Chapter Text
Jason paces around his safe house, eyes flickering back and forth between Lazarus green and an odd mix of his usual eye color and a softer green, something akin to teal. (He hates his eyes now. They’re like a cruel reminder every time he looks in the mirror. Nothing will be the same. Nothing will ever be the same. You are not a child. You are not a little kid, grow the fuck up).
Absent-mindedly, he loads and reloads all of his guns. He switches back and forth between them; He’s been on the receiving side of too many sabotaged weapons not to check. It’s soothing—making sure he has the means to protect himself.
And well, and the kid. Maybe.
He doesn't know what to do. He hadn't really planned for any of this to happen. He was going to cut off all communications, rough up the new robin a little, paint a parallel, and then call in Bruce. (so he could arrive late. As always). And so maybe he could pound into his thick skull; no more robins. no more child soldiers.
But instead, he walks into the kid begging his parents not to come home and beat him up.
Which. The fuck?
Then, while he's frozen, trying to make sense of what he's hearing, the kid starts shaking. Jason instinctually takes a step forward, (your body never forgets being robin, even if your head does). but then he starts talking about how he's going to show someone his scars if his parents do come home. And all Jason can think about is his own scars from a man named Willis, a man fairly similar to Tim's own father, if what he's hearing is true. (And based on what he's hearing, he's inclined to think it is).
But.
Also.
How did no one pick up on this? Bruce trains everyone on recognizing signs of abuse.
Well. Point proven. (Bruce is perceptive with everyone except his own children). It took Jason... what? Ten minutes? And Bruce had Tim for how long and he didn't even notice?
That's bullshit.
Bruce is obviously unfit.
Also.
There's no way he's letting Tim go back. Not until someone realizes the fuckery going on with his parents.
So he writes a few notes to hopefully throw Bruce off; gently wraps the baby bird in his jacket, and takes him to one of his better-hidden safehouses.
But now what?
At first, he thinks Tim is just sleeping, but once he sets him down on the couch with one of his softest gray, plush blankets; (and re-armed all of his traps), he realizes Tim is definitely not asleep. It's almost like he's zoned out, but nothing Jason does will snap him out of it.
Tim just stares dully at the wall, hardly blinking.
Alright, it's official.
Jason has no clue what the fuck to do.
And he can't exactly call Dick or Alfred and ask if the kid’s done this before.
Okay, research isn't going to help either. None of Tim's files said anything about this. And Batman writes those files. If Bruce knew about this it’d be in there. So either the kid is really good at masking or Bruce is just such an oblivious ditz he hasn’t noticed. (Which. Probable). And… googling it won't help, if he looks it up it'll probably say the kid is dying or some shit.
He pauses.
Wait.
Back when Alfred put his foot down and gave Bruce a list of mental health professionals he'd vetted so that Bruce could choose one to make an appointment with, he'd pulled Jason aside and given him a list of phone numbers. "Just in case there's ever a time you need someone to talk to, and for whatever reason, my dear boy, you can't talk to us."
Jason had combed the list then, memorizing the number at the very top before sticking it to his desk.
(Bless Alfred. He really is the best of us).
He pauses, before looking at Tim's prone form and sighing. He doesn’t really have another choice, does he? Any mental health professional that isn’t corrupted is going to take weeks to make an appointment with.
He doesn’t have that.
Begrudgingly, (because who’s to say the hot line isn’t corrupted either?), he pulls a burner phone out of his pocket and dials the number he memorized so long ago.
Fuck. He really is going to have to burn his phone after this phone call. That’s like forty bucks down the drain.
A gruff, androgynous voice with a lilting southern accent greets him, "Thank you for calling our teen mental crisis health line, this is Koe. How can I help?"
"Uhm," Jason stares at Tim for a moment, still unresponsive, "It's my..." (his what? His replacement? Robin? He can't exactly say that. And he needs something that will give him a say in Tim's medical decisions). "...foster son," he settles on.
"Alright, what's going on?"
"He's not responding. He's. Physically, he's fine. But it's... it's like he's frozen. I don't know what to do."
He can hear Koe hum thoughtfully, "Has he done this before?"
"I don't know." He tries to think of the words he's overheard Bruce use with him and Dick, "He was just placed with me."
"Can you explain more about what he's doing?"
"It's like he's disassociating, but he’s… I don’t know. I can’t snap him out of it."
"Is it possible he's neurodivergent?"
"Yes. Probably. He was stimming a lot when I first met him."
“He might be experiencing something we call Shutdown. When you’re overstimulated, sometimes your body will think it’s in danger. A lot of people experience a freeze response. In neurodivergent people, this can present as a shutdown. We don’t—can’t respond, move, think or sometimes even blink. I recommend making his environment calmer. Dim the lights, give him ear mufflers if he isn’t against physical touch. Help him ground himself.”
”Okay. I can do that.” He breathes out, “Okay.”
“When he’s feeling better, schedule an appointment with an authorized mental health professional, alright? I want to preface this with saying I am not professionally trained. This is Gotham. I’m in school to become a psychiatrist, and I took this on the side as a volunteer position. Anything I said during this phone call could be incorrect, so don’t take my words as fact when you do get him an appointment, okay?”
“Okay. Yeah, I’ll. I’ll figure something out.”
”I appreciate you doing your best. Thank you for reaching out. If you or your son ever need to talk, this number is available twenty-four seven. I may not always be the one to answer, but I promise someone will.”
“Thank you, Koe. Really.”
”You’re welcome,” they say warmly. “Don’t be afraid to reach out. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Can you bring someone back from the dead? Because I’m breathing but I think I came back wrong because nothing feels real right now. I feel angry when I can feel something that isn’t cold numbness. Can you help fix me?
“No,” he says instead, clenching a fist and trying to maintain a civil tone. He doesn’t do a good job, he thinks.
His voice trembles a little too much.
I want to kill myself. The only reason I haven’t is because I’m scared someone will bring me back again.
“Thank you.” His voice is firmer this time. That’s good.
I want my dad. And I hate that I want him.
“Anytime,” Koe says softly.
He hangs up.
Okay. Enough of my own shit. There’s a kid I gotta take care of.
He breathes out harshly, before taking care to lighten his footsteps and make his way back to the couch.
The lights are already off, but he grabs a weighted blanket off the back of his reading chair and drapes it carefully over Tim.
Okay. Grounding. Think, Jason. Noise? Yeah, noise can help.
“One,” his voice cracks and he grimaces, clearing it softly, “once, when I was a kid, I really wanted to learn how to make cookies. We never, we never had any money. My-Willis always spent it on beer and the odd electrical bill here and there if he was actually home, and my mom had to get her, uhm, she bought a lot of drugs. But I had five dollars I stole from his sock when he was passed out drunk, and I was mad at home because-“ he cuts himself off, glancing at Tim again, “well, he got angry. When. When he got drunk. So I was already pissed. So it was like fair game, right? If he got to beat me up, I got to get compensated. So I stole all his money. Which was like, five dollars. But whatever.”
He sighs. “Shit. I don’t. It’s supposed to be a happy story, but my memory, I can’t… I’m fucked up. So. This is whatcha get. Sorry. Uhm. Well, anyway. So, I’m like seven. And damned determined how to figure out how to make cookies because I’d never. Uh. The kids would make fun of me at school if I went. All we had was um, rice and beans. And they wouldn’t share their uh, white kid lunch-able shit with the brownies and cookies. And I wanted to see how it would taste.”
He slowly flexes and un-flexes his fingers, trying to keep himself grounded as well. “So, I walked to the library, and wouldn’t you know it? I didn’t have a library card. And I was,” he clears his throat again, “I was in tears, because my back hurt and I couldn’t take the cookbook with me and I knew I wasn’t good enough to remember what it said, but uh, this older lady walks up to me and says, what’s with all these tears, young man? And so I told her the story. Well, part of it. You were probably given the speech too, about being careful what you say to adults. Um. Anyway, so, she tries to get me a library card, but I couldn’t remember my address, so she sat down and it took us… shit, it took us like half an hour, but we copied the recipe down on this little notebook she had, and she gave me the notebook and the pen and said that I could copy down as many recipes as I wanted on it. So I did. I copied all the sweets down. And. Well, I didn’t get to make cookies that day, but I did get my very own cookbook. Kind of. And. I think about that day a lot. Just. Her kindness to some dirty kid covered in snot and crying over a recipe book.”
Jason tries to even out his breathing. Only. Well, it’s just he hadn’t even told Bruce that story. And now he’s telling it to a kid he was about to beat up a few hours ago.
Like.
The fuck?
And-
A touch startles him out of his thoughts.
Tim’s hand is clenched around the back of his shirt, and his eyes are boring into Jason’s with a startling intensity.
Jason freezes for a second, unsure of what to do. Bruce would be able to tell what Tim needs by his micro-expressions and body language.
But he’s no Bruce. So.
”Hey, kid,” he says. “Don’t freak out.”
Tim raises an unimpressed eyebrow.
“Right. Um, that was totally my bad, man, breaking in like that. Understandable freak out. But I’m not really an emotions guy, so please,”
Tim cuts him off with a noise similar to a scoff.
Jason’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “The fuck?” He shakes his head, careful not to dislodge Tim’s hand, which is still wrapped in the fabric of his shirt, “Wait, no, what the fuck was that supposed to mean?”
Tim lets go of Jason’s shirt and taps him on the forehead.
Jason blinks slowly. “Wait, no, that still doesn’t make sense.”
Tim rolls his eyes and makes a shoving motion at Jason.
“What? Wait, actually, are you trying to sign?”
Tim’s hand goes up in the air and knocks once, yes.
“Oh, okay, so… me?”
Another knock.
Tim slowly finger-spells something. Is that… yeah, he’s fingerspelling Jason’s name.
Jason Todd. He finger-spells.
“I’m… Jason Todd?” Jason looks even more lost. “Yeah, I knew that, Timberly. The hell?”
Another shoving motion. You. Emotional. You. Yes. Okay.
“I’m… emotional, but it’s okay?”
Yes. Good.
”Okay. Uh. I’m not even going to ask how you knew that, you little stalker, but anyway, I’ve got some questions.”
Tim makes a small hum of acknowledgment.
“First, does anyone know about your parents?”
Tim frowns. Yes? Parties. Rich.
“No, baby bird. I meant like their behavior towards you.”
Tim seesaws his hand back and forth in a so-so motion.
“Okay, I’mma need you to elaborate on that. Specifically, does Alfred, Dick or… Bruce, uh, know about your parents yelling at you and that you have scars?”
Tim’s face goes blank. No. It leave. Mess you no.
“Uh, the fuck you think I am? It’s kinda my job to get involved in situations like these. Robin? Red hood? Remember?”
His motions are choppy and his face begins to get red, he exhales through his teeth. Me fine! No situation. Alone I. Good until return. Nosy fuck.
Jason laughs. “Is that the only curse word you know?”
He receives a middle finger in response.
“Yeah, Alfred shut us down on cursing in ASL pretty much as soon as we tried to google it; because Bruce, that bitch, wouldn’t teach us.”
And… apparently it is possible to flip someone off with your toes. Huh. The kid has the nerve to look slightly smug. Fuck that little fucker.
“Just for that, I’m not teaching you any more cuss words.”
Tim pushes his head back into the couch in frustration.
Jason sighs. “Yeah, I know, kid. My bad. Not sorry, though. Uh, how about this? I’ll teach you a cuss word for every good thing you do. So. Like, listen. I know it’s shitty. But I can’t in good conscious,”
You conscious gone. Tim signs angrily.
”I mean. Probably. But anyway, I can’t let you go back to your parents.”
Tim flings his arms up. What?? He shakes his hands out and aggressively shakes his head, his hair flings back and forth around his face. After a minute, No. Good. Mom Dad good. No understand you.
“Unfortunately,” Jason begins quietly, “I do understand. Listen, kid. People can be good people but still bad parents. I’ve seen too many people make excuses for bad behavior because of emotional attachments. If you have to make excuses for somebody else, then their behavior was never excusable in the first place. If you’re having to make excuses, you know deep down that their behavior isn’t okay. Because if it was, you wouldn’t be making those excuses.”
Tim leans back into the couch again and crosses his arms.
“I know it can be hard to comprehend. It took me a long time to get it. But I can’t,” Jason buries his face in his hands before looking back up heavily. “I already made the mistake of letting someone go back to their house. They said it would be fine, they were just going to wait to see if it happened one more time. And then if it did, then they would let me help them leave. But you know what? I came back the next night to them dead on the floor. Their partner caught wind of the Red Hood talking to them, and took his anger out on them because he was mad that they would say something. Needless to say, I took him out. But anyway. Kid. I’m not going to do that to you. It’s not safe for you to be with your parents right now.”
Sorry.
“I know.” Jason inhales slowly, “Okay, listen, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to give you a couple of options, and then you can choose from those. Number one, you stay with me long enough for Bruce to have a heart attack and I keep you safe and away from your parents. By the way, that offer will always be open. You can come here anytime and I’ll let you know when I change safe-houses as long as you swear not to tell Bruce. I anonymously report something about your parents, even if it isn’t this, and I get them arrested. Option two. We call someone. I don’t care who, Alfred, Dick, Bruce. But I need to listen so I know you’re telling the truth and you’ll be safe. Then, depending on how that goes, I’ll take you to a public space to meet with them, and watch to make sure they pick you up. Option three, you think about all the options and we can decide later. In the meantime you stay with me.”
Tim takes a moment. Three. He signs eventually.
“Okay. I have some house rules, though.”
Tim’s facial expression does something complicated and he watches Jason with something akin to trepidation.
“Rule one; don’t wake me up if I’m sleeping unless you’re actively dying or there’s an emergency. I’m a crime lord, I don’t get a lot of sleep. Rule two, there is and will never be rules about food. Eat what you want when you want as long as you clean up after yourself and tell me if we run out of a certain spice. I can deal with being out of milk, but g-d forbid you let us run out of salt or garlic.” Jason shudders. “Anyway. Rule three, no sneaking out. If you want to go somewhere, tell me. I have traps everywhere. And even if you are pretty smart, I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you and I don’t actually want you to die from one of my own traps. So. Just ask. Seem reasonable?”
Yes. Tim pauses, phone?
Jason rolls his eyes. “My word. You kids and your phones. Uh, yeah no, that’s still at the tower. I didn’t take anything that could be traced. Speaking of, you should probably change out of that and into something more comfortable. I got a bunch of random shit in that second room, something in there should fit you. Also, another house rule, we don’t go into people’s rooms without knocking and receiving permission to come in. So. You can lock your door and shit. I won’t come in unless you say it’s okay.”
Tim is hesitant. Thank you.
”Common decency.”
Tim’s face turns to a mix between confused and skeptical, but Jason can read it. He sees it all the time when he talks to the street kids.
“No, kid, parents aren’t supposed to hit their kids. No matter where it is they hit you. Hitting is wrong.”
“Actually, providing for you is the bare fucking minimum of being a parent. You don’t owe them anything. They chose to have you, not the other way around. They accepted the responsibility that came with that when they brought a kid into the world. You do not, nor will you ever, owe them a damn thing.”
It’s like trying to convince someone the skies purple. They won’t believe you unless they see it. And even then they’ll argue, “Well, but it’s usually blue. It’s only purple sometimes when the sun sets.”
It takes a lot of time to accept something that rocks your whole world view. (Just because it’s always been a certain way doesn’t mean that certain way is okay).
Hopefully this kid has a lot of time.
Tim slowly sidles out of the room, a blank expression on his face (but his lip is quivering). He takes the weighted blanket with him into the guest bedroom.
(He’s so polite with his emotions. Jason hates it. Blow up at me. Get angry at me. Scream that I’m ruining your life by keeping you here. Don’t accept me—this so easily. Who has hurt you so much for you to be so okay with this?)
Jason can hear the lock click. Good, he thinks. Means he’s comfortable enough he doesn’t think I’ll hurt him for locking it. (He can remember that lesson himself, and based on the look on Tim’s face, he’s probably had a lesson or two about locking doors as well).
Jason sighs. It isn’t supposed to be this way. Why is everyone in this world so fucked up?
He leans his head back against the couch.
Fuck.
What exactly is he supposed to do now?
Soft moonlight streams in through his curtains and he blinks slowly.
He’ll figure it out in the morning.
He lays down on the couch, just in case the kid really does try to do any dumb shit like ‘escape’ back to his house, and begins going over some poetry in his head to help him slow his heartbeat and fall asleep.
You do not have to be good, (he can almost hear Mary Oliver herself reading it), you do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile, the world goes on.
Meanwhile, the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies, the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers…
His eyes flutter shut and he dreams of wild geese.