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Tim did not particularly enjoy being at home. Yes, he had been there his whole life, but even then, the walls were too bare, rooms too empty and love too scarce. It wasn’t enjoyable being in a house that was doomed ever since he was a child.
His parents loved him with all their heart, but just not enough to be home.
Oftentimes, when his parents would return home from a trip, they would expect a clean house with every artifact they had collected to be placed in the same place they had left it.
Once, when Tim was feeling curious, he picked up a vase. He was only a child, and children didn’t have the steadiest of hands, so it wasn’t a surprise when the vase slipped from his fingers and collided at the ground with a sharp clatter. His parents, who had been home at the time, rushed into the room and not for his sake.
They saw the vase shattered on the ground at Tim’s feet and he watched as his father’s lip curled into a snarl before he bit out an order to banish Tim to his room.
That day, Tim had cut himself on the broken glass but he had cowered to his room before anyone noticed. He was careful to not get blood on anything apart from his hands. That was quite impossible and far past his control as he watched it trickle down the length of his wrist.
Blood used to make Tim sick.
Now, however, Tim was too accustomed to seeing the crimson substance to panic at the sight of it. Batman had trained him well and Tim was Robin; Robin had to become accustomed to a lot of things.
Tim was eyeing the scar on his hand as he thought of the memory. It was small, only a line of white, and almost invisible now. If you didn’t know he had gotten hurt there, you would never notice it.
He was sitting in his room, preparing for sleep. After patrol, Bruce hadn’t specified whether Tim was allowed to stay the night or not. Tim never forgot his manners and wouldn’t dare impose on the man. He was already on thin ice ever since Jason rose from the grave.
Right now, Tim didn’t care where he slept, more so focused on actually sleeping. Patrol was exhausting as usual and he didn’t possess the strength to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds. He just barely stumbled back home and up to his room before promptly going limp on his bed.
The blissful promise of sleep was just about to take him before a quiet scuff was heard downstairs. Tim could have passed it off as the house settling, as it was old, or he could assume it was his father returning home from wherever he was at this hour. However, Tim was Robin, and Robin didn’t pass off anything.
The house did not sound like that when it was settling, he would know. Growing up alone, the home would be quiet enough that Tim would be able to hear every creak. As for his father, he was not supposed to return home tonight.
Therefore, someone was in Tim’s house.
And Tim was supposed to be alone.
He slipped out of bed stealthily, tiptoeing out of his room and toward the source of the noise. He was unarmed, unfortunately, not able to grab anything that would be suitable for a weapon. Anything that would qualify as a weapon, that was. Technically, Tim could have easily put his water glass to use but he was familiar with having to use his hands and it was the most plausible option.
Whoever was in his house was doing a horrendous job at hiding the fact that they were rummaging around the place like a cat on steroids. Tim honestly felt secondhand embarrassment for the robber. They had obviously thought that no one was home and they had just scored the best gig of a lifetime.
Tim peeked into a room, spotting a man searching through one of their drawers from a forgotten TV stand. He was rough-looking, not quite homeless but definitely not receiving the best physical care. He didn’t look like he had any weapons on him.
But then again, Tim was tired.
“If you just leave, I won’t call the cops,” Tim drawled from the doorway of the room.
The man’s head whipped around to face him. He didn’t say anything that Tim could understand, only incomprehensible muttering.
At first, Tim thought that he was seriously considering just booking it out of the house and never coming back again. He looked uneasy, maybe already hurt. That was until he dove at Tim, colliding with his stomach and tackling him to the floor. A startled noise squeaked out of Tim at the movement.
They both landed just outside the doorway, now in the living room. The man was on top of him, straddling his hips and attempting to get a few hits in. Tim kneed him in the back, dodging the punch. The man groaned, falling forward.
Tim took that as his chance to grab the man’s head, shift to the side, and slam it into the floor. It hit with a crack and Tim didn’t spare a wince at the noise of his nose breaking on impact. The robber growled, swinging around to face Tim and nailing him in the throat.
A choked sound croaked out of Tim’s mouth as he was temporarily unable to get a breath in. He brought his hands to his neck, painfully reminded of Jason slitting the knife across Tim’s throat and feeling the gush of blood spill from the wound.
The man, who was unequivocally unaware of Tim’s panic, pulled out a knife. It was bigger than a pocket knife, but not quite the size of your average kitchen knife. To be completely honest, the type of knife was the least of his worries.
While Tim was trying to think of ways to unequip the man with the weapon, the knife was not cut into his throat but instead shoved into his thigh. Tim let out a muffled grunt that turned into a groan when the robber twisted the knife whilst still in his leg.
His thigh was beating with pain, sharply spiking when the knife was yanked out of his leg and taken by the man. The robber seemed to decide that it was the perfect time to escape with whatever he probably had stuffed in his ratty hoodie. Tim cupped his hand over his wound as he watched the robber run out of his house.
Tim pressed down firmly, applying pressure with his palm. Blood still seeped from the wound, coating his pants while trickling down to the floor. To his horror, his blood soaked into his parents’ Persian thousand-dollar carpet. It looked wrong on the carpet, pooling like a conspicuous blob among the blues and greys. Tim counted his breaths, trying to limit the amount of blood he spilled.
It didn’t quite work as well as he hoped but he managed to drag himself to the nearest bathroom and wrap copious amounts of gauze around his thigh to secure the bleeding. He bit back a shout at the sharp pain the action elicited but he had other things on his mind.
Like his parents’ rug.
Once Tim returned to the living room, the stain was more prominent than ever before, sticking out like a sore thumb. For once, the sight of it made him sick.
Tim had to clean it up as fast as possible. He had no idea when his dad would be home but if he came back to the rug stained, it wouldn’t look good for Tim.
He tried to scoop it up but only partially succeeded. The only thing it really did was make him more disgusted and reminded him of the ache pulsing in his leg. It smelled thick—irony-like metal, but tangible on his tongue. Frankly, it was quite horrific.
He had to find help somehow and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be from Bruce. He would lecture Tim and that was the last thing he needed right now. Dick wouldn’t care about the stain at all but instead fret over Tim’s injury like he was a child.
Jason was a very obvious “no”.
However…
Jason wouldn’t be emotionally stunted by Tim’s state, nor would he give a half-assed lecture. He would be straight about it—probably threaten to kill him in the process—but also give him structured advice
Tim was 92.4% sure that Jason wouldn’t try to kill him if he called and asked for help. He didn’t apologize for the attack in the Tower but he also hadn’t tried to kill Tim since then so it was probably fine.
Tim’s fingers trembled against his phone as he searched for the number. His hands were almost drenched in blood, cracking with red and every colour in between. Red painted across his screen, causing him to cringe. The sound of the phone ringing was so peculiar when it broke the silence that he flinched.
Jason picked up on the 5th ring.
“I hope this was a butt-dial,” Jason remarked with a snarl.
“You kill a lot of people, right?” Tim asked, picking at his blood-rimmed nails.
“What do you want?” Jason sighed, obviously expecting something similar to a lecture.
“Do you know how to get a bloodstain out?” Tim continued.
Jason was silent on the other end for a moment. “Who the fuck did you kill…?”
“No one,” Tim bit, rolling his eyes despite Jason being unable to see him. “Just tell me how.”
Jason relented, much quicker than Tim thought he would. “Hydrogen peroxide. Just pour it on and it should come off.”
“Thanks,” Tim said because he was polite.
Jason was far less polite. The phone cut out as Jason hung up on him.
Tim’s leg screamed in agony as he walked back over to the bathroom to try and find hydrogen peroxide. He sneered when another drag of blood smeared on the handle of the cabinet. Thankfully, he had just over half of a bottle left.
As Tim dripped it over the carpet, he watched it bubble and fizz into a pinky puddle. The substance soaked into the paper towel he set on it, colouring the paper a disgusting faded colour of blood. Unfortunately, the carpet still harboured a stain, much less brighter than before, but just as noticeable. Tim frowned in disappointment. The bottle of hydrogen peroxide was almost gone, just the drags left in the bottom.
Tim dialled Jason with a frown on his face as he stared at the stubborn stain.
“It didn’t work,” Tim complained.
“You must’ve done it wrong,” Jason accused, sounding annoyed. “I’m sure Bruce will buy you a new whatever-you-stained.”
“The carpet is one of a kind,” Tim denied, sadly shaking his head.
His dad was going to come home and see the stain and be pissed. Tim could practically picture the steam fuming from both of his ears at the sight.
“How the fuck did you get blood on the carpet?”
Tim groaned. “It doesn’t matter! My dad is going to be so mad at me,” Tim informed, regretfully.
“I have to do everything my fucking self,” Jason muttered quietly before speaking up, “I’ll be there in fifteen.”
Then he hung up.
Tim had to sit back and process what he had just heard. Jason was coming to his house? That was one of the worst ideas Tim had ever heard. It was going to end up with someone dead and that someone would undoubtedly be Tim. He and Jason were not on the best of terms but they weren’t out to kill each other necessarily. Still, that did nothing to quell his worries.
Fifteen minutes passed by quicker than he anticipated and Jason was rapping on the door only seconds later. Tim wordlessly let him in and motioned to the stain. It was quite obviously splayed out on the carpet.
Jason stared at it in a calculated silence before very slowly turning toward Tim. He had a look of—disgust? Surprise? Tim couldn’t quite decipher it.
“Tim,” Jason said sharply.
Tim was startled because that was the first time Jason had ever said his name instead of a rude nickname.
“That isn’t a stain, that is a whole ass pool! Where’s the fucking body?!” Jason cried.
“I didn’t kill anyone, asshole. It’s my blood,” Tim confessed.
Tim saw the moment Jason discovered the bandages wrapped around his thigh as his face scrunched up in an unhappy frown.
“Bruce didn’t force you to stay at the manor after an injury like that?” Jason asked.
Tim scowled, absently fretting at the corner of his bandage.
“It didn’t happen as Robin,” Tim supplied, averting his eyes in shame. “Someone broke in and I wasn’t prepared. He got lucky.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “Broke in? Just now?”
All Tim did was nod before vaguely gesturing over to the large muted bloodstain that was surely soaking in further as they spoke. “Can you just help me get rid of that?”
Jason eyed the pink patch on the carpet. “Well, no wonder you couldn’t get it out. Hydrogen peroxide won’t do anything for a stain that big.”
Tim frowned in dissatisfaction. “What do I do? My dad will be so mad.”
Jason looked at him with an odd expression, one Tim couldn’t quite decipher. He wished he had spent more time studying Jason so he could read him as well as he could Bruce.
“Won’t your dad be more worried about the massive stab wound you have in your thigh?”
Tim shrugged and tried to keep the insecurity out of his voice. “I’m not gonna die from it so it won’t matter. It’s not like he won’t care it’s just this carpet was really expensive.”
“Your fucking deadbeat dad cares more about a carpet than his own son?” Jason said, humour lilting his tone, although it had a sharp edge to it.
“Whatever. Help me lift this chair over the stain. I’ll just tell him I felt like redecorating,” Tim said, trying to dismiss Jason’s comment.
It hit him harder than the knife to his thigh because it was pathetically true. Tim couldn’t think of one comforting thing his father would say to the stab wound yet he could come up with hundreds of insults he would spit at Tim for staining the rug.
Jason wordlessly obliged which was a nice change. Tim somewhat expected him to fight every word uttered out of his mouth. The chair looked odd in a different place once they moved it. The house had never changed for all the years Tim had lived there. It did, however, cover the bloodstain so it would have to be something to get used to.
“Do you want a ride over to the manor?” Jason offered.
Tim tilted his head in confusion. “Why am I going to the manor?”
Jason’s cold bewildered gaze made him feel small. “You have a stab wound.”
“And I’m fine,” Tim supplied. He waved a hand around. “You can go now.”
“Oh fuck that. I know I’ve tried to kill you before but I’d rather you not die from infection. Who knows what the fuck Bruce will do if that happens,” Jason rambled, walking over toward Tim who backed up.
“Where’s your medical shit?” Jason asked, moving in the direction Tim pointed at before returning with various supplies in his arms.
He peeled off the bandage that was now beginning to cake with blood. Some of it was dry, turning a dark burgundy around the edges. Tim hissed at the sight. It was no less disgusting seeing his blood compared to everyone else’s.
The air was filled with silence, not quite awkward but not comfortable either. Tim decided to break it.
“He wouldn’t have the same reaction if it was me,” Tim said.
Jason glanced up at him for only a second before continuing to treat his wound. “What?”
“When you died,” Tim clarified, suppressing a wince at his own words. “Bruce was out of control.”
Jason’s jaw snapped shut so forcefully that Tim could hear it click.
Tim continued, “If I died, it wouldn’t matter. Bruce would—I think he would be upset, sure, but it wouldn’t be the same as you. You’re his son, I’m—not.“
Once he pathetically finished his sentence, he faced the wall, finding no amount of comfort in the nearly perfect paint.
“Three fucking tries and he still can’t get it right. I’m gonna kill him,” Jason suddenly spat, voice much more aggressive than it was minutes ago.
Tim would be lying if he said it didn’t scare him.
“What are you talking about? Please don’t kill anyone,” Tim asked meekly.
“I’m talking about Robin. The first one ended up hating him, the second one died, and the third one’s self-worth issues are up to the fucking roof.”
“Bruce is trying his best,” Tim fought weakly.
Jason mockingly laughed. “You’re practically an orphan already and you don’t even live at the manor!”
Tim couldn’t help the pure unbridled rage festering in his broken chest. It snapped out of him like a cut wire all too suddenly.
“I’m not you, Jason!” he cried.
Jason snorted, undeterred at the volume. “You don’t want to be me.”
Something twisted in his chest, ugly and painful like a noose.
“All I’ve ever wanted to be is you! Do you know how many times I’ve wished that Bruce would care for me as much as he did for you? He dismisses me when I’m hurt and leaves Alfred to stitch me up. After something bad happens, like getting shot, it’s not Bruce who invites me to stay over but it’s Alfred.”
Jason stayed speechless so Tim only continued.
“I can’t even remember the last time I slept and Bruce doesn’t even notice! He didn’t even speak to me after patrol today and I just left. I didn’t even go through the manor doors, I just walked right out of the cave. Then all I wanted to do is fucking close my eyes and some asshole breaks into my house! Then he stabs me and I bleed all over my dad’s billion-dollar carpet that he obsesses over more than his own son!”
By the time he was done rambling, Tim’s voice was shot and he was nothing more than a few heaving breaths.
“And I’m so useless I can’t even get rid of a stain,” Tim said in a whisper.
Jason sighed. “Damn, and I thought I was Bruce’s biggest fuck up.”
Tim’s wound spiked with pain as Jason threaded a needle through the skin to stitch it up. He hissed in pain, receiving a disgruntled look from Jason in return. The pain grounded him but he was nothing but grateful when the stitches were done.
Jason stood up, patting him on the shoulder as he did. Tim reeled forward at the contact.
“The sooner you accept Bruce is an asshole, the better off you’ll be,” Jason said.
Then he walked right out of the door.
Tim’s dad came home two days later.
The armchair was still over the muted bloodstain and Tim sucked in a heavy breath when his dad paused in the living room.
“Why did you move my chair?” his dad asked.
“I thought it looked better over there,” Tim replied, chewing at his nails.
His dad scoffed. “How am I supposed to watch TV if my damn chair isn’t even facing the screen?”
Tim wished he could shrink into the ground to be nothing more than a puddle. His dad dragged the armchair back over to when it was before and glared at the stain on his Persian carpet.
“Timothy,” his dad bit, clenching his teeth as he said it. “What is this?”
“I accidentally bled on the carpet. I swear I tried to clean it up,” Tim confessed.
“Well, not very well obviously. What did you do, hit your head?” his dad snarked.
Tim frowned. “Someone broke in and they stabbed my thigh.”
His dad whipped his head around to face him so aggressively fast that Tim let a little ball of hope form in his stomach because his dad might actually be worried about him getting hurt and maybe he would give him a hug—
“Did they take anything?!”
Tim froze and the ball of hope popped.
“I don’t think so…” he answered.
“You don’t think or you don’t know?” his dad criticized.
“I didn’t see him take anything but he had pockets,” Tim said.
His dad hummed absently. “Do you know how much this carpet was?”
Tim gulped, feeling the drags of saliva run down his dry throat. “No.”
“$456,000, Timothy. You ruined hundreds of thousands of my money.”
“I tried not to…” Tim meekly responded, voice weak.
His dad scoffed. “Oh, you tried not to. Well, that makes me feel so much better!” he remarked sarcastically.
Tim looked down at the floor, making an effort to avoid gazing at his bloodstain.
“I have to go to a meeting. If you bleed on anything else, feel free to get out of my house lest you waste more of my money.”
Tim nodded, ridden with guilt.
It was entirely Tim’s fault this time.
His dad had left without making dinner so Tim was left to his own device to articulate a decent meal for himself. He had been cutting carrots but his knife was so dull that he had to muster up his Robin strength to slice through the vegetable.
Then his hand slipped—
And well, the knife sliced through his entire palm.
It was a lot more blood than he had thought could ever come out of your hand. Blood ran down his wrist, trailing all the way down to his forearm. It pooled at the crease of his elbow before dropping to the floor to make perfectly round splatters. To Tim’s horror, he went to grab a paper towel to clean it up and it stained the wood flooring.
The blood was soaked into the cracks of the wood and it was even more hopeless than the carpet despite there being less blood. But this was also a floor and you would have to rip it all out to replace it.
So in his panic, still with an openly bleeding wound, he called Jason.
“I swear to God,” Jason bit as soon as he answered.
“Sorry to bother you,” Tim began because the last thing he wanted was for Jason to kill him and make him bleed even more. “Is it possible to get blood out of wood flooring?”
Jason paused and Tim heard gunshots in the distance.
“Are you—“ Tim said before Jason cut him off.
“How the fuck does this shit keep happening to you?! Who broke in this time?”
Tim hurriedly explained himself. “No one! I did it.”
Jason sounded like he was moving away from the gunshots. “You did it…?”
A spark of realization slapped him in the face. “No! Not on purpose, by accident.”
“I don’t think blood comes out of wood flooring, kid.”
Tim sighed. “Damn it, that’s what I thought. Great, now I’m homeless…”
Tim watched the blood dry on his arm in some places where it thinned. His wrist felt sticky as if the skin had a layer of dried glue on the top.
“Hold on, what?” Jason asked.
“My dad said if I bled on anything else he would kick me out.”
“Holy shit, Bruce is a dead man,” Jason muttered before speaking up. “Are you still bleeding?”
“Yeah.”
“Go to the manor, idiot,” Jason ordered, firing off shots from his gun.
“What, why? Why can’t you just come over here and stitch me up like last time?”
“Kind of busy here.” More shots. “Aren’t you homeless now anyway? Go seek refuge with Batman before you bleed out.”
“I’m not going to bleed out. It’s only a hand wound.”
“I will stop busting this trafficking ring to go to your house and shoot you myself if you do not get your ass over to the manor,” Jason threatened.
Tim took the threat seriously considering it was very believable. “Fine.”
Jason hung up first as usual.
Tim shoved a tea towel against his bleeding hand just to prevent him from dripping a trail through his house. His dad wouldn’t miss a tea towel, surely. He trekked up to the manor doors whilst clutching his aching palm. He must have been in some sort of shock before because it was only really starting to hurt now. Tim gently knocked on the door, almost too quiet to hear.
Alfred opened the door and took one look at him before ushering him inside.
“What happened, my boy?” Alfred asked, gingerly grasping his injured hand after he led Tim into the kitchen for better lighting.
He peeled off the tea towel and blood instantly gushed out of the cut. Tim’s hand was so red you couldn’t see what colour his skin actually was.
“It was an accident,” Tim said quietly.
“Alfred…?” A voice asked from the entrance of the kitchen.
Tim saw Bruce and looked away.
“What happened?” Bruce asked, directed at any one of them. His voice had a Batman twinge to it.
“It seems Master Tim will need stitches. I will fetch the first aid kit,” Alfred said, quickly pacing off.
Bruce walked up to Tim slowly while taking the back of his bleeding hand. “Tim? How did this happen?”
“It was stupid. I was making dinner and the knife slipped,” Tim informed, still refusing to meet Bruce’s eyes.
Bruce tilted his head. “Where was your dad? I thought he was home.”
“At a meeting.”
Alfred returned with the medical supplies and was much gentler than Jason while stitching him up. He even had numbing spray misted over the cut so he wouldn’t feel the needle going in.
“Great, my second set of stitches in three days,” Tim remarked sarcastically.
“Second?” Bruce asked, studying Tim with deep intent. “When was the first?”
Tim pursed his lips. He didn’t want to tell Bruce about the robber. He would just make a big deal out of it and the last thing Tim wanted was a lecture. He had gotten enough of those after patrol.
Tim told the truth anyway. “Someone broke into my house and stabbed me in the thigh. Long story short, Jason stitched me up.”
Bruce’s eyes practically bulged out of his head. “Jason? Why was Jason there?”
Tim shrugged. “I called him.”
The air stilled and Bruce took an audible breath, something he rarely did. When he spoke next, he sounded utterly wrecked which clenched at Tim’s heart in such a way that made him feel horrible.
“You called…Jason. You didn’t call me?” Bruce questioned.
Tim frowned. “Sorry. I know I messed up and now you have to get my report days later. I should have come to you right away because it could have had something to do with Batman but it didn’t really seem like it because—“
“Tim, sweetheart. That’s not—that’s not what I’m even remotely worried about. You called Jason, someone who tried to kill you, before calling me.” Bruce’s voice was nothing but soft, demeaning words completely gone.
“Sorry?” Tim apologized, nothing but sincere. He wasn’t sure what Bruce wanted to hear.
“Tim, did I do something to make you feel like you couldn’t call me?” Bruce speculated.
“I just didn’t want to get in trouble.”
Bruce huffed sadly like his chest was too heavy to hold in a breath. “Never. You would never get in trouble for that, Tim.”
Tim slowly eased into a hug, trying to elevate his bloody hand to prevent blood from getting on Bruce but he was only tucked in tighter.
Bruce continued to speak. “I get so worried about you. It’s unfair to you and for that, I’m so sorry, but after Jason…I can’t let anything happen to you. I know sometimes I yell at you after you get hurt and I’ve done a horrible job at apologizing to you about that.”
Tim sighed into Bruce’s shirt because—finally. Tim had waited so long to hear those words come out of Bruce’s mouth, or any adult's mouth in fact.
“But, Tim, for anything—and I mean anything—you can call me. And I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear before.”
“Okay,” Tim whispered.
Unlike his own house, in the manor, Tim could feel the love. It was in pictures on the wall and within the flowers blooming in the garden. The manor was so big yet it was never empty. There was copious amounts of evidence that people lived there and Tim would never ask for anything else.
He fell asleep at the manor with two new scars but it didn’t matter because this house wasn’t doomed like his own and Tim wasn’t forced to be alone.
Jason called first this time, startling Tim to an extent.
“You can buy special markers for your floor,” Jason said as soon as Tim picked up.
“What…?” Tim asked out of utter confusion.
“To cover the bloodstain on your floor. Just so you’re not kicked onto the streets of Crime Alley and forced to steal some rich asshole’s tires for money.”
Tim surprised himself by chuckling. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
As usual, Jason hung up before he could.