Chapter Text
Tim’s body lurched without warning, hot acid flooding his throat before he even realized he was conscious, splattering the ground beneath him as his stomach violently emptied itself.
For a second, he didn’t even know where he was—only pain, blinding and sharp, ripped through his shoulder, dragging him fully awake. Everything was spinning, vision flickering in and out, breath coming in desperate, broken pulls. His hand trembled as he dug his fingers into the ground, trying to ground himself before the world tilted again.
“Tim—Tim, hey!” Jason’s voice—raw, too close and too frantic—cut through the ringing in his ears. Tim swallowed, gagging again as another wave of nausea rolled through him, the smell of blood and smoke catching in the back of his throat.
His body wouldn’t stop shaking.
The last thing he remembered was fire, screaming, pressure—then nothing.
Tim gagged, his body convulsing as he emptied himself onto the slick ground again. He couldn’t tell what had triggered it—was it the pain lancing through his shoulder, the shock that still rattled his bones, or just raw nausea from everything that had happened?
He didn’t know. All he knew was the taste of bile and the metallic tang of blood that lingered at the back of his throat.
Jason’s hands pressed against his arms, shaking him gently. “Fuck. Tim, hey. Hey. Look at me.”
His eyes opened, but the world didn’t sharpen—it blurred.
Everything smeared together: the unlit ceiling lights above, Jason’s silhouette hovering over him, the ringing in his ears that wouldn’t stop. His heart slammed against his ribs, too fast, too loud, drowning out anything Jason was saying. His breath came in sharp, broken gasps, every inhale feeling like it scraped against something raw in his chest.
Jason’s hands pressed firmly against his uninjured shoulder, grounding him—but Tim couldn’t feel grounded. His body rejected the sensation, recoiling, shaking. Panic was already taking over, even before he could fully understand where he was or what had happened.
“Tim. Come on, please.” Jason’s voice was low, controlled, even though fear threaded through it. He was trying to sound calm. Trying to keep it together. Trying to make this less terrible than it already was.
But Tim felt everything.
The burning in his shoulder ignited again the moment he tried to move. Not just burning—searing. Flesh screaming, fibers pulling, nerves shooting white‑hot fire up his neck and down his arm. His back arched off the floor, a hoarse cry tearing from him. Jason flinched but didn’t let go.
“Shit—Tim, stop. Stop moving, you’re just—just making it worse. Hey. Hey, look at me.”
But there was nothing else Tim could do.
The pain was too sharp, too all‑consuming, and his mind spiraled around it. His body felt too small to hold it, too fragile. He felt like he was coming apart. His vision tunneled, edges darkening, not from unconsciousness this time but from panic tightening around him like a fist.
He couldn’t speak. Every time he tried to form a word, only choked air came out—shallow, shallow, too shallow. He was suffocating. He couldn’t get enough in. His lungs felt like they were collapsing, like someone was pushing a weight onto his chest.
No—he couldn’t breathe.
His eyes widened, wild.
Jason recognized the look instantly. “Tim. Breathe. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe. You’re okay.”
He wasn’t. It wasn’t okay. Nothing was.
Tim’s hand—the one he could still control—slammed against the ground. Hard.
Once, twice, again, each impact shaking his arm and rattling his bones.
He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t control it. It was something to do, something to fight against, something external to feel so he didn’t have to drown in what was happening inside his own body.
“Stop—stop, you’re gonna hurt yourself—Tim!” Jason grabbed for his wrist, trying to pull his hand away from the ground, but Tim jerked it back and hit the floor again with a sharp crack.
He didn’t even fully realize he was crying until he felt the hot streaks slide down the sides of his face. He wasn’t trying to sob—but his chest convulsed anyway, ragged and desperate, and the sound slipped out in small, broken gasps.
“Tim, look at me,” Jason repeated, voice fraying. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re alive. Just breathe.”
But Tim couldn’t hear him.
The world was too loud and too quiet at the same time. The shadows pressed in from every side, heavy and unyielding. Digging into his skull. The pain pounded in time with his heartbeat, merciless and endless.
“Stop—Tim—stop!” Jason’s voice was no longer controlled; panic leaked through the cracks.
Tim’s hand slammed into the ground again, this time clumsy and angled, knuckles scraping against the tile. His entire body trembled, muscles tightening in spasms as the overwhelming fear surged through him.
He couldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop the pain. Couldn’t catch his breath. Couldn’t—
Jason grabbed his hand again—harder this time—and caught his elbow in the other, pinning Tim’s arm to the floor.
“Tim!”
The shout cut through everything like a blade.
Tim froze—not because the panic was gone, but because his body simply couldn’t process anything else. Jason hovered above him, one knee on the floor, one arm braced across Tim’s arm to stop him from hitting it again, and his other hand cupping the side of Tim’s face.
“Look at me,” Jason said, loud but soft, controlled again—not perfectly, but enough. “I need you to look at me. Right here. Eyes on me.”
Tim’s eyes flicked up automatically, though his gaze jittered, unable to hold still.
“That’s it,” Jason breathed. “Good. Stay with me.”
Tim tried to swallow, but his throat was tight, like someone was squeezing it shut from the inside. His voice came out tiny, cracked, barely a whisper:
“I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” Jason’s thumb brushed his cheek, wiping away tears Tim hadn’t meant to shed. “You’re safe. You’re with me. Nothing is going to happen to you. Just breathe.”
A sharp, terrified shake ran through Tim. He tried to pull his hand free reflexively, a burst of panic flaring—but Jason held firm, not painfully, just enough to keep him from hurting himself again.
“Tim, listen to me.” Jason lowered his voice, leaning closer until his forehead nearly touched Tim’s. “You’re not dying. You’re just scared and in pain. Your brain is freaking out. That’s all it is. It’s a panic attack. You’ve probably had these before.”
Not like this. Not this bad. Never with this much pain. Never while bleeding on a store floor, shoulder charred and brutalized.
Jason’s hand moved from his face down to his chest, pressing flat over Tim’s racing heart—not to restrain, but to ground.
“Feel that?”
Tim’s breath shuddered out of him.
“It’s beating. Fast, yeah, but beating. You’re alive.”
The trembling in Tim’s body didn’t stop. But something shifted—just enough to crack through the suffocating panic. His hand twitched, curling weakly under Jason’s grip instead of striking at the floor.
“There you go,” Jason murmured, relief thinning his voice. “That’s it. Stay with me. I’ve got you.”
Tim’s chest hitched again in a harsh, painful inhale.
For a moment, the world tilted like it might go dark again—but Jason tapped two fingers against his cheek, sharp and quick.
“No. Tim—stay awake. Don’t pass out on me again.”
Tim did. Because he couldn’t not. Because Jason needed him to. Because some part of him, under all the fear and agony, trusted Jason more than anything.
His throat constricted around another broken sob. Jason’s face softened—not pity, not panic this time, but something grim and tender and fiercely protective.
“That’s right. Cry. Shout. Whatever. Just stay.”
Tim swallowed hard, chest burning, and choked out a sound that could barely be called a word:
“Hurts.”
“I know. I know it does. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. But I’m here. And I’m not leaving. You’re not alone, okay?” Jason’s jaw tightened.
Tim squeezed his eyes shut briefly, another tear tracking down toward his ear. His breathing was still uneven, still too fast, but he was breathing. Air was getting in again.
Jason kept one hand on his chest, the other still loosely pinning Tim’s injured arm to keep him from smashing it again.
“That’s it,” Jason whispered. “Just keep breathing. We’ll get through this. Together.”
And Tim, shaking and hurting and terrified, clung to the sound of Jason’s voice—because it was the only thing that didn’t feel like it was slipping away.
There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake.
Not jarring, not rough—methodical and purposeful, the same way she used to wake him on the mornings when she remembered she had a son.
Janet Drake never shook; she nudged, just barely, with two fingers and a quiet, clipped command: Timothy, up. Even when she was annoyed, it sounded bored rather than urgent.
But the hand on him now wasn’t bored. It trembled with pressure, fingers digging in just enough to convey panic. The pads of the fingers were warm, but his dazed mind assigned the wrong memories anyway—icy latex gloves, the metallic sting of the needle, her stiff back always turned, the cold snap of her coat brushing against him, the faint scent of rubbing alcohol clinging to her hands.
His mother. It was his mother waking him.
That thought settled in before Tim was even fully conscious. His brain was swimming in tar—heavy, impossible, dragging him down every time he tried to reach the surface. It was easier to sink, much easier, to just drift, where pain couldn’t reach him as sharply.
But the shaking came again, firmer.
“Tim. Wake up, come on.”
That voice. It sounded like her but wrong. Too strained. Janet never wasted emotional energy on panic for him.
He’d once thought that if he disappeared off the face of the earth, she would spend more time arranging the memorial than she ever had arranging his life.
Still, half-conscious and hurting, his mind clung to the impossible familiarity.
Because if she was here, then he wasn’t on the cold floor of a dead world, bleeding through makeshift bandages and holding himself together by fear and threadbare adrenaline.
If she was here, then his stomach wouldn’t be twisting with hunger.
If she was here, then there were no groaning dead things beyond the shattered storefront windows.
“Just wake up,” the voice pleaded, breath hitching. “Show me you’re awake and then you can go back to sleep, okay?”
His mother didn’t plead. She didn’t ask. She dismissed. Delegated. Handed problems off like business cards.
This didn’t make sense.
A sharp ache radiated from deep in his shoulder—thick, molten, brutal—dragging him a fraction closer to awareness. His stomach rolled, the nausea threatening another wave. The floor under him felt too hard, the air stale with dust and burned fabric.
That wasn’t home. That wasn’t his bed. He didn’t hear his father’s shouting, the constant, grating noise that usually cut through even the earliest hours of dawn.
Instead he smelled smoke, metal, the faint sour reek of blood—his blood—dried into the torn shirt sticking to his skin.
But that hand, shaking him… it felt different.
He swallowed, or tried to. His throat tasted like spit and acid.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be outside, patching up barricades she never would have cared about. He was supposed to shrink under her sharp tone, bending to the weight of her cold, demanding words.
His eyelids twitched.
He wanted to open them, but the weight was enormous. He felt like he’d been anchored to the ground. Something deep in his muscles screamed every time he tried to move. The throbbing in his shoulder kept time with his heartbeat, loud and consuming.
“Come on, Timmy. Please.”
Timmy..
His mother had never called him that. If she said it at all, it was a taunt, a way to make him feel small, as if the word itself carried her disdain.
The fog in his mind rippled.
The voice wasn’t precise enough. Not clipped. Not distant enough. He knew Janet’s voice like he knew the quiet of an empty, too-large room. It had edges. It had marble in it. It had distance.
This voice was cracking.
But his pain-drowned brain refused to let go of the illusion. Because accepting the truth meant remembering everything: the man screaming for help in the alleyway, Jason dragging him back, the muzzle flash, the explosion of force through his shoulder, the white-hot agony of being cauterized by fire just to stop him from bleeding out.
If it was his mother, none of that had happened.
So he let himself believe.
For just a moment.
Everything spun. He forced a breath, dry and strained.
Maybe he could just open his eyes for her. Show he was awake. Then she could return to whatever mattered more than her son, whatever had made her leave him, and he could slip back into the haze of exhaustion and pain.
He tried.
It took everything he had.
His eyelids peeled open a crack—and light stabbed through his skull like a blade. He flinched, a small sound escaping him.
The ceiling above was blurry and wrong. No recessed lighting reflecting off polished wood floors. Instead: cracked ceiling tile, water stain, a broken fluorescent light, dark and dead, casting the room into shadow.
Not his house.
His breathing hitched. Panic fluttered weakly in his chest.
A shadow leaned over him, blocking the ceiling. Someone close. Too close. He could smell sweat, smoke, gunpowder. Not perfume. Not money.
He blinked again, forcing the world into focus.
The sleeve brushing his cheek wasn’t silk. It was frayed leather, dust ground into the seams, charred on one edge. The hand on his shoulder wasn’t slender, polished, or manicured. It was broader, rougher, calloused, and stained with blood—some dried, some frighteningly fresh.
His stomach tightened.
Not Janet.
He blinked up, eyes finally focusing.
Jason.
Jason, face pale and tense, breath unsteady, eyes fixed on him like he was the only thing in this collapsing world worth worrying about. No distance. No indifference. Just raw fear, quickly smothered beneath the armor of forced calm.
The illusion shattered.
They weren’t in a warm, safe house.
They were in a ransacked store, jackets piled under him to keep the floor from grinding into his bones. Supplies were packed beside Jason, bow laid out, bag half-open, like he’d paused mid-task the second Tim stirred.
Jason leaned closer, relief and panic warring in his expression.
“There you are,” he breathed, too softly for the dead outside to hear. “Thank God. Stay awake. Just for a minute, yeah?”
Tim stared up at him, dazed, hurting, and unbearably small. Part of him wanted to sink back into unconsciousness. But another part—the part that remembered that Jason had carried him, burned flesh to save him, refused to leave him bleeding—forced his eyes to stay open.
He swallowed, voice a rasp barely formed.
“…Jason.”
Not Mom.
He wasn’t home.
Jason froze for just a heartbeat when Tim spoke his name—just two hoarse syllables that meant more than either of them would ever say out loud. For a moment, Jason’s eyes closed and his shoulders sagged, every line of tension in him releasing in a single, barely controlled exhale.
He’d been bracing for the worst. Tim could see it now. Jason had been ready for him not to wake up. Ready to have to watch something else die in front of him. Ready to be alone again.
That realization hit Tim in a way worse than the pain in his shoulder.
Jason opened his eyes and took one long, unsteady breath, as though he needed to steady himself before he could even trust that Tim was real. Then he muttered, almost too quiet to hear:
“Okay. Okay. You’re alive. Good. Good.”
He sat back on his heels, rubbing a hand over his face hard enough that his palm came away smudged with grime and blood. He blew out a shaky breath before looking back down at Tim, trying—and failing—to look calm.
“You scared the hell out of me,” Jason said. He tried to make it casual, sarcastic, some trademark rough edge he liked to pretend he always had. But the wobble in his voice ruined it, and he didn’t bother trying to fix it.
Tim should’ve answered him. Should’ve forced something steady out of his throat. But his throat wasn’t steady. It wasn’t controllable. It wasn’t anything.
Because now that he was fully awake, or close enough, the world was crashing in all at once.
The pain.
The blood.
The smell of old dust and burned fabric.
The quiet terror that seeped in through the cracked store windows like cold air from a dead winter. And Jason—alive, real, right in front of him—panicking because of him.
Something in Tim’s chest snapped.
It was small at first—just a tremble in his bottom lip he hoped Jason didn’t notice. But then his eyes blurred. And before he could stop himself, a choked sound escaped him, hot and involuntary.
Jason immediately stiffened.
“Hey. Whoa. What—what’s going on?”
Tim tried to speak, but air hitched in his throat and came out as a cracked, childish sob. He hadn’t cried like that in years—maybe ever—not even when his parents left. His body just couldn’t keep it in anymore. Panic, pain, exhaustion, and the illusion of his mother that had split open something he’d buried deep.
He wanted his mom.
He didn’t want to. He knew better. But the moment the thought appeared, it carved itself into him like a knife.
His body shook, and he gasped, and suddenly he was crying, actually crying, like a little kid who’d scraped his knee and wanted someone to hold him and tell him the world wasn’t ending.
Except it was.
And the person he wanted wasn’t here.
Jason froze, utterly unprepared.
“Tim—hey—hey, what—what the hell? Why are you—?”
Tim couldn’t answer. His voice dissolved into hiccups and bitter little gasps. His shoulder throbbed and his vision blurred and everything hurt in the kind of way that made the world feel too sharp to hold on to.
“I want my mom” Tim choked out before he could stop himself.
Jason’s eyes widened.
“Oh—oh, crap. Oh no. Hey—hey, no, don’t—”
But Tim couldn’t stop now. The words spilled out, half-formed, desperate.
“Mom—want—wanna go home—please—”
Jason looked like someone had just set a ticking bomb in his hands.
He scanned the room like he expected Janet Drake to step through the broken door and fix everything. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. He didn’t know what to do. Jason—who could face down raiders, gunfire, and the undead—had absolutely no idea how to handle a crying eleven-year-old who wanted his mother.
“Hey—hey, kid, don’t—just—just slow down, alright? It’s okay, it’s fine—God, I don’t—what am I supposed to—?”
Tim kept crying.
The sound only made Jason panic more.
“Okay! Okay, hold on—just breathe—”
That earned Jason a shaky cry that was definitely not breathing. Jason swore under his breath, raking both hands through his hair.
“Right. Great. He’s bleeding, shot, probably got a fever, losing his mind, and I’m sitting here saying ‘breathe.’ I sound like Dick.”
He shifted, looking around desperately, like there had to be a correct adult in the room and he just hadn’t spotted them yet.
There wasn’t.
It was just them. A half-collapsed store. The dead outside. Pain inside. And a kid whose entire world was shattering in his hands.
Jason swore again, softer this time, and then crouched beside his pack. He rifled through it in frantic, uneven motions—like he needed to do something, anything, even if he didn’t know what he was looking for.
“Come on, come on, there’s gotta be—uh—food? Water? Painkillers? Something?”
Tim cried harder, which only made Jason’s tempo speed up.
“Oh, come on, don’t do that,” Jason pleaded, voice cracking. “I’m trying here!”
He pulled out a bottle of water, stared at it like it was useless, then shoved it aside and dug deeper.
Something thumped.
And then Jason froze.
His shoulders lowered. His breath steadied. His eyes shifted, focused, like he had just remembered something real, something solid, something that worked.
Slowly, he pulled out a small, battered paperback.
Half the cover was torn off, the spine bent, water-damaged along the bottom edge. The title was only half legible, but Tim could read it when Jason set it in his lap:
Frankenstein
Tim blinked through tears, momentarily confused.
Jason looked at the book for a moment, thumb brushing over the damaged cover like it meant something. Then he cleared his throat and opened it.
And started reading.
“You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.”
Tim hiccupped, the sound raw and small.
Jason tried to keep his voice steady, but there was a tremor underneath it—too much adrenaline, too much fear, and not enough time to let either settle. But he kept going.
He wasn’t reading like someone who had practiced. He missed a word, doubled back, slowed when he felt Tim’s breath catch. But he was reading. To Tim.
In a half-burned store, in the middle of a dead city, while the world rotted outside.
Tim stared at him.
He didn’t understand at first. Not until Jason kept reading the opening paragraph without stopping, eyes fixed not on the page, but on Tim—making sure he was listening, breathing, awake.
Jason wasn’t reading the book for himself.
He was reading it the way someone would read to a sick kid in a hospital bed, trying to keep the darkness away by just talking and staying there.
Tim’s chest clenched.
He tried to swallow, but it just made another broken sob scrape out.
Jason stopped instantly.
“Hey—why are you—? I’m reading, aren’t I? It’s supposed to help!”
Tim shook his head, or tried to. His neck muscles were too weak, but Jason understood anyway.
He wasn’t crying because of pain. Or fear. Or exhaustion.
He was crying because no one had ever read to him before.
Janet never had. His father hadn’t even pretended.
Jason looked lost again for a moment—but something in his expression softened. He didn’t move to comfort Tim physically, maybe afraid of hurting him more or breaking some boundary he didn’t understand.
But he took a steadying breath and kept reading.
“‘I am already far north of London and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh…’”
Tim’s tears slowed, if only because he was running out of strength. His shoulder burned with every breath, but the steady cadence of Jason’s voice cut through the pain, anchoring him.
He listened.
“Do you understand this feeling ? This breeze, which has travelled…’”
The words rolled over him. The world around him blurred—the dark store, the flickering lights, the cold knot of dread in his stomach. Jason read on, voice smoothing out as he found the rhythm.
He didn’t sound like someone trying to read perfectly. He sounded like a kid himself, trying to make up for the kind of childhood neither of them got.
Tim’s eyes drifted over the wrecked paperback. The pages were yellowed, water-warped, one corner torn where something sharp had grazed it. It had survived something—rain, travel, maybe fire. Maybe the apocalypse itself.
Like Jason had carried it a long time.
Like it meant something to him.
Tim’s breathing slowed. His heartbeat echoed less violently in his shoulder. Some of the panic dripped out of him, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion.
Jason kept reading, only stopping to wet his thumb and turn a stuck page.
He didn’t look up again until Tim made a small sound—half a whimper, half a sigh—and Jason leaned in without breaking the rhythm of the sentence.
Tim’s eyes were sliding shut. His body was sinking back into the makeshift bed of jackets. Tears still clung to his lashes, but he wasn’t trembling anymore.
Jason kept reading anyway.
“…‘There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible…’”
Tim blinked, vision hazy, breath weak but steady. Jason’s voice softened, becoming almost careful—like he was afraid if he spoke too loudly, Tim might break again.
“…its broad disk just skirting the horizon…’”
Tim’s eyelids fluttered.
Jason reached over without looking and tugged a jacket corner up so it covered more of Tim’s shaking chest.
“…‘There for with your leave, my sister…’”
Tim’s thoughts blurred.
His mother’s eyes were gone.
Jason’s rough voice was real.
The world outside was still dying.
But right now, someone was staying with him—not because they had to, not because of obligation or image or keeping up appearances—
But because they cared.
His eyes finally closed, heavy and warm. The book rustled as Jason turned another damaged page.
“…What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? ”
Tim drifted.
Pain dulled.
The panic slipped away.
And the last thing he heard before sleep took him again was Jason’s voice—tired, scared, and still reading to keep him here, one sentence at a time.
Tim’s eyes fluttered open slowly, the blur of the world slowly sharpening around him.
A dull ache curled through his shoulder and chest, a deep, persistent throb that made every movement feel like a negotiation with his body. His back felt… weirdly soft. He shifted slightly, wincing at the sharp pinch in his shoulder, and realized he was lying on a pile of jackets.
Someone had stacked them haphazardly, forming a lumpy but surprisingly comfortable bed. He let out a small, raspy groan.
Tim blinked, and there was Jason, crouched next to his backpack, stuffing gloves and some other gear into it. He froze for a second when he noticed Tim staring at him.
“Hey,” Jason said, his voice soft. “Hey, you’re awake.”
Tim’s head tilted slightly, confused, the corners of his mouth twitching as he tried to form words. Pain flared in his shoulder, and a low, pained sound slipped past his lips. Jason immediately froze and crouched closer, eyes scanning him with sudden intensity.
“You okay? Talk to me,” Jason said, his voice gentle, almost uncharacteristic.
“I—I’m. Here,” Tim croaked. He tried to sit up fully but grimaced, sinking back down onto the jackets. “Why—why are you packing?”
Jason gave him a brief, wry shrug, though the concern in his eyes never faltered. “We need to find a camp.”
Tim frowned. “Camp? Why?” His brain was still foggy from sleep and pain, and he tried to process what Jason was talking about.
“You’re injured, buddy. Remember?” Jason’s tone was calm, but it carried an edge of urgency. “We need to find a camp that can help you.”
“But.” Tim blinked, confusion and disbelief warring with the dull ache in his body. “I thought—you fixed me?”
Jason let out a short breath, shaking his head. “Yeah… but only for a bit. You’ve still got a bullet in your shoulder, Timbo.”
Tim paused, letting that sink in. His fingers brushed instinctively over the makeshift bandage, and his stomach twisted. “Oh.” A quiet, almost hollow realization.
Then, something hit him—an urgent, gnawing thought—and he forced himself to sit up a little, his chest rising as his mind spun. He immediately regretted it as a jolt of fire shot through his shoulder, making him grit his teeth and slump back slightly
Jason quickly moved closer, one hand on Tim’s chest and the other on his arm, trying to steady him. “Woah, relax. What is it?”
Tim’s eyes went wide, a spark of panic threading through the haze of pain. “Your family! You won’t get to them fast enough. Weather—The weather. It's gonna get worse. ”
Jason’s lips curved into a pained smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “We were never gonna get to Metropolis in time, Tim. The weather's already getting too bad to travel in. We would’ve had to find a camp either way. So, don’t worry.”
“But—but your family.”
“It's okay. I'll get to them. I'll find them.” Jason shrugged again, though his shoulders were tense.
Tim’s mind whirled. “I can’t walk. My leg, my—everything hurts. How will we—”
“We’re not leaving today.” Jason interrupted gently. “Maybe tomorrow. Or at least until you can stand up. And besides, I’ll carry you.”
“Carry me?” Tim blinked at him, incredulous.
“What? Think I can’t do it?”
“No!” Tim said quickly, a weak laugh escaping despite the pain.
Jason let out a short, strained laugh, more relief than amusement. “Yeah, yeah. I’m stronger than I look, genius.”
Tim smirked, though it quickly faded as a wave of exhaustion pressed into him. “Strong… huh? You think you can carry me through snow and ice?”
“Yep. And don’t you forget it,” Jason replied, brushing a stray lock of hair from Tim’s forehead. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
“I… guess,” Tim mumbled, his voice trailing off.
Every blink was heavier than the last. He didn’t notice at first, too focused on his shoulder, the dull throb that wouldn’t let up, and the way Jason’s gaze kept him anchored. But slowly, imperceptibly, his eyelids began to feel like lead.
Jason watched him carefully, noting the way Tim’s head kept nodding forward and his hands fidgeting with the edge of the jacket pile.
“Hey…” Jason said softly, resting a hand on Tim’s head, steadying him. “Go to sleep. You need it. Next time you wake up I’ll have food for you.”
Tim blinked at him, dazed, and let out a small, skeptical laugh. “Food, huh? Sure,” he muttered, not really believing him.
“Just wait and see,” Jason said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Tim let out a shaky breath, the exhaustion finally winning. He sank back into the jackets, heavy limbs giving in, and closed his eyes.
“Okay,” he mumbled.
Even as sleep tugged him under, his mind refused to let go entirely. Guilt coiled in the back of his chest, whispering at him. He imagined the man they had tried to help, how Jason had warned him, and the helplessness that had twisted through him in that moment.
He was so useless. His teeth grinded together as if the memory alone could somehow fix the past.
“Jay,” Tim whispered, his voice barely audible, rough and shaky, eyes still closed.
“Yeah?” Jason’s voice was calm, steady, grounding.
“I’m.” Tim swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“Huh? For what?”
“For wanting to help the man. Useless. It was useless. Just ended up hurt.”
A faint noise echoed in the quiet—something bumping against a wall or a rack—but Tim’s eyes were too heavy to open.
“No, no. Don’t apologize for that,” Jason said firmly, voice low but insistent.
“It was stupid,” Tim muttered, his voice muffled against the jacket pile.
“It wasn’t stupid,” Jason replied. “It was good. You’re a good kid. Don’t apologize for that.”
But Tim was already asleep.
Turns out, Jason is a man of his word.
When Tim wakes again, the first thing he notices is the scent—rich, salty, slightly earthy—wafting toward him. Steam curls lazily from a can held carefully in Jason’s hands, the metal warm under his fingers.
He’s crouched close, eyes scanning Tim’s face, and there’s a quiet attentiveness in the way he tilts the can, letting Tim catch the first whiff.
“How’d you even find this?” Tim asks, pressing the can against his cold hand, savoring the unexpected warmth that spreads up his fingers.
Jason freezes mid-sip, the thin rim of soup clinging to his lips. “Birds,” he says simply, as if that explains everything.
Tim frowns, blinking. “What?”
“They led me to it,” Jason continues, lowering the can but not looking away from a shadow that moves outside the cracked window. His tone is casual, almost deadpan, but there’s a hint of awe in his voice. “I swear, they just appeared out of nowhere. Kept hopping around, chirping at me like I was supposed to follow, and well, here we are.” He takes another long sip, letting the steam rise between them, filling the quiet space with warmth. “Really fuckin’ weird, man. I didn’t even know birds had a sense of soup.”
Tim can’t help but chuckle, the tension in his shoulders easing a little
The warmth from the soup seeps through him, and the faint twitch of a smile on his face doesn’t go unnoticed. Jason tilts his head, a small, almost imperceptible grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s probably making fun of Tim.
“How’s your shoulder?” Jason asks, his voice careful but curious, eyes flicking to the makeshift bandage.
Tim just groans in reply
They sit in silence for a while.
Jason’s can rattles as he tilts it back, gulping the soup in a few quick swallows, the steam rising to mingle with the cold, stale air around them. Tim takes his time, each sip deliberate, letting the warmth seep slowly into his frozen fingers.
The quiet is comfortable, almost meditative, but the earlier talk of birds presses at the edge of his mind, tugging a memory loose.
“I had a bird,” Tim mutters after a while, his voice low, hesitant. The words surprise even him. He doesn’t know why he says it, but the memory keeps pushing, insistent, demanding attention.
Jason freezes mid-sip, the can hovering in his hand. “You did?”
“Uh-huh,” Tim says, staring down at the faint trails of steam rising from his soup. The memory is blurry at first, just a shape in the corner of his mind—small, bright feathers flitting across a sunlit backyard—but it grows sharper the longer he thinks about it.
“Was it a pet?” Jason asks, blinking, genuinely confused. “How do you even manage to get a pet bird?”
Tim rolls his eyes, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite the sudden ache in his chest. “It wasn’t a pet. I didn’t cage it or anything. I just… fed it, played with it when it wanted. And it kept coming back. Every morning, like it knew I’d be there.”
Jason leans back slightly, watching him, the corners of his mouth twitching in quiet amusement. “Sounds… nice, in a weird way,” he says softly. “Like it chose you.”
“Yeah… it did.” Tim nods, staring into the dark, speckled surface of his soup as if it might hold the memory. “ Made me feel like maybe someone—or something—was paying attention, you know? Even if it was just a bird.” His fingers tighten slightly around the can, warmth spilling over his palms but doing little to ease the sudden pang of longing in his chest.
He remembers the way the bird would perch on the railing outside the door, feathers catching the light, chirping softly like it had secrets it wanted to share. Tim would leave crumbs scattered across the floor, and the bird would hop closer, hesitant at first, until it trusted him enough to take the food directly from his hand.
There was a rhythm to it, a quiet companionship that didn’t need words.
Jason’s voice pulls him back, low and thoughtful. “Birds are persistent little things,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Kind of like some people I know.”
Tim shoots him a look but otherwise stays quiet, the warmth of the soup and Jason’s presence doing little to hold back the sudden chill creeping over him.
The memory of the bird, Finch, shifts—fast and sharp—into the memory of its still, lifeless body, feathers ruffled and limp in his hands. The sharp pang of guilt and loss twists through his chest, and he finds himself gripping the can a little tighter, knuckles whitening.
Jason’s voice cuts through the fog, steady but curious. “Did it have a name?”
Tim swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “Finch.”
There’s a pause, the word hanging between them like fragile glass. Jason lets out a soft chuckle, low and almost teasing, though there’s no malice in it. “Creative,” he says, and the edge of humor does little to mask the way his eyes flick to Tim, searching, weighing, maybe even comforting.
“Yeah” Tim exhales, a bitter little laugh slipping past him, more at the irony than anything.
Jason doesn’t let the moment linger too long, though—his voice is quiet, careful, but persistent. “What happened to it?”
“Died.” Tim says the word quickly, not giving it a chance to get stuck in his throat.
“Oh.”
The silence stretches this time, longer than before, heavier, filled with the unspoken weight of loss. Tim’s fingers fidget with the edge of the jacket pile beneath him, tracing invisible patterns, trying to distract himself from the memory that refuses to loosen its grip.
He imagines Finch, limp in his hands, the bright little eyes gone, the warmth gone, and the quiet ache that followed pressing at his chest.
But, as always, it’s Jason who breaks the quiet. “I’ve always wanted a dog. As a pet.”
Tim’s lips twitch faintly, almost a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Really?” he murmurs, curiosity threading through the heaviness.
“Yeah,” Jason says, shrugging lightly, looking anywhere but directly at Tim. “Big, slobbery, annoying. Probably chews on everything I own. Perfect companion.” His smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth, teasing, but softer than usual, almost vulnerable.
“Did your dad not let you get one? ‘Cause once I found a stray cat, but my dad got mad and told me I couldn’t keep it.”
Jason shoots him a look, mouth opening as if to say something, then thinking better of it and shutting it. “No, uh… I don’t know. Just never really told him I wanted one.”
“Does your brother like dogs?” Tim asks, curiosity threading through the quiet.
Jason’s expression softens, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Loves them. Loves all animals, really.” His eyes drift for a moment, thoughtful, almost nostalgic, before he returns his gaze to Tim. “He’d like you.”
“Really?” Tim shot up in excitement, eyes bright and alive for the first time in hours.
“Why are you so shocked?” Jason chuckled, shaking his head as he watched Tim’s sudden energy.
“What’s he like? I’ve always wanted a brother,” Tim said, voice full of curiosity.
“He’s a pain in the ass,” Jason replied immediately, the words flat but amused.
“What! Is he mean?”
“No. He’s kind. But he’s still a brother, so he’s annoying as shit,” Jason said, smirking.
Tim frowned, trying to reconcile the idea of kindness with annoyance. He stayed quiet, not entirely sure what to make of it.
Then, as if the dam had broken, Jason continued, a trace of pride in his voice. “He used to be an acrobat.”
Tim’s head snapped up, eyes wide. His heartbeat quickened. Acrobat. Acrobat? His mind immediately jumped, memories flooding back from when he was home—his days spent glued to the screen, watching the Flying Graysons soar through the air in dizzying flips and twirls, defying gravity as if it were nothing.
He’d loved it, the skill, the daring, the way they seemed untouchable. He had always dreamed of meeting someone like that in real life.
“Wait, what?” Tim said, leaning forward instinctively, soup forgotten in his hands. “An acrobat? Like flips and stuff?”
Jason nodded, smirking, obviously enjoying the reaction. “Yeah. Cool flips and shit. Made me look like a total klutz whenever we tried anything remotely flexible.”
Tim’s excitement bubbled over. “No way! That’s—that’s insane! I used to watch acrobats all the time! I mean, I’ve never seen them in real life, I watch them on tv, obviously, but—” His hands gestured wildly, cheeks flushed. “Flips and tricks, acrobatics, danger and style… that’s amazing. Who is he? What’s his name?”
“Dick.”
“He has the same name as the Flying—”
“Dick Grayson."
Tim froze mid-sentence, words dying on his tongue. His hands, which had been waving enthusiastically, slowly lowered. For a second, all he did was blink.
Then—
“…Grayson?” he whispered, voice suddenly very small.
Jason nodded like he’d just told Tim the weather. “Yep.”
Tim stared at him. Hard. Like Jason had just told him he personally invented oxygen.
“I—… you—…” Tim sputtered, clutching the can of soup like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. “You mean the Flying Graysons? Like the Flying Graysons? The trapeze duo?!The performers? With the—” His voice pitched up in disbelief, “—the spins and the triple turns and the death-drop twist thing?!”
Jason snorted. “That’s what it was called?”
“I don't know, But they did it!” Tim practically shouted, eyes wide.
“Yeah, he used to do moves like that. Still can, sometimes.” Jason looked both bewildered and entertained.
Tim’s mind was breaking. He could feel it. This was not information his body had been prepared to process while injured, half-exhausted, and sitting in a half-destroyed store with soup.
“You’re his brother?!”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” Jason deadpanned, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You—” Tim pointed at him, voice jumping again. “—are the brother of the coolest man alive?”
“I am the coolest man alive,” Jason tried to deadpan, leaning back with mock confidence.
Except the delivery landed about as well as a brick dropped off a roof.Because Tim knew Jason was well aware that Dick Grayson had him beat by several stadiums, a circus tent, and most of Gotham’s population.
Tim stared at him flatly.
Jason sighed, resigned. “It was a joke, kid.”
“Are you a Grayson too?” Tim demanded, suddenly leaning in like he’d just uncovered a conspiracy. “Have you been hiding that the whole time?!”
“What? No.” Jason shook his head, eyebrows jumping. “We’re not blood related.”
Tim blinked. Then sighed with the pure, unfiltered disappointment of a child finding out presents don’t come with batteries.
“Oh. Shame. Would’ve made you cooler.”
Jason stared at him. Then slowly blinked.
“…Thanks, Timbo. Really feeling the love,” he said dryly.
Tim didn’t even realize Jason was being sarcastic. He was still processing, eyes darting like he was mentally rearranging the universe.
“But if you grew up with him,” Tim continued, brow furrowing in an adorably serious attempt at logic, “doesn’t that mean you must be really good at acrobatics too?”
Jason let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a choked cough. “Absolutely not. Last time I tried a backflip I nearly broke my neck and Dick laughed so hard he fell off the couch.”
Tim stared in horror. “But Dick Grayson taught you!”
“Correction—Dick Grayson showed off in my direction,” Jason said, holding up a finger. “Never once bothered to teach me anything besides how irritating older brothers can be.”
Tim considered that.
“…Your life sounds amazing,” he muttered.
Jason fixed him with a look so dry it could’ve sandpapered metal. “Tim, you got shot three days ago. You vomited on the floor. This is our life right now.”
Tim blinked at him. Then, perfectly serious:
“Yeah, but your brother can do mid-air triple rotations.”
Jason stared.
“…I really can’t compete with that, can I?”
“Nope,” Tim answered honestly.
Jason sighed, throwing his head back dramatically. “I get shot, bleed half to death, cauterize your wound with fire, carry you across a city—”
“And your brother does flips,” Tim finished reverently.
Jason pointed at him. “There it is. There’s the betrayal.”
Tim didn’t even apologize—he was way too busy having his worldview rewritten.
“I can’t believe this,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I’ve watched him since I was little… and you were just sitting here casually talking about him like it’s normal.”
“Because it is normal,” Jason said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I grew up tripping over his practice mats.”
Tim’s eyes went wide.
“That’s—that’s like living next to a wizard.”
Jason paused mid-sip of soup.
“…A wizard.”
“Yeah!” Tim nodded intensely. “He could do magic with his body! Controlled freefall, mid-air momentum shifts, double layouts—”
“Why do you know the names for this stuff?” Jason stared.
Tim opened his mouth like he was about to give a thesis.
Jason held up a hand. “You know what? No. I regret asking already.”
Tim didn’t care—his mind was miles away, completely enthralled.
“…Do you think he knows how cool he is?”
“He absolutely does.” Jason snorted. “And he will not hesitate to remind you.”
Tim smiled at that—small, tired, but genuine. The kind of smile that softened the exhaustion in his face and made Jason’s chest tighten just a little.
For a moment, the store was quiet again. Not the heavy, tense kind of quiet they’d had before—not the silence of pain or fear. Just… stillness. The kind that came after laughter, after warmth, after something human in the middle of everything terrible.
Jason watched Tim’s eyes, noticing how they were starting to droop again. He nudged him gently with the back of his knuckles.
“Hey,” he said softly, tone shifting—still warm, but practical. “You should sleep.”
Tim blinked up at him, fighting it even though every line of his body screamed exhaustion.
“We’ll travel in the morning,” Jason continued, adjusting the jacket pile to make it more like a pillow. “When you’re rested. When you’re not half-dead on your feet.”
Tim grumbled something that was probably meant to sound tough, but came out more like a sleepy squeak.
Jason huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep, Tim.”
Tim’s eyes finally shut, lashes trembling once before settling.
“Careful, Jason,” Tim hissed, wincing as Jason bent down to lift him onto his back.
His shoulder still screamed with every small movement, a molten ache that made the world tilt whenever Jason shifted him. The morning light spilled weakly through the cracked windows, illuminating dust and debris that swirled in the cold air.
They had to move before the night brought its freezing bite, and Tim could already feel the first chill crawling across his skin.
“Shit. Sorry,” Jason muttered, his voice rough with sleep and tension. He adjusted his grip, eyes flicking nervously to Tim’s shoulder and the makeshift bandage that barely held. Sweat glistened on his brow, mingling with the grime from yesterday’s chaos. “I didn’t mean to—just hold still, alright? I’ve got you.”
Tim groaned, trying not to squirm, feeling every jolt of pain as Jason hoisted him carefully onto his back.
The weight shifted awkwardly, his injured arm pressed against his chest, shoulder stabbing with sharp reminders of the cauterization. Dust from the floor clung to his clothes, and the faint metallic scent of dried blood mixed with the sharp tang of the morning air.
Jason exhaled through clenched teeth, testing his balance before starting forward. “Got it,” he muttered, more to himself than to Tim.
And so, they started walking.
It was slow at first.
Jason could’ve easily covered twenty steps in the time it took to move one now, his careful, uneven pace dictated entirely by Tim’s fragile body on his back. Every dip in the ground, every stray piece of rubble or broken pavement, sent a jolt of pain through Tim’s shoulder, and Jason gritted his teeth with each step, muttering under his breath.
But over time, they found a rhythm.
A slow, uneven cadence that let Jason move a little faster without tossing Tim around like fragile cargo. It wasn’t perfect, and Tim’s shoulder still burned, but at least it wasn’t unbearable.
Tim let his eyes drift around as they moved. Trees swayed slightly in the morning breeze, the weak sunlight filtering through bare branches, casting fractured shadows on the cracked pavement.
The world looked quiet now, almost peaceful.
Except for the occasional groan or shuffle from the undead lingering at a distance, who seemed just as hesitant to move as they were. Jason led them deftly around them, adjusting his steps silently, alert, protective.
Despite everything—the pain, the cold that seeped through Tim’s thin layers, the burned-out husks of buildings and overturned cars that littered the streets—he felt safe.
A strange, fragile sense of safety, like a thin shield he could hold onto amid the chaos. It made him exhale softly, letting the rhythm of their steps and the gentle sway of Jason’s movements lull him into something close to calm.
His thoughts started drifting, as they often did when the world around him blurred into motion. To the Flying Graysons. To the parents he had lost—or, in some ways, had never really known. To the deep, gnawing ache in his shoulder. To the fires and screams and darkness of the last few days.
And then, suddenly, he froze.
“Jason.”
Jason slowed, a frown knitting his brows. “Yeah?” he muttered, voice rough with fatigue.
“I—uh…” Tim’s throat was dry. His words came out in halting, shaky bursts. “I have… a messed-up immune system.”
“What?”
Tim’s hands fumbled at the strap digging into his shoulder. “My mom… she would give me injections for it. Before she—before she left.” He swallowed hard, grimacing as a spike of pain ran from his shoulder down his arm. “I… I think I need one now. Or—well, I could get sick. Real bad.”
Jason’s pace faltered. His grip on Tim’s legs tightened slightly, careful but urgent. “Shit. Okay. Alright. What are the injections?”
Tim winced with another jolt of pain as Jason adjusted his hold. “I—” He swallowed again, voice breaking slightly. “I don't know. I just know that if I get sick it'll be pretty bad.”
Jason muttered a curse under his breath. “Damn it. Okay. We’ll ask the camp if they know anything about that”
They continued walking in silence, the rhythm of their steps uneven, unevenly safe. Tim focused on the world around him: the skeletal trees, the cracked pavement, the faint light spilling over abandoned rooftops, the distant moan of a lone zombie somewhere too far to matter yet.
He drew shallow breaths, letting the cold air burn in his lungs, trying to ignore the throb of pain in his shoulder and the lingering sting in his chest.
“Sorry,” he murmured finally, voice tiny, "Don't wanna be a bother.”
Jason exhaled slowly, almost like he’d been holding it in, and adjusted Tim again. “You’re not a bother,” he said, voice tight but steady. “Just—I’m just worried.”
Tim shifted slightly, wincing as pain flared in his shoulder again. The cold air bit at his exposed neck, making him shiver. “What… what if we don’t find a camp?” His voice was small, uncertain, carrying the weight of every danger he’d been trying to push out of his mind.
A glance downward, and Jason’s grip tightened slightly. “We’ll find one,” he said firmly, keeping his voice calm even though every step reminded him of the undead lurking nearby. “There’s always a camp. We just have to keep moving.”
“How can you be sure?” Tim asked, brow furrowed, lips pressed together.
Jason’s jaw tightened, and he took a deep breath. “I know there’s a camp here,” he said, quiet but certain, the kind of certainty that wasn’t about luck—it was experience.
Tim’s eyes widened. “You do?”
“Yeah. My dad made me and my brothers memorize all the camps that would help us. Every safe spot, every shelter that could take care of someone hurt or sick. I know them like the back of my hand.”
A small, guilty smile tugged at Tim’s lips at the mention of Jason’s brother—Dick Grayson. He tried to hide it, but Jason caught it immediately. The sigh that followed was long and quiet, one corner of his mouth twitching as if he were fighting a smile.
Tim let out a quiet, shaky laugh despite himself. The sound made Jason shake his head, incredulous but softer now, almost amused.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered, a trace of gentleness threading through the words.
Looking down at the uneven pavement, the skeletal trees, and the cold morning light glinting off shattered glass, Tim suddenly remembered. “Hey… the book. The one you were reading…”
Jason’s brow lifted. “Frankenstein?” he asked, uncertain.
“Yeah. What was it about?”
Jason exhaled, adjusting Tim carefully so his injured arm wouldn’t twist. “You mean the creepy scientist and the monster one?” He let out a humorless chuckle. “It’s dark, TImbo. It gets pretty grim.”
“I like dark,” Tim said, his voice faint. “And scary.”
Jason shook his head, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “It's ‘cause you’re scary.”
Tim laughed weakly, the sound cutting off quickly in a cough. Jason noticed but didn’t comment, just kept moving, his boots crunching over rubble and shards of metal.
“So,” Jason started, voice low but steady, “there’s this guy, Victor Frankenstein. He’s from Geneva. Smart, obsessed with science, and he gets fixated on… basically playing God. He wants to figure out how to create life, from dead stuff.”
Tim frowned. “Dead stuff? Like… dead bodies?”
Jason nodded. “Yeah. Creepy, right? He digs through graves, collects parts, and he wants to understand life. And one night… he succeeds. He brings this thing to life.” Jason’s pace slowed slightly as he navigated a pile of rubble. “But here’s the kicker — he’s horrified. Freaks out. The thing he made is huge, ugly… terrifying. And he abandons it. Runs away and leaves it alone.”
“What—what does it do?”
“At first? Nothing.” Jason shrugged, shifting Tim again to keep him balanced. “It’s confused. Lonely. Doesn’t know the world. It hides near a family — the De Laceys — just watching. Learning. Trying to understand humans. He wants… he wants to belong, I guess. Wants friends.”
Tim pressed his cheek harder against Jason’s back. “And do the humans notice him?”
Jason grimaced. “Eventually. He tries to be nice to the old blind guy in the family, hoping for kindness. But the rest see him and freak out. Beat him. Chase him. And that’s when the anger starts building. He’s hurt… emotionally and physically.”
Tim winced. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Jason said quietly. “But it gets worse. He goes to Victor, his creator, and asks him to make a companion. Someone like him. To… not be alone. Victor starts making it, then destroys it before it’s finished. The monster sees that. And that’s when he swears revenge.”
“Revenge? He kills everyone?”
Jason shook his head. “Not everyone. But Victor’s wife? Dead. Victor’s obsessed with stopping him. Chases him across Europe, into the Arctic. It’s… messy. Tragic.”
Tim swallowed hard. “So the monster isn’t just bad. He’s… sad and angry.”
“Exactly.” Jason let out a small chuckle. “Kind of like… you hurt me, I hurt you. But on a massive, dramatic scale.” He glanced down at Tim. “My mom used to read it to me a lot.”
The mention of Jason’s mother made Tim pause. He had never heard him speak about her. Until now, he had assumed Jason didn’t have one. But the way Jason said it—the quiet, almost dejected tone—made Tim realize there was more to the it.
Before Tim could even ask what happened next in the story, a large barricade loomed into view ahead of them.
Weathered wooden planks and rusted metal sheets formed a makeshift wall, topped with shards of glass and barbed wire glinting in the pale morning light. Smoke curled lazily from a small chimney behind it, and the faint sounds of movement—footsteps, muffled voices—drifted out from inside.
Tim blinked, taking it in, and his shoulders loosened slightly. “Is—is that?” he whispered.
Jason’s gaze followed his, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. That’s the camp,” he said quietly, voice tight with relief but calm.
For a moment, they just looked at each other, exhaustion and tension mingling with the tiniest spark of hope. Tim’s lips quirked into a small, shaky smile. Jason mirrored it, letting himself relax just enough to allow a trace of warmth to reach his eyes.
They approached the barricade slowly, Tim still perched on Jason’s back, every step careful.
The camp beyond looked alive now—tents pitched haphazardly, smoke curling from small fires, the low hum of voices and footsteps carrying through the crisp morning air.
They slowed at the gate, hesitating.
Jason kept his hand on Tim’s leg, as if to steady him, and Tim hugged himself tighter, his shoulder still throbbing. Neither of them moved forward immediately. The world outside the walls was dead; inside, it was alive—but unfamiliar, and that made it just as dangerous in a different way.
They waited in silence, Jason scanning the camp for threats. Tim’s chest rose and fell unevenly, and every snap of wood or rattle of debris made him flinch.
After a tense minute, a man emerged from one of the tents near the gate. Blonde hair, lean but muscular, a bow slung across his back. His eyes were sharp, alert, and as soon as they saw Tim on Jason’s back, he moved—fast, but careful.
“Let me help.” the man said, stepping forward.
Both Jason and Tim flinched at the sudden movement. Jason instinctively shifted to shield Tim slightly, while Tim let out a small, panicked sound, gripping Jason’s shoulders tightly.
“Hey—hey, relax!” the man said quickly, holding up his hands. He didn’t seem threatening, but he was clearly used to acting fast in emergencies. “I can get him off you safely.”
Jason’s eyes narrowed, scanning the man from head to toe. His hand stayed on Tim’s leg, just tight enough to let the boy know he was still protected.
The man paused, raising his hands higher, voice calm but firm. “I’m not here to fight. Look at me—I’m not touching him. Just let me help you, boys.”
Jason exhaled sharply and straightened. “I’m Jason,” he said quickly, his voice firm. “My dad said you’d help us.”
Brows knitting, the man froze. “Your… dad? Who’s your dad?”
“Bruce. Bruce Wayne.”