Archive of Our Own ^beta

i broke my bones, yeah, but fuck it (i’ll do it all again)

Tim had 10 seconds to figure out how to land without breaking his spine. His arms and legs were tied, and the absolutely horrifying yet badass cut on the left side of his body that went from his armpit to his rib cage was oozing blood like a torn can of energy drink. That’s probably why he felt like his head was a trampled bag of stale chips (and not because of the other thousand injuries he was currently rocking).

Looking down at the surprisingly green grass, Tim inhaled through his bloodied nose and exhaled three consecutive times, very loudly, through his mouth. Then, ignoring the fucking awful and dull pain on his face (and head and chest and ribs and everywhere in his body), he mentally made a quick list of priorities before throwing himself toward his probable early death.

Quick Priorities Before You Die an Early Death, by Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne:

1. Take a second to gather your thoughts and breathe.
2. Make sure you are sure this is a good idea. (It’s the only idea, B!)
3. Ignore step 2 and take the risk and fly, baby face! (Yeah, Dick is right.) 
4. Remember your training and hit the ground as gently as possible.
5. Make sure your brain isn’t splattered on the ground. (Vital to survival.)
6. Also, make sure your body isn’t at odd angles. (Thanks for that one, Jason.)
7. Crawl your way into a safe zone. (Cass, you genius.)
8. Confirm to Batman that you’re still alive. (How, though? Somehow, Timothy. Ok, Damian.)
9. Re-confirm that your family is still alive. (DISCLAIMER: Sanity as a concept and livelihood often depends on this step.)
10. While you wait for medical attention, give yourself a moment to cry from the pain in the safe zone you’ve crawled into. Bonus points if it’s a corner where no one can see your pathetic ass. Double bonus points if you don’t throw up. Triple bonus points if you don’t lose consciousness. 

Note: If necessary, reframe priorities on the go. (I guess?) You’re all set! (Probably?) Godspeed. (Thanks, Alfred.)

Tim heard multiple cracks. And…yep, we have a tie! (He was not screaming senselessly from the pain, thank you for the concern.) Another lucky two to the list of broken bones. Good thing it hadn’t been his neck; he would’ve never heard the end of it. A totally broken bird can only go so far (or so they say, after all, Tim’s known for beating even the most logical odds; this, of course, being a prime example.)

The Full Story Before Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne (Probably) Died his Early Death

“Oh wow, unc still got it!” Tim cheered, ignoring the knife slashes adorning his now ripped and therefore bared and vulnerable chest, stomach and knees.

“Shut the fuck up,” the one and only Red Hood croaked, trying to regain his breathing after fighting alongside Tim the two groups of ninjas who were now placidly passed out on the ground. Not dead at all. Tim could see their chests going up and down, up and down. “Shut up,” Red Hood repeated, “and give me a hand.”

“Nope,” he said, immediately helping Red Hood to his feet. Tim snickered at Hood’s wince, likely from his strained knees, while pointedly refusing to acknowledge the wounds on his own body. “There you go, grandpa. What else do you want? Hazelnut ice cream? A warm bath?”

Red Hood, somehow, glared at him through his absolutely-not-funny-looking helmet. Tim could tell he was also categorizing his wounds, making sure he was fine. “One of these days, Red. One of these days Batdad and Nightdick and Robaby won’t be here and I’ll—”

“Cut the chatter. ETA 7 minutes.”

“Not chatting.” Tim replied to Batman, even though his scold wasn’t directed only at him, and ignored the sigh of relief he internally let go at the prospect of backup. “Big Red’s the one that’s being all bitchy and chatty.”

Red Hood was about to probably scream at him for ten consecutive days when another group of ninjas appeared at the end of one of the poorly lit hallways of the warehouse.

“Just in time, boyos!” Tim grinned widely, perhaps insanely, while retrieving his staff once again. Beside him, Red Hood roared aggressively. “Didn’t want to hear this filtered-voiced idiot again!”

“Chatter!”

Tim ignored Batman (and Red Hood’s offended ‘fuck you’) and started to compile the timeline of events that led them to this moment while he somersaulted, kicked and pummeled the ninjas with Jason’s help. He’d never say it out loud but working with Jason, both in theory and in practice, was in his Top 100 Moments That Totally Rock. Sure, Batman and he worked smoothly, like they’d known each other for many lifetimes, Dick was obviously his favorite ever, and Damian was incredibly talented and eager to learn (Tim will not include Cass in this list because she’s always the exception, thanks), but Jason was abrasive and bolder. Jason wasn’t scared of using his bulk for his benefit. (He also lets Tim crawl and jump over him like a little spider, which was also fun.) It wasn’t a lie that Red Robin always enjoyed a good fight.

Back to the timeline of events, it was expected that ninjas were trying to kill them once again. Ever since Damian joined the family as ‘the one and only righteous heir’ (bo-ring!) and since Tim destroyed many (if not all) League bases, Ra’s al Ghul has been the king of resentment. Doesn’t he know that feeling is corrosive? Iron Man said it himself to a very nostalgic-looking Captain America in that awful movie about time travel. 

Anyway, Ra’s, apart from being resentful, creepy and scary, seems to be unbeatable (important note: so far). The ninjas, a hundred percent sent by the him (hashtag get over it), started to appear nearly a month ago, when Tim and Damian, in their civilian identities mind you, were getting vegan milkshakes from Bat Burger (they could have a sanitary crisis, but Gotham’s food services were all about conscience and diversity, ok). Tim had driven them there as part of the 30-step plan he’d elaborated with Dick’s help to get closer to Damian with one of the goals being to reduce their fights that were progressively and aggressively aging Alfred (thing that obviously nobody wanted).

Damian had been too offended by the careless attitude of the Bat Burger’s cashier, the peeled and yellowish walls and greasy smell of the restaurant to notice an obscure figure peering at them from the ugly bathroom hallway. Tim had quickly pretended to be oblivious, grabbing Damian’s shoulders tightly despite the snarly face Damian had thrown at him. Tim had made an ugly face back at Damian and had gone through the order with the careless cashier as smoothly as possible because those milkshakes were just as important as Damian’s life and safety. It was their bonding time, for fuck’s sake! Tim wasn’t about to give up on it just because Ra’s was a shitty loser.

By the time they were given the milkshakes the ninja had been nowhere to be seen. Tim had excused himself with Damian (“don’t you dare leave me here alone, T-rex”, “it’ll be just a minute, nugget!”) to go to the bathroom. He was as sneaky and Red Robin-y as possible, even though no one was around that zone, and the only civilians were the employees safely tucked behind the counter and kitchen, as well as a kissy couple who were on the other side of the restaurant near Damian. Tim had checked every sink, mirror, tile, bathroom door, toilet, toilet paper, window, sill, et cetera, for a bomb or something equally nefarious but nada. Nothing. Not even a trace of poison. He’d made a mental note to hack the security cameras before remembering that the (with all due respect) shithole didn’t have any. 

Tim had broken the news to Bruce in the right-wing den while sipping on his delicious milkshake, and while Bruce demanded more information like the father he is, Damian had been angry at not being notified.

“I didn’t want to ruin our moment!” Tim had insisted while Bruce tried and failed not to freak out about his children being in danger. He had called Dick, Jason and Cass in a multiple videocall, ignoring Tim’s and Damian’s bickering. Alfred had been looking at them with eyes that screamed more amused boredom than tiredness.

“Grandfather doesn’t care about moments, Timothy,” Damian had stated with all the fierceness of a twelve-year-old. “His only care is to ruin lives. Our lives. I share his ruinous blood and for that I bear the sole responsibility to protect my family from his demonic claws.”

There had been many wrong things about that last statement, but Tim didn’t want to throw water in Damian’s rightful flame; that was Bruce’s job, or maybe Dick’s. (Family hierarchy and dynamics involving Damian were still a bit blurry in Tim’s unimportant opinion.)

“Whatevs,” he’d said instead, containing himself from saying ‘aw, champ, you’re so wise but little and a kiddo and we should protect you, nugget, not the other way around’. Still, he’d ruffled Damian’s hair, to the kid’s utter disbelief, hoping he’d conveyed all that sentimentality.

That situation alone had been enough for Bruce to transform himself into the most unbearable protective father on planet earth (how was that even possible? Tim didn’t know). He started to ask for their location even though he could see them himself in Find My app (and in the trackers he’d undoubtedly placed in many of their clothes, suits and stuff). It didn’t help that Barbara empowered his insanity by making cloaked comms for them to wear everywhere they went in case a ninja appeared out of nowhere and they needed back up (they already had comms, obviously, but she had insisted that they were improved and more precise in sound and coordinates and Tim didn’t even have the foundations of a counterargument for her—not for Barbara, never for Barbara). Even Jason ‘I Can Handle My Own Shit’ Todd was convinced to wear the new comms, which was final-boss crazy if someone asked Tim about it, but that had been in part why Tim hadn’t complained about the craziness of it all because perhaps the danger was tangible. 

(Everything and everyone around him practically screamed that it was probable that Ra’s wouldn’t miss this time around which made Tim reconsider his whole approach.)

Since then, the Ninja Apparitions like Cass so lovingly had baptized them, were endless. A ninja on their way to the park because Steph wanted to play basketball ‘like a normal motherfucking person, guys’. A ninja on a motorcycle in the lane beside Bruce’s GranTurismo Folgore on his way to pick Damian up from school. A ninja near the photography center where they were going to take the annual family pictures (on Alfred’s petition, and reminder, to everyone’s horror, except maybe Dick’s). A ninja that somehow (key word: SOMEHOW because how did nobody notice them?) pulled off being in a multitude of paparazzi goblins, standing stiff and menacing while they were leaving the theater after Cass’s recital of the nutcracker (she’d played Mother Ginger and had made everyone cry, including Damian). A ninja watching Dick from one of the ceiling windows while he taught gymnastics to the little kids whom he was so fond of and Damian was ‘secretly’ jealous of (he’d been there as an observer and hadn’t stopped complaining about the little kids ‘hugging Richard every single second’). 

When Bruce had asked Jason if he’d seen any ninjas near him, and if he therefore thought was in danger, Jason had proudly scoffed, “Where do you think they’re now, buddy?” And Bruce had immediately made the sad-angry-constipated face he always does whenever he recalls Jason is just as stubborn as him in his beliefs and methods. Tim had known Jason’s little secrets behind his blasé attitude, though: a) Jason had been stalking them everywhere they went to keep an eye on the situation (and to apparently kill every ninja that dared to distantly terrorize them), and b) He'd recently invited Damian to some hipster art class that gave the earnings to charity and now both of them attended it every Tuesday (and Tim assumed Jason had clocked some soon-to-be-dead ninjas on their way there too).

So, yeah, the Ninja Apparitions were getting a little out of hand. For the past weeks Tim hadn’t slept at all thinking about his family being in danger. Sure, he was preoccupied for his safety too, but he’d rather die than to see one of his persons get hurt just because a supposedly godly and demonic man had a grudge. Or, well, multiple grudges. And if they really thought about it, this time it was Tim’s fault. He didn’t regret his past choices, otherwise Bruce wouldn’t be here with them today, but that didn’t mean those choices didn’t sit heavily on his shoulders every minute of every hour of every day. 

Still, it had been thanks to his insomnia (yay, newsflash guys, the bags under his eyes and the constant trembling of his body and the early stages of tachycardia weren’t the only gifts that his utterly devastating sleep hygiene was providing him with!) that Tim found out the place where Ra’s ninjas had been staying for nearly a month. It wasn’t even a place, more like a shitty, smelly and abandoned warehouse near the docks (so much for caring about your stuff, Ra’s). Tim had been registering every single Ninja Apparition, tracking down their steps in reverse with the help of Barbara and sometimes with the aid of the not so many cameras around Gotham. (Tim seriously needed to talk with Bruce about that, so they could make funds for the city’s technological urban infrastructure.)

That’s why Jason and he were currently here in the “shitty, smelly and abandoned warehouse near the docks” (Drake-Wayne, n.d., para. 28), waiting for their backup. And yes, of course, thank you for asking: Tim had tried to convince Bruce about giving Ra’s a piece of his own medicine before deciding this very intelligent, practical and lonely-before-Jason-appeared course of action.

“If he wants our attention, now he got it,” Tim had declared like two days ago, if his hasty brain wasn’t betraying him, raising both hands in the air like that Martin Scorsese meme that Dick always sent in the group chat. “Soooo, I say we take the war to his house. King Aragorn style.”

Bruce’s lips had twitched at the reference in what was obviously a ‘you’re definitely my favorite child but I can’t say it out loud, I hope you understand’ smile, before any trace disappeared and his eyes showed that his sleep-deprived and energy drink-fueled plotting was not amusing. “Tim.”

“Whatdaya say, chief?” he’d grinned nonetheless.

Bruce had looked at him dubiously. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Objection, hearsay.” Tim was going to kill Cass for being a tattletale. 

Bruce kept looking at him. “Ok, listen.” Tim had immediately crossed his arms at the two words. “I almost always support your plans, Samwise the Brave—”

Fuck yeah, Tim was so Samwise the Brave. Apart from his King Aragorn-esque style, that is. “Not always, clearly,” he’d replied instead of whatever nerd babbling his brain was currently on.

“—but I can’t risk it.”

Tim had groaned like a child.

“And you’ve not been sleeping well, from what I hear and see, which means that this time I’m putting my foot down. You need to sleep and to hear me: No. Absolutely no. It’s too dangerous. We’ll wait for Ra’s to make the first move. That way he will be too desperate and therefore sloppy, and it’ll give us a chance to end this major…preoccupation. It’s the best course of action we can take, as I’ve been saying for the past weeks. Now, trust me, and go make yourself a cup of tea and please, tater tot, please, go to sleep,” Bruce had said with finality.

Logically, when Batman refused to aid him with something, Tim decided to aid himself. So, entering the “shitty, smelly and abandoned warehouse near the docks” (Drake-Wayne, n.d., para. 28) had been simple. Well, not simple per se, but simple decision-wise, until of course an absolute task force of ninjas had greeted him. Ra’s was clearly not playing around (big, bored sigh here). 

Tim dealt with them as best as he could, leaving aside the slashes, flying kicks, constant stomping and all, but he wasn’t stupid like the public thought (although he was probably never beating the allegations). Thus, he’d called for help, repeatedly, desperately and dumbly punching the distress button that Bruce had oh-so-greatly-and-cleverly intertwined in every one of their utility belts. Like Alfred always says when they end a day without fighting or insulting each other: Thank God for the little things.

Red Hood was the first one on the scene which explained why he was currently tossing around the third group of ninjas they’d fought so far as if they were mere pieces of paper. From the beginning of the fight Tim noticed that he wasn’t aiming for any deadly maneuvers but had decided not to comment on it in case Jason considered it a mocking or, worse, a challenge to shoot a ninja dead in the face in front of him just to make a silly point. 

“Flying now!” Tim barely had time to alert Red Hood before he was propelling himself with his upper back. Hood immediately went rigid, allowing Tim to flip, kick and jab with his staff a couple of ninjas. By the time Tim went back down, another group of groaning ninjas were barely moving on the ground around Jason. “Fatality,” Tim bellowed, raising his hand in a high-five gesture at Red Hood, who ignored it and, somehow, was once again giving him a look through his helmet. “Ouch. Tough crowd today.”

Red Hood glowered and politely raised a finger in a ‘wait’ gesture. He went around the part of the warehouse they were currently in, scanned it, seemingly decided that they were safe for now, and then yelled at Tim: “Are you dense?!”

See? The allegations, man, never getting rid of them at this point.

Tim rolled his eyes. “Dude.”

“Don’t dude me, Red.” Jason’s frustration could be heard loud and clear. He was making wild gestures while talking, “We had a plan. We planned together for days. We decided to wait together, as a team—”

“Now we’re a team! Great!”

“—and everyone agreed to wait. To wait,” Hood repeated as if he was deaf. “And, yes, breaking news, dumbass, we are a team. I didn’t think you could be so fucking stupid to show up all alone in a League base of all things!”

Ok, that’s it. 

“I’m not stupid, Jaybin,” he spat in a mocking tone Jason’s nickname. “This shithole is hardly a League base! And we got rid of them! I don’t see the flaw here, really, you should be thanking me for sparing you the nuisance of having to add more people to your killing list, Mr. Zodiac!” 

Red Hood simply crossed his arms. Tim crossed them too. They stayed like that until they heard urgent footsteps going towards them. None moved. Damian’s SpongeBob steps were kind of unique.

“Are you hurt?” Batman shouted out sharply, running towards Tim first.

(Never beating the ‘favorite child’ allegations, either.) Tim didn’t have time to smile at his thoughts nor reply before Batman touched Jason’s helmet, urgently.

“Back off, fossil,” Red Hood sounded almost embarrassed. “I’m trying to win the silent treatment duel here.”

Batman gave them a look.

Tim stood still for a second more before huffing. “We’re fine.”

“No, you’re knifed all over,” Nightwing deadpanned. “What the hell, Red?”

Robin made a sound of agreement. Tim stuck his tongue out at him and ignored Nightwing’s blatant hostility for now.

Batman raised a placating hand, looking briefly towards Nightwing, before piercing his running mascara-blue eyes on Tim. “We’ll talk in the cave. You need medical attention.”

“I don’t need—” Tim spluttered, “Hood’s also hurt!” and he pointed at Red Hood’s mild scratch marks over his arms and forearms.

“Just scratches, I’m fine.”

“RR.” Batman didn’t sound like a seal at all. “You’re bleeding from your stomach and knees, and your face is very bruised. Agent A will take care of your injuries. Let’s go.”

Tim, like the Robin 2.0 he was, planted his feet on the disgusting ground. “I will not move until Hood apologizes.”

“What did you do now?” Robin hissed at Hood. Tim contained a self-satisfying smile.

“I didn’t do anything, you little shit,” Hood hissed back at him, ducking slightly. Robin raised his chin at him in defiance.

“Hood.”

“What.” Red Hood spat at Batman. “Aren’t you going to say anything, father?”

Batman looked at Hood, exhaled and gritted his teeth all at once. “… You know I will. But first we need to take Red Robin back to the cave.”

“No.”

“Tater tot.”

Not here. “No.”

“You’re not winning this one, Red,” Nightwing said this time. “Ease up and let us help, ok?” 

Tim was not going to fall into Nightwing’s ‘I’m very kind and relaxed’ mask. He knew he was furious just by looking at his posture. So, Tim ignored his ‘Treat People with Kindness’ shitty performance and said: 

“He called me stupid!” And, although very childish, he pointed at Jason. (Tim was absolutely not pouting.) “I will not move until he apologizes and until he thanks me for getting the ninjas out of our backs.”

Nightwing sighed loudly. 

“Mr. Lobotomy here thinks he single-handedly defeated Ra’s just because we stopped thirty ninjas,” Red Hood sneered. “How incredible! A round of applause for Mr. Lobotomy everyone!”

“Hood.”

“I didn’t say that I defeated him, you zombie jackass.”

“Red Robin.” Batman was scowling. Tim wondered if he already had a migraine. “Stop. Everyone just…stop. And you, just come with me. A will get you up and at it in no time, alright?” Nightwing and Red Hood gave Batman a piercing look. “And yes, we will be discussing the fact that you disobeyed direct orders—"

Tim opened his mouth, incredulous. “Are you for real, B? I’m at fault here?”

Batman just kept scowling at him.

“Are you aware that for the past month one of us could’ve died?”

“Yes,” Batman gritted. “Red Hood could’ve found you dead today. We could’ve found you dead. I told you to hear me. To listen to me. I told you that we were going to wait—”

“To be murdered?!” Tim retorted.

“—no!—I told you to fix your sleeping schedule, and that waiting was the best course of action. I asked you to—”

“I thought you’ve ordered me—”

“—trust me. I told you it was dangerous and that—”

“—as if I’m some idiot that’s going to just stay still while I watch one of you die.”

“—I just wasn’t willing to take this risk, Tim!” Bruce finally snapped. “I told you I couldn’t risk it. I told you. If something happened to you, I would rather d—"

Everything happened very fast. Tim almost didn’t see the suspicious shadows moving toward them a couple of feet away. “Batman!” he yelled anxiously (not gonna be in time, not gonna be in time, not gonna be in time) before throwing himself at him. He saw from the corner of his eyes Nightwing covering Robin and Red Hood.

The blade that was supposed to stick into Bruce’s cowl (into the nape of Bruce’s neck, Timothy) was now buried in a far away wall, vibrating for the sheer force it’d been thrown with. Honestly, Tim’s brain went into freeze mode. He blinked rapidly, ignored his racing heart and told himself to (try to) lock in. Batman was still looking at him, shaken, before giving him a nod and gripping his right shoulder with a gauntleted hand. Something twisted inside Tim’s stomach. He suddenly felt restless. Something felt off.

“Everyone take cover. Number of attackers unknown. Prioritize stealth.” Batman growled quietly in comms, even though Nightwing, Robin and Red Hood were already hidden behind some moldy cardboard boxes.

A minute before everything went to shit, Tim had been feeling pretty confident about his arguments. It’d been through his fierce conviction and flawless planning (and, yes, ok, pretty mid survival instincts) that he’d realized they had to do something about the ninjas or else they would’ve kept coming and coming (everyone was fine, Tim needed to breathe and lock in).

Again: he wasn’t stupid, alright? He knew this had been a dangerous plan (and his intention never was to put his family in danger, ever), and even though he enjoyed the thrill of the unknown since he’d been thirteen (Bruce was safe, breathing beside him, unharmed, in the clear, fine), he’d also known there was a big chance he wouldn’t make it out of it alone (everyone was fine, Tim could see Robin’s hair peaking from afar, Nightwing’s fingers grabbing one of the boxes and Hood’s knee sticking out in a corner). That said, his plan all along had been to somehow drag his family into it (not to hurt them, never to hurt them—he hoped Cass was ok too), even if they didn’t want to (Bruce had told him to please sleep). 

At the end, 30-something ninjas were better than a hundred; hell, better than a freaking army of them. It was a fact. Ra’s wouldn’t have stopped with the psychological warfare unless they forced him to. To pretend obliviousness and wait for his real strikes for God knows how long (another one of Alfred’s expressions) had been dumb (but Tim hadn’t had the heart to tell that to Bruce).

“Cass would’ve sided with me if she was here,” Tim grumbled under his breath (instead of spilling whatever anxious thoughts he was currently having). 

(Something felt wrong, a nagging in his brain trying to get his attention, but Tim still didn’t know what or why.)

Of course, Batman heard him. “I don’t think so,” he replied while throwing a smoke bomb. Robin threw another one from a distance. And then Tim threw one more, just to be safe. “She was so upset she refused to be here. You know I don’t like to see her like that.”

The reprimand was loud and clear. 

“I had to do this,” Tim hissed in whispers while Batman and he slowly crouched towards the safe zone, trying to be as stealthy as possible. The others were already in a fighting stance there, Tim could see them even through the smoke, a few feet forward. “I know how his mind works. This psychological torture thing would’ve gone on for months. He expected us to do nothing, to wait, to break. You know what he wants more than anything. I don’t have to tell you.”

Batman nodded briskly and that had been enough. The second Tim let out a single breath of relief at being understood and validated lasted less than he wanted. In the blink of an eye a horde of ninjas appeared everywhere around them. They zipped from the decrepit-looking ceiling and came running from the rest of the smelly hallways. Tim even saw a group of them coming out of the multiple “moldy cardboard boxes” (Drake-Wayne, n.d., para. 93) the others had been hiding nearby just before. 

Batman moved first, sprinting into action. Tim quickly moved to follow along, despite the prickling in his eyes thanks to the smoke.

“What the fuck? Why are there so many of you? Are you guys even getting paid?” And Red Hood’s comments were the last thing Tim heard before, weirdly, falling asleep.

.

..

...

Wait, what? Falling asleep? No way. That couldn't be. He’d just been fighting a second before. Tim blinked once. Twice. Thrice. His jaw hurt horribly and he couldn’t help but groan. He tried again until his eyes could see a vast but ordinary room. It lacked taste; there was nothing around him, just plain grey walls and an old-looking camera in the right corner of a wall.

“I hope you had a satisfying sleep,” a disembodied voice echoed around him.

(Fuuuuuuuuck me.)

Well, time to fastrack phase 2 of the plan.

“I hope you get yourself killed.”

A tut. “There is no need for insolence, Timothy. I have heard you have not been sleeping well.” Tim suppressed a shiver. “I am sure I do not have to remind you how important sleep is to keep the mind and body sharp and healthy.”

Ra’s finally arrived beside him. Tall, slightly skinnier and older than the last time he’d seen him, but still menacing and authoritarian. His green robe dragged on the floor each step he took. Tim for his part took a silent deep breath, hoping Ra’s didn’t catch on it. 

“Says the one that looks like a corpse. Has not having a Lazarus drive-thru every two miles been rough on you?” 

Dick would’ve liked that one.

A dry, arrogant chuckle. “It is said that in moments of despair it is most admirable to still have a sense of humor. I, for my part, find it an evident sign of weakness.” 

“Thank you for your insights, my man, but, sadly, I don’t have the time to argue. I’m on a tight schedule here.”

“Am I disrupting your itinerary, young detective?”

Tim didn’t reply.

“You see, what I find most admirable is your ability to follow my itinerary as if I had personally told you about it myself.”

“Being predictable isn’t something to be proud of, Ra’s.”

“Ah, of course it is not,” Ra’s smiled assuredly. Tim leveled him with a look. “What I meant, and what I have to humbly admit, is that I tend to forget how alike we are. But when I remember, I delight in it once again. The joy is never-ending, as you Americans say.”

Tim’s left eye twitched. “Humility and joyfulness aren’t characteristics shared by megalomaniac assassins.”

“Now, now, we are not talking about the bastardized version of your brother…what is his name? Ah!” Ra’s snapped his fingers. “Jason. Jason Todd. What a waste he is, is he not? Shame,” he tutted once again, before smiling condescendingly, “You, on the other hand, Timothy, a worthy successor. Useful. Calculating. Does what has to be done. Almost like looking in a mirror, I would dare to say.”

Tim almost fell in the rage-bait. “I am nothing like you,” or well, he may have fallen slightly.

“If it helps you sleep at night, no, you are not.” Ra’s sighed in content. “As I was saying: You are excellent at following clues. Thank yourself for being here. I did nothing on the matter, other than excruciatingly planning everything that has happened until and after this moment, that is.”

“Not every plan comes to fruition,” Tim replied between gritted teeth. He was getting irritated earlier than normal.

“My plans are not ‘every’ plan, Timothy.”

“Don’t think I can’t see through you, Ra’s,” he said. “You’re improvising.”

“And what makes you believe that?”

Tim smiled. “What makes you ask?”

Ra’s smiled back. He took his time to reply this time, circling Tim. He briefly looked at his bound hands and feet, before saying: “You must get comfortable, young detective.”

It didn’t escape Tim that Ra’s rerouted the conversation. 

“I’m very comfortable,” he followed through.

Ra’s hummed. “You sure seem to be. Tell me, how is my dear grandson doing?”

Tim tried not to clench his jaw to avoid hurting himself more. “He is doing very well ever since he left you. Best decision of his life, in my humble opinion.”

Ra’s sighed dramatically. “Ever since Damian was born I knew he would only thrive in a paltry environment. He has always been weak like that. I did try to warn my daughter multiple times to no avail. I often wonder if he, one day, will become my legitimate heir. Perhaps he merely needs a push.” 

Tim remembered the drawing Damian had made of his mother Talia. A pang of mixed frustration and grief reverberated through his chest.

“I can assure you he will not,” he replied dryly.

Ra’s hummed once again, before smiling sharply. “And what makes you think that, Timothy?”

He tilted his head, waiting a second before saying: “You truly didn’t expect to see me so soon, huh? If only Batman could see you right now; weak, rambling, asking shitty questions and trying to gather control even though—”

Ra’s suddenly grabbed him by the jaw. Tim immediately stiffened, breathing laboriously through his nose. He was one hundred percent sure that some ninja had smacked him repeatedly in the face on his way here. Otherwise, the prominent pain in the lower half of his face didn’t make sense. Oh, wait. It kind of did. He was already injured from before. (What were more bruises to the list, honestly?)

“Bat-man,” Ra’s laughed dryly very close to his face, gripping his jaw tighter. “Batman is not here, whelp. Neither will he. Surely, he must be killing himself right now. Going through another child loss cannot be easy. What do you think is more plausible for the Detective, Timothy—strangulation, overdose or a reckless jump?”

“Fuck you,” Tim snapped past the pointed pressure.

Ra’s tutted before aggressively letting go. “You are acting almost as broken and pathetic as the Detective would. I am disappointed. Being away from me has diminished you greatly. But worry not, Timothy, I will fix that. I will.”

“If you think Batman would kill himself for me you’re very wrong,” Tim hissed. “And if you think I believe he’d come save me, let me tell you, I’m his least favorite.”

Ra’s petted his hair. Tim jerked away until the man let go. “It is highly probable he already sliced his arms open,” he whispered calmly, winningly. “I hope you can keep that righteous anger alive. Make his…departure worth something.” And with a tight-lipped smile, Ra’s left from the same side he’d arrived.

When he was sure he was completely alone, Tim sighed and sagged his shoulders before remembering the camera pointing at him. He quickly straightened, ignoring the pain in his body and the stinging of his injuries. He didn’t doubt Ra’s was in a room nearby, keeping a watch on him (which was honestly unsettling but whatever). Right now he was easily (at least) two steps ahead of Ra’s. The man had been bluffing all through their conversation (if Tim could call whatever that was a ‘conversation’), trying to get in his nerves, bringing Jason, Damian and Bruce up to hurt him, just like he’d expected him to.

(A part of his brain begged for Bruce to be alright. Tim knew he was but there was always the fear…)

He needed to be more patient because falling in Ra’s bait was not part of the plan, and doing so would honestly infuriate Tim deeply. Tim needed for Ra’s to fall into his bait. He knew Ra’s games and he knew what Ra’s wanted. Tim was in control of the territory right now (if only he could tell his family so). 

Tim let out a breathy exhale, and started to count. He had to keep track of time. 

By the time he was nearing the thousands, he heard footsteps entering the room before a group of ninjas were in front of him. The one that was probably the leader tilted his head, watching Tim intently, as if…he was his prey.

I will fix that, Timothy. Ra’s voice resounded in his mind. I will.

“Are you guys here to give me medical attention?” Tim asked, feigning relief.

The Ninja Leader answered by hitting him in the gut, hard.

Tim, although trying not to, coughed loudly. “Ok,” he tried to catch his breath. “Ok, alright, a ‘no’ would’ve sufficed.” 

That earned him another strike, this time to his face.

“This is not funny,” he said, groaning. “My face is very beautiful. And I need it for my—”

Tim stopped mid sentence when he saw one of the ninjas flashing a blade.

“—that’s…worse. I mean, you do see how that’s worse, right?” Tim laughed at his own reference. His mouth felt strange. “But don’t worry, I can take it. I can even pay for a plastic surgeon. I’d rather not, honestly, but whatever. You guys do what you gotta do.” 

The ninja advanced towards him, the blade shining brightly. 

“Any chance you guys like taking feedback? Because I’m a bit bored, not gonna lie,” Tim tried to gulp but something was obstructing his throat (probably clogged blood but he didn’t have the time to think about it with a blade nearly in front of his face). “If you talked, this would be more enjoyable, trust me. You could tell me to shut up, to go fuck myself, or even list the ways you’re going to torture me. It’d be better for me too, TBH. That way I could prepare, or I could even scream ‘no, please, don’t do it!’, y’know? Funnier.”

The blade touched his suit at the side of his stomach, where more of the previous injuries were. It didn’t take long for that zone to rip even more. Then, Tim started to feel the slow, ugly sting. He controlled his breathing. When this whole shitshow ended he was going to research whatever materials the League’s blades were made of and help Lucius improve the batsuits. Yes. That would make Alfred feel less scared every time they patrolled.

“You should tell your boss this barely hurts,” Tim gritted breezily. “He’s listening to me, isn’t he?” And he looked at the camera, ignoring the sensation of blood going down his stomach. “I appreciate the concern but I don’t need fixing.”

Of course, just like anything else in his life, his words provoked nothing. From then on the Torture Session truly began, and while the same sadistic ninja carved the left side of his body, from his rib cage to his armpit, Tim once again wondered why did he sign up for this when he’d barely started to develop his frontal lobe. While they punched, kicked and even electrocuted him, Tim dreamed of his other version. A badass Timothy Jackson Drake finishing high school and going to college. Taking STEM classes; engineering, computer systems, advanced physics, et cetera. Attending nerdy clubs like debate, RPG and gaming. Skateboarding through the campus with (God forbid, like Alfred often said) a caramel macchiato in his left hand and a hidden dragon fruit banana berry vape in his jeans’ pocket. Following trends like oversize clothing. Smoking pot for the first, second, third time. Kissing girls and boys alike in the club. 

(He REALLY should've consulted his parents about his life and career plan while he had them by his side.)

But nope. Nope. Little Tim had wished to feel something. Little Tim had wanted to be part of something. Little Tim had needed to fill his void with something. And that ‘something’ obviously had to be endangering himself beside traumatized people every single night. What a fucking (traumatized) brat he could be. (Tim knew that the Mission went further than ‘trauma reasons!’ but he was being slowly beaten to death without the intention of being killed, so forgive him if he didn’t have the time nor the strength to be the glass half full kinda guy right now.)

“Why do you like to suffer so much, Timmy?” Dick had asked him once, back when he had a mullet and Tim’s hairstyle made him look like a middle-aged man, after a particularly ugly Arkham breakout.

At that time, middle aged looking-Tim had only chuckled, not knowing the answer. 

Now, he still didn’t have an answer. 

(Because they chose this. They chose to protect people. They couldn’t waste time thinking about themselves. They had to act. And sometimes doing something didn’t mean doing it safely, but doing it.)

By the time they were done with him (by the time Ra’s gave the ninjas the order to stop, more like), Tim couldn’t keep his posture straight anymore. Also, he was possibly fainting seconds at a time intermittently. His head had been hanging, chin over his chest, when Ra’s materialized in front of him.

Tim chuckled. His teeth felt dirty, bloody. “Piece of shit,” he slurred, still dopey. He just needed a minute to reboot (‘it’ll be just a minute, nugget!’). Bullshitting Ra’s could give him that minute.

“I hope you are still feeling comfortable, Timothy.”

Tim tried to snort at Ra’s words. He started coughing instead.

“Easy, now.” In a second, Ra’s was once again invading his personal space. Tim grunted in helplessness. “You have once again proved worthy of my attention, young detective.” At Tim’s lack of response, Ra’s continued: “I have seen what you are capable of, of course. Not long ago today you defeated many of my best assassins.”

“So, is it still the same day?” Tim hadn’t realized he had his eyes closed. He blinked multiple times before opening them fully, trying to maintain a decent rhythm of breath.

Ra’s looked horrifyingly amused. “As I was saying, I doubt you were the one that killed many of them.”

“I don’t kill,” he grunted.

“That flaw can and will be fixed, Timothy, do not worry.”

Tim successfully snorted this time. He felt better (‘compartmentalized the pain successfully’, Dick would chirp). “Whatever. I hijacked your plan. You’re not getting away with this.”

“I am afraid I do not have expectations about anything.”

“We’re a reflection of each other, remember?” Tim scoffed, still having a hard time breathing. “I know what you want the most and, trust me, you won’t be getting it anytime soon.”

Ra’s smiled coolly, “And what would that be?”

Tim spat mixed saliva and blood on Ra's feet. “We both know it.”

Ra’s eyes briefly squinted, looking absolutely disgusted. 

“There it is,” Tim truly smiled this time. “The realizashun.”

“Young detective–”

“—what? I’m gonna stay here for a while?” Tim completed his sentence. “I know what you think. You need to buy time, don’t you? Now that I’m here, ruining everything for you. I bet that plan to kidnap Damian took you months to prepare,” Tim laughed out loud, even though his split lips and hurt jaw stretched and opened wide and his lungs felt like they were bursting out of his body. “Just how many times a day have you been sleeping? Is your body failing you yet?” Ra’s kept looking at him blankly. “I didn’t have to look at you twice to know that you’re dying. How's your experience without the Pit been so far? ‘Ten out of ten?’ ‘Would do it again?’”

Ra’s tutted, grabbing his chin. Tim wanted to recoil but found himself staying still despite the pain. He needed to save the energy for later. “And I wonder, how many beatings can a bird take before wanting to die?”

“Do you even know who you’re talking to?” Tim snorted dryly. “Or has dementia knocked on your door already?”

Something flickered in the air around Ra’s. 

“Timothy, son, you will not be laughing when I bring you the corpses of your dear family.”

There it was. Hashtag second objective confirmed, hashtag someone owed him 20 bucks.

“Good luck trying,” Tim spat, literally spat Ra’s in the face. The man recoiled immediately. His green eyes flashed sadistic anger. “You failed to prepare for Batman’s paranoia. Do you think he will allow any of them to separate? Now that one of us got caught? You must be very stupid if so.” A dizziness invaded his head suddenly. Yeah, Tim was coming down from the high. He quickly sneered, “I thought I was only two steps ahead, but I have to thank you, old man, because now I can see I’m actually the one moving the pieces.”

Ra’s kept looking at him. 

And looking at him.

Still looking at him.

Tim’s body probably went through shock, because next thing he knew another group of ninjas were in front of him instead of Ra’s. Tim vaguely noticed the changes in comparison to the other group. The Ninja Leader of this one was shorter than the other one but slightly taller than him, leaner too, and they didn’t have their head tilted in a condescending and murderous way.

He decided to test his luck once again. 

“Are you guys…here…” an obligatory pause. Inhale, hold, ignore the pain in your ribs, exhale. “…to give me…medical attention?” 

(In the near future, when Batman asked him to fill in his mission report, Tim wouldn’t be able to recall this next moment.)

Tim could’ve sworn the New Ninja Leader smiled at him under their mask. It was a blur, to be honest, the way the New Ninja Leader suddenly moved. They reminded him of Kon, and Tim had to contain a whimper at the absolute suffering he was currently experiencing. It was like his body was years ahead of his mind, though, knowing something his brain had yet to discover, because it didn’t make sense the relaxation that overtook his shoulders and back. It wasn’t good either, because the pain came crashing down on him a hundred times worse, making him weaker.

He could only make out figures moving, attacking each other, and for a moment he was confused. The New Ninja Leader seemed to have a Ninja Ally, or maybe the New Ninja Leader was a meta that could clone themselves, but Tim, even in his haze, was more inclined for the first option. He briefly wondered if he was hallucinating the whole Ninjas v Ninjas thing, and by the time the blur stopped, calloused but gentle hands were touching his face. He unconsciously braced for an attack that never came.

“…okay…brother…breathe…okay.”

Tim was probably hyperventilating. He couldn’t know, with the rush in his ears, and the pressure over his ribs, and the unstoppable bleeding of all the injuries he was suddenly too conscious of. The calloused but gentle hands were trying to unbound him, and they were so close to doing it before he heard more footsteps, apparently running towards them. Tim heard violent, familiar screams before someone snatched him from the wall he’d been pinned into for who knows how long. 

(He’d been counting. Did he stop? He must have at some point.)

It was the Ninja Ally, he supposed, because this one felt different, rougher, bolder, but not as fast as the New Ninja Leader. The Ninja Ally placed him over a shoulder, like a simple sack of potatoes, and Tim tried to move before noticing that, although not bound to the wall anymore, his hands and feet were still tied. 

“Where?” He managed to let out. The constant moving, running and jumping made him breathe harder, and his injured chest, abs and arms were constantly colliding over the Ninja Ally’s strong shoulder. 

“Shut up, twat,” a very familiar voice grunted through the chaos. “You’re fine now.” A pause. “You will be.”

An almost absolute silence suddenly invaded Tim’s ears. The Ninja Ally carefully placed him on the ground. Tim blinked until he could see the familiar face.

His medical attention was here.

“You owe me…20 bucks,” was the first thing Tim said, before closing his eyes again. He was still dizzy. “I think…gonna throw up.”

“Please, don’t,” Pru rasped. She had her ninja mask in one hand while the other was clinically inspecting his head and his body. “And I didn’t bet anything, Drake.” Tim hummed in response, probably a bit detached from reality. “My only bet right now is that you have a concussion, or that you’re slowly dying from blood loss. Could be both at the same time.”

“I missed…” Pru kept looking at him with almost urgent patience. “...your aggressive…honesty…and your bald…head,” Tim panted.

Pru made a face at him. “I will choose to ignore that,” and she reached for her ninja leggings pockets, taking out a syringe. 

“Didn’t know…thing…had…pockets. Very…efficient,” Tim whispered, and this time the pain in his jaw decreased considerably. He let his head rest on the wall behind him. “Ow.”

“Careful,” Pru crouched in front of him, raising the syringe.

“What—”

Pru didn’t let him finish. In a quick motion she inserted the syringe on his thigh. Tim, embarrassingly, screamed his lungs out.

“Shut the fuck up, Drake,” Pru urged him, putting her hand over his mouth. “Shut up.”

Tim opened his eyes wide. He could see the whole universe. He genuinely thought he could fly. Even bound, he sprinted up. He felt restless.

“Calm down,” Pru was now standing too, grabbing him tightly by the shoulders. “I gave you a shot of adrenaline, it must be enough for now. We need to follow the plan.”

Tim was nodding like a lunatic. “YEAH, YES. THE PL—”

“Shut up,” Pru replied, shaking him. Tim was still nodding frantically. “I know deep down you’re still worried about your lot. They’re fine. Batgirl briefed them on our way here. They’ll probably arrive in less than fifteen minutes.”

“Arrive where? Here? Where are we?” At his questions, Pru let her head drop, sighing loudly. Tim was trembling. “Yeah, ok, alright. I get it. Whatever. I’m calm. I’m fine, you’re fine, Batgirl is fine?”

“Batgirl is fine too,” Pru confirmed. “Incredible fighter, as usual,” then she added: “Mate, I thought you’ve already tried adrenaline before. You’re going mental.”

“I did!” Tim nearly screamed, then whispered: “I did, Pru, many, many years ago, I did, I just need to adjust, right? I will blink until I can see straight again. Ha! Am I being too loud? Are you seeing those flickering lights too? Don’t answer. By the way, Ra’s is still a fucking shithead. Really. And he looks like a walking corpse. We did that, Pru. I just hope he’ll fucking disappear. Like, without having to kill him? Wait. You didn’t tell me, is Batman fine? Is Damian? Nobody is dead, right?”

Tim didn’t know why Pru looked like she was about to explode. “They’re alright.”

“Ok, good. Fine. Perfect. What’s the plan, then?”

“Mate. You made the plan and failed to inform me what came next after rescuing your arse.”

Tim blinked multiple times. Then stopped because he was too conscious of his blinking. “Right. Ok, ok. Quick recap. Damian is secure. Everybody is alive. And I’m here, alive too. Not broken down to my spirit. Not sinking in a Lazarus Pit via emotional manipulation and senseless grief. Not trying to take over the world alongside a brainwashed Damian. Good, good, good. That’s it. The end. That was the plan.”

“You need to focus, Red,” Pru shook him again before letting him go. “You’re still bleeding and the crash out is going to hurt. Madly.”

“I’ll be fine,” Tim did a quick breathing exercise. “See?”

Pru opened her mouth to reply, still with a suffering look overshadowing her face, when a lot (A LOT) of running footsteps started to faintly resound through the walls. Tim snapped out of his racing thoughts and finally looked around. They were clearly in an ancient building. It looked Gothamite in its architectural style, so a part of his brain was (very, very, very) relieved to still be home. It made sense that the others were arriving soon if he was still in Gotham. Ra’s had been really off his usual self and the location he’d decided to use for his malevolent plans was enough proof of it.

“You need to go,” Pru told him, almost urgently, pushing him towards one of the dark hallways, still careful of his injuries.

Tim tried to fight back and it said a lot about his physical state that, even with the adrenaline shot, he couldn’t. “No, Pru. I will help you.”

“No fucking way, mate, we’ll be just right behind you,” Pru stopped pushing him. The menacing footsteps sounded closer. “Go!” she hissed.

Tim made a face at her and, letting out a frustrated groan, started to move towards who knows where. His bound feet made it difficult and exhausting to move (he was alternating between jumping like a bunny and speed-walking like a penguin and he was very thankful that he couldn’t be seen by any of his siblings). Tim mentally sent his sarcastic thanks to Pru for not untying him. 

He knew that if he stayed and fought alongside her he’d be a liability, and with League ninjas you couldn’t slow down, you simply couldn’t. Logic didn’t make him feel less than a good-for-nothing cowardly loser, though, but Tim tried to squish down the feelings of helplessness and kept speed-walking. 

When he saw a structurally-decayed, rough-looking opening at the end of the hallway, he decided to stop. He needed to take into account his injuries, and enlist them in his mind just in case, but at the same time he didn’t want to become conscious of the pain once again. Tim raggedly moved his hand to rub his face, before quickly stopping to let out a hiss. Ok. He could do this. He looked down at his body and the simple movement made pain spike all around his face. Ok, sprained jaw, and definitely swollen, truly swollen face. His head hurt too, and his ears still felt as if he were underwater, so he blamed that on the probable concussion and in the sprained jaw. Also, his nose was, perhaps, probably, definitely broken. It throbbed in a disgusting and distracting way, and it felt congested and bloody. It wasn’t making the headache subside, that was for sure.

He was still having a hard time breathing, and his chest, stomach and sides hurt like a bee, so: sprained ribs. (Tim tried not to groan. It would take ages for them to heal.) His hands, shoulders and legs spasmed and trembled out of nowhere every few seconds, probably thanks to the wonderful shocking session from earlier, plus the concussion and his sleep-deprived ass. The blade cuts adorning different parts of his body weren’t bleeding anymore, except for the ones on his knees and the big one on his side. 

The sudden awareness of his dried and not dried blood’s odor, both from his nose and his injuries, made him gag. Tim had quickly started to practice his breathing once again, pushing through the pressing pain while trying not to puke his lungs out, when a ninja dropped from the ceiling a few feet away from where he was currently standing. And, ok, look, sometimes Tim’s brain went unresponsive before making a decision. Sometimes his survival instincts kicked in and all he had to do was to follow his gut and, as of right now, his very injured, dopey, utterly exhausted gut was telling him to move, run, flee, before he got killed. 

(Damian was alive and fine. His family was alive and fine. Wouldn’t all of this be worth it? Why was he suddenly terrified?)

While his heartbeat skyrocketed and his brain kept screaming at him to PLEASE MOVE, the ninja seemed to be in a hurry, advancing towards him with an urgency and yet an ease and familiarity that had him wondering if now was the moment to start settling accounts with God himself (Alfred would’ve been so religiously relieved if he knew he’d thought that). Tim had the sudden impression that the ninja’s mask was moving and blamed the hallucination on his current fucked up mental state. 

He kept speed-walking, backwards this time, clumsily earning himself a sprain on his right ankle. Tim bit his tongue from the pain, recovered, and kept backing away. Then, his brain seemed to hit a restart just inches away from the “structurally-decayed, rough-looking opening” (Drake-Wayne, n.d., para. who-cares-I’m-about-to-die!).

For his utter disbelief, the ninja’s mask seemed to keep moving, but now Tim couldn’t give less of a fuck. He literally had his salvation right there. The ninja didn’t seem to agree with him, though, moving his arms frantically. The only thing Tim thought while watching them was that he was definitely crashing down. This time, though, he was also proud to say he hadn't flinched at the sudden movements of the enemy.

Tim paid the ninja no attention, inferring that he had 10 seconds max to figure out how to land without breaking his spine. He made a quick inventory of his disadvantages once again. His arms and legs were tied, and the absolutely horrifying yet badass cut on the left side of his body that went from his armpit to his rib cage was oozing blood like a torn can of energy drink. That’s probably why he felt like his head was a trampled bag of stale chips (and not because of the other thousand injuries he was currently rocking, or the concussion, or the fact that he was now in Phase 2: Horrible Side Effects of the now gone adrenaline shot).

(And, again, he’s not stupid. His options were narrowed down to being killed or sort of killing himself, and Tim was famously known for preferring to take matters into his own hands.)

Looking down at the surprisingly green grass, Tim inhaled through his bloodied nose and exhaled three consecutive times, very loudly, through his mouth. Then, ignoring the odd screams coming from behind (who the hell was doing that?) and the fucking awfully dull pain on his face (and head and chest and ribs and everywhere in his body), Tim mentally made a quick list of priorities before throwing himself toward his probable early death (which was a bit dramatic, given it was a six-foot fall, but he had to cope in some way).

Quick Priorities Before You Die an Early Death, by Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne:

1. Take a second to gather your thoughts and breathe.
2. Make sure you are sure this is a good idea. (It’s the only idea, B!)
3. Ignore step 2 and take the risk and fly, baby face! (Yeah, Dick is right.) 
4. Remember your training and hit the ground as gently as possible.
5. Make sure your brain isn’t splattered on the ground. (Vital to survival.)
6. Also, make sure your body isn’t at odd angles. (Thanks for that one, Jason.)
7. Crawl your way into a safe zone. (Cass, you genius.)
8. Confirm to Batman that you’re still alive. (How, though? Somehow, Timothy. Ok, Damian.)
9. Re-confirm that your family is still alive. (DISCLAIMER: Sanity as a concept and livelihood often depends on this step.)
10. While you wait for medical attention, give yourself a moment to cry from the pain in the safe zone you’ve crawled into. Bonus points if it’s a corner where no one can see your pathetic ass. Double bonus points if you don’t throw up. Triple bonus points if you don’t lose consciousness. 

Note: If necessary, rearrange priorities on the go. (I guess?) You’re all set! (Probably?) Godspeed. (Thanks, Alfred.)

Tim heard multiple cracks. And…yep, we have a tie! (He was not screaming senselessly from the pain, thank you for the concern.) His left foot and ankle. Just great. Another lucky two to the list of broken bones. Good thing it hadn’t been his neck; he would’ve never heard the end of it. A totally broken bird can only go so far (or so they say, after all, Tim’s known for beating even the most logical odds; this, of course, being a prime example.)

Forget the stupid list, he felt like he was actually dying. 

Tim suppressed a manic laughter. His knees and ribs were officially killing him this time, and he briefly wondered how many months would Bruce bench him. He wanted to cry very loudly at the thought, for many hours and without anyone bothering him.

“No!” Someone was by his side, apparently highly distressed, which didn’t make sense.

“Oh…” Tim muttered. His eyes were giving up on him too. He tried to keep at least one eye open. “Can we…take five?” The ninja’s hands were all over him, checking him up, which, again, made no sense. Unless they were trying to take his utility belt. The audacity, man, stealing from a dying hero. “Hey…that’s…mine.” He sounded pathetic.

“Yes!” the ninja replied with a very familiar voice.

If Tim could he would’ve squinted his eyes at them with distrust. 

Then, his brain caught up.

“Aw, you–fuck,” he started to laugh and soon enough the ugly coughing appeared. His ribs were surely poking out of his skin right now.

“Shh,” his sister was gently pressing her calloused hands over the injury on his side. “Shh, little brother. It’s ok.”

He’d completely forgotten about Batgirl. 

Tim wasn’t crying.

“You…ok?” he panted, biting his lip.

Cass moved a (was that his blood?) hand to briefly cover his lip with her fingers, stopping him from biting it. “Yes.” A pause. Tim could only hear his ragged breath. “Sorry, Timmy. Didn’t mean to scare you. I am so sorry.”

Tim wanted to shake his head; he couldn’t. Instead, he used all his strength to fiercely say: “No, Cass. No. Sorry. We’re fine. We’re fine.”

Someone suddenly flopped down beside Cass, thankfully obstructing the sun from Tim’s barely open eyes.

“You fucking—!” Nightwing, Dick, his brother, looked like he still hadn’t decided between hugging him in relief or hitting him with anger. He probably chose the third unknown option. “You stupid—! Baby face—fuck!”

“Dick!” Tim could see Cass’s offended frown very clearly now. “Shut it!”

“Fuck!” Dick quickly stood up, ignoring their sister's fierce eyes, and started to talk in comms. Tim listened to Dick’s voice vaguely. “...broken…bruised…pressure over it…looking bad…you have to…attention!…got away!…should be dead…over here...the batplane.”

(Days later, Tim would hear the recordings of the mission and understand very clearly what Dick had been screaming: “Red has a broken foot and ankle, perhaps bruised ribs, his right knee looks misplaced, both knees are bleeding endlessly, as well as a deep wound on his side going from his armpit to his rib cage, yes, Cass is keeping pressure over it, D—his nose is broken too, and his face… This is–I–It’s looking bad, B, you have to be here right now. He needs medical attention! I don’t fucking care if Ra’s got away! Fucking shit, B! Yes, J, that piece of shit should be dead! But—just, please, hurry over here. I’ll try to carry him to the batplane”.)

“It’s ok,” Cass kept telling him. “It’s ok, Timmy. I got you. Got you now.”

Tim smiled. “Lookin’...like s-shit?” he whispered, making her sister shake her head and snort with watery eyes.

He faintly registered the pain in his body, not as aggressive as before, but there. Tim wanted to sleep so badly. Bruce had told him so. He should’ve slept.

“Sleep,” he winced.

Cass nodded for a second before shaking her head. “I know, Timmy, but not right now, ok? We need you awake.”

Tim, taking advantage of the privacy, shamelessly pouted at her. Predictably, Cass stood her ground. 

“Hey,” Dick came back to his crouching position beside Cass. “Hey, trouble.”

“Hey,” Tim rasped, briefly closing his eyes before forcing himself to open them again.

“There you go.” Dick cooed and then said something to Cass that Tim didn’t catch. Cass nodded at Dick, petted Tim’s hair once again and stood up. 

“Sleepy,” Tim told Dick this time, who looked at him gently.

His blue eyes were watery too. “I know, baby face. I know, but we need you to stay awake, hm?” Tim tried to nod. He’d do anything for Robin. “Good, now, I know you're feeling a lot of pain right now, but I need to carry you to the batplane.”

Tim whined at the mere idea of having to be moved. 

Dick smiled softly at him, keeping his cool. “Remember how you used to tell me I was like a walking sofa? That my arms were so comfy and warm?”

Tim let out a breathy laugh. Robin was so endearing and earnest. And it was true, he was the fluffiest walking heater Tim had ever known. Whenever Tim felt alone at home, he knew he could spend his time inside the warm rooms of Wayne Manor and, luckily, receive a hug from Dick Grayson himself. (And, if he was even more lucky, spend movie night cuddled by his side.)

“Yeah?” Dick continued smiling, brushing his bangs off his forehead. Tim wasn’t sure what had been his question. “I bet I’m more comfy than this ant-infested grass, baby face. What’d you say?”

Tim hadn’t known if he answered. He just recalled letting out another soft laughter and a pair of arms slowly, securely and delicately wrapping around him. One arm on his middle, pressing on the largest wound with his chest. The other arm held him by the neck, his hand open wide, cradling Tim’s head.

“I’m taking you home, baby face.”

Tim had simply hummed, hoping that this time Dick had finally rented the extended edition of The Return of the King.

.

..

...

The constant and loud beeping was so annoying that Tim wanted to cut his ears off. He grumbled, trying to bury his head in the fluffy pillow.

“Woah, bud.” Firm hands stopped him from moving. Tim grumbled again. “Easy. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

If Tim knew that opening his eyes would cause him to enter in some kind of PAIN HERE, THERE AND EVERYWHERE zone, he would’ve stayed asleep for decades. He groaned loudly while Bruce got a glass of water close to his face.

“Tim.” Bruce sounded his usual brooding self but also relieved. “Drink.”

Tim was an anarchist that followed no rules, but when you felt like a truck had run all over you and your only hope was to lessen Bruce Wayne’s obvious concern just by doing something as simple as drinking water, he had to yield. It was safe to say that the glass of water improved his mood by ninety-nine percent.

“Thanks,” he rasped. “Breathing hurts.”

As expected, Bruce looked at him like he was torn between calling Tim the most dumb guy on the planet or professing his fatherly love in case he suddenly died.

“Talk slowly.” Yeah, ok, Bruce chose the third mysterious option. “You scared the shit out of me, Tim—no, don’t laugh.”

“I’m not…” Tim winced from the sudden burst of laughter. His ribs hurt very, very much. “...laughing.”

“You’re benched.”

“I know.”

“Three months.”

Tim spluttered, reminding himself to keep calm. “What—? No. That’s a lot of time.”

“Because you have a lot of injuries.” Tim crossed his arms, slowly, like an old man. “Don’t pout,” Bruce leaned more towards him. “And don’t cross your arms like that. Leslie gave us the direct order that only minimal movements were allowed. She and Alfred stitched the wound on your side and the ones on your chest and stomach.”

Tim uncrossed his arms, ignoring the tightness inside his chest, and said: “While you freaked out and thought I was going to die?”

Bruce gave him a look. “While I stitched the ones on your knees.”

“That’s why they look a mess.” 

His knees had haphazard-looking stitches. His left leg had a cast that rounded his foot and ankle, and went up to his knee. His right foot, as well as his ribs, were bandaged. He could see the stitches made by Leslie and Alfred (and all Tim could think was that they’d one hundred percent been scared shitless for his life, so now Tim was pretty scared to meet with both of them). 

Tim noticed too that they hadn’t given him a blanket, probably to avoid any infection from the blanket-to-skin contact and to give him as free movement as possible while his wounds healed. That also explained the warm temperature of the room. He was about to ask if they were in Gotham General when his eyes caught a glimpse of the logo in the restroom’s door. His face felt very greasy; he probably had anti-inflammatory ointment or something. 

“Please tell me I don’t have a nasal splint.” Before Bruce could reply, Tim scrunched his nose, which…NO, STOP IT RIGHT NOW. “Ow!” 

“Stop it,” Bruce said, taking a hold of his hands, then: “I’m very disappointed, Tim.”

Tim blinked, ignored Bruce’s big, blue and emotional eyes, and briefly looked at the Gotham General logo once again. 

“Dick told me he was taking me home.”

“Well, Dick lied.” Tim didn’t reply. Bruce sighed. “You worried us like you have no idea, Tim.”

“I’m fine now.”

“You have multiple traumatic injuries.”

“It comes with the job.” Tim wanted to shrug for good measure but remembered his injuries. “This is what we do. I’m happy I’m alive, you should be too.”

“Of course I’m happy you’re alive,” Bruce retorted, sounding offended. “That’s got nothing to do with my disapproval of your decisions. I’ve told you many times that you need to share your plans with me, Alfred, or at least one of your siblings, before throwing yourself blind and risking your life.”

Tim scowled, felt pain flaring up in his face, and forced himself back to a neutral expression. “I told Cass. Also, I’m emancipated, remember? I don’t have to obey your orders.”

“I don’t care about any legal documents, Tim. You’re my responsibility because you’re my son and because I say so. Nothing’s going to change that, ever.” 

“I will not apologize for doing the right thing,” Tim gritted through the faint pain in his jaw. 

“I’m not asking for an apology either,” Bruce replied, tightening the hold over Tim’s hands. “I’m simply begging you to talk with me.” At the words, Tim looked down at their hands. “Yes, you told Cass your plan, but only a few steps of it and without any context. Not even your friend Pru knew what the hell was going on, she barely told us about what she knew before we took off. And Cass saw you fall, Tim. She came to me shaking and pale, and I had to hold her for nearly an hour before she could speak again. If you died she would’ve blamed herself for eternity. I don’t want to see her like that ever again. Do you understand?”

Ok, yeah, fuck.

Tim’s eyes prickled at the guilt slowly bubbling up his throat. 

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good, because that’s not all.” Bruce leaned more until he successfully made eye contact with Tim again. He must’ve looked something there because he hurriedly clarified: “It’s not my intention to make you feel guilty, tater tot.”

“I know.” 

Listen, Tim genuinely knew that. Bruce would never say a thing like that to him just to see him crumble into a crying mess. He wasn’t a bad parent; Bruce had a long list of flaws, but he did and said things for a reason, always. And Tim knew he’d never meant him harm. It was just that Bruce knew him too well too. Bruce knew that he’d only and truly listen to him if he used the love Tim had for his family as an arguing point. 

Bruce knew his biggest weakness, just like Ra’s had.

“Alright,” Bruce sighed once again. “I feel the need to remind you that I love you, Tim. I love you so, so much. You’re my light. You’ve been my light since the first time you knocked on my door demanding me to stop wallowing in misery and do something. You’re everything to me and that’s never going to change. I hate to have to use arguments like that but I’ve found it’s the only way I can make you listen.” See? “What I need to tell you is that I’m here. I’m here for you. I’m here to listen to whatever notoriously harmful plans you’ve come up with. I’m here to be of your service, because I’m your father, and my only concern is to keep you safe. In order to do that I have to have the confidence that you’re going to be honest with me. I know I’m…broken…about so many things. I know I can be arrogant and–and bossy. I know I can be unbearable when I’m angry, or sad, or worried. But I do try. And I need you to know that I will never, never, turn a blind eye to you. Never. Do you understand that too?”

Tim nodded. “I do, Bruce. I understand.”

“Are you going to try too?”

Tim blinked back tears. “Yeah, I–yes, B.”

“I want to hug you,” Bruce blurted out. “But I don’t want to ma—”

Mentally telling his injuries to fuck off, Tim impulsively leaned towards Bruce too, rapidly wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Tim totally ignored the wave of pain that attacked his body. Bruce froze before relaxing considerably, and a second later he was almost wrapping his arms around Tim too. ‘Almost’ because Bruce’s arms practically hovered, not wanting to cause him any more pain.

Tim told his brain to shut the fuck up.

“I love you, Bruce,” he whispered, only to him, only for him.

Bruce sounded like he was going to cry. “I love you too.”

They stayed like that for a few seconds more before Tim declared: “This was a bad, bad idea.”

He heard the ‘whooosh’ of the sliding door and the trademarked SpongeBob's steps.

“Indeed it was.” Damian, who was in front of Tim when he opened his eyes, scolded. “You are more dumb than I thought, Timothy, moving as if you had the privilege of a healthy body.”

“Shut up, Dami.”

“Don’t be rude with your brother, love.”

Damian, to Tim’s annoyance and amusement, started to laugh quietly at them when Dick entered the room too. He had a bouquet of green orchids in his right hand and a Lighting McQueen balloon in the other. 

“I don’t see how this is minimal movement, B,” Dick said.

“No, Dami,” Tim scowled. “B, he’s taking pictures!”

“Oh no,” Bruce deadpanned. “Dick.”

“On it,” Dick replied while getting closer to them. He left the flowers and the balloon on the little bedside table. “I’m going to help you move this arm first, ok? Here we go.”

“Ok—ow, ow, ow, ow!”

When Tim was successfully separated from Bruce, Dick made jazz hands. “Tah-dah!”

Damian was still pointing his phone at them. 

“Stop it, Dami. I’m on my death bed, don’t you see? I at least wanna die with privacy.”

“I’m recording our father,” Damian replied with a childish smile over his face. He looked very cute when he wasn’t scowling. “He’s crying.”

“What—?” Bruce spluttered. “I’m not crying.”

Ignoring Damian’s antics and Bruce’s hurried attempts to wipe his eyes, Dick smiled at Tim, pressing a gentle kiss on the crown of his hair. “I’m glad to see you alive, trouble.”

Tim smiled softly at Dick and pointed at the balloon. “How did you know that I hate Lightning McQueen?” he asked in a mocking tone.

“I know everything about you,” Dick flicked his nose endearingly before his smile disappeared. “Now, care to explain what the fuck were you thinking? Do you think seeing you all broken and dissociated from pain is fun? What the fuck, Tim? This is the last time you pull shit like that. I will kill myself before I let you get away with whatever suicidal and sleep-deprived plot you’ve got going on in your empty head.”

Tim couldn’t help but giggle.

“You’re actually—” Dick inhaled and exhaled deeply. “Y’know what? You’re a lost cause and I will not fall to your ragebait. I’m not even going to bother. I will leave Gotham and make my dream of living on the beach come true, and I will pretend you never existed, or that you were only an infuriating rat I encountered in the street, starting now.”

“Dickie.”

“No.” Dick made a face at him before looking at Bruce. “I officially give up. He’s your responsibility now.”

“Dick.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Bruce said to Dick. “I already talked with him.”

“Did you?” Dick feigned surprise, still ignoring Tim. “Wow. And here I thought you were incapable of forming a sensitive thought.”

It was Bruce’s turn to make a face.

“Big bro.” Dick finally looked at him. “I love you,” and Tim opened his eyes wide, hoping to convey the earnest sentiments that were currently taking his heart hostage. 

He also pouted, just in case.

“Fuck off with your Puss in Boots-ass face,” Dick replied, pausing before saying: “Fuck. You know I do too, you manipulative little shit.”

Tim snickered.

Speaking of “manipulative little shits” (Grayson, n.d., para. whatever)…

“Where’s Jason?”

Dick cleared his throat and finally sat down. “He’s hunting Ra’s down.”

“What?” Bruce almost broke his neck from how fast he turned at Dick.

“What?” Dick repeated, oozing anger in an instant.

(And Tim knew Dick loved him dearly and deeply, but it was always nice to see it so clearly, so undoubtedly true.)

“Are you serious?” Bruce asked Dick. 

Dick ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Save your breath, Bruce. I’m not in the mood to talk about morality right now.”

“You need to call Jason and tell him to come back. Right now,” Bruce snapped. 

“That piece of shit needs to be dead, and Jason’s the only one of us brave enough to get the job done.” Dick spat, to Bruce's utter shock and disappointment. He then looked at Damian. “I’m sorry, little D, but it’s the truth.”

“No offense taken,” and Damian, who was now perched beside him, fiercely gripped Tim’s hand. “Timothy saved my life from Grandfather’s spiteful plans. I owe you everything I have, brother.”

(You don’t owe me anything, little D, Tim wanted to scream. I just did what you’d do for me too. Plus, I’m your older brother, and for that I’ll be forever at your service.)

Tim gave Damian a little kiss on his forehead (and Damian blushed while pretending to be disgusted) before scowling at Dick. “Jason went after the Demon with nothing but his outdated guns after giving me so much shit and moaning about my decisions—”

“Tim,” Bruce interrupted him, placing a gentle hand over his chest. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep moving like that. Stop it.”

“It is in your best interest to do as the Sir says, Master Tim.” 

Tim immediately plastered himself on the bed, trying to lower the levels of his annoyance. He smiled with innocence. 

“Hiya, Alfie.”

“Hiya back to you, Master Tim.” Alfred had brought him flowers too, sunflowers. “I hope you are doing better, my dear. I have to admit I was not very thrilled at your previous…aspect.”

Tim immediately felt bad. “I’m sorry, Alfred. I’ll be more careful next time.”

Alfred gave him a sweet kiss on his forehead. “I am sure you will.” He then looked at Dick. “And I am sure that Master Richard will do whatever he thinks is best for both his brothers and family.”

Ouch. Alfred’s menacing and disappointed tone choked him too. 

Dick grumbled something under his breath before nodding. He took his phone out and said: “Give me a second.” 

When Dick left the room, surely to warn Jason that Alfred knew what they’d been up to and to order (beg) him to come back, Cass arrived, looking tired and alert at the same time. 

“Timmy!” She ran towards him. 

Alfred efficiently moved from his spot to let her get closer, and, unlike the everyday Cass that tried to keep his distance whenever one of them were seriously hurt, she threw herself into Tim, hugging him. Tim reciprocated, wincing at the pain, but nonetheless happy and grateful to see her.

“I’m sorry, Cass,” he urgently said. “I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I’m sorry.”

“No, Timmy, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have scared you like that. I should’ve—”

“It was my fault,” he interrupted her, slowly, very slowly separating himself from her, just like Dick had helped him earlier. 

Cass had tears streaming down his face. Tim cleared his throat, trying not to cry himself. 

“It was my fault, Cass. I was very injured and Pru’s adrenaline shot definitely didn’t help—”

“Adrenaline shot?” Alfred uttered, clearly irked.

“—at all. I thought I was hallucinating most of the things? And, well,” Tim cleared his throat again. “I, uh, was confused and thought that you were going to kill me, so.”

Cass gave him multiple kisses on his cheeks. “I’m still so sorry.”

Tim let out a breathy laugh. “It’s ok—”

“I’m glad you’re starting therapy.”

Tim looked at Cass like she’d gone crazy. “Sorry?”

Bruce cleared his throat. “I hadn’t, uh, told him yet, Cass.”

“Oh,” Cass blinked before smiling widely. “Congratulations, Timmy. You’re starting therapy next week.”

“Uh…” Tim looked at her, then at Bruce, then at Alfred and then at Damian (who looked strangely satisfied for a kid his age—did the nugget even know what therapy was?)

“We, uh, wanted to ask him first, darling,” Bruce said to Cass, who shrugged in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture. (Tim absolutely loved his sister’s unapologetic truthfulness.) Bruce looked at Tim then. “We wanted to ask you, chum, before making the appointment.”

“It sounds to me like you’ve got everything ready,” Tim replied, totally not amused, totally not in shock.

(Hashtag what the fuck? Hashtag I’m cooked?)

“Of course we’ve got everything ready, T-rex. Her name is—” and Bruce placed his hand over Damian’s mouth before the kid could say anything else.

“—love, please, let me handle this?” Bruce asked and Damian nodded. “We wanted to discuss with you the…possibility? To start a psychological treatment.” Tim opened and closed his mouth, speechless. “We didn’t—I, personally, haven’t been a fan of some…approaches of yours and, well, Alfred thought it was, maybe, time to start rearranging some of our, uh, habits. Both individually and as a family.”

‘Alfred thought’? Well, now Tim was truly fucked.

“I don’t…know what to say?” Tim winced and not from the physical pain.

“It is a mere invitation, Master Tim,” Alfred solemnly said, his knowing eyes glinting with hope and love and everything Tim would die for in an instant. “We will be doing our part too. Everyone has agreed to start individualized treatment, starting next week.”

What. “Even Jason?” 

Alfred nodded. “He was the most willing, in fact. I think because of the conversational nature of it—you know how much your brother likes to speak up about his likes and dislikes.”

Oh, makes sense. Jason ‘Every Day I Hope You’re Still Regretting My Death, Bruce’ Todd was definitely an emotional yapper… But, also, what the fuck? Could it be possible that Tim had fallen in an alternate universe? That Ra’s was manipulating him via hallucinations? That he’d died and he was now paying for his sins in hell?

“This is a lot,” Cass suddenly spoke, looking at him carefully, and confirming the panicky thoughts Tim was currently having. “But sometimes a lot is what is most necessary, right, father?”

Tim looked at Bruce, who had a glossy look in his eyes and a gentle tight-lipped smile intended only for him.

“Yes,” Bruce said. “What do you say, tater tot?”

Before Tim could reply, Dick’s voice announced: “Done. I successfully tamed a blood-thirsty buffalo. He sends his regards.” And, reading the tension in the room, he quickly added: “Are you guys talking about the therapy thing?”

“You’re going too?” Tim asked, ignoring the knot in his throat.

Dick shrugged. “Why not? Maybe this time I won’t leave mid-session to never come back.”

“That explains a lot,” Damian muttered beside him.

Tim let out an amused huff at the whispered comment, gave a quick look to Damian’s little hand still gripping his, and shrugged, saying:

“What the hell? Sure.”

(And, of course, Dick laughed out loud at the reference.)

.

..

…

“...so, yeah, that’s why I don’t understand this whole”—Tim moved his hands wildly—“brotherhood shit. Like, I get it, I almost get myself killed, but. Was it really necessary to fill my bedroom with Lightning McQueen balloons?”

His part time therapist, part time masked heroine ‘Black Canary’, Dinah, kept looking at him.

“I think I’m not being very clear here, but Dick had already given me one.”

“Yes, back in the hospital,” Dinah (finally) supplied (something).

“Right!” Tim nodded, grateful to not be the only one talking nor falling into an awkward silence because he suddenly got self-conscious of himself and everything that the environment implied. “And Jason knows me but…not really? So, I’m assuming that Dick told him about how much I hate Cars, and this grown-ass man decided that it’d be funny to, I don’t know, PTSD’ me or something.”

“Is that the only reason you think he decided to do that for you?”

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Tim frowned. “I don’t know.”

“What other reason comes to your head right now?”

“I…don’t know?”

Dinah blinked, nodded and slightly leaned forward. “Let me ask you something. How did you feel when you saw Dick with the Lightning McQueen balloon?”

“I thought he was stupid,” Tim chuckled (totally not intentionally replacing ‘feel’ with ‘thought’.)

“Did it make you laugh like you’re doing right now?”

“Yeah,” Tim said. “He often makes me laugh like that.”

Dinah smiled—which still made Tim double-take. “Ok, so, what I understand is that Dick’s peculiar gift made you feel very happy?”

“Yep.”

“Do you think that was your brother’s intention? To make you feel happy?”

Tim felt his lips twitching upward. (Man, this therapy thing was like dissecting a case letter by letter, word by word, sentence by sentence. It was pretty cool. He understood why Dinah did it as part of her JL contract. She was practically doing detective work and getting paid for it. What a dream.)

“Yes, I think that was his intention. Dick is very…quick to anger, I guess. But he’s also very eager to help. To make people feel good. So, yeah, I guess he thought I’d hate it so much it’d make me laugh.”

“Ok, Tim,” Dinah quickly wrote something on her iPad. Tim avoided the Batman-y part of his brain that urged him to stand up, snatch the thing away from her hands, and reset it to factory settings. “You can tell me if I’m wrong but, could it be that that was Jason’s goal too?”

Tim blinked. “What was?”

“Could it be that Jason’s goal was too to make you feel happy too?” Dinah reframed.

Could it? 

“He called me ‘Mr. Lobotomy’ the other day, before everything went to shit, which I think was pretty clever and funny. So, that means Jason’s funny, right?” Dinah nodded, looking amused. Tim pursed his lips, thinking. “And, I don’t know, I guess our dynamics are like that. We tend to poke on each other’s arms until we explode but, like, in a funny yet destructive, I’m-worried-about-you way.”

“Do you think Jason likes to follow that dynamic, Tim?”

Of course Jason liked that dynamic. He’d been Jaybin. He’d grown up surrounded by Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth. Being a mischievous, annoying, ridiculous, smart ass and pathological worrier piece of shit was practically ingrained in him—and that’s without counting his previous experiences in the streets that for sure reinforced his personality. 

“Yeah, I think he finds comfort in it. We all do.”

“So, in this case with the balloons…?”

(Jason’s intentions were clear; he’d wanted to make him feel happy. Contrary to popular belief, Tim wasn’t an idiot but, fuck, sometimes he felt like one.)

“He just wanted to make me laugh,” Tim replied, smiling to himself.

(He decided to keep the ‘to make me feel happy’ realization close to his chest for privacy and not for emotional reasons.)

Dinah felt obviously gratified by the epiphany she’d guided him through but quickly got herself in line.

“Do you think it’d be something good for you to have a session with Jason, just so we can talk about his motivations and thoughts about you? And give yourself more context about your brotherhood, like you called it earlier?”

He didn’t know if Dinah had already assumed his chore personality traits just by the fact that he’d been Robin and that he was one of Batman’s children, or if she just learnt fast (probably both), because, good God (another of Alfred’s expressions), two sessions were all it took for her to clock his need to know everything and use it against him. 

“It’d be cool, yeah,” Tim replied, ignoring the part of his brain that begged him to do a second background check on Black Canary in case she’d been hiding any mind-reading meta’s abilities.

“Amazing. We’ll talk about the arrangements in a second. First, Tim, it caught my attention something you said earlier, that ‘you almost got yourself killed’,” she said earnestly. “I’d like to delve a bit in it. In these…twenty-five minutes we’ve got left. What do you say?”

Ah, yes: the therapy part he didn’t enjoy as much. 

He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “I will not lose my spark, right?”

Dinah chuckled at the, surely, strange question (but Tim knew she was also Damian’s [and Jason’s, and Dick’s, and Bruce’s, and Cass’s and Alfred’s] therapist so, maybe not the strangest question). “I don’t think so, Tim. Improving, getting better, facing the things that make us fall into hurtful patterns, that’s very difficult and not as nice as many people think. It can make you feel angry, sad, frustrated…but I think that, at the end of the day, your spark will be there, just waiting for you to reconnect with it again.”

He let Dinah’s words linger in his brain for a second and took inventory of his current stage. Tim thought this was a good idea, and his brain and body were fine, so, yeah, he was in the safest zone mentally and emotionally speaking. Also, he’d promised himself in front of the Gotham General restroom’s mirror to be better and more gentle with himself (and with his mind and his body and his poor sleeping cycle) which gave him triple bonus points by his commitment alone, in his opinion. 

He thought of this therapy thing as just another day out on patrol: he’d be facing known and unknown threats; he’d be coming back home grinning with pride or crying from pain; he’d be assured that his family and he were alive and trying, and he’d be training daily to be and do better next time he went out.

(Still, Tim gave himself 10 seconds to fantasize about a world where he didn’t have to think and talk about important stuff. 

What a great world that’d be.)

Tim sighed, embracing the faint echo of a voice inside his mind (‘take the risk and fly, baby face!’), and said:

“Ever since I was a kid I had this thing about doing everything myself. But it wasn’t until a couple of…years back that I thought, ‘if I don’t protect the ones I love, who will?’ So, I decided to take more calculated risks…”