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Jason had been slightly worried as to how exactly to get the Replacement on his own. He hadn’t been at Titan’s Tower for over two months, and he must’ve gotten himself benched or something, because Robin hadn’t been on the streets for two weeks.
And then came Jason’s lucky day. Replacement showed up wandering Burnside in civvies, paying absolutely no attention to any part of his surroundings. It was laughably easy for Jason to drop down behind him, clamp a hand over his mouth, and stick him with a sedative before he even tried to elbow Jason’s ribs. Then it had been just as simple a matter to lug Robin back to his safehouse.
When he’d gotten the kid firmly – and inescapably – bound to a kitchen chair, Jason held a particularly foul kind of smelling salts under his nose to wake him up. He jerked, looking around in panic before starting to writhe against the ropes.
“Hey, now, none of that,” Jason scolded, smacking Replacement across the face.
Robin cringed.
“Seriously?” Jason scoffed, disgusted. “That’s all it takes? Damn, and here I thought you were supposed to be the upgrade.”
The Replacement had tears in his eyes. After a single hit. A light hit. Pathetic. He really was just a soft rich kid. Did Batman miss having a model with more pain tolerance?
Robin took a shaky breath and asked, “H-hood, why are you doing this? What did I do?”
What didn’t he do was the better question. Jason was a little annoyed that the brat wasn’t crying in terror yet, but he supposed they had plenty of time. The accused did have a right to know his charges, after all.
“Petty theft,” Jason decided, crossing his arms. “You stole everything a dead boy ever had before his corpse was cold when you had every fucking thing on that list and more. How do you plead, Robin?”
Replacement flinched, staring, then bowed his head.
“’m not Robin.”
“Nice try, kid.” Jason planted one foot on the seat of the chair and leaned forward, getting in Replacement’s face. “Timothy Jackson Drake, Robin number three. Did you or did you not steal that name and everything that came with it?”
“Doesn’t matter now,” the kid mumbled, not even looking at Jason. “I’m not Robin anymore.”
Jason stepped back, laughing in disbelief. “Wow. I guess Robin really is a human iPhone to Batman. Just gotta get the newest one--"
“He doesn’t need one anymore,” Replacement said. “He’s ok now.”
Before Jason could ask what the hell that meant, Replacement finally lifted his head, showing teary, lifeless eyes, and murmured, “I’m sorry for stealing it. It’s not… I never meant to. I wanted… wanted Nightwing to take it back, but he wouldn’t. But Batman needed somebody. And I just… he was in trouble, and I helped, and then…” His head drooped again, his tears finally spilling out on his cheeks. “All I wanted was to help, a-and m-make the, the real Robin proud. I’m sorry.”
Make me proud. Make me proud? So much for the new model being a genius.
“How the hell did you think taking everything the real Robin had was going to make him proud of you?” he snapped.
“I didn’t want to take anything,” Replacement cried. “I wanted to save it. It… Batman… they were… everything was just… It was awful, and, and Gotham needed… but Robin…”
The kid looked up at Jason, desperation in his eyes, like he was trying to find justification from his accuser.
“I-I know he wouldn’t have wanted Batman to die.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
The kid flinched, and Jason was getting the distinct impression that he was missing something big. Something that maybe… probably… would have altered the decisions that led to a defeated, weeping teenager tied to a chair in Jason’s kitchen.
“Didn’t… you, you would’ve… w-when R-Robin-" Tim hiccupped, “-died, Batman… don’t you remember?”
“I wasn’t here,” Jason snapped. That’s the entire fucking point.
“Batman… he was terrifying. He… so many people ended up in the hospital. He almost killed somebody once, a-and so many people started thinking he'd g-gone rogue.”
Jason shifted, stomach twisting uncomfortably. He… yes, he’d wanted Bruce to kill the Joker. But… but just the Joker. The Joker because he killed Jason, because he tortured him for hours, laughed at his tears, crowed at every blinding-pain snap of bones. Jason wanted his father to have avenged him. But not… but never… become some sort of villain.
Jason… he thought Bruce’s solutions were too temporary. He thought a lot of Gotham scum deserved to die, and a lot of victims never got proper peace, but outside of his own killer, he’d never wanted Bruce to play executioner. There was… despite how idealistic the rhetoric was, and how tired of not changing anything Jason got, he’d always secretly admired… even been proud, of just how good his father was.
To hear that that man had gone so far off the deep end he’d been categorized with the people in Arkham…
“I don’t think anybody saw it but me,” Tim was whispering, dragging Jason out of his head. “But he… he got hurt more, too. Sloppy. It… after a month or two I realized he didn’t… didn’t care if he made it.”
What… what, no… No, anger. Anger, anger caused aggression and, and crazy-rage. Anger made you sloppy. It, no, Bruce, he just, it wasn’t…
“I… I never found out if he… if he was planning--"
“Shut up,” Jason whispered hoarsely.
“But he never really tried to live…”
“SHUT UP!”
Jason turned away from Tim, breathing hard, trying to tug at his hair, but meeting smooth chrome instead.
Can’t breathe. Can’t…
He yanked the helmet off and tossed it on the ground, gasping for air.
Breathe, breathe…
He whirled around again, spotting Tim as curled up as he could make himself while trussed up, looking scared and small, and entirely too exhausted to be manipulating him.
“Batman…” he choked. “Batman wouldn’t get fucking suicidal over a street rat he picked up for a child soldier and replaced before he was cold.”
“You just said you weren’t there!” Tim hollered, crying again. “Robin was his son, and he wa-wanted to join him, but… but the rest of us need Batman, so I had to make him stay! He… he didn’t want a replacement, he wanted Robin, but… I… I’m just… I tried. I… he's ok now, and I’m… done. So…” Tim shook his head and dropped his gaze to his knees. “I stole Robin to save Batman, but it’s back the way it was. Do whatever you want to, but…” His lower lip quivered, and he bit it hard enough Jason saw a bead of red against his tooth. “Please let me go home before my dad wakes up.”
Jason stood there and stared at the crying child he’d kidnapped.
The crying child that Jason had kidnapped for… for being the one person who'd done something about Jason’s dad trying to die. So that he could join Jason.
“Oh, what the fuck have I done?”
He struggled to swallow down the thickness in his throat. Control his breathing. Keep his stance open as he moved closer to Tim, murmuring, “I’m sorry,” and gently shushing the kid’s hitched breaths as Jason unsheathed a knife to cut him free.
As soon as the ropes slid off, Jason set the knife on the ground and backed away. Tim stared up, face squinching in confusion. Damn, he was… he was young.
“I… I don’t…”
“Go on home,” Jason croaked. “I… fucked up. You… You’re a good kid, Tim. I think… I-I'm sure if… Robin knew, he… he’d be proud. And grateful. So go home. Before B… Before Batman worries.”
Tim just kind of… stared for a second, like he expected – almost like he wanted – Jason to change his mind. Finally he whispered, “Okay,” and shakily got to his feet.
Jason’s gaze locked on the way Tim limped, then shifted up to the tense way he held his shoulders, his grimace, and the single tear that tracked down an already-shiny cheek.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You are clearly hurt, what's wrong, and how did it happen?” Jason’s stomach twisted. “Did… did I hurt you?”
Tim shook his head. He said nothing, and he wasn’t moving to leave.
Jason suppressed a sigh. Twenty Questions it was.
“Did you get hurt on patrol?”
“I’m not Robin any-"
“The last time you went out, did you get hurt?”
A soft ‘no.’
“Were you in an accident?”
“No.”
“Fight at school?”
Tim shook his head.
Jason… was not sure what to make of that. What he did know was, “You can’t go walking around Crime Alley like that. Here, I’ll drive you to the clinic on 25th--"
“No!”
Tim looked terrified. He pressed himself back against the cabinets, shrinking like he thought Jason was going to force him. “No, I can’t, I can’t go to a hospital!”
“Kid,” Jason tried, holding up his hands, “You’re in civvies, and obviously hurt. You need help. No one’s going to figure out you were Robin.”
But Tim was shaking his head. “I-I know, I know, but… I-I can’t.”
“Why not?” Jason asked, but a sick dread was crawling over his skin. He knew of several other reasons people refused hospitals. None were good, but… but Bruce was looking after the kid! For all the man's faults (most being communication-related) he would never hurt a child.
People started thinking he’d gone rogue…
“Tim,” Jason said, because he still wasn’t answering. “Tim. Look at me.” He waited until dull blue eyes found his face and asked, slow and deliberate, “Did Batman hurt you?”
Tim recoiled as if Jason had screamed it.
“No! No, never!”
“Then who did? Who hurt you, Tim?”
A beat. Two.
Tears welled up and spilled down, and Tim finally whispered, “My dad.”
“What… But… I thought…”
Hadn’t Bruce adopted him? Weren’t the Drakes dead? Talia… Talia told him…
She lied, you idiot, someone that sounded like a dead boy scoffed. When the fuck has an al Ghul ever not twisted the truth?
He… Jason would deal with that later. Right now, Tim had crumpled to the ground, hugging himself so tight it looked like it hurt, sobbing and wailing without making a single goddamn sound.
“Okay,” Jason breathed. “Okay. No hospital.” They’d just send him back. Drake was stupid rich enough to bribe them.
Drake was alive enough to bribe them.
Talia, you better fucking brace yourself.
“You still need help, Tim. Come- come on. Up on the couch; I’ll patch you up.”
Tim didn’t exactly agree, but he didn’t fight Jason on it either. By the time he got back with his med kit, Tim’s crying had subsided, and his eyes kept slipping shut before popping open again.
“I need to know where you’re hurt, Tim,” Jason told him, voice as gentle as he could make it with the hurricane of everything he’d shoved to the back of his mind. “As soon as I fix you up, you can sleep, I promise.”
Tim shook his head weakly. “Gotta get home b'fore--"
“You are not going back there, Tim.”
Tim stared. Jason cursed internally; he’d spoken harsher than he’d meant to. But Tim just murmured, “Ok…” and sank back against the cushions. He was out before Jason could say a word.
Jason sighed, laid Tim down, and started checking for injuries.
His head was ok, so his passing out must have been pure exhaustion. There were finger-shaped bruises hiding under Tim’s sleeves, all up and down both arms, and a few lines where nails had scratched. Two ribs were broken on the right side, and a third might be fractured. His legs were ok, except for an ugly, half-healed cut on his left foot that gave Jason the nasty suspicion of being from stepping on broken glass.
Infuriatingly, there was very little for Jason to actually do for Tim, so he had to settle for cleaning and bandaging his foot and wrapping his ribs. Only… when he went to perform the latter task, Jason found something else that made the world blur right past red into black.
Angry, some even bloody, red welts covered Tim’s back and shoulders. No fucking wonder he’d collapsed, the marks looked like hell. Some were fresh, maybe even from hours ago, but several others looked over a week old, and infected to boot.
Jason swallowed hard, dabbing antiseptic over the wounds with a cottonball. He held himself together until he finished bandaging Tim’s back, then staggered to the bathroom and threw up.
He wiped the corner of his mouth on his wrist, feeling hot and unsteady. His reflection's eyes were wide and young, and bluer than they’d been in a long time.
He needed help. He… he was still the enemy, no matter how he felt now, and Tim deserved to wake up with someone safe, someone he trusted. Tim also clearly needed to get the fuck out of his father’s house. Jason didn’t get it, how Batman could possibly have missed the fact that his Robin was being beaten bloody every time he went home, or how he could be doing absolutely nothing about it if he did know.
This was going to toss all his plans in an incinerator, but Jason was growing more ashamed and horrified of those plans every minute anyhow.
The number was familiar, despite how rarely he'd ever dialed it. Jason wandered back to the couch, hesitantly sitting on the armrest by Tim’s head.
The line kept ringing, and Jason’s anxiety increased every second. He sank his hand into Tim’s hair and stroked through it, grounding himself.
Tim’s hair was soft.
Jason glanced down at him, seeing sleepy passiveness, yet not peace, on his still-baby-fat face. He was like a soft little duckling. A baby bird.
And Jason had been planning to tear him apart.
“Good evening. May I ask to whom I am speaking?”
Jason’s throat caught. It had been years…
“Hello? Is someone there?”
“Hi, Alf,” he croaked.
Silence. Silence for a long moment, and oh, hell, something’s wrong, Alfred was never speechless—
“Master Jason?” His voice cracked.
“Yeah. Yeah, Al-alfie, it’s… it’s me.”
“Dear God,” Alfred breathed. “How?”
“It’s a long story. But I need… help.”
“Anything, Master Jason,” Alfred promised, and the fervor made Jason’s eyes water. “Where are you? Are you in danger?”
“No, no, I’m ok. ‘M in… in Crime Alley. Apartment building on West Twelfth. Suite 310.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Thank you,” Jason whispered.
“Oh, my dear boy. You can’t know how much I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you, too.”
That was all Jason could handle.
He thought about cleaning the place up, not that it needed very much cleaning. But something felt fundamentally wrong about leaving Tim, even if he was in sight. So he waited, petting Tim’s hair and stewing through what-ifs until he heard a knock on the door.
He exhaled shakily, before gently shifting Tim’s head off his lap and going to open the door.
One step. One single step away stood Alfred, as immaculate as he ever was, no matter if his hair had grown whiter or his wrinkles more pronounced. His composure was perfect but for a crack in his eyes, which widened when they fixed on Jason.
“Dear God,” he whispered.
His hand lifted to Jason’s face. It was the first kind touch Jason had felt since… since Bruce stroked his hair and bade him wait for him.
Jason fell against Alfred, hiding his face against the man’s shoulder and trying not to cry. Alfred’s arms came up around him, and he felt a slight pressure on his head as Alfred whispered, “Oh, my boy. My dear, dear boy…”
Jason pulled back and swiped at his eyes, reminding himself why he’d called the man, and why he didn’t deserve his comfort.
“I…” he choked. “I’ve… messed up, Alf. I…” He shook his head, throat closing, and motioned Alfred to follow him.
He bowed his head as he stepped out of the hallway to let Alfred see Tim. He had to get closer, but then Jason heard the gasp.
“His dad,” Jason choked out.
Alfred’s stance was battle-ready stone. His clipped, “I see,” would make Jason fear for Drake’s life if he didn’t deserve every round of Alfred’s shotgun that would soon be pumped into his guts.
Like a puppy, Jason trailed after Alfred as he knelt by Tim’s side. He gently stroked Tim’s head and asked, “Master Tim? Can you hear me, lad?”
Tim moaned softly, stirring. “’lfr'd?”
“Yes, Master Tim.”
“F've m're m'n'tes…”
“Master Tim. How long has your father been hurting you, child?”
Tim made a weak yowling sound, like a sleepy cat. His eyes opened and found Jason, narrowing as he slurred, “Tattle-tale.”
What the…
“Tim.”
“S'nce ‘e stopped needing phys'c'l th'r'py.”
Jason glanced at Alfred for context, but he could only guess that meant ‘a long time' based on the fury in Alfred’s expression.
“Master Tim, why did you not tell any of us?”
But Tim was already asleep again.
“Jason,” Alfred murmured, turning back to him with a frightening amount of feeling for someone usually so collected, “thank you, child. I don’t know how long…” He shook his head, reaching up to stroke Jason’s hair. “However did you learn…?”
Jason swallowed tightly, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch love turn to disgust, bracing himself for Alfred to rip his hand away.
“I kidnapped him,” he whispered.
No reaction.
“I said, I kidnapped him,” Jason repeated louder, opening his eyes again and pulling away before Alfred could. “Drugged him and stole him off the street, tied him up, I was going to hurt him—” Something hot and wet was on his face “—as bad as that or worse. I wanted to hurt him, I…”
Wanted him to scream and cry and beg. Wanted him to break, to suffer.
Alfred’s brow was pinched, his eyes sad. Jason would rather be looked at like he was Drake.
“You say you wanted to do these things.” Alfred’s voice was so soft, so level. Jason flinched as if he’d shouted. “And yet you weep with remorse for what you have not done. You set him free, tended his wounds, discovered a terrible secret that you needed only to keep to ensure his pain and your vindication, and you called me here to help you both. Forgive me, Master Jason, but I do not believe for a moment you would have truly harmed him.”
The last of Jason’s control shattered, and in a second he was sobbing into Alfred’s shoulder, shaking and shuddering and he didn’t understand. He was still in his armor, still had his guns, had fucking confessed that he’d wanted to torture a goddamn high schooler, and Alfred could still look at him and say I know you. I trust you. I love you.
Jason didn’t remember falling asleep, but he woke to sunlight painting the inside of his eyelids red, to warmth fully surrounding him, and to the smell of buttermilk and sizzle of frying bacon. He blinked several times, slowly recognizing his apartment. Specifically the living room. Specifically the living room floor.
Well, almost the floor. Jason was lying on a bunch of cushions, drowning in blankets with one foot sticking out. One arm was twisted under his pillow (not holding a knife as he usually did), the other twisted awkwardly so that he could keep hold of a small, warm hand, which connected to an arm dangling off the couch, which connected to…
The fuck was Rep—Tim doing in Jason’s safehouse? The fuck was he calling him ‘Tim’ for? Come to think of it, the fuck was with the food smell—
And then Jason saw the bandages on the kid’s shoulder, poking out from under the softest, lightest blanket he owned. He remembered the kidnapping, remembered learning… learning a hell of a lot of things that made him feel a hell of a lot of emotions. Calling Alfred. Alfred… Alfred acting like it didn’t even matter, like Jason was still just the teenager he'd mourned.
Jason carefully disentangled himself from Tim and the blankets, noting that all his armor and gear had been removed. Funny how his first thought was that it had been to make him comfortable, not to make him defenseless.
Tim made a soft, sleepy sound. A tentative smile tugged at one side of Jason’s mouth. He paused to thread his fingers through the kid’s hair, smiling more genuinely when Tim sighed in contentment, nudging his head closer to Jason’s hand. He was cute when he wasn’t blurred by fury.
Jason padded into the kitchen, relieved that the knife and the ropes were gone. Alfred stood at the stove, ladling pancake batter into a pan and somehow making neat, perfect circles. For a second, Jason thought he was fifteen, standing in the manor, carefree and innocent.
“Good morning, Master Jason,” Alfred smiled.
“G’morning,” he croaked.
“Perhaps you would care to set the table?”
Jason nodded dumbly, moving for the drawer where he kept his silverware. He found an extra chair as well, since he couldn’t look at the one he’d tied Tim to. As he pulled orange juice and butter out of the fridge, he said carefully, “Tim… last night… he said Br--… Batman… after I died. He said that he…”
He set a stack of plates at Alfred’s elbow, hardly sure he wanted the answer to the question he was too afraid to ask. Alfred turned to him, eyes shiny with unshed tears.
“Master Bruce missed you terribly, child,” Alfred whispered. “His grief would have consumed him.”
And Tim saved him from that. And became Robin to keep saving him, and got hurt anyway because sometimes you don’t need a target on your back to get shot.
Without his anger, Jason felt lost. It had been simple. Tim Drake replaced him, Bruce let it happen, therefore Bruce had never loved him, never cared about the danger, and so they all needed to be taught why little birds shouldn’t fight crime.
Jason wondered miserably how much of that was Talia, or if was all just him.
Alfred tapped his arm.
“Why don’t you go and wake your brother, Master Jason?”
Jason nodded mutely. His brother. Yeah, his little brother, because even though somehow Bruce hadn’t adopted the kid yet, he damn well would within the week. Jason was going to make certain of that.
“Tim,” he called softly, stroking his hair. “Wake up, kid. Alfie says breakfast’s ready.”
Tim just nuzzled his head against Jason’s hand, humming sleepily.
“Timbit,” he tried again, poking the kid’s face. “Timbo. Timber. Timmers.”
Tim made a sound like a frustrated kitten, hiding his face against the pillow.
“Timberly. Timberlina.”
“Go ‘way,” the little shit whined. “’M sleeping.”
“Alright, fine, then,” Jason huffed, throwing up his hands. “Guess I’ll just eat your pancakes then.”
Tim turned his face back, finally opening his eyes to squint suspiciously. “Pancakes?”
“Alfred’s buttermilk pancakes,” Jason confirmed, hiding a smirk as the kid’s expression grew torn. “I think I saw him put chocolate chips in, too, but if you wanna stay in bed, I’ll just—”
“No!” Tim hissed, darting up… and cutting off with a yelp.
“Oh, shit, uh…”
Jason watched helplessly as Tim shrank back into the couch’s corner, unsure if he could touch him without making things worse. Tim was crying softly, quivering and shrinking into the couch cushions as if trying to disappear.
“I’m sorry,” Jason muttered, panicked. “I’m sorry, that was mean, I didn’t mean it, please don’t cry…”
“Hurts.”
“I know, Timmy.” Jason tried petting the kid’s hair, because he seemed to like it. “I know. I am so sorry, kiddo.”
Tim squirmed closer, latching onto Jason with both arms. Jason awkwardly patted his head.
“Alfred,” he called, trying not to spook the small child. “Little help? Please?”
Alfred came to the doorway, but just offered a slightly saddened smile and said, “I think you’re managing it.”
Jason stared, flabbergasted, as Alfred turned back around and abandoned him. He looked back at the weeping teenager and tried not to sigh too heavily.
“Timbit,” he said quietly, “I know it hurts, but you gotta let me get you up. If I give you pain pills on an empty stomach, you’re just gonna feel worse.”
Slowly the crying petered out. Tim raised his head to look at Jason, brow pinched in confusion.
“’Timbit?’”
Jason flushed. “Well, you… you’re small, kid.”
Confused pain changed to indignation, and holy fuck was the kid’s pout face adorable.
“Come on,” he said, grinning and ruffling the kid’s hair. “I’ll help you to the table, alright?”
Tim continued to glare, his lips pursed, but he nodded. Jason helped him sit upright, then stand, cringing every time Tim hissed in pain. Tim limped to the kitchen on his own, but Jason hovered behind him, both hands ready to catch him if he stumbled. Tim sank down onto the chair with a whimper, and Jason darted back to grab a pillow to place behind his back. Tim leaned back against it with a soft sigh.
Alfred came and set plates before both of them, smiling fondly. Tim blinked down at the perfect, golden, absolutely heavenly-smelling pancakes for half a minute before saying, “Wait… this isn’t… I’m not dreaming?”
“No, Master Tim.”
“The fu—uuuunel cakes?” Jason course-corrected at Alfred’s raised eyebrow.
“Jason?”
Tim was blinking up at him now.
“You’re alive?”
Jason nodded. Tim hesitated, then reached out slowly and poked Jason’s arm.
“Child,” Jason said flatly, wondering if he’d missed some kind of head trauma in his inspection the night before. “You were sobbing in my arms two minutes ago. Where the heck do you get off thinking I’m a dream?”
Tim turned pink and mumbled something under his breath, digging into his pancakes a little too intently. His mouth was conveniently stuffed like a chipmunk's as soon as Alfred opened his mouth to speak.
"You are not dreaming, Master Tim. We are both here, you are safe, and your father will never harm you again."
Tim made a sound between a squeak and a choke, going very still. He swallowed hard, eyes darting between Jason and Alfred, and whispered, "I-i don't..."
"Kid," Jason said, trying to sound kind, but probably managing sarcastic at best, "it doesn't take a genius to work it out. That, and you straight up told us. Me twice, actually."
Tim looked away, bowing his head. He just sat there, still, letting the awkward silence stretch on, shoulders slowly turning in as if to protect himself from something. Jason hoped, stomach twisting, that the kid didn't think they were about to hurt him.
He deliberately didn't think about how, mere hours ago, that would have been a safe assumption.
"Master Tim," Alfred said softly. "Why did you never tell us before?"
Just when Jason thought Tim was never going to answer, he whispered, "Because I thought I could handle it."
He... handle? Getting beat bloody? And... what...
"I thought I could get him to stop," Tim murmured, staring almost through the table. "I thought he would... that if I could just be better... And... and th-then I, I knew that..."
He was crying again, holding himself painfully still, barely making any noise, as though he was afraid of every hitching breath.
"I knew if I told someone, they would take me away, and, and I can't be Robin out of a foster home--"
"What the fuck?"
"And n-nobody adopts older kids, let alone me, and even, even if someone did--"
Tim was crying hard now, gasping and shaking, voice going shrill, and before Jason knew he'd moved, he'd pulled the kid into his arms.
"I still couldn't be R-robin, and I... it, you... the best... best thing I'd ever had, and I didn't want to lose it, I can't lose it... But m-my dad found out and, and..."
"Shh," Jason soothed. Tim had buried his face in his shoulder, fists clutching his shirt so tight it might be permanently misshapen.
"He said if I told, he'd tell, and..."
Jason met Alfred's eyes over Tim's head.
Am I shooting the bastard, or you?
"Jack Drake," Alfred said tightly, "is not going to tell anyone anything, Tim. You have nothing more to fear from him whilst I live."
"And while I live again," Jason promised.
Tim slumped in Jason's arms. "Ok."
He sounded... resigned. Like there was still something he was dreading, and Jason didn't understand why.
Alfred stood up and came over to them, resting a hand on each of their heads.
"I'm going to call your father," he said gently, "and Master Dick as well. I'm sure they'll want to see you both. And then I shall contact Master Bruce's attorney to get the adoption paperwork in order. Alright?"
Jason just nodded, throat tight at the idea of facing Dick and Bruce. But Tim stiffened and pulled out of Jason's arms, swiping at his tears and protesting, "No, I... it's... Bruce doesn't have to adopt me, it's... I..."
"Master Tim, I assure you, Master Bruce would love nothing more than to adopt you."
Tim kept shaking his head. "It's ok, I--"
"Tim, if being Robin was... was the best thing you ever had--" I wanted to kill him for it... "--why don't you want Bruce to adopt you?"
"I don't... he doesn't need to, is all," Tim said very, very quietly. "I'm not his son, and Jason's back, so he doesn't need... doesn't need... me."
His voice broke.
"Kid," Jason whispered helplessly, staring as more silent tears dripped down Tim's cheeks.
"How much better then," Alfred said, voice wavering, "to know that you are wanted."
Tim looked up, frowning in confusion, like... like he couldn't even process the thought that anyone wanted him around for more than using him.
Alfred smiled sadly and turned away, pulling out his phone to get Bruce and Dick the hell over here to hug this fucking child.
But in their absence, Jason pulled the kid close again, stroking his hand through Tim's hair as he sobbed that he didn't understand.
"You don't have to," Jason murmured. "It's ok, kid. You'll get it someday. I promise."