Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night was cold and calm, patrol had been mostly uneventful, beating up a few low leveled thugs here and there. Bruce was just helping a working girl to the bus stop after some creeps were following them when Oracle patched in to the coms.

“B,” O’s voice filtered through, “Possible League of Assassins spotting near the docks.” 

“Hn.” Fighting the League was never fun. Honestly, if Ra’s had another cliche evil plan, Bruce was not sitting through his evil monologues. 

“I’ve already alerted Nightwing and Red Hood, they should be there in 5 minutes.”

“Thanks, O.”

Begrudgingly, Bruce waited. Fighting assassins without backup was never a good idea. (Bruce learned that the hard way. Alfred had given him quite the earful while treating his stab wound, and Bruce had been too scared to fight assassins without backup ever since.)

“Batman.” Nightwing dropped down near Bruce with a cheerful smile and over the top flip, accompanied by Red Hood. Hood flipped his guns. Bruce gave them both a nod and then they were off, racing towards Gotham harbor. 

“Ready to kick some ninja ass?” Jason said, already grinning.

“Language.”

“You're such a buzzkill, old man.”

Bruce breathed in the cool air, breathed out, feet pounding across the rooftops, the steady thwip, thwip, thwip of the grapple calming his nerves.

After Jason had died, things had been…rough. But they had managed to settle their differences and get Jason back to live at the manor, though he continued being Red Hood. As a compromise, Bruce wouldn’t poke his nose in Jason’s business, and let him rule Crime Alley. He was just too grateful to have his Jaylad, his son back. So now Red Hood partnered with them on particularly difficult Rogues, or in this case, the League.

They reach Gotham Harbor, the stink of the water permeating through the air. The shadows feel different, more deadly, the telltale sign something was wrong. Sure enough, a knife whizzes past Bruce’s ear, embedding in the wall behind him with a dull thud. And the shadows moved, assassins (ninjas?) dropping down from above them with quiet grace.

Hood grins, obviously itching for a fight. Nightwing’s escrima sticks flash, his body moving with lethal grace. Two assassins engage with him, and Nightwing exchanges blows with them, a flurry of blue and black. Red Hood comes in, guns blazing, shooting kneecaps and elbows, trying to keep it non-lethal, obviously for Bruce’s sake. 

Bruce’s gauntleted fist connects with another assassin, knocking them out cold. He’s barely winded as he takes another one down, and another, and another, and another.

Soon, almost all of the assassins are subdued, except for one. A tiny shadow of lethal grace. Steel blue eyes stared up at him from underneath a dark hood.

Bruce paused.

That. Is. A. Whole. Child.

He couldn’t be older than 10, eyes sharp and cold, moving with the grace of a seasoned assassin. The child assassin moved into a defensive stance, his weight perfectly distributed, bo staff snapping out. He was calm, there was no tension, no panic at facing off three men way older and heavier than him.

Protect. His instincts scream. protectprotectPROTECT. 

This one's mine. Bruce thought to himself. He didn’t know why, but the way the child moved made something in his heart twist. 

Nightwing and Hood have obviously come to the same conclusion as Bruce, seeing as Nightwing lowers his escrima sticks, and Jason slowly sheaths his guns and unclasps his helmet.

Jason smirks at Bruce, mouthing, “Already drawing up the adoption papers?”

Nightwing snorts.

The child makes no move to attack, still holding his defensive position, and when he speaks, his voice is terrifyingly calm. 

“We can go our separate ways.” He says, voice ice cold. “And I won’t hurt you.”

Jason whistles, “Kid's got nerve.” 

“Easy,” Bruce said quietly, lifting his hands out in surrender. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

The kid’s gaze flicks between them—assessing. He noted their spacing, their angles, the exits behind him. He was thinking in terms of combat, escape vectors, threat levels. He shouldn’t have known those things. He was ten.

And Bruce knows, he knows…They could go their separate ways. Batman doesn’t hurt children, and they could just…leave. But the idea of this child going back to Ra’s, because surely, he will…makes something inside him crack. Because Ra’s is a monster, and that’s the truth. He hurts kids, he turns them into soldiers, and Bruce refuses, refuses to let this boy go back to that place, with blood and broken bones and not a single shred of kindness. He can feel the weight in this child’s eyes, those beautiful blues too old for someone their age. And he knows, knows, that Ra’s had done something to him, broke something in him, and damn that made him want to rip that man to pieces.

He won’t let this one go.

Apparently his children think the same, if the look he shared with Dick and Jason said anything.

“Hey, kiddo,” Nightwing purposely relaxes his posture, using his victim voice. All soft and soothing and round edges, “What’s your name?”

“...Tim,” The boy says hesitantly, eyes darting between them.

Bruce’s raw heart splits farther. Tim. Such a small name for such a small boy.

“Well, Tim,” Nightwing said, “You can come with us. We won’t hurt you, okay?”

The boy didn’t answer. His gaze flicked between them, those sharp eyes calculating angles, exits, escapes. Bruce could see his younger self mirrored in those eyes, those steel gray eyes that were probably more scared than Tim was letting on. 

Then he moved.

He was a blur.

He feinted left, pivoted right, and launched himself up and over the wall, staff whirling.

“Nightwing!”

Dick was already there, flipping forward, blocking the exit with a kick that would’ve knocked an adult twice his size off balance — but the kid blocked it, spinning his staff and redirecting the momentum with shocking precision. He didn’t fight like a child. He fought like someone who’d trained for years.

Jason moved next, grabbing for the staff. The kid twisted, hooking Jason’s arm and slamming his weight into his elbow. Jason hissed, stumbling back — not from pain, but from shock.

“Damn, he’s good!” Jason barked, half in pain, half in disbelief.

Nightwing recuperated fast, slid in low, escrima sticks catching the bo staff mid-spin. Sparks danced as aluminum met wood.

The boy ducked, sweeping Nightwing’s legs, and followed it up with a sharp jab to the ribs. Not enough to break anything — just enough to make Dick grunt. He’s pulling his hits.

Bruce’s breath hitched.

He’s trained, but he’s not trying to kill them. And didn’t that break his heart. Such a young boy, who was trained to be a ruthless murderer, but still had a softness, compassion, in him. His weapon of choice, a non-lethal bo staff, spoke volumes.

The kid turned to run again, but Nightwing dropped from the ceiling in front of him, rolling to his feet. 

“Kid—don’t!”

The staff swung. A flash of wood. Nightwing ducked, instincts fast, but the end of it clipped his shoulder. Dick hissed, but he didn’t retaliate. The unspoken message was clear: he wouldn’t hurt Tim.

“Come on,” Dick said softly, between hits, “you don’t really want to go back to him.”

The boy didn’t falter. His expression was unreadable.

Jason lunged from behind, trying to sweep his legs. The kid jumped, twisting midair, landing on Jason’s back and using it as a springboard to away, lithe body sprinting faster as he tried to escape.

“Shit!”

Bruce moved before he thought, cape billowing, intercepting mid-leap. His gauntleted hand caught the staff mid-swing, stopping it cold.

The boy froze, muscles straining.

Blue eyes met blue eyes. Mirrors.

Tim’s eyes were calm, but Bruce could see the terror hidden in it. Like a storm brewing on the horizon of a calm ocean. After all, Tim was a child. A child. Fighting three grown men. Bruce’s eyes were calm, and he tried to communicate everything he couldn’t say with it.

You are safe. Please let me help.

Just as fast, the moment broke. 

Bruce grabbed the bo staff with one hand and it clattered to the floor. Tim tensed, but Dick and Jason were already there, fanned out in a loose circle around him.

Tim was surrounded, and he knew it too. But even now, his eyes were hard and calm, all traces of previous terror vanished like mist in the wind. There was something unshakable and determined in his expression, and it made Bruce oddly nervous.

“Please,” Bruce said, low, careful, “We just want to help.”

Tim didn’t falter. “You’re lying.”

“No.”

“I serve Ra’s al Ghul. I'm not going with you.”

“I cannot allow you to return back to Ra’s. Please, kiddo. I know he’s hurting you.”

Tim stiffened, and his eyes flashed. “You don’t know anything about my lord, you old fool. Don’t you dare talk about him that way.”

Jason snickered, “You gonna let that slide, old man?”

Bruce shot him a look.

“Hey,” Dick cut in smoothly, obviously trying to keep the peace. “You look hungry, why don’t we get something to eat. We won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”

Tim hissed, “You must be stupid if you think I’ll accept food from the likes of you. If you had half a brain cell left, you would let me leave. I am trained against the art of torture, you won’t be able to get any information out of me.”

“The fuck you mean we’re going to-”

“Oh kid, we’d never-”

“Tim, never in a million years-”

Their three voices chorused over each other, Bruce felt slightly sick that Tim thought they would, they would-

“Be quiet!” Tim shouted. He was panicking now, his breathing fast and hands clenched in tiny fists. “I refused to fall for these mind games of yours. Stop lying! I know your going to— I know— I—”

He straightened, his expression freezing over, becoming icy once more. There was a coldness, a resolve in his expression that gave Bruce the shivers. Those blue eyes were dead, cold, and utterly resigned. 

“You won’t capture me alive.” He hissed.

Bruce froze.

No. No, no, no.

He’d heard that tone before. From spies. From war prisoners. From people who believed death was loyalty.

 There was a quiet crack.`

Like a pill breaking between teeth.

Like the sound of a tiny bird’s body breaking.

Like the sound of Bruce’s heart splitting.

Never before had he heard a sound that struck more terror in him. Bruce knew that sound. 

A cyanide pill.

“NO!” Bruce screamed, every ounce of horror, of desperation, bleeding into his voice.

Dick moved. Faster than Bruce had ever seen him move. There was a fierce desperation in it: Nightwing, saving another broken soul through sheer force of will, through sunshine and grins and hugs as if that could shield those jagged pieces underneath. 

Dick lunged forward, grabbing Tim’s face, forcing his jaw open. The kid fought like a trapped animal, thrashing, trying to swallow. 

Tim’s eyes were blown wide with panic, glassy with tears and resignation. He fought Dick with a desperation that Bruce had only seen in older souls, stagnant with the weight of the world on their shoulders. 

Jason and Bruce grabbed his arms, pinning them. He was strong. Too strong. Desperation gave him that strength. A tiny bird fighting before falling.

Bruce could hear the panic in his own voice. “Get it out—get it out!”

Dick jammed his fingers into the kid’s mouth, fishing. “Got it—no, he—he swallowed some—!”

“Medical!” Jason shouted into his comms, voice breaking. “Fucking- Damnit! Prep the Batcave for medical!”

The boy gagged, struggling. Dick didn’t stop—he forced his fingers down the kid’s throat, murmuring, voice shaking. “Shh. Shh, it’s okay. Just let it out. Come on, kid, come on.”

The boy convulsed—and vomited. Thin bile, streaked with something chalky white. Bruce felt his knees nearly give out in relief.

Jason had his arms wrapped around the boy’s torso, holding him upright. The kid was shaking, gasping for air, muttering weakly, no… no… His voice was small. Terrified.

There was no calmness, only sheer terror in his eyes.

“No….no- no-” Tim was sobbing, “Ra’s- he’ll…no- no. Help- stop….Stop-”

Bruce gave Dick a nod, and with shaking hands, Dick reached into his belt, pulling out a sedative, gently injecting it into his neck.

Tim jerked, gasping, then went slow. His eyes fluttered, before sliding shut. 

Bruce didn’t even realize he was shaking until he looked down and saw his own hands trembling around the boy’s small frame. He gathered him up—God, he weighed nothing—and pressed him close, one arm cradling his head, the other under his knees.

He could feel the pulse at Tim’s throat. Weak, like a stuttering, fluttering bird. But there.

He was alive.

“Get the Batmobile ready. ” Bruce said hoarsely. His voice didn’t sound like his own.

Jason was already moving. “On it.”

He’s just a child. Bruce thought. A child who was programmed to die before giving up his loyalty. A child who was programmed to die before being captured.

“You’re safe now,” Bruce whispered softly to Tim, even though he couldn’t hear him. “You’re safe now, I promise. I won’t let you go back to Ra’s ever again.

He gently set Tim in the backseat of the Batmobile. Dick sat down next to Tim, cradling his limp body against his chest, and Jason rode in shotgun.

He didn’t care how long it would take to deprogram Tim, to make him understand that he was not a soldier, not Ra’s plaything.

Because Bruce was never, ever going to let anyone hurt Tim ever again. 

He was family, and Bruce would prove that to him.

Chapter Text

Tim woke to the sound of voices.

“Aww, the Demon brat is keeping watch.”

“Todd, you will be quiet this instant or I will gouge your eyes out. Timothy is sleeping.”

“Admit it, you’re concerned-”

“Of course not! But anyone with half a brain cell would not trust you to take care of him. Father said we must treat him like an abused cat. I will provide him with the utmost care and affection.”

“...I did say that.”

“See? I will take care of him and he will see me as the superior brother.”

“You little shit-”

“Father! Todd is poking at me! Tell him to cease immediately!”

“Boys-”

“Shush! I think he’s waking up.”

Tim groaned, before all memories came flooding back. The vigilantes. The fight. The pill.

Tim bolted up lightning fast, his league training taking over. His arm snapped out, reaching for the bo staff that wasn’t there. His pulse spiked before he forced it back under control. 

Think. Observe. 

He was in what looked like some sort of bedroom. It was nondescript: beige walls, neutral colored decor, sparse except for a bed, drawer, and wardrobe. This made him hesitate for a moment. He was fully expecting to wake up in a cell, shackled, before being tortured for information.

(“Timothy,” Ra’s voice was smooth. He pressed an unassumming white pill into young Tim’s hands. Tim’s solemn eight year old face stared back up at him. “If you are ever compromised or about to be captured, take this pill. It will provide a swift and painless death. Do you understand?” Tim nodded. Ra’s grabbed his jaw, holding it tight, his breath was sour and hot against Tim’s skin as he leaned in close and whispered. “Good.”)

 Tim swallowed the bile that rose to his throat and instead began cataloguing the exits. A window: no locks, as far as Tim could see. Either they were seriously underestimating him, which they probably weren’t, after they fought, or everything was designed in order to feel safe, and not like a prison. That would explain the neutral decor and lack of restraints. Tim’s skin prickled uncomfortably. For some reason, it made him feel more nervous. If he was gagged, restrained, tied up and beaten, at least it was normal. He would know what to do, what was expected. He'd practiced how to get out of those situations at the league hundreds of times. But this change of events made him feel strangely off kilter.

The other exit was the doorway, where a young man was leaning against. He was definitely the snarky man with the guns. He was broad and bulky, extremely muscular, and probably in his early twenties. His eyes were blue, but with an unnatural, greenish tint that Tim would recognize anywhere. So, somehow this man meddled with the Lazarus pit. It would explain the shock of white hair; which, courtesy of, Tim decided to label him Skunkface. 

Sitting close to him was another young man, his smile bright and cheerful. There was no doubt he was Nightwing, they both had this…joy around him that seemed infectious. But the way he held himself set off warning bells in Tim’s head. Somehow, Tim knew he was the most dangerous, if he wanted to be. But at the same time, everything in his stance screamed calm and I’m not going to hurt you. It was frustrating, the way Tim knew this person was dangerous, but at the same time, would never hurt him. 

As soon as Nightwing saw him, he smiled, relief leaking into his voice. “Hey there kiddo, you gave us quite a scare back there.”

Batman-who was obviously the leader of the group, was dressed in loose, casual clothes and looking nothing like the terrifying protector of Gotham. His hair was tussled, his exhaustion betrayed by his stubble and eyebags. Tim had known Batman’s identity for a long time, which was none other than Bruce Wayne, but seeing him like that was still shocking. Tim supposed the only reason Bruce wasn’t in a mask was because Ra’s already knows Batman’s identity.

So Skunkface was Jason Todd and Nightwing was Dick Grayson. It made perfect sense.

What was most surprising was there, with arms propped up on the bed, was a young child looking up at him, no more than eight. His green eyes were sharp, his expression somber and solemn and nothing like an eight year old. 

“Pleased to meet you Timothy, I am Damian Wayne.”

“Hey! How come he gets to be called Timothy and I’m still Grayson!”

Tim didn’t answer, too busy mentally calculating his odds. There were 4 people in the room, soo…not great. Skunkface, Bruce and Nightwing all probably had at least 200, 300 pounds on him, and they were all trained. Tim stood no chance. As for the eight year old…Tim had no doubt he was also trained, though he was sure this Damian person held no chance against him, the thought of fighting a child made something uncomfortable settle into his stomach. Tim gently drummed his fingers against his thigh, it was best to play along for now, figure out an escape later. Tim didn’t want to give his captors any excuse to hurt him. 

“Tim,” Bruce stepped forward, his expression strangely earnest.

“Bruce,” Tim rolled the word on his tongue, feeling it, tasting it. It felt heavy and thick: the weight of too many secrets. Though, Tim supposed, no one would believe him if he said Batman was Bruce Wayne, and Ra’s already knew Batman’s identity. 

“You’re not wearing a cowl.” Tim pointed out slowly.

Bruce leaned forward, his eyes sharp, like they could see through Tim. “No,” He acknowledged, “You deserve a family without masks. You deserve to have a family that will love and take care of you. Let us be that family…please?”

Tim hummed, not deigning to respond. His fingers drummed faster, mind racing. These people obviously needed something, or else they wouldn’t have bothered to capture Tim. They were playing psychological games with him, trying to tantalize him with promises, obviously for a larger purpose.

Because Tim knew. 

There was never kindness without a back stab. 

Everybody had ulterior motives. And perhaps those were the worst of all. Those monsters who hid behind masks and smiles and sickly sweet words, only for the betrayal to sting more: for the hands that cradled always grew dangerous, the smile that seemed innocent always grew sour, the words that praised always grew sharp. Those people were the worst: stomping on one’s trust with the heel of their boots, leaving nothing behind but the splattered blood of one’s heart, dripping, staining red into the floor.

Tim wouldn’t be so naive.

“You’re safe here,” Dick said, kind and gentle.

The solemn boy- Damian?, nodded. “Very, I will stab anyone who tries to hurt you.”

“Jesus,” Jason pinched his nose, “Can we stop with the threats of violence?”

“I was merely trying to indicate that-”

“Most people don’t-”

“Well you are an imbecile, Todd.”

“At least I don’t go around-”

“Boys,” Bruce sighed, looking tired, “Please.”

They both huffed, glaring at each other. Tim frowned thoughtfully, was there perhaps a rift between them that he could manipulate?

“I meant what I said.” Dick was still looking at Tim, his face oddly serious and none of that golden retriever charm, “Nobody will hurt you. You’re not a prisoner.” 

The unspoken, pointed question: Then can I leave?, hung in the air.

Silence.

Tim smiled. Though it was not a happy smile, it was sharp and bitter and full of hard edges and sharp teeth. 

He’d seen this tactic before. Smiles instead of shackles. Gentle words instead of orders. 

He knew how to play this game. 

___________

Tim waited for night to come before he moved.

He strained his ears, closing his eyes and listening. Once he was sure the house was completely silent, that the shuffle of slippers on wood ceased, the very house deep in slumber, before he moved.

His captors haven’t done anything to him, and that was the suspicious part. Bruce had hesitated, and told Tim to tell him if he needed anything, but Tim’s leave me alone vibes must have been very clear, for they left him alone for the rest of the day. 

Tim had flushed the food they gave him down the toilet, even though his stomach was cramped with hunger. He wouldn’t be so stupid as to eat food his kidnappers gave him, which was likely drugged. Tim had also drank from the tap in his bathroom instead of the water they provided him with. Even though it was sealed, Tim knew it was all too easy to tamper with bottled water and make it still look untouched. 

Tim quietly climbed to the window, deftly disabled the alarm (child's play), sliding it open. The fact that he wasn’t restrained, that the window wasn’t even locked was…unsettling, to say the least. It was all wrong. He knew his captors weren’t stupid, they obviously wouldn’t underestimate him, then why were they so dead set on making him believe he wasn’t a prisoner? 

…Must be some sort of psychological tactic. 

Tim slipped out of the window, letting out a quiet sigh. The night was cool, a soft breeze blowing at his face. Adrenaline thrummed in his veins, being so out in the open, so close to freedom.

He would find Ra’s and return to him, easy peasy.

With silent feet, he quietly padded across the lawn, keeping to the shadows, blending in with the very darkness, like he wasn’t there at all. It had been one of the first and most important lessons he’d ever learned: how to blend into the shadows, like a whisper in the wind.

The grass was cool and wet against his bare feet, droplets of water sliding in between his toes. The air smelled like rain and trees and freedom. The Wayne property was large, but Tim could see the gate up ahead. He breathed shallowly, not daring to make a sound. 

Almost there, he could almost taste the freedom-

“Going somewhere?”

The voice came from behind him, calm and maddeningly cheerful.

Tim didn’t yelp.
He made a tactical sound of surprise. A totally different thing (he would never be so childish as to yelp).

His heart pounded in his throat, how, how had they found him already?

He spun, hand reaching for a bo staff that wasn’t there. Somehow, in his moment of surprise, Dick Grayson was already between him and the gate, hands raised in that ridiculous open-palmed posture. “Whoa, easy, kid.”

Tim bolted.

The wind roared in his ears. Tim knew he was fast, years of being trained by the league, of blood and sweat and tears and punishment if he slowed down. His legs pounded, and he willed them to go faster, faster, FASTER, but Dick was older, stronger, and not running on exhaustion and adrenaline.

A hand caught his wrist, another hooked his waist, and before Tim could twist free he was pinned. His breath hitched, muscles going rigid, mind snapping back to a thousand drills and punishments, a hundred ways to get out of this hold-

“Hey. Hey. It’s okay.”

Dick’s voice was soft, steady. He didn’t tighten the hold, just kept Tim’s arms pinned gently against his chest, lowering both of them to the ground.

Dick used his bodyweight to keep Tim pinned, Tim’s mind was bluescreening, and he thrashed, trying to twist out of his hold. 

“Let me go!” Tim snarled, struggling with everything he had. All the league training lost with desperation, with the pure need to escape. Elbows, knees, sharp angles, even going as far to snap his teeth at Dick,  but Dick was 200 pounds heavier and not small and malnourished. 

“Shh, shh, it’s okay.” Dick soothed, and Tim hated that it worked, that the voice made him feel safe. He wouldn’t- He wouldn’t- it was all just manipulation. He hated that Dick’s hold was cruel, didn’t hurt at all, just an iron grip that kept him securely pinned. It would have made more sense for Dick to hurt him, because all Tim knew was harsh touches and cruel punishments.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go back to Ra’s.”

“I’ll kill you!” 

Tim fought until his arms burned and his lungs screamed. He’d been trained to fight until the world went black, but exhaustion hit him fast. His body was still healing, and he was running on fumes, having not eaten in 24 hours. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurred, and finally, finally, he went limp.

When he stopped struggling, Dick said quietly, “You done?”

No answer.

“Okay,” And because Dick was the most evil human on earth, because apparently humiliation was part of the plan- Dick gently picked him up and carried him, one hand under his knees and the other supporting his back.

Tim hated how strong and warm and kind the grip felt. How secure. There was this giant, aching, hole inside him, frozen with ice, that yearned for human contact that didn’t hurt. Something was wrong with him, Tim knew, because no matter how much he tried to stamp down on that part of him who was a terrified little kid who wanted hugs, he couldn’t. 

The dichotomy of it made him want to scream. He wanted someone to touch him, to hold him, but wasn’t it cruel that the only touch he’d ever known was hurt? Wasn’t it cruel that his brain was scared of contact while his body yearned for it with the desperation of a starving man?

Tim let his head rest against Dick’s chest. It was a moment of weakness, that’s all it was. Tim let himself bask in the warmth of Dick’s hold, the warmth, the secureness, like a man eating forbidden fruit. It was wrong. It was so wrong. Ra’s will be disappointed in how quickly Tim succumbed to Stockholm Syndrome. He was sure to be facing punishment because of it later.

Back inside, Dick shared a look with Alfred, communicating wordlessly. Alfred returned with something called hot chocolate.

Dick smiled at him conspiratorially, “I won’t tell Alfred if we add marshmallows.” 

He then proceeded to dump a frankly obscene amount of what looked like cotton balls in the two cups, before topping his off with a mountain of whipped cream.

Alfred was looking at Dick’s cup with mild distaste, and for this Tim could agree. The abomination frankly looked appalling, and even though Tim didn’t know what the cotton balls were, or this “hot chocolate”, he knew no self respecting person would drink it. 

Tim didn’t touch his own cup. It was surely drugged. He did wrap his hands around it though, if only to stop his fingers from drumming with nervousness. If his captors wouldn’t hurt him before, they would for sure hurt him now. 

“Go on,” Dick smiled encouragingly, “It’s not poisoned.”

Tim stared at him.

He shrugged, “Suit yourself.”

Tim set his cup back down, still untouched, clenching his fists nervously. He felt like he was going insane from the anticipation. He wished they would just hurt him and be done with it. He knew the league had hurt him, hurt him badly, for far less, and he had the scars to prove it.

“So,” Tim whispered, eyes down, “Aren’t you going to punish me?”

Dick’s expression twisted, his eyes darkening with grief and pain. 

“Hey, look at me.” Dick said softly, crouching in front of Tim so he could make eye contact.

“Listen to me very carefully. We will never, ever hurt you on purpose, under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

Dick looked at him, his expression completely serious. 

“I don’t know what Ra’s did to you,” Dick spat the name out with vitriol, “But I know he hurt you. It was wrong. Do you understand me? It was wrong. Nothing should ever make a child think he has to die in order to prove their loyalty.” 

Tim didn’t respond. There was a suspicious lump in his throat, thick and cloying, and he didn’t know why he wanted to cry. Ra’s was his lord, and he was loyal. It didn’t matter that his loyalty was beaten and brutalized into him, the thought of- of if what Ra’s was doing was wrong, was incomprehensible. Ra’s was the person who trained him, who hurt him, yes, but only to make him better, stronger. He was valuable to Ra’s, he was needed, and that meant safety. He knew the rules there, and everything made sense.

Tim looked away from Dick, unable to meet his eyes. 

“It’s okay if you don’t believe it.” Dick said softly.

Then, almost as if nothing happened, Dick straightened, his grin returning in full force.

“You gonna drink that?” Dick asked, gesturing to his untouched hot chocolate.

Tim shook his head.

“More for me!” Dick said, and grabbed Tim’s hot chocolate, guzzling it. He smiled at Tim with a chocolate mustache, looking so kind and genuine that the lump grew twice in size.

Tim waited for him to drop dead. He didn’t. Which was inconvenient. 

Tim ignored the lump in his throat, the warmth in his chest, the niggling doubt in his mind.

It's just Stockholm syndrome. Yeah, that’s all it was. Stockholm Syndrome.

Chapter Text

The next week consisted of no more than 27 escape attempts.

…Tim may have underestimated how hard it would have been to escape.

It was so frustrating it made Tim want to cry. Because though his captors never treated him like a prisoner (he was welcome anywhere in the manor), the bats seemed to have a sixth sense whenever he’s escaping.

Somehow, whenever he was close to freedom, almost there, Bruce would slink out of the shadows like a goddamn vampire, or Jason would already be there, a twinkle in his eye as he smirked, saying, “You’re fast, kid.”. Or it was Dick, ever knowing, always relentlessly cheerful.

What always ensued was a scuffle, Jason laughing as they wrestled, Bruce and Dick being annoyingly calm. They never hurt him, and somehow they always won, keeping him pinned until he wore himself out, before carrying him back to the manor. 

Though they never got out unscathed, Tim had prided himself in that fact. When league training didn’t work, when he was outmatched, he was absolutely feral in fighting. He would bite, kick, scratch, do the dirtiest moves he could think of, and Jason, Bruce and Dick all had the scars to prove it. Especially Jason, Tim loved biting Jason, the absolute smugness when he managed to make that brat yelp was unmatched.

The first time Bruce carried him, his arms strong and secure around Tim’s tiny body, Tim tried to ignore the warmth pooling in his stomach, slowly melting the icy hole in his heart. The one that craved someone holding him. Bruce was so warm, the warmth almost intoxicating, and Tim could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest where his head rested. Tim’s eyelids had fluttered shut as he unconsciously nestled closer, drunk on the feeling of safety and someone holding him gently. (Unbeknownst to him, Bruce had noticed, a soft smile spread across his face, that this tiny, hurt boy full of sharp words and jagged edges were perhaps more human than the all of them. That perhaps the boy with haunted eyes and wary looks was warming up to them.)

Tim had later berated himself for his reaction, for that disgusting, pitiful weakness that Ra’s surely would be ashamed of, but somehow, he could never stop himself from savoring the warmth, no matter if it was Jason, Bruce or Dick carrying him.

(And no, it was not his fault if he didn’t fight as hard because of the fact he knew warmth was coming whenever they picked him up…No, he would never.)

Though, he was particularly proud of escape attempt number 13. 

Tim had made it halfway across the property before an annoying voice invaded his senses, 

“Timbo, Timtam, Timberlina, where are you going?”

Tim sighed heavily through his nose, turned around and kneed Jason right in the balls.

Jason made a frankly pathetic sound, a wheeze through his mouth, before crumpling onto the ground in a heap.

“Fuuuuuck, oh my- oh my god. You- you little shit. My- Jesus-”

Jason was panting now, his face contorted in pain. 

Tim smiled smugly, standing over him victoriously. Ha! Lo and behold, the fearsome Red Hood, taken down by a knee to the groin. He poked Jason with his foot, just to humiliate him further, still feeling the surges of victory as he turned and ran again.

He made it ten steps before a small body latched onto him.

Damian was hugging him, his watery eyes looking up at him through thick lashes.

“Ahki, don’t leave. Please.”

Tim hesitated. Was that…was that brother in Arabic? But he wasn’t…Tim stopped that train of thought. He could just push Damian off and run, he could…but…

“Ahki,” Damian gave him the hugest puppy eyes through tear stained lashes, “You must not leave. You must not leave me with these imbeciles. You are the only member of the family, aside from Pennyworth of course, that has functioning brain cells. Please, Ahki.”

Tim swallowed, he could leave now-

“Tim!”

Tim swore, Bruce was running towards them, hair wet like he just got out of the shower. Jason was still a pathetic heap on the ground, wheezing. With a jolt of realization, Tim looked at Damian in betrayal. 

Damian smiled at him smugly, the tears that were just there suddenly gone.

Fuck, the one escape attempt that might have worked, ruined by that little shit. Damian had been stalling, stalling Tim, waiting for Bruce to arrive by using that little adorable face. Tim was going to- Tim was going to kill him. 

“Thanks Damian,” Bruce said, a knowing twinkle in his eye, “I’ll take it from here.” 

He gingerly stepped over Jason, who muttered something like “I’m never going to live this down”.  

Tim, who knew running was futile, but still struggling halfheartedly to keep up appearances as Bruce picked him up. 

He squirmed in Bruce’s grip, looking Damian dead in the eyes, his glare promising death. 

“I will get you back for this,” He hissed venomously, still twisting in Bruce’s grip. 

Bruce’s chest rumbled, and Tim realized- he was chuckling.

In the distance, he could hear more of Jasons’ pitiful whinging.

“Demon brat, stop standing there and laughing. Help me up.”

“Tt, you got what you deserved Todd.”

“Jesus, I thought you were bad, the little fucker just probably killed the rest of my bloodline. And don’t even get me started on Dick, he’ll never, ever let me live this down.”

More sounds of Damian snickering.

“Christ, Stop laughing!” 

Bruce was still grinning, his chest reverberating with laughter as he carried Tim inside. 

_____________

Tim has officially decided that his captors are weird. 

Not only had they never hurt him, they also made it their personal mission to get Tim to eat. 

Tim had refused to eat anything his captors gave them, they were for sure drugged. Ra’s voice hissed in his head constantly, telling him to trust no one, and nothing could make him change his mind, not Dick’s puppy eyes, Jason’s cooking, Damian’s wheedling, or Bruce’s quiet concern. 

Jason seemed especially dead set on feeding Tim his cooking. He made chocolate chip cookies, pasta, casserole, food after food that frankly smelled delicious.

“Please,” Jason whined, holding out pumpkin spiced cookies towards Tim. This was the fiftieth thing he baked today, and Tim dutifully ignored the smell from where he was perched on the couch, reading a book but secretly planning escape attempt number 28. 

“They’re delicious! Pleeeeeeeaaaase,” Jason gave him the hugest puppy eyes. The red hood, the infamous, terrifying Red Hood was standing in front of Tim, with a stained apron and puppy eyes.

“No.” Tim repeated, flat.

Jason frowned, genuine concern twisting in his expression. 

“Cmon, kid. You’re too skinny.” He set the cookies on the coffee table, sitting so close to Tim he was almost on top of him. Tim huffed and scooted away, his captors had no sense of personal space. 

“It’s not drugged,” Jason said, grabbing a cookie and stuffing it into his face. “See? Not dead.”

Tim ignored him, Jason could have built up immunity, the dose could have not been effective because Jason was so much heavier.

And that was how it went, Tim refusing any sort of food his captors gave him. 

He would not fall for their tricks. He ignored the way Bruce’s eyes crinkled with concern whenever he saw him made something eat at his stomach.

On the third day, it was Alfred who approached him. 

“Master Timothy, I require assistance with preparing dinner. Would you be so kind as to help out an old man?”

Tim hesitated, feeling for the trap, but Alfred’s expression was calm and sincere.

“...sure,” Tim agreed hesitantly. 

Alfred gave Tim a soft smile that somehow made it worth it, “Very well, Master Timothy, I appreciate the assistance.” 

And so Alfred directed Tim around the kitchen, giving him the menial tasks of washing and chopping vegetables. They were making lasagna, simple, but the way Dick and Jason talked about it with reverence told Tim that maybe this was a favorite.

While they were talking, Alfred kept up a steady stream of chatter, moving around the kitchen with sure, easy movements, soothing Tim’s rattled nerves. Tim watched everything Alfred did like a hawk, waiting for the sleight of hand, for the tampering with the food. None came, and Tim knew he didn’t miss anything.

Later, during dinner, instead of moving around the food like he always did but never taking a bite, Tim gripped the fork tightly. He could feel the other’s concerned gazes, but they managed to act like nothing was wrong. 

“-and she said she dog-eared the books, can you believe it?”

“Tt, not everyone is as sensitive as you, Todd.”

“That’s a criminal offense!”

“If you feel so strongly about it, give me her information and I will take care of her.”

“Hey! No one is killing any-”

“I think that’s a great idea.”

Tim ignored the conversation, staring at the food. His stomach was aching and cramping painfully, and he was always so dizzy and he hated it. He knew the food couldn’t be tampered with: he’d made it himself. He hesitated, warring with himself, before finally saying fuck it, raising the fork to his mouth, and took a bite. 

It was like the goddamn scene from Ratatouille. 

The flavors were amazing, rich and deep and lovely, dancing on Tim’s tongue. Tim didn’t know why he suddenly wanted to cry again. His family kidnappers always seemed to make him emotional. The single bite had awakened something in him, something ravenous and hungry.

He took another bite, realizing the table was deathly silent.

All conversations had stopped. 

Bruce was looking at Tim with the softest, fondest expression, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at Tim. Dick looked like someone just gave him the moon. Damian was looking properly relieved, Alfred had a knowing smile, and Jason- Jason was staring at him with shock, his mouth hanging open. 

Damian jabbed him harshly on the side.

“Right,” He coughed awkwardly, snapping his mouth closed, “Yeah- uh, yeah. What were we talking about? Something about dog earring pages? Right, uh-”

He looked at Dick and Damian frantically, his expression pleading for help. Dick seemed to be laughing silently, but came to his rescue, and the conversation continued to flow like nothing happened. 

Tim managed to make eye contact with Bruce for a split second before tearing his eyes away, overwhelmed by the sheer love and pride in Bruce’s eyes. His kidnappers kept insisting he was family, and Tim refused to believe that, but how could he deny it when Bruce was looking at him like that?

Tim kept his eyes down and kept on eating his lasagna.

Later, when Jason baked Tim white chocolate macadamia cookies and once again began whining and wheedling, begging him to try it. Tim hesitated, before picking one up and taking a bite. It was perfect, warm and chocolatey and gooey and so, so good.

Jason looked at Tim with so much relief and affection, it somehow made it all worth it.

With a gleeful smile on his face, Jason pounced, wrapping Tim into a hug, squeezing him tight. 

Tim squawked, “Jason! Release me at once!”

“No.” Jason said, nuzzling him closer. “I knew I could finally get you to try.” Tim attempted to knee him in the balls again, but Jason, having learned from his mistake, evaded it expertly. Tim sighed, and relaxed into the hug, unwilling to admit how warm it made him feel.

Later, whenever Tim made dinner with Alfred, no one questioned it. 

_____________

Dick Grayson was evil.

Period. Point Blank. No Question.

Dick Grayson was the most evil human that had ever graced this earth.

Why? Cuddles.

Tim found out the hard way.

______________

The first time it happened, Tim had been creeping down the hall toward the library when Dick came out of nowhere, blue eyes bright, grin wide.

“Gotcha, little brother!” (Tim wished he would stop saying stuff like that. He was a prisoner, they were his captors. They were not family)

Before Tim could dart away, Dick’s arms wrapped around him like steel cables.

“Unhand me!” Tim yelped, writhing, shoving, kicking uselessly against pure muscle. “This is- this is assault!”

“Mm, nah,” Dick said cheerfully, spinning them both and collapsing onto the couch in one smooth move, dragging Tim down with him. “This is a hug. And you need it.”

“Release me!” Tim squirmed desperately in Dick’s grip, biting, kicking, clawing, but Dick was so much older and stronger.

“Help! I will, I will-” 

Dick gently rubbed Tim’s nape, tracing soothing trails up and down his shoulder blades.

Tim melted. 

Completely and utterly melted. Went boneless and limp, a soft sigh escaping him. 

Dick grinned, as if he knew how much Tim loved this. The bastard knew.

“Ohhh,” Dick crooned, tightening his grip as Tim flailed weakly. “There it is. You like this. Don’t lie.”

“I hate you,” Tim muttered furiously into Dick’s shirt, even as his face burned, even as he went pliant in his brother kidnapper’s arms.

“I knew it! I knew you were touch starved!”

“I’m not, you imbecile-” Tim’s protest was cut short, Dick pulling him into a more comfortable position against his chest, playing with his hair. 

Tim’s mind bluescreened with pure happiness. The warmth of someone next to him, holding him gently was intoxicating. Tim tried to will his mind to focus, to pull away from the hold, for Ra’s will be disappointed in this weakness, but the touch was like a drug, and Tim was drunk on it. It was thawing the coldness in him, and the thought of pulling away made him want to cry.

Tim unconsciously nestled closer, and couldn't bring himself to feel mortified. Dick smiled, one hand holding him close, the other gently playing with his hair, running his hand through the luscious locks, gently working out the tangles. 

They must have been there for hours, Tim too lost in a blissful haze to notice. All he cared about was the steady rise and fall of Dick’s chest, the warmth and safety enveloping him, making him feel safe and cared for. 

Tim opened one eye lazily, seeing Damian standing a few feet away from them, an uncertain expression on his face. 

“C’mon Damian,” Dick smiled encouragingly, “Join the cuddle pile.”

“Tt,” Damian turned his nose up, though he looked secretly relieved, “I am only doing this because it is important to provide abused cats with love and affection, thus Timothy must be treated the same.”

Tim’s head snapped up, (was Damian really comparing him to an abused cat?), but a few soothing rubs from Dick had him relaxing again.

Another small body pressed against Tim’s side, and Tim hummed happily, eyes slipping closed, basking in the warmth of two bodies. 

Jason found them, grinned triumphantly and snapped some photos, before joining the cuddle pile.

“No, I refuse to partake in this activity with you, Todd.” Damian sniffed, “Remove yourself at once.” 

“Then why are you doing it with Tim?”

“Tim is the superior brother, and thus must be treated as such.”

Tim stiffened, trying to push himself away from Dick’s grip. Brother, what did Damian mean by brother? No- No, they weren’t- They couldn’t possibly be family. He wished they would stop saying things like that, it was messing with Tim’s head. 

“Shh,” Dick soothed, tracing light motions up and down Tim’s back, holding him closer. “It’s okay.”

Tim found himself relaxing again, against his will.

“This is the worst. I hate all of you.” Tim said.

“Uh-huh,” Jason smirked, “Sure you do.”

Tim glared at him, refusing to answer. 

Every day after that, Tim found himself scooped up, pinned down, dragged into forced cuddles that stretched into hours. And for every second Tim fought, his body always, always melted in the end, soaking in warmth he didn’t want to admit he needed.

Tim hated it. He hated it. He swore he hated it. (He loved it)

_______________

Damian was another monster to be dealt with. He followed Tim around constantly, like a small, eight year old duckling.

A very annoying one. 

Tim had tried very hard to hate him, after that time he foiled his escape attempt. He really, really tried. But it was proving to be quite difficult.

“Tt, you haven’t eaten enough.” Damian said for the fiftieth time, lobbing an orange at his head. Tim caught it with one hand. 

“Damian,” Tim said exasperatedly, “I’m fine.”

“Todd made cookies. They are…acceptable.” Damian grit out the last part as if it physically pained him to say it.

Tim sighed and grabbed a cookie.

______________

“Timothy, I…”

Tim frowned, Damian was uncharacteristically nervous. “What?”

“I made a drawing for you.”

Tim grabbed it. It was beautiful: a lovely sunset in Gotham, the colors captured perfectly, red and pink and gold streaking across the page, obviously made with careful time and consideration.

Tim knew he could say something sharp, hurtful here, and get Damian to leave him alone. The thought of doing it made something sharp and sour pool in his stomach.

“It’s beautiful, Damian,” Tim said, his throat oddly tight, “Thank you.”

“Tt. It is acceptable,” Damian’s face was slightly pink, shifting from foot to foot. 

“You’re welcome, Timothy.”

______________

 “I request you to play a board game with me.”

“Argh, Damian. Stop annoying me.”

“Tt, are you afraid?”

“...how do we play?”

______________

“Tt, you were cheating.”

“...someone’s a sore loser.”

“Humph, I request a rematch. You are the only member in this family that provides me with worthy competition.”

Dick poked his head in. “Ohhh, coming from Damian, that was practically a love confession.”

“Shut up, Grayson. This matter does not concern you.”

____________

By the third rematch, Damian was practically pulling out his hair.

“How do you keep on winning?” His eyes were blazing, a deadly look on his face.

Tim smirked, twirling the cards in his hand. It was a very strategic game, which Tim excelled at, but Tim was league trained, and he was never against using some sleight of hand to win. Of course, his movements were so subtle that no one could possibly pick up on it.

Tim basked in the feeling of victory, shooting Damian a smug look. “Rematch?”

Damian growled, baring his teeth, looking about one second away from stabbing Tim. 

“Todd! Grayson!”

Jason and Dick poked their heads in. Jason smirked, smoothly sliding in next to them, dealing another deck to him and Dick. “Can’t win, Demon brat?”

Damian shot him a deadly glare, his pride obviously taking a hit, but apparently beating Tim was higher on the list of priorities.

After an hour, Jason was sprawled out on the floor, groaning, tossing a card up and down, not even bothering to try anymore.

“Jesus, how do you keep winning? You’ve got to be cheating.”

Dick was frowning thoughtfully at his cards, as if they could tell him the answer. Damian was shooting daggers at Tim. 

“I don’t know,” Dick said uncertainly, “How would he be?”

“Whatever,” Jason said, standing up, “This is pointless.”

“Ha,” Tim grinned, but it was all teeth, “Imagine the infamous Red Hood losing to a ten year old.“

Jason turned around slowly, a deadly expression on his face. “Oh you little shit, I still haven’t forgiven you for that time you kneed me in the balls.”

…Which was how Bruce found them later. Jason wrestling a shrieking Tim, consequently, Jason getting bit and cursing up a storm, Dick trying to keep the peace while simultaneously having to hold back a murderous Damian because (“That is not how you show affection, Todd! You must treat him gently! Release Timothy at once or I will stab you in your sleep!”)

It was safe to say he got a picture…(for blackmail purposes)

______________

Bruce was… confusing.

Tim had spent years learning to read people. It had been survival, not curiosity. A tilt of the head meant disapproval. A shift in tone meant danger. A smile was never, ever kindness. He knew how to catalogue cruelty in every subtle movement. But Bruce…Bruce didn’t fit.

He didn’t hurt Tim. Not once. He didn’t even threaten him, not even when Tim refused to speak, refused to eat, refused to do anything but glare and flinch and curl in on himself like a cornered animal. He didn’t even hurt Tim that time Tim screamed and cried and demanded him to let him go back to Ra’s. He had just stood there, and let Tim scream at him, until Tim finally broke down sobbing and Bruce had hugged him, letting Tim pound his hands against his chest again and again while he sobbed “I hate you,” in between breaths.

But somehow Bruce was there in Tim’s worst moments, holding him while he spiraled. 

It was something stupid, they were sprawled out on the couch, watching a christmas movie.

And it was all going fine, Tim was doing okay until the tinkling of bells. It was just a stupid song. Tim should have been fine. He should have.

He wasn’t.

Ding. Ding. Ding. The tinkle of bells invaded his every sense. 

Tim couldn’t- Tim couldn’t breathe. 

Suddenly, he was back there. His robes adorned with tiny bells, tinkling with every step. Because- because Ra’s had them put there after he tried to escape after a particularly gruesome punishment. Because he wasn’t a human, he was an object, an object to be used. A weapon for Ra’s.

(Ra’s eyes glinted, a sadistic satisfaction slowly spreading across his face. The collar with bells wrapped tightly around Tim’s neck, choking him in more ways than one. Tim resisted the urge to rip it off, to claw and claw and claw, for he knew it would only anger Ra’s further. And Tim was afraid, as much as he tried to freeze his heart, freeze everything inside there that was human, that was vulnerable, he was afraid. He was afraid of what Ra’s would do, and the lashes on his back were still raw and bleeding from the last time he angered Ra’s. “There,” he murmured, “That should remind you.” “Yes, master.” Tim had bowed deeper, though he really wanted to bury himself in a hole and cry.)

Tim breathing hitched, slowly stepping back. 

Ding. Dingdingding. (It was everywhere, whenever he moved, whenever he breathed, they would ring)

Make it stop. Oh god. Make it stop. 

Dick frowned, “You okay there, Timmy?”

“I- I” Tim stammered, “I gotta go.”

He bolted.

Tim ran, heart pounding a million miles an hour, going straight to his room. Every step he took, he could still imagine the faint swish of the robe accompanied by the tinkle of bells. 

Tim curled into a ball, in the farthest corner of his room, chest heaving as he pressed his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth, as if that could make the ringing stop.

Pull yourself together, Tim. It’s just some bells.

But now it was in his mind, loud and obnoxious and reminding Tim that he wasn’t human, that he was nothing, that he was Ra’s plaything. He didn’t know why, why that bothered him so much. Ra’s was his lord, he was meant to serve him. 

Tim sobbed, rocking back and forth, back and forth, keeping his palms firmly over his ears, as if he could block the sound in his own mind, banging his head against the wall. 

Make it stop. Make it stop, make it stop, MAKE IT STOP!

“Tim?” A voice, low and calm. Bruce’s.

“Make it stop,” Tim sobbed, hands pressing harder against his ears, “Make it stop, please, make it stop.”

“Okay,” The voice murmured, “It’s okay.”

A large hand pressed gently against his back, grounding, firm but not restraining. Another cupped the back of his head, drawing him in. Tim’s body went rigid. He thrashed, trying to break free, but Bruce didn’t loosen his grip. He held Tim against his chest- and it was too much, too close, too suffocating-

“Breathe, Tim,” Bruce murmured. “Listen to my breaths.”

Tim tried to claw at his arms, desperate for distance. “Let- go-”

But Bruce’s voice cut through the panic, low and steady. “You’re safe. You’re safe. Breathe with me.”

Then, slowly, Bruce exaggerated a breath. Inhale. Exhale. The deep rumble of his chest expanded against Tim’s cheek. Again. Again. Until Tim’s body, traitorously, began to sync to the rhythm. Until the room stopped spinning and the twinkling of bells slowly left Tim’s mind.

When he finally inhaled without choking, his whole body trembled.

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t shame him for his weakness. He just rubbed slow, soothing lines across Tim’s back, calloused fingers tracing comfort where Tim only knew pain, the same place where Tim withstood hundreds of Ra’s whippings.

“You’re back?” Bruce asked softly. 

Tim nodded. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” 

Tim clenched his eyes shut, “There was just- there were just…some bells.” He finished weakly, voice small.

Bruce nodded, “Okay.”

He didn’t ask why Tim was so freaked out about bells, he didn’t pry and Tim was so thankful, because Tim didn’t think he’d be able to explain without spiraling.

Bruce kept holding Tim, even though he was fine, even though they both knew Bruce could leave. Tim was secretly glad he didn’t.

A featherlight kiss against his forehead, and Tim stiffened. It was weird, how that small of a touch could make something so jagged inside of him heal. It would scar, yes, but it would no longer be an aching, bleeding, wound. 

“You’re okay,” Bruce murmured, more for himself than Tim. “You’re okay.”

And Tim knew he would never be okay. But maybe, with someone to hold him. Maybe…maybe Tim really was a little bit okay. Maybe he could work towards being more okay.

______________

And maybe if Tim stopped planning escape attempts. That was nothing, just preparation- just strategy. Yeah, that’s all it was.

He was just biding his time.

He wasn’t staying.

He couldn’t.

So if his heart fluttered, if the warmth of the manor started to seep through the cracks, if part of him felt… safe- it was all just Stockholm syndrome. Nothing more. Yeah, scientific studies proved that prisoners bond with their captors. Yeah, that’s all it was.

Even if, sometimes, when Dick’s arms closed around him, and Bruce’s quiet voice told him he mattered, and Jason laughed too loud in the kitchen, and Damian muttered a rare “Well played” after losing a game-

Maybe something whispered in him that he was family.

Chapter Text

Gotham watched as shadows drifted through the bat’s household.

Gotham loved her bats. Especially the tiny one, with the jagged edges and sharp teeth. He was vicious, hurting, but there was so much more kindness in him than anyone thought.

He was a bat, whether he believed it or not. 

Gotham watched as the ninjas slipped into the little one’s window. 

Gotham watched as the little one sat bolt upright, beginning to struggle. 

Gotham watched as the needle went in, the shout’s stifled. 

Gotham couldn’t do anything, her heart aching, as the ninjas took the broken boy.

Gotham mourned him.

_______________

Tim came to his senses slowly, familiar with the feeling of being drugged: limbs stiff, head filled with cotton, mouth dry. He calmed the racing of his heart as he tried to think. Years of training Ra’s drilled into him filled his mind. To have the upper hand, Tim must not alert his captors that he was awake.

He kept his body lax, kept his breathing even, feigning sleep as he gauged his surroundings. 

A floral smell hung in the air, artificial and obviously some sort of perfume or freshener. Underneath it, there was a musky scent of…cave? Stone? Whatever it was, it was sort of damp. 

He couldn’t hear any other breathing or feel any presence other than himself, so he was alone at the moment. It didn’t seem like he was lying in a cell: instead, the mattress under him was obviously luxurious and expensive, not lumpy at all. 

Silk sheets, comfortable mattress…smell of jasmine…

Oh.

Oh.

A sickening sense of deja vu overcame Tim. Tim snapped his eyes open, but they only confirmed what he’d thought. Sure enough, he was back in Nanda Parbat.

Tim swallowed the bile that crept in his throat. His heart began pounding, a dangerous thud, thud, thud against his chest. He leapt off the bed like it was poison, and it may as well have been. 

(Tim was six years old, lying on the gigantic silk bed as his tiny hands fumbled, trying to wrap up a stab wound he got from training. The blood was soaking through the sheets, painting it an ugly, crimson red. Tears and dried snot was smeared across his face as Tim sobbed, hugging his arms close to his chest, trying to imagine it was someone hugging him, as if that could make the pain go away. As if that could ease the coldness inside his chest. )

The air was sucked out of Tim’s chest as Tim gasped and gasped and gasped, his lungs straining for air that wouldn’t come. He hugged his middle, trying to force the suffocating air past his lungs. 

Why was he panicking? This is what he wanted. This was a rescue. 

No it's not. The voice sounded suspiciously like Bruce. 

I belong in the league. 

You know that’s not true. Ra’s had only ever hurt you. 

It was to make me better, stronger. 

No. He manipulated you for his own gain. 

He’s the only person to ever care about me. 

Then what about all those nights you cried yourself to sleep? Then what about all those nights you begged for someone to hold you and love you but nobody–

STOP!

Tim squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his head, willing the voice to go away. He tucked his head between his knees, focusing on deep slow breaths until he could hear his heartbeat slow, until his breaths felt less like knives digging into his lungs.

He composed himself, letting his face freeze over until his expression became unreadable. He stood up slowly, testing out all his limbs, making sure the drug was out of his system. 

Tim was smoothing out his clothes just as he heard footsteps approaching. 

An assassin dressed in simple robes was looking down at him with an unreadable expression. He inclined his head shallowly as a sign of acknowledgement.

“Ra’s would like to see you.”

Tim nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and let the ninja lead him to the throne room

________________

“My little detective.” Ra’s smile was all teeth, sharp and predatory, his green eyes glinting with glee. 

Tim remained silent. The thing was, Ra’s was unstable. The Lazarus pit made him mad, violent and unpredictable. Tim was always careful of his moods, gauging them and acting accordingly. 

The smallest things could tick him off, and Tim learned that the hard way. He was always gauging his mood, walking on–quite literally–eggshells around Ra’s. 

Tim swallowed past the suspiciously large lump in his throat. He wanted this, didn’t he? All those escape attempts…he wanted this. To return to Ra’s and prove his loyalty. This was good, he promised himself, but the thought tasted sour and stagnant. 

Ra rolled a peeled grape in his hand, sticking it in his mouth with a quiet pop. Tim remained kneeled, his chest tight and a hotness in his eyes. 

I will not cry. I will not cry. He didn’t know this feeling. He didn’t know why being back made something primal in him scream and cry and bleed. 

Ra’s popped another grape in his mouth, chewing it slowly. Tim didn’t dare breathe. The air felt charged, tension so thick you couldn’t cut it with a knife. 

“You sure seemed to enjoy this…company of yours.” 

Tim bowed his head, ignoring the ache in his knees. 

“I was incompetent. They had tighter security than I expected. Escape was…difficult. It will not happen again, my lord.” 

“Hmm,” Pop went another grape, “Well I certainly expected better. It's pitiful honestly, wouldn’t you say, dearest?”

Tim swallowed the bile the nickname brought him, there was a cold gaping pit in the bottom of his stomach, icy tendrils creeping towards his heart, freezing the hole that was just starting to warm.

“Of course, my lord. Punish me as you deem fit.” 

“You were always intelligent, Timothy, of course you know your place.” 

Tim set his expression to stone, strangled the soft edges inside of him, and didn’t cry.

______________

Tim didn’t cry when he took the lashes.

Tim didn’t cry when the whip broke skin, cutting across mangled, bloody flesh.

Tim didn’t cry when the blood dripped steadily onto the floor from his back, flesh torn and weeping . 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The cold froze Tim. The pain flared: hot and agonizing, all encompassing, but somehow numbed by the cold in his chest. The raw, aching wounds of a broken boy: bleeding and gaping and too jagged, somehow stitched together by every hug and cuddle by an unlikely family . 

But now the stitches were torn, clawed open by a howling beast, and the softened edges grew jagged. 

Tim could remember Bruce’s soft smile and gentle hands. Tim could remember Dick infectious joy and laughter, Damian’s persistent caring, Jason’s wit and humor, and Tim– Tim–

Tim grabbed those memories by the throat, strangling them. Tim locked them in a box, and drowned them in that freezing void in his mind, smothering their warmth. Tim squashed them beneath his fists. 

Tim pushed every hug, every smile, every gentle touch into the darkness of his mind, setting it on fire. The flames roared, consuming them until they burned to ash, fluttering away like a whisper in the wind.

No more.

Instead, Tim reached for the cold, the apathy. He buried himself in ice, freezing the soft parts of him that were still more boy than monster. 

He was not a boy.

He was a weapon.

(and maybe he hated himself for thinking a little differently before)

And so Tim froze. The young boy with a soft smile and gentle edges was gone. There was a ruthless monster, whose heart was harder than stone, whose eyes were colder than ice, whose–

Thwack. 

Thwack.

Thwack.

Tim laid there, kneeling, breathing through the pain of every lash. He took the pain and imagined stuffing it in a box, locking it away. He was trained how to handle pain. He'd suffered worse punishments.

Thwack.

Inhale. All Tim focused on was the way his chest expanded as he inhaled. The way his lungs filled with air and expanded, reaching, reaching–

Thwack.

Exhale. Keep the pain in the box. Feel how your chest compresses as you exhale. Do not cry. Breathe. Breathe.

Thwack.

Thwack.

“That’s enough.” 

Ra’s words rang loud through the room. 

Tim slowly stood up, biting down on his scream as the movement stretched his bloody back. Tim inclined his head towards Ra’s, waiting for his orders.

“Go back to your quarters. Surely you are not so incompetent as to be incapable of treating your own wounds.” 

Tim kept his head held high as he made his way to his quarters. His steps were slow and steady, gently padding against the stone floor. 

Do not show weakness. They will pounce. 

He refused to limp, to stumble. 

______________

Tim stared at his room. 

It was pristine, untouched and luxurious.

Exactly the same. 

It filled him with an irrational anger. The beautiful, gilded room made something so hot and sour rise in his gut. 

The beauty of it made him even more mad.

The bed had soft velvet drapes, garnished with gold thread. The room had large, lavish curtains, a luxurious, king sized bed. The picture of luxury- yet it was nothing more than a gilded cage. Nothing had changed from the day Tim had been kidnapped.

Yet it felt so different.

Maybe Tim had changed. Tim who had become too soft, too weak, too needy. 

Tim remembered Bruce’s soft touch as he brushed hair out of Tim’s face, smiling softly down at Tim. Tim thought of Dick’s laughs and how he cuddled Tim, the touches feeding the empty hold inside of him. 

Because why had every kind touch and smile made something akin to starlight dance in his veins, like a beautiful supernova, warmth and love and euphoria all melting into one. It had felt amazing, and Tim–

Tim was scared.

Tim was scared that he’d get addicted to the warmth and love. That he’d forget who he was. Who he is.  That he’d forget the broken boy with shattered pieces and blood on his hands. That he’d forget the tears and the nights spent tainted. That he’d forget he was a monster. 

And when they finally realized it, they wouldn’t love him anymore. That would hurt worse than all the punishments and all the harsh words. Taking away the love would be unbearable, excruciating, and Tim knew he wouldn’t survive.

Tim would burn and burn and burn, forever chasing the ghost of warmth now that he’d had a single drop, shackled by hope. 

Here at Ra’s, he knew what he was. He knew what was expected of him. He knew what was wrong, what was right. He knew what earned him approval and what got him punished.

But he didn’t know any of that with the Waynes. 

They were constantly surprising him. The Waynes were determined, stubborn, chasing away the darkness with quiet promises and gentle hands.

Tim didn’t understand. He didn’t understand why being back at the League 

Because something felt wrong. 

Tim swallowed the lump in his throat, pushing away the thoughts as he gently padded to the bathroom. He grabbed a roll of gauze, trying to be careful as he bandaged his back. His split fresh tore, fresh blood seeping out as he moved. Tim let out a pained hiss between his teeth.

After thirty minutes, a whole lot of cursing and two rolls of gauze later, Tim finally managed to get his back bandaged. 

Tim stared at himself in the mirror. He didn’t recognize the person that looked back at him. Those blue eyes seemed shadowed, heavy with a grief even Tim didn’t understand. 

Those blue eyes were glassy, pooling with tears, and Tim finally let them fall. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He muffled his sob into his fist, his chest heavy with grief and loss, like a sharp, stabbing pain. The pain was etched in every silent tear, every shake of his chest as he trembled. The tears flowed faster now, carving lines down his face.

Tim clenched his fists, swiped at his face angrily. This was no place for weakness. Weakness would get you killed. 

(so why had learning to trust a gentle family felt like strength instead of weakness?)

Tim lay on that bed– the bed with luxurious silk sheets that held too many tears and accepted that he was alone.

Maybe he was just unlovable. 

Maybe he'd never deserved love in the first place. 

It doesn't matter. Tim promised himself. It doesn't.