Archive of Our Own ^beta

This was the worst day of Tim’s life.

He had thought it was the start of something good, too, which just went to show that straight A’s weren’t proof of actually being smart.

He had been so happy, so relieved when his parents came home from their trip early. His dad had opened the door for his mom as she stepped inside and shook cold raindrops from her long brown hair.

Tim knew better than to plaster them with hugs right away, he was a big kid now, and they would like it better if he didn’t throw himself at them like an overexcited Jack Russell terrier, but he hadn’t been able to keep the eager squeak out of his voice.

“You’re home early! Welcome back!”

Jack had eased his way in the door and closed it, stomping his feet on the mat to dry the soles of his shoes. He looked up and crooked a tired smile at Tim. “I’m afraid Prague didn’t agree with us, sport.”

It was true that the Drakes looked pale, their cheeks a little hollow and their eyes tired. Janet laid aside her coat with brisk efficiency despite what Tim suddenly worried was real illness. He hadn’t thought they would catch anything in Prague, not when they had avoided the more serious illnesses found in their tropical digs for years, what could they have even caught that would be bad enough they had come straight home to Gotham?

“Are you okay?” The question was nervous, but he couldn’t help but ask it; even if it annoyed them he had to know they would be okay. What if they got worse and he needed to call 9-1-1?

Janet’s gaze flicked to him with a reflexive tightening of her lips. “We’ll be fine, Timothy. Your father and I are planning to stay home for a while to recover, I’m sure we will adjust in no time.”

And then the relief had gotten all mixed up with glad and guilt inside Tim’s small ribcage. It was good that his parents were going to be okay, really, really good, but he was happier about them staying home than he was about them being okay, and that was wrong, wasn’t it?

His parents had to travel; it was important for the business, for all the people whose salaries they paid. It was important for Tim, because private school was expensive, and so were hobbies like photography when you were trying to get good shots of moving figures at night. Tim wasn’t very good yet, but there were some online forums that had given advice on what lenses were best for distance, or things like aperture to try and keep his photos from being dark blurs. The good lenses were expensive too… and he had been debating asking his parents if he could take classes like gymnastics or karate …

Tim didn’t really care if he didn’t get to take those things; he didn’t care a lot if he got moved to a public school, though he would miss his friend Ives. He thought he wouldn’t miss those things too much if his parents were home. But he would feel bad if other people couldn’t pay for things like electricity or food because his parents were home. And besides, his parents didn’t like to stay in Gotham, so he shouldn’t get too excited over it, or they would just get annoyed that they had to be here faster.

So he had tried not to bounce too noticeably as he trailed his parents deeper into the manor. Mrs. Mac had left for the day, so Tim helped by grabbing his mom’s heavy suitcase, which prompted a teasing smile from his dad that went off like a firecracker in his chest, and a playful comment of, “Well, look how strong you are!”

Even his mother had smiled, though the expression was still tight.

Tim had listened carefully as they talked to each other, commenting on the flight back, the drive home, the people and places they had seen. He had carefully sprinkled in questions about Prague when the conversation faltered, but all too soon his parents exchanged a look over his head and shooed him away, citing exhaustion from their illness and trip.

It was okay, they were planning on being home for a while, and Tim would have time to talk to them.

That night he had put away his camera instead of leaving it out on his desk to grab on his way into the city. His parents needed him home, what if they got worse?

Besides, he didn’t want more pictures of Batman and the newly-minted Nightwing either arguing or ignoring each other. Maybe by the time his parents were better, the relationship between Bruce Wayne and his former Robin would be better too, and Tim would feel less like crying when he found them on rooftops. Crying was for babies, and Tim was practically in the double digits now, almost a decade old. He wasn’t the best at stopping himself from crying yet, but if he didn’t see Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne arguing, it wouldn’t make his chest feel all tight and unhappy.

So he had put his camera away and hoped that his parents would be up for watching a movie after dinner, something they would like and wouldn’t tire them out too much. Tim could sit with them on the couch, and show them that he had been paying attention when they told him not to slouch, but be close enough that he could feel the warmth of them, so strange in the cold house.

Dinner had come, and his parents hadn’t eaten much, citing their illness once again, and Tim had wondered if maybe it was because Mrs. Mac hadn’t known they were coming home, so she hadn’t made enough for all three of them. Maybe his parents were trying to be nice; trying to make sure Tim got a full meal without pointing out the lack. But when he worriedly picked at his food without finishing it they hadn’t said anything.

Finally though, Tim knew he couldn’t put off the end of the meal by rearranging his peas anymore. “May I please be excused?”

Not that he wanted to go anywhere, but mom and dad would be annoyed if he just got up from the table without asking. Manners were important, especially at their level of society, and Tim had to show that he knew how to behave. The looks Jack and Janet shot each other in response to his simple question were quick and sharp, like a rattlesnake strike.

“Timothy,” his mother said, slowly rising from her chair, and despite the rarity of the meal he had just gotten to share with his parents, unease trailed icy fingers up his spine to prickle at his throat. Something felt wrong, but there was nothing wrong, things were good, were going to be wonderful for the next while because his parents were here…

Jack’s heavy hand landing on Tim’s thin shoulder made him jump in surprise, he had been so focused on the slow movements of his mom that he hadn’t even noticed his dad coming to stand by his chair. His mom was circling the table now, coming to stand on his other side.

Had Tim done something wrong? Were they angry at him for something and he needed to have a talk?

Or maybe this was something good (run, whispered frightened feelings as the hair on the nape of his neck stood on end, run, run, run), maybe they were going to tell him about a plan to spend time together, something big, like taking him on their next trip.

“Yes, mom?” His voice was thin and sounded scared, which was stupid, he wasn’t scared of his parents, he hardly ever got to see them and treasured the times he did.

Jack’s hand squeezed Tim’s shoulder, and he frowned. “You’re awfully thin, sport.”

Well, yes, Tim had always been thin and small for his age. He opened his mouth to tell his dad that he would make himself taller and stronger if he could, but Janet’s hand came down on his other shoulder with its long nails curling gently into it.

“It’s fine, Jack. We don’t need much.”

Jack made a grumble of displeasure, the same sound he made when Janet laughingly steered him away from the sugary confections at various high-society events.

“Need much what?” Tim’s voice was still high, still sounded frightened, and he hadn’t even managed a proper question. He braced himself for his mother’s scolding voice telling him to speak properly, but she was ignoring him.

Or, no, she was staring at him, staring rather intently, but she didn’t seem to have heard his words. Tim swallowed hard against the unsettled (afraid) feelings rising in this throat and her dark eyes locked on to the bob of his Adam’s apple with disconcerting focus.

“What—” his voice cracked, words cut off as Jack shifted his hold on Tim until one hand was on his shoulder, pressing him into the chair, and the other was on his head, heavy fingers sliding through his hair to grip the curve of his skull and tug so that he had to lean his head toward his dad, away from his mom.

“Ladies first,” Jack sighed, sounding put out rather than courteous. Janet let her gaze dart whip-quick to her husband with a scowl before she knelt beside Tim’s chair and reached for him.

“Mom?” Tim managed, tugging instinctively against Jack’s hold, trying to see Janet, to see why she was reaching for him so awkwardly, but he couldn’t push even an inch out of the position Jack had put him in. Wide blue eyes strained at the corners to try and catch the motion of his mother, she kept one hand on his shoulder and the other splayed across his chest, pushing his racing heartbeat back against the back of the chair.

She leaned forward, and Tim caught the barest glimpse of something sharp and white before the world erupted into pain.

His neck was exposed,  his head pulled to the side, and he had never thought about how vulnerable having his throat in such a position would make him because he had never needed to, but now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t escape the awareness any more than he could escape the sudden knowledge that his mother had bitten his neck and it hurt.

It was sharp, too sharp for human teeth, needle-sharp without the benefit of being needle-small, and it hurt.

“Hush!” Jack’s hand tightened, pulling at Tim’s hair, and that hurt too. Tim realized that he had started screaming, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tried to pull away from his mother, from the— Janet withdrew her fangs from Tim’s vein and closed her mouth over the wound she had left behind.

And she drank.

Tim shuddered, and managed to stop screaming, but he couldn’t stop the tears pouring down his face because it hurt, it hurt so bad, with every horribly wet sounding gulp there was an awful suction against his throat, dragging more and more of his blood away and aggravating an injury with raw edges.

Janet was a vampire.

Tim screwed his eyes closed and forced his hands down from where they had grabbed at his mother’s shoulders to try and push her away, made himself grab the solid wood of his seat instead.

Jack had said ladies first.

They were both vampires.

That night hadn’t been the worst. Janet had finished her meal with as much ceremony as she had begun it, and then she had held Tim still while Jack took his turn. Tim had discovered then that his mother had been practically gentle in her feeding, Jack was clumsier, his fangs thicker, and Tim’s neck felt mauled before he was done. When they had finished they had wrapped Tim’s bloody neck in bandages and put his pale and trembling body to bed.

He had been so sure he would be too frightened to sleep, and he had twitched at every stray sound in the house, but he had been dizzy and tired too. In the end he thought he might have passed out instead of actually sleeping, but he still hadn’t gotten up until morning.

The night before had been like a nightmare, but one that left evidence behind, one he couldn’t discount as a figment of his imagination. There was a bandage wrapped around his neck that he didn’t dare to touch and dark bruises where his parents had held him still. But he couldn’t do anything else, so he had picked his way downstairs on unsteady legs and found his parents in the kitchen.

Janet looked cool and collected, her attention was on her phone and a glass of cranberry juice rested by her elbow, Jack had been flipping through the sports section and complaining about the Gotham Knights and their abysmal season.

Tim had stayed frozen in the doorway until his mother glanced up at him sharply and told him to sit down and eat something.

Around eggs that tasted like scorched cooking spray, Tim had hesitantly asked about what had happened. And his parents had explained it, offhand, the way they would mention a tacky souvenir picked up at an airport gift-shop.

They were vampires now. (No, Timothy, you’re not a vampire too. Honestly.)

Being vampires, they needed human blood in order to live. Obviously they didn’t want people to know that they were vampires, so they couldn’t go out and drink from just anyone. But it was fine; Janet had explained impatiently, they didn’t need much, so they could just drink from Tim while they were here. It wasn’t like his body wouldn’t replace the blood they had taken. It was the best solution.

Tim had felt sick, and tried to force the feeling down. It did make sense, didn’t it? Tim could actually be useful for once, could do something for his parents instead of taking away from them like he always had before.

It was fine, he would have said yes anyway, so it didn’t matter that they hadn’t asked.

It didn’t.

It wasn’t like they needed to ask him anyway, he was their son, he was supposed to do what they said.

It was fine.

(It wasn’t fine.)

That wasn’t the worst day either.

Tim had drunk a lot of fruit juice and water and eaten snacks even though his stomach was constantly churning, because Janet had a new diet for him to keep him at “optimal levels.”

And days had gone by.

It wasn’t every day; Janet wouldn’t let Jack drink every day, even though being refused made him furious. But Tim never knew for sure whether it was going to be a “donation” day or not, and no matter how much he told himself he was fine with it, he was constantly jumpy and had retreated to his room nearly all the time despite his earlier plans to spend time with his parents.

Bite marks marched up and down both sides of his neck and he was pale as a ghost and thinner than ever. His mother called the school and told them he had come down with a case of chicken pox, and Tim couldn’t be sure if he was grateful or not. He was so tired all the time, he didn’t think he could have handled going to school, but going to school would have gotten him out of the house, would have gotten him away from the uncertainty of is today the day? Will it be tomorrow?

Tim should have known that the worst day was coming though.

He slid through his house as quietly as a he could; he just needed to sneak down to the kitchen so he could grab some granola bars to hide in his room. It was fine, it was all fine, he was just staying out of his parents’ way, his dad got annoyed if he saw Tim on days when Janet said they didn’t have to feed. It was fine, he would just hide out in his room and not remind them about him, that way nobody would be tempted if today wasn’t a donation day.

And it was fine if it was! Really!

Vampires needed to consume blood to live, and Tim didn’t want his parents to die. Especially not just because being bitten and fed from hurt. Getting shot at probably hurt a lot and Batman still did it because it happened while he was out saving people. It was for the greater good, and so was this. Tim could feed his parents, and they would stay alive, and they wouldn’t have to bite anyone else.

He could do this.

Carefully Tim peeked around the corner and into the kitchen. The granite countertops were clean and empty, the refrigerator hummed gently in the quiet abandoned space. His parents still ate a little, but not nearly as much as they used to, so it wasn’t unusual for the kitchen to be empty and Tim pretended that his sigh didn’t sound like relief at their absence.

He moved quickly, crossing the kitchen to the pantry and reaching for the cardboard box of granola bars. Taking the whole thing would be easiest, and then he wouldn’t have to leave his room for a while. (He tried not to remember that Janet and Jack had come into his room the night before, that his four walls were no sanctuary.)

“Here you are, sport!”

Tim jumped, instinctively moving away from the jovial-sounding voice, deeper into the darkness of the pantry. Jack was in the doorway, grinning at Tim without care. Tim had heard his mom scolding Jack that he needed to learn to smile with his lips closed, but he hadn’t made it a habit yet, his long thick fangs were on full display.

Jack didn’t wait for Tim to respond.

“I’ve been looking for you, kiddo. What do you think; can you give your old man a little nibble? Just between boys?” He asked but he wasn’t asking; he was already moving forward with his hands outstretched to grab Tim, to hold him still even though he had finally taught himself not to struggle.

Tim froze, he wouldn’t be able to get past Jack, and the only thing behind him was the pantry shelves. And anyway, it was fine, right? Tim had already decided it was fine, decided that yes, he could do this for his parents, so it was okay.

Jack pulled at Tim, reeled him in closer with an eager motion, hands fitting over the bruises they had left behind like perfect puzzle-pieces, and tipped his head to the side. They had stopped wasting bandages on his neck when Janet had figured out that they could seal over their bites with saliva to keep Tim’s blood from being wasted and all the turtlenecks had mysteriously disappeared from Tim’s closet, so there was nothing to block his dad.

But it was fine; he didn’t want to block his dad. He could do this.

Jack Drake made a hungry noise as he bent almost double to get at Tim’s neck, a greedy noise, and Tim’s eyes snapped shut even as his hands shook with the effort of don’t move, don’t move, don’t scream. He never could stop the tears, even though his parents called him a crybaby.

The sharp points of Jack’s fangs were just scratching at his throat when Janet’s icy voice broke into the room.

“Jack!”

Her husband jerked upright like a misused marionette, shoving Tim away from him in an instinctive gesture. Tim ran into the wooden shelves with a jolt of pain, just not the pain he had been expecting, and barely managed to catch himself as canned foods rattled at the impact. Jack growled as he turned to face down his wife’s furious expression.

“Janet,” he said warningly, and her lips thinned in displeasure until Tim could almost see the faint outline of her fangs beneath the taut skin.

“We talked about this,” Janet snapped and flicked her gaze to her son. “Timothy, go to your room.”

Tim scrambled free of the pantry now that he had been dismissed, dodging around his father and half-expecting the man to haul him back with a snarl and a bite. Jack didn’t though, his attention focused on the angry woman before him.

“I need more,” he growled, “You can’t keep us on a starvation diet like this forever.”

“No,” Janet snapped as Tim ducked out of the room and paused to listen. He could feel every frantic beat of his heart, sending his blood racing through his drained veins, pulsing against the sensitive thin skin of his parents’ overlapping bitemarks. “I’ve told you and told you, if we drain more, we’ll kill him. How do you think that will look, Jack? We come home and our son dies a week later? You’re willing to give up everything we’ve invested because you’re too weak to control yourself?”

“I am not too weak!” Jack roared, and the sound shook the china plates in their cabinets with a fearful rattle. Tim stopped breathing. “Do you want me to show you how strong I am, Janet? I’m hungry, and you can’t stop me!”

“Then I won’t,” Janet said, calculating, almost soothing. “I’ll come up with something new, dear.”

Tim bolted for his room and stayed there the rest of the day and through the night, waiting for his parents to come in and drain him dry.

They didn’t, of course they wouldn’t.

(Wouldn’t they?)

He was their son and they loved him, they didn’t want to kill him.

(An investment.)

It was fine.

It wasn’t fine.

And now, this was the worst day of his life.

Because it was the last day of someone else’s.

Tim was at the top of the stairs, frozen in place, his frantic pulse sending vicious needles through his cold fingers.

At the front door his parents ushered someone inside, high-society smiles and politeness on their faces as they made soothing noises about getting someone settled and fed.

It was a kid. A boy who probably wasn’t much older than Tim, though he was dirtier and thinner.

He wore an old red hoodie with what looked like a grease stain on the sleeve, worn jeans and sneakers that he didn’t bother to kick off in the entryway. Tim couldn’t really blame him; they looked as though his feet were the only thing letting them keep their shape.

The boy had black hair like Tim, like Jack, and a suspicious expression on his hungry, dirty face. He kept glancing back toward the door before looking deeper into the house with wary curiosity.

A street kid, it had to be, and Tim’s brain was screaming, following a logic train that he didn’t want to be on at all.

Tim was an investment, his mother had said so. Had pointed out that it would look suspicious if he died when his parents came home.

Suspicious because people would know to look, people knew who Tim was, his teacher would notice if he never came back, Ives would notice, and his parents would be the first ones asked about it.

This boy?

Tim was very sure that no one knew he was here.

His parents were going to kill this boy because they couldn’t drink enough from Tim.

Jason still wasn’t sure why he was here. On multiple levels, in fact.

He had been about to run from the rich couple who bumped into them on the street, when the woman had called for him to stop and he just… had.

They had said nice things (but everyone trying to screw over a street kid said nice things,) stuff about getting him a hot meal and a shower, a place to stay for the night. The woman had even mentioned that they had a son about his age, like that was some sort of guarantee that they were on the level.

(He knew this was shady as hell, so why had he gotten into their car? It had felt like his own concerns just hadn’t mattered very much at the time. They sure mattered now.)

The weird Stepford smilers ushered him further into their freaking mansion (why would they want a dirty kid like Jason here? It didn’t make any sense!) and kept repeating those promises they had made to get him here in the first place.

So far Jason didn’t see anything too weird, like really obvious door locks or bars on the windows. If they were kidnappers, maybe they were just really bad at it and he could slip away before they realized he had caught on to their plans.

“Ah, here’s our son Timothy now,” the woman was saying, and gestured up a long staircase to a tiny kid in loose fitting clothes. “He can help you get settled in, Jason,” she finished. He still couldn’t believe he had actually told them his name too, which he also wasn’t in the habit of doing, what the hell? Had they roofied him somehow before even giving him anything to eat or drink? If something like that could happen, of course it would be in Gotham.

The kid startled at the sound of his name, tipping in a way that made Jason suddenly very sure that he was going to topple down the stairs like a ragdoll. He caught himself though, hands twisting anxiously in the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt as he darted bird-quick glances between Jason and his parents.

“Hello,” Tim said, high and nervous, Jason was calling him Tim for sure; he was way too little for his full name. “Come on, I’ll show you around?” His uncertainty made it a question, and he held out an awkward hand in invitation, though his feet stayed locked at the top of the stairs.

Jason did not want to go deeper into this creepy house, but the man and woman who had brought him here seemed to be making themselves at home downstairs, and the way they kept looking at him was sending loud alarm bells off in his head. If he played along just a little longer, maybe he could get out from under their gaze and get the hell out of here.

So, back of his neck prickling under the weight of the stares, Jason made his way up the stairs. As soon as he got within grabbing distance, Tim’s hand shot out to grab his wrist, nearly toppling the kid over again, and he yanked Jason up the rest of the stairs and out of sight into the hall. The kid’s hand was ice-cold, and the only reason he managed to move Jason even an inch was the sheer desperation he put into the pull.

“Come on,” he hissed in a panicked whisper, “come on, come on, come on!”

Jason let himself be dragged, infected by the obvious terror of this strange pale kid, and was pulled into what must have been Tim’s bedroom. Tim dropped Jason’s hand to close the door and stare at the handle, as if wishing a lock would materialize.

“What the hell, kid?” Jason asked, whispering to match the kid’s earlier entreaty, and Tim jerked around to stare up at him with wide blue eyes.

“You have to get out of here,” he answered, trembling. “You have to. They’ll kill you.”

Jason had already caught on to this whole setup being bad news, but the certainty of the strange child was jarring. The kid must have assumed that Jason didn’t believe him though, because he continued.

“They’re… they’re vampires,” he dropped his voice so low that it couldn’t even be properly called a whisper anymore; it was a breath, a soft gasp of horror and dread. Awkwardly, Tim angled his head to show his neck and Jason realized that what he had assumed was some sort of rash was actually layer upon layer of angry red scars.

“What the hell,” Jason repeated, eyes wide with a horror of his own. Even for Gotham this was too weird, he had expected pedophiles or wackos with mob connections, not this.

Tim’s hands had knotted themselves into his sleeves again, further emphasizing how large the top was on the kid. “You’ve gotta get out of here,” he repeated. “They have to keep me alive, it’ll look suspicious if I die because people know about me, but you can’t stay, you aren’t safe here!”

Frantic he caught Jason’s arm again and tugged him toward the window. “I’ll stall them for as long as I can, say that you wanted to take a shower or something, but you have to go. There’s a tree,” he pointed to it, a tall oak that was practically right up against the house, “It’s not too hard to climb, so you should be able to get out.”

Jason was already moving to open the window, “They’re gonna come after me,” he growled as he tugged against the frame, “and we’re a long way from anywhere I know to hide.”

Tim chewed on his lip, darting glances back at the door. “Okay, okay,” he took a few steadying breaths, but kept shaking like a leaf in a gale, “you should go next door,” he pointed, “and ask for Mr. Wayne, he’ll protect you.”

“Like hell he will,” Jason argued, climbing so that he sat half in the house, one leg dangling out the window.

“No, he will!” Tim insisted, shaking his head frantically, “You’ve gotta let someone know that you’re here, that’s what’s gonna keep you safe.” He wrapped thin arms across his chest in a bitter parody of a hug and shuffled his weight from bare foot to bare foot.

Jason could feel his throat closing up, and was straining his ears against the gathering evening, trying to hear any sound of the freaking vampires coming up the stairs to check on their kid. “I can’t leave you here,” he choked out, trying to sound authoritative, older, not like the terrified twelve-year-old he was. “Come on, come with me.”

Tim backed up a step, shaking his head with a sad smile. “I’m okay,” it sounded like a lie, it looked like a lie, with shiny red scars marching up and down his throat and skin as pale as paper. “They won’t kill me,” he sounded like he was trying to convince himself, not Jason, “and I need to distract them to give you time to get away.”

“Kid,” Jason hissed, reaching out for him, even though he would have to climb back out of the window frame to possibly reach him, “come with me.”

The kid backed up again, until he was pressed against the bedroom door, smiling that martyr’s smile with terror in his eyes. “Go next door, Jason,” he said, the quaver in his voice turning it from an order to a plea. “Run.”

And before Jason could scramble across the bedroom to grab the kid, he twisted the doorknob and slipped out into the hall.

Shit.

Jason couldn’t follow Tim back into the house, that would just get them both caught, and he didn’t like his chances up against two adult vampires. Gritting his teeth he grabbed for the convenient tree and made his way down with more haste than caution. He hadn’t ever climbed trees much, even when his mom had been feeling well enough to take him to a park in the city, there hadn’t been many trees big enough to climb there.

But he definitely wasn’t sticking around here to wind up as an entrée for some bloodsuckers, and the goal was to get down anyway, he didn’t much care if he fell.

The ground met his feet with a reassuring thump as he jumped the last few feet and scrambled to start running. He sure as hell didn’t want to go to Mr. Wayne, but Tim had put himself on the menu to keep Jason from getting eaten, and he didn’t know anyone closer. The man probably wouldn’t even believe Jason, would probably think he was trying to steal something, but he had to try, had to gamble on the slim chance that the man would at least call the cops, call somebody to keep Tim from getting drained dry.

How much blood could a person lose before it couldn’t be fixed? How long had Tim’s parents been eating him?

Jason couldn’t believe how far it was to the neighbor’s.

Back when he had been living with his mom he could have pounded on any wall in the dump and had neighbors yelling from three separate apartments to keep it down. Stupid freaking rich people taking up ten times the space anybody else did.

He was running full-out and the only indication he was even going the right way was that he had run into a wall between the properties. It only stretched about a foot or so over his head, so rather than take a gamble on A. finding a gate, and B. it being open, Jason hurled himself at the weathered stone and got a grip on the top of the wall. He could feel his shoes shredding under the pressure of propelling him up against the stone, worn stitches popping under the additional strain and some distant part of his mind that wasn’t screaming about Dracula noted that he would either have to steal more duct tape or some new shoes.

Jason scraped his belly across the top of the wall, levered his legs up and over, and hurled himself from the worn stone. He crumpled a bit on landing, but he’d had worse jumping from fire escapes and popped back up to keep running, his heart hammering in his throat and a stitch ripping its way up his side.

It took way longer than it should have to finally see the lights of the house he was supposed to get to—he could only hope that if Mr. Wayne called the cops on him they would at least check on Tim. If only to shut Jason up, because damn but he would be screaming about it.

The cops wouldn’t take too long to get here, right? This was rich-person central, where the people politicians wanted to keep happy lived, people who lived outside Gotham proper and expected a modicum of safety behind their stone walls and inside their too-big homes.

Getting taken by the cops would suck, was something Jason had been actively avoiding for years, but he had to believe there would be a chance to get away from whoever they sold him off to—even down to throwing himself out of a vehicle in transit. If he was really lucky he would get one of the maybe five cops that weren’t dirty and they would try to stick him in a regular foster home—Jason could be out of a place like that in a couple of minutes, easy.

Getting the cops anywhere near him on purpose sounded awful, Jason just didn’t know who else to call for something like this. Batman would be great, of course, but Jason had misplaced his portable bat signal.

Hopefully Gotham was a weird enough place that even regular cops would be able to do something about vampires.

Jason’s legs were starting to tremble by the time he made it to the too-large double doors, painted with orange light by the setting sun, his last meal hadn’t been anywhere near filling enough for the amount of energy he had burned in his frantic flight. His lungs were in a bit better shape though, reassuring him that he should at least be able to talk, presuming someone answered the door.

Jason hammered his fist against the heavy wood in a frantic rhythm before noticing the doorbell to one side and stabbing at the button. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the pounding motion had been, didn’t feel like enough of an action to affect anything and Jason only mashed a few times before switching back.

He didn’t know where to go if no one answered the door.

Someone had to answer; Tim didn’t have time for this!

The door Jason wasn’t beating on like it owed him money creaked open slightly to reveal the disapproving face of an elderly man with a thin gray moustache.

“Young man,” he started with a surprising British accent, but Jason cut him off—he already knew that he wasn’t supposed to be here and if he didn’t say the important things now he might not get a chance.

“You’ve gotta call the cops!” he burst out in a rush.

The man, wearing a stiff-collared white shirt with a black bowtie under a black suit of some sort paused, expression flickering with something that passed too quickly for Jason to label. The door opened wider, allowing Jason to see into the house for the first time—to see the absolutely huge man waiting in the entryway.

He recognized Bruce Wayne, the man was on the covers of several of the magazines Jason had shredded for insulation, but he hadn’t realized that the billionaire playboy was built like a freaking tank.

Wayne swept Jason with a look, taking in the dirt and his exertion faster than Jason could even recoil at the sudden presence of a potential threat.

“What’s happened?” Wayne asked sharply, and Jason couldn’t even feel properly grateful that he was being listened to, because getting here had taken too long.

“They’re gonna kill the kid!”

Tim shook on the other side of his bedroom door, staring at the knob with sick desperation.

He wanted to go back in, to take Jason’s hand and climb out the window with the older boy. He hadn’t realized he wanted to run away, had blocked off that possibility from his conscious mind behind a wall of they need me. Tim hadn’t realized how desperately he wanted to be away from his parents until Jason had demanded he go with him, as if it were the obvious course of action.

But… he couldn’t.

Even if he didn’t want to feed his parents…. That was just him being selfish. Tim didn’t want his mom and dad to starve to death, or find another person like Jason and become murderers.

Maybe they wouldn’t have. Maybe Jason would have lived with them and Tim would have had an older brother to help with taking care of his parents, someone to hang out with and talk to even when they inevitably went away again.

Tim just couldn’t stop thinking of the way his mom had said they couldn’t kill him because he was an investment.

Like it would be okay to kill someone else.

He couldn’t take the chance; he didn’t want his parents to be villains.

And he didn’t want the kid they had brought here tonight to die or get caught, which meant Tim had to do his part to help Jason get away.

Moving quickly and quietly Tim made his way down the hall to the bathroom, listening for any sign of his parents. It would be time for dinner any minute, and then it would be time for dinner, so Tim had to hurry.

In the bathroom Tim flipped on the lights and fan, then set the shower running with hot water, starting steam billowing in the cold room almost instantly. Turning the lock on the knob Tim went back out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Heart in his throat he made his way back to his room, gently turning the handle and peering inside carefully.

The window was open, letting a cool breeze into the space, and Jason was gone. That was good; hopefully the homeless boy would make for Wayne Manor—Batman would protect him if he had to, but Bruce Wayne ought to be enough. Tim’s parents were trying to keep their condition under the radar; Bruce Wayne would be too public of a figure to go up against.

The sun hadn’t really gone down yet, so there was a good chance that Mr. Wayne would still be home and could take care of Jason right away.

Tim drifted forward, feeling a million miles removed from his body. There was no reason to rush anymore, now it was his job to delay. Absently he closed his window and righted some of the papers that had gotten scattered by either Jason’s passage or the lingering wind. There wasn’t much to do even if his mind had been able to focus, so he sat on his bed and waited like an actor for his cue.

Part of him kept listening for his parents, part of him wondered whether tonight would have been a good night for photos of Batman. Maybe he and Nightwing had worked things out, maybe they would be fighting alongside each other instead of with each other. Maybe Tim could have gotten a shot of them sitting on a roof with some shakes from Batburger, relaxed and incongruous in their uniforms. It would have been nice to have, even if he couldn’t display it next to the picture of Batman and Robin doing the same thing the way he wanted to.

The sky was turning orange and peach with the sunset, only a few of Gotham’s usual clouds gilded with liquid gold on their edges. That would have made things interesting too, Tim could have played with how clear skies would affect his usual exposure times, and the light pollution would have looked different without the clouds to bounce off of.

The colors of the dying day had darkened only a little when Janet approached his room, a society smile in her voice.

“Boys, didn’t you hear me calling?” she asked before she even came into view in Tim’s doorway, “It’s time for dinner—” her gaze fell on Tim sitting quietly on his bed with his hands folded neatly in his lap, alone, and her stretched red smile shrank to its usual thin line.

“Timothy,” her voice was still polite, friendly, but there was sharpness behind the words that threatened to cut. “Where is Jason?”

Tim tried to keep his mind on Batman and Nightwing flying through the sky, to keep his eyes wide and innocent and not drop his gaze.

“He wanted to take a shower,” the words came as easily as if they were actually true, “I think it had been awhile, so I said it was okay.”

He held his breath as Janet’s eyes narrowed, as she glanced further down the hall to the closed bathroom door. Her lips thinned until they looked more like a line in a drawing than something three dimensional. She darted a suspicious look at Tim, who fought to remain completely still, expression clear of the anxiety that was slowly squeezing his heart like an over-full sponge.

Jack’s heavy footfalls came up the stairs and Tim couldn’t keep himself from tensing.

“What’s the holdup?” there was a smile in his dad’s voice as he called out, “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”

Janet turned to face him as he drew near enough to Tim’s room to peer inside. “The boy is taking a shower,” her voice was careful, but her face was expressionless. In contrast, Jack’s face creased with instant annoyance.

“That couldn’t have waited?”

When neither Tim nor Janet responded he moved past his wife down the hall. Janet followed silently and Tim rushed to his door to watch.

Jack reached the bathroom and knocked a little too hard.

“Hey, sport,” the smile was back in his voice but his face was strained, “don’t take too long in there, dinner will get cold.”

There was no answer, but of course there wouldn’t be.

There was no one inside.

Tim’s breaths were coming too fast, high and fluttery as frantic bird wings as his pulse hammered in his throat. He wished he could send his mind back out to take pictures, but it had been startled away from Gotham’s skyline and was trapped here and now.

“Sport?” A pause, Janet mouthed the boy’s name at Jack’s questioning look. “Jason, you okay in there?”

Silence, except for the too-fast drumming of Tim’s heart.

Jack reached for the doorknob, tried to turn it. The rattle as it refused to budge was deafening.

Tim’s breaths were shallow, barely allowing his chest to expand or contract. He couldn’t help but feel that if he moved even a centimeter more his resolve would snap and he would bolt away from his parents, would try and find somewhere to hide.

Maybe he should find somewhere to hide, they were going to be so angry, or maybe he should step forward and offer, should distract them like he said he would so Jason could get away—

The loud –crack- of Jack putting a fist through the bathroom door made Tim scream in horrible, terrified shock.

He hadn’t—he hadn’t known that his dad was that strong. He hadn’t even thought of his parents breaking down the door when they had a key to every room in the house.

Janet apparently hadn’t been expecting it either if her shocked cry of; “Jack!” was any indication. Her hand pressed over her mouth as if to forestall any further outbursts as her husband slowly withdrew his arm. Suddenly and violently exposed shards of wood drew bloody gouges in the flesh. The blood that fell in thick drops to the white carpet looked darker than Tim thought blood should really look, more burgundy than his own crimson, a shade he had grown all too familiar with recently.

Jack’s face was twisted in a vicious snarl, the lines of anger at being thwarted deepened by pain. His thick fangs were on full display and Tim’s fingers gripped his doorframe so hard his knuckles were white with strain.

Jack didn’t look much like his dad anymore.

With a deliberate care that was made all the more frightening for the clearly visible rage Jack knocked loose more shards of wood until he could reach inside the hole he had made and grip the doorknob.

Run, chanted Tim’s brain, high and terrified, run, run, run!

The door swung open on a cloud of steam, but the end of the hall seemed miles away, everything past Tim’s fingers on the doorframe and stuttering heartbeat distant and muted.

Jack entered the room.

The water turned off.

He must have said something to Janet because she turned to fix Tim with the subzero fury of her eyes.

Even the blaring siren of his internal alarm abruptly whited out in sheer panic, Tim couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe as the vampires came toward him. He kept picturing Jack punching through the bathroom door, and how he could do the same to Tim’s door, how far it was to the window and how vulnerable he would be trying to scramble through the frame. Kept remembering how badly it hurt every time his parents pulled his head to one side and bit down on his neck, how every time it happened he thought he was going to die.

The world was wavering around the edges and his lungs were burning when Jack and Janet looked down on him from far too close to run from. He looked between them helplessly, searching for a glimpse, a spark of something, some feeling they felt for him other than rage, other than hunger.

Jack grabbed Tim by the shoulders, hauling him close with no appreciable effort. Janet didn’t move to stop her husband, though she said—something, it took Tim a moment for his panic to even register words were being spoken, much less what was being said.

“—agree that this is a problem, Jack, but—”

Jack snarled, fingers tight on Tim’s thin shoulders. “You promised me I could finally eat, Janet.”

“And you will,” Janet said, though Tim could find no trace of reassurance in the words. Jack’s hands tightened past bruising to the point he was sure his bones would splinter and break under the crushing force of his father’s hold.

“Yes,” the word was a furious hiss, “I will. You won’t stop me again.”

Janet hesitated, looking at her husband’s twisted face, then down at Tim, Tim who couldn’t help but hope—but her gaze met Jack’s again and she took a step back from them, from Tim. With a sigh she crossed her arms, tone the same businesslike one she had used for years.

“Just try to be careful.”

Careful wasn’t going to matter, Tim knew it.

He had been feeding his parents too long and he was too small, even if they had tried to only take a little (and it didn’t feel like they had) there was no way Tim still had enough blood for his dad to drink his fill and still survive.

He was shaking, and felt so, so small. “Please,” his voice was thin, so thin, so quiet that he might as well have stayed silent. “Please don’t, please, please don’t.”

Jack circled his son and hit his knees behind Tim, shifting his grip so that one arm stretched across his son’s front to grip the opposite shoulder and the other fisted roughly in his hair to jerk his head to one side.

Tears sprang to Tim’s eyes at the angry pull, and this time he didn’t bother trying to stop them.

It wasn’t going to matter.

Hot breath ghosted across his neck in a parody of a warning, and then the agony of the ripping, tearing bite, his father’s fangs laying open his vein with savage fury at having been denied.

Tim choked on a scream, it hurt, it hurt!

 Jack didn’t bother to withdraw his fangs as he drank, every pull against ragged flesh slicing deeper and deeper. Almost immediately black spots danced in Tim’s vision and his legs gave way like brittle twigs asked to hold up a cinderblock.

The vampire made a noise of frustration and squeezed Tim tighter against his chest, never lifting his head from his meal.

Tim’s sobs faded to fitful hiccups as even the energy to cry properly drained away. He screwed up his eyes against the unrelenting tears, turning Janet Drake into a brownish blob against the white walls. Maybe that was better; Tim didn’t want to see his mother’s cool gaze, or worse, hunger.

He wanted to pretend that someone cared he was dying.

At least Jason would probably make it to Wayne Manor before Jack and Janet bothered to go looking for him now. At least Tim had managed that much.

Another sucking, scraping pull, dragging out his blood and leaving him with tear-stained cheeks and black spots multiplying in his vision. The spots made Tim remember the first time… but this time he doubted that he would be waking up afterwards.

His heart was so loud in his ears, even louder than the sound of his helpless crying.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

THUD.

Jack’s grip shifted, but Tim could barely feel it, the vampire withdrew, releasing his hold on Tim’s head and it lolled forward without direction, without strength to stay up.

“What was that?” Jack’s voice sounded distant and hollow, like he was speaking through a long tube.

“I don’t know,” Janet’s snapped reply sounded the same, and Tim stared blankly at her black heels for a long moment before he realized that THUD had come from outside of him.

Jack let him go and Tim crumpled to the floor, vision going completely dark for a heart-stopping moment before filtering slowly back in. That was good, Tim had a feeling that if he went under completely he wouldn’t be waking back up ever.

Tim should… do something.

He hoped the noise hadn’t been Jason coming back, he didn’t think he could distract his parents anymore. His neck was pulsing to the beat of his heart and there was a hot wet spot that throbbed with pain.

Tim should… should move his hand, should try to stop the bleeding.

It felt like trying to swim through sand, and even when he finally felt the warm slipperiness under his cold fingers he wasn’t sure if he was helping, if he was blocking anything.

The vampires moved, it was hard to keep track of what was going on, but Tim tried, some part of him insistent that he stay aware of the threat.

“Who’s there?!” Jack’s voice, still sounding angry, he had been interrupted more than once tonight so Tim supposed that made sense.

Silence was the answer, but it was a different silence than the kind that had waited behind the bathroom door.

This wasn’t a no-one-there silence; this silence grew and swelled, gathering itself like a storm on the horizon.

“I’m warning you, I’ll call the police!”

Janet made an abortive movement that might have been disbelief at her husband’s claim, but froze as a growl answered.

“Will you now?”

Tim blinked, it was a slow, heavy movement and the eye pressed against the carpet didn’t open again when the drag against his eyelashes proved to be too much to fight.

There was a dark figure in the hall with his parents.

A familiar shape that meant safety and nights spent witnessing a vital crusade.

Oh, Tim thought, letting his open eye half-close as he relaxed. Batman’s here.

Bruce eyed the scene, keeping hold of his emotions with an iron grip.

He would have preferred to sneak in and incapacitate the vampires, but the boy, Jason, who had run to his house in a panic had been convinced that his friend didn’t have time to wait, so he had made noise, attracted attention to distract from their meal.

It looked as though Jason had been right. The boy the vampires had been feeding from was crumpled on the white carpet, as pale as wax with one hand clumsily pressed against the crimson spilling from his throat.

He looked…

Bruce could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the glimmer of a half-closed eye trying to track his surroundings, but it was obvious that the kid had no time. He needed intervention now, needed treatment for shock and a transfusion, and even then he might not…

Bruce could only be thankful that Jason had caved under additional questions about what the danger was—at least Alfred knew to set up the medbay for an emergency victim. They could worry about Jason having been in the medbay and the cave later, if this smaller boy survived.

The Drakes paused, uncertain, and he moved forward. If Jason’s testimony about getting here was right, they might be fairly new vampires. It didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous, but if they hadn’t fully come into their powers it was an advantage he had every intention of using.

Vampires might be predators, but they were also people, and the people Jack and Janet Drake had been were unaccustomed to violence. Jack kept blustering up until Bruce rabbit-punched him in the throat, causing his eyes to bulge in shocked pain as breathing suddenly became a challenge. Janet threw herself at Batman’s back, fingers curled into claws that she tried to get at his eyes, hissing like an angry cat.

Bruce twisted under her weight, letting her slide to the side as she aborted her attack to try and find purchase on his cape, the cape that masked his quick elbow jab backwards, sinking the armored joint into her soft stomach and driving the air from her lungs in an abrupt whoosh.

Janet staggered back, arms wrapped around her middle and Jack lunged at him, throwing a wild punch even as he bared his bloody fangs in instinctive threat. Batman could have dodged the blow; instead he used it, shifting into a Judo throw that sent the male vampire crashing into his wife, knocking them both to the ground in a tangle.

The handcuffs he cinched around their wrists had been tested for metahuman-strength, they could withstand a pair of vampires who had chosen to become monsters. Bruce ignored their wheezes and groans as they shifted awkwardly, he didn’t have time for them right now.

Turning, he knelt by their small son, Tim, one hand already reaching to secure a quick bandage around the bleeding neck. The boy stirred weakly as Bruce gently pressed his bloody fingers aside, his short black hair fell in inky strands against the weave of the carpet as one light blue eye managed to focus on the vigilante.

“B’mn,” the tired smile Tim tried to give him was pale, bloodless, and Bruce pulled the small child into his arms, ready to carry him to help as quickly as possible. “Di’ J’sn find you?”

The question was barely intelligible, but Bruce made an educated guess as he exited through the front door, the same one he had kicked in to make his distraction.

“Jason’s fine,” he promised the too light, too pale boy in his arms, “He’s waiting for us. We’re going to get you help.”

It was a good thing the Batmobile could take itself back to the cave, Bruce was sure, irrationally, superstitiously sure, that if he set the boy down that would be the end, Tim would slip away. The child’s breaths were shallow and his eyes kept sliding closed. Bruce jabbed at the car’s heater, setting it to maximum despite the short drive.

“Stay with me,” he ordered, knowing that it was more of a plea, “Stay with me son. What’s your name?”

The entrance to the cave was flashing by before the boy managed to muster the energy to answer on a soft exhale, “T’mm.”

“Tim?” Bruce said like it was a question, like he had been as ignorant of Tim Drake’s existence as he had been of the fact that his parents had been turned into vampires, “We’re almost there, Tim. You’re doing really well, just hang on for me a little longer and you can sleep.”

The boy in his arms made a valiant effort to rally, but he had very little reserves to call upon. In the end he only managed to keep his eyes open for a brief fraction longer before succumbing to the need to blink, and he half curled into Bruce’s chest.

The Batmobile coasted onto its platform and Bruce was moving to get out before the sleek black vehicle came to a full stop.

“Is he—” Jason was standing between Batman and the medbay, incongruous against natural stone and advanced technology in his dirty red hoodie and ripped jeans. His wide blue eyes were fixed on the limp bundle in Batman’s arms.

“He’s alive,” Bruce said—it didn’t feel like a reassurance, it wasn’t a promise that he would be alright, would survive, but it was the truth. Jason swallowed hard, easing out of the way as Bruce approached, though his gaze stayed firmly on Tim.

Tim stirred weakly, his cheek dragging against the armor of the Batsuit as he tried to angle his head to see past the cradling hold.

“J’sn?” his voice was a breath, almost lost in the echoes of the cave. Jason made a choked noise and dared a step nearer, though he darted a quick nervous glance at Batman as he did so.

“Kid?”

Tim’s lips twitched in what might have been an attempted smile, and his attention stayed on the other boy even as Bruce carried him into the medbay and gently deposited him on the prepared bed, the foot of which had already been raised so as to slightly elevate the child’s legs.

“Y’re ok,” Tim sounded tired, but pleased.

Jason flushed almost as red as his hoodie. In a burst of frustration-induced bravery he approached the bedside, gripping one of Tim’s cold pale hands as Alfred worked on his other arm, setting up for a transfusion from one of the bags of O-negative they kept stocked in the cave.

“I’m pissed, Timmy,” Jason’s tone was a little angry, but mostly desperate, “if you ever try to set things up so I have to leave you behind again I’ll get us both caught and I won’t care.”

Tim blinked slowly, “Buh I don’ wan’ to hap’n again,” he half slurred, a slightly petulant note in his voice.

Jason gave a short laugh, more a loud exhale than anything else. “Yeah, well, it’s Gotham, kid.”

Finally Alfred was able to secure one of the child’s depleted veins to the IV and the transfusion could begin. Realistically Bruce knew it hadn’t been that long since he had emerged from the Batmobile, let alone since the Englishman had started treatment, but every moment without active help felt like an eternity.

Catching his eye Alfred nodded toward the heavy blanket waiting folded on an empty treatment bed. Grateful for something to do, Bruce took the blanket and shook it out before settling it over Tim’s legs and waist, they would need clear access to Tim’s neck to clean and properly bandage his injury. After a delayed blink at the flapping fabric Tim managed to turn his head toward the source, though his hand stayed clasped in Jason’s.

“Batman…” another long, slow blink. Bruce doubted that Tim would stay awake much longer, it should be alright, they could monitor him now and the medbay was well stocked with medications to help with bloodloss, that being something of a hazard in Bruce’s night job.

“Yes, Tim?”

Tim’s little face was serious, “You should buy Dick a Batburger and shake,” he said, apropos of nothing, “he likes those.” His eyes slid shut and stayed that way before Bruce could marshal a response, the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathed a slight reassurance.

Mechanically Bruce assisted Alfred in setting up the heart monitor and a nasal cannula of oxygen, moving around Jason, who had stuck himself to the side of the table like a particularly stubborn piece of gum. He exposed the savage injury on Tim’s neck and worked with Alfred to do what he could for the ragged tear, knowing that paradoxically, the fact that the wound had been administered by a vampire was likely what had kept Tim alive this long, even if Jack Drake hadn’t intended to close the injury.

And he wondered… how had his young neighbor tied Dick Grayson to Batman in his semi-conscious state?

Tim bobbed along consciousness like a leaf in a stream, aware and then not in swirling eddies and occasionally held under by a playful undertow. He couldn’t bring himself to worry about it in the moments he was conscious enough to be aware.

It didn’t hurt that he was warm and comfortable and there was the firm pressure of a hand around his.

“You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to,” it was a comforting voice, a man he knew… “It may take some time to find a safe home for you though.”

The hand on his flexed its grip, tightening fractionally, “It was pretty dumb of you to let me down here if you didn’t want me to know.” That was voice was familiar too, but more immediate younger, rough and around the edges, Jason?

A heavy sigh, “Given what you told us, it was likely Tim wouldn’t be able to wait for an ambulance,” Oh, that was Bruce Wayne’s voice, “Alfred needed to prepare and we both wanted to be sure you stayed, that meant keeping an eye on you.”

Frowning felt complicated, far away, like practicing his writing in a mirror. It sounded like… Jason had found out Mr. Wayne was Batman? That was probably Tim’s fault, even if he hadn’t meant for it to happen.

It would be okay though, right? Batman was a hero, was important, surely Jason knew that and could keep the secret.

“What about the kid?” Jason bypassed Mr. Wayne’s concern for his safety. “What’s gonna happen to him?”

Tim made a quiet noise of protest—they didn’t need to worry about him, he was fine, Batman had saved him. And Jason was probably homeless and it sounded like Mr. Wayne had maybe offered to let him stay.

That was huge.

That made Tim like, Jason’s godfather or something if he decided to stay. Was it a godfather? What did you call it when you introduced a kid to a guy who adopted them? He wasn’t sure, but godfather sounded better than broker or liaison, it made Tim sound like a wizard.

“Tim?” a hand, much larger than Jason’s gently squeezed his shoulder. “Are you awake?”

Prying open his eyes took effort and everything looked blurry when he managed it.

“No,” Tim mumbled in nonsensical answer. He must be awake if he was answering, no matter how heavy his eyelids were. He managed to blink a few times (closing his eyes was easy, opening them remained difficult) and the shapes around him resolved into Jason, still in the dirty hoodie and Bruce Wayne—or no, Batman, Bruceman? Bat-Wayne? He was still in his costume but had pulled back the cowl so his face was exposed.

Tim’s face twisted as remorse clawed at him, for some reason the emotion had clear access to his expression; he could usually manage better than that.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and at least now he wasn’t dropping his vowels. Had someone picked them up for him? That was nice of them. “I didn’t think Jason would find out.”

Not that he had been doing much thinking when he sent Jason over to Wayne Manor. More like blindly panicking and gravitating to the safest person he could think of.

“Didn’t think I would find out what?” Jason asked, and Tim blinked at him, dropping his voice to whisper because it was a secret.

“He’s Batman,” Tim confided.

“I noticed,” Jason returned dryly, darting a quick glance at Bruce. “How much is he on?”

“Apparently enough,” Bruce sounded faintly amused, “though some of it is probably the blood loss. Tim, how did you know I was Batman?”

That made sense; he needed to know so he could guard his secret better. Tim tried to nod sagely in understanding, but Bruce’s hand shifted from his shoulder to his hair to keep him from moving. His fingers gently carded through the black strands, and how was he supposed to answer if Batman made him feel all sleepy-warm?

With a heroic effort of will Tim managed to marshal his thoughts and explain. “Flips.”

“Flips?” Bruce echoed, still stroking through Tim’s hair with gentle tugs along his scalp.

“Robin flips,” once more Tim was not allowed to nod, he wondered if there was a reason for that, “Only Grayson’s fly.”

Jason looked suspiciously at Bruce’s hand, then at an IV stand that Tim hadn’t noticed sporting bags like odd fruit.

“Is that supposed to make sense?”

“I imagine it will later, but it’s a start.”

Tim didn’t think it was exactly fair that they were complaining about him not making sense when he had warned them that he wasn’t awake. He could try harder to wake up, he supposed, but he had been sure, really hopelessly sure that he was going to die tonight, and now he had Jason holding his hand like he was making sure Tim didn’t go anywhere and Batman sliding his fingers through his hair and he was warm and comfortable.

When he woke up for real he was probably going to cry, because his brain was mean like that, and then he was going to have to ask what would happen to his parents.

He was pretty sure he remembered Batman punching his dad, and that was… that was a lot.

And he would probably have to figure out what would happen to him too, especially now that Batman knew that Tim knew his secret. Maybe he could convince Bruce that he wouldn’t tell anyone, except he had already told Jason, kind of.

Though it sounded like Jason might get to stay here, which was cool. Tim had always wondered what having a friend next door was like, and Jason was still holding his hand so he probably wouldn’t mind at least trying to be friends.

Tim gave a pleased hum and let his eyes close again. He could work out those things when he woke up. For now he was too content to care.