Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim. Fucking. Hated. Sewers.

If it wouldn't ignite about a bajillion gallons of organic materials and blow the entire city to smithereens, he'd torch the whole goddamn system.

For the love of fuck, why did he always have to be the one wading through knee-deep toxic sludge?

Dick was in Bludhaven calling his own shots. Jason was a crime lord who could shoot instead of taking direction. Babs couldn't walk and sat in her Mount Olympus proclaiming orders. Cass was a beloved princess who got all the best jobs. Steph was going to college and got to plead homework.

But Tim? Tim was a lowly unpaid intern given all the worst tasks, and he was going to get cancer and fucking die and then they'd all feel bad for sending him to the sewers so much. That would show them.

Tim shivered, hugging himself and rubbing his hands up and down his bare arms. He'd learned better than to wear his cape down here and trail it through the muck.

He'd wanted a hazmat suit, but Bruce told him it "wasn't that bad."

Fucker looked amused.

"He won't be smirking when I mutate into some trash goblin monster," he muttered, kicking a questionable lump off his boot. "And decide to take revenge on him for sending me down here to investigate the fucking Riddler, who's fucking smart enough not to camp out in the goddamn cancer breeding ground known as the fucking old sewer system."

"Are you saying you're not already a goblin?" Oracle teased, comms crackling.

"Oh, fuck you," Tim huffed.

"Nightwing won't be in town 'til Monday."

"Ewwww!"

Barbara laughed. "I'll send Spoiler to get you some really nice soaps and shampoo to wash the stink out, how about that?"

Tim sighed, edging towards the slimy walls in favor of avoiding a freakishly big lump that might've been a dead raccoon. 

"Great. At least I'll die smelling like rosebuds."

“With the Maroni-Falcone spat tearing up the West Side and Hood defending East End, there’s not that many above-ground places Riddler could be,” Babs reminded him. “I know it sucks, but these old tunnels are one of the best places a man who’s not ready to fight can hide.”

"With the Maroni-Falcone spat, Riddler's going to wait until he's sure to get Batman's undivided attention," Tim grumbled, gagging as he turned a corner where a bunch of feces had piled up. "We've got plenty of time to catch him. And by catch him I mean send someone else down here."

"Or he's going to do something dramatic enough that Batman won't have a choice but to pay attention to him immediately," Babs countered sharply. "It's easy to dismiss Riddler because we've bested him before, but taking him for granted means giving him dangerous opportunities."

Tim snarled in frustration, dodging a floating wrapper that seemed to serve as a funeral bier for a dozen kinds of vermin.

“His riddles aren't that fucking hard. And they’re not toxic.”

Barbara sighed, though it was so quiet Tim knew she'd tried to suppress it. He wasn't trying to be a whiny bitch, but seriously, what if he was immunocompromised? He'd be dead. 

"You're coming up on the comm black-out zone," Babs informed him. "It's about two miles, straight-shot, and it takes you almost to the old facility."

"Fun. I can be through it in a little over half an hour."

Assuming there wasn't a huge increase in the amount of sludge he had to dodge or, God forbid, wade through. Tim might literally cry if the sewage rose much higher.

"Ok. If you don’t give me a 'clear' in thirty-five minutes, I'm sending someone after you."

"Copy that."

"Be careful, kid," Babs added, sounding more than a little concerned.

"Aren't I always?"

"I'm serious, Robin. You're gonna be radio silent until you're close enough to know whether you'll be talking on Riddler's front porch. If you're close enough to know he's there, turn back and meet your backup before going in."

"Ok." Tim swallowed tightly, unused to Babs being the paranoid one. "I will, O."

Her answer crackled into unintelligible nonsense. Tim winced and said, "Going dark," before switching off his comm.

Babs had unnerved Tim enough that he kept his complaints under his breath as he continued on, passing more dead street vermin and a few rats he swore were alive. Alive and fucking watching him.

"Don't be stupid," he scolded himself in a murmur. "If they're even looking at you, they're trying to figure out if you have food or are food."

Oh great, now he'd psyched himself out.

"The only thing in the sewers that eats people is Killer Croc, and he's not even in the sewers, he's in Arkham."

That was more helpful.

The walls changed from cement to brick, though it was hard to tell under the sludge and grime that glistened on them. More and more branches opened up, leading off into even fouler-smelling gloom.

The sewage also rose, edging uncomfortably close to the top of Tim's boots. He swore if it got his socks wet, he'd toss them into an incinerator.

After twenty minutes of walking, it did get his socks wet.

Tim was going to fucking riot.

He gagged and cringed and whimpered as he continued to slosh through the horrid wetness because there was no point turning around and demanding someone the fuck else to do this now that he'd already gotten his skin – and his fucking socks – contaminated.

"Nygma," he muttered under his breath, "I am going to kick your fucking teeth in, I swear to God."

He was forced to walk through the middle of the channel now, because the build-up on the sides was far too squelchy and smelly for Tim to trust it not to kill him on the spot. 

Five more minutes, he told himself.

He should be at the old facility in five minutes, and he could get out of the disgusting, scummy excuse for water and call Babs and demand a three-week vacation in the crystalline-pure waters of Crater Lake.

His boot knocked against something solid and Tim instantly recoiled, strangling a cry of disgust. He scanned the sludge in front of him, praying he hadn’t kicked a corpse that was going to float up and stare at him in empty reproach.

He waited for a three-count, heart beating too fast.

The ripples broke against the heaps of trash and dissipated. Everything went perfectly still. Even serene.

Tim blew out a sigh and let his shoulders drop, edging forward and lifting his foot almost out of the water to set it down hopefully on the other side of whatever he’d kicked.

He set it down on a hard, raised, perfectly round thing that sank under his weight.

A godawful snap cracked the air.

Tim screamed before he even felt the pain.

He crumpled to his knees, gasping as the raging band of fire around his calf burned even more furiously, choking on sounds that never quite made it to screams or sobs.

Not one of the many injuries Tim had sustained in his career had ever been like this. The bones were broken, both of them, that Tim knew, but the spot was raw and livid like a damn stab wound, and burned so furiously he could barely think.

He tried to crawl, Riddler or no Riddler, because if only he could get out of the blackout zone… but hardly a foot and something jerked on his leg.

Tim screamed again.

He forced his too-fast breaths to slow down, hiccupping around the tears he couldn't stop from falling freely.

He had to… He had to call Babs. He had to move. He had to figure out what was holding him in place and get rid of it.

Twisting around was pure agony, and Tim could only get halfway, leaning on his left hip so he could turn just his head to look down his right leg.

He almost threw up.

Rising just over the water, scraping the sides of the canal, was a giant, steel thing Tim recognized without fully knowing how, but it didn't matter.

He'd walked right into a goddamn fucking bear trap.

His leg was trapped by vicious, spiked jaws of steel meant to restrain an animal three fucking times his size.

Tim could feel another scream building, but he strangled it back down. 

Backup was an hour away or more. But bear traps didn’t just land in the sewers perfectly positioned to capture a human wading through, which meant that Riddler was barely five minutes away. Probably close enough to have heard Tim scream. Probably coming to check it out right now, and there Tim was, helpless and ripe for kidnapping and murder.

He had to get out.

Tim had to get free of the trap and at least try to go back and meet Bruce or Cass halfway, before the Riddler found him and threw him in a death trap.

He had to… he had to open the…

Tim nearly threw up just thinking about it.

But he didn’t have a choice.

He twisted farther, biting his tongue so hard he already tasted blood, trying to feel for the trap and whimpering in agony each time his hand brushed his own leg. It made him glad he couldn’t see.

Tim’s hand brushed metal, but a second later, he felt tiny needles sinking into his finger. He cried out, jerking his hand back, and…

Tim shrieked again, trying to fling the rat away and forgetting it was still fucking attached to his finger.

Finally, he hit its head and dazed it enough that it opened its jaws and he could fling it away, but now he saw that lining the piles of trash was an entire battalion of rats, all staring with beady, hungry eyes.

Tim swallowed hard, the part of his brain not shrieking in agonized panic flicking through old Rogue files he'd had the idiocy to laugh at while safe in the Cave.

No, he thought. No, this can't be happening.

Tentatively, he reached towards the trap again.

Mistake.

They swarmed him as one, pouncing and biting, crawling all over his body, stabbing their diseased little needle-teeth into his arms, legs, body, face, scratching to tear open his skin with their claws. Tim thrashed, but it only made the pain in his leg flare, tearing free another scream and paralyzing him with agony.

He was powerless against the onslaught, to run away, to beat it back, to shield himself, even to see how fucking many there were. If he managed to fling one off, two others took its place, and none of them stayed down, too caught in the frenzy of Tim’s blood and screaming. All Tim could do was struggle to keep his head above the water level and pray to black out before they ate him down to bone.

And suddenly they were gone.

Tim gasped, blinking, breaths shuddering and body trembling, and looked around, watching the rats all swim and scurry away from him, towards a pair of yellow rubber boots. 

Dazedly, still gasping for breath and struggling to push his mind past the wall of shrieking fire that burned his body, Tim followed the boots up to dark green pants, to the matching oversized trench coat, to the gas mask hiding everything but the beady, gleeful eyes of Otis Flannegan.

“Well, well, what did we catch, my darlings?” Ratcatcher mused, stroking the murderous little monsters as they climbed his body. “I expected a bigger meal for you, hmm. But that’s alright, little birds can be good appetizers while we wait for the entree of bat.”  

Tim shuddered, gasping anew as it seemed to rip every tiny bite into gaping holes. Salty tear tracks stung the wounds on his face, making them burn . His breath kept catching and stuttering, and he fought to keep it steady. He couldn’t pass out. He couldn’t. He’d never wake up. 

“No, no.”

Tim forced himself to look up, stomach sinking at the sight of Ratcatcher’s radio device. Only one person could be smart enough to make that sort of tech work down here.

“Not the Bat, Ed, it’s the Boy Blunder. Yes, alive, but he’s quite a wreck.” Ratcatcher cackled. “You can say that again!”

Tim had to get out of there. He had to, he didn’t know how big this team-up was, if Riddler was even in charge of it, if he or anyone would want Tim alive or if he’d go right back to being devoured. He didn’t even know if he’d get any answer but a second swarm, and God, no, Tim would not fucking die getting eaten alive by sewer vermin, he had to open the trap and, and run, no matter how bad it–

“Alright, if you insist.”

The slosh of water was the only warning he had before Ratcatcher bent down and Tim started screaming at the agony of having his leg fucking ripped in two.

There was a dull clank of metal, and then Tim felt a vice grip on his upper arm, and then suddenly he was moving, some unholy force dragging him backward by his arm and ruined leg.

Tim threw up at the sight of the metal teeth and jaws biting down through the limb, distantly waiting for his foot to just fucking fall off, not knowing how it could be anything but fully severed after this absolute hell.

Fire and brimstone would be nothing next to this eternity of blinding, paralyzing pain, this ache in his throat from a murdered voice, the sickness in his mouth and mind from staring and waiting, waiting, waiting to see the maiming of his leg become irreversible.

Finally the hand let go. Tim’s leg dropped.

He woke up mere seconds later, hearing his own shriek echoing off the walls of… of…

“Aloha, ciao, Robin!” Edward Nygma cried, throwing his arms out and twirling slowly, as if indicating the maze of catwalks that Tim’s brain knew was the old sanitation facility, but that Tim’s body only cared was an end to being hauled around and the dulling of the pulsating agony in his limbs. “I thought I heard your voice! Screaming. And screaming. And screaming — and boy no wonder, that is quite the boo-boo, isn’t it?”

Tim’s face pinched, but he did his best to make it a glare as he struggled to push himself up on his arms. He didn’t– there was no one else here, it was just the two villains, and Tim might be crippled for life after tonight, but that didn’t mean it was time to surrender. 

“Fuck you,” he tried to say, but his voice rasped so bad he could barely hear himself.

Riddler laughed, probably guessing what Tim meant, and shook his head, leaning on his dumb question mark staff to coo at Tim. “My, oh, my, Batman ought to enforce no-no words with you, I mean really. I don’t think you’re even old enough to know what that means!”

Tim glared harder and raised one shaking hand. More like one shaking finger.

Riddler just tsked at him, shaking his head and wagging a more polite finger of his own, like Tim was nothing more than a misbehaving puppy. “Now, now, little boys are supposed to be nicer to men older and wiser than them.”

“You might be older and smarter than me,” Tim managed, swallowing down the vomit and gathering enough voice to make his jibe clear, “but if you were wiser, you wouldn’t be plotting petty crime in a fucking sewer.”

Ratcatcher scoffed something like, “I find sewers amenable,” but Tim knew he’d struck a nerve with Riddler. He straightened, the proud glee on his face souring into something that made Tim’s stomach flip.

“Enough chirping, Turdus migratorius,” he said. “Tell me how close the bat is.”

Tim pursed his lips and kept glaring. And shivering. The air in the facility was freezing, and it was drying Tim’s wet suit against his skin, sapping all the warmth from him, except where beads of hot blood still leaked from puncture wounds. He dearly wanted his cloak.

He dearly wanted Bruce.

He wanted all of them, around a cot in the medbay, with warm blankets and bandages and truthful promises that the ring of fire around his leg wasn’t going to become a phantom pain that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Assuming he survived this night.

Riddler flipped the cane so he held the far end, digging the question mark under Tim's chin to lift his face up as he snapped, biting off every t, "It's in your best interest, Robin, to tell me when we should be expecting the bat.”

Tim doubted that. He said nothing.

Riddler groaned, the sound turning into a whine halfway through, and let Tim's face drop, throwing up his hands.

"Fine! Fine. If that's how you want it, fine. We'll see if Batman’s better at answering my questions. Otis, be a dear and take Robin downstairs, will you?"

Tim went rigid. "Wait–"

But Riddler was walking away, and Ratcatcher grumbling under his breath as he stepped closer and grabbed the collar of Tim’s suit. 

Tim shrieked as Ratcatcher started dragging him down a side branch, metal trap scraping and bumping on the metal floor and ripping the wound even wider. Rats scurried around him, biting at his shredded clothes and torn skin to pull him along, no matter how Tim thrashed to throw them off.

“Stop!” he choked, panic closing his throat as the edge of the catwalk drew nearer. “Don’t–”

For a split second, Tim was weightless. For a split second, his mind was blank except for the greedy stare of Ratcatcher above him. Then he felt the swoop in his stomach that meant he was falling, then he realized he had to land, then he heard himself scream as he tried to protect his leg and his head and his spine, but he couldn’t–

Tim barely managed to twist to fall on his good side, arms around his head, prayer ripped from his lips. There was a burst of agony along his body. He blacked out.

“--good meal, even if he’s small…”

Tim blinked tears out of his eyes as the world came back, immediately wishing it had stayed away.

“-- sweet children are hungry…” 

His entire left side was throbbing, and there was an awful ache in his chest making it hard to breathe. Every cut on him stung, and his right leg… just thinking about it sent the pain flaring high enough to make him sob.

“-- noooo, have to play with their food first.”

Metal clanked, and Tim uncurled a fraction to see Ratcatcher attaching the trap’s chain to a large steel frame on the floor. Then he turned back to Tim, reaching out.

Tim flinched back, trying to squirm out of reach, but he couldn’t move an inch without a fresh burst of agony in his leg. He was powerless to stop Ratcatcher from grabbing his wrists and cuffing them in front of him.

“Can't have you getting ideas, ” he growled, dropping Tim’s hands. "But if you do get one…"

He whistled, and Tim's breath shallowed as the rat army surrounded him, staring hungrily, like a cult about to watch a human sacrifice.

Ratcatcher laughed and walked away. Tim dared to take his eyes off the rats to watch him climb the steel ladder anchored to the wall. It led up to the catwalk maybe ten feet above, though the wall itself stopped short of that. But though Ratcatcher easily clambered up and hauled himself over the rail, back to the rest of his tiny monsters, Tim knew it was far beyond his capacity to climb.

The only other thing on that wall was an ominous iron pipe poking out beside the ladder. The other cement walls, stretching out twenty feet on either side of him, were blank, as was the floor which he lay on, except for the X-shaped steel frame. It looked shiny and new, here only to keep Tim anchored to the floor, but everything else was coated in a foul layer of grime and sludge that told Tim his wounds were guaranteed to get infected.

Again, that was if he survived.

Tim started shaking, or maybe he had been the whole time without knowing. It tugged at his wounds, made his whole body throb worse than ever, but he couldn’t stop.

He didn’t know what was going on. Ratcatcher and all his fucking ‘children’  wanted Tim dead and eaten, but Riddler wanted him alive – for now – and down here, perfectly helpless and perfect bait for Batman, but Tim just wanted to go home and not have to wonder if he’d die from blood loss or sepsis or being eaten alive.

His eyes darted between the rats, and all of them stared mercilessly back. Tim swallowed hard, remembering what they'd done the last time he tried to escape. This time, he felt sure no one would call them off.

Bootsteps on metal. Tim stifled the wave of tears and looked up to see Riddler leaning his forearms on the railing of the catwalk, staring down at Tim with a lazy, cocky grin. Behind him, Ratcatcher plopped to the floor like a petulant child, rats swarming over his lap to let him pet them.

"Awww, don't you just look pitiful," Riddler mocked. "Wet cat levels of pitiful. Or, well, you’re about to.”

Tim heard a dull rushing sound and went rigid, gaze darting up to the pipe at the same second water gushed out of it, splattering on the floor and pushing towards him in relentless ripples. 

“There we go!” Riddler cheered. “I do hope you don’t know how to swim, Robin, that’ll make this way more entertaining. Although Otis pretty well took care of that, huh? Good job, Otis, that was a stroke of– well, not brilliance, but it was pretty good, pretty good.”

Tim had to get his head higher. He had to– He’d– But the rats…

His breath kept ticking faster as he braced his throbbing arms against the ground and pushed himself up on his elbows. The rodent army shifted eagerly, but they didn’t move forward. Yet. Tim dared to twist over his shoulder to look at the trap.  

The jaws were clamped tight around his mangled leg, blood oozing slowly from where the teeth had moved in his skin. Tim felt a horrible chill come over him as he realized that even if he could get the cuffs off and open the trap and climb up the ladder – all while fighting off scores of needle-toothed demons – he'd bleed out long before he could make it to safety.

Up above, Riddler started humming to himself, but then there was a sudden screech of feedback in Tim’s comm. He cringed, about to claw it out before a burst of hope bloomed – he was out of the blackout zone! – but it was Riddler’s voice coming through, half a second behind the distant crowing above.

“Hello? Hello, operator, is this the Batman?” He laughed and answered himself, “Of course it is, hiya, Batsy. Riddle me this! What’s white and red and delightful to villains?”

“Riddler,” Batman snarled, and Tim sobbed at the protective fury in his voice. “What have you done with Robin?”

Riddler made a disappointed tutting sound. “Oh, come on, now, Batman, if you answered the riddle, you’d answer your own question. What’s white and red and delightful to villains?”

Tim didn’t fucking know or care, but the water was soaking through his leggings now and he knew he’d only get one shot, Riddler must not have known Tim’s comm came on– “Batman, I’m in the old treatment faci–”

He cringed at another screech of feedback even louder than before.

“Now, now, Robin, the adults are talking,” Riddler scolded. “I’m revoking your mic privileges, God, kids these days, amiright, Bats? Bloody irritating, I don’t know how you stand ‘em.”

“Riddler, I don’t care what you’re planning, you–”

“Ok, well, that’s good, y’know, because I’m not planning it anymore, I’m executing it.”

Tim tried to push himself upright as the water pushed towards his waist, turning a foul rust-brown as it mixed with his blood. He managed, barely, but his ribs crunched threateningly at his hunched position, and his arms shuddered with the effort of supporting his weight. 

“Let’s play a little game, shall we? A game of riddles, can we do that? Oh, who am I kidding, of course we can! Let’s play a nice little game of riddles, winner take all. And in case it’s somehow not clear, when I say ‘all,’ I mean the boy wonder here.”

“Riddler, if you touch him–”

“I’m not, I’m not, I’m hands off!” 

Riddler beamed and waved at Tim with his staff and one empty hand. Tim glared back, wishing the man would shut up so Tim could hear Bruce talking, could remind himself that Batman was coming.

He knew where Tim was. Barbara would have sent him in this direction anyway, but Tim had gotten enough out to confirm it, so Batman couldn’t be far away. Maybe he’d even bring Cass. They would save him. Whatever sick game Riddler was planning, Tim just had to hold on until they came to save him. 

He wasn't going to be eaten. He wasn't going to drown.

“So here’s how our little game’s gonna work, Bats, I’ll ask the riddles, of course, and you’ll get to answer. And now, here’s the catch, here it is, you ready? Each riddle has two answers! That’s right, double the game, double the challenge. Oh, but hold on, there’s another catch! See I’ve got Robin here, and he’s in just a little bit of a predicament. He’s at the bottom of one of the sedimentation tanks – there, I’ll admit it, kid’s right, you know right where we are now, see, aren’t I generous? – anyway, right now, he’s just been lightly splashed, but I’ve got the power to dump ninety thousand liters of sewer water on his head.”

Tim shivered violently, gasping at the spike of agony. The water was already rising, fast, but the stupid fucking rats weren't leaving, and he didn't dare mess with the trap while they were on guard.

“Don’t–”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not gonna do it all at once! That wouldn’t be any fun at all, no, I’m letting the tank slowly fill up and watching your little birdie try to fly without his wings. But, but – I’m gonna let you help him!” Riddler turned over his shoulder and said to Ratcatcher, “See, Otis, this is called being nice, being a gentleman villain, we don’t just feed people to rats willy-nilly, alright, that’s rude, and it lacks creativity.”

“My children are hungry!” Ratcatcher snapped. “You promised them food. ”

“Riddler, I swear on all that is holy–"

“Yes, yes, I’ll be eating through a straw for six months, you need to work on your creativity too, Bats. I mean batmobile? Batarang? Who named all your shit, that first whiny hatchling you snatched up that was always cracking stupid jokes? Again, what is with the kid thing, really, Batman, don’t little traffic-light ankle-biters kinda ruin the whole ‘vengeance is mine’ vibe for you? But anyway, we’re getting off-topic.

"The two catches go hand in hand, you see, they work together like you and Rob or me and Otis here. For each of the correct answers, I’ll slow down the water delivery to Robin’s nest, and for each incorrect answer, I’ll increase it! It’s like a physics problem: assuming a constant flow of water, find time t at which Robin’s head goes under, and answer the riddles to keep resetting the rate until you can come and save the day." Riddler grinned dangerously. "If you can come and save the day.”

He had to come and save the day. The fucking rats refused to leave, and Tim could barely twitch without them lurching forward. By the time he’d be able to move as freely as his body would let him, he’d be messing with the metal trap on his leg basically blind. Blind and bound and bleeding and shuddering and–

“No, ” Batman growled. “Both of you, surrender now and let Robin go, or–”

“Oh, oh!” Riddler pressed his staff to his chest and slapped his forehead with the other hand. “Now I get it, you’re scared, is that it, Bats, is that it? You don’t think you can beat my riddles! Well, that’s valid, that’s fair, I know I’m a tough case to crack for you, gosh. Well, tell you what, old friend, I’m a nice guy, an accommodating fella. Let’s see now, two villains, two answers, the dynamic duo…”

Riddler tapped the question mark of his staff against his chin, gazing musingly up at the ceiling. Tim's stomach twisted at the smile that spread over the Rogue's face as he exclaimed, “Aha! Eureka! Batman needs a partner, is that it? I think that’s it. Well, alright, we can make it a two-player game, I’m cool with that. But you’ve gotta pick someone other than your boy under-water here. I’m not giving back his mic, he’ll just piss me off, kids are so mean.”

Tim didn’t like this. He didn’t like it one bit, what the hell was Riddler planning, why would he let Bruce call in backup when he knew damn well despite his pride that Batman could solo him any day of the week, it didn’t make sense.

Sure, he didn't know Oracle and Agent A existed and could kick his ass even faster than Batman, but he was safe from them because they had to remain secret. And sure, everyone knew Batgirl didn't talk, so it wasn't unreasonable for Riddler to think she couldn't, and anyway, Cass's brilliance wasn't with Riddler's screwy language puzzles.

But surely Riddler knew to be afraid of Spoiler, Cluemaster's fucking daughter! There was no way he could know Steph wasn't out tonight, not when he'd been down here with no one but Ratcatcher working for him. Even if he did know, how could he assume Bruce couldn't reach her, or that she couldn't help?

"Tick, tock, now, Bats, the water's rising, so you'd better grab a partner for this hoedown."

Tim eyed the rats and dared to walk his hands back, half inch by half inch, towards his body, pushing himself closer to upright. Come on, Steph, he pleaded. He'd do her damn homework for her if she picked up the phone.

The water had risen over his leg now, an awful, sickly color, carrying foul things in its current. Tim gagged at the stench and prayed Batman and Spoiler wouldn't save him from drowning only for him to die of infected wounds.

Steph, come on, please.

Not that Bruce couldn't do it alone, but if Riddler had offered, then he wanted someone else, which meant they had to find someone, STEPH–

Tim tried to shift his left leg, get it out from under his right, but moving it made his hip throb and his right leg drop and tug on the trap and chain and God, it hurt make it stop–

"Robin!"

Tim gasped, blinking back tears, realizing those were the dying echoes of his scream against the walls. He'd dropped almost face-first into the water, but he was shaking too hard to straighten up.

"I'm gonna start asking my questions in ten, nine, better get someone on the line, six, five–"

"Steph, please," Tim sobbed.

"-- three, two –"

"What the hell are you doing, Nygma, copying off Dent?" snapped an all-too-familiar caustic, mechanical voice. "I'm telling you now, if you're starting a new duality theme, I will start calling you Two-bit."

No.

No, this couldn't be happening, not Hood.  

He'd never forgiven Tim for becoming Robin. Had almost killed Tim already, he'd slit Tim's fucking throat, he was… Oh, God, he was going to guess wrong on purpose, was that Riddler's plan? Were they working fucking together?

No, no, no, no, please …

"Excellent!" Riddler cried, doing a victory dance on the catwalk. "We have our player two! Very good, now then, each of you gets to give me one answer, but only one! You both need to answer correctly if you're going to slow the flow and give Robin enough time to survive, alright? Alright, ok, now, the first riddle is, ahem–"

"Did you just fucking try to clear your throat by saying the word 'ahem?'"

Tim bit down on his lip to keep from screaming. He forced himself to sit upright, ignoring his throbbing hip, ignoring his crunching ribs, ignoring the way the rats – now standing – scuttled closer. 

"Hood, focus."

Tim squeezed his eyes shut and tried to brace his right leg with his hands so he could get the left one out, panting with effort and keening through clenched teeth at the furious burning through his whole body.

"The first riddle is! You're done running your mouth, Hood, yes? Ok, good, because it sure moves faster than your brain, and in all the wrong directions, alright, ok, the first riddle, ahem, is…"

Tim looked again at the trap, despite the fact that most of it was underwater. He had to get free of it before the water got over his head so he could swim, or at least float. Bruce would still save him. Even if Hood made it too close for comfort, Bruce would save him.

"That which can have any value,

That which can take any path, 

That which can locate the lost and lose the found,

That which can be whole or in part,

I am...

You have… oh, let's go with sixty seconds per answer. Go."

Tim squinted through his tears at how the trap was attached to the steel frame as Hood started muttering lines of the riddle under his breath. The trap’s chain was looped twice around one bar and the links padlocked to each other. If he could get to his lockpicks, then he’d at least be free of the frame. 

"Are we allowed to talk to each other?" Hood asked.

"Hmmmmm…"

Could he swim with the trap weighing him down, probably not, but maybe he could crawl to the ladder and cling to its rungs. Assuming Riddler or Ratcatcher didn’t kick him off.

Assuming he’d have enough time to make it that far by the time the fucking rats left so he could use the lockpicks without getting assaulted.

"I'll allow it, maybe it'll help you orient your poor brains. But you must choose your answers yourselves."

"Is it vision?" Hood asked immediately. " Batman, do you think it's vision, that is not an answer yet!"

Riddler cackled. "Quick save."

"I… Possibly. I don't think it's something tangible. Value… path…"

"Locate the lost and lose the found, what, Amazing Grace?"

Tim’s heart leapt as the rats broke formation, apparently finally afraid of the water level drawing close to their beady-eyed faces.

"Whole and part," Bruce muttered. "Components? And with a direction…"

It sank again as half of them swam over to the steel frame and perched on the bars, way too close to his leg, staring him down as if daring him to free himself now.

"It's a vector!"

"Oh! Oh, oh, tripped at the finish line and fell flat!"

"What–"

Tim whipped around as the water burst from the pipe with new vengeance, the waves rocking him as they broke against his waist. His heart started pounding harder as if trying to keep up, and he sobbed as he looked back at the unmoving vanguard before him.

“Oh, Batman, you were so focused on where you were you forgot you were going too fast! I guess your poor little brain can’t think of two things at once, it’s squished down by those ears. Oh, and now it’s all down to Hood, with thirty seconds on the clock!”

Maybe Tim should pitch forward and drown now.

“Fuck,” Hood whispered. “Fuck, shit… tripped at the finish line… components and direction, value… it is a–”

“Don’t say it!” Batman cried.

“I’m not! It’s a specific… one of those, fuck… lost and found. Like… I thought vision because you look at one and then you lose track of the other thing… Wait, oh, my God, Heisenberg, it’s sp– no, fuck! Velocity!”

For a second, there was silence. Tim craned his neck to look up at Riddler, hardly daring to hope… But he pulled back the lever. The rush of water slowed to where it had been before, but it had risen another full inch just in that terrifying moment.

“Very good,” Riddler said, tone eerily level. “Hood knows what’s up! But it’s ok, it’s ok, Bats, you can’t save everyone yourself, and you’ve got another chance here, alright, Robin’s still kickin’. Well, not kickin’, that would, that would really be unwise for him, but at any rate, you’ve still got time.”

Tim’s breath came a little easier, though no less painful. Hood had gotten it right, and it sounded like he’d done it on purpose. Maybe he wasn’t going to sabotage this.

But the water would keep rising, and Tim didn’t know how far Batman was, or how many more mistakes he or Hood would make, or if Riddler or Ratcatcher would pull something petty and underhanded no matter what they’d said. He had to get free, and… and he could no longer wait for the rats to leave.

“Alrighty then, next riddle!

My opposite is said to be infinite.

I both create and devastate.

I can be gained, but never collected.

I must be used in accordance with myself.

What am I?”

“What the hell.”

Tim took a deep, shaky breath and leaned to his right, biting back a cry as pain flared through his body. Once his weight was off his hands he pulled them in close to his body, centimeter by centimeter, staring down the rats and praying their freakish intelligence wasn’t great enough to know that he was reaching for his belt.

“Create and devastate could be fire,” Bruce murmured.

“I was thinking words,” Hood offered, sounding hesitant. “Build up/tear down, you know? And you can always make new ones, but you’re never gonna know all the ones there are, like, to collect things, there has to be a limited amount, and you have to use them wisely–” 

“Wisely,” Bruce interrupted. “Use in accordance with myself, use wisely… ‘Itself’ would be–”

“Wisdom?”

“Correct,” Riddler muttered, now sounding annoyed. “It seems you’ve gained some after the last time.”

Tim checked over his shoulder, and the water had indeed slowed, somewhat. He breathed a sigh of relief as his fingers brushed against his belt, and opened the compartment that held his lockpicks.

The rats dove forward as one, swimming impossibly fast, sinking their teeth into Tim’s skin before he could react.

He screamed.

“Robin!”

Tim thrashed and screamed again as it threw gasoline on the pain that was already a bonfire. He tried to bat them away, throw them off, but they just twisted and darted around him, nipping and ripping and clawing and biting his legs and arms and body and crawling up to get at his face and–

Suddenly Tim was falling, suddenly the shouting damped into murky chaos, and suddenly when he gasped for breath he was choking.

Drowning. 

Tim was– He opened his eyes and– Nothing– God, it hurt– Lungs burning, ribs throbbing, nose and throat stinging– Air– Where was– Would the biting stop–

Tim’s hands brushed against sludgy ground and he shoved himself up, coughing and gasping, spitting out water and gulping air when he finally felt it on his face again.

“RIDDLER–”

“Oh, look at that, he’s up,” Riddler mused. “Well, sorta. Might collapse again, I dunno. He looks pretty pale, white as a ghost. Otis, dear, I think that’s enough, really, we still have so many riddles and it’s no fun to try to save a corpse.”

A shrill whistle and suddenly the assault was over. Tim’s ribs burned and crunched as his chest heaved, but he hardly cared. As he breathed, the dark, spinning vortex in his brain slowed back to something intelligible. He blinked and saw the monsters swimming away.

"Robin–"

"BATMAN, ANSWER THE FUCKING RIDDLE OR HE’LL GO UNDER AGAIN!”

"Right…" Bruce sounded like he was being ripped in half. "Right, u-use it wisely, wis-wisdom…"

"And here I thought you were Einstein," Riddler sighed. "Turns out, you're only Newton."

Tim trembled as icy droplets ran down his face and dripped from his hair. His lungs still burned dully, and every fresh bite felt like a lit match against his skin, but he was up, he was breathing, and the rats were fucking gone.

"Create or destroy… but true wisdom never bends towards destruction–"

"Speak for your damn self," Hood muttered, voice thick.

"It's a quality, not a tool, the tool is…"

"Twenty seconds!"

"Knowledge," Batman said, voice firm but underlaid with the slightest tremor. "The second answer is knowledge."

Tim looked up at Riddler, waiting for him to slow the water again. But he was standing still and stone-faced. 

Tim stopped breathing all over again.

"Indeed it is," he said, eyes finding Tim and narrowing. "You're quite an effective team, there, really. I'm even willing to say I underestimated you. But I'm sure you're used to that, huh, B-man? New experience for me, though, so I've decided to change the rules."

"Wait, what?"

"Henceforth!"

Ratcatcher sat up straighter, a hungry, eager look in his eyes as he glanced from Riddler to Tim, petting the soaking wet vermin now crowding around him.

"Henceforth! We're going to play at the highest setting, that is, the fastest flow, and answering the riddles will only give you the power to bring it down until I pose the next question, capiche?"

No.

"Rid–"

"Fuck you!" Hood burst out, hot and furious in a way that started thawing the ice that had frozen Tim's chest at Riddler's pronouncement. "You cheating bastard, you fucking said–"

"I'm altering the rules of the game," Riddler said coolly. "Pray I do not alter them further. An-y-way." 

He reached out and grabbed hold of the lever, and Tim felt a thrill of terror. "Next ri–"

"YOU DON'T GET TO FUCKING STACK THE DECK AGAINST A GODDAMN CHILD BECAUSE YOU'RE PISSED AT HIS FATHER!" 

Something flashed in Riddler's eyes that made Tim's stomach flip, and the Rogue shoved the lever. The water burst out with new vengeance, ripples shoving against Tim's chest, and Tim tore his gaze away from the catwalk, starting to feel around frantically for the dropped lockpicks, because though he was no longer worried about Hood's treachery, he was now sure Riddler wouldn't back down until Tim was dead.

"Hood–"

"HE'S A FUCKING TEENAGER–"

Hood's voice cracked.

"Yes, boo-hoo, very tragic. Now, you can keep being a hater, Hoodsie, sonny, or you can let me ask my riddles and get the chance to buy Robin some time."

Neither Hood nor Batman answered. Tim pawed through the water and layers of grime, heart pounding against fiery ribs, but he couldn't find the damn picks. 

"Alright, good, as there's no more protests… Riddle me this!

I am more terrible than the maelstrom, 

and more wonderful than the dawn.

I'm as addicting as opium,

And as fleeting as a mayfly.

I am twin faces in one form;

I am a double-edged sword.

What am I?"

Tim wondered, a sick horror twisting his gut, if the picks had been swept away in the current. Or if one of the fleeing rats had known what they were and stolen them.

“Fucking… “

“Hood–”

“I know, I’m working on it!”

Tim… Tim had to go to plan B.

Oh, God, this was going to hurt.

“Terrible/wonderful, addicting/fleeting… goddamn contradiction, but that’s not my fucking answer.”

“You sure are being cautious, Hood,” Riddler mused. “You must really love your little brother, huh?”

Tim’s jaw dropped open, because Hood’s what?

Batman’s breath caught, but if Hood even heard Riddler, all he did was mutter more furiously.

“Maelstrom, dawn, opium, mayfly… no, not the point, the point is the fucking goddamn duality…”

Tim closed his mouth before the scummy waves could splash into it, steeling himself for what he was about to do. He ran his hands over the ground one last desperate time before pushing down, leaning all his weight into trembling, throbbing arms.

“Twin faces and a double edged sword,” Batman whispered. “Probably two sides of one coin as well.”

“Well, it’s not fucking heads and tails, old man!”

Tim twisted his hips and screamed.

The water had turned to fire, to acid, burning through every joint in Tim’s legs. His hips throbbed, his knees stung, his fucking leg was tearing off, it hurt it hurt it hurt why wouldn’t it please, please stop–

Someone was screaming and more people were shouting and someone else laughed, none of them thought of Tim in his hell, he was alone and mauled and probably dying, he was dying, he couldn’t breathe, his lungs and throat were coated in flame–

“EDWARD, I’M BEGGING YOU, HE’S MY SON!” 

“B!” Tim sobbed, clinging to the voice, lifting his hands to reach out and latch onto it, except that made him wobble, and that made everything hurt more, so he practically punched the ground to steady himself. “H- help…”

“Robin, Robin, I need you to take deep breaths, alright?”

Bruce wasn’t taking deep breaths. Bruce sounded frantic and gasping, and Tim hiccupped as he tried to follow the stuttering example. It wasn’t helping.

“Robin, sweetheart, please, it’s, it’s going to be alright, just, just h-hold on, breathe, kiddo–”

The fire in his lungs and throat cooled as Tim copied the even, level breathing he heard. The rest of his body was still in agony, but he blinked open his eyes and saw that the water wasn’t up at his shoulders anymore. He was up on his left leg, though his right was still stretched and bleeding behind him. He’d bought another minute. He could rest, just a few seconds.

“Love,” a voice said very softly. “One answer is love.”

“So the other must be hate,” Bruce said shakily.

“Well, you are correct, so props for that, but unfortunately, you’re about fifteen seconds over time.”

Tim sobbed, looking up at Riddler, who was lounging on the rail of the catwalk, who didn’t even care how cruelly Tim was suffering.

“Fortunately, I can’t make the water any faster, so really it’s all moot. There, see, this time my little adaptation worked in your favor!”

Ratcatcher’s eyes were shining with an unholy glee, making him look just like one of his tiny demons. Tim swore he smirked when they met eyes.

“I’m going to write everything that is fucked up in that statement on a goddamn bullet so I can make damn well sure it gets through your shitting skull,” Red Hood hissed.

Riddler just sighed. “Do you ever get tired of death threats, Hood? Don’t answer that, it’s not a riddle, it’s rhetorical, we all know the answer already. You don’t. Ah, well, c’est la not- vie, I suppose. Boys will be boys, eh, Batman? That one's rhetorical too.”

“Truly inspi-fucking-rational, Aristotle, now ask us the goddamn riddle!”

Riddler threw up his hands. “Fifteen minutes ago you wanted me to shut up and now you want my riddles! You want to complain about contradictions, Hood, you are one!”

“FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO YOU WERE PLAYING BY THE FUCKING RULES AND ROBIN HAD A BETTER CHANCE IF WE WEREN'T TRYING TO SOLVE YOUR STUPID RIDDLES!”

“Robin, Robin, Robin, everything's about Robin.”

Tim's right knee was shrieking in pain, but he didn't dare move, not yet. The water was buffeting his shoulders again, waves brushing his throat and making him shiver, but he needed to stay down as long as he could, because he wasn't going to be able to hold himself up for long.

“Nygma,” Bruce panted, “please, we'll answer as many riddles as you want, but let Robin–”

“There you go AGAIN! God, no wonder Jokes took the old model off the board, it's like all that endearing zealousy just flits out between those ears when there's a bird around. You used to be fun.”

Tim choked. Bruce choked. Somehow Hood was the only one who didn't react to the jibe.

“Nygma. Give us the next riddle. Now.”

“Fine, fine, sheesh! We’ll go to the next riddle. So demanding, really. Alright then, but remember, you literally asked for it.

I can be young and old:

Shocking and tragic, 

Dreaded and expected.

My mark is a gaping hole,

My signature written in stone.

What am I?”

Tim couldn't keep his hands on the ground anymore. He straightened up, wavering, bracing them against his throbbing thigh. A few tears stung free from his eyes, but he strangled down the whimper.

Crying out meant Bruce and Hood got distracted, calling out to Tim instead of thinking about the riddle, and even if getting the answers wrong or not answering in time didn’t make the water faster, it meant it didn’t slow down, even for the few precious seconds Riddler allowed. He couldn't distract them. All three of them had to work together now.

“Shocking and tragic,” Bruce murmured. “Dreaded and expected. Young… and old…”

Tim… the water was only at his shoulders again, he had a few minutes, more if he leaned his head back as the waves rose.

Bruce couldn't be far away. He couldn’t. He’d been coming this way even before Riddler called, and his heavy breathing meant he was running, running through the sewers, he was almost there.

Tim just had to hang on a few more minutes. He could do it.

“Gaping hole,” Hood muttered, dull and choked. Then he laughed bitterly. “Written in fucking stone, huh?”

“You know–?”

“I am dead.”

“Oooh!” Riddler clapped his hands like a child, Ratcatcher rolling his eyes behind. “Well done, Hood!”

Tim swallowed tightly and lifted his chin higher, forcing his breaths slow and steady and deep, despite the burning in his ribs. He prayed the waves would gentle and stop threatening to knock him over.

But Riddler wasn't moving towards the lever.

Bruce made a low, choked noise, and began, “Th-then the other–”

“No!” Hood yelped. “Not yet! If you answer now, he'll just put the speed back! You have to wait until it's almost time, I know it's only seconds, but it's something!”

He sounded desperate and scared and close to tears.

“Right,” Bruce whispered. “You're–”

“He didn't change it!” Tim screamed, voice cracking in his Saharan throat, “He lied, he's not–”

He yelped and tried to dodge the dark shape whirling towards him, but it was far too large and there was nowhere to go. There was a burst of pain in his forehead, and he felt himself falling, crying out at the agonizing jerk on his leg.

Bruce's holler of, “Orphan!” was cut off as the water closed over Tim's head, too quickly for his breath to be of air.

He started choking and coughing, gagging on the taste of blood, his blood, in the water. His lungs were already starting to burn, too abused, and his head was throbbing and spinning– He clawed at the water with his hands, trying desperately to keep his throbbing legs still. 

He hit the ground too hard on his left shoulder and felt it wrench. Bubbles streamed out of his mouth, and he clamped it shut. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t take a breath or he’d drown, he had to get up –

His hands broke the surface, and Tim tried to lurch up to follow them, but his ribs cracked and leaked acid in protest. Instead, he kicked until his left foot was planted on the floor, knee raised, and dragged himself upright, leaning his head back until he was gasping sweet, cold, stinging air.

“Robin, come in, goddamnit!”

Tim sobbed. He could barely breathe, and Bruce wanted him to talk?

“ROBIN!”

“H-here!”

It sounded as broken as Tim’s body felt, but it was all he could give. He needed to move again, to get back up on his knee, because the water was brushing his cheeks now, and he had to keep tilting his head farther and farther back.

“YOU GODDAMN FUCKING COWARDLY, LYING, CHEATING PIECE OF FILTH!”

“Yuh-huh, they call me a sociopath for a reason, Little Red Riding Hood, try to keep up with me here. Alas, I did maybe tell a teeny-weeny little white lie when I said that I’d still slow the water down, but I mean, really, there’s no entertainment value if I do that, Robin’s about as capable as a legless centipede right now, all he’s been doing is flopping around and crying.”

“AND WHO’S FUCKING FAULT–”

“Actually, it’s dear Otis’s fault on that front.”

“LIKE IT MAKES A GODDAMN–”

Jason kept yelling and swearing as the water rose over Tim’s ears. The last thing he heard was Bruce begging, “Just hold on, Ro–” desperate and only for Tim.

I’m trying.

Tim heaved in as deep a breath as his ribs would let him and let go of his death grip on his knee, slumping back under the water line. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming as he maneuvered his left leg under himself again, bracing his hands against–

Something hard and round, but far too big to be his lockpicks. It felt like… wood grain? Tim squinted through the hazy, choppy water and made out the dull gleam of metal on one end.

Riddler’s fucking staff.

Tim grabbed it, turning to brace it on the ground so he could lever himself up. He hauled himself all the way up in one go, choking at the horrible tugging on his right leg that wouldn't stop now that it was no longer braced on the ground. 

But he was up. The water was down at his waist again, and holding onto the staff braced against the ground kept him steady, helped to bear even a little of his weight. Bruce and Jason were almost there. He could make it.

“Hood, really, you need to stop swearing vengeance when I haven’t even killed the kid yet, it’s just tactless. And Batman, you sound like a broken record, I mean, just what exactly is birdie boy supposed to be holding on to? Hope? That’d be a real laugh, or at least it was for Robin Numri Dy, as I recall.” 

Riddler grinned down at Tim, who dared to glare back and uncurl one finger from his death grip on the staff.

The grin faded.

“Oh,” Riddler said, eerily level in a way that made Tim’s stomach flip, “I guess what he’s holding onto is my staff. Well, well. Wasn’t expecting that one. Otis?”

“Riddler, no,” Bruce pleaded. “Ratcatcher, don’t do this, he’s just a child–”

But Ratcatcher was already springing over the rail of the catwalk, clambering down the ladder with unholy glee that doubled in madness with every sloshing step he took towards Tim.

“Robin, just stay alive, we’re almost there, bash his fucking brains in if you have to!” Jason hollered.

Tim’s heart pounded against his chest as he doubled his grip on the staff and raised it. His left shoulder was pulsing, and he swayed as the waves broke against his chest. 

He struck out wildly, and Ratcatcher jumped back, but he was laughing. 

“Really, kid,” he scoffed, “you're about as threatening as a declawed kitten.”

Tim swiped again, pushing him back. “Y-yet cats are the o-ones who eat r-rats.”

He'd started shivering again, and he knew that was a bad, bad sign. The world swam around him like he was already underwater, but the once-blinding pain had faded, so though Tim was aching and freezing and terrified, he wasn't going down without a fight.

“Otis, come on, now, I've still got one more riddle, hurry it up!”

“You hurt the kid, Rat-bastard, and I'll drown you in fucking rat poison!”

Ratcatcher started going around Tim rather than towards him, staying out of range of his increasingly sloppy strikes. His arms were burning, he kept having to lift them higher to stop the water from slowing him down, but he didn't dare lower the weapon, even to turn himself around. He could still hear Ratcatcher splashing closer.

Closer.

As the ripples shoved Tim from behind, he drove the staff backwards over his head, feeling the collision shock through his arms as he heard a crack and a howl.

And then the staff was ripped out of his hands.

And then there was furious, snapping fire in the back of his knee, and Tim choked on foul water as his leg crumpled underneath him.

“WHAT ARE YOU FUCKING DOING TO HIM?”

The waves were rushing at Tim's throat, but he couldn’t raise himself up. His left knee erupted in fresh agony when he so much as twitched it.

“I'm not doing anything, Otis is walking away, and Robin is… well, he's… Tell ya what, answer this one last super easy riddle and I'll turn off the water altogether, as an apology. How's that sound?”

“Like another goddamn fucking lie, you asshole.”

“Ouch - fair, but ouch - but this one is really gonna be worth it to me, you'll see, here, I'll ask it and then you can decide if you wanna trust me or not. Here it is, here:

I am the Batman's worst mistake,

The ghoul that haunts his days and nights.

I am Robin's greatest fear,

The shadow over his past, present, and future.

I wear a Red Hood.

But who am I?”

Tim sobbed. 

“Jack Napier,” Bruce said immediately. “It's one of his names, but he has another, H-Hood–”

“If Riddler wanted two Joker aliases, he would have fucking asked for it!” Jason snapped.

“True,” Riddler hummed.

Tim craned his head back, trying to force his hitching breaths to even as the water dissolved the tears from his cheeks. He could barely make out Riddler actually moving the lever, slowing the water by some useless fraction. But he knew it was too late.

“B- B-, I–” 

He swallowed and coughed. He had to speak louder, or they'd never hear him. He had to tell them… He was going to drown, Tim knew, no matter what Jason said next. But he couldn't– He wanted–

He didn't want his last words to be taunting a villain. He wanted them to comfort his family.

“B! I l- lo–”

“Just hold on!” Bruce begged. He was crying too. “Robin, hold on, we're almost–”

“ALMOST ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH!”

“--ve you. Hood–”

“Hood, y-you can't tell him– Robin, please, God–”

“Come on, the real question here is do you really want to save Robin? I mean, I thought that'd be rhetorical, but–”

“-- I f-forgi–”

“Rhet– Oh, you fucking bastard. You fucking– How the hell did you figure it out?”

“What?”

Riddler was cackling.

“We all already know,” Jason hissed. “Well, then, fucking fine, if this is what you want, asshole, then fucking have it! I AM JASON TODD!”

All sound cut into incoherent chaos as the water rose above Tim's ears. He couldn't believe he'd heard what he just did. If he did hear it. If it wasn't a hallucination he'd invented so he could tell himself he wasn't going to die.

He squinted up through his tears at the blurry Riddler. It looked like he was pulling a lever.

But the water was brushing Tim's lips, and nothing stopped on a dime. He gasped in one last breath as the water closed over his face, by nothing and yet too far to break through.

He waited, lungs starting to burn. In mere seconds the panic was upon him, reminding him he couldn't breathe, that every instant air got further away, even if he could have moved without screaming and killing himself faster.

No air. No air, fire in his throat and chest instead, why did dying have to hurt so much, he couldn't fucking breathe, he needed air, he had to get up–

Blinding, unendurable agony.

Then everything went black.

Chapter Text

When Tim woke up, the world was a haze of pain. A haze in general, really. His head was fuzzy and spinny, and he wasn't sure why. He sobbed, and the one band of comforting warmth around his hand tightened.

"Tim," murmured a familiar voice.

"Bruce?"

Tim’s voice was scratchy and rough, and his throat felt... strange. He couldn't say anything else, but the grip left his hand, and a minute later he felt arms carefully wrapping around him, letting him hide his face against soft cotton as fingers stroked through his hair.

"Oh, sweetheart."

Tim tried to reach up, hold onto Bruce, but only his right arm moved. His left twinged and halted, and he stopped crying from surprise when he realized his arm had been set in a sling.

"Dislocated shoulder and fractured ulna," Bruce said quietly. "They just wanted to make sure you rest it."

"They?"

Tim blinked open his eyes, looking first at Bruce's tear-stained, pale face, then around the room that was not the cave medbay, nor Leslie's clinic.

It was all beiges and whites and a slight amount of gray-green, sleek and sterile, but larger than most hospital rooms he'd seen. Under the window, which showed the smoggy Gotham night sky, sat an uncomfortable-looking couch. A TV hung on the wall across from Tim, blank and black, and behind Bruce was a half-open curtain, just showing the open door to the bathroom.

Tim realized he wasn't wearing a mask, or his suit. Just a thin, scratchy hospital gown.

He swallowed hard and whispered, "Why am I here?"

"You..." Bruce's face pinched. "You needed more help than we or Leslie could give you."

Yes, Tim was sure he had. After drowning and breaking and being eaten alive and having his leg stuck in that awful trap for so long it was still hurting...

Tim went very still.

He remembered how bad it had looked. How mangled and bloody. How surely it was going to get infected by the scummy water. How much he'd been thrown and yanked around. How terrified he'd been that...

His head pounded; he felt dizzy.

Bruce's red-rimmed eyes. Hospital beige. You needed more help than we could give you.

Tim's heart was beating too fast. Something was beeping. Nausea rose in his throat.

"Tim?"

Tim clenched the fabric of Bruce's shirt in his right hand, as if it could keep him steady when he turned his head to see that the blankets laid over his legs did not rise and fall to the same heights. That the blankets over his right leg simply flowed down and leveled off just past his knee. He startled as the pain in his left leg flared up, as if it was still caught in the trap. But it couldn't be. Because when Tim mustered the courage to pull back the blankets, the lower part of his leg was gone.

Tim whipped his head back towards Bruce, hiding his face against his father's chest as the ragged sobs burst out. Bruce's arms instantly closed around him once more, tight and grounding, heavy hand protecting the back of his head.

"I'm so sorry, Tim," he whispered.

"Why does it still hurt?"

"I don't know, Tim, I... I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

“Make it stop!"

Bruce kept apologizing uselessly as Tim wept and wailed, the force of his crying making the rest of his body ache. The oxygen tube stung his nose, and Tim pawed at it, but Bruce took his hand and laced their fingers together, murmuring another I'm sorry and trying to urge Tim to breathe as the beeping got louder.

Commotion by the door. Several intimidating-looking people strode into the room, seemingly on a mission. Tim cut off his crying with a hiccup, clutching Bruce's hand impossibly tight.

White coat. Colorful Peanuts scrubs. Less colorful polka-dot scrubs. Doctor and nurses. Safe.

One of the nurses gently reached over and reapplied the tape that was peeling from Tim's finger, then replaced her hand with Bruce's. Tim could see all three of the staff relax as the beeps evened out. The nurses offered sad smiles and filtered out of the room leaving him, Bruce, and the doctor, closing the door behind them. Bruce rubbed his thumb over Tim's knuckles, steady and comforting, as the doctor stepped closer. Tim eyed him warily as he took a seat on the uncomfortable hospital chair.

"Hello, Tim."

He had a long face, but the wrinkles on it indicated he smiled a lot. His hair had probably been dark and curly once, but there wasn't much substance or color left in it. Tim supposed that this was the surgeon that chopped his…

He gave an involuntary shudder and shoved the thought away. 

"I'm Dr. Lowell," he said gently. "Can you tell me your name and date of birth please?”

Tim narrowed his eyes at the doctor, trying to muddle through why this man would want that information. His mind unhelpfully suggested that it was all some trick to expose his secret. Expose Robin, and from there the whole family. He knew someone had been after that. He remembered... Who am I...

"Tim," a quiet voice prompted.

Tim blinked, turning his face to Bruce, and dimly registering the gentle circle pattern being traced against his back, grounding him in the blank hospital room, and reminding him that the doctor was waiting on an answer.

“Tim?" he said uncertainly. He thought the riddle had been-- but no, this was a doctor in a hospital. Name and date of birth. "Tim Wayne-Drake. And, um..."

His mind unhelpfully left his birthday just out of reach. Turning to Bruce, he silently begged for help.

Bruce gave a slightly hysterical chuckle and recited Tim's birthday. Dr. Lowell confirmed by checking Tim's wristband, and asked Bruce about allergies, which was good, because Tim couldn't have remembered them if he tried. He closed his eyes, hoping Dr. Lowell would leave soon so Bruce could take Tim home. Maybe... maybe at the manor, everything would just... just be right again, and all the panic, all the pain, all the... All of it could just be a distant memory. Or better, a dream.

"Hey, Tim?" Dr. Lowell said. "I know that everything is super confusing and overwhelming right now, but can you look at me please? I need to check you out and redo your dressing, but then I can let you rest. Can you look at the pictures for me and tell me what you're feeling?”

Tim reluctantly opened his eyes, brows knitting together at the sight of the face scale doctors showed to really little kids and people who couldn't communicate. Tim wasn't a baby. But he was too tired to explain that though this was absolute hell it was nowhere near the ninth circle of having his leg in the trap, so he nodded and reached out to tap the orange frowning face above the number nine.

“Do you want Dad out of the room while we do the assessment?” Dr. Lowell asked kindly, and though Tim was incredibly glad that he asked, and asked Tim, not Bruce, he latched onto Bruce's shirt again and said breathlessly, "No, I want him to stay."

“That won't interfere at all, will it?" Bruce asked.

“It won't interfere with anything.”

Tim tried to pay attention as Dr. Lowell poked and prodded and asked him questions, but the world kept growing fuzzier and farther away. Between one blink and the next, Dr. Lowell was standing to go, with a promise that the nurse will be in soon with pain meds, and that those will help with not only this 'phantom limb pain' thing, but also the 'referred pain' and Tim's murderous headache. 

"So..." Tim squinted at the foot of the bed, still gripping Bruce's shirt and leaning into the gentle circles Bruce was rubbing against his back. "It'll stop? Hurting?"

Bruce made a slightly strangled sound. "It... The medicine will make it better, y-yes."

"Yay," Tim murmured, laying his head on Bruce's shoulder and closing his eyes against the awful, rounded-off end of his leg. He felt Bruce tug the blankets back over his lap. "And then we can go home?"

"I..."

But before Bruce could answer, Tim was already asleep.

This time when Tim woke up, it was to voices, and not quite as much dizzy agony. There wasn't much less confusion though, because the phrase 'oil is the top of the ship' had absolutely no meaning that Tim could divine.

"Why would that be, exactly?" came in Barbara's wry, tired voice.

"Because it literally floats on top of water, duh," Steph said. "Also, it's literally less dense, meaning it's the one that stopped pining and did something with its feelings, ergo, the commanding top of the couple."

"Water doesn't have feelings?" Dick said.

An outraged gasp. "We are like ninety percent water, Richard, are we not? Are you saying we don't have feelings?"

"We're more like sixty to seventy percent water."

"Stop sinking my ships, Babs."

"What?" Tim croaked, blinking open his eyes to squint at bright sunlight and pinked faces.

"I'm trying to explain to Babs and Dick that water and oil are not in fact un-mixable but that they're enemies who haven't yet become lovers. One day-- Tim!"

Steph's eyes widened as she turned to really look at him, her face breaking out into a smile belied by the dark shadows across it. "You're awake!"

"I guess."

Tim frowned at the large, blank hospital room enclosing him. Steph sat perched on the arm of the grey-green couch, Cass cross-legged on the cushion below her, and Alfred beside her, eyes closed and head leaned back to rest against the wall, although now he was stirring. Barbara in her wheelchair was at an angle to them, facing towards Tim. Dick sat on the bed next to Tim, holding his hand. Bruce Tim half lay on, pressing close against the arm that wrapped around his shoulders. There was a leather jacket over the back of the empty chair which looked too big to belong to Dick, but Tim couldn't think of anyone who was missing.

"How are you feeling, Timmy?" Dick asked softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Ow," was the best answer Tim could think of.

One side of Dick's mouth smiled. But not the other side. And not his eyes.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I can imagine."

Bruce made a soft sound and shifted. He lifted the hand not resting on Tim's shoulders to rub at his face, asking, "Tim?"

"He's awake," Babs said softly.

Her face looked more drawn and pensive than the others'. A strange sort of sad Tim didn't recognize. She offered him a smile as strange as Dick's.

"What do you remember?" she asked.

Tim stared at her blankly. What did she mean, 'what did he remember?' Tim remembered a lot of things. Like that she was allergic to shellfish and Dick would probably die if he ate peanuts but still begged for Tim's Halloween Reese's cups, and that Alfred made awesome crepes but terrible waffles, and that Jason's library card number was 2900834567 but Tim wasn't allowed to reserve anger management books for him because he'd probably end up dead in a gutter for it--

But... no... that couldn't be right. Because Tim remembered Jason yelling... remembered his voice cracking... He's a fucking teenager-- Yes, boo-hoo...

Tim's breath stuttered, and Dick's and Bruce's holds immediately tightened protectively.

That's what Babs meant. 

"I remember tracking R-riddler," Tim whispered. "I... I stepped in a, a trap..." Searing, agonizing pain. "And then..." Ratcatcher. Riddler. The pit filling with water as they asked riddle after riddle... "Dro-drowning... And..." Who am I? "Ja-Jason..." Leather jacket on an empty chair. "Where's Jason?"

Tim opened his eyes and looked around wildly, searching for a broad frame, white hair, green eyes, he'd given up his name--

"Where is Jason!"

He grabbed Bruce's shirt, heart racing, hardly hearing the voices talking all over him, half panicked and half crooning.

"Did Riddler--"

"Jason is fine!" 

Tim gulped in air, trying to follow the steady expand-contract rhythm of the chest under his hand, blinking to clear the spots from his vision. Bruce's face came into focus, open and worried.

"That's it, son," he murmured. "Keep breathing."

"Jason is fine," Dick repeated. "And Riddler..."

Tim glanced to him, stomach twisting at the uncertainty in his expression. He looked around at the others, all equally uncomfortable, and felt panic spike again at the thought they hadn't gotten him, he was still out there, he was going to come back--

"Edward Nygma is dead."

Tim gaped at Alfred, the one stolid face in the room, like the words that had just left his mouth weren't those of the most shocking relief Tim had ever been given.

"And Otis Flannegan suffered extreme head trauma during his capture, making it improbable to impossible that he will ever regain high-level brain function such as planning and memory. Neither you, nor Jason, nor anyone in our family or city, have anything to fear from them again."

A sob burst out. Tim didn't even understand why, but in a minute, he was wailing, turning to hide against Bruce's chest.

"It's alright, Tim," Bruce whispered. "You're safe. You're safe."

And then another pair of arms wrapped around him, another voice promised, "They're never gonna hurt you again, Timmy," and then Tim was completely encompassed in arms and faces and gentle kisses against his forehead and hair, half a dozen voices whispering you're safe's and i love you's, and it's gonna be alright's.

Tim wasn't sure whether to really believe them or not. He still remembered pulling back the blankets and seeing nothing. He still remembered pain and terror. But maybe they were right. Maybe... He was so tired, eyes stinging... Maybe when he woke up...

Tim was sick of the hospital. He wanted to leave.

It wasn't that the staff was unkind (they weren't) or the food was bad (though it was) or even that it was boring to the point of madness (because at least he had his laptop now).

It was that it was starting to feel like he'd be there the rest of his life. It was that his PT was focusing all on Tim's upper body, talking about wheelchairs. It was that his OT, who at least was talking about prosthetics, wouldn't answer when he asked how long it would take to run and jump again.

And it was that he missed his family. He understood they had to go back to their jobs and homes, but spending time with them - hospital staff far away - was the only way Tim could feel like he wasn't so broken the only thing left was to throw him away.

He didn't need two legs to watch animes with Cass and cackle over the fanfiction tags they were too scared to open. He didn't need to run or walk to help Steph with her homework as she ranted about all the gossip at college and they shook their heads over her pining classmates. He didn't need to stand to play video or board or card games with Dick, whose smile was almost as bright as ever. He didn't need to move at all to hear Alfred read aloud from Agatha Christie or Arthur Conan Doyle, or to melt in Bruce's arms and listen to him tell stories about all his travels.

Bruce was still around, of course, day and night, unless Alfred bullied him into going as far as the penthouse to shower and sleep on an actual bed for a few hours. Usually someone else was there, too. At the very least, Tim was never alone beyond the space it took someone to run to the cafeteria or library downstairs.

In all this week though, he still hadn't seen Jason.

He'd figured out that Jason must be the owner of the leather jacket he'd seen, but not where he had been all day, nor why he had come or left.

Well. Tim did have a guess.

I am Jason Todd. 

Jason had said that for Tim. To save Tim, or try to. And even though Riddler was dead now and Ratcatcher would never remember or know what to do with Jason's name, it was a hell of a trade to give your identity -- quite possibly your life -- and rescue no more than a remainder of a person you didn't much like to begin with. It wasn't even a trade, really. It was more like a waste.

In twenty years of there being a Batman and eighteen years of there being a Robin, no villain had taken an identity by force. There were those that figured it out, or those who already knew, but never had there been a deliberate revelation based on violence. Not until Tim. And luckily the villains couldn't do anything with it now, and luckily it was Jason, who was the hardest out of anyone to trace back to the others, but still... That one sentence had put the entire family's lives at risk.

And it was all because Tim hadn't been even a little more careful, or a little bit stronger.

He couldn't even blame Jason for being too disgusted to look at him.

But still... it hurt.

The water was rising. Rising and rising fast. Tim struggled, trying to push himself up, crying at the burning in his leg, as the current shoved and made everything move, and then he tasted iron and looked down to see the lower half of his leg tear away--

"Tim. Tim. Tim, it's a bad dream, wake up, kid!"

Riddler was laughing, someone was shouting, Tim thought he might be screaming--

"Robin!"

He gasped, blinking at the dark, flailing around for--

"Bruce!"

"Bruce isn't here right now."

A deep voice, not entirely familiar, but gentle, calming.

"He stepped out, but he's coming back, ok, kid? Can you try to breathe slower?"

Tim's hand was pressed to someone's chest, and he tried to copy the way it contracted and expanded, feeling the tightness in his own chest ease, and the dizziness fade away. His leg still hurt, but it was no longer the blinding agony of being torn off; just the dull throb of a still-healing wound. He blinked, looking up from his hand to the person's face, seeing vaguely-glowing green eyes.

"Just a dream, Tim," Jason Todd murmured.

"Jason?" Tim said slowly, wondering if he wasn't still dreaming. "What are you doing here?"

Jason's face pinched. "I'll go get Bruce."

He let go of Tim's hand, pulling back, but Tim yelped, "Wait!" before he could leave. Jason turned back.

"I didn't mean-- I just--" Tim squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. "Just... thank you. For, for what you did. I... I'm sorry I... I'm sorry."

"The fuck are you sorry for?" Jason asked slowly, brows pinched.

"You were... you could have been... You gave up your name. Because of me. I, I put you in dang--"

"God above, kid, no!" Jason shook his head, expression twisting further. "How do you even-- No. No, kid, Tim, I put you in--"

He swallowed hard, opening his mouth twice before whispering, "I thought I'd fuckin' killed you."

Tim blinked. "We are talking about..." He had to pause and run the math. "Last week, right? Because that was, that was R-riddler."

Jason shook his head. Suddenly instead of confused, he looked... frankly miserable.

"Riddler took you 'cause of me," he said, no longer meeting Tim's eyes. "It was never about you or Bruce, he-- I fucked up. I still... I have a guess how, but I don't know-- But he guessed who I was, or found it out. Everything he did was a big, fucked-up show to confirm it. He said it himself: 'It's a rhetorical question, we all already know.' I didn't realize until it was too late... Fuck, kid, I'm the one who's sorry."

Tim was quiet. He... He understood all the words and all the sentences separately, but what they meant as a whole...

"So you're not... mad at me?"

Jason laughed, but the sound was empty. "Not in the least."

Silence descended, tenuous and uncomfortable. Tim struggled to parse through everything Jason had said. He still didn't know... The jacket on the empty chair made sense if Jason were angry and dragged to visit by Bruce or Alfred, but not with... this.

"Why--" he started, as in the same breath Jason began, "Tim, I'm--"

They both cut off, glancing away. Tim tugged at the sheets, wishing for lint he could rip at just to have something to do. 

"You go ahead," he muttered.

Jason sighed. Tim glanced up as he came closer, then gave the side of the bed a single pat when Jason hesitated. The bed creaked a bit as Jason sat down, so far on the edge he might well fall off with a good startle.

It almost seemed like he was trying not to crush a leg Tim no longer had.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "This is... This is my fault." He shook his head and swallowed hard. "After all the shit I gave Bruce about letting me die for his battles, you... I let you... get... hurt for mine."

"Jason," Tim started.

"I don't-- I'm so--"

"Don't say you're sorry," Tim snapped, "don't you fucking say sorry to me one more time."

Jason finally looked at him, eyes wide in confusion and wet with tears. He opened his mouth and closed it, and Tim felt an awful surge of too many feelings to name.

"I need you to stop using me like your, your own sick punishment," he said shakily. "And stop acting like I'm collateral damage in some big thing you've got going on over my head. Ok, I chose to be Robin, same as you, I knew what could happen, and I've fought just as many battles of my own! So this happened, and it sucks, and it hurts, and I don't know if I'm ever gonna make it on patrol again, but it could have happened if you were still dead and it could have happened if you were right next to me, so stop fucking saying it's your fault, because victim isn't the only fucking part of me that's left!"

The chair with the jacket was empty -- Jason was always absent -- for the same reason that Bruce had taken down all the pictures of Jason in the manor. He couldn't stand to look at Tim. And when Tim thought he was resentful, he understood, but there was no excuse for Jason to treat him like a corpse.

"I lost twenty-eight bones," he continued bluntly, and Jason flinched. "But that's only thirteen percent of my skeleton. And I lost eighteen muscles, but that's hardly three percent. You know what I didn't lose?"

Jason slowly shook his head. Tim raised his arms and waved his hands. "My hands. Arms, shoulders." He kicked his good leg and added, "One complete leg. Any major organs. My head. Brain function. My life. Yeah, everything is going to be different for me, and no, I don't know what it all looks like, and yes, I'm scared, but I'm not a write-off. I'm going to keep doing whatever the fuck I want to do, including being Robin. I just have to do it differently now. So don't feel sorry for me, and don't say I'm some horrible tragedy that's all your fault."

Jason kept staring, eyes a bit red. But he nodded.

"You're a brave kid, Tim," he said hoarsely.

Tim shrugged one shoulder. His face was a bit warm, and he didn't know if it was from the lingering anger or the compliment.

"Dick calls me stubborn."

A short laugh escaped Jason, but it wasn't as harsh as before. "He's one to fuckin' talk."

Tim raised his eyebrows, tilting his head. Jason managed to smile.

"Did no one tell you about the limeade incident?"

Tim's eyes widened. To this day, no one had said a word to indicate their was a limeade incident, except that everyone lunged to keep Dick from seeing anything green and citrus at the grocery store.

"Spill."