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Tim resists the urge to tug down the hemline of his shorts as he carries a tray of champagne glasses through the room. The irritating thing keeps riding up and it isn’t the extra inch of skin that’s the problem—between the strapless top, booty shorts, and mesh shirt, Tim’s pretty much on display—it’s the way it keeps getting wedged in his ass and makes it difficult to walk without wobbling.
The carpet is red and plush, Tim’s in heels, and the last thing he needs is to trip. Explaining to Bruce that he twisted his ankle will lead to many unnecessary questions, like how, when, where and Tim doesn’t want to make up even more lies.
Bruce put a firm ban on all solo missions after that fun beat-down in Titans Tower, but Tim’s network of informants is still running, bringing rumors of a new smuggling operation. Tim can’t turn the case over to Bruce, not when it’s centered in Crime Alley, and he’s not getting anywhere near the Red Hood, so he has to investigate on his own.
It’s a minor problem that Hood will shoot first and ask questions never if he spots Robin, but this isn’t the first time Tim’s gone undercover as a prostitute. Gotham native college student studying in NYC explains why he disappears for stretches, and student loans provides an easy out for why he’s supplementing his income. He’s extremely thankful for the fake ID that helps sell it, because Hood has made it explicitly clear that he won’t tolerate underage prostitution, and no one is ready to risk his wrath.
He still got several looks from fellow escorts and even some of the guards when he showed up. The one checking his ID stared at it for a long time, but it’s a pretty well-made fake. Unfortunately, Tim’s makeup is designed to make him look younger, not older, and the weight of suspicion hangs on his shoulders as he weaves through the crowd.
It’s a business meeting disguised as a party—intel has some pretty high profile guests showing up, and he gets an ear into the proceedings without the risk of running into Hood or Batman.
Tim ignores the occasional brush of fingers along his shoulders, or below the hem of his shorts. They’re always first business then pleasure, so Tim knows he’ll be able to collect intel before anyone starts tapping him for ‘private time’. The mission always takes priority.
The latest group of people is being particularly grabby, and Tim extricates himself to head for the main table. All the big players are there, and he needs to see who’s showed up. He isn’t sure how long he can stay at the party—everyone keeps watching him, and not all of them are leers—and he needs more information to intercept the next shipment before it lands in Crime Alley.
He scans the room as he gets closer, noting some of the gang symbols—snake tattoo, dragon tattoo, skull-and-crossbones kerchief, one of Two Face’s men, one of Penguin’s, red helmet—
Oh fuck.
Tim’s steps stutter, but before he can turn and pretend like he was heading to a different group, one of the men at the table catches his eye and beckons him closer.
Shit.
According to all his intelligence, the Red Hood isn’t involved in this smuggling operation. Isn’t supposed to be involved, because it has nothing to do with drugs. Tim would’ve stayed far, far away if he even suspected that Hood was going to get involved.
Unfortunately, it’s too late.
The tray doesn’t shake in his hands as he bends to offer the first man a drink, but it’s a near thing.
He starts as far from Hood as possible, keeping his head down, letting his hair fall into his face. Hood has only seen him as Robin, in the suit, in the mask. In shorts and heels and makeup, Tim looks very different. Maybe Hood won’t recognize him. Maybe Tim’s tray will be empty before he reaches Hood’s seat. Maybe—
Tim dares a glance up, and the red helmet is staring directly at him.
No. It’s a helmet. Who knows where Hood is really looking? Tim keeps his gaze away from the white lenses, and focuses on the tray. He’s seven seats away, and there are three glasses left. Six. Five, and one glass left. Four—
“Who’s the kid?” the distorted voice growls. Tim suppresses his shudder, but everyone else at the table fails to do so—conversation falls in a hush, and the guy reaching for the last glass on his tray flinches back like he’s been struck.
“He’s not a kid,” a man calls, three chairs back. He’s sprawled in his seat, apparently unconcerned—he’s the one in charge of the evening’s entertainment, and Tim remembers the appreciative once-over he gave Tim when he showed up. “Lighten up, Hood,” he drawls, somehow missing that the rest of the table is still quiet, and snaps his fingers at Tim, “Go refresh Hood’s drink, sweetheart, and keep him company.”
Tim almost blanches. Fuck no. He wants to stay as far away from Hood as possible, but now everyone is staring at him, and he doesn’t see a delicate way out. Using his tray as a shield, he inches closer to Hood’s seat, praying his disguise holds as dread climbs up into his throat.
His gaze is still lowered, but he can see Hood unholster a gun and rest it on the table.
Tim freezes. The hush extends over the entire room.
“Get out,” the mechanized voice snarls.
Well, that neatly answers the question of whether or not Hood recognizes him. Tim backs up, fingers trembling around his tray, not daring to look up. Hood’s helmet is expressionless, and all Tim needs to watch is the gun—Hood didn’t use it last time, but he did plenty of damage with the bo staff, and clearly isn’t opposed to torture. Tim needs to leave before Hood makes him crawl out with a hole in his leg.
Unfortunately, Tim’s temporary ‘employer’ has more ego than sense, and he straightens out of his seat before Tim can pass him, grabbing his hip and forcing him still. “No,” he says coldly, “I paid for the boy’s time, and you don’t get to dismiss him.” There’s a sharp intake of breath. Tim just wants to leave. “We’re following your rules,” the man sneers, “And you don’t get to make up new ones on the spot.” Fingers drop lower, curling under the hem of his shorts as the thumb slips into his waistband. “If you don’t want him, you can just say so, plenty of other people are happy to have this pretty little ass sitting on their—”
The gunshot is deafening, and almost unreal.
The thumb tugs free of his waistband, and Tim can’t move, can barely breathe as the warmth pressed against his back disappears. The man falls back into his chair with a clatter that echoes in the silence.
Tim swallows, and is dimly aware that he’s trembling. He stays, frozen to the spot, as Hood lowers the gun. “Anyone else have any objections?” Hood asks the silent room.
No one speaks. Half of them don’t dare to breathe.
The red helmet swivels his way, and Tim isn’t imagining the personal thread of rage in the tone, “Get. Out.”
Tim stumbles back on unsteady feet, half-expecting to hear a bang and a burst of pain with every step. The room is still silent, eyes are crawling all over him, and he wants to curl up and hide.
Ten steps away, he finally manages to screw up the courage to turn his back on the red helmet, and begins walking faster. He almost throws his tray on the table, trying not to run, not to give into the instinctual urge to flee because there’s a predator in the room and Tim doesn’t know where he is.
Tim manages to slip out the door without a single gunshot wound, which does absolutely nothing to calm down his heart rate.
He doesn’t stop. His pace is frantic and stumbling, but he can’t stop. He’s been thoroughly compromised and his only thought is get away.
Hood recognized him. Hood killed a man while he was holding onto Tim. He can still feel the burn of the hand on his hip dropping away.
Hood knows who he is. Hood knows that he’s Robin—knows that he’s alone and unguarded and weaponless in the middle of Crime Alley, and Tim can’t take a repeat of Titans Tower.
Please, please no.
This was a bad idea from start to finish—coming to Crime Alley, to Hood’s territory, and expecting to make it out unhindered, going out alone, when Bruce thinks he’s at home and no one knows he’s out here—
Poor little Robin, Hood’s voice echoes in his ears, did you forget that you’re a target?
No. Tim just—just needs to get away. He can’t use the rooftops, that’s practically putting himself in Hood’s path, and his clothing’s a bit too conspicuous for the streets. He needs to make it back to where he stashed his hoodie and sweatpants, and call a cab—no one is going to pick him up dressed like this, and the ones that will are not the kind of cabs Tim wants to get into.
As long as Tim sticks to the shadows—
Loose asphalt shifts under his right heel, and it skids—Tim grabs at the brick wall, but he can feel his ankle pop as he goes down.
Pressure immediately swells up inside his foot, radiating outwards and beginning to grow painful. Tim swallows, and presses his forehead against the alley wall to take a ragged breath. Fuck.
He needs to get a grip. He can’t outrun Hood—not before, and certainly not now. He needs to get out, and pray that Hood isn’t chasing him. Maybe he’s still tied up in his meeting. Maybe he’ll go after Tim when he’s back in the Robin suit.
Either way, it’s a problem for Future Tim. Current Tim just needs to figure out how to cross four blocks on a swollen ankle and get the hell out of Crime Alley.
Tim bites back the gasp of pain, and levers back up to his feet. His ankle twinges painfully with every hobbling step, and Tim sticks to the alleys instead of the relative safety of the streets—his limping and his clothes make him a visible target for any red helmet that may be watching, and the alleyways’ dark shadows conceal him.
Unfortunately, they also conceal other things.
Tim halts, trying not to look like he’s leaning against the wall, and stares at the three men blocking his path. The three men eyeing his clothes with vicious hunger.
“Hey, sweetheart,” one of them croons, “How much?”
Tim very carefully keeps his weight off his bad leg, but doubts it makes a difference. They probably already saw him hobbling. “Actually,” he tries, pasting a pleasant smile on his face, “I’m wrapping up for the night.”
The man stops smiling. Tim can hear shuffling footsteps behind him.
Tim can fight them off. In closed confines, they can’t rush him, and Tim doesn’t need a bo staff to take out two-bit thugs. But his ankle is still throbbing, and a fight is going to lead to exactly the kind of commotion he doesn’t want.
Tim swallows down the sigh, and less-than-gracefully slides down to his knees on the cold asphalt. “Ten bucks for a blowjob,” he says, looking up through his lashes. If he can’t escape the situation, he can at least control it.
The man in front leers appreciatively, stepping closer and crowding Tim back against the wall. He fumbles with his belt as the others jostle to be next in line—the loose gravel is biting painfully into Tim’s bare knees, and he eyes the four other people, hoping more won’t show up. Maybe taking to the rooftops was a better strategy, though that would’ve made it easier for Hood to—
The gunshot echoes loudly through the alley. So loud Tim wonders if it’s his imagination.
Warm fingers sliding off his hip—strangled, dying gurgles—the sound of a body crashing into a chair—sudden, terrified shouts and running footsteps—the shocked hush of a crowded room—the dull thud of a body hitting the ground.
He can smell iron. Taste it on his tongue. It’s thick and overpowering and it fills his senses, coating him in red.
There’s a dead body on the ground. There’s a pool of red.
Fingers on his hip, burning in phantom warmth.
He’s cold.
He can’t move. He can’t twitch. He can’t even lift his head to confirm who’s heading towards him, boots stomping down the fire escape and sending vibrations through the wall.
The man did manage to get his belt undone. His last act in life. Tim almost wants to laugh.
If he starts laughing now, he’s never going to stop.
He should get up. Scramble for a weapon, for something, anything to defend himself. Or run, grit his teeth through the throbbing pain and run and hide.
He should do something.
He should—
He can’t get off his knees. His fingers tremble, crossed in his lap. There are specks of red running up and down his arms. There is red splattered across the asphalt. Blood. So much blood.
He should leave.
He can’t even flinch as boots slam down against gravel.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Hood snarls, and Tim—Tim can’t move, can’t even raise his arms to defend himself as Hood stalks closer. Can’t look away from the dead body sprawled on the ground.
He feels so cold. Maybe he’s dead too.
Gloved fingers close around his throat and pull him up, only to slam him back against the brick wall. Tim can’t help the gasp, forced to look up at the red helmet and the eerie glowing white eyes.
“Is traipsing around Crime Alley a joke to you?” Hood seethes, his grip constricting tighter, “Is this some stupid game? A dare? What the goddamn hell are you doing, Replacement?”
Tim can’t answer. Tim can’t—
Fingers squeeze almost to the point of strangulation. “I thought I taught you your lesson.”
Tim can’t breathe.
Hood lets go with a disgusted scoff, and Tim’s legs are apparently made of jelly, because his knees slam back down against asphalt as he crumples.
He’s trembling. He can’t stop it. He keeps his gaze fixed on the steel-toed boots, and numbly waits for the kick. Or the punch. Or the bullet. Or—
Hood hates rapists. Everyone knows that. He—he wouldn’t. He would never.
Hood doesn’t hurt kids. Everyone knows that too. And yet he beat Tim half to death in Titans Tower.
I thought I taught you your lesson.
A jeering laugh. Fingers twisting in his hair. Hands curling around his waist. It was for the mission, it was for the mission, he didn’t want it but everything for the mission. Limping home, and covering the bruises and bites, and smiling and mentioning ‘informant’ whenever Batman wanted to know his sources.
But this isn’t a mission. Not anymore. He doesn’t need to pay attention. He doesn’t need to gather information. He can just…float back, and wait for Hood to be done. Like lying on his back in a swimming pool, and staring up at blue skies.
He already knows how this will end. He doesn’t need to be present for it.
The dead man lies on the alley floor, staring blankly up at the ceiling, but it’s Tim that feels like a corpse.
Someone is cursing. Someone is calling his name. Something warm settles around his shoulder, drawing tight around him, and it doesn’t feel real.
The arms around him feel real. He doesn’t pay attention to where the hands are going. He doesn’t want to pay attention.
He hears the whine of a grapple, far too close, and Tim’s last hope that this can just be over and done with withers and dies.
He hides his face in the spray, and lets the tears drip down his face. They’re warm compared to his cold skin, compared to the freezing water, and he can feel each individual trail even through the shower spray.
He’s not shaking anymore. He distantly recognizes that that’s worse.
Shock, something tells him, something with training and knowledge and experience, but Tim doesn’t let it in. It’s Robin, and Tim’s not Robin right now.
Tim can never be Robin again.
The thought draws the first full sob from him, before he can shove himself down again. What does it matter whether he can be Robin. He still doesn’t know whether he’ll survive the night.
He doesn’t understand why he’s here. The apartment, yes, not restrained, yes—Hood doesn’t need restraints to keep him in place—but not why he’s curled up in a bathtub with his clothes on.
He doesn’t understand.
But he doesn’t need to understand. All he needs to do is wait for it to stop. Stop hurting. Stop—stop everything.
It has to stop.
A drumming sound, like someone is rapping their knuckles against the door. “Tim?” a low voice calls, “Tim, are you done?”
Tim lets the freezing spray fall on his face, and doesn’t feel a thing.
“Tim? You’ve been in there for twenty minutes. You okay?”
He can’t keep his head up anymore, and he lets it rest against the cold tile of the bathtub wall.
“Tim, if you don’t answer, I’m coming in.”
There’s a lump in his throat. It makes it difficult to swallow.
“Tim?” Curses, and the jingling of a lock. The doorknob twists. Tim doesn’t turn, not as the door opens, not as near-silent footsteps pad inside, not at the vehement snarl.
Not at the deep, upset sigh.
“Shit, kid,” the low voice curses, “The water’s freezing.” The spray disappears, and a hand appears against his forehead, and then down, below his jaw. It’s almost painfully hot. Tim does not flinch. Tim does not move.
“Fuck,” the voice curses again, before a hand gently nudges his shoulder. “Tim? Tim, can you hear me?”
Yes, he thinks, because it’s the correct answer.
No, he thinks, because he doesn’t want to.
There’s a shaky inhale. “Okay,” the low voice says, “We’re going to get you warmed up and cleaned off, okay? You can—just tell me to stop if you want me to stop.”
But that would require actually making words, and Tim doesn’t think his tongue is capable of that right now.
The spray appears again, and this time Tim can’t stop the flinch—it’s hot, and it’s adjusted to be slightly less hot, but it feels like tiny bullets peppering his skin.
Tim strangles the whimper, and turns his face against the tile.
“The soap is some cucumber thing,” the voice says, “Cucumber and mango. Can you smell the mango?” There’s something rough and slick sliding across his skin—the mesh shirt is gone, Tim doesn’t remember when or where, and he’s only in the strapless top and shorts. The loofah drags gently against his skin and Tim can smell the cucumber.
He doesn’t want to smell it. He doesn’t want to listen to the steady, one-sided conversation that prattles on—he understands what it is, it’s a grounding technique, it’s meant to bring him back, but Tim doesn’t want to go back.
He doesn’t want to feel the too-hot fingers wrapped around his arm as it’s twisted and maneuvered for better angles, as the loofah scrubs against his hand and between his fingers. As the prickling needles of red-hot pain change to violent shivers.
There’s an arm around his shoulders, dragging him away from the wall as the shudders wrack his body, and his head can’t crack against the tile anymore. The scent of cucumber and mango slowly replaces the iron clogging his nose. The soap slides against his skin, over his arms, his legs—carefully skirting around his swollen ankle—and across his neck.
He’s bent forward slightly, head under the spray, and fingers comb through his wet hair, letting the spray massage his scalp. The loofah wipes precisely across his face, avoiding his eyes, as the water rinses off the grime and sweat and blood.
Tears drip steadily down his face, drop after drop after drop after drop.
Hood hates rapists. Hood doesn’t hurt kids. Looks like Tim is the exception every time.
The water finally shuts off, and Tim waits, still and silent. His heart is beating too fast. The conversation and the smell and the warm water did manage to pull him forward, to fix him a little more firmly in his body, to make sure he has a front row seat to what’s coming next.
Something soft and fluffy encompasses him, and Tim feels himself being pulled up. Up and out of the bathtub. His legs are too shaky to support him, and Tim doesn’t even try.
He’s deposited on top of the toilet. There’s a hoarse, shaky exhale. “Going to dry you off now,” the voice says quietly, and now Tim has no choice but to stare at the white strip of hair and the green eyes as Hood kneels in front of him.
The towel is rubbed firmly against his skin, down his arms and legs, against his hair, softly across his face. Hood isn’t in armor anymore, isn’t wearing his gear or his weapons, he’s dressed in a loose shirt and sweatpants and Tim can see damp patches all over the shirt.
Tim stares, and wishes that he couldn’t feel the cold tile under his feet or the rough texture of the towel or the fleeting brushes of Hood’s fingers, leaving trails of searing warmth in their wake. He blinks when Hood wraps the towel around him again, and a tear slides down his freshly dried cheek.
Hood leaves, leaving the bathroom door wide open—where is Tim going to run? How is Tim going to run?—and returns with a pile of clothes. “You can change your clothes,” Hood says, in the gentle, low voice that hurts more than his snarl, “I’ll be outside.”
It’s an order, no matter what it sounds like, and the hazy cloud of uncaring is too far away. In its absence, dread slithers back in, cold, hard fear and the terror of what comes next. With—with the others, Tim could mitigate it, he learned the tricks to feign pleasure and figure out what they wanted and twist it to his advantage, but—but Hood hates him. All he’s going to want is to make him hurt.
Tim keeps his trembling fingers wrapped around the counter as he straightens and reaches for the clothes. The strapless top and the shorts are deposited in a soggy pile on the bathroom tile. The clothes he’s supposed to wear are surprisingly warm and soft—a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants, several sizes too big for him, but Tim can—if Hood wants to see him dressed in his own clothes, it’s better than the alternative.
He finds the drawstrings and pulls them tight with violently trembling fingers, so the pants don’t slide off his hips. The shirt is a lost cause, it hangs off one shoulder and shows his collarbones in stark relief. Tim doesn’t want to leave the bathroom, the steam is keeping the room warm and he knows—he knows what he’s going to face outside but—but pissing off Hood is not a good idea.
To his surprise, Hood is not waiting right outside the door. He’s on the couch, and he looks up when Tim appears in the doorway, fingers tight on the doorframe. Tim’s ankle twinges painfully as he tries to keep his weight off his right foot.
Hood moves towards him, slow for some reason, and Tim doesn’t—there’s something in his hands, brightly colored and soft and—
Tim stares up at green eyes as the blanket is firmly wrapped around his shoulders. He doesn’t—he doesn’t understand.
Hood leads him to the couch, still slow, a hand curling under his right elbow, above the blanket, easily supporting him in keeping the weight off his swollen ankle. Tim sinks into the couch, bewilderment poking against dread, and watches Hood crouch in front of him.
“Are you back, Tim?” he asks softly. Tim can’t—Tim doesn’t—he doesn’t want to open his mouth.
“It’s okay if you can’t talk,” Hood says, still soft, “Can you nod or shake your head?”
Tim doesn’t want to, but he’s tested Hood’s patience enough. He nods.
“That’s good,” Hood smiles. His smile seems…sad. “You’re in my apartment. You weren’t responding, so I brought you here. I am not going to hurt you. I am not going to touch you in any way you don’t want me to. Do you understand?”
No. No, Tim doesn’t understand. ‘I am not going to hurt you’ and Hood don’t belong in the same sentence together. He doesn’t shake his head. He doesn’t nod.
Hood takes a shaky breath. He runs a hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut for a stretching moment before he exhales, also shaky.
“Okay,” Hood says finally, “That’s okay. Do you—can you tell me how to contact Bruce?”
No. Tim feels dread sink into his stomach like a stone. No, Bruce can’t—he can’t know—Tim isn’t—Tim can’t face him right now, not like this, and he knows he’s going to lose Robin, but he can’t handle it. Not now. He doesn’t realize he’s shaking his head until Hood raises his hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay, no Bruce. Dick?” Hood tries. Tim shivers, and hunches further into his blanket. He—he can’t. He feels like an open wound, raw and strung out, and Hood is holding the salt shaker and threatening to tip it over.
“Fuck,” Hood mutters under his breath, before sighing again and shifting back. He looks…tired. “Okay. Would you like some hot cocoa?”
Tim considers the question, but can’t find any possible hidden meaning. He nods. Whether or not Hood actually gives him the hot cocoa is a moot point, so it’s a simple question to answer.
“Okay,” Hood says, sounding relieved. Tim tenses as he straightens, but he walks away, rounding the back of the couch and heading deeper in the apartment. His footsteps are strangely loud. He starts humming something, a tune Tim doesn’t recognize, and Tim can hear cupboards opening and closing and the clack of a pot and the sound of the fridge.
He untwists, just the faintest amount. Hood isn’t—not now—and Tim will take the reprieve he’s been given. He doesn’t know what it’s going to cost him, but right now he’s warm and wrapped up in a blanket and exhaustion coils around his limbs like shackles.
Hood comes back—Tim can feel his muscles tense as the footsteps get closer—and Hood rounds the edge of the couch, green eyes sharp. There are two mugs in his hands. He offers one to Tim.
Taking it means extricating his hands from the soft, fuzzy, warm blanket, but Tim can’t—can’t just not, so he reaches wavering hands out, half-expecting Hood to tug the mug out of his reach with a sneer.
He doesn’t. He waits until Tim has a firm grip on the mug, instead of letting go and spilling steaming hot cocoa all over Tim’s lap. Tim curls his fingers around it and—and it’s warm, and the first sip bursts across his senses in rich, chocolatey goodness and Tim firmly pushes aside the part of his mind worrying about drugs to take another sip.
If Hood wants to drug him, Tim can’t stop him.
If Hood wants to hurt him, Tim can’t stop him.
If Hood wants to—to rape him, Tim can’t stop him.
But—what does Hood want?
“Can I check your ankle?” Hood asks, crouching in front of him again. Tim nods, taking another sip of the delicious cocoa. It reminds him of Alfred’s recipe, but…spicier. There’s a bite of flavor he doesn’t recognize, and he takes another sip, trying to ignore what Hood’s doing to his foot.
Tim almost flinches when fingers press against the swelling, but they back off before his ankle can do more than twinge. Hood grasps his shin, right above the ankle, and Tim takes a slow, deep breath as Hood carefully rotates his foot.
“Does it hurt?” Hood asks, testing the range of motion. It’s twinging again, but not that bad. Tim shakes his head. “Just a sprain,” Hood concludes, and he opens a first aid kit. Tim watches him wrap his ankle and place an ice pack on top of it. “You need to elevate it,” Hood says, and drags the coffee table closer and stacks some cushions on top of it.
“What are you doing?” Tim finally rasps when Hood finishes fussing over his ankle. The cocoa is settling uneasily in his stomach, but he feels warm, inside and out, and the frantic racing of his heart has slowed, allowing confusion to slide in.
Hood looks at him, green eyes wide. “You—you’re hurt. I’m just—you said I could check it.”
That wasn’t what Tim meant.
“Why are you helping?” Tim asks. If this is some kind of weird game—
“Tim,” Hood sighs, looking abruptly weary, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Tim takes another sip of cocoa, and tries to identify the mysterious spice. Cinnamon? Red pepper?
“You hate me,” he says, because he still doesn’t understand. The Red Hood made his feelings about Tim—about his replacement—very clear. Tim doesn’t think you can misinterpret vicious vitriol and a rage-driven beating. Hood hates him, and there’s no way he brought Tim to his apartment, cleaned him off, and made him cocoa without some ulterior motive.
Tim just wants to know what it is. Is that too much to ask?
Hood’s whole face sort of spasms. “No, I don’t, I—” he sighs, running a hand over his face. “Can you just tell me how to get in touch with Bruce? I—you clearly don’t—you should get home.”
Tim takes another sip of cocoa, and doesn’t answer.
“Kid.”
“No,” Tim croaks out, and his fingers are shaking and—and Hood is going to tell Bruce how he found Tim and—and Tim can’t—and it was for the mission but what if—what if Bruce doesn’t care? What if he only looks at Tim and sees dirty, filthy, tainted—
There’s a sudden intake of breath.
“Tim,” Hood’s voice says, alarmingly level, “Why were you pretending to be a prostitute?”
Tim hides his face behind his mug and breathes out shakily.
“Tim,” and there’s a hint of a growl in this one.
“I was—information gathering. I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t know y—you were going to be there, I was just—the smuggling operation—”
“Did he know?”
Tim raises his head, confused, “What?”
Hood’s face is blank, and his eyes are raging. “Did. Bruce. Know.”
“No,” Tim chokes out, trembling again, “Please—please don’t tell him. Don’t—he doesn’t—he can’t—please don’t—” he abruptly remembers exactly who he’s talking to, and he falls silent.
Hood isn’t going to care about his pleas.
Hood just cares about what’ll hurt him the most.
Hood is going to delight in making sure Tim can never be Robin again.
Hood is—Hood is letting out a shaky breath, no longer as alarmingly focused. “Okay,” he says quietly, “Okay.” He looks up at Tim, “Why don’t you want me to tell him?”
Fuck. He just has to hit upon the exact question Tim doesn’t want to answer. Tim can’t—his fingers are trembling, he can’t hold his mug any longer, and he reaches out to put it on the table.
“Tim.” Low, but firm. “Why don’t you want me to call Bruce?”
Because you’ll get exactly what you want.
“Because he’ll take away Robin,” Tim says dully.
And without Robin, he has nothing. No family. No Manor and Alfred’s cooking and Dick’s hugs and Bruce’s warm, proud smile. No Cave, no training, no case work, no Titans. Nothing. Tim will be shoved back into the shadows he dared to creep out of.
And Hood will probably laugh as he does it.
“I’m not following, kid. Why will he take away Robin? You aren’t the first one to dive into a case alone and without backup.” There’s an edge of bitterness to his tone.
No, Tim’s made his entire career out of ignoring Bruce and his rules. It’s not the mission. Just his methods. “Because it’s not what Robin is supposed to be,” Tim breathes out, squeezing his eyes shut, “Because I—I did—I’m a whore. And Robin can’t—Robin is supposed to be pure.”
Because that—that first time, Tim never intended it to go that far—and—and he didn’t want to, but it’s sometimes the only way to get information—and he needs to be a good detective, he needs to be a good Robin, he needs—
“Bullshit.”
Tim snaps his head up, staring at Hood. Hood, who is sitting on the floor, knees up, elbows crossed above them, staring levelly back at him. “What?” Tim asks hoarsely.
“Bullshit,” Hood repeats, “On all counts.” Tim doesn’t understand. “You’re not a whore, there’s no such thing as what Robin is supposed to be, and if Bruce takes Robin away, it’s not because you’re not pure, it’s because you clearly have no fucking clue of what’s an acceptable risk.”
Tim doesn’t—“No,” he says, “You don’t—Bruce would never let—”
“He would,” Hood disagrees, implacable.
“How would you know?” Tim snaps back, because he doesn’t understand the point of this taunting.
“Because you wouldn’t be the first one.”
Tim stares at him, shocked. “What?” he croaks out.
“You wouldn’t be the first one,” Hood repeats, slow and clear.
Tim isn’t—Hood doesn’t—he can’t possibly mean what Tim thinks he means. “The first what?” Tim asks.
“Robin who isn’t ‘pure’,” he uses finger quotes for the word, “Or—what did you say? A whore? Yeah, not the first of that, either.” Hood’s gaze is burning green now. “Not the first kid that pretended that just because he was compensated meant that it wasn’t rape, that it wasn’t fucking wrong, and never should’ve—”
“Stop,” Tim rasps, and Hood immediately breaks off. His eyes are flashing, pulsing green, and Tim should be terrified, but Hood hasn’t gotten off the ground. Hasn’t moved. He looks furious, but he hasn’t—he’s still sitting on the ground, arms crossed above his knees. Almost like he’s hugging them. Almost like—
“You’re not the first one.”
So many things are slotting into place. Hood’s protection of sex workers. His absolute hatred of anyone who hurts kids. The rules he enforces with lethal consequences.
“You’re wrong,” Tim forces out, because Hood has the wrong idea. “I wasn’t—it’s not like that.” Not like you, he doesn’t say out loud. “It’s—it’s for cases, I’m not—I could say no.”
Hood tilts his head slightly. “Could you?” he asks softly.
Tim’s heart twists. He—he—yes, he—it was for the mission, always for the mission, but then why—why did it hurt so much, why did he always feel like—why—
The sob tears through his chest without warning. Tim gasps and curls up under the blanket, shuddering, and there’s a lump rising in his throat and his heart is ripping open and he’s hugging it tightly but he can’t, the tears seep endlessly down his face and he can’t stop shaking, can’t stop the ragged sobs, can’t stop his breaths from cracking, he can’t stop.
“Tim?” the voice is closer, it sounds worried and—and Tim can’t, he needs—he flings out a hand and it connects with warmth.
Tim doesn’t care if he practically falls off the couch, if his sprained ankle scrapes against the coffee table, if he’s in Hood’s lap—he’s falling apart, and he can’t hold together all the pieces and he can—he can pretend this is Jason, the Robin he always admired, the brother he wished he knew, the—the one person who understands.
“Tim?” asks the voice, strained, and Tim curls closer, burying his face against the warmth and clutching tight as he shudders.
“Please,” he gasps, he can’t—he needs—it’s like he’s been cracked down the middle and he needs someone to hold him together because the pieces keep slipping out of his grasp.
Arms slowly encircle him, firm but not tight, and something presses softly against his hair. The humming starts again, still an unknown tune, and it vibrates through his cheek and Tim shudders through every sob but he no longer feels like he’s shattering.
“It’s okay,” Jason says, a pause in the humming, “It’s going to be okay.”
He doesn’t know that, he can’t know that. “Please don’t tell Bruce,” Tim murmurs into his shirt, because even if—because Tim isn’t Jason, and Bruce won’t—
“I’m sorry,” Jason says softly, and Tim squeezes his eyes shut, more tears slipping out. “He needs to know.”
No, no he doesn’t—no one needs to know—Tim doesn’t—no one needs to know—
“You,” Tim swallows, “H—he knows about y—you?”
“Yes.”
“Y—you t—told him?”
A quiet exhale. “Yes.”
“How?”
Jason stays silent and—and Tim knows the magnitude of the question he just asked, but he doesn’t take it back. If Jason is going to—Tim needs to know. Tim can’t—he doesn’t know how—he can’t even imagine what that conversation would—
“A creep cornered me at a gala,” Jason says quietly, “About a month after I became Robin. He—Dick found me, and he heard what the guy said and he—he took me home. He told me I had to tell Bruce. That Bruce would stop it, would go after everyone, any names or faces I remembered. He said,” Jason stops, and Tim can hear his ragged breaths, can hear the way they hitch, “He said that Bruce wouldn’t take Robin away.” Jason pauses for a long moment, and Tim can feel wetness dripping into his hair. “When Bruce came—came home, he—I couldn’t say it, so Dick explained what had happened at the party. And Bruce—Bruce—”
Jason is definitely crying now.
“He said that I was his son,” he chokes out, “And nothing in the world would ever change how much he loved me.”
An echo of the pain rips through Tim, and he presses forward, clutching the older boy as tightly as he’s holding him.
“He won’t,” Jason says, his voice breaking, “He won’t push you away, you’re his s—son, and he loves you.”
“I’m not his son,” Tim whispers and he can feel Jason shaking his head.
“You are,” he says roughly, “You’re his Robin, you—he cares about you, and so do Dick and A—Alfred, and—and everyone. You don’t—you don’t need to hide, baby bird, I promise they’ll love you, always.” A slow, shuddering breath. “And—and if they d—don’t, then you can t—tell me, and I’ll h—handle it.”
“Please don’t shoot anyone,” Tim murmurs softly, relaxing, inch by inch, in Jason’s grip.
“No promises,” Jason responds shakily. Tim can feel the steady drip of tears into his hair, can feel the itchy wetness on his own cheeks.
Tim slowly closes his eyes. “Okay,” he says, before his courage can desert him, “You can call Bruce.”
Jason takes a deep, wet breath, and Tim can hear him fumbling for the phone. He hands it to Tim, and Tim types in the number with trembling fingers.
Jason hits call.
The phone rings—it’s on speaker, so every ring is too loud in the taut silence. Tim squeezes his eyes shut as he listens to the droning tone stop and start and stop and—
The line clicks.
“Hello?” It’s almost two in the morning, Bruce must just be back from patrol.
The silence stretches. Tim presses his lips together. Jason finally realizes that Tim isn’t going to speak, and he clears his throat, “Bruce.”
“…Jason?” Bruce almost sounds breathless.
“Yes,” Jason answers, and then pauses. Takes a deep breath. “Tim’s at my apartment. Can you come pick him up?”
“Address,” is the immediate order—not Batman’s growl, but definitely Batman’s tone. Jason rattles off the address, and then ends the call.
Both of them stare at the phone like it’s a grenade.
“Okay,” Jason exhales, “He’ll be here soon.” He shifts under Tim, and straightens, “Shit, your ankle—you need to be on the couch.”
He spends more time fussing over getting Tim’s ankle elevated than necessary, and the tenth time he shifts the cushions, Tim grabs his elbow and tugs him down to the couch.
His stomach is a twisting riot of snakes. Jason’s clear apprehension isn’t helping matters, and Tim withdraws into his blanket. It isn’t enough—he can hear his heart beating in his ears, too loud and too fast, and he twists, nudging closer to Jason until the older boy takes the hint and draws him closer, arms wrapping around his waist. Tim lets his head rest against Jason’s shoulder. He’s breathing too fast.
“It’s going to be okay,” Jason murmurs.
He can’t know that.
Tim is distantly aware that he’s hyperventilating.
“Shh, Tim, it’s going to be fine.” Tim clutches the arm around his waist, and the other one slides, until it’s rubbing a gentle circle into the back of his hand. “It’s going to be okay.”
Tim wants to crawl into a hole and never come out. He settles for twisting, ignoring the twinge as he moves his sprained ankle, and crawls back into Jason’s lap, burying his face in the older boy’s shirt. He’s trembling again—he wants to go back and delete that phone call, he wants to go back and hide, he wants to go back and not take the case in the first place.
“Shh, baby bird.” Jason’s arms resettle, and one drifts through his hair. “You’re going to be okay.”
Tim clutches his shirt and doesn’t answer. Jason starts humming again, and his strokes move in tune, bleeding out Tim’s stress in slow pieces. The gentle tugging on his hair feels nice and soothing, and Tim absently wonders where Jason learned how to do that, because Bruce and Dick never did it the same way.
He can hear the window slide open, and tenses. Jason doesn’t stop stroking, not even when an intense pressure gets closer, close enough that Tim can feel it boring through his shoulder.
“Tim?” a low voice calls.
Tim can’t move. Can’t lift his head to look up at Bruce. Can’t do anything but take fast, shallow breaths, his heart thundering in his ears.
“What happened?” the voice growls.
“Tim?” Jason asks softly. Tim presses his face further against Jason’s shirt, and shakes his head, a minute movement. He can’t. He can’t. He doesn’t—he doesn’t even know what to say, he can’t open his mouth to speak, he can’t.
Jason exhales, and tightens his grip. “Did you know that he’s been gathering information by going undercover as a prostitute?” he asks.
Tears drip down his face, disappearing into Jason’s shirt. The tension changes to something equally taut, and Tim refuses to decipher the shift. There’s a low, choked sound from the window—Tim didn’t even know that Dick was in town.
“No,” Bruce says finally, his voice hoarse, “No, I did not know that.” The rustle of a cape. “Tim?” Bruce’s voice is closer now, and softer.
Tim refuses to turn. He—he can’t. He’s clinging to the Red Hood, to the man who broke into the Tower and beat him into the ground just a few short months ago. He’s clinging to Jason, who—who saved him and wrapped him in a blanket and gave him cocoa and—and knows and didn’t—and told him—
“Tim?” Bruce asks again, and it sounds pleading. Jason makes no move to pull away, and—and Tim trusts that he won’t. Which means that Tim can stay here, and no one will make him move. Which means that he has to turn on his own, has to twist and brace enough to peer out of his blanket and—
Bruce is half-sitting on the couch next to him, dressed as Batman, cowl off. He—he doesn’t look angry, and Tim uncurls a tiny bit more.
“Tim,” Bruce says softly, and Tim doesn’t wait for him to finish.
“Please,” he says desperately, “Please don’t take Robin away, please, I—I’ll do better, I swear, I won’t do it again, please—”
“Tim,” Bruce says quietly.
“Please,” Tim begs, straightening and leaning forward, extricating an arm to reach out—if Bruce jerks back, if he moves away, if he leaves, Tim doesn’t think he can bear it—
But Bruce catches his arm and tugs him all the way into a hug.
Tim is sobbing again, tears splattering against the armor, and it isn’t comfortable, the armor is not designed to be hugged, but Tim doesn’t care, he wraps his arms around Bruce’s neck and holds on tight. “Please,” his voice cracks, “I won’t—I’ll listen to everything you say—please don’t take it away—”
“I’m not taking Robin away,” Bruce says softly, and Tim goes boneless. The arms around him are firm and steady. “And you don’t need to do better or listen, Tim, you’re—you’re my son, and nothing you do will ever change that. Robin or not.”
It feels—it feels like there were chains around him and now they’re broken and he’s floating away so he holds Bruce tighter and he doesn’t know how long he cries, how many times Bruce rubs a hand down his back, how long Bruce just holds him, not moving and not speaking.
The hitched breaths die to hiccups, and his eyes stop welling up every time he blinks. He can swallow now, past the receding lump in his throat, and he sniffles, head still pressed against Bruce’s neck. The room is silent, but not the silence of tension, and Tim twists until he can look at everyone else.
Jason is still sitting next to them, one knee drawn up, his arms loosely folded around his ankle. He’s watching Tim, but not sharply, like his attention is somewhere else. Dick, dressed in his Nightwing suit, is on Jason’s other side, one arm around Jason’s shoulders and a hand on his knee, gaze fixed on Tim. “Timbird,” he says softly when Tim meets his gaze, and Tim abruptly needs his older brother.
He lets go of Bruce and crawls over to Dick, practically climbing over Jason in the process, and his big brother curls his hands around Tim’s shoulders and reels him in. The hug is soft and warm and just right and Tim didn’t think he had any more tears to spill, but clearly that was false.
“I’m sorry,” Tim whispers, because Robin is Dick’s, because it’s Dick’s name that he sullied, because it’s Dick that he let down, “I’m so, so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I just—I thought—” He thought—it was just a disguise—and then—and then he—and then it was too late—“I didn’t want to,” Tim’s voice breaks, and Dick squeezes tighter.
“It’s not your fault,” Dick says softly, but Tim shakes his head, because if he didn’t—because no one forced him—because—“It’s not your fault, baby bird,” Dick repeats, “And I will say that as many times as you need me to.”
It isn’t—Tim doesn’t deserve—he isn’t Jason, he wasn’t a street kid, he lives in a manor in Bristol and he doesn’t—
“I’m sorry,” Tim cries, and Dick holds him close.
“It’s not your fault,” Dick says quietly, “And I won’t ever let it happen again.”
Tim buries his face against the Nightwing suit, and lets the tears slip silently down. He feels exhausted and drained and he doesn’t want to move—he’s half-terrified that this is just a dream, and he holds on tighter as he loses the battle to keep his eyes open.
He can faintly hear Bruce’s low voice, “Thank you.”
“For what?” Jason says hoarsely.
“For looking out for him.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Jason snarls, “And if—if you had known about any of it, I would’ve put a bullet through your skull.”
Bruce hums softly. “Thank you,” he says again, “For letting me know.”
“He was scared you’d fire him,” Jason says quietly, and then his voice drops lower, “But you only take away the R for murder.”
“Jay.”
“Going to tell me I’m wrong?” Jason asks, and his tone stops well short of anger when his voice cracks.
“Yes,” Bruce says fiercely, and Jason yelps—Tim cracks open an eye to see Jason curled up, Bruce’s arms around him. Jason’s buried his face in his knees, but he’s leaning against Bruce and not fighting his grip. “You’re my son, Jay-lad,” Bruce whispers to him, “You will always be my son.”
But Jason’s still trembling, and Tim can see it’s not—it isn’t enough. He slowly untangles a hand from his blanket and stretches it out. “Jay,” he murmurs, and green eyes peer out.
Jason uncurls, leaning away from Bruce and crawling closer—Dick shifts, until Jason can curl around Tim, squishing him between his brothers as Jason rests his head against Dick’s shoulder. They’re all quiet, but Tim can feel water dripping down against his forehead, and he doesn’t know whose tears they are.
Something heavy and warm settles around them—Batman’s cape—and Tim feels a soft press against his forehead. Bruce murmurs something that sounds like ‘my children’ and his voice is hoarse and cracking.
Tim feels a curl of upset—it’s his fault, he made Bruce sad—but there’s warmth surrounding him, Dick’s steady grasp and Jason’s more desperate one and the gloved hand gently carding through his hair, and he feels safe and protected at the center of his family.