Chapter Text
Damian was glaring at him.
That was all Tim could focus on.
The glare.
From the kid he just saved.
It was more than annoying, and it weighed on Tim’s nerves.
He had responded to the distress call Damian sent out and instead of a “thanks” or even nothing at all, he was being glared at.
“You’re hurt,” Tim muttered when Damian smacked away his hand for the third time.
Tim was tired.
He was hurt.
He wanted to go home and take care of the bullet wound that caused his arm to ache and ice the bruises that littered his body.
But he couldn’t.
Because Damian was hurt, and Bruce would never forgive him if he let something happen to Damian.
Damian was Bruce’s son.
He was cherished.
He was valued.
He was loved.
And Tim… Tim wasn’t Bruce's son.
Tim’s injuries could wait.
Tim looked at the boy beside him and let out an internal groan. The night was going to be long.
“Come on,” he muttered again, this time moving his hand faster than Damian could counter. Tim wasn’t sure what happened—if he was being honest, he didn’t care—but Damian was slow, his hits against Tim’s arms were weak and if it weren’t for Tim’s already bruised skin, he doubted he would have paid them much mind at all. “Gotta get you back.”
They were in Robbinsville, near the old toy factory that had been burned down, the streets around them were empty.
It was a strange night in Gotham.
Silent.
Still.
Deadly.
It seemed that both of them had bit off more than they could chew. Luckily, Damian had Tim, and later he would have Bruce, to protect him. Tim had…
Tim had nobody—just a distress beacon he refused to press because he wouldn’t be able to cope with the pain when no one came for him.
Tim shook his head—trying to dislodge the thought—he had other things he needed to focus on.
Tim pulled Damian up with a small grunt. The strain made the ache in his arm increase tenfold, but he swallowed back a whimper. He didn’t need to hear Damian’s teasing on top of everything else.
“Come on,” Tim repeated, wrapping his arm around the younger boy's waist and walking towards the exit.
Tim’s grip on Damian was loose but firm; his grip on his staff mimicked that.
Both of his hands were occupied, one with Damian, the other with his weapon. He debated retracting it—knowing it would be easier to move with at least one arm free—but that’s when he saw it.
Saw him.
Hidden in the shadows next to Damian.
A man whose face was barely visible.
A man that had an arm raised and a metallic item in his hand.
Tim didn’t stop to think, he just acted—flipping his and Damian’s positions with ease—protecting Damian’s body with his own.
Tim twisted his torso, turning to fully encompass the younger boy with his body. He only had a moment to brace for it when he felt the knife tear through the skin on his back.
He let out a scream.
It hurt.
It burned.
The knife was laced.
Tim could tell.
But he couldn’t focus on that.
He had a job to do.
Tim pushed Damian down—using more force than he meant—turning back around to face the man who stabbed him in the back. Tim’s back was aching, his head was throbbing, and his grip was tightly grasping his staff—uncut nails digging into the palms of his hands—he was unsteady but ready to fight.
He struck the man down.
The loud thump of a body hitting the ground penetrated the air, vibrating all around them.
The blow was hard.
Harder than it should have been.
Tim knew that Bruce would have scolded him.
But Bruce wasn’t there, so it didn’t matter.
He looked back down at Damian. The younger boy was on the ground, trying to sit upright and failing each time, only a few feet away from the body of their attacker.
“You-”
“Are stupid and worthless,” Tim cut in quickly, leaning down and putting his hand back around the boy’s waist. “I know.”
Tim pulled, ignoring the pain that shot through his body as he did, barely managing to get Damian back up and steady once more.
They made their way towards the exit. This time, no unknown attacker was lingering in the shadows waiting to strike. Tim was grateful.
“That’s not-” Damian began, trying to continue the conversation that Tim tried to leave behind in the building.
“Please be quiet,” Tim’s voice broke, and he looked away, unshed tears noticeable in his eyes. He didn’t feel good. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be left alone—in his bed—until he was ready to face the world again. He didn’t want to deal with Damian’s insistent and continuous insults.
Tim led the way, silence wrapped around them, unsure. He was having trouble remembering where he was or where he had been, all that was clear was the rough fabric of the Robin suit under his hand.
He pulled and tugged, logging the younger boy through the maze of alleyways in Gotham.
It wasn’t long before he couldn’t keep moving. His limbs felt like static, and Damian was doing little to nothing to help.
He felt like dead weight.
Tim sighed, gently dropping the younger boy down next to a bricked wall and backing away.
He didn’t know where they were.
He wasn’t sure where he was headed.
Everything felt sticky and muddled.
Tim walked to the end of the alleyway; hand pressed firmly against the wall as he made his way forward. He needed to find a street sign; he needed to know where he was.
Tim saw a green sign, high up but close. The words melted off the sign, fuzzy and white.
Looking at them made Tim’s head hurt and his stomach turned. He couldn’t make out the letters.
Tim turned back around.
He needed Damian to read the sign.
“Robin,” Tim said, leaning more against the wall than before. He wasn’t sure how fast he was moving; his legs felt like jello attached to concrete made of honey.
There was no response.
Typical, but annoying.
“Hey,” Tim mumbled, crouching down to Damian’s eye level. The boy's eyes were open but glassy.
Tim stared.
Damian stared back.
Tim blinked.
Damian didn’t.
Tim reached out his hand.
Damian didn’t move.
Tim put his fingers against Damian’s neck.
Damian was-
No.
No. No.
No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.
It couldn’t be.
He’d just-
He was alive.
Tim had talked to him.
It had only been a minute, right?
Right?
Tim pressed his hand against Damian’s neck once more.
He felt nothing. Just cold skin and still blood.
Tim pulled his hand away as if he’d been burned.
Bruce was going to kill him.
Tim pulled the distress beacon out of his utility belt and pressed the button, shoving it in Damian’s hand before fleeing.
He’d be gone before Bruce arrived.
—————————
Tim turned from one alley to the next, blindly running around, unsure of where to go.
There was nowhere to go.
Robin was dead and the blood was on his hands—his soul—tainting him.
There was no point in running, but Tim couldn’t stay still and wait. He needed to move. He had to move.
He pulled out his retractable staff, arming himself for a fight he didn’t want to have and one he knew he’d lose, and continued running.
Bruce would find him.
And when Bruce found him…
He’d kill Tim…
Tim froze.
That didn’t make sense.
Nothing made sense.
But that statement stuck out as alarmingly false even through the confusion.
Bruce didn’t kill.
Bruce didn’t even kill the Joker; he just sent the man to-
No.
Tim wasn’t going to Arkham or Blackgate.
He wouldn’t go.
He’d-
“Lost?”
Tim spun around, shoes scraping against the wet asphalt as he did.
It was wet.
It was raining.
When did it start raining?
“Kid-” a hand made to touch Tim, but he flinched back, slamming his body into the brick wall behind him, before contact was made- “Kid?”
Tim shook his head. The voice sounded familiar. Close. Yet far away.
He tightened his grip around the staff.
Tim looked around trying to find the person who spoke, but all he saw was static darkness.
He didn’t know where he was.
“I’m lost.”
“Where were you headed?” The voice hit back, a mechanical echo in the words.
“Can’t see you,” Tim replied, dismissing the question.
The man stepped closer.
“It’s just me,” the man said, hands outstretched; a red helmet in one of them.
“Jason.”
Jason stepped closer.
“Yeah,” his voice was low and soothing. It wasn’t what Tim was used to hearing. It didn’t sound like Jason rather it mimicked the soothing tone Jason used to have when he was Robin. Tim relaxed slightly, still too on edge to move away from the wall or drop his staff. “It’s me.”
Jason inched forward again. He was finally close enough to get a better look at Tim.
“Rough night?”
Tim just nodded his head. Part of him wanted to laugh at the understatement that was, part of him wanted to cry.
“Thought you were an escapee from Arkham or som-”
Tim jolted back, quickly raising the staff and striking Jason in the face in one swift motion.
Jason stepped back, partially from the blow and partially from established reflexes, holding the side of his face Tim hit.
“What the fuck, Red?”
“I’m not going to Arkham,” Tim rushed out, eyes rapidly taking in his surroundings. He wanted to bolt yet his legs refused to move.
“What-"
Tim was feeling the panic seep into his bones once more. This was his one chance—his one opportunity—to explain what had happened. Jason was the only one who would listen.
He could trust Jason.
Jason would understand.
“The guy stabbed me-" Tim rambled, barely audible. “I think and- turned. I turned. How- but he’s dead. He’s- no.”
“Red-”
Tim backed up. He was shaking, flinching at every sound.
His back hit the wall and his staff hit the ground. He couldn’t speak the words out loud.
He couldn’t trust Jason.
He needed to leave.
“Red.” Jason came closer, wearily eyeing the staff as he did. “It’s okay now. I’m here with you-”
“I- I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?”
“I’m lost. I don’t know- I need to…” Tim trailed off.
“Need to what?” Jason prompted. He was close enough to Tim now to reach out. He didn’t.
“Need to leave.”
Jason nodded, slowly stretching out his hand. “Let’s go back to the Batcave.”
Tim shook his head quickly, slamming it into the wall as he tried to back away from Jason’s words.
“Can’t.”
“Why?” Jason asked, right hand now firmly holding onto Tim’s good arm.
“They’re mad.”
“Who’s mad?”
“He’s mad at me.”
“Who’s mad at you?” Jason asked. He had been patient, trying his best not to further escalate the situation, but Tim could tell he was starting to get frustrated.
“He’ll hate me.”
“Red-”
“Bruce hates me, but I tried- I mean I really…” Tim trailed off.
He couldn’t continue.
He couldn’t breathe.
The air around him was thick. It hurt his lungs.
He couldn’t think.
He couldn’t feel.
“Damian was- but he was fine-”
“Tim,” Jason interrupted with force, “I need you to focus on breathing-”
“I killed Robin.”
Jason’s hand fell from Tim’s arm. He took one small step back, staring at the bruised and bloody man in front of him.
“What?”
Tim dropped to his knees. He was shaking with grief. Rainwater splashed on his legs. The sky dropped tears on his face.
“Didn’t know. I didn’t know,” Tim repeated like a mantra.
Jason stood there in shock.
Neither one moved.
Neither one dared to speak another word.
Jason moved in slow robotic-like movements, slowly coming forward and sliding down the wall next to Tim.
“Shit, kid.”