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Tim’s kneeling on the concrete, eyes wide, limbs numb, bō tight in his hands. And it’s stained, something’s dripping– blood.
He blinks, white lenses huge as he stares at the body in front of him, silent, unmoving. Tim really tries to stand, but halfway through he realises that his legs are shaking too violently to support any weight, so he lets himself drop back to his knees, not even registering any pain at the impact. He drags himself closer to the masked woman, bō still held in a vice grip.
“H-hey.” he calls, quiet, “Hey, are you– hey.”
The woman doesn’t respond, doesn’t move. He gingerly extends a hand and pats her shoulder– she’s face down in the mud, and he feels bad for her, because she’s breathing in all the scum and dirt and– who even knows what can be found on Gotham sidewalks.
So Tim grabs her shoulder, and turns her over easily– she doesn’t put up a fight, doesn’t let out a sound.
And when she’s facing upwards, Tim sees it. He sees the dry blood matting her face, he sees the crack in her hairline, and it’s– fuck, it’s deep. He brings a shaky finger to the wound, hovering, not quite touching it– the blood’s not pouring from it anymore, it’s caked and dark. Glassy eyes stare at him, unblinking, open barely past a squint.
The woman’s mouth is slightly agape, and only then does Tim realise that he hasn’t checked for a pulse yet, he hasn’t checked if she’s breathing, if–
She’s not.
She’s not breathing. She doesn’t have a pulse.
Tim pales. “Hey. Wake– wake up.” he calls, voice barely there as he shakes her shoulder.
The woman’s head lolls limply to the side.
“Come on. Fuck.” he breathes, and before he knows it, he’s straddling her, unbuttoning her uniform down to her sternum.
He interlocks his fingers on the centre of her chest, bō clattering on the floor, and with calculated force, he begins the compressions, allowing the full weight of his trembling upper body to deliver the necessary depth.
Thirty compressions, two deep breaths, repeat.
The ribs crack under his touch, but he doesn’t relent, eyes laser-focused, cold sweat beads dripping from his forehead. His head is filled with static, ears ringing.
Thirty compressions, two deep breaths, repeat.
And Tim’s head spins, his stomach lurches, but he doesn’t stop, he can’t–
“Please,” he calls after the first breath, catching his, before diving down to breathe into the woman’s dry lips again, “please, you have to wake up.”
Thirty compressions, two deep breaths, repeat.
His heart races against his chest, pounding so fast that it hurts. Each breath becomes shallow and laboured, his body shudders in exertion and fear, violent tremors coursing through his numb limbs.
“P-please.”
His eyes burn.
“I’m– I’m so fucking sorry. Please.”
Thirty compressions, two deep breaths, repeat.
Nausea churns in Tim’s stomach, rising to his throat with an unrelenting force, he tastes scorching bile on his tongue. Time has stalled. Every breath he takes and gives hurts, lungs withering, heart hammering against his ribs to the point that he thinks that the cracking he’s hearing may be coming from them.
He doesn’t register the feather-light footsteps that approach him from behind, he doesn’t register the hands that gently, but firmly, pry his from the woman’s chest, he doesn’t register when his own head automatically snaps to the side as he brings up a stream of watery bile.
“Red Robin.” a voice calls, steadying.
He doesn’t– he can’t see. Tim’s chest heaves as he vomits again, stomach spasming, hands clawing at his own chest as he shakes in someone’s firm hold.
The hands– small, gloved– keep him from falling into his own sick, they grip at his shoulders, grounding, safe.
“Red Robin.”
Tim’s head snaps up, blind eyes desperately trying to make out the dark blob in front of him.
“Ca-” more puke drips from his mouth, only for an instant.
“Cass?” he coughs.
A nod. He can see that she’s moving her hands, but his eyes don’t track, his brain doesn’t understand what she’s signing.
“I c-can’t see.” he calls, frantic, “I can’t– br-breathe.”
Cass’ movements abate.
“Okay.” she says, quiet, “I call Red Hood.”
Tim flinches at that, hard. “N-no, don’t– don’t bother him, d-don’t–! I killed h-her, I–”
She reaches for Tim’s shaky hands and cradles them in hers, then brings them to her own chest, letting Tim’s palms lay at the centre of it.
“Breathe.”
Tim shakes his head, frantic, eyes squeezed shut.
“Can’t.” he whines.
“Can.” Cass insists. “Copy.”
She takes a few deep, exaggerated breaths, then holds for a bit, and lets them out– she’s seen everyone else do this when one of them panics, so she’s confident that it may work.
Cass– she’s aware that she’s not as comforting as Bruce, or Dick, or Barbara are, but it doesn’t stop her from trying. They believe in her, they trust her– she can’t let them down.
“Copy.” she says again, when Tim’s gaze still doesn’t quite track, when his shallow breaths hiccup and stagger.
“I k-killed her.”
“She hurt you.” Cass explains, words coming out slow– she wishes she could sign, she wishes someone else was there to help her calm Tim down, but she’s learning to communicate verbally, they’ve all been teaching her, so she tries.
“I can see. Red Robin scared, hurt. Not your fault.”
He shakes his head, “N-not an excuse. I– I killed her.”
Cass keeps breathing, and Tim gradually starts to copy her breathing pattern, painfully slow.
“I call Red Hood.” she says again.
And this time, Tim doesn’t protest, but only whines, low.
Tim’s chest still heaves as he tries to catch his breath, body trembling uncontrollably again. The panic clawing at his heart begins to loosen its grip, he thinks, and after a while– Tim doesn’t know how long, he doesn’t care– he starts to regain feeling in his limbs, hands now limp in his lap, the numbness and tingling dissipating bit by bit.
He absentmindedly touches the tip on his thumbs and middle fingers in both hands– he can feel it, despite the gloves, he can feel the touch. The incessant ringing in Tim’s ears slowly abates, too, replaced by a strange stillness that slowly settles in– it should be worrying, he thinks, but he doesn’t care about that either.
As his heartbeat starts to slow down, the erratic rhythm gradually falls back in sync with Cass’. Her hands automatically move to cradle Tim’s once again, and he doesn’t miss how her thumbs press against his pulse points.
Exhaustion sets in, insidious, seeping through his veins, eyelids drooping. Dirty boots come into view, familiar.
“...can go to my safehouse, it’s closer.”
There’s the sound of fabric rustling, frantic– Cass is signing again.
“I know, I know, but we can’t– wait, Red?”
Suddenly Jason’s there, hood pulled up, white streak falling on his forehead under the fabric.
“Hey, you back?”
“J-Jas’n?” Tim calls, hoarse. “I kil–”
The man stands, wasting no time as he hefts Tim up, too, hands wrapped around his shaky biceps.
“Up with you.”
“Wh-where–?”
“My place.” Jason speaks, glancing at Cass, “I called someone to deal with– that.” he nods at the lifeless body at their feet, “Orphan will wait for them, then join us.”
“Take care of Red.” she signs to Jason, “Be gentle. Lots of trauma. Wash the blood off. Feed him.”
“You got it, boss.” Jason hums, thankful that Tim’s gaze is too lost to actually focus on what’s being signed. “If anything comes up, call me.”
Tim doesn’t really remember the walk to Jason’s safehouse, he’s pretty sure that his brother had to drag him along the whole time, supporting his weight– because there’s no way that Tim’s legs can move now. But they do. And Tim knows Jason is making him walk on his own two feet to ground his mind. But it still feels foreign.
He can see Jason’s lips move, can feel the grip around his biceps tightening every now and then. Not much more.
Climbing the stairs, having his boots taken off by Jason, being led into the apartment– Tim doesn’t remember any of it.
He comes to the smell of– baby wipes.
“...And every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance or nature's changing course untrimmed,” Jason is saying, slow, heavy, while gently wiping Tim’s now-bare hands, “but thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that–”
“W-what–” Tim calls, his own voice sounding foreign.
“Shakespeare, sonnet eighteen. You ought to go back to school, kid.” Jason says, focused. He tosses the wipe on the wooden coffee table, and pulls out another one from the box, bringing it to Tim’s face– and he only now realises that his domino’s gone.
“What are you doin’?” he repeats, shaky. “W-why?”
Jason cocks an eyebrow. He’s crouched in front of Tim, who’s sitting on the couch, a thin shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders– it crinkles when he shakes.
“I’m cleaning you up.” Jason says, “You can do it yourself if you prefer.” he adds, holding up the box of wipes.
“I killed her.” Tim breathes, suddenly aware, “I–”
“You did.” and his face doesn’t change, his brows don’t furrow, “I watched the footage. It wasn’t your fault, end of story.”
The eldest gets up, briefly disappearing into the kitchen. He comes out a minute later, and takes his position on the floor again– he presses a cold pack in Tim’s hands, and he knows, Tim knows it’s to ground him. Then, he holds up a glass of red juice, angling the straw to Tim’s lips.
“Drink up.”
“H-how–”
“With your mouth.”
And again, Tim knows what Jason’s doing. He knows he’s trying to keep him distracted, grounded, present.
“How can– you be so– so calm?” Tim asks with a groan, gripping at the ice pack, “I killed.”
Jason’s shoulders sag after an instant. “It doesn’t get any better, if that’s what you want to know. It– doesn’t. You get used to it. And in your case, it was self-defense against a woman who abducted innocent children and was this close to stabbing you in the neck. You didn’t have a choice.”
Tim’s breath hitches.
It doesn’t get better.
He’s not– Tim’s not sure of what to do, now. Jason is still staring, patient, holding up the juice, and Cass– she’s here too, now, hovering behind Jason.
The way they look at him– Tim hates it.
So Tim lets himself cry.