Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

As he hauls Jason’s shaking body through the door of his safehouse, Tim has only one thought bouncing off the inside of his skull:

  How the fuck did I get here?

That’s an easy question to answer, actually. Tim got where he was by doing the stupidest possible thing imaginable after an argument with Dick at the manor – going out at night alone. Going out alone, unarmed, and not even dressed as Robin, when he at least had methods of communication other than the smashed phone currently clutched in Jason’s fist. No, he had to go out for a little brooding session at midnight and stumble upon Red Hood in some shadowy Gotham alleyway, surrounded by bodies, crumpled against the wall as though he’d taken a knife to the gut.

Or a needle to the neck, given the syringe laying in pieces at his feet.

“Hood!” Tim whispers shrilly. Getting too close to Jason is a toss up on a good day, but to approach him in a dark alleyway in a sweater and sweatpants? Jason might think he’s another thug and shoot him. Or he’d realize that it’s Tim and shoot him. Either way, Tim keeps his distance. “Hood! What happened?”

Jason looks up, his movements slightly sluggish. He stiffens, hand going for a gun that isn’t there, but the tension morphs into something else as it dawns on him that it’s Tim staring at him from the shadows. “The fuck are you doing out here?” He hisses. He sounds like he’s in pain. “How’d you find me?”

“I followed the scent of blood, gore and stupidity.” Tim sees Jason take a step forward and feels every ounce of bravery leave his body. “Okay, okay. I heard gunshots and came to investigate. I’m just out on a walk.”

“At midnight ?” 

“Dick and I got into it. I needed to brood, okay? Don’t act like you never did.”

Jason barks a laugh. “I never went out at night. Unarmed. You are asking to be kidnapped.”

Well, Jason obviously isn’t incapacitated enough to dampen his attitude, but Tim still finds his eyes drifting to the hand Jason has clutched against the side of his throat. The syringe doesn’t look like any of theirs, and from the tension in his fingers, whatever he’s just been injected with had to have hurt like a bitch. “What did you get hit with?” 

“Fear toxin. The new shit.” Jason rolls his neck and groans. “The bad shit.”

Tim blinks. Fear toxin usually has its victim on the ground within a couple minutes. Either Jason is mere seconds away from collapsing into a screaming heap, or this stuff is one of Crime Alley’s notoriously fucked-up concoctions. “Are you sure? You don’t seem like you’ve been hit.”

“Are you even listening to me?” Jason snaps. “I said it was the new shit. Whole new strain. Slow-acting.” He looks around. “Shit. I have to get home before this hits.”

“Go to the medbay. Alfred probably has an antidote–”

“Not a chance, Replacement. No fucking way Batman sees me like this.” Jason runs a hand over his face. “Bad enough you’re here.”

“I’m not leaving you like this. You’ll basically be bait for every bad guy within a 50 mile radius.” Tim crosses his arms. “Either take me with you or come back to the manor with me.”

Jason has him manhandled onto the back of his motorcycle in five seconds flat.

So, yeah. Long story short – Bruce is never, ever letting him leave the manor ever again. 

“We have t-minus ten minutes until I lose my marbles. I’m going to–” Jason stumbles his way to the safehouse and makes a beeline for his bedroom, tearing his mask off as he goes. The remains of Tim’s phone hit the wall and land on the carpet with a dull thud . “I’m going to get a fever, then I’m going to get really, really angry, then I’m going to, like, freeze up and–”

“Are you actually trying to plan out your reaction to fear toxin?” Tim asks incredulously.

“Shut up!” Jason whips a pillow at Tim’s head hard enough for it to hurt. It’s kind of impressive. “I’m trying to remember! Fever, then anger, then catatonia, then – no, no, the panic comes before the catatonia. Then the confusion hits, I think–”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Shut up !” The green glow of fury flits past Jason’s enlarged pupils. “The stages, Tim! This shit has phases. The first and the last ones are fevers. That’s how you know it’s starting and ending. Then come the hallucinations and the rage. Think punching, kicking, screaming – normal fear toxin shit. Same with the panic. Then the catatonia hits. Three ways that can go: sleep, stare blankly at the ceiling, or die. Following along?”

Tim is absolutely not following along. His brain hasn’t quite wrapped around the fact that he’s just been abducted off the street by Red Hood, had all means of communication with the outside world smashed to smithereens, and is still somehow not being tortured and murdered. By all accounts, he should be in pieces by now, scattered over Gotham like a demented easter egg hunt. 

Instead he stands in the doorway of Jason Todd’s tiny bedroom, watching yet another tremor rattle its way up his predecessor’s spine, with the weight of his life bearing down on Tim’s scrawny shoulders. “Come on, dude. I can’t help you through this shit all on my own. At least let me call Dick. He can keep a secret.”

Jason shakes his head groggily. “Hard pass.” 

“What makes you think I’m going to sit here and watch you have a drug-induced panic attack? The Bats are probably going insane looking for me right now!”

“And they will find you in forty-eight hours, safe and sound.” Jason slumps onto his side with a creaky groan. “And if you do this for me, I’ll owe you one.”  

“Forty-eight hours? That’s how long this shit lasts?” Tim buries his face in his hands. However, he can’t deny that the thought of Jason being indebted to him isn’t at least somewhat intriguing. “Dude, that’s fucked.”

Jason manages a weak shrug. “Leave me alone, then. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you stupid?” Tim balks. “You won’t be able to take care of yourself!”

The laugh that bubbles from Jason’s chest is thick and crackly. “I’ve gone longer than forty-eight hours without food or water, kid. This is nothing. I won’t hold it against you if you decide to skip out.”

“I’m not leaving you, Jason. But if shit gets out of hand, I’m calling Batman. You can’t stop me.”

The mere mention of Bruce has Jason lurching to his feet, face twisting. In the blink of an eye, he crosses the room and grabs hold of Tim’s wrist. “Whatever—“ Jason motions between the two of them, dragging Tim’s hand along with him. “Whatever little plan I know you’ve got rattling around in that head of yours, consider it dead in the water the moment you call that old fart. Mark my words, Replacement — if you call Batman, I will snap both your legs and let you drag yourself all the way home. Debt or no debt, I will never forgive you.” He leans forward and jabs his other finger square into the center of Tim’s chest. “Capiche?” 

Perhaps it’s the growing pallor of Jason’s scar-striped skin, or the sweet stench of something sick on his breath, but Tim nods silently, without fuss. Jason Todd, if nothing else, can always be trusted to hold to his violent promises. 

Jason leans back, swaying, and his face twists with discomfort. “Good,” he says tightly. “Now you listen to me. We’re gonna set some ground rules.” 

What is this, a spar? Tim thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut and gestures for Jason to continue. “Rule number one: no calling Batman. No calling Dick. No calling the Bats at all. Break this rule, and I call off the debt and break your femurs too for good measure. Got it?” 

“You smashed my phone. I can’t call anyone.” Tim opts not to mention Jason’s cellphone, or the many communication devices he probably has scattered about the place. Just to be safe.

Jason seems satisfied with that answer. “Rule number two: if I go batshit, lock yourself in the bathroom. It’s got no windows, but I won’t be able to break down the reinforced door. Hide out in there until the phase passes.” 

This is sounding more and more like a horror game. Tim gives Jason a stiff thumbs up, making him frown. “Don’t be a baby. You’ve seen me angry before.” 

“Yeah, and you beat the shit out of me.” 

“And you survived! I don’t see the issue.” 

A headache blooms behind Tim’s eyes. Hopefully Jason is well-stocked with painkillers — At this rate, they’re both going to need it. “Alright, then. That’s all?” 

Jason tightens his lips and looks away, suddenly uncomfortable. “No. If I get—” he scrunches his nose — “If I get emotional, you have to fuck off. I don’t care how you feel or whatever sad shit I say to you, you have to leave the room. Leave me to cry it out.”

“I’m just supposed to ignore you if you cry?” Tim frowns. “That’s… especially fucked.” 

“Don’t care. I’ll be fine. Go sit in the living room and drown me out with the TV or something.” Jason pauses. “Debt’s off if you break this rule too.” 

“That’s not fair! What about rule two?”

Jason smiles. “The debt will be off out of principle if you break rule two. Because you’ll be dead.” 

Tim narrows his eyes. “Touché. I still think you’re out of your mind, though.” 

“That’s my specialty.” Jason turns and stumbles back to his bed. “Go get me a glass of water.” 

Tim does as he’s asked without another word. Is this how Alfred feels? He wonders somewhat snidely. I’m surprised he hasn’t decked one of us yet. 

If the man himself wasn’t slumped over in bed a wall away, futilely trying to prepare for the forty-eight hours of personalized hell his brain was about to dropkick him into, Tim would have had a hard time believing he was in the safehouse of Jason Todd, murderous vigilante with a knack for putting heads in bags and riddling bad guys with bullet holes. The safehouse isn’t luxurious by a long shot, cramped in that way that makes a room always look cluttered no matter how much one cleans, but the floors are mostly unstained and every cupboard is filled to the brim with cans of non-perishable food. The glass weapon cases that hang on the walls are all dusted and smudge-free. A couple of dirty dishes sit in the sink, filled with water, and Tim smells no mold or grime as he pokes his head into the fridge and sniffs. The fridge actually has a few vegetables in there. That, oddly enough, is the most surprising of all.

When he returns with the glass of water, Jason is back on his bed, but all the covers have been kicked onto the floor. “It’s starting,” he grunts, and the waver of fear in his voice is easy to miss if Tim tries hard enough. “If you’re going to leave, leave now. I have to lock the door.”

Tim takes a deep breath through his nose. “Not leaving,” he says simply, passing the cup into Jason’s hand when he reaches for it. “But you’re going to owe me one in two days.”

“Anything you want.” Jason knocks the water back, then holds the glass back out. “More.”

I know exactly what I want. Tim goes and fills the glass again, then runs his fingers under the chilly stream until the thumping of his heart slows. One conversation between you and Batman. No violence. No running away. Just talking. 

Jason doesn’t need to know the specifics just yet.

The fever hits, and the fever hits hard . Whenever Tim thinks the descent might be over, that Jason is as sick as he’s going to get until the next phase of the toxin sets in, another new symptom joins the pantheon of other ones currently wreaking havoc on his body. In the six (because yes, Tim is counting) hours since he’d been metaphorically roped into Jason Todd’s Costco Sampler Of Hell, Jason’s gone from a somewhat-functioning human being to a shivering, sweating Jason-shaped lump on the bed that can’t decide whether he prefers threatening Tim with violence or begging him for help. 

“Keep drinking. You need fluids.” Tim pushes the side of the glass into Jason’s hand, but he pulls it away. “If you’re dehydrated, then the delirium will set in. I don’t need you going extra crazy.” 

“I’ve had enough,” Jason mumbles, rubbing at his glistening forehead with the back of his palm. “I’m going to throw up if you force any more fucking water into me.” 

“You should have let me go buy Gatorade, then. I don’t need you passing out on me.” 

“I don’t need Gatorade. Fevers aren’t dangerous.” A weak groan escapes the pit of Jason’s throat. “Just fucking annoying.” 

He scoots backwards, away from Tim and his water, and kicks weakly at the blanket caught around his legs. “I’m — fuck, it’s so hot in here. I’m burning up,” he says, as though he wasn’t whining about the chilly (nonexistent) drafts ten minutes earlier. “You’re fucking with me. You turned the heat up. I know you did.” 

“This is a fucking storage container! I don’t think it has a heater!” Tim replies. “Drink the water. It’s cold. It’ll cool you down.” 

“ Fuck your water,” Jason snaps. 

I think he’d actually be less irritating if he was delirious, Tim thinks to himself as he not-so-gently sets the cup of water down on Jason’s tiny bedside table. “Fine, then. Sleep it off. You’ve got a couple painkillers in you already, and I’m not giving you more for another four hours.”

A particularly violent tremor runs down Jason’s spine and he lurches up, gagging. Tim hurriedly grabs the designated puke bowl from the floor and thrusts it into his lap. Jason retches, gasping, then collapses back with a low moan. Tim takes a peek into the bowl. It’s just water.

Maybe he is making him drink too much. 

Sue him — he’s not a nurse!  If Jason wanted someone qualified, he shouldn’t have kidnapped the rich teenager with nothing going for him except his coffee addiction and his ability to bulldoze his way into positions he has no right to be in. Having Tim here is only fucking them both over. At least Dick knows some first aid.

Maybe I should have left. Tim sits back on his heels, setting the bowl down on the floor beside him. I definitely am not going to help in any way. Except for maybe being a live target for when Jason’s rage hits. That’ll be a nice blast from the past. 

“Oh my god,” Jason groans to no one in particular. “Fuck my life.”

Tim runs his eyes over Jason’s features and feels his gut twist. His cheeks are flushed a dark, angry red, stark against the pasty whiteness of the rest of his flesh. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his nose, and Jason swipes it away with one irritated motion. “I feel damp,” He growls, in the way someone might say ‘ It smells like dog shit in here’. “My body can’t make up its fucking mind.”

“Do you want a cold rag on your forehead?” Tim asks. 

“That’s just going to make me more damp, dipshit.”

Tim purses his lips. “A hot sack of rice?”

“Don’t fucking test me.”

“I’m just trying to be helpful! Not my fault you kidnapped the least helpful resident of the Wayne Manor. You should have kidnapped Alfred.”

Jason’s mouth twists, and he wipes more sweat off the sides of his neck with a fistful of blanket. “Just… Just get me a stupid cold rag.”

Tim rises to his feet. “Aye aye.”

“Stop being cheeky.”

“I just–” It’s a wonder Tim manages to keep his eye from twitching. “Okay.”

By the time morning rolls around, Jason’s fitfulness has reached its bloody peak. He’s paced himself to exhaustion, thrown up another two times, and his mood has only darkened as the minutes ticked past without any reprieve. He ends up on the floor of the living room, knees pressed to his chest, groaning and mumbling and cursing to himself like a drugged-up Arkham prisoner. For someone who survived years amongst the scum within the League Of Assassins, Jason doesn’t seem to handle being in physical pain all that gracefully.

Perhaps those two facts are a little more connected than Tim would like. 

“Fuck!” Jason fists his hands in his hair and pulls until it goes taut. “ Fuck! I can’t do this shit anymore!” 

Tim, leaned against the wall beside the kitchen doorway, opts not to mention the fact that they aren’t even out of phase one. How many phases are there even? He doesn’t quite want to ask — the absolute last thing Jason needs to be reminded of is the senseless rage that’s due to hit any second. As much as Tim wants to lock himself in the bathroom preemptively, leaving Jason alone to his misery twists something deep in his gut. It feels wrong. 

Maybe he just doesn’t want to look weak in front of Red Hood. That never goes well for him.

“I’m going to kill that guy who got me. I’m going to gut him like a fish and hang him by his fucking entrails.” Jason drags a hand down his face. There’s a drop of saliva bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll break every bone in his fucking body. And his friends’ too. All of them. Dead.” 

Tim nods tightly when Jason’s gaze flicks to him. He’s pretty sure the guy and his friends already are dead, but he doesn’t quite feel like making Jason find new targets. “Once this is over, you can go ham on them. Nice little free-for-all.” 

The tiny Batman that has lived in his head since he was nine tuts at him disapprovingly, but Jason only grins. His teeth are chattering, lips dark. “I’m—“ he abruptly swings his fist into the wall with a resounding boom . Tim flinches. “I’ll kill all of them. I’ll eviscerate them like the vermin they are.” His head swivels around. “Where are my guns?” 

Oh, fuck. It’s bathroom time. “In their cases,” Tim replies simply. 

Jason takes a moment to process that. His eyes are wide, flickering with green. “Where are the keys?” 

Tim shrugs. “I don’t know. Somewhere in here, probably.” 

“I need my guns. I need them in case he comes back.” Jason looks around wildly. His chest is beginning to rise and fall more rapidly. “Where’d I put my keys?” 

You put them in my hands three hours ago, Tim thinks stiffly. And I put them in the back of a bathroom drawer. “Start looking for them; they’ve got to be here somewhere, right? I’ll help you once I’ve taken a piss.” Tim detaches himself from the wall and takes a step backwards. Jason’s eyes follow him. “Sound good?” 

Jason swallows, looks Tim up and down with glinting eyes. Tim doesn’t realize he’s been leaning forward until he’s already balanced on the balls of his feet like a runner before a race. Or a predator, seconds away from lunging.

Tim runs. 

Jason does too.

Shit! Fuck! Shit! Tim misjudges how fast he can turn and slams into the far wall before careening off in the opposite direction. Hurricane Jason follows at his heels, a bellowing shadow in his periphery that knocks everything off the walls in his fury. Panic seizes Tim’s lungs in an iron grip, and he’s hardly able to breathe as he narrowly dodges Jason’s fist and makes a beeline for the bathroom door. 

His foot is almost past the threshold when he’s yanked back by the collar of his sweater. 

“Where are they?” A gust of Jason’s sickly sweet breath invades Tim’s nostrils, nearly making him gag. He’s thrown against the wall with enough force to wind him, then Jason grabs him by the front of his sweater and pins him there. He’s snarling, eyes blown so wide they’re practically black. “Where are they, Replacement?” 

All at once, they’re back in Titan’s Tower, and Tim is so, so afraid. “I don’t know! I swear I don’t!” 

“ Liar! ” Jason roars. “I know you’ve got them! I gave them to you!” 

He pats (read: hits) Tim down in search of his keys, and when there is nothing in Tim’s pockets, throws him to the ground with a furious growl. “I’ll kill you!” Looming over Tim with bloody saliva dribbling down the side of his mouth, his hair a sweaty, clumpy rats’ nest, Jason looks more animal than human. “I’ll show you what happens to baby birds who try to fuck with me!” 

“It’s just the fear toxin!” Tim cries, grasping desperately at Jason’s forearms. “You don’t want to hurt me, Jason. I know you don’t.” 

Jason’s eyes gleam dangerously. “You don’t know anything .” 

His hand goes for a weapon. When he realizes that one isn’t there, his mad scowl only deepens. He swivels around and stalks to the nearest weapon case hanging on the wall — one filled with handguns and blades as long as Tim’s forearms. With one last furious glance at Tim, Jason steps back, raises his fist, and drives it into the glass. 

It cracks. 

The bathroom door locks behind Tim with a heavy click . 

“Replacement!” The banging starts with such force that Tim is sure Jason would have barrelled straight through any other door in the safehouse. “Get out here, you fucking coward! Get out here and fight me!” 

Heart in his throat, Tim scrambles into the grimy bathtub and claps his hands over his ears. He doesn’t want Jason so much as hearing him breathe — not when he’s rattling the door handle like a madman and throwing his whole body against the reinforced wood. “Get out here! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” 

Please don’t break, Tim silently begs that door and the past-Jason who installed it. God, please don’t break. I think he’ll actually kill me. 

The bathroom is hardly bigger than a closet, and Jason was right — there are no windows. Tim is well and truly trapped, with nothing but a door between him and a guy high on fear-rage who weighs a good ninety pounds more than him. If the door breaks, he’s dead. Nobody is coming to save him.

Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry, Timothy Drake. He lets himself slide down the weathered porcelain until his knees hit the end of the tub and the only thing he can see above him is the grimy tiled ceiling. You have to be strong. Jason’s already beat the shit out of you once — this is nothing new. Just a normal Wednesday. His throat squeezes painfully. Just a normal day in the life of Tim Drake. 

With one last attempt to bust the door off its hinges, Jason’s furious yelling takes off down the hall. Based on the sound of porcelain shattering that rings out, he’s taking his rage out on the kitchen cabinets. Hopefully all those dishes are just from the Dollar Store. 

Stage one done, stage two underway. Tim lets his eyes fall closed. He’s definitely going to poach some of Alfred’s good espresso beans when he gets home. Yeah — a nice cup of coffee and a debt from Jason. That’ll be worth getting through this. Less than forty hours to go. 

He stays in the bathtub for the next several hours, dozing out of pure exhaustion, listening to Jason cycle between bashing on his door and bashing on every other possible surface in the safehouse. Most of that time is spent screaming — angry, wordless howls — but Jason does talk occasionally too, not that his words are any more comforting than his shrieks of fury. As long as he isn’t talking to Tim, though, he guesses he’s probably safe.

“Fuck you! Fuck you! ” A resounding crash tells Tim that the coffee table has just met its untimely end. He’s honestly surprised it lasted this long. “I’ll tear you to fucking shreds! ” 

“Ooh, scary,” Tim murmurs to himself. His head is pounding. He probably needs an actual drink of water, but turning on the tap is a total no-go until Jason is done taking out twenty-something years of mindless aggression on his innocent safehouse. Poor safehouse.

“Get the fuck away from me! I’ll kill you, you stupid fucking clown!”

The last word catches in Tim’s ears like a mis-played piano note. He chuckles sleepily to himself, careful to not actually make a noise. Clown. What an insult. For a fleeting moment he thinks of Dick, of the literal circus from which he came, of the twisting front walkover he’d tried to do on the kitchen island one morning, only to be quite harshly scolded by Alfred for having his feet on the counter, and — 

Clown. Tim’s thoughts come to a grinding halt. That clown. 

“Stay back!” Something swings into the safehouse wall and splinters. “Stay the fuck away from me! I’ll fucking kill you!” 

How many times can he say that before it gets old? Tim has the sudden urge to cover his ears. Trick question. It’s already old. 

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop!” Jason’s voice reaches a crescendo, then shatters. “ Stop it! ” 

In all of Tim’s fifteen years on Earth, he’s never once heard Jason scream like that. He’s not sure he’s ever heard anyone scream like that. It’s a scream of pure fear, and the next one has Tim shooting up like he’s been electrocuted. He’s at the door before his brain catches up with his body, twisting open the lock of the bathroom door. Stop! Stop! He yanks his hands away and holds them to his chest. Jason is still screaming. This might not be another phase. If he so much as sees me while he’s in the rage phase, he’s going to kill me. I can’t go out just yet. 

It takes three and a half minutes of Jason’s unending wailing to wear him down. 

Thump. The bathroom door hits something hard and heavy when Tim opens it, stopping the motion in its tracks. For a moment Tim fears it’s Jason blocking the door, but when he pokes his head out, he realizes it’s only the remains of the coffee table. The coffee table that’s supposed to be in the living room. Huh. 

The coffee table isn’t the only piece of furniture that is out of place. The safehouse looks like a tornado ran straight through it; Tim has a hard time finding a piece of furniture that hasn’t been thrown down the hall, smashed to a million pieces, or both in varying orders. Half the kitchen cabinets are hanging open, the oven’s glass door is shattered, and the entire living room is in a state of disrepair. The only things that aren’t on the ground are the weapon cases, but those too are dented and scratched, so it isn’t like Jason didn’t try. 

At the center of the chaos, curled into the far corner of the room with his hands fisted in his hair, is Jason, looking so much worse than the last time Tim laid eyes on him. The rage has certainly passed, but what is left in its absence isn’t much better. If Tim’s fuzzy memory of Jason’s explanations are to be believed, Jason is now in the panic phase. 

He looks up, sees Tim, and screams bloody murder. 

Yep. Definitely the panic phase.

Here’s the thing: Timothy Drake has seen many sides of Jason Todd. He’s snapped candid pictures of Robin vaulting over rooftops alongside Batman, spent more than a few hours standing in front of Jason’s glass memorial case, had the shit personally kicked out of him by Red Hood before he even knew it was Jason under that red mask, and has even had the privilege of wandering into him once or twice scarfing down Alfred’s waffles during the few times Jason stops by the manor for breakfast. All and all, his profile of Jason Todd is pretty well-rounded.

Never, ever, has Tim seen Jason genuinely frightened. 

Until now. 

“Go away!” Jason’s about as close to the wall as he can get without literally phasing into it, but he somehow manages to push himself farther back and fold himself smaller anyway. “Stay the fuck away from me!” 

Tim holds his hands out in an attempt to be comforting, but his voice doesn’t work when he tries to speak. Oh, God. The unfamiliarity of the situation hits him like a bus, and Tim’s brain scrambles to find the best course of action. This is the worst moment of my life. 

“Whoa! Easy there!” Is what ends up leaving his lips, like the terrified vigilante curled up in front of him is nothing more than a horse spooked by a plastic bag. “It’s just me, Tim. Tim Drake.” 

“I don’t want you here. Leave!” Jason whips a piece of wood at him. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

It’s then that Tim notices the blood. On the wood, on the floor, on Jason’s hands and bare feet. Once he sees it, he sees it everywhere . The floor around Jason is a patchwork of bloody footprints. “Holy shit, dude!” He says incredulously. “What did you do to yourself?” 

“Stay away!” Jason screeches. His cheeks are red and wet. “I don’t need your fucking help!” 

He all but shoots to his feet when Tim takes another step forward, bracing his bloody hands against the walls to hold himself up. His feet are definitely in bad condition — storming around barefoot on broken wood and glass for four hours will do that. The pain only seems to be deepening his panic, and Tim’s pretty sure he has about ten seconds before Jason tries to make a mad dash for the door. So he does what comes naturally — make himself as small and not-scary as he can manage. He drops to a crouch, tucking his arms close to his body, and he hopes his face looks amply pathetic. “Okay, okay. I just— I just want to look. I see blood, I want to check it out. No big deal.” 

“No! Stop fucking looking at me!” 

Tim closes his eyes. “Okay.” Another piece of wood hits him square in the face. Fucking ow . “Okay, rude.”

When he opens his eyes, Jason has another plank of wood at the ready. “Do not throw that at me,” Tim says sternly. “I can’t help you if I’m concussed.” 

What a strange feeling it is to have Jason Todd cowering in front of him. If Tim was less of a weak-spined emotional little loser, maybe it would have been exhilarating. Instead, the feeling of wrongness is stark and unpleasant, and Tim actually misses the rage for a fleeting moment. At least murderous Jason is familiar . 

“I don’t want you to touch me,” Jason whimpers. “I’m fine.” 

“You’re objectively wrong. But that’s okay,” Tim adds helpfully. “Because I know how to bandage.”

“You’re not fucking touching me!” 

“I am, but I’m going to be so nice and gentle that you won’t even feel a thing.” Tim motions to Jason’s feet. “Nothing can be more painful than that, my friend.” 

Jason’s tearful eyes look down at his raw, bloody knuckles, the flecks of blood on his sweatpant cuffs, and he says nothing. Tim kneels, and though Jason still shies away from him, he no longer seems to be an immediate flight risk. Perhaps he’s realizing that Tim is a safe person; perhaps the physical tax of going batshit (pun intended) crazy for several hours straight is finally catching up to him. Either way, Tim’s glad he’s tethered to one place. “I’m just going to check out the bottoms of your feet, okay? You can watch me as I do it.” 

Jason’s eyes go wide, and when Tim takes his ankle in hand ( gently, mind you), he promptly delivers a swift kick to Tim’s stomach area. Tim sees every swear word in the English language flash across the back of his eyelids all at once. “Ouch,” is what he says instead. “Didn’t appreciate that one.” 

Tim’s not even sure Jason is aware of what he’s doing. He doesn’t apologize, nor does he look any guiltier than he did a moment before. He still looks scared beyond any rational thought. “Do you hear me, Jason?” He asks. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to bandage your feet up.”

Jason stares at him owlishly. His knuckles are still bleeding too. Tim internally sighs. 

This is going to be fun. 

It isn’t fun. It isn’t fun at all. Jason kicks him another two times, ending all possibilities of Tim ever reproducing (which might be a good thing, but Tim’s not opening that can of worms today), and shrieks into his hands the whole time Tim bandages his feet up with some gauze he finds in the bathroom cabinet. In his defense, having wood splinters and pieces of glass be pulled out of his heel isn’t bound to feel all that good, and Tim would rather the screaming over the kicking any day. 

That doesn’t make it any less emotionally stressful to see his pseudo sorta-brother in such distress. So Tim does what he always does when he feels uncomfortable.

He talks. 

“You know, I always preferred your Robin over Dick’s.” 

Jason’s current moan-shriek of pain cuts off with a strangled gurgle. He meets Tim’s gaze, unblinking, and Tim sees what could be a flash of understanding ripple across his petrified features. Slowly, Tim grabs one of his bloody hands and presses the wet cloth to his knuckle. 

He screams. 

Tim continues talking. “Dick was classic, you know. He was the Robin. I didn’t think Robin could get any cooler than him. Quadruple somersaults are a pretty high bar to go over.” He lets himself chuckle breathily. “But your Robin was something different. It’s hard to even explain.” 

Once Jason’s knuckles have been wiped clean, Tim mists them with antiseptic spray. It earns him another scream and a solid punch to the left shoulder. “You were alive, Jason. I could feel your excitement from rooftops away. Didn’t matter what shit you and B we’re doing out there — you were just happy to be there and at his side.” 

“Tim,” Jason says in a wavering voice, but when Tim looks up, surprised, he says nothing more. His hands are shaking. They haven’t stopped shaking for hours. 

“I would never have become Robin if it wasn’t for you.” Tim pauses, then grabs the gauze. It’s already flecked with blood from bandaging Jason’s feet, but it’ll have to do. “I mean — I’m not even counting you, y’know… leaving the position open temporarily. Even in general. I would have never believed how fucking awesome it is to be Robin if I hadn’t seen you living the dream. You were my hero.” 

Tim feels a rush of embarrassment the moment the words leave his tongue. He looks up at Jason, who is looking at him once more (and perhaps never stopped) , and bites his tongue. Half of him expects Jason’s face to split into a grin, for him to tip his head back and laugh until he’s red in the face, for him to look Tim in the eyes and remind him of what a pathetic little loser he is. But Jason does none of that. He stares, he shakes, and whatever cortisol cocktail was in that stupid fucking fear toxin continues to course through his veins with no signs of stopping. 

Tim suddenly feels very, very tired. 

“I really hope you don’t remember any of this,” he admits quietly. “I’m too tired to keep myself from saying embarrassing shit.” 

“Tim,” Jason says again, more intently. 

Tim ignores him. He’s just glad Jason is keeping his hands still enough to bandage. “You’ll always be a Robin to me. You’d have a pissfit if you heard me say that — again, very grateful you won’t remember a single thing — but it’s true. I think Bruce still thinks of you as Robin too. I’m just the moving body in the suit.” 

He moves onto Jason’s other hand. His middle knuckle is split entirely in two, sending blood dribbling down his wrist with every tremor. Tim feels his stomach flip. At least he doesn’t see bone. 

“I’m glad you’re my brother.” Antiseptic spray goes on. Jason cries out like he’s being tortured. “I know you probably don’t consider us remotely brotherly, but I do. Nobody can take that away from me. I deserve to not be alone, even if those around me try to murder me and take me hostage to play nursemaid.” Tim pauses. The gauze is almost finished, but there seems to be enough to wrap Jason’s knuckles if he makes it tight enough. “Or at least that’s what Bruce says. The first bit, not that last part. Don’t think he could have predicted this.” 

“ Tim, ” Jason says a third time, and this time it comes out as a full plea. Tim forces himself to meet his brother’s eyes. 

They’re full of tears. Some of them have already fallen, gathering on the apex of his bruising chin.

Jason is crying. 

“Oh, God—“ Tim doesn’t know what to say. Tim doesn’t know what to do . “Jesus, Jason.” 

Jason lunges forward and throws his arms around Tim, reeking of blood and rotten fear. His breathing is ragged and heavy in Tim’s ear. “Tim, I can’t do this again. I can’t go through this again. I can’t .” 

“Again?” Tim doesn’t have any clear memories of Jason getting hit with fear toxin, but he reasons that there is a pretty good chance he’s been hit before. It certainly would have been helpful to know beforehand, though. “Fear toxin is nasty, man, I know.” 

“No,” Jason moans, dragging in a shuddering breath. “I’m dying, Tim. I’m dying.” 

“You’re not—“ The meaning of Jason’s statement hits Tim like a bucket of cold water. “You’re not dying, Jason. This is just fear toxin. You’re okay.” 

“I can’t do it again. I can’t. God, I can’t .” 

Jason starts to shake, and Tim wriggles his arms free of his iron grip and wraps them around Jason’s waist. He should be savoring the chance to hug his older brother, as there certainly won’t be many opportunities to do so after this ordeal. If Jason ever figures out — or god forbid, remembers — that they hugged at all, he might just kill Tim for good measure. Red Hood doesn’t like blackmail material. “You’re okay,” he says softly. “I’ve got you, buddy.” 

Jason presses his face into Tim’s shoulder. “I’m so fucking scared, Tim.”  

Tim laughs emptily. “Fear toxin will do that to you.” 

“I can’t—“ Jason’s breath catches. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.” 

He seizes for a moment, then again, and again, and Tim realizes that he is well and truly sobbing against him. The realization is as stark as it is frightening.

I don’t care how you feel or whatever sad shit I say to you, you have to leave the room. Jason’s voice rings between Tim’s ears. Leave me to cry it out.

Icy cold begins to leech into Tim’s veins. It starts in his fingers, which are still bunched in the fabric of Jason’s sweater, then trickles into his arms, which are still wrapped around Jason’s torso like a lifeline, then seeps into the rest of his body like a slow-acting poison. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to do this. 

But Tim knows what’s at stake, and he can’t put that in jeopardy.

He needs that stupid debt. 

“Okay.” Slowly, carefully, Tim starts to pull back. Jason follows, clutching tighter at his shirt. “I have to go now. I can’t stay here.” 

“What? Don’t go,” Jason begs into his shoulder. “Don’t leave me alone here.”

“I’m sorry, man. You told me I had to leave you.” Tim pulls Jason’s hand off his sleeve. “This’ll make more sense once you come out of it.” 

“Don’t leave me alone, Tim. Please.” Jason’s grabbing at anywhere he can reach. The tears are still coming. “I’m sorry. I’ll be better. Just don’t leave me alone.” 

“I’m not leaving. I just have to be in a different room, okay? I’m still going to protect you. I’ll still be there.” Tim practically wrenches himself out of Jason’s grip and hops backwards before he can be grabbed. Jason looks up at him from the floor, one arm still outstretched. His streaming eyes are full of fear and betrayal. 

Tim has never hated himself more before.

“I love you, Jason. I just can’t be here, okay?” 

Jason’s face twists. “ Please. ” 

The second Tim shuts the bathroom door behind him, the tears start. He collapses against the door and slides down it, pressing his face into his knees to muffle the noise of his shuddering breaths. Please don’t come near me, he begs Jason, all alone out in the living room. I won’t be able to keep the door closed if you come knocking. 

Jason doesn’t come knocking. It’s as agonizing as it is comforting. 

When Tim jolts awake next, eyes gummy and mouth dry, the safehouse is completely silent. So silent, in fact, that Tim thinks for one terrified moment that he’s gone deaf. When he jolts awake and loudly smacks the back of his head against the doorknob, that hypothesis is swiftly proven false. The safehouse is simply silent. Quiet.

Something is terribly wrong.

“Jason? Jason? ” Tim scales the broken coffee table in a single jump and is back in the living room faster than he can blink. Jason isn’t there. His mess of bloody footprints is still there, but the space in which he’d been curled up the last time Tim saw him is starkly empty. Tim feels his heart lurch up into his throat. He backtracks into the kitchen, finds it just as empty and destroyed as it had been a few hours ago, and is about two seconds away from having a panic attack before he remembers the one other room in the safehouse he hasn't checked yet — Jason’s bedroom. Simultaneous jolts of relief and terror go shooting through his veins. He stumbles to the door, which is closed, and leans his cheek against it. “Jason?” He says. “You in there?”

Nobody answers. Tim bites down on his lip. If I have to go running through Gotham to find fear-high Jason, I’m killing myself first. Slowly he closes his hand on the door handle, twists it silently, then pushes it open just a crack. He waits for a voice. For a shout. For the clatter of something hitting the other side of the door. 

Nothing greets him but the endless ringing in his ears. 

“Jay?” Tim opens the door further. Part of him is scared to look; if Jason somehow escaped the safehouse while Tim was trauma-napping in the bathroom, then Tim is mega-fucked. Jason would certainly call off the debt, if he even survived. “Jason? Hood?” 

To his great relief, there is a figure curled up in the jumble of blankets on Jason’s bedroom floor. Tim practically jumps for it, landing on his knees amongst the sweat-damp sheets. “Fuck, Jason. You scared the shit out of me!” Jason is facing away from him, curled up on his side, so Tim grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him onto his back. “I thought you’d fucking left—“ 

Jason is dead. 

Jason is dead .

Jason is staring up past him with open, glassy eyes and his skin is clammy and cold under Tim’s fingers and he supposes that that’s not as bad as being warm and dead but Jason wasn’t dead a few hours ago and if Tim missed his stupid heart stopping because he was crying like a baby in a locked bathroom, he’ll take one of Jason’s revolvers out of the case himself and— 

Jason blinks at him.

“Jason!” Tim grasps his face in both hands. There’s a pulse beating under two of his fingers. “Oh my God. Oh my God.” He collapses forward and buries his face in Jason’s chest. “Fuck. Jesus. Oh my God .”

He swallows the urge to cry again. Jason will probably be able to smell his tears in this place once he wakes up, and Tim doesn’t need him to have more emotional blackmail on him than he already does. He’s fine, Jason is alive, and Tim has no reason to cry. 

“You scared me,” he sniffles. Fuck. “Why the hell are you on the floor?”

Jason doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem to hear Tim. Were it not for his blinking and the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart against Tim’s cheek, he truly would look like a bonafide corpse. Though Tim is achingly glad that the panic phase is over, he isn’t quite sure what to make of Jason’s current condition. The lack of immediate violence is nice, at least. 

Jason’s voice inside his head pipes up again. Then the catatonia hits. Three ways that can go: sleep, stare blankly at the ceiling, or die.

Stare at the ceiling it is. 

“Are you awake in there?” Tim passes his hand over Jason’s face. His glassy eyes remain stuck in place. “Do I need to get eye drops or something?”

Truth be told, he hopes Jason isn’t awake. Being trapped in a body that refuses to move has got to be at the top of Tim’s Worst Nightmares Ever. Plus, it makes Tim’s spine tingle to think of Jason being conscious with just him around, doing nothing but silently listening. Watching. Waiting. If he’s angry or frightened, then he’s got no choice but to let it cook inside him like a pressure cooker for the next couple hours. 

Tim shivers. Yeah. I hope to God he won’t remember this. 

Cleaning the safehouse proves to be a good distraction, but it doesn’t keep his mind occupied for long. Tim can’t help but check on Jason every five minutes, frightened of finding him blue and cold in the nest of blankets Tim fashioned around him. There’s nowhere to put most of the broken furniture strewn about the place, so Tim designates a corner of the living room to house the biggest pieces of debris. Jason does, in fact, own a broom, so at least they won’t have to worry about any more incidents with broken glass when the next phase hits. 

Tim stops mid-sweep. What the hell is the next phase? 

He racks his brain for any more memories of Jason’s explanations, but they all end with the catatonic phase and the awful fever with which the toxin trip will end. For all Tim knows, this could be the last phase. Or, because Tim is never that lucky, there also could be another five waiting their turn to fuck Jason’s body up. 

Tim sets the broom against the wall. A quick glance at the clock tells him that it is almost midnight again. Twenty-four hours down. Twenty-four more to go. 

Tim wants to bash his brains out. 

Have his parents noticed he was gone? (Tim laughs aloud to himself. Yeah, right!) Are Dick and Bruce out looking for him right now? Half of Tim hopes not — he probably won’t hear the end of it if they spend two whole days ignoring their patrols just to look for his stupid ass. He hasn’t had contact with them since his argument with Dick, and Bruce always finds some way to check in on him when he and Dick spat. Tim’s also the only one living somewhat regularly in the manor, so him not being in his room when he’s supposed to be would definitely be a cause for concern.

Unless Bruce gave him the night to cool off, in which case they probably wouldn’t notice he wasn’t home for hours . With his Robin costume locked up in the cave and his phone in tattered smithereens, they’ve got no way to track Tim’s location even if they wanted to. He doubts Jason has given them any idea as to where his safehouses might be. 

I think if Bruce wanted to put a tracker in my arm, I’d fucking let him. Tim presses his fingers into his eyeballs until colors bloom before his eyes. Makes things a whole lot less complicated in general. Come on, rich guy. Be a little less moral with all that money you have. I won’t even be that mad about it.

The next few hours pass as such: Tim cleans the safehouse as best he can (which isn’t all that well, but it’s better than nothing), wanders into the bedroom to check Jason’s pulse and eyes (still beating. No eyedrops required yet), tries to eat (can’t stomach anything), tries to eat again (throws up), drinks some coffee (mmm), and then cleans some more. After a few hours of cycling meaninglessly through his routine, he understands why old housewives were constantly doped up on Valium. Tim would fucking love some Valium right now. 

Jason’s got nothing stronger than over-the-counter stuff in his bathroom cabinets. It makes Tim feel a little sick to his stomach that he’s even looking for more. 

As Tim’s walking back out into the living room, carrying some ripped-up electrical wires he found poking out of the carpet, an odd realization washes over him — he’s sleepy. Sleepy, because apparently his hours of trauma-napping in the bathtub wasn’t enough for his greedy psyche. His limbs go heavy all at once, and Tim has to steel himself to avoid dropping the wires like his body suddenly wants to. God, not now, Tim thinks, further exhausted by the fact that he’s exhausted. I can’t sleep now. This is what the stupid coffee is for. 

He learned his lesson last time — fall asleep, and you might wake up to a corpse. It’s only by the grace of whatever bored god is taking pity on him that Jason’s heart didn’t decide to stop while Tim was curled up on the bathroom floor. Bruce would say he’d forgive him and probably spew some bullshit about how it wasn’t his fault, but Tim knows he’d never forget it. A part of him would always blame Tim, if only just for not being strong enough to stay up for a couple more measly hours.

Tim blinks. He’s in Jason’s bedroom now. Jason remains unchanged, alive but only just, and the bandages around his fingers have begun to grow spotty with blood. Tim isn’t replacing them yet, catatonic Jason or not. Something about putting Jason in pain while he can’t even scream makes him dizzy. 

“I’m tired,” he complains aloud. “And it’s all your fault, asshole.” 

Jason, predictably, has nothing to say to that. Tim gingerly steps over him and sits down against his bed, laying one hand on Jason’s chest. His pulse thumps steadily away, but still it isn’t enough. Tim’s arm hurts. He’s so tired. He’s so, so tired. 

“If you’re awake in there,” Tim whispers shakily, feeling his motivation leave him. “Then you can’t get mad at me for this. Call it a sanity tax.” 

The polyester of Jason’s shirt is as soft as satin against Tim’s cheek. Every remaining ounce of energy leaves him in a dizzying wave; he goes boneless, tucking his knees up against his chest. Between Jason and the edge of the bed, Tim feels covered. Safe. Jason’s heart beats like a metronome against his ear with no sign of stopping. 

Tim fights the urge to throw his arm over Jason’s chest. This isn’t a hug, isn’t a snuggle — it’s a tactical position. Tim can listen to Jason’s heartbeat without so much as moving. He’s saving energy, saving calories, ensuring that if Jason’s heart does decide to stop, he’ll be the first to know. Yeah. 

Tim grabs Jason’s limp hand and drags it over him until his palm is settled across the back of Tim’s neck. That’s for me. Sue me. I’m lonely. He closes his eyes and lets the tears dribble free. If Jason really is awake inside his own head, then Tim is never hearing the end of this. I’m very, very lonely. 

He’s asleep before he knows it.

Tim wakes up to someone shaking him. 

“Kid. Kid. Hey.” A cold hand smacks his cheek, just hard enough to make him wrinkle his brow. “Kid, wake up. Wake up.”

I am too tired for this shit. Tim hits weakly at the hands shaking him. “What do you want, asshole?” he mumbles.

There’s a beat of stunned silence. “Are you okay ? ” 

Tim looks up, confused, and finds Jason staring down at him in much the same way. Looking calm, thankfully, but no less confused. Tilting his head, Jason blinks slowly, then squints. There’s a bruise purpling on his cheek from his four-hour showdown with the bathroom door. “Feeling alright, kiddo?” 

Tim comes to a startling three realizations all at once. One: The catatonic phase is now over. Tim is now in uncharted fear-toxin-trip territory. Two: Jason does not seem to be in any sort of immediate distress. Somehow, that is scarier than waking up to him screaming his head off. Three: Jason called him kiddo. 

Jason called me kiddo? 

“Mm,” Tim says awkwardly. “You woke me up.” 

“You were unconscious.”Jason puts a gentle hand against Tim’s forehead, then feels either side of his neck with surprising tenderness. “Take a tumble? Someone hit you?”

“Uh… just fainted, I think.” Tim smiles tightly. “I don’t eat enough salt.”

He doesn’t exactly want to play along with Jason’s delusion, but he’s worried that shattering it will send him into yet another destructive meltdown. Trouble is, he’s not even sure what the delusion is. Is he even delusional? Maybe he’s just feeling friendly. 

Jason gives him a sympathetic smile and starts stroking Tim’s hair. Okay. Definitely delusional.

Tim lifts himself into a sitting position. Fuck, his hip and back hurt. He’d almost forgotten that Jason had tossed him to the ground like a ragdoll a couple hours earlier. Compartmentalization is a bitch sometimes. A useful bitch, but a bitch nonetheless. “How are you feeling?” He asks Jason. “I’m not the only one bruised up.”

Jason wrinkles his nose and chuckles. “You don’t need to worry about me, kid. Being bruised is part of the job. It’ll take more than a few bruises to take a Robin down.”

Oh. Now Tim feels like he’s actually going to faint. So this is how it’s going to be.

He squawks loudly as hands slide under him and heft him into the air. Jason rises to his feet, takes only a couple steps towards the door, then collapses back to his knees with a startled shout. Tim twists and catches himself on his hands before he can clatter to the floor, but one of his wrists twinges uncomfortably. Oh joy. “Jeez, dude,” he groans. “Are you okay? Give a guy a bit of warning before you dribble him like a basketball”

“Sorry,” Jason breathes, and he sounds achingly genuine. “I wasn’t– I wasn’t expecting that.”

He turns, looking unbalanced and frazzled, and his eyes fall on his damaged heels. “Oh,” He says in a wavering voice. “My feet are broken.” 

Of course the peace can’t last longer than two minutes. Jason’s face is going white, and the flecks of blood on his clothes and the floor don’t seem to be helping. Tim pushes himself up, ignoring the jolt in his sore bones. “Not broken!” He says quickly. “You just got a little cut up. Broken glass.”

“Broken glass?” Jason repeats. Tim knows he’s said something wrong. “Why is there broken glass around?”

“Uh–” A thousand answers flit over Tim’s tongue, but none of them are right. “Just, uh – bad things–”

Jason’s up on his feet in the blink of an eye, brow pinched in pain. He stumbles to the wall, half-collapses into it, then forces himself back into a standing position. “Stay there,” He orders in his best Batman voice. “I’m going to go check outside.”

Outside looks like a fucking tornado went through it! Tim thinks with a jolt. “Wait! Maybe don’t do that.”

Jason grabs the edge of the doorway and laboriously steps over to it. He’s leaving bloody footprints on the carpet. “Why not?”

“There’s–” Tim gestures vaguely. “There’s stuff out there. It’s kind of a mess. I don’t want you to hurt your feet again.” 

Jason dismisses him with a quick wave. “I’ll be safe.” 

“I don’t want to have to bandage your feet again if you go poking holes in my nice gauze.” Tim hops to his feet. “Just stay in here, please.”

Jason’s face tightens. “What’s out there?” He whispers.

“Nothing — no one, I promise. It’s just a mess.” 

Tim looks down. Jason’s hand is on the doorknob, slowly twisting. “Jason,” he pleads.

Jason freezes. Tim’s heart plunges into his stomach. For several moments, there is nothing but silence. “How do you know my name?” Jason asks slowly.

“I’m— fuck, it’s okay. Bruce knows that I know.” Tim steps forward, but Jason flinches back and presses his back against the wall. “I’m Timothy Drake. I live next door, y’know? Janet and Jack Drake? The archeologists? I used to follow you and B around with a camera.” 

Jason averts his eyes, lips pulled into a tight line. His breath is coming quicker. “You are safe, Jason,” Tim says, holding his hands up defensively. His left shoulder aches something fierce. “It’s just you and me. There’s no one out there – but you really should stay in the bedroom, okay? I’ll let you check me over for injuries and shit. That’s fun, right?”

He gives a hopeful smile. Jason is still looking at him like he is a wild animal. Before Tim can stop him, he whirls around and slips out the door on unsteady feet. “Shit,” Tim curses, darting after him. “Jason! Jason, wait!”

By the time he reaches the door, Jason is already halfway down the hall, limping with one hand braced on the wall to keep him upright. “Shit, kid! What happened in here?” He asks.

“Nothing! Nothing bad!” Tim cries. “It just needs renovations. Can we get back into the bedroom, please?”

Jason points into the living room. “There’s blood on the floor!”

“It’s yours, idiot! Look at your fucking feet!” Antagonizing a disoriented Jason probably isn’t the best idea, but Tim’s heart is up in his throat and every atom seems to be buzzing with terror. Jason hasn’t been lucid enough to actually escape before, and Tim knows it’ll be hopeless trying to get him back inside if Jason manages to leave the apartment. He simply can’t let it happen. Not if he wants that stupid debt. “Everything is fine. We’ve–”

“My coms.” Jason pats his empty pockets. “We need to call Batman.”

“No we don’t.” Yes we do. I want Bruce here. I need him here. “Nothing is wrong. I promise.”

Jason runs his hands over his body, leaving smears of blood on his shirt. “Where are my fucking coms?”

Tim clenches his fists. “You’re not in uniform, Robin. You don’t have coms. You don’t need them.”

“Shit. Shit .” Jason stalks back with a scowl and takes Tim by the shoulder, his grip soft but firm. He’s whipping his head around like an owl. “Something’s very wrong here. I don't know who you are, or how we got here, but we’ve got to get out.”

“No!” Tim grasps Jason’s arm and yanks him back. “You can’t. We have to stay here.”
“Why?” Jason asks incredulously.

“We just have to, okay? Just believe me!”

“If you’re hiding from someone who says they’re going to hurt you, I need to know. I can help–”

“No!” Frustration fills the cavern of Tim’s empty stomach and catches on his exhaustion like flame to tinder. “Nobody is leaving this fucking safehouse!”

Jason’s expression changes. He pulls his arm out of Tim’s grip and takes a fast step in the direction of the hallway. Tim practically lunges for him, dizzy from exhaustion and pain and fear. I am not losing this debt. His fingers catch the back of Jason’s shoulder and push him off balance. I can’t. Jason stumbles; Tim throws his arms around him and wrenches him backwards. Not after all of this bullshit.

Apparently, Tim doesn’t know his own strength. What was meant to lightly disorient Jason ends up toppling him entirely. His calf collides with a metal beam poking out of the remains of the couch and Jason falls, twisting mid-air, landing hard on his stomach in the middle of the room with a rattling CRASH . He goes so still that Tim thinks for a moment that he’s knocked himself out. Then he shifts, claps his hands over his ears, and makes a bone-chilling noise in the back of his throat.

Tim has a sinking feeling that he knows what that means.

“Jason?” Tim drops to Jason’s side and grabs him by the shoulders, pulling as much of his upper body into his lap as he can. His eyes are burning. “It’s me, Jason. It’s Tim.”
Jason doesn’t seem to hear him. He kicks weakly out at nothing, nails digging into Tim’s forearms as he tries to pull himself away. “Kid, you – you have to go. We’ve got to get out of here. He’s going to come back.”

“The Joker isn’t here, Jason. He’s not here. It’s just me.” Tim hugs him closer. His throat tightens painfully, and words that leave him next come out as a shaky whisper. “It’s just a hallucination. There’s no bomb. You’re okay.”

“Don’t you hear it? That’s a time bomb! He’ll kill us both if we don’t get out!” Jason’s whole body shudders, wracked with the phantom agony of broken bones and crowbar welts. Then he throws himself forward, dragging Tim with him as he forces himself up onto his knees. “We’ve got to – I’ve got to–” He gasps. “ B! Batman!”

His voice echoes off the storage container’s metal walls; Tim fights the urge to clap his hands over his ears. “B! It’s Robin! We’re in here!” Jason sobs. He looks down at his empty hands and clenches them into fists. “My coms aren’t working. He can’t hear us!” 

“You aren’t wearing coms, Jaybird. You’re at home.” Tim presses his face to the back of Jason’s neck. It stinks of sweat and fear and sickness, but he breathes it in all the same. “You’re in your safehouse. Nobody’s coming to get you. You got hit with a fear toxin. I’m Tim, I’m your brother—“ 

“Bruce! ” Jason screams. “I’m in here! I'm here !” 

Is that what you said the last time? Tim feels like he has a front-row seat to the world’s most nightmarish 3-D movie. Did you call him by his name? Did you spend your last moments screaming through broken ribs for a man who wouldn’t save you in time? 

Jason draws in a long, shuddering gasp. “ Dad! ”

Like bones against concrete, against brick, against the mercilessness of an iron crowbar in the hands of a madman, Tim’s will shatters. He isn’t sure where he finds the burner phone, but he has it pressed to his ear before he’s even managed to blink away the tears filling his eyes. Jason only said I couldn’t call Batman. It rings once, twice. He didn’t say anything about calling my dad. 

“Wayne Manor, Alfred speaking.” 

“It’s Tim!” Tim practically shrieks. “I need help!” 

Alfred doesn’t even respond. There is a moment of shuffling, a muffled shout, and then a familiar voice fills his ear. “Where are you, Tim?” Bruce orders.

“Jason’s safehouse. I tried, Bruce, I—“ Tim claps a hand over his mouth, strangled. “I don’t know where I am.” 

“Are you hurt?” 

“It’s Jason. It’s — it’s bad.” 

“That’s not what I asked. Are you hurt?” 

Tim’s hands are shaking. “No. Please come quickly.” 

Jason lets out another gut-wrenching scream. Bruce’s breath audibly catches. “Fear toxin,” Tim forces out. ”It’s bad, man. It’s so bad.” 

“Stay on the phone with Dick. I’m on my way.” 

The relief that floods Tim’s body has him crumpling against the wall, shoving the phone against his chest as another sob wrenches its way from his chest. Faintly he hears Dick’s panicked voice coming from the tiny speaker, but he refuses to put the phone to his ear again until he’s gotten ahold of himself. I was weak, he thinks with no small amount of guilt. But I won’t be a blubbering mess when he gets here.

“Jason,” he calls out, sniffling. “Bruce is coming. He’s on his way.” 

Jason only shrieks, agonized, and that’s enough to have Tim pushing himself to his feet. He brings the phone to his ear. “— hear me?” Dick is practically hysterical. Tim feels faintly satisfied for making him panic, but the feeling flits away after a moment. “Answer me, Tim! It’s Dick!”

“I hear you,” Tim grunts. 

“Oh my god! Tim! ” Dick gasps as though he’s been holding his breath. “Thank fuck you’re alright. You had us losing our fucking minds over here.” 

“If you’re about to lecture me, I’m going to hang up.” 

“Don’t you dare! Not until Bruce gets to you!” Dick’s voice goes sharp. “This is all we have to track your location.” 

Tim re-enters the living room and finds Jason where he’d left him, lying face-up with one hand clenched over his chest and the other one fumbling uselessly with a utility belt that doesn’t exist. “Chill. I was just making a joke.” 

“This isn’t the time for jokes.” 

“You don’t know what I’ve been through over the past forty hours, dude,” Tim snaps. “I’ll make as many jokes as I fucking want.” 

Dick goes silent. Tim collapses at Jason’s side and squeezes his hand in an attempt to be comforting. “Bruce’s coming,” he repeats. “And you’re going to hate me for it when you wake up.” 

“Get out of here, kid,” Jason moans. His voice is hardly above a whisper. “I can’t move. I think he broke my legs.” 

“I’m staying right here. Batman’s going to save us both.” 

Jason’s face twists. “No, he’s not. You have to get out of here.” 

“I promise he is. You’ll see.” 

Jason sobs once more, then laboriously lifts himself up onto his elbows. He grabs Tim’s shoulder with a trembling hand, then pulls him down to the carpet. Tim lets himself be moved bonelessly, like a doll, as Jason maneuvers him onto his side, kicks his knees up to his chest, then drapes his full body over Tim’s like a human shield. The dampness of his tear-streaked face tickles the back of Tim’s neck. His hands come up, caging Tim’s face in darkness, and lace together over the top of his head. “Cover your face,” Jason whispers. “I’ll try to cover the rest of you.” 

This won’t do shit against a time bomb and you know it. Tim covers his face with his hands. The phone rests just past the tip of his nose. And yet you still try.

“Jason?” Dick says uncertainly. “Tim, do you think he can hear me?” 

Tim shakes his head. The carpet makes his temple burn. “No. But you can try talking to him anyway.” 

That’s how Bruce finds them fifteen minutes later; Jason Todd, protecting Tim from a blast that will never come, with Dick murmuring assurances into their ears. He looms over them like a shadow, a specter — of death or protection, Tim can only wonder. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur.