never actually been face-to-face with the rogue, probably because he operates out of Crime Alley, where Tim doesn’t go. 

He’s never been face-to-face with the Red Hood, so he didn’t really know how fucking massive the man actually is. But he feels supremely small and weak compared to the mountain of muscle in front of him.

The mountain of muscle, who is now casually inspecting the bottom of his combat boot as if he’d stepped in something gross. 

Tim feels a little offended. That is, until the gleaming white slits of the helmet turn to him. Then, he starts to feel a little afraid.

“What do you want?” He spits, lowering his voice into a growl, and receives a head tilt in response.

“That’s no way to talk to your elders, now is it?” Comes the metallic reply. 

The conversation ends there, because before Tim can even react, there’s a bullet in his leg. 

His leg nearly gives out from under him, but he forces himself to stay upright. Because Hood still has his finger on the trigger, and Tim would bet great money that he’s smiling like a maniac beneath that dumb helmet. 

“Not much for small talk, huh?” He mutters as he dives beneath the kitchen counter. 

Tim admits to himself that this isn’t actually a very good situation. Like, at all. In any way, shape, or form. 

His leg is throbbing, sluggish blood leaking out from his wound, staining his pants at an alarming rate. That’s fine. This is fine. 

“What do you want?” He shouts as heavy footfalls come his way. He gets in a good thwap on Hood’s knees before having to duck and scramble to avoid getting pistol whipped. The man barely seems to flinch, and Tim curses the inventor of body armor. Mostly because he himself isn’t wearing any at the moment. 

He doesn’t have anything, save his bo-staff and his domino, because things like this aren’t supposed to happen. No one should be able to get in without proper codes. No one is supposed to be able to surprise him like this. This is not supposed to happen.

What is he going to do?

“To teach a bird a lesson,” Red Hood replies easily, stalking towards Tim with brutal steps, twirling a baton. “Didn’t your mommy tell ya not to take what ain’t yours?” 

Tim starts sprinting away, but is caught by the hood of his sweatshirt and hears a horrendous crack as Hood’s baton comes down on his arm. He gets thrown to the floor like a ragdoll, and that’s one leg and one arm down.

Tim has won fights in worse condition, but he’s usually had backup. Now, the only thing he can do is back the fuck up. Which is exactly what he does. He’s dragging himself away from Red Hood as fast as he can, and to be perfectly honest, he’s kind of losing his cool here. 

“Your mommy obviously didn’t tell you to not pick fights.” He gasps when Hood grabs ahold of his foot and yanks him over the floor, delivering a kick to his stomach hard enough to make Tim curl in on himself in the process. He grabs Tim’s staff and breaks it in two, throwing the pieces far, far away from Tim’s desperate hands.

“Nah,” Hood’s voice sounds horrible and awful and full of glee through his voice modulator. “She told me to punch, and to punch hard.” 

Evidently, so she did. Because Tim’s not sure if his cheek is still attached to his face after Hood’s fist comes down. 

He’s crouched next to him, pulling Tim up by his shirt. And Tim is trying. He is, but he can’t stop the next punch. It makes his teeth rattle and his lip split. 

Hood rises and laughs, leaving Tim on the floor with a spinning head and wondering why he thought it was a good idea to leave Gotham. At least in Gotham, he has Bruce and Dick. Here, he is completely alone. 

Like always, his mind supplies unhelpfully. And it’s not even that true. Not anymore. But the thought still leaves a bitter aftertaste.

“What did I take, then?” He wheezes, and apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because Hood kicks him again. This time with enough force to make him slide into the kitchen island. His back bangs into the corner of it, and Tim doesn’t know if his stomach or back hurts more. 

Scratch that. Definitely the stomach. He can’t breathe.

“Not only a thief, but a stupid one at that,” Hood muses, foot coming down on Tim’s hand, and Tim wants to scream. 

He crawls away, but doesn’t get far. Of course he doesn’t. Why would anything work out in his favor? It’s not like it ever has before. 

Hood shoots him again. Two bullet wounds in one day, it must be Tim’s birthday. Why else would he be having such a miserable time? 

It’s the shoulder this time, and Tim prays that nothing important got irreversibly destroyed. He needs that shoulder. 

Hard to need anything when you’re dead, though. Hood’s got Tim pinned to the floor, knife to his throat.  

“You know,” Hood says, lightly draggin the knife across Tim’s skin. Not hard enough to draw blood, more like he’s tracing where to cut. “I planned on draggin’ this out. Really take my time, get you beggin’ for your life, all that crap.” 

Tim wants to cry. He might actually already be crying, he’s not sure. He wants to yell for Bruce, for Dick, but what good would that do? He resorts to using his good arm to try to pry the knife out of Hood’s hands. It doesn’t go very well. Hood pins the arm to Tim’s side with his knee.

“I was even planning on sparin’ ya,” And there is nothing nice in that voice. “Just give you a proper scare, and make a dramatic exit.” He leans in and puts a hand by his mouth as if he’s telling Tim a secret. “I love me a dramatic exit. But this is just pathetic. Came here expecting a fight, and what do I get? Jack shit.” Hood scoffs. 

“You don’t hurt-” Tim chokes, because he’s sensing where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. “You don’t hurt kids.” 

“I can make an exception.” Hood says easily, and adjusts the knife by Tim’s throat.

“Got any last words?” He asks, joyful and taunting, and Tim closes his eyes.

Is this really how he’s dying? He’s barely had time to process the fight, if you could even call it that. It felt more like a beatdown. This has all happened too quickly. Tim hasn’t even gotten to talk to Jason again. 

And… Fuck. He can’t reach Bruce. He can’t reach Dick, or Alfred, or any of the Titans. But he’s got his radio right here. It’s still on his belt. Hopefully intact.

“Yeah,” He gasps, “I do, but I need my right hand.”

“Aw,” Hood tuts, “Gonna text your girlfriend one last time? By all means.” He gestures with his hand and loosens the leg pinning Tim’s arm to his side.

Tim fumbles until he can reach the radio.

Kschhh goes the button.

Tim closes his eyes and feels the burning shame of saying this infront of his enemy. But he has to say it. Because Jason never got to say goodbye to him, and he refuses to let the same thing happen again.

“Hey, Jay. This is Tee speaking, this will be the- the last installment of the T-shirt show, I’m afraid. I miss you. It- It’s been nice talking to you. I’m sorry I have to go.” He sobs, and he feels right pathetic, but he has to. “Goodbye, Jason. See you on the other side.” 

He lets go. It feels like defeat, because that’s exactly what it is. At least he got to say goodbye.

He braces for the pain of getting his throat slit. 

But it doesn’t come. The knife is gone.

And Red Hood has gone eerily still on top of him. 

Tim opens his eyes.

“What,” Hood stares down at him, expressionless helmet giving nothing away, “Did you say?” 

“Nothing,” Tim breathes. Any second now it’ll all be over.

“No. No, what did you just say?” And Hood… 

Hood shuffles off of him. And then he keeps backing up. Tim doesn’t get it. 

Hood’s gaze has locked onto Tim’s hand, clutching his radio. Tim doesn’t get why Hood is seemingly shocked by a walkie-talkie. Pretty lousy crime-lord if he’s never seen a two-way radio before. 

But then - and Tim thinks that he must be hallucinating - because then Hood’s hand travels down to his own tool-belt, and out of a buttery leather case comes a radio. 

Identical to Tim’s.

Hood flips a dial on it, and stares at Tim.

Kschhh goes the button.

And kschhh goes Tim’s radio.

“Tee?” Hood says into his own radio, and just a second later, a bit quieter, out of Tim’s radio comes..

“Tee?”

Tim feels like he’s falling.

“That’s not-” He mumbles, and Hood slowly shakes his head. He pulls off his helmet, and beneath it is a face that Tim can’t help but recognize. 

It’s older and sharper, a white streak is spreading through the dark locks on his forehead, and even though the domino is red instead of black, Tim would know that face anywhere.

“Tee,” Hood says, and the voice is no longer distorted and metallic, but low, rough and familiar. It’s deeper, but it’s definitely the one that Tim spent hours talking to. Hours imagining. Hours spent longing to hear again.

“Tee,” He says again, full of disbelief and horror, “As is T as in Timothy Drake.” 

“Jay?” Tim says, and his voice sounds faint and far away. “Is it… Is it really you?” 

Because it can’t be. Because Jay is Jason is fucking dead. Tim knows this. And yet here they are, and the Red Hood looks like him, sounds like him, and most importantly, has his fucking radio.

“I-”

“When was the first time we talked?” Tim asks, trying to sound like he’s leading an interrogation, when in reality he feels as if his world has exploded. 

“Your birthday,” Red Hood says, sounding no better than Tim, “July nineteenth.” 

“What did I set the unofficial world record for earlier that summer?” 

“Most hallways skated through in two minutes,” Hood- No. Jason says with a scratchy voice, and Tim’s head drops to the floor. 

He’s bleeding out on a floor. He’s bleeding out on a floor, and was nearly murdered. Nearly murdered by his dead childhood friend who he’s been talking to for years. 

This can’t be real.

“This isn’t happening,” Tim mumbles, staring at the ceiling and barely feeling the pain anymore. “I’ve lost it. I’m dead already. This isn’t- I can’t- I can’t.” His voice breaks, and he’s not lying. He can’t do this. He can not for the life of him do this. 

He closes his eyes, and lets go. Lets the dark edges of his vision take over until he’s out. 

Can’t deal with life changing news if you’re unconscious. Life hack.

-

“I wasn’t actually going to kill you!” Is the first thing that Tim hears when he wakes up. 

He cracks his eyes open, and sure enough, there he is.

Jason Todd. Definitely not dead. Very alive. 

Unless this is a hallucination.

But he doesn’t think it is, because Jason is clutching Tim’s hand like his life depends on it, and Tim can definitely feel it. 

Jason is looking like shit. 

“You were gonna slit my throat,” Tim wheezes. His voice sounds like someone is dragging sandpaper over a chalkboard, and he winces at the sound. 

Jason holds out a glass with a straw, and Tim gratefully takes a few sips. 

“I wasn’t,” Jason says, and oh God. 

It really is him. 

Older and bigger and not at all like the Robin that Tim remembers and apparently a crime lord that tried to kill him. But it’s him. It’s really him. 

“I really, really wasn’t. I just wanted to scare you real bad but leave you alive. What use is sending a message to a dead body?” He sounds drowned in guilt and miserable, but Tim can’t help but to smile. His lip stings, and he remembers that it’s split. 

He takes in his surroundings, takes in the state of himself. 

He’s in the guestroom he usually stays in at the Manor. The one he’s slowly and tentatively started to decorate. Jason is in a chair pulled close to the bed, looking like he hasn’t slept in a week. Tim’s entire body is basically one big bandage. Most everything hurts, but it’s dulled from what Tim guesses is a wonderful cocktail of painkillers making their way into his bloodstream via IV. 

“Fair enough,” He says, “How long was I out?” 

“Day and a half,” Jason says, and he’s still got Tim’s uninjured hand in a tight grasp. 

“Is it-” Tim’s voice is small and weak and not sounding very steady at all, “Is it really you?” 

“In the flesh,” Jason says softly, and Tim starts to tear up.

“You weren’t dead?” He asks, “This whole time? I read about it, and I kept talking to you because I hoped that you would answer. But you didn’t, even though you were alive? Why would you- Your dad, he-” He nearly sobs, “Why would you do that?” 

Jason’s eyebrows are upturned in sorrow and regret and just about every awful feeling beneath the sun, and Tim can barely look at him when he speaks again.

“I was so alone,” He whispered. “You knew I was. After you- I didn’t-”

“I really did die,” Jason says, and Tim meets his eyes.

They’re green. But Tim knows that Jason’s eyes are blue.

“How-”

“I don’t know how I woke up,” Jason drags a hand over his face, “There’s a whole lot I don’t know and can’t remember. But I was barely alive when the League found me.” 

Tim just stares. 

“Lazarus pit?” He asks, and Jason’s green eyes are starting to make sense now.

“Yeah,” He mumbles, “That and a whole lot of brainwashing, basically. Talia’s a real peach.” He scoffs, and Tim’s bottom lip wobbles.

“The others?” 

“You should’ve seen Bruce’s face,” Jason snorts, and Tim can’t help but to laugh. It’s muddled with tears and he tightens his grip on Jason’s hand.

“You stupid fucking idiot,” He sobs, but he doesn’t really mean it.

“I’m so sorry, Tee,” Jason says, and the nickname only makes Tim cry harder. 

“You dumb, stupid, moronic idiot.” 

“Don’t forget foolish.” Jason grins, but it looks sad and ashamed.

“Why did you even- Fuck, what did I do?” Tim nods down to his battered body, and Jason winces and looks, if possible, even more ashamed.

“You didn’t do shit,” He says, “You did absolutely nothin’ wrong. I thought- Talia, she told me that Bruce replaced me. That I’d been cast aside and forgotten and replaced with a newer, shinier model.” He laughs bitterly, “I was obviously wrong. But I didn’t think to do my own goddamned research and now I’ve gone and fucked up real bad, Tim. I don’t know how I can- I mean, I’m not coming back from this one. I’m so, so, sorry. I have no excuse.” 

And he does look sorry. He looks downright pathetic, and Tim doesn’t have the energy to think about the complexities of forgiveness or the intricacies of healthy relationships or whatever the fuck he should be thinking about right now. 

Instead he asks,

“So, did you catch up on Downton Abbey yet?” 

Jason’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“... No?” 

“Do I have a concussion?” Tim asks, and Jason looks even more confused.

“No? I don’t know how thick your skull must be to avoid-”

“My laptop is in the second drawer,” Tim nods his head in the general direction of his desk. “Go fetch. And order some food while you’re at it, I’m so hungry you wouldn’t believe.” 

“Tim,” Jason says hesitantly, “Are you sure you want to-”

“Jay,” Tim says, and it shuts Jason up immediately. “If my laptop isn’t on this bed playing Downton Abbey in five minutes you’re going to wish you stayed dead.”

-

Tim’s laptop is on the bed in six seconds flat. Greasy food from Lizzie’s Diner will be arriving in thirty minutes, and Jason is leaning against Tim’s headboard, arm cushioning Tim’s head. 

He’s actually there.

And though he’s been gone for years, though they haven’t actually spoken in so, so long, somehow it’s like he never left at all. They pick up the show right where they left off, but this time they’re watching together. They fall into their regular old routine like nothing ever happened, exchanging jokes and poking fun at different characters, and cheering whenever Maggie Smith is on-screen.

And Tim is still broken and beaten and in an absolutely horrible state. 

But somehow, he’s happier than ever.

The radio stays silent. Tim doesn’t even know where it is. 

Doesn’t matter.

He won’t be needing it anymore.