Archive of Our Own

Tim’s hands are sweating inside his green gloves, and he curls them into fists to hide his trembling. He is standing alone on a roof in Crime Alley, waiting for the Red Hood. For Jason.

He didn’t have a lot of time to make a plan, but then, he didn’t have a lot of options. Dick is off-world and Alfred is on sabbatical. Babs is dark, running maintenance, and it was supposed to be an easy night for Batman and Robin.

A few muggings, a couple interrupted assaults, only two robberies. And then the Bat Signal filled the sky, and Tim’s heart was soaring, because he loves being Robin, loves being a hero, loves being called to help.

Two-Face was holding a bank of civilians hostage and Tim privately wondered if he ever did anything else, and if he could be considered insane outside of his gimmicks just because he kept doing the same thing and expecting different results.

Well, he got a different result this time. An unexpected gas, heavily armed thugs, and Batman was down. They’d gotten the civilians out, which was the only good thing about the night. But Tim couldn’t get Batman out alone, and he couldn’t leave him there, and Hood has been—Tim swallows. Batman won’t let him in Crime Alley, won’t let him listen to any of the recordings of the times Batman and Hood have interacted, and he’s letting Tim fly solo substantially less since Jason came to town.

Tim knows why, of course. Jason made his feelings perfectly clear at the Tower. It’s been half a year, but sometimes Tim wakes up gasping from dreams of his face breaking, the knife sliding into him like butter, and the overwhelming pain. Not all of the pain is physical, and Tim still struggles some days to reconcile his hero with the man who left him for dead. The wounds on his body are long healed, but he’s still waiting for the sting of betrayal to go away.

He doesn’t think it’ll ever go away.

But that’s not the reason he’s here.  The reason he’s here is—well.

Jason isn’t hurting anyone in Gotham but Tim, well, not anyone who doesn’t deserve it. Jason was Robin after all, once upon a time. And Tim knows Batman and Hood even worked together a night or two, so this isn’t as crazy an idea as it might seem. He has a vague idea of Jason’s patrol route, but knows Jason must have contacts, people who will tell him when a small bird dares to fly where he’s not wanted.

It’s not even twenty minutes before Tim sees a broad figure with a bright helmet soaring over to him. It’s the moment of truth and while Tim thinks his chances here are slightly better than if he just tried to free Bruce on his own, it’s probably going to end badly for him either way. This way, though, this way Bruce has a chance. Gotham needs Bruce.

Tim took up Robin because Gotham needs Bruce.  Somehow, this is still more terrifying.

Red Hood lands on the rooftop, on the far side from Tim, and looks at him for a moment. Tim’s mouth is dry, he can feel his body trembling, and he can’t quite make himself start the speech he’s been practicing for half an hour.

Hood draws a gun and Tim flinches and says, “Wait.” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows desperately, trying to get moisture. “Please, wait.”

“Please,” Hood repeats, the helmet mechanizing the word weirdly. It’s easy to forget this is Jason. “I haven’t even done anything. Yet.” The yet hangs in the air between them.

“Batman needs your help,” Tim says bluntly, hoping.

“He’s got you,” Hood responds flatly.

Tim swallows again. “I can’t do it alone. I need your help,” he says, chancing everything.

“You think I’d help you?”

“I think you might help me to help Batman. You love Gotham and you’re not an idiot; you can see the good Batman does.” Tim is a little proud he comes off more rational than desperate.

“The good he does,” Hood repeats slowly. “The good he does? Creating Blackgate and Arkham into revolving doors? Never actually fixing a single problem?”

A tiny spark of anger lights in Tim. “You think you can do a better job? You haven’t even made your single corner of the city safe, but by all means, let Batman die. I’m sure you’re going to be great at protecting the whole city.”

Hood’s gun is still loose in his hand as he stalks closer to Tim.

“Excuse me?” he asks softly.

But Tim’s momentary anger has vanished, looking up at that terrifying helmet, and he’s just—he just wants to save Bruce and go home, and he didn’t want to play this card, but Jason doesn’t care as much as he thought, so—

“I’ll quit Robin,” Tim says steadily. “If you help me save Batman, I’ll quit being Robin like you want.”

Hood has gone perfectly still. Tim waits, a corner of his mind dedicated to calculating how long they have to save Bruce before it’s too late.

“I’ll quit,” Tim says again. “Just—help me.”

Hood holsters his gun and takes a step forward. Hope and dread war in Tim, and dread wins out when Hood trails a gloved finger down his cheek.

“Why would I need to help to get you to quit?” Hood asks softly. “You came here, to my part of the city, alone and undefended. Does anyone even know you’re here?”

A slight shudder goes over Tim, and his throat is tight. He—he knew this was a possibility too. Hood’s finger trails down, and he loosely wraps a hand around Tim’s throat. 

“They don’t know,” Tim replies, carefully not resisting. He’s trying not to panic, trying not to remember the last time that hand closed tight and he couldn’t breathe and everything hurt and—“But they’ll figure it out. Even if Batman doesn't get out, Nightwing and Oracle will figure it out and you’ll never be welcome in this city again.”

Hood has to know that.  Has to believe that.  Tim knows how fiercely Nightwing and Batman went after Hood after the Titans Tower incident, and that it only cooled after Hood assisted in a city-wide outbreak of fear toxin.

Hood’s hand falls away from his throat. “Aren’t you a clever bird? But why do you think I want to stay here, once I’ve gotten what I want?”

What Hood wants. That’s the question, isn’t it? He wants Tim out of the Robin costume, probably wants him dead, but Tim thinks Hood wants to stay in Gotham, too. This is his home, this is where the rest of his family is based, and Tim is just—in the way.

Tim takes a moment.  Considers what he’s willing to sacrifice to get Bruce back.  Gotham needs Bruce.

But it doesn’t need Tim.

“I’ll come back,” Tim says, wondering if Hood can hear his voice shake. “I know what you want, and I—I’ll give it to you. I can come back, avoiding the cameras, and no one will know.”

“What?” Hood asks, taking a step back and studying him.

“You want me,” Tim repeats, a little stronger. “You want to—you want me. Well, if you help me rescue Batman, you can have me. And no one will know.” His body is prickling at the thought of the things Hood will do to him, tears pressing at his eyes. He’s only fifteen, he doesn’t want to die, but he’s not stupid enough to think his life means more than Batman’s. 

Bruce has stabilized in the last couple of years, doesn’t need a Robin, doesn’t need Tim. Tim has several plans for how to carefully extract himself from the family; he just kind of thought he’d have a life, after. But death can have meaning, and if Jason will just help, Tim will try not to care about what happens to him after.

Hood looks at him, “Is this some fucked-up kind of joke?”

“No,” Tim says, as levelly as he can manage.  “I’m serious.”

“And you’re not lying?  Not manipulating me to get my help?”

“No,” Tim says, a little outraged, because he’s Robin. “That would be stupid; you know where I live.” Hood would almost certainly get caught on camera somewhere, but Tim is pretty sure he’d be angry enough if Tim backed out that he wouldn’t care. And Tim would be dead either way.

Jason suddenly steps forward and grabs Tim by the hair, forcing Tim to look right up at his helmet. “You know what I’ll do to you?” comes the low, distorted voice, almost idly curious.

Tim wishes he could nod, but Hood has him in an iron grip. “Y—yes,” he says, hating himself for stuttering, grateful the domino mask hides his eyes.

“You’re offering your life in exchange for Batman’s?” Hood clarifies. “You’re going to leave Robin behind, leave a note, and sneak back out here just so I can kill you?”

“Yes,” Tim says quietly, and he closes his eyes. He can’t keep looking at the helmet that hides the man that used to be his hero.

Hood lets him go and casually says, “You know it’ll hurt, don’t you?” Tim knows exactly how much it hurt last time, is aware that it is going to hurt more this time, but—he’ll do anything for Batman. Tim nods, and doesn’t open his eyes. 

“I’ll be able to take my time,” Hood muses. “Set it up. Last time I just beat you into the ground and—while that was entertaining—it’s also fun to be creative.”

Tim flinches, memories pressing in on him. It is going to be so much worse. But he doesn’t have a choice. He opens his eyes and shakily says, “Can we maybe plan it out after, and rescue Batman first?”

“Impatient, aren’t you?”

“Batman’s been in Two-Face’s hands for nearly forty minutes, of course I’m impatient.”  Tim swallows, “If he dies before we get there, the deal is off.”

“If you keep adding conditions, I’ll shoot you right here.”

“No more conditions,” Tim says, “Just—help me.”  It comes out rawer than he likes, but it’s not like Hood doesn’t know he’s desperate, if Tim has come to him for help.

Hood regards him for a long, pressing moment.  Finally, he untenses slightly, and Tim lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.  “Sure, Replacement,” Hood says, and unhooks his grapple, “Let’s go save a Bat.”

Bruce, by some miracle, is more or less unharmed. Hood is probably more brutal with the thugs than Batman or Robin would want, but that’s not Tim’s problem anymore.

Hood leaves as soon as they get Bruce out, not a single backward glance or pointed reminder of their deal, and Tim is grateful.  Bruce doesn’t need to worry.  Tim gets Bruce back to the Cave, they shower off, and Tim tries not to let his hands linger when he folds up his uniform for the very last time.

He goes home to Drake Manor and sits at his desk to write a couple of short notes.  He tells Bruce and Dick that he’s very grateful, but it’s time for him to leave and move on.  There’s no sense in letting them wonder what happened to him. He’s had a lot of fun as Robin—he roughly scrubs at his face, so nothing falls on the note—and they’ve been very kind, more kind than his own family, really, but he’s leaving Gotham. Leaving the notes on his desk, he changes into dark jeans and a dark hoodie before leaving through his window.  

Once in Gotham, he gives a small wave to the last camera he lets see him, a sort-of farewell to Babs, and heads to the address Hood gave him. He’s carefully not thinking. If he thinks about what he’s doing, he won’t be able to go through with it, and he made a bargain. He has to uphold his end of it. Who knows how much worse it will be for all of them if he doesn’t?

A Hood that’s denied his prize is a vindictive Hood, and between Bat training, League training, and Jason’s own love of the dramatic arts, Tim doesn’t want to see the creative consequences.  This will be bad enough already.

This will be—agonizing, pain, so much pain, hate and vengeance and deadly skills all combined for a slow, tortuous death and Tim can’t help but wonder how long it’ll take him to die.

He knocks on the apartment door, and Jason opens it. He’s in civilian clothes, not even a mask, and he looks at Tim and says, “What the fuck.”

Tim looks up at him in surprise and says, “Am I too early?” Am I too early? Like he got the time for a dinner engagement wrong. 

Jason stares at him and Tim looks down at the floor. He’s done his part, okay? He doesn’t have to worry about what to do next, because there’s nothing left for him to do.

He did his part.  He fulfilled his part of the bargain.  This—this will hurt, but he’s done, and he doesn’t need to worry.

Batman is safe.  Gotham is safe.  That’s all that matters.

“You actually showed up.” Jason’s voice is surprised, and Tim vaguely wonders why, but it’s getting harder to care about anything. “You actually showed up. What the actual fuck.”

A rough arm grabs Tim and drags him in, and he nearly trips because his feet are slow in responding to him. Everything feels a little slow, a little distant.

It’s a nice apartment.  Tim expected a safehouse, more sparse and utilitarian, but this looks like a home with a cozy couch and a bookshelf and coasters on the coffee table.

“Why the fuck would you show up?” Jason says, almost frantic as he shuts and locks the door behind them.  “Who the fuck delivers themselves up to be tortured and murdered? I thought you were lying to me!”

Tim blinks, slowly, and says thickly, “We made a bargain.”

“A bargain?” Jason repeats, voice agitated. There’s something wrong here, something not right, but Tim is done. He can’t feel his hands or his feet, and when Jason says, “Why the fuck—who—” Tim doesn’t care about answering him.  He came, now all he has to do is wait for the pain.

It’s not going to be quick, so Tim can’t even tell Jason to get it over with.  If Jason wants to torture him with anticipation, he can, and there’s nothing Tim can do but take it.  He sinks further into the haze, into the only thing keeping him from crying, and when Jason whirls on him, green eyes vibrant, Tim doesn’t even flinch.

“Who the fuck thought up this sick joke?” Jason snarls.  Tim can barely feel the hands squeezing his shoulders.  “Is this some kind of test?  I swear to fucking god, I will rip your throat out if Bruce sent you here.”

Ripping out his throat sounds nice and abruptly fatal.  Tim almost wants to lie, but that’ll just lead to complications after he’s gone.  He can be brave.  Just a little while longer.  For Bruce.  “No,” Tim says, his voice echoey, “Bruce doesn’t know I’m here.”

“So this is your fucked-up plan, then.  What is it, go running back to the old man and complain about how I attacked you?  Spin a sob story about how I’m a monster that can’t control my rage?”

Jason sounds furious.  Tim thinks he should be concerned about that, but he can’t.  He can’t stop the hands curling around his throat, he can only look up into that murderous expression.

“How long before they come running after you?” Jason spits out, green eyes pulsing, “How long before they come looking for your mangled corpse?”

“I left a note,” Tim says, because maybe a deadline will make Jason finish faster, but it’s not worth the searing fury.  “That I’m leaving Gotham.  No one’s coming.”

No one’s coming.

It hits him like a freight train.  In Titans Tower, he knew that Batman was coming.  If he just lasted long enough, Batman would come.  Batman always came.

But no one’s coming now.  He’s well and truly alone, and even as Jason takes a step back, eyes wide, the terror swallows him whole.

He doesn’t even register his knees hitting the ground.

Jason is looming over him, and it doesn’t matter that he’s in civilian clothes, he never needed armor and guns to hurt him—and now Jason is closer, much closer, and he reaches out—Tim can imagine his hands settling on his neck, curving underneath his jaw, gripping tight and twisting.  It would be over so quickly.

Please, please let it be over quickly.

But Jason’s hands don’t go to his neck, they wrap around him, they pull him forward, until his head is cushioned against a shoulder and there’s an arm around him, and—and a hand cupping his head and someone is saying something, the tone is panicked, but it’s not Tim, and words won’t help him now.

He can’t—he didn’t come here for a fight.  He came here to surrender.

So he surrenders.

“—shows up, dissociating—” Jason is shouting. “—and you want to fucking tell me to fucking calm down? No, I’m not calming down and no, I’m not telling you where we are, what the fuck? Why would I send him back to you? You let him give himself up to be tortured and murdered.”

Tim is laying on something soft, and he’s warm. There’s a hand gently stroking through his hair, rubbing his scalp, tugging at the ends, and he never wants to move.

“Of course you should have known!” Jason’s yelling in the background is ruining Tim’s happy place, and he cracks his eyes open to see Jason above him, holding a phone, looking furious. “How did he get out of the Manor?”

“Wasn’t in the Manor,” Tim says sleepily, and watches as Jason nearly drops the phone.

“What?” Jason says, looking down, more flat than curious.

“Wasn’t in the Manor,” Tim repeats. “Went home.”

“Went home—the Manor is your home!”

“No,” Tim says. “Not my home.”

Jason stares down at him, wearing an expression Tim is too sleepy to parse, and then Jason puts the phone back up to his ear.

“Shut up. He doesn’t live at the Manor?” His voice is deadly quiet, but his hand is gentle in Tim’s hair, and the anger isn’t directed at him, and it’s nice. Tim closes his eyes and drifts more. “You let a kid go back to an empty house? No wonder he thought he could just knock on my door and ask to be murdered!”

He must be lying on Jason’s lap, Tim deduces.  On a soft pillow.  There’s a blanket pulled over him, heavy wool, and it wraps around Tim like a hug.  This is very nice.  Tim’s not sure how exactly his brain came up with this as a mental substitute for the torture and pain, but he feels content, even with Jason still shouting.

“No.  No.  Go fuck yourself.  You told me you were doing better.  You told me that you weren’t going to make the same goddamn mistakes.  And what did you get?  Another Robin, leaving another note and running away!  You’re goddamn lucky he came to me—what the fuck do you imagine the Joker would do if a Robin offered himself to be murdered?”  Jason listens for a moment.  “I will not stop shouting!”

It’s loud enough to make Tim wince, and the fingers in his hair stutter.  He cracks his eyes open, and Jason is staring down at him.  He looks...sad, Tim thinks.

“You know what,” Jason says softly, “Fuck it.  I can’t deal with you right now.  Just—no.”  He ends the call.

The phone starts ringing again a couple seconds later, and Jason turns it off before letting it clatter onto the coffee table.  Jason buries his face in his hands and very softly mutters, “Fuck.”

Tim hopes to go back to drifting now that Jason’s stopped yelling, but his contentment is rudely shattered by Jason getting up and leaving him on the couch.  He can hear the older boy pacing back and forth, muttering impercations under his breath, and Tim shifts up.  The pillow is at an odd angle with the change in position, and while Tim still feels sleepy, his mind is trying to wrap around the conversation, and he slowly pushes himself up.

Jason stops his jittery movements when he spots Tim staring at him, deflating slightly.  He looks like a tired teenager instead of a murderous crime lord, and when he comes closer and crouches to look up at Tim, Tim can almost imagine that this is a version of Jason that never died.  Never got replaced.  Never hated him.

“Hey, Tim,” Jason says softly—his subconscious is making all kinds of stretches, Jason has never once called him Tim—watching Tim carefully.  “How are you feeling?  Do you want anything?”

Tim wants a lot of things, but most of them aren’t possible in this dreamworld.  But if it is a dream, or a dying hallucination, Tim can ask Jason for whatever he wants.

It isn’t the real Jason.  And Tim knows that.  But he can pretend like he is.

Tim opens his arms.

Jason’s expression cracks—and Tim goes still, because what if this is it, what if it breaks the dream, what if he’s going to see Hood, what if he’s going to feel all the pain his mind is suppressing—and Jason’s leaning forward, stretching up, and—

It feels so warm.

Jason’s arms wrap around him, over the blanket, and his mind has clearly concocted some mixture of Dick and Bruce for Jason’s hug, it’s encompassing and firm and Tim sinks into it, locking his arms around Jason’s neck and tucking his head down.  Jason sits down on the couch, drawing Tim into his lap, and Tim practically plasters himself against Jason, because even for a mental illusion, the hug is top tier.

He’s feeling warmer, though, more...present.  Like something is drawing him down, back to reality, back to pain, and Tim clutches harder, like that will stop it, like holding a hallucination means anything, strangling the sob as sensations become more real.

He can feel the slightly scratchy blanket wrapped around him, he can taste salt on his lips, he can feel his itchy cheeks and the cloth under his fingers and the steady breaths above his ear.  It forces him back into his body, back into the terrified fifteen-year-old about to die, slowly and painfully, and the strangled sobs turn to choked, gasping breaths as panic is finally uncovered.

He keeps his grip, it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart, that and the arm around his back, the fingers drifting through his hair, the soft soothing murmurs in his ear.  Terror washes over him like a wave, and he’s left bedraggled and limp and struggling for breath, clutching a life raft like he’s drowning.

Tim takes several gasping half-sobs to notice that he’s not in pain.

Several more to realize where he is.

Several more to accept just who he’s holding.

Tim disengages, and Jason lets him go, lets Tim withdraw, lets him crawl a half step back, on the couch, still twisted up in the blanket.  Jason looks...softer, the green of his eyes more muted, and Tim doesn’t move a muscle as Jason tugs up the end of his blanket and gently scrubs at Tim’s wet cheeks.

Tim practically lunges to bury his face against Jason’s shirt as the tears come back.

He’s expecting pain, but he’s not—he’s not afraid, not anymore, and he’s not floaty.  He’s just tired, and he doesn’t know how long Jason will keep holding him, but he doesn’t care.

Eventually, the hair stroking slows and stops, and Tim mourns it briefly.

“Do you want some water?” Jason asks quietly, “Or hot cocoa?”

There’s a faint headache pulsing at him, too much crying and tension and fear, but Tim shakes his head where it’s pressed against Jason’s shirt.  If Jason is in a mellow mood, then maybe this won’t have to hurt.  Maybe it can be quick and painless.

“Can you please do it now?” Tim asks.  His voice isn’t hopeful.  It isn’t despondent.  It just is.

“Do what now, kid?”

“Kill me.”

He can hear Jason’s heart skip a beat.  The arms around him tighten.  

“I’m not going to kill you,” Jason chokes out.

Not over quickly, then.

“Okay,” Tim accepts, and closes his eyes again.  It’s warm here, and it doesn’t hurt, and this is a nice way to wait.

Jason takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  “You don’t believe me.”

Tim doesn’t answer.  It’s not a question, and he doesn’t want Jason to move away.  He’s probably going to, eventually, but until then, Tim wants to stay here.

Jason exhales again, and it sounds faintly distressed.  He shifts—Tim clutches his shirt tighter—but he just reaches for something on the coffee table before drawing back.  Tim can hear the tinny ringing of a phone.

Jason cuts it the moment it reaches the voicemail, and the ringing starts again.

This time, he lets it run—it’s Dick’s voice he hears, faint and distant and cheery—and the moment the line beeps, Jason growls, “What’s the goddamn point of giving me your number if you never fucking pick up the phone?”

“He’s not here,” Tim murmurs.

“What?”

“He’s off-world.”  Tim yawns.  He’s getting sleepy again.  It’s way too late at night.  Or early in the morning.  “Not getting back till next week.”

“Are you fucking serious.”  Jason sounds disbelieving, and then irritated.  “Again.”  Tim doesn’t understand.  “I’m starting to think he’s doing this on purpose.”

There’s a dull thud when Jason drops the phone on the couch next to them, before heaving a heavy sigh. “Okay,” he says, “Okay. Just me, then. That’s fine.”

Tim just—he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t want to understand.

Tim’s brain never stops thinking about things, but Tim doesn’t want to think anymore. He’s already—he already made his peace, but if he starts thinking, he’ll start being scared again. 

He’s so tired, and his head still hurts. He wasn’t supposed to worry about things anymore, but Jason isn’t doing anything, and gentle fingers find their way back into Tim’s hair, and this is so much nicer than whatever else is going to happen, it’s almost worse, because it’s going to end eventually.

“Kid, are you hurt anywhere?” Jason asks after a few seconds of silence, his fingers never stopping their soothing patterns.

“Bruises and cuts,” he answers mechanically. “Got checked at the cave.”

Jason snorts. “Alright,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Warm,” Tim says.  He just wants to go to sleep.  Maybe if he’s really lucky, he won’t wake up.

“Do you want me to stop hugging you?”

“No.”  Hugs are nice.  He doesn’t want the torture, or whatever comes after.

There’s a sigh, and it doesn’t sound annoyed.

“Okay,” Jason says, “Alright, kid. I’m just going to get up for a minute, then.” Tim only lets out a wordless protest when he feels Jason’s arms untangle, but instead of pain, Jason shushes him gently. “I’ll be right back, and we can keep hugging, okay?”

Tim isn’t going to hold his breath.

Tim—Tim knows what he signed up for.

He pulls the blanket more snugly around himself as he waits for Jason to come back with whatever he’s gone for—knives, maybe, or—or who knows what else, Tim is sure Jason is creative enough to hurt him in ways he can’t even imagine.

The haze is still there, just beyond his conscious thoughts, but it’s out of reach.

Tim is too grounded, and—and it’s fine, because he couldn’t let Batman die, because Batman is too important, and this was the only alternative, but—but still, there’s no way to avoid feeling whatever is about to happen, and it’s—it’s going to hurt.

When a shadow falls over his closed eyelids, a figure blocking out the light, Tim nearly flinches. There’s a weight dropping around his shoulders before he can blink his eyes open, another blanket, heavier than the wool one, and Tim doesn’t—he’s not—

There’s a smell, too, thick and sugary with a hint of cinnamon, clearer to his senses than Tim wants it to be, and he watches as Jason hands him the mug that was just on the table.

It’s steaming hot, and Tim wraps trembling fingers around the ceramic, almost spilling it before he gets his tired muscles to lock in place.

Jason fusses with the blankets, drawing them more securely around him—and Tim thought Bruce’s smothering tendencies were bad—and finally, his hands unfreeze enough that he manages to take a sip.

It’s cocoa, sweet and delicious and perfectly spicy, clearly prepared fresh, just for him.

Tim’s eyes grow heavy with tears again.

He’s still trying to understand why—why he’s curled up in warm blankets. Why Jason is sitting down, grabbing Tim’s chin with gentle fingers, and Tim turns his head easily, shutting his eyes tight against whatever Jason is about to do, but—but there’s a wet cloth dabbing at his cheeks, cleaning the itchy tear tracks, and the taste of cocoa is still fresh on his tongue, and once he’s clean, Jason’s arms wrap once again around Tim, holding him against a warm, steady chest, and—he’s not—he isn’t being tortured, when he was so sure—he was ready—

“I’m not going to hurt you, kid,” Jason says, which still makes no sense, but Tim is too tired to question it.

He nods eventually, when the pause stretches for too long, but Jason sighs, so he probably doesn’t believe that Tim believes him. But Tim can't believe him, so he doesn't understand what Jason wants from him, or how to give it. 

He shifts around, stretching for something on the table. A book. It wasn’t there earlier, so Jason probably brought it with the cocoa just now. Tim doesn’t see the title before Jason is opening it, flipping awkwardly through the pages with a single hand, the other one still wrapped carefully around Tim.

“Drink your cocoa,” Jason says, nudging Tim’s arm gently, and oh, he forgot. He does as he’s told, taking small sips while warmth settles more firmly, thawing frozen insides.

And then, Jason starts reading.

“The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone. She was very old, though she did not know it, and she was no longer the careless color of sea foam, but rather the color of snow falling on a moonlit night. But her eyes were still clear and unwearied, and she still moved like a shadow on the sea.”

The words sound odd in Jason’s tone, somehow too light to be spoken in such a deep voice. But his chest rumbles softly under Tim’s cheek, and there’s something soothing to the way his tone dips and rises, shifting along with the flow of sentences and drawing Tim’s attention to his words.

“She did not look anything like a horned horse, as unicorns are often pictured, being smaller and cloven-hoofed, and possessing that oldest, wildest grace that horses have never had, that deer have only in a shy, thin imitation and goats in dancing mockery.”

He continues like that, one hand occasionally nudging Tim into sipping his cocoa, as his voice carries Tim along through the world of the story. Tim feels somehow more present and less so all at once, and he can’t seem to suppress his yawns.

He's on his second mug of cocoa when the sound of the window sliding open stops Jason in his tracks. Tim’s leaning completely against Jason, laid out comfortably on the couch, drifting in and out of the story on waves of sleepy awareness, so sleepy he almost misses the sound.

Jason groans, “Are you fucking kidding me,” slamming the book shut, but he doesn’t get up from the couch, still holding Tim—not letting go, just like he promised.

Tim blinks at the dark shadow slipping through the window.  “How the fuck did you find us?” Jason snaps, still leaning against the arm of the couch.  Tim can’t see him properly from this angle, but he sounds kind of like a grumpy teenager.  “I told you, if you put a single goddamn tracker on me, we’re done.”

“Oracle,” Batman growls, “You need better fake financials for your safehouses.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Batman doesn’t give him a single glance, entirely ignoring Jason’s glower as he rounds the edge of the couch to stop in front of Tim.  A gloved hand gently cups his face, and Bruce tugs off the cowl before looking Tim in the eyes.

He looks...tired.  Concerned.  Worried.  Like he got drugged unconscious, captured by Two-Face, and then traversed the whole city in search of Tim.

“Tim,” and it’s Bruce’s quiet voice, not Batman’s growl, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Tim replies automatically.

Bruce’s face draws into a frown as Jason snorts.  “Sure, kid,” Jason rolls his eyes, “We’ll just ignore the whole dissociating-and-crying-and-surrendering-to-get-tortured thing.”

“I’m fine,” Tim repeats, because—because he isn’t hurt, he’s still breathing, he isn’t in pain and—Tim tugs his face free of Bruce’s grip and takes a too-big gulp of hot cocoa before his eyes can start to prickle.

“Tim,” Bruce says, and his voice is so gentle Tim is about to lose the battle to keep the tears at bay. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Jason?”

Tim stares into his mug. He—he surrendered, to save Bruce and Gotham, and then when Jason didn’t—he surrendered because he was out of options, and—and he kept quiet, because lying to Jason was worse, because he had to keep his word—because it would have been more trouble, and Tim isn’t supposed to cause trouble, and—

And there’s no easy answer to Bruce’s question. There’s no answer which won’t cause more worry.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead.

Bruce’s expression shatters, by his standards, and there’s a breathless sound from Jason’s thoat, and Tim suddenly thinks he said something wrong, but he’s not sure what, or how to fix it—

But Bruce’s hand is still gentle when it shifts from cupping his cheek to drifting down, squeezing his shoulder to pull Tim forward, and before he knows it, Jason’s arms are exchanged for Bruce’s.

It’s an awkward position, and his head is at a weird angle, but Bruce is holding him so tightly—the way he never does unless there’s pollen involved. It’s usually just a pat on the shoulder, or a brief side hug at best, which is fine, because Bruce doesn’t have to hug Tim if he doesn’t want to, Tim understands, but—but his hugs are really big, and engulfing.

Tim cried too much already. He’s not supposed to be loud, and needy and emotional, no matter how much his eyes prick with unshed tears.

“I’m—I’m so—sorry—” he tries, but Bruce shushes him.

“No, Tim. You don't have to.  Just don’t ever do something like this again. Please,” he says, right next to Tim’s ear, so close that Tim can hear the smallest crack in his voice, and that’s what pushes him over the edge. "You're so important, Tim."

And Tim—Tim can’t stop the tears from streaming down his face, can’t stop the gasps tearing through his throat. Can't stop shaking his head, that's not—he's not, he's just—he's just Tim, he—

But like a flood suddenly let loose, everything comes undone all at once. All the terror, resignation and confusion of the evening wracking his body with terrible, keening sobs that his mother would have slapped him for.

Bruce just trails a hand up to cradle the back of his head. He holds Tim tighter, lifting him as easily as a stack of blankets—which he might as well be, as swaddled as he is—as if he’s no burden.

“Bruce,” Jason says, a dark warning in his voice that should worry Tim, but as he is, held close in Bruce’s protective embrace, Tim feels safe.

“I know, Jason. Just...tomorrow.”

Jason scoffs, but seems to let it drop, and Tim is still too busy crying to figure out what that’s about, burying his face against Bruce’s chest, because—safe—safe—safe, because he thought he would—but Bruce is here, and Tim is safe now, and that’s too—

“Tim?” Bruce says, shifting Tim carefully as he sits down on the couch, drawing the blankets more tightly around him. “Can you look at me?”

Tim—he can’t, he shakes his head, he can’t—

“That’s okay. Can you at least promise me you won’t do that again?” he says next, and Tim knows what answer Bruce wants, but Tim—

He can’t say yes, but he shouldn’t say no, and there’s no good answer, so he does nothing.

Bruce sighs, running his hand down Tim’s back and leaving trails of warmth behind with each pass.

But Tim’s dying sobs and wet sniffles are the only sounds for a long while, the silence lingering heavy between them. Tim knows this isn’t the end of that, that the issue pulls as heavily at Bruce as it does at him, but every part of him feels raw and open and Tim can’t, he can’t handle having that talk, not right now.

“Hot cocoa?” Bruce asks after a while, his voice too light to be convincing, but the effort makes something deep inside Tim unwind, and some kind of tension seems to fall away, because the air is suddenly easier to breathe.

Jason scoffs, but he answers, at least. “Yeah, well. I guess you weren’t completely helpless all the time,” he says.

Bruce’s hands pause for a second. He starts up again after two breaths. When he speaks, there’s amusement tinging his voice, and Tim is too tired to puzzle through that conversation, to figure out what he's missing.

Bruce is here. Bruce can handle things, now.

“High praise coming from you,” he says, and the tension in his voice is so subtle, anyone who doesn't know Bruce would miss it. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jason snaps. But it’s not—it’s not furious, or cutting, the way Tim knows Jason to be capable of. He’d almost call it petulant. “The cocoa was all Alfred.”

“Hmm, yeah, but I seem to remember something else on those evenings,” Bruce says leadingly, letting the silence speak for him.

It lasts a heartbeat, two—five before Jason finally breaks it.

“Don’t give me that smug look, old man,” he says. “I know you didn’t come up with that idea either. It has Alfred written all over it.” There’s sounds of shuffling, and the fwip of pages turned, before the stillness settles once again.

Tim can’t quite picture what it looks like, him and Bruce and Jason, all crammed onto a single couch, but he’s too comfortable to risk moving, to look up, to let the world in.

He’s in Bruce’s arms, and it’s warm, and safe, and Tim doesn’t want it to end.

“But you better fix this tomorrow,” he hears Jason say, “And no interruptions, or I swear I’ll punt both of you out of here before you can say ‘The Last Unicorn’.”

Bruce huffs, that thread of amusement still lingering in his tone. Except, it sounds more genuine this time. “Sure, Jaylad,” he says simply.

Tim can feel him shift further back on the couch, but he stays put, comfortable right where he is, when Jason’s voice finally starts up again.

“One by one, the sad beasts of the Midnight Carnival came whimpering, sneezing, and shuddering awake,” he recites. “One had been dreaming of rocks and bugs and tender leaves; another of bounding through high, hot grass; a third of mud and blood. And one had dreamed of a hand scratching the lonely place behind its ears.”

Bruce’s arms are a comforting weight around his body, and with the story unraveling around him in Jason’s deep, steady tone, Tim’s consciousness easily drifts on the weaving, flowing threads.

Surrendering isn’t what Tim expected.

Surrendering was supposed to be the end.

No more worrying, no more future, only Tim, and torture, and eventually, an end.

But Jason never stopped being gentle, and Bruce came for him, and Tim isn’t sure where that leaves him.

This feels like a beginning.