Archive of Our Own

He'd been excited to have a younger brother. As a kid, he'd always basked in the feeling of being doted on as the baby of the family, but now that he was older it could be too restrictive, too stifling. He was too old to always feel as though he was being supervised, to feel as though he wasn't free to take his own risks without approval or permission. So when Damian had shown up, Tim was excited at the idea of being able to move on and take up his own identity like Dick had done at his age. To pass Robin down to his little brother as a symbol of love and brotherhood.

Instead, Damian hated him on sight. Tried to kill him. Then Tim had had the rug pulled from under him by one of the people he loved and trusted most in the world—he'd had Robin taken from him and his heart ripped out along with it.

It had been the worst betrayal of his life. Something he didn't think he and Dick would ever truly come back from.

But he'd been willing to try again with Damian. He understood that Damian wasn't at fault for how he'd been raised, so he'd made an effort to reach out, to wipe the slate clean and start over. Form a bond. When he'd come to visit Bruce in Gotham a few months after rescuing him from his spiral through the time stream, he'd asked Damian to join him on patrol.

The kid had been...suspiciously eager. Tim convinced himself that it was just Dick's rehabilitation efforts actually paying off.

Naive idiot.

He heard it the second his line snapped. The twang of the cable breaking. He knew immediately what had happened, why it had snapped.

He managed to tuck into a roll before he lost his forward momentum and just barely managed to stretch his arm out far enough to snag the railing of a fire escape. He felt rather than heard the sickening pop of his arm wrenching out of the socket. He lost his grip on the railing after only a few seconds.

He knew how to take a fall from this height. Bruce had drilled it into them for exactly this reason. Dick had practiced it with him countless times. Dick had been adamant about making sure that Tim knew how to fall. And Tim was good at it.

Good at it on the training mats, anyway—on the bars.

But the real thing was much different. There were more factors at play—shock and surprise were the most problematic differences. In training he'd been prepared for it. In training he hadn't dislocated his shoulder and lost control of his form. In training he had time and the presence of mind to remember to pull out his backup grapple.

In training there had been mats to catch him. Here there was asphalt.

His left leg hit the ground first. It was a miracle that he managed to tuck and roll after, dissipating some of the energy of the fall. 

For just a few seconds after he came to a stop, everything was numb. He lay sprawled on his back, the Gotham sky spinning above him. Comforting, familiar, home; polluted, murky, dismal. His hearing was muffled as though he had gone half deaf. There were no blaring car horns or shrill police sirens reaching his cotton-stuffed ears. No bellowing ship's horns from the harbor, no barking dogs.

Then the world came rushing back in a cacophony of sounds and sensations. For some reason, the first thing he noticed was that there was a car alarm going off somewhere in the near distance. Annoying. 

Then.

His shoulder was a fiery ache, but his leg.  

He screamed.

His back bowed and he clawed at the blacktop with his good hand. He couldn't stop the gasping cries that were pouring out of his mouth. He didn't know how long he lay there sobbing, but eventually he was able to pull his shattered thoughts together and slow his sobs to calmer ragged breaths.

Okay. Okay. He just needed to—Wait. Damian. Where was—He had to—Where was his staff, he—

But Damian was nowhere to be seen. Hiding, maybe. Lurking in the shadows like a true Bat, like an assassin, waiting for the best time to strike? Or maybe he'd just fled. Tim should have died died died from that height, but the fire escape had significantly slowed his fall. Maybe—Maybe Damian had gone back home to get a jump on the damage control; to find some alibi, to concoct some story. “Drake and I argued and went our separate ways.” Maybe to distract Dick enough that he didn't think about the fact that Tim was late coming back. To keep him from checking on him long enough that Tim might succumb to his injuries. To die die die.

His stomach was churning. He was on the ground—Damian had—It hurt—   

Whatever. None of that mattered. What mattered was getting up off this alley floor. He was a sitting duck here. Duck? Ha. Robin. Little bird with a broken broken wing. Any thug would have a field day finding Red Robin incapacitated and alone.

His first instinct was to call Dick, but...but fuck Dick. Fuck Dick. Dick had taken Robin from him and given it to a little psycho. A psycho that was a lot more important to him than Tim was. He didn't want anything to do with Dick right now. He’d rather die.

And Bruce. Fuck him, too. He’d shunned Tim. Tim had come back to visit him and Boomerang had shown up and Tim had controlled himself. He'd shown restraint and Bruce—

"I made the right choice."

"Only after making all the wrong ones."

They hadn't spoken since. Bruce couldn't accept Tim for what he was now. What he'd had to become. He'd lost Bruce's respect. But he didn't care. He didn't need Bruce's approval. He didn't need Dick's.

His head was spinning, his thoughts bouncing around rapidly. He didn't want to go back to the Cave. He'd already felt like he wasn't welcome there, like he wasn't wanted or needed. This was the cherry on top. He couldn't—he wasn't going anywhere where he wasn't accepted but Damian was.

Focus focus focus.

Focus. He tried to reign his thoughts in. Calm down. Assess. Stop thinking. Slip into brain mode. He was good at that. Clinical. Cold. He was good at cold. He’s been told that so many times. Turn his insides off and do what needed to be done. 

Fuck. His leg hurt, it hurt so much—

He wasn't ready to sit up yet but he twisted his torso just the smallest bit to look down and inspect his leg. He could see the bulge in his pant leg. Tibia, definitely. Probably the fibula, too—there was no way that that landing had left both bones intact. He could handle this himself. He could. He just had to, had to—Get to a safe house. Splint the leg. It was a closed fracture, he thought. He’d assumed that if it were an open fracture the bone would have torn through his pants, and he didn’t see any blood soaking through like it would be, either. A closed fracture didn't technically need immediate attention. It could wait until Leslie's clinic was open in the morning. And he could handle the shoulder himself; he could easily reduce it on his own, he'd done it plenty of times before. He didn't need anyone else for that. He didn't need anyone else. He could do this. He could do it. 

The bulge, though, told him it was a displaced fracture. Dammit. That meant surgery. Ankle was broken, too—the angle of it told him that. Probably the foot. The femur seemed okay, but it was hard to pinpoint the pain that was radiating through his whole left side. Nothing was bulging out there, but that didn't mean there wasn't a stress fracture.

Ugh. This was going to take so much recovery time. And hospitals. God he hated hospitals. Who didn't, really? He was going to have a hell of a time getting Leslie to let him go home and take care of himself after. Though maybe he could rope Kon into doing it. He'd get to spend more time with him, he hadn't seen him enough since he'd come back from the dead. He kind of liked the idea of Kon taking care of him. He'd be good at helping Tim get around, he was big and strong and—

Tim realized he was maybe a little hysterical. Hysterical. Stupid word. It meant opposite things. Funny, hilarious, hysterical. Distraught, violent, delirious.

No. No. Relax. Breath. Focus. Get up.

He looked around, his vision wobbly. He was close enough to one of the alley walls that if he managed to somehow lever himself up he could hold onto it to support himself.

He just had to…figure out the standing up part.

Okay. He just had to focus.

He pulled his frenzied thoughts together. Pushed through the delirium. Collected himself. Shoved down the stress of being exposed and incapacitated. He needed to get a handle on the pain. He'd learned many different meditation techniques over the years. From Bruce, from Shiva. Even from Ra's when he'd insisted that Tim train with him between missions.

He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, digging a tunnel through the pain and wedging himself into a calmer mindspace like a little pocket in the earth. A Cave. 

Meditation was something that had been difficult for him to learn—his mind was always going a mile a minute, always loud, chaotic. So maybe his thoughts were a little more scattered than usual right now, but it wasn’t all that different from what he was used to. This particular meditation technique, though, was one of the most difficult. It focused on dulling the senses, the connection to one's body. It went against every vigilante's instincts, especially when in a vulnerable position.

As he slowed his heart rate and descended deeper and deeper into a meditative state, into the Cave, the passage of time lost all meaning. When he finally opened his eyes again, his thoughts were calmer, clearer, and everything around him was hazy, dull. Sounds were muffled, far away. His vision was unfocused, and his body felt weird, like it didn't belong to him. The pain in his leg had been reduced to a manageable sharp throb.

He felt around sluggishly for his bo staff. He should have been better prepared and pulled it out first, because now he was too far from his body to feel for it properly, but it was too late for that now.

He managed to find it, though, and unclipped it from his belt and snapped it open, locking it in place. He braced the staff against the ground and pushed himself upright. He swayed where he sat and his already-blurry vision went spotty. His head swam and nausea bubbled up in his throat, but it was all still blessedly far away.

When everything steadied as well as it was going to, he took a deep breath, pulled his right leg under himself and pushed.

At first the pain was only marginally worse. It sharpened some, but it was manageable. In his delirium, it hadn't occurred to him that his right shoulder was going to have to bear most of his weight as he leaned, and he remembered that just as it was about to connect with the wall. But it didn’t hurt like it should have—all he felt was the dull throb of it through the haze as it held his weight against the brick.

He once again braced his staff against the ground like a makeshift walking stick, and gave a little hop with his right leg, keeping his balance with the wall and the staff.

Then his bad leg dragged along the ground and, just like that, his meditative state snapped like his grapple line. The haze broke and everything rushed back at once.

A shocked keening sound made its way past his clenched teeth. His vision whited out and it was only by some miracle that he managed to stay mostly upright. His bad shoulder slid along the brick and it took all he was worth to keep it from buckling and sending him crashing into the ground.

He leaned there, sucking in ragged breaths while waves of agonizing pain pulsed through his body. He was shaking and shivering by the time he was able to slow his breathing. No, he could do this. He could do this. He was Red Robin. He'd dealt with worse. He'd driven himself and Pru miles through the desert after being run through with a sword. He could do this.

He hopped another step forward, his shoulder scraping against the brick and his leg dragging the ground, sending sparks of agony up his left side as it did. He was sucking in stuttering breaths and he couldn't control the harsh cries and mewls that were tearing their way out of him. Tears were streaming down his face, obscuring his vision, and he no longer had any sense of space or direction. All he knew was forward. He had to keep moving forward.

Call Dick. Call Bruce. Someone, anyone.

But he couldn't. Wouldn't. He didn't need anyone. He could do this.

One step forward. Hop. Another step. Hop.

Then he reached the end of the wall and he had no idea what to do from there. He'd had a plan, hadn't he? Something—Turn the corner. That's right. Follow the wall and then turn the corner. His nearest safe house was east, and that's the way he'd be facing if he turned the corner. He could do it. He could.

Except he couldn't.

He tried to push himself away from the wall, so he could grope around the corner while digging his fingers into the brick to keep his balance around the turn and—

He didn't make it. His bad shoulder finally buckled and he toppled over. He hit the ground hard.

He came to with his cheek pressed into the asphalt. His throat was raw like he'd been screaming and he was so dizzy he was starting to get motion sick.

He couldn't get up again. No matter how hard he tried, he wasn't going to be able to get up again. He let his eyes flutter closed and just lay there, letting the agony wash over him. He thought he could feel himself fading in and out, but with his eyes closed and his world full of nothing but pain he couldn't tell for sure.

He didn't hear any footsteps, but suddenly there was a mechanized voice floating above him.

"You alive, kid?"

He didn't open his eyes. He was probably going to die now. Or get captured and auctioned off or tortured. Maybe even all three. He couldn't do anything about it now. Even if he did want to call someone now, he didn't have the coordination to do it. Damian was going to get his wish after all.

Then there was a boot in his ribs and he was being flipped over into his back. It jostled his leg and his arm and he didn't even try to hold back the cries and whimpers. Those were all he could muster now, he was all out of screams. He still didn't try to open his eyes.

"Guess that answers that."

He felt gloved hands on his face and there were fingers trying to pry his eyelids apart. He yanked his head away and the voice laughed. The inhuman warble of the mechanized chuckle sounded menacing.

"Alive and kicking. How the hell'd you manage to fuck up this bad? This is what he replaced me with?"

Tim snapped his eyes open. His vision was wavering and blurry, but he could make out the outline of someone crouching over him. Brown and red.

"Y-you're one to talk," he croaked. "I've made it almost three years longer than...than you did."

Hood barked a laugh. "He even still has some bite."

Tim let his eyes fall shut again. "Go...away."

"Hm. I should leave you to the wolves while you wait for Daddy Bats to show up. I'd rather not be here when he does, anyway."

A crazed giggle broke out of him. "He's not coming."

Oh, he probably shouldn't have said that. Stupid mouth.

Hood's voice was flat now. "What."

In for a penny. "Didn't call anyone."

"Why not, you idiot. Are you that inept?"

Tim huffed. "Think whatever you...want," he mumbled. Spinning, spinning. He was really nauseous now. Maybe he'd puke on Hood's boots.

Hood sighed. "Is your comm broke?"

"Hm mm." He shook his head. At least he thought he did because the dizziness got worse.

He felt Hood's hand poking around on his ear, searching for his comm, and he smacked it away clumsily with his good hand.

"What the hell? I'm trying to help you, idiot."

"Go away," he repeated.

"You got a death wish or something?"

"Or something."

Hood let out a long whistle. "Doth my ears deceive me? Do I detect a fellow black sheep?"

Tim didn't bother to respond. He was too busy surfing the waves of pain.

"Hey." Gloved hand tapping his cheek. "Stay awake."

Tim grunted. "Kill me or mind your own business."

Hood groaned in frustration. "You're gonna make me call them myself, aren't you? I'm really not gonna be happy about that. I will take it out of your hide later."

Tim forced his eyes open. "Don't."

Hood tilted his head. "What's got you in such a tizzy?"

Tim ignored him. His world was all pain now, Hood was like a fly buzzing around his head. Mildly annoying. Inconsequential. Not worthy of his attention.

Hood's hands were on him, exploring his body. Oh. He hadn't...he hadn't thought Hood would be...like that, but nothing could really get much worse at this point. He might as well not fight it.

Hood's hands found his shoulder and he flinched, clenching his teeth against a strangled moan.

"Is that what all the screaming was about? Even you aren't that weak."

Oh. He was feeling for injuries.

Oh, no. That meant he was going to—

Hood's hands felt along his left leg and an animalistic wail broke free. The hand was quickly snatched away.

"Oh, damn, kid. You are pretty fucked up."

Tim clamped his eyes shut again and laughed a broken hysterical laugh.

Hood sighed. "Well, shit."

Tim heard receding footsteps and let himself relax back into that oblivious, pain-filled headspace. He was jolted out of it when someone was nudging him in the side. He opened his eyes and glared at Hood, who had returned to his previous place, then promptly closed them again. Ugh. Light.

"I gotta splint your leg before I move you. It's gonna hurt. Bad."

"Move me?" He asked groggily.

"Yes, move you. You really think I'd leave you out here to get your head kicked in by the next two-bit crook with steel-toed boots who happens to wander by?"

"Um. Yes? You want me dead." Was Jason the one with the potential head injury? And, oh. Wow, his head really hurt. He hadn't noticed that before. Huh.

Hood sighed. A long, drawn-out sound. "I haven't wanted you dead for a long time, Red. I was being facetious, before, when I was talking about leaving you. I'm...less crazy now. Sorry for being a dick back then, I was taking my bullshit out on the wrong person. I helped Dick Bats out sometimes when Daddy Bats was gone, ya know. We're kinda cool now? Or less...fighty. Whatever, you know what I'm saying. Kinda surprised you haven’t heard about that, but now that I think about it, I don't remember seeing you around a lot back then. Or like, at all."

Tim opened his eyes when he felt a slight tugging sensation and only then noticed that Hood had pressed two broken boards against each side of his leg and was gingerly winding tape around the whole thing. He'd barely even felt it.

"Wasn't around," he murmured, laying his head back and watching Hood work with squinted eyes. "Was with the League."

"The Justice League?" He asked, distracted by his task. "They letting kids in, now?"

"Not a kid." Words were getting harder. "Not Justice. Assassins."

Hood's hands stilled. "I know I didn't hear that right."

Tim's brow furrowed. Was he not speaking clearly enough?

"League of Assassins. The stabby ones." He mimed the stabby part with his good arm.

"You...what the fuck?”

Huh? What the fuck?

“No,” Hood shook his head. His hood? Helmet. “Nope. Not doing this here, not the place.”

“What’re we doin’?” Had he missed that?

Hood glanced at him, calculating. “You hit your head,” he realized.

“Prob’ly.” Had he known that? He’d known that. He thought. “Shoul’n’ that have been the first thin’ you checked? Shows what you know.”

Hood growled. Wow, that sounded scary through the modulator. Nice feature.

“I was distracted by the shattered limb, my bad.”

Tim lifted his head. “S’not shattered. Right? Right?” Shattered was bad.

“Calm down, it’s not actually shattered. I don't think.” He finished wrapping Tim’s leg and tore the end of the tape off the roll.

“Okay,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “Now comes the shitty part. This is gonna really suck. Sorry in advance.”

“What’s gonna suck?”

Hood slid an arm beneath Tim’s knees, and the other beneath his back and— 

Tim blacked out.

——

Tim did not come to slowly. He came to with a jolt and a gasp. His eyes snapped open and he waited for the world to come into focus. There was a...ceiling above him. Plain white, with a lazily spinning ceiling fan. There was something soft beneath his head. Pillow? He was on a bed.

“‘Sup, short stack?”

Tim let his head loll to the side. Jason Todd was sitting next to his bed, helmetless and maskless. He was eating a popsicle. It was yellow.

Was he hallucinating?

Tim squinted. Hallucination or not, he had to defend his honor. “I'm average height,” he croaked.

Jason snorted. “Adorable.”

He looked down at his leg. It was propped up on pillows, better splinted now with an actual brace instead of a broken two-by-four. It didn't hurt, and he felt...weird. Floaty. Good. Everything felt soft and warm.

He looked back to Jason. "Did you drug me?"

"Sure did. You're fucking welcome."

"Hm. Yeah, thanks, I guess." Tim’s eyes wandered to the ceiling again. “There’s a...ceiling fan?”

Jason looked up quizzically. “Uh. Yeah?" He said around the popsicle. "It’s fucking July.”

Tim was still staring at the ceiling fan. “You just seem more like the...the underground bunker type. Or, like...I don’t know.”

He looked back down just in time to see Jason rolling his eyes. He popped the popsicle out of his mouth to talk. “I’m not a supervillain, I don’t have a lair.”

“Huh,” he said. “Cool.”

“Are you this annoying all the time, or just when you’re high?”

“Dick says all the time.”

Jason sighed. “Hypocrite. Peas in a pod.”

Jason bit off the rest of the popsicle, chewed, and slurped the excess juice off the stick before tossing it onto the bedside table. Tim wondered if maybe when Jason was resurrected it was actually his seven-year-old self that had been put back into his body. It would explain a lot, actually.

"Okay, look," Jason said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "We have a few options here. I fixed your shoulder, you're welcome; I patched up your head, you're welcome; and I cleaned up all the scrapes and cuts and shit." He gestured at Tim's leg. "But that whole thing is pretty much fucked. You need like...hella surgery. So I can either drop you off at a hospital where they'll identify you as Tim Drake and Bruce will find you; drop you off at Leslie's, who will yell at you before taking you to a hospital where they'll identify you as Tim Drake and Bruce will find you; or I can call my guy and he can fix you up. But then you'll be on your own unless you have someone who can come take care of you, 'cause I sure as hell am not sticking around playing nursemaid. And you'll owe me."

That was...a lot for Tim's floaty head to digest. He really just wanted to sleep. Or lay there and enjoy the pain meds. Either or.

"What do you mean by...a guy?" He asked cautiously.

"Undead crime lords can't exactly go to a normal hospital, and I'm not too proud to admit that I get my ass kicked a lot, so I pay a guy to fix me up when I need him. He's good. I trust him or I wouldn't let him come anywhere near me with a scalpel."

"He does work for a crime lord who pays him under the table and he's...not shady?"

"Oh, no, I didn't say he wasn't shady, just that he does good work and he wouldn't dare stab me."

"That's comforting."

Jason shrugged. "It's really the best we can ask for."

Tim thought about it. "Yeah, I guess that's true."

"So," Jason asked. "Hospital or shady guy?"

Tim sighed. "Shady guy, I guess."

"Cool. Don't go anywhere, I'll go call him. Want a popsicle?"

He did, actually.

——

Tim didn't think a kitchen table was the best place for surgery, but when you paid a shady guy to cut into you you couldn't really expect much better. He was really starting to think that maybe his reluctance to go crawling back to Bruce was starting to get a little out of hand, but then he remembered the sound of the grapple line snapping and pictured the disappointed look on Bruce's face when Tim had hesitated for a tenth of a second before saving his father's murderer and he decided he was fine with the back alley surgery.

The doctor was an older, white haired man with bloodshot eyes. He wore an ugly Christmas sweater and had visibly shaky hands, which did not at all put Tim at ease.

"I'm not an anesthesiologist, so I'm not going to put you under," Shady said. "But I can give you spinal anesthesia. It's like an epidural but better. I'm also going to sedate you so you don't squirm. That's non-negotiable." He glared at Jason as though they'd had this discussion before.

Shady had taken an entire day to show up and Jason hadn't let him have any extra pain meds before the surgery, so Tim was in a truckload of pain. Not as bad as when he was dragging himself through a dirty alley with a dislocated shoulder and a concussion, but still pretty bad.

"I'll take anything at this point," he grunted.

"Good," Shady said. "Hop up on the table."

From his place in the chair Jason had sat him in, he looked at the table warily. "I feel like this is a good time to mention that I don't have a spleen."

Shady paused, tilting his head and pursing his lips in thought for a moment before shrugging. "I Cloroxed it. We'll give you antibiotics."

Tim took a deep breath and then looked at Jason leaning against the kitchen fridge with his arms crossed. "Okay," he breathed. Jason nodded and came to lift Tim up onto the table. It was just barely long enough to fit him without his feet hanging off.

"Guess it's a good thing you're short, huh?" Jason asked with a grin.

Tim pretended not to hear him.

The needle going into his spine was incredibly painful, but as soon as the anesthesia was injected, everything below the waist went blissfully numb and he sighed in relief.

They turned him back supine and Shady took Tim's arm and began poking around for a vein in the crook of his elbow.

"What sedative are you using, anyway?" Tim asked, nervously. He didn't want anything too strong or too inhibiting.

"Eh, don't worry about it."

Oh, that wasn't worrying at all.

Tim glanced up at Jason in question and Jason gave him a thumbs up. In what world was he trusting the word of Jason Todd when it came to his health?

He felt the pinch of the needle sliding in and the soft creeping of the drug running through his arm. Jason had moved to stand above his head and Tim lay back to look at him. He could already feel the sedative kicking in and his eyes were fluttering.

"You're gonna stay, right, Jay?" He mumbled.

Jason put a strong hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Yeah, kiddo," he said gruffly. "I'm right here."

Tim let his eyes fall shut. He didn't sleep, but he sank into a calm haze and he felt Jason's steady presence behind him the whole time.

——

Dr. Shady had given Tim a report of his injuries and what he'd done about them before he left, but Tim hadn't been able to track most of it. From what he could remember, it was all basically what he had ascertained on his own. And it turned out his femur was broken, which was actually a big part of why it had hurt so bad. There were pins and rods and stuff and his whole leg was in a cast.

Jason had left him to sleep off the sedative on the couch and when he came to, Jason was nowhere to be found. That was when it really hit him that he was not going to be able to handle this by himself.

He really had to pee.

He was genuinely contemplating the logistics of rolling himself off of the couch and dragging himself to the bathroom (or the kitchen, if it was closer; toilet, Gatorade bottle, he really couldn't afford to be picky at this stage), when he heard Jason coming down the hallway that led to the bedroom. His hair was tousled and his eyes were puffy from sleep and Tim realized for the first time that it had been two days since Jason had lugged him out of that alley and he hadn't once noticed him sleep.

Jason stopped when he saw that Tim was awake, took in Tim's pleading expression, grunted, and walked right past him and into the kitchen.

Tim whined and fell back onto the cushions.

He was almost ready to enact his Toilet-or-Bottle plan when the heavenly smell of coffee wafted from the kitchen like an angelic cloud. Suddenly his plan solidified. The kitchen had bottles and coffee.

Somehow, though, before he could drag himself toward the coffee, it came to him. He watched it float out of the kitchen and magically drift in his direction. It wasn't until it was hovering before him like a gift from the gods that he realized Jason was attached to it.

The coffee was lowered and placed on the coffee table and Jason shifted so that he was standing between it and Tim. Red Robin glared up at the Red Hood and felt around for his bo staff.

"You gotta pee?"

Tim debated with himself before he was struck with the realization that emptying his bladder meant making more room for coffee.

"So bad," he pleaded.

Jason sighed. "Remember the whole nursemaid clause of our agreement? You better find a babysitter post haste, Tiny Tim, or I'm calling Alfred."

——

To Tim's relief (delight, nervousness), Kon was more than happy to take over nursemaid duties...once he was finished with his current world-saving mission in an indeterminate amount of time. Needless to say, Jason was not happy about this, but he reluctantly agreed to refrain from calling Alfred on the condition that Tim run his patrol routes for him for two weeks once he was recuperated.

"There's a beach calling my name after putting up with this bullshit."

Tim wasn't sure whether he was surprised it took Jason this long, or if he was surprised that he asked at all.

"How'd you bust your leg up, anyway? You looked like you fell off a fucking building."

Tim was sprawled on the couch reading one of Jason's books, his leg propped up on the coffee table. Jason was sitting at a table across the room set up specifically for cleaning and tinkering with weapons. He was currently poking a soldering iron around in some kind of contraption that at this point was mostly a mess of wires and circuit boards that even Tim couldn't identify.

A flash of anger rippled through him at the question, though it wasn't directed at Jason.

"You pretty much hit the nail on the head." He kept his voice flat, neutral.

Jason looked up from his Frankenstein project and snorted. "Seriously? Didn't Bruce teach you how to grapple properly?"

That flash of anger was directed at Jason.

"Yes," he snapped. He really didn't want to get into it. He did not have the patience for this conversation when the events were still so fresh.

"Touchy. How'd you fall, then? Hit a bad anchor point?"

Tim grit his teeth. "It doesn't matter." He should have just lied, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He wasn't going out of his way to cover up what Damian had done. He'd rather just not talk about it at all.

"Now you've got me intrigued," he said, returning his attention to his project. "Come on, spill."

Tim knew Jason wasn't going to drop this. He was too stubborn to even stay dead, there was no point in running around in circles with him.

"Wanting me dead seems to be a theme in this family," he grit out. His knuckles were white from gripping the book in his hands so hard. He stared at the pages, unseeing.

Tim heard the click of the soldering iron being set in its holder. "What is that supposed to mean." His voice was flat, something dangerous in it. Tim realized that his words could have been construed as a dig aimed at Jason. He risked a glance at his face. Stony, but not angry or violent. Not yet.

Tim sighed. "Damian," he admitted. "He cut my line."

"He what?"

Tim dropped the book onto the couch with a sigh, running a hand over his face. "My line. It snapped. Didn't get the chance to even think about pulling out my backup. Pulled my shoulder grabbing a fire escape on the way down. That's the only reason I'm not a stain on the pavement right now. Landed on my leg. There, now you know."

Jason's brain seemed to be malfunctioning. "Damian. Robin. Cut your line."

"Yes? Why do you care? It's not like you wouldn't have done the same a year ago. It's not even the first time he's tried to kill me."

Jason sputtered. "I have supernaturally-induced psychosis. What's his excuse?"

Tim shrugged and picked his book back up. "He's a spoiled brat."

"Does Dick know? Does Bruce?"

Oh. Uh oh. Abort, abort.

"Uh…"

"You're kidding me. Bruce condemns me for—But he just lets that little shit stain go around just—And they let him wear our colors?"

Our. Not my. Huh. That was new.

Tim wasn't about to defend Damian, but he also wasn't going to let Jason ruin his truce with the family by dropping the kid off a building himself.

"Look, he was raised by the League. He doesn't…" God, this was like talking with glass in his mouth. "He doesn't really know any better. He sees me as a rival, and you know how the League handles that."

Jason narrowed his eyes. "Speaking of the League…"

Goddammit. Was it pile-on-Tim hour?

"Can I just read my book and we can pretend none of this ever happened?"

"Look, Robin is our responsibility. We aren't letting another one die, and we're not letting some little asshole sully it. Which means no fratricide, and no hanging out with the League of Assassins. What the hell is Dick doing with you two?"

Tim ground his teeth. Don't engage. Don't engage.

Nah, fuck it.

"Dick," he growled. "Is the one who drove me to the League. He took Robin from me and pushed me out. No one but Ra's would help me find Bruce."

Jason's brain was definitely malfunctioning now.

"He. Took? And. Ra's ?"

Jason's exasperation suddenly seemed to morph into an angry simmer, and that was somehow more alarming than his usual explosive anger.

"Stay here," he said, terrifyingly calm. "Big brother and I need to have a little talk."

"Wait wait wait, Jay, no, stop."

Jason froze half way through strapping his guns to his thighs. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't go over there right now and skin him alive."

"Because...because I can't handle all of this right now, okay? Can you just…" Tim laid his head back and looked at the ceiling, running a hand through his hair. He closed his eyes. "Can we do this another time? One of my brothers tried to kill me for...I think the fifth? Time. I've been running around the world for six months trying to save my dead dad, I got betrayed by my big brother, my friends all died and came back to life, my other dad died...and now I'm going to be off patrol and go through physical therapy and...I'm just...I'm tired. I don't want you ruining your relationship with Dick for me. And I don't want to deal with Dick right now."

He heard Jason grumble and the sound of his guns clunking down on the table. "Fine. But I'm just putting a pin in this for now."

Tim cracked an eye open. "Just please don't push Dick away, okay? I'm glad you're back and you don't want me dead anymore. Stick around."

"Calm down, I'm not planning on throwing Dickhead off a building. I'm just gonna yell at him."

——

As it turned out, Jason wasn't the one to initiate the yelling.

A couple days later, there was a knock on the window. Tim and Jason both shared a look and Jason grabbed a gun off the table and tossed Tim a pouch of batarangs he'd apparently stolen. Jason moved next to the window, just out of sight, and pointed his gun. With his free hand he slowly moved the curtain aside and…

Nightwing was perched outside, dangling from a grapple line and bracing his feet against the wall. 

Jason visibly deflated while Tim tensed.

Jason glanced at Tim and cocked his head at the window. "Want me to kick him off the building or let him in?"

"I really don't care which."

With a click, the window was open and Dick was sliding in. "Tim, oh my god, we thought you were dead."

There were so many responses Tim could have given to that, but he bit his tongue. Literally.

Dick took in Tim's cast and various bruises and bandages, and looked from Jason to Tim and back, expression calculating. Jason held his hands up.

"It wasn't me."

"Tim, what happened? Damian said you got separated on patrol and when you didn't come back we went looking and found your grapple, your staff, and your phone. How did you end up with Jason, why didn't you call us?"

"Maybe because he wouldn't have been safe with you, Dickhead."

Dick's expression pinched in confusion and annoyance. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Jason said hotly. "That you are doing a shit job at making sure there are no more dead Robins, is what that means."

"Jason," Tim interrupted. "Please don't."

"No, I said we were putting a pin in it and now the pin is coming out."

He whirled on Dick. "You," he jabbed a finger at Dick. "You took Robin from Tim. You replaced him with a little demon and then let him go off by himself to kick it with the League of Assassins?"

"Damian," Dick said, tone low and deliberate. "Is not a demon. He's a child who went through a traumatic upbringing. You of all people should understand—Wait." Dick's eyes widened. "League of Assassins? What are you talking about?"

"Tim, you didn't even tell him? Seriously?"

"Guys can we please not do this right now?" His leg was killing him. His head was killing him. He couldn't even get up and walk away from this, he was stuck.

"Tim, what is he talking about?"

Tim ignored him and went through a breathing exercise.

"Tim?"

And then he snapped.

"No one else believed me about Bruce, Dick. Where the hell else was I supposed to go? No one would help me! So I did what I had to do! Ra's is so obsessed with me that he was the only one who was willing to help. Do you have any idea what it feels like to be that alone? To have everyone you know think you're crazy when you know you're right? To have your brother betray you when you needed him the most? To have no one to turn to but a megalomaniac who wants to turn you into his puppet?" His body was so tense with anger the ache in his leg was pulsing. He wanted nothing more than to walk out the door or climb through the window.

Tim's words shocked Dick into silence. "Tim," he stuttered. "I—I didn't know—"

"You didn't care. If you had cared enough you could have found me. I wasn't trying to hide, you just didn't look."

"I was trying to give you space, I thought...Tim you were grieving. I thought you just weren't thinking straight. I was so wrong, and I'm so sorry."

"Yeah you've already said that. It doesn't make it all go away. It doesn't make—" He choked. "It doesn't make it any better. I know now how little I mean to you."

"What? Timmy, no—" Dick took a step toward Tim, but Jason stepped in the way.

"You wanna know why the kid's here instead of with you? You wanna know why he's safer with me? Because I found him broken and delirious with pain in a filthy alley, Dick. He broke pretty much everything from the hip down on one side because he fell. He fell when Robin cut his line."

Dick rocked back, his face paling. "No. No that's—Damian wouldn't—"

Jason scoffed. "Wouldn't he? The way I hear it, it isn't even the first time he's done something like this."

"No, he's...he's getting better."

"Does this look better to you, Dick?" Tim seethed. "You took the one good thing that I still had and you gave it to him and you knew he was trying to kill me. And he isn't going to stop. Now tell me how much I mean to you."

"Tim should be dead right now, Dick. Do you understand that? It was by the skin of his teeth that that fall didn't kill him. If he hadn't been able to slow his fall he'd be dead. And you never would have even known what had really happened."

"Jay, I don't—Tim, I'm so—" He stumbled over and knelt in front of Tim. "Timmy, tell me what you need. Tell me how I can fix this."

Tim sighed and rubbed his burning eyes. "I don't know, Dick. It's not like you can send Damian back to the League. And Robin is his for good now, you can't take it from him, that can't happen again. Just…I don't know. I really don't."

"Go home, Dick," Jason said.

Dick stood up, his shoulders slumped in defeat, his face blank, eyes wet. "At least call Bruce," he said quietly. "We've been combing the city for you for days. He's beside himself."

"How did you find me here, anyway?"

Dick's gaze flicked to Jason, guilt twisting his lips. Jason's eyes widened and he barked an incredulous laugh. Tim could hear the hurt threading through it. "You actually thought I did it. I guess I deserve that. So much for that truce, huh Timmy?"

"Get out, Dick," Tim said tiredly.

A click of the window and he was gone.

Jason stood stock still for a moment. "I'm gonna go...just...out, for a bit. I've got burner phones all over the place around here. Call me if you need me."

"Jay…"

He was out the door before Tim could think of what to say.

——

Jason didn't come back that night. Tim didn't think anything of it, but when he still wasn't back the next day, he started to worry. The worry only grew when Jason wasn't answering his calls.

He knew what he needed to do, but he wasn't happy about it.

"O."

"Ti—Red?"

"I need a favor."

"Are you okay? Nightwing said you were hurt and you didn't want to see anyone."

So Dick hadn't snitched about Jason. That was...good.

"I need you to find Hood."

"Hood? What did he do?"

"He didn't do anything, O. He's been talking to you guys. He's been helping. Why does everyone keep jumping to conclusions without giving him the benefit of the doubt first?"

"You're defending Hood?"

"Are you going to find him for me, or not?" Not the best way to get a favor from someone, but he heard the clacking of keys in the background.

"I'm not seeing him anywhere. He's good at not being found when he doesn't want to be. What's going on?"

"Call this number if you see him. Please."

"Red—"

He hung up. Maybe he wasn't being fair to Barbara, but it still stung that she hadn't believed him either. He'd been playing nice with everyone since he got back, but after the fall he just didn't have the energy or the patience anymore.

Another day went by and Jason still hadn't come back. Up until then he'd been trying to convince himself that Jason just needed time, but now he knew something had to be wrong. Tim could mostly take care of himself if he needed to—he had a pair of crutches that he technically wasn't supposed to be using yet—but Jason had been...oddly worried about making sure Tim didn't move around on his leg more than necessary, and now he'd left Tim to handle himself for three days. It wasn't that Tim thought that Jason really cared all that much, but...it just didn't feel right.

He didn't want to call Barbara for another favor, so he skimmed through his head for any useful phone numbers he had memorized that could get him to the person he wanted to reach. The Titans were on a mission, so who else…

"Mrs. Kent? Hi, it's Tim Drake. I was hoping you might be able to help me get a hold of someone."

——

Another day, no Jason. There was a knock on the door and Tim grabbed a batarang and hobbled over on his crutches.

A peek through the peephole and he was opening the door to let Roy Harper in.

"When's the last time you saw him?" Roy said by way of greeting. He dropped his duffle bag on the floor by the door and hung his bow on the coat hook without even looking, a practiced motion that made it seem like he'd done it a hundred times.

"Four days ago."

"Did anything happen before he left? Something that could have set him off?"

"Dick—"

Roy groaned. "You don't need to say any more. How was he when he left? Anger, scale of one to ten."

"Uh. I mean he's a solid 6 on default, but no more than a 7, I think. It was more hurt than anything."

"Oof. Low anger with high hurt is not a good combination with him." He sighed and went to drop down onto the couch, running a hand through his hair in deep thought.

"Do you think he's okay? Is it normal for him to run off for this long?"

Roy held up his hand and wiggled it in a "so-so" manner. "Depends." He tilted his head at Tim, studying him. "Didn't he try to kill you? Like, a lot? Why are you in his apartment?"

"It's a long story. We're good now."

Roy pursed his lips. "But you're worried that he's been gone for so long, which means you think he had reason to come back sooner. Jason may not be the most stable person, but he's dependable as hell. He doesn't break promises or shirk responsibilities."

Tim shrugged. "I think if that's the case he would have been back by now."

"Crap. Okay. Did you ask Babs to keep an eye out?"

He nodded. "She's supposed to call, but nothing so far. She said if he doesn't want to be found, he won't be."

"Ah, that's where she's wrong. He can't hide from me, I know him too well. You're smart, you called the right person."

——

It was day five by the time Roy hauled Jason through the door and deposited him on the couch next to Tim. He was bruised and bloodied and not entirely conscious.

"Idiot has a bad habit of binge-punching when he's butt-hurt," he said, heading to the bathroom where Jason kept his kit. "Got in over his head and waded into the wrong gang fight," he called as he went. "And got himself captured. Guess they realized he wasn't going to give them any useful information because he was about five minutes from being dumped into the harbor."

Tim was already stripping Jason of his jacket and armor. "Injuries?" He called.

"Busted knee, from what I saw. Stab wound, lower left back." He re-entered with the kit and dropped it onto the coffee table. "Stab wound's stopped bleeding, but I'm pretty sure he lost a lot of blood, hence the lack of consciousness. He's also probably just exhausted—he can usually make it about four days before he crashes hard, so we're pretty much right on schedule."

They maneuvered Jason so he was lying prone on the couch, half of his lower body in Tim's lap. When Roy went in on the stab wound with disinfectant, Jason jolted with a strangled cry. He flailed a bit, but Tim and Roy were able to hold him down.

"Relax, Jaybird, it's just me."

Jason instantly relaxed at the sound of Roy's voice and his eyes blinked open sluggishly. "Roy?" He murmured. "Wha' happened?"

"You got your ass kicked, as usual. We're in your apartment. Tim called me when you didn't come back."

Jason tried to turn his head to look around. "Shit. Tim. Left him 'lone, he's hurt. Not supposed to walk."

Roy snorted. "You're in his lap, Jay, he's fine."

"Timmy?"

"Jason, stop moving," Roy chided. "I'm trying to deal with your fuckin' stab wound, here."

"Well stop, it f'ckin' hurts."

"See if I come save your ungrateful ass next time."

"I'm okay, Jay," Tim said. "Let Roy stitch you up."

"Mmf." Jason lay his head back on the couch and his eyes fell shut. "Sorry, squirt. Di'nt mean to ditch you f'r so long."

"It's okay, just try not to jump into any gang fights next time. Eat ice cream and cry like the rest of us."

——

The next day found them both sitting on the couch, each with one leg propped up on the coffee table.

"We match," Tim said.

Jason's only response was a groan and an arm slung over his eyes.

—-

Two days later and Kon finally called to let Tim know that he'd be by to pick him up by the end of the day, which was good because between taking care of Jason and Tim, Roy was starting to look like a frazzled new parent whose baby wouldn't stop crying. Jason was a lousy sick person. Either that or he just enjoyed making Roy run around for him—Tim was honestly surprised that Roy put up with it.

He was glad to see that Jason had such good friends. He'd seemed so lost when he first came back. Tim felt a pang of guilt. Jason had been reconnecting with his family, too, and then Tim had gone and wrecked it.

"Hey," Jason said, nudging Tim with his elbow. "Look, uh…" He fidgeted nervously. "As much as a pain in my ass as you've been," he said gruffly. "I'm glad, ya know. That we're cool now." He hesitated. "We are cool now, right?"

Tim laughed. "Yeah, we're cool."

Jason leaned back. "Cool…

"Sooo... Superboy, huh?"

"Oh my god, shut up."