Archive of Our Own

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The rain battered the windows of Tim’s small, messy apartment, a relentless drumbeat that matched the pounding in his skull. He lay curled up on the couch, trembling beneath soiled blankets, sweat soaking through his many layers despite the chill that clung to his skin. A feverish heat crawled beneath his flesh, and even the smallest motion made his gut twist, threatening to revolt. Breathing deeply was out of the question; even shallow breaths threatened to ignite the rattle in his chest and leave him choking for air.The infection had taken hold days earlier, but he’d ignored it, pushing through each day on sheer willpower and empty promises to himself that he’d deal with it later - until later slipped away entirely. But no one would miss him if he disappeared for a while. No one ever really noticed Tim Drake anyway.Tim’s breath caught as another sharp wave of pain lanced through his abdomen, his stomach cramping violently. Instinctively, his hand pressed against the scar tissue where his spleen used to be - a constant reminder of debts paid and battles lost. It wasn’t something he spoke about, not to Bruce, not to Alfred, not to anyone. They didn’t need to know: he could handle it himself. He had handled it himself for nearly two years - since he was fifteen, when a failed assassination attempt in the middle of the desert left him no choice but to surrender both his spleen and his freedom to a psychopathic quasi-immortal named Ra’s al Ghul.But this time… this time was different. This time, he couldn’t even drag himself to his own bed. Swallowing was nearly impossible; whatever he managed to force down came back up almost immediately. Even lifting his arms had become an insurmountable task, let alone making it to the toilet or sink. The evidence of his rapid decline was everywhere - his clothes and skin streaked with vomit, his body clammy with sweat and stained with the unmistakable signs of his body’s betrayal. A particularly violent coughing fit had left him soaked in his own filth, the physical remnants of his sickness fusing with the weight of his shame to bind him in a cocoon of despair.His vision swam, his thoughts fragmented and sluggish. What should have frightened him the most was the complete lack of urgency, but he couldn’t summon even a shred of concern about his condition. It would be worrying if he had the energy for such things; he was sure of that much.Nine days earlier, Roman Sionis had struck again, seeking revenge against the Bats. Though his empire was a shadow of its former glory, Black Mask remained one of the most feared and powerful names in Gotham’s underground, with plenty of men and resources at his disposal. And Red Robin - perpetually isolated, indelibly vulnerable - had been an easy mark. The boy wonder who’d been cast out of the nest rarely worked alongside the others, never called for backup, and yet had dismantled countless operations under the crime lord’s name. It made him the perfect target.For four excruciating days, Tim had been tortured and brutalized: stabbed, whipped, waterboarded, and electrocuted. Most of his injuries were flesh wounds, though Tim bitterly reflected that broken bones might have been preferable. At least then the wounds would have been closed, carrying less risk of infection.But none of that compared to the crushing realization that no one had come for him. When he finally escaped, battered and broken, he discovered the truth: no one had noticed he was gone. Black Mask had left his comm and tracker intact, a cruelly effective psychological ploy. Every unanswered scream had driven the knife deeper, grinding his hope into dust. And the worst part? They hadn’t even known. They hadn’t cared.Had they moved to a new comm channel without telling him? Did they not care if he had an emergency, if their help was the difference between his life and death? Surely Oracle, at least, should have noticed when his tracker hadn’t moved in days. That would have triggered an automatic alert.But Tim wasn’t one of them. Not really. To them, he was disposable - a tool to be used and discarded. The thought crushed him like a leaden shroud, but even that pain felt muted now; smothered by fatigue and an empty sense of surrender.Tim had known the truth for a long time, knew it like the ache of an old scar, but the reminder still stung. Still, he forced himself to focus. He doubled up on his antibiotics and made a silent promise to visit Dr. Thompkins… as soon as he could fake being well enough to mask the extent of his injuries. But first, he needed rest. Just a little more rest.With trembling hands, he set about patching himself up. The alcohol burned like hellfire against his open wounds, each touch sending fresh waves of agony rippling through him. The bandages he wrapped around himself felt suffocating, like echoes of the chains he’d only just escaped hours before. Silent yelps clawed up his throat as he stitched and cleaned, but he bit down hard on a leather strap and locked them behind gritted teeth. The neighbors didn’t need to hear him suffer. No one did.Reaching the wounds on his back was impossible; even raising his arm enough to douse them with sterilizer sent lightning bolts of pain shooting down his spine. He already knew they were the source of his condition - he’d noticed two days into his captivity. That same infection had fueled his desperation, giving him the burst of adrenaline he’d needed to save himself. Only, now that he was free, the adrenaline had drained away like water through cracked earth, leaving him hollow and bone-tired. The urgency that had driven him forward evaporated, replaced by an overwhelming heaviness in his limbs and chest. All he wanted was to collapse, to let the ground swallow him whole, but even that felt too far out of reach. So he chose the couch instead.It hadn’t taken long before Tim couldn’t make it to his bedroom from the couch, and not long after that, the bathroom became unreachable too. He’d stacked half a dozen flats of bottled water and canned soup on the floor around him the moment he realized how bad things would get, using them to stay alive as his legs began refusing to cooperate.Now, Tim accepted that there would be no coming back from this. He should have been drowning in fear, his pulse racing, his skin crawling with the need to save himself; but all that rose in him was a deep, unsettling relief. Relief that he could finally stop fighting. Even with the searing agony of his infected wounds, this was peace - a quiet, surreal peace, far kinder than any death he’d ever imagined. The couch was gentle around him, even as it abraded his raw skin, and that softness was all he cared about right now. Nothing else mattered.And then there was a knock at the door.---Jason stood outside Tim’s apartment, water dripping from his leather jacket and pooling around his boots. He hadn’t planned to come here tonight, but something nagged at him - a gut feeling he’d learned not to ignore. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was the fact that the pretender hadn’t shown up at the Cave in over a week, which was unusual even for someone as independent as the third Robin. Either way, Jason found himself standing in front of Tim’s door, knocking louder than necessary.No answer.“Open the damn door, Replacement,” Jason growled, his voice low and dangerous. When silence greeted him again, he sighed in aggravation and pulled out his lockpicks, squatting down to start working at the knob. A few seconds later, the door clicked open, and Jason stepped inside.The moment he pushed the door open, he froze, shock and horror crashing over him like a tidal wave. The apartment was a disaster zone. Half-eaten tins of soup sat abandoned on every surface around the couch, their contents congealed and sprouting patches of fuzzy mold. Flies buzzed lazily through the stagnant air, their hum a low, grating drone. The floor was littered with crumpled wrappers and partially empty water bottles, some filled with a yellow liquid that was decidedly not water. The air was thick, oppressive; saturated with the humidity of sweat and decay, clinging to his skin like a second layer.The stench of ruin hit him like a punch to the gut, memories clawing at the edges of his mind. His chest tightened as the room seemed to tilt beneath his feet. It wasn’t just the stale air of a closed-up apartment; it was something far more insidious and hauntingly familiar. The cloying stench of spoiled food mixed with the sour tang of vomit and the acrid bite of disease and urine. Every detail hounded at him - a living, breathing echo of some of his worst moments, as if time had folded in on itself. His stomach churned, and he instinctively raised a hand to his nose, wishing he’d come in his filtered helmet instead of civvies, but it did little to block the assault.Jason’s frantic eyes swung wildly around the room until they landed on the figure huddled on the couch. His breath caught in his throat. The man - no, barely more than a child, still only a teenager - was buried under a mountain of putrid blankets and layers of clothes, his gaunt face peeking out like a wraith. Sallow and sunken, with sharp cheekbones pressing against tissue-paper skin, Tim looked horrifyingly brittle. For several moments too long, Catherine superimposed herself over Tim. He saw his waning little brother and his decaying mother simultaneously. Timmy was a ghost of his mother in her last days; vacant, withered, a shadow eaten alive by time and addiction. Her body had wasted away until she was little more than bones wrapped in pale, crepey skin.Now, looking at Tim, it was impossible not to see the same gruesome resemblance. It dragged Jason back to the agonizing days of his mother’s decline, when he’d given everything to keep her alive, even as the sickness that claimed her sanity stripped away her strength piece by piece. He’d done everything he could to ease her suffering, but it never felt like enough. Watching her slip further away, day by day, had left scars on his soul that time couldn’t heal.Timmy was squalling quietly, seemingly involuntary expressions of his discomfort. She had moaned like that too - desperate, broken sounds that made Jason’s chest ache even as they filled him with guilt. He felt that same suffocating helplessness wash over him now - the one he’d promised himself he’d never drown in again. The parallels between the two scenes fueled his fear and pit rage alike.The replacement was dying. His little brother’s gossamer light was at risk of being snuffed out, and no one but Jason had even noticed. But Jason may not have found him in time. Icy terror seeped into his veins like a creeping frost, determination the color of green taking root and sinking deep into his psyche.The feeble boy stirred weakly, another low moan escaping his throat, and Jason noticed the puke staining the front of his shirt, dried and crusted but still sour. The blankets around him were damp, soaked through with sweat and worse, and the smell of infection radiated from him like a miasma. It was the smell of open wounds left to fester, of sickness that had been ignored for far too long.“What the hell happened to you?” Jason muttered disbelievingly under his breath as he approached. Tim might have been sick the last time Jason saw him - he couldn’t really be sure - but he’d still been fully functional. How the hell had Tim declined this much in just ten days? He crouched down beside the couch, reaching out to hesitantly touch Tim’s shoulder. The younger man flinched violently, his blue eyes snapping open wide with panic, his arms fluttering weakly in defense.Tim didn’t relax when he recognized Jason, which took several seconds too long. Jason’s worry amped up yet another notch.“H-Hood?” Tim croaked weakly, his voice barely audible as his eyes came into focus. “What are you doing here?”“I should be asking you that,” Jason replied sharply, though his tone softened slightly. “You look like shit, kid. Why aren’t you at the Cave? Or hell, the hospital, Leslie’s, anywhere that someone can actually keep an eye on you?”Tim tried to sit up, a strained little jerk of his shoulders, but a sharp groan escaped him, and he collapsed back onto the cushions. “I’m fine,” he protested shakily, though they both knew it was a lie. The wet, hacking cough that overtook him immediately after proved as much. He was wheezing painfully by the end, and Jason’s own lungs twinged in sympathy.“No, you’re not.” Jason’s jaw tightened as he took another careful breath, the green licking at the edges of his vision receding as he pushed his fury at Tim’s irresponsibility back. Then he took another long, scrutinizing look at Tim, ideas already swirling in his head. This was unacceptable; how could Tim let it get this bad? How had the family not seen what was going on? “And that’s not an answer. How long have you been like this?”“A few days,” Tim admitted reluctantly, avoiding Jason’s gaze as his shoulders hunched. His voice sounded like shit too, like he’d been gargling rocks. “But it’s just a cold. There’s no need to put anyone out over it.”Jason wasn’t born yesterday; Tim didn’t believe that, and he couldn’t believe Tim thought Jason would either.“A cold doesn’t make you look like you’re dying, Timmers,” he scoffed instead of addressing the lie. There would be time for that later - he needed information right now. Jason reached out again, ignoring Tim’s attempt to jerk away and this time pressing the back of his hand to Tim’s forehead. The searing heat emanating from Tim left Jason’s stomach roiling with apprehension and unease, not that it was unexpected. Far more surprising was the way Tim sagged into his touch before Jason pulled away. “What meds are you taking? When’s the last time you ate? Or slept properly?” There was clearly more going on here than just a cold, but Jason had to start somewhere, and Tim was already being difficult.---“I…” Tim’s voice faltered, trailing into silence as he grappled with how to answer a man he could only hope was a figment of his fevered mind - and even if he weren’t, Tim had no idea what the truth might be or how Hood would take it. The mortification consumed him as helpless tears slipped down his cheeks against his will. He ached to vanish, to sink into silence and never return to the surface. Being seen like this - weak, helpless, exposed, useless - was bad enough. But of all people, it just had to be Jason Todd standing here.Jason’s personal mission during his first two years back as Red Hood - after returning from death and finding his murderer already in the ground - seemed to be making Tim’s life a living hell more often than not. Even after reconciling with the Waynes following his confrontation with Batman, the violence hadn’t stopped; it had merely evolved in subtlety. Instead of stringing Tim up in Titans Tower to see how long it would take someone to notice his tracker going offline as Red Hood divested him of his humanity, Jason simply hunted him like sport. He choked Tim out until he was nearly unconscious, taunting him all the while, then disappeared before anyone could intervene. Not that Tim thought anyone would.Things had changed, somewhat, after Tim brought Bruce back from the timestream. Hood was still significantly more vicious toward Tim than anyone else, particularly during spars, but he’d stopped shooting at Tim when he entered his blind spots. On a handful of occasions, he’d even patched Tim up. He no longer hid relevant information and had largely curbed his comments about Tim crawling into the nest like a cuckoo.But he’d never apologized or taken anything back. They weren’t friends, and Tim didn’t consider them family, not when even the kinder members of the Wayne clan saw him as an outsider. Tim never stopped watching his back around Hood, the man haunting his mind like his own personal specter. He couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal either, despite knowing Jason owed him nothing. Even after all these months of the unspoken truce between them, Tim couldn’t trust that Hood wouldn’t lash out when he least expected it.Nothing about exposing himself right now felt safe, and panic clawed at his thoughts, scattering them further. He felt like a wounded animal, cornered and exposed, with Hood standing there like a predator waiting to strike. But this time, there was no fight left in him - only shame and resignation.Instead of erupting in anger, Jason only let out a disgruntled sigh when Tim failed to produce an answer. Standing up, he reached out to decisively adjust the filthy blankets. “Alright, featherweight, you’re coming home with me. You’ve flown too far from the nest before you even learned how to spread your wings properly.”“What? No!” Tim protested weakly, his pulse buzzing in his ears as he frantically tried to push the blanket away from where Jason was tucking it tightly around him. It felt suffocating now that Hood had used it to partially restrain his arms, but the adrenaline sparked by his terror at least helped push some of the cobwebs from his mind; though it did little to give him back control over his body. “I can take care of myself, stop it!” Tim wheezed, his weak movements tangling him further in the fabric as coughs tore through him again.“Yeah, clearly,” Hood snapped, his temper flaring. Tim froze mid-breath, the world fracturing into static around him. His thoughts floated away, slipping just out of reach even as Tim clawed desperately at the edges of the moment, trying to hold on. “Look at you, Replacement! You’re sick, dehydrated, and obviously malnourished. And don’t think I haven’t noticed how fucking skinny you are. You look like you just auditioned for Dead Robin Number Three! When’s the last time anyone even checked on you?”Thoughts of Steph hovered dangerously close, and Tim crushed them before they could bloom into something unbearable.There was a cruel edge to Hood’s voice - one Tim knew all too well, though this time it felt muted compared to their previous encounters. For a fleeting moment, the sound unraveled into an echo chamber in his mind, every harsh word Hood had ever spat at him reverberating like whispers swirling around him.Tim’s lips parted instinctively to argue, his tongue clumsy against the cotton-dry haze filling his mouth. But then the meaning of Jason’s words caught up to him, cutting through the fog like shards of glass. An involuntary whimper slipped out as the truth hit hard, dragging despair over him like a suffocating wave. His thoughts splintered again, retreating deeper into the void, leaving him adrift and unreachable.Because no one had checked on him. No one had ever seen him - not when he was sick and fading, not when he was parenting a stranger three times his age who repeatedly gave him hospital-grade injuries, not when he seemingly vanished off the face of the Earth for over a year. No one had ever listened - not when he screamed himself raw through captivity, not when he scoured the globe looking for the man who gave him his only purpose, not even when he’d wept in the smothering dark of the closet, trapped, as hunger ripped at him and the silence devoured his mind.And no one loved him; not his dead parents, who had treated him like a clay doll to shape and control; not Bruce, who had obdurately called him a tool to be kept sharp for use; and certainly not the Wayne family, who had branded him an usurper to be cast aside. Tim didn’t matter. Not a single soul had ever so much as told him they loved him.Something deep inside Tim curled up and drifted away, retreating to a place that felt foggy and distant. He knew he was speaking to someone, knew it mattered, but the connection was lost - just out of reach, like shadows slipping through his fingers. He let it go.---“Yeah, you’re not staying here,” Jason said firmly when Tim stalled, dread curling in his stomach at the wounded noise the little bird croaked out. “Not like this.” Without waiting for further protest, Jason scooped Tim into his arms, ignoring the startled gasp and sharp jerk as Tim wiggled impotently in panicked reflex before sagging against him. His brief burst of energy dwindled almost instantly.Tim was even lighter than Jason expected - barely a hundred pounds, his body weary and trembling visibly against Jason’s chest, even through the blankets. Tim had always been a tiny thing, but he was a skilled and experienced vigilante; he should have carried at least a couple dozen pounds of muscle mass that was clearly absent now. Just how long has this been going on? Jason wondered despondently. It wasn’t physically possible for Tim to lose that much weight in just a week or so. For a passing moment, regret pierced Jason so sharply it nearly took his breath away, and he pressed his tongue abruptly into the point of a tooth until he tasted blood just to ground himself in the moment. How had he missed this? How had they let Timmy fall this far?---Jason carried Tim to his motorcycle, rearranging his grip as the icy rain sliced straight through the vile blankets to the vulnerable birdie resting against his chest underneath. For a moment, Jason allowed himself a small curl of relief and satisfaction; Tim had been stubborn even in his weakened state, fighting against Jason’s hold with protests that were more reflex than intent. But now, with Tim’s resistance fading in the face of his abrupt shutdown, Jason could focus on getting them both home, where he could watch Timmy as closely as he deserved.He paused beside the bike, shifting Tim’s weight carefully to swaddle the damp blankets draped around him. The fabric was soaked from the downpour, exacerbating the stench of bile, sickness, and piss embedded in the fibers, but it was still better than nothing.Jason worked methodically, unwrapping the sodden layers just enough to free Tim’s legs without exposing too much of his frail frame to the biting wind. His fingers brushed against Tim’s skin briefly, and Jason spat another curse under his breath at the blistering heat radiating from him. He pulled the driest parts of the blanket back over Tim’s shoulders, tucking them snugly around him. He knew he couldn’t bundle Tim too tightly, not when his fever was likely peaking, but he still needed to shield him from the elements. Tim didn’t need any more complications; he was sick enough as it was.Once satisfied that Tim was as protected as possible, Jason lifted him again, guiding him to sit in front of him on the motorcycle. Timmy remained pliant, his form lifeless in Jason’s arms, and Jason could only be grateful as he swung up behind him, caging Tim in the shelter of his arms. It wasn’t ideal, but Jason didn’t trust Tim to hold on properly if positioned behind him - not when he hadn’t even reacted to Jason rifling through his room to collect a bag of Tim’s things.Instead, Jason settled him firmly in his lap, one hand gripping the handlebars while the other wrapped steadfastly around Tim’s waist to tighten his grip. He could feel the harsh angles of Tim’s frame through the thick layers of fabric; every ridge and hollow was a stark reminder of how far gone he was - and how close Jason had come to losing him entirely. Prioritizing Tim’s recovery and ensuring he ate properly would be non-negotiable.“Stay with me,” Jason murmured low enough that only Tim could hear, though whether it was meant for Tim or himself, he wasn’t sure. He pressed his palm ruthlessly against Tim’s abdomen, anchoring himself in the physical presence of his brother and taking comfort in the knowledge that Jason would keep him sheltered now. Timmy let out a faint whine of protest, muffled by the wind, and Jason began rubbing slow circles into his skin with his thumb. “We’re almost home.”Jason pushed forward, his entire focus narrowed to three things: keeping Tim upright, shielding him from the shearing wind he wasn’t dressed for, and getting him to one of his safehouses so he could start IV antibiotics as soon as possible. He muttered under his breath, cursing the storm, the world, himself - anything that stood between them and safety. Every shiver that wracked Tim’s body felt like a personal failure, a harsh reminder that the little bird he’d only just realized he needed to protect might still slip through his fingers.By the time they reached his preferred safehouse and Jason got them inside, Tim was barely hanging on. His head rested heavily against Jason’s shoulder, his body completely limp, eyelids fluttering unresponsively. Each ragged breath sounded like a plea for mercy, and Jason clenched his jaw, silently vowing to ensure Tim never faced another night like this again.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Jason knelt beside the mattress, hesitating for several long seconds as his breath hitched against the green haze creeping into his vision. He’d carried Tim inside only moments ago, balancing him carefully in his arms as he laid out a tarp over the bed - the only one in this safehouse - to preserve it. Now, dread pooled heavy in his chest, the gravity of the situation pressing down on him like a vice.Timmy didn’t look real. His face was too pale, almost translucent, as though life itself had been leached from him. Dark smudges shadowed his fluttering eyelids; their flicker fragile and erratic, like candle flames caught in a draft. His lips were cracked and dry, tinged faintly blue from their journey. He looked less like a person and more like a wax doll left too close to heat, edges softening, blurring, as if he might dissolve into nothing at any moment. Jason swallowed hard, pushing aside the smothering weight of Timmy’s vulnerability. Sentimentality wouldn’t save him. If he wanted to keep the little bird alive, he needed to act now.Finally steeling himself, Jason grabbed the moldering blankets tangled around Tim like dead roots, yanking them free with a flaky crunch. The fabric clung to him with an almost parasitic desperation, soaked through with bile-yellow streaks and rust-brown smears that reeked of decay. His stomach lurched as the fumes hit him harder, but he flung the blankets aside without ceremony, refusing to dwell on their source.Beneath, Tim’s clothes were no better: stiffened crusts of scum caked into the fibers, dried vomit crackling like old paint, urine mingling with patches of rotted blood that turned black in the dim light. Jason hesitated again, fighting back a gag as revulsion twisted in his gut. He didn’t want to strip the kid - didn’t want to see what fresh horrors lay beneath - but there was no choice. The layers of filth made it impossible to assess Tim’s injuries or begin treatment, and leaving the revolting rags on would only invite further infection.His hands worked with frantic, deliberate precision, stripping away the defiled garments to reveal the atrocities beneath: bruises blooming like poisoned flowers across his ribs, their colors impossibly vivid against his pallor; raw friction burns encircling his wrists, angry weals carved so deeply they seemed to pulse with a life of their own; and livid red welts scattered over his flesh like brands, marking him as something broken, claimed by forces unseen. Jason halted mid-motion, hovering above the wreckage before him. For a moment, it felt less like uncovering a person and more like excavating the aftermath of some ritual gone horribly wrong. A body offered up to gods who demanded suffering as tribute.But each patch of defaced skin Jason revealed doubled as a mark of his own failure, a reminder of how far Tim had fallen - and how close to losing him Jason had come tonight. He’d nearly let Timmy slip away, and now he was desperate to claim him back. My fault, he thought, the words clawing at the edges of his mind. This is my fault. How could I have possibly missed this? His voice, when it came, was low and tight, barely more than a grieving whisper. “What have you done to yourself?”The air thickened around him, oppressive and stifling, carrying whispers he couldn’t quite make out but swore he understood all the same. It wasn’t just Tim unraveling here; it was reality itself, fraying at the edges, bleeding into nightmares Jason thought he’d left behind. The light bent unnaturally, crawling towards him as the walls laughed hauntingly in time with his erratic heartbeat. His breath hissed shakily through clenched teeth, sharp and deliberate, as he forced himself to focus even as the room tilted and warped around him.This wasn’t just some runaway illness anymore; every inch of his fragile little bird seemed branded by agony and abandonment, as though suffering itself had taken form and claimed him. This was no accident - this was deliberate, calculated cruelty etched into his very flesh. Jason’s vision pulsed with green as he meticulously noted the ruin: bruises sprawling across pale skin, welts standing out like accusations, jagged lines of mishealed fractures visible beneath the thin veil of flesh; all testament to years wasted, wounds left unchecked until they claimed him whole.His hands trembled - not from fear, but from fury. Fury at what had been done to Tim, at Tim for never taking care of himself, at himself for not finding him sooner. And fury at the Bats, who’d let it come to this. Bruce and Dick, who’d vowed to keep their nest safe, had let him plummet straight to the ground. They didn’t understand, not really, and this was proof. Proof that Jason was necessary. None of them had seen Timmy crumbling, gasping for air, his legs thrashing weakly against the invisible noose tightening around him. None of them had been there to stop it before Jason found him - and even then, he'd almost let his little bird slip away.It was clear how the rest of the family would drop the ball if Jason left this to anyone else. If anyone was going to pull the kid back from whatever abyss he’d fallen into, it would be Jason. Timmy was his responsibility now, whether he liked it or not.But gods, it was going to be a fight. Every labored breath Tim took felt like it might be his last, every flicker of movement beneath Jason’s fingers flimsy and fleeting. It wasn’t just about fixing the wounds on the surface - it was peeling back the corruption inside, stitching together fragments of a soul that might already be broken beyond mending. Jason could feel the weight of it pressing down on him; a black hole pulling him in, relentless and inescapable, consuming in its immensity.Was it too late? Had he found Timmy only to lose him again, to watch him dissolve into smoke no matter how fiercely Jason fought to keep him? He could feel it already; Tim slipping through his fingers like ash. But Jason wouldn't let go. He'd claw his way through Hell if he had to - Timmy wasn't going anywhere.Jason grabbed a set of goldie’s spare clothes and the medical kit he kept stocked for emergencies, his hands moving with practiced efficiency despite the way they fought to shake. He pulled the sweats over Tim’s bony hips, rolling the waistband several times to help it stay in place before cinching the string tightly. Finally, he pulled on a pair of medical gloves and scrubbed at Tim’s arm, rough strokes of antiseptic wiping away crusted streaks of despair until the skin was raw but passably clean.Setting up an IV line to treat the infection was the priority - it would buy him time to properly address Tim’s wounds. But as he worked, the needle gleamed under the dim light, sharp and accusing, and suddenly he bore the crushing weight of the world as if gravity itself had chosen him to hold it together. His mother’s face flickered at the edges of his thoughts again; her waxy hand gripping his, her glassy eyes pleading silently as her trembling fingers failed to steady the syringe. He’d hated himself then, hated helping her, hated hurting her, hated watching her waste away piece by piece. But he’d done it anyway, telling himself it was mercy, telling himself it was love.Now, the sight of the needle brought it all rushing back: the helplessness, the guilt, the horror of loving someone who was already slipping through his fingers. The sunken curves beneath Timmy’s cheeks, the unrelenting quiver of his body, the unsteady gasps punctuating the silence - it all echoed too closely with memories he couldn’t escape. Neglect. Self-destruction. Whatever name you gave it, the result was the same - a body breaking itself apart, a soul fraying stitch by painful stitch. And Jason? He was right back where he’d always been: trying to save someone who might not want saving, patching them up knowing they’d only tear themselves open again.His hands faltered for a moment, the needle wavering above Tim’s skin. Saving someone - was it supposed to feel this futile? And what did saving even mean when every effort felt like holding back a tide with bare hands? Each task pressed down on him, laborious and smothering, like breathing underwater. Was he anchoring Tim, or merely setting the stage for another fall he wouldn't survive?With a steadying breath that did little to clear the remembered sting of old vinegar from his burning throat, Jason slid the needle into Timmy’s vein, his grip firm despite the younger boy’s reflexive flinch. He adjusted the drip rate, his movements clinical even as a storm raged inside him. As the antibiotics began flowing, Jason allowed himself a brief moment of gratification. One step closer to keeping Tim alive.But one step wasn’t enough - not nearly. Not when Tim was still caked in vulgarity, his skin mottled with waste and dried blood that blurred the line between where dirt ended and injury began. Jason grabbed a clean cloth to wet at the sink, his grip tight enough to whiten his knuckles as he wrung it out. The water ran cold over his hands, sharp and biting against his calloused palms, but the chill did little to steady the weight settling in his chest.He hesitated briefly before touching Tim, the air between them heavy with unsaid things. This wasn’t violence or vengeance - it was care. Tenderness. Both words that didn’t belong in his world, much less in his hands. And yet, here he was, standing over the little bird with unflinching resolve, knowing full well he wouldn’t stop; not when stopping meant letting go.Tim wouldn't understand. He never did. The boy flinched from kindness like it burned him, recoiled from touch as if it were a brand. But that was the problem, wasn't it? Tim didn't know how much he needed this. How much he needed to be touched gently, to be cared for, to be reminded that he was more than just a tool to be used and discarded.Still, something about it clawed at the edges of his mind, gnawing silently like a dog chewing at its stitches. It wasn't just the act itself: it was everything it implied - the proximity, the intimacy, the undeniable truth of how broken the little bird was. The sensation lingered - a quiet, insistent pull beneath his ribs, warning him that this moment would change things. Whether for better or worse, he couldn’t say. All he knew was that once begun, there’d be no turning back.Until then, Jason had to do something. Every layer of putrescence clinging to Tim’s body was another death knell sounding through the air; a risk he couldn’t afford to take when Timmy was already balancing on the knife's edge.The first swipe of the cloth across Tim’s arm revealed nothing but streaks of grayish-brown sludge. Jason scrubbed harder, his jaw tightening as the fabric came away stained but far from clean. His frustration bubbled with each pass, spilling into darker territory.How could Tim let himself get like this? How could he just… give up? It was as if he’d lain down in the wreckage of his own life and decided to stay there, letting decay claim him inch by inch. Every bruise, every wound, every stained inch of him seemed to whisper surrender; a quiet resignation that clawed at Jason’s chest like icy fingers. Didn’t Tim realize what he was throwing away? Or worse - did he know exactly what he was doing, and simply not care anymore?Jason’s shoulders tightened like coiled springs, the pressure of his anger bleeding into his motions. “Goddamn it, Replacement,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and venomous. “Why do you always have to make everything so fucking hard?”His hands stilled briefly as his gaze fell once again on the deep wounds circling Tim’s wrists - raw, angry gashes carved into the flesh like brands. He’d noticed them earlier, but now, up close, their severity hit him with full force. It must have taken days of relentless struggle to leave marks this brutal and unforgiving. The thought twisted Jason’s gut. Tim shouldn’t have had to fight like that. These injuries were the result of deliberate cruelty, and Tim… His baby bird had tried to save himself, clawing and twisting until his skin tore and bled, leaving behind these jagged scars as proof of his desperation.For a fleeting moment, Jason’s own memories sprang forward, unbidden and merciless. The cold bite of the metal cuffs dug ruthlessly into the yellow-white jut of his ulna, searing through the death shroud that had overtaken his fractured mind. Each crash of the crowbar and sickening crack of bone wove together with his wheezing screams for his father, a symphony of ruin conducted by a man too mad for Hell. He clawed desperately, futilely, at the wet cement around him, his fingers fracturing like beams of light scattering through shattered glass - vivid, fragile, and powerless to halt the inevitableHe’d fought so hard, screaming for Batman to save him, but no one ever showed up. He'd died alone, still waiting for someone to come, even as he choked his final breaths through a scorched throat.Jason's chest tightened, a splintered blade of something sharper than fury ripping through him - sympathy, guilt, helplessness - all coiled together, crushing his breath until it bled away. Tim had done what Jason couldn’t. Timmy had saved himself where Jason had failed, escaping alive when by all rights he should’ve been left to die. It was a miracle Jason didn’t trust to repeat - not in this world, not with odds stacked so mercilessly against them. But none of that changed the fact that Tim had gotten free, battered and bleeding but breathing. And now, Jason had to make sure he stayed that way.Whoever had done this to Timmy… they’d pay. Slowly. Painfully. But right now, none of that mattered. What mattered was cleaning the wounds, keeping them from festering, making sure Tim didn’t suffer any more than he already had.The wounds needed attention too, though they were already oozing faintly, the edges hardened over with dried blood and pus. He pressed the cloth to one particularly inflamed patch, scrubbing firmly despite the bile rising in his throat. Jason just needed to get Timmy cleaned up, it didn’t matter how much it hurt him - he wasn’t awake to feel it anyway. If Jason didn’t clean these wounds properly now, they’d rot. Infection would spread again despite every effort Jason made to stop it, undoing everything he’d worked for tonight. There wasn’t time for hesitation - not if he wanted to keep his little bird alive. Timmy’s life hung by a thread so thin it might snap at any second. Losing focus now would mean losing everything.His movements grew rougher as his panic bubbled dangerously close to the surface. The cloth snagged on something - a scab, half-formed and stubbornly holding the scraps of Tim's flesh together. Without thinking, Jason bore down harder, intent on removing whatever obstruction stood between him and progress. Then came the slick resistance of torn flesh beneath the fabric, followed by a steady stream of red spreading down Tim’s pale arm and pooling on the bed below, the gore vivid and accusing against the fragile curve of Timmy's wrist.Jason froze, his breath hitching like static in his chest as the crimson streaked green where it stained his fingertips. His hands were meant to be putting his little brother back together, providing the comfort and safety no one ever offered to Jason. Instead, he was tearing Timmy apart, reopening wounds to the corruption of the world.For a moment, time seemed to stop, the room shrinking to the size of the droplets welling up on Tim’s skin. What had he just done? He stared at the wound, his mind racing. His grip on the cloth slackened, his hand falling limply to his side as shame pulsed around him like a second skin, too tight to breathe in.“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the word sharp but hollow, echoing uselessly in the choking silence of the room. He balled his fists and pulsed them in time with Timmy’s labored breathing, forcing himself through the rising tide of frustration and remorse. He was supposed to be helping, not making things worse. Every movement he’d made had been fueled by worry, but that concern was only feeding the pit - and now look where it had gotten them.His fingers twitched, itching for something to grab, so he tossed the soiled cloth aside and reached for a fresh bandage instead. There was no point trying to clean Tim further - not when Jason’s hands were shaking with exhaustion and guilt, and every breath he took brought another wave of green creeping forward. He pressed the bandage gently to the bleeding spot, his touch tentative, almost reverent, as if afraid that even the slightest pressure might break what little progress he’d managed so far.He's still breathing. That's all that matters right now, he told himself, though the words sounded weak, even in his own head. Alive. He's still alive. As long as he's breathing you can fix this.He grabbed another roll of gauze and began wrapping Tim’s wrists more carefully, focusing only on the worst of the injuries. The rest would have to wait. For now, all that mattered was stopping the bleeding; holding his little bird's wings steady just a little longer.Jason's thoughts fractured into shards of green the longer this went on, splinters of guilt and fury slicing through his resolve to stay gentle. He couldn't afford to keep going like this; not when every slip of his self control risked tearing open wounds that had barely managed to close. Not when his own instability threatened everything he fought for.Clarity was a weapon, and right now his blade was dull. Restraint was armor, but his shield was cracked. Without them he risked losing more than progress - he risked losing Timmy entirely. And failure just wasn't an option this time.He steadied himself with one final adjustment to the bandage, tying it off tightly before sitting back. Until he could breathe without the storm clawing at his ribs, until he could think without the haze clouding his mind, he couldn't trust himself to do anything more. Jason glanced down at Timmy's face, ashen and seemingly lifeless, and felt a surge of determination spread through him like wildfire claiming a dead forest; relentless, unyielding, and impossible to contain.He pulled off his gloves and leaned forward again, hovering over the wasteland of his little brother's body, before finally settling a heavy hand in Timmy’s knotted hair. “I’ve got you now,” he promised fiercely. “Nothing can touch you without going through me first. You'll see - I'll keep you safe, even from yourself.”---Tim woke - or at least, he thought he did. Reality felt flimsy here, stretched taut like a mirage shimmering over scorched desert earth, dissolving at the edges any time he tried to focus. Everything was wrong.His body felt foreign, invaded by something nameless and vast. Pain pooled in his veins, vicious and cold, filling him up until he wondered if there was any room left for air. Each heartbeat pounded sluggishly, as though trapped in molasses, dragging time itself along with it. Yet despite the weight pressing down on him - the bloated ache in his chest, the leaden pull of his arms - he couldn't shake the feeling that none of it truly belonged to him. It was happening far away, to someone who only looked like him.Then, beneath him, something slick and cold shifted, clinging to his skin. It stirred with every shallow breath, crinkling faintly, as though alive.His eyelids fluttered open, but the world beyond them refused to come into focus. Colors bled together, swirling like oil on water, and shapes dragged unnaturally before snapping back into place. He blinked again, trying to anchor himself, but the effort sent a spike of pain through his skull. His head throbbed, each heartbeat reverberating painfully behind his temples, and each breath scraping at his raw throat. Breathing felt impossible, like dragging razors through tar.The air was thick with the stench of metal and decay - a cloying rot, sharp and bitter - and it made his chest tighten. It stirred something in him, a distant memory writhing beneath his skin like a living thing screaming out from behind a wall of glass. Something was wrong. His bones hummed with secrets they refused to share, their silent warnings vibrating through him like a broken clock ticking out of sync.But his thoughts were sluggish, slipping through his fingers like sand. No matter how hard he tried to grasp them, they dissolved into static.A wave of sickness rolled through him, sharp and sudden, and his throat tightened. His hands scrambled weakly at the surface beneath him, searching for purchase to push himself up, but there was nothing solid to hold onto. The room spun dangerously around him, walls stretching impossibly tall before collapsing inward again. For a moment, he thought he saw blood pooling around him - thick, dark rivulets seeping from cracks in the floorboards and dripping from lines in the ceiling - but when he blinked again, the illusion dissolved, leaving only the dull gray tarp beneath him.“I can't,” he tried to gasp hoarsely, but his voice was barely audible even to himself. His gaze darted wildly around, searching for anything he knew was real. “Please, I don't know where…” he tried again.But the memory yanked him sideways, pulling him into the unrelenting grip of that godforsaken cave where he’d lain waiting to die. His body betrayed him, shaking violently, choking on nothing but bile and mucus that burned like acid in his throat. This wasn’t blood - it wasn’t - but his lungs didn’t care; they spasmed as if reliving every gasp for air he’d ever taken. Reality cracked open, spilling him into the past, and he couldn’t tell anymore whether the pain slicing through him was fresh or years old. His thoughts shattered like broken glass, sharp edges cutting deeper with every attempt to piece them back together.Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes now, hot and stinging, and he clawed weakly at his face, trying to wipe away what wasn’t there. Blood. It had to be blood. He knew it wasn't, but the past was a flood washing over him, dragging him under until he couldn’t breathe through it. His fingers shook as they raked across his cheeks, leaving faint red trails where nails scraped too hard against skin.But then, something stopped him; his own hand jerking back as though guided by an unseen force. For a fleeting moment, he thought maybe he’d imagined it, but then came the cold. A shock of it, sudden and unrelenting, blooming in his palm like frost spreading across a windowpane. It bit into his skin, sharp teeth sinking deeper with every second, demanding his undivided attention.He blinked, once, twice, the haze lifting just enough for him to register the shape cradled in his hand: smooth, slick, solid. Ice.It wasn’t gentle, it didn’t offer comfort or solace; but it was real. Real in a way nothing else had been moments before. The chill seeped into his bones, teeth already chattering as it stole warmth but left clarity in its wake. Each pulse of cold radiated outward, chasing away the eternal fog, grounding him in the present. His fingers twitched involuntarily, gripping tighter as if afraid it might vanish, melt away into nothingness. But it held firm, stubborn and unyielding, a lifeline carved from frozen water.His breathing slowed, uneven exhales fogging the surface of the ice until tiny droplets formed, trembling like fragile pearls before sliding down its sides. The anxiety still lingered nearby, ready to pull him back under, but the cold kept him steady. Its bite pierced the chaos, reminding him he was still here. This - this chill, this ache, this brittle thread of now - was real.“Hey.” A voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding. “Stop moving around so much. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”Tim went rigid, his heart lurching wildly in his chest. The voice was familiar, yet not- not entirely. It reminded him of someone, but who? Sunlight and hope guttered out like embers doused in oil, choking the air with acrid fumes and leaving behind charred bones where warmth once lived. Hood. The name sent a jolt of terror coursing through him, rooting him to the spot. But the hands suddenly gripping his wrists weren’t cruel; not yet. They held him firmly, grounding him, keeping him still.For a moment, he let himself believe it was Robin, his Robin - the one whose voice carved paths through darkness, each word landing like the strike of flint igniting flame. He’d seen him move through storms of violence and fear, his silhouette etched against the chaos like iron forged in heat. That Robin had been immovable, a wall of fire and willpower shielding the broken and lost. A standard Tim had once measured all others against.But these hands - they clawed instead of cradled, their grip jagged and merciless, grinding salt into wounds where there should have been balm. Not Robin. Never Robin anymore.He whimpered softly, tears streaming freely from his eyes at the realization of who he was with. Cold resignation settled over him like frost on glass. His voice wavered, faint as the flicker of a dying flame, swallowed almost entirely by the roar of his own heartbeat. “Please Hood… I- I didn't mean to-” The words caught in his throat, tangled and incomplete, but fear drove them forward anyway. He didn't know what he'd done wrong this time, but Hood had never looked at him without seeing something to punish. Anguish tightened like a leash around his lungs, leaving no space for even the shallowest breath.“Shh, it's okay,” Hood reassured, his voice low and steady as he coaxed the ice from Tim's white-knuckled grip before moving back to his wrists. “Look at me - you're fine. You're not in trouble, alright? Just settle down and take some deep breaths. Can you do that for me?”But he couldn’t. Not when his skin prickled like it was trying to crawl off his bones. Not when the room bent obliquely, walls melting into shadows that stretched unnaturally long, clawing at the edges of his vision. He needed to move, to escape, but the hands holding him were firm yet unyielding - not brutal, but not letting go either.Panic surged within him again, rising like a tsunami, choking him until his breath hitched like static electricity snapping in his chest, sharp and jagged enough to leave invisible scars. And then it broke - his body convulsing as though trying to purge the fear itself, each cough tearing through his throat like shards of glass dragged over raw flesh. The sound was wet and ragged, echoing in the silence like the death rattle of something already gone, leaving behind a metallic tang of blood on his tongue and a tremor in his limbs that refused to subside. Every last part of him ached.“Easy now kiddo,” Hood murmured, his voice calm and measured even as it left no room for argument.“You’re safe here. Nothing’s gonna hurt you while I’m around, alright? I mean it. Just relax for me.”The unyielding pressure of his hands on Tim’s wrists pressed directly over the raw, angry wounds left by restraints - each point of contact rippling through his nerves like spider cracks in a drive-by. It was too much to process, yet not enough to push him over; the pain anchored him cruelly to the present, dragging him back from the edges of escape he so desperately craved.Tim shook his head weakly, tears spilling faster as his body trembled under the weight of unseen terrors. His mind screamed at him to fade, slip, vanish; to dissolve into nothingness where the world couldn’t touch him. But the searing grip held him tethered. “I can’t-, I’m sorry-, I just-, Please don't-”“Stop apologizing,” Hood said, his voice as cold and implacable as the suddenly crushing grip around Tim’s wrists. A hitched whimper tore from Tim's throat and he relented. “You don’t need to be sorry right now. Listen to me, just focus on my voice, alright? Good boy. That’s it. In through your nose… out through your mouth. Again.”The words felt distant, muffled, like they were coming from underwater, but something about them anchored him - a lifeline thrown into the chaos threatening to pull him under. Slowly, haltingly, Tim obeyed, drawing in shaky breaths that hitched halfway through before shuddering out again. His whines softened, devolving into quiet sniffles, and for a moment, he felt small - so impossibly small - that he couldn’t help but curl inward, seeking refuge in the presence beside him.“There you go,” Hood cooed, almost singsong now, voice dripping with an unsettling reassurance. “See? You’re doing great. That’s a good bird. Now, let’s get you some tea, hmm? Can’t have you falling apart on me before I even get you patched up.”Tim nodded faintly, too overwhelmed to protest, too exhausted to resist. The fight seeped out of him in waves, leaving behind only the fragile echo of obedience. For now, that would have to be enough.—Sometime later - or maybe only seconds; time didn’t exist here - a cup appeared in his peripheral vision. Steam curled lazily from its surface, carrying with it the faint scent of chamomile and mint. It smelled safe. Comforting. Like those rare nights spent recovering in the Cave’s infirmary as Alfred bustled and hummed nearby, tending to Batman and Nightwing on comms.“Here you are, baby bird,” Hood’s voice sounded again, firmer this time but still laced with an odd tenderness. “Drink this now. Slowly.”Tim hesitated, his gaze flickering between the cup and Hood’s face. It looked harmless enough, just a relaxing cup of tea, but trust felt like a distant concept - something he couldn’t grasp no matter how hard he tried.“I- I don't…” Tim finally whispered, barely audible, his words trailing off into silence as doubt tightened its grip on his mouth.“Don't what?” Hood prompted, his tone laced with subtle warning that that sent warning signals humming beneath Tim's skin.Tim wavered, uncertainty eating at his resistance even as his doubts swelled. “Is it safe?” he forced out meekly. “I can't-” The words dying in his throat as his stomach somersaulted at the wounded look that flashed across Hood’s face.“Of course it's safe,” Hood replied, tone clipped and abrupt, even if not unkind. “Do you really think I'd give you something that would hurt you? Just one sip, okay? For me.”Tim felt lost, but his thirst burned hotter than his caution, gnawing at him until it became unbearable and making it easier to push his doubts aside. He shifted weakly, attempting to push himself upright, but every movement sent fresh waves of agony rippling through his body, sharp and unrelenting. His arms quivered beneath him, muscles screaming in protest, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse back onto the mattress.Before he could fall, Hood’s hands were there: steady, insistent, wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him forward. The touch was determined yet careful, almost gentle, though it still made Tim flinch. Pain radiated outward from where Hood gripped him like a fault line, splitting him apart even as it kept him anchored, kept him moving when his own strength failed. With Hood’s help, he managed to sit up, though his body swayed precariously; bones feeling worn and friable, like they might shatter under their own weight.A large hand steadied his own then, guiding the cup resolutely to his lips. Warmth flooded his mouth, soothing the raw ache of his throat, and for a brief, blissful moment, he let himself believe it would be okay - that someone cared.Then the cup slipped from his shaking hands, spilling its contents down his chest. The warmth soaked into his skin, shocking against the feverish burn coursing through him. And that’s when he realized - he was shirtless.Horror erupted within him, sharp and strangling, clawing at his throat like a living thing. Shirtless. Exposed. Vulnerable. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as flashes of sensation crashed over him, disjointed and relentless. His senses were a cacophony of unreality.
Smooth silk sliding against his bare skin, too soft to be comforting.
The slick press of warm oil smeared across his shoulders and running between his legs, sticky and foreign.
Fingers gripping him too tightly, leaving bruises that throbbed long after they faded.
The weight of someone else’s body pinning him down, heavy and insatiable.
Whispers brushing against his ear, low and guttural, though the words dissolved before he could catch them.
Each memory splintered apart, shards of feeling slicing through him without context or clarity. He didn’t know what had happened - couldn’t piece it together - but his body remembered. It wailed louder than his thoughts ever could, every nerve ending alight with dread.His chest heaved, lungs straining for air as if the room itself had shrunk around him. Terror clawed deeper, rooting itself in his bones, dragging him back to places he couldn’t name but couldn’t escape. Despondency. Humiliation. Powerlessness. The feelings were raw and jagged, cutting through him until he thought he might bleed out from the inside.“No, no, please, no…” Tim cried frantically, thrashing weakly as the memories overwhelmed him. Each movement blurred the line between now and then, dragging him deeper into a nightmare he couldn’t escape. The heat of his fever pressed against him like the sweltering desert sun, suffocating and relentless, until he wasn’t sure if it was his body burning or the memory of sand clinging to his skin.His back screamed with every shift, raw wounds splitting open beneath unseen hands - hands that felt too familiar, too cruel. They weren’t new wounds; they echoed older ones, marks left by something sharp and unrelenting, slicing through flesh and pride alike. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as the pain radiated outward, merging with phantom sensations: the weight of chains around his wrists, the pressure in his crotch from something cold and unyielding, the dull throb of healing ribs that refused to mend properly.“You’re hurting yourself,” the voice barked, sharp and unyielding, piercing through the chaos in Tim's mind but unable to anchor him. “Stop fighting me, damn it!”But stopping wasn’t an option. Not when the drugs still lingered in his veins, twisting reality into something slippery and half-formed. Everything felt wrong - too heavy, too bright, too loud - and yet maddeningly distant, like watching himself through frosted glass. He could feel it again: the sluggishness of limbs that wouldn’t obey, the hum of narcotics dulling his thoughts until coherence slipped just out of reach. It was happening all over again - the same haze, the same helplessness, the same humiliation.The hands came back then, unrelenting and precise, pressing him into place despite his thrashing. Each point of contact seared through his feverish skin like jagged hooks sinking deep, grounding him brutally to the present even as his mind dragged him further under.“Easy now,” the voice coaxed, soft and deliberate, “That’s it. Just breathe for me, baby bird. I've got you. You’re safe here.”Safe. The word warped inside him, cold and serrated, like a dagger twisting deeper between already broken ribs. Safe didn’t exist - not here, not anywhere. His chest heaved, lungs straining for air as if the room itself had turned to stone, crushing him beneath its weight. Panic crept higher, clawing its way up his throat like shards of glass tearing through flesh. His vision blurred, colors bleeding together until everything dissolved into static.Then the pressure increased. Hands gripped tighter, holding him still despite his increasingly frantic attempts to break free. A knee pressed into his side, pinning him down, while fingers brushed against his cheek, rough but oddly gentle. “Shh, just settle down,” the voice breathed again, closer this time, dripping with false reassurances that seared deep into his skin. “Just settle down, now. I’ve got you, shh, you're safe with me.”But staying was inconceivable. The memories came faster now, overlapping and colliding until they became a storm he couldn’t outrun: the humiliation of being held, displayed like a trophy, a prize won and kept; the searing pain of whip strikes that left welts blooming across his back as though the night had planted seeds beneath his skin; the constant ache between his legs, a reminder of ownership he couldn’t shake. His whimpers turned to gasps, then sobs, each sound more broken than the last. His body convulsed uncontrollably, muscles spasming as if trying to tear themselves apart.And then - it stopped.Not abruptly, but slowly, like water draining from a sink. The fight drained out of him in waves, leaving behind only emptiness. His trembling ceased, replaced by a strange stillness, his body going limp in the hands that held him. When the voice spoke again - low, commanding, almost sweet - he nodded faintly, though the words barely registered.“That’s a good bird,” Hood murmured, his tone shifting to something hushed and accommodating as his grip eased to something almost a little… tender. It felt safe, comforting. Without thinking, he leaned into it, his body betraying him even as his mind screamed warnings. His fingers crooked weakly around the fabric of Hood’s sleeve, clinging desperately to the fleeting sense of security. Shame burned hot in his chest, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go. “See? You’re safe with me. Just rest.”Tim didn’t respond. Instead, he bowed inward, seeking refuge in the presence beside him, his movements automatic and unthinking. Surrender settled over him like a second skin, shutting out the chaos, dulling the pain and fuzzing everything out.---When Tim surfaced again, the world unfurled like a blurred photograph, details smudged beyond recognition. Time wasn't something solid here - it bled and smeared, pooling in corners of his mind like spilled ink spreading across paper. Whether it had been minutes or days didn't matter; he couldn't hold onto the thought long enough to care. What mattered was the warmth cocooning him now, heavy blankets swaddling his body until movement felt impossible.And yet, he didn’t want to move. The weight anchored him, pressing against every ache, every bruise, as if trying to hold the pieces of him together when everything else threatened to fall apart. It felt like being caught in powerful arms only seconds before his splintering crash into adamantine stone.The first thing that registered fully was the smell: rich, savory broth laced with the sweetness of herbs, a pinch of spice weaved in just strong enough to make it past his clogged sinuses. It reminded him of something… someone… but the memory danced just out of reach, teasing him with pieces he couldn't quite put together right now. The thought flickered briefly in his mind before dissolving, leaving behind only the ghost of safety he couldn’t quite place. His stomach clenched faintly at the scent, hunger stirring beneath layers of exhaustion, though it felt distant, muted, like an echo too far away to reach.Next, he shifted slightly, testing the boundaries of his awareness, and winced as pain rippled through him. Every inch of his body bawled in protest: skin rubbed raw and split open, bones grinding and creaking unnaturally with every shift, fever simmering like a river of mercury carving paths beneath his flesh. But here, wrapped in warmth and silence, the pain seemed softer somehow, ground down into fine ash that settled over him like dust after a storm, heavy but strangely quiet.A shadow moved beside him, blocking out the dim light filtering through the room. Tim flinched instinctively, his body tensing as he braced for impact, but the figure merely adjusted its position, leaning closer. An arm slid beneath his shoulders, lifting him gently until he was propped upright against something firm yet yielding - a pillow, maybe, or another body. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was the heat radiating from whoever held him, seeping into his fever chilled skin like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.“There,” the voice murmured, soft as the first brush of dawn light through a fogged window, lilting with an almost hypnotic cadence. “That’s better, isn’t it?”Tim nodded absently, his gaze drifting blearily over to the figure next to him as if trying to piece together fragments of a dream he couldn’t quite remember. The world still felt hazy, edges blurred like watercolor smudged by rain, but something about the man sharpened the fog just enough to anchor him. Black hair, mussed and curly with a vibrant streak of pure white down the center. Teal eyes, sharp and calculating yet softened now with an odd attentiveness. The jagged scar running from temple to lip - the “J” etched into his face like a brand - snapped the rest of the image into focus.Hood.Recognition flickered faintly, dim as starlight filtered through heavy clouds, bringing no comfort; only a cascade of unanswered questions. Why was he here? Where exactly was here? Was Hood the reason he hurt so much? And why did those hands feel steady instead of violent, gentle instead of cruel? The fragments of thought tumbled over each other, refusing to settle into anything coherent. His thoughts were sluggish, disjointed, like trying to assemble a puzzle missing half its parts.A strange dissonance settled in his chest, an unshakeable hum of unease that vibrated beneath his skin. Something about this moment felt off-kilter, titled just slightly out of alignment, but the specifics slipped through his grasp like wind through his fingers.He opened his mouth to ask, to demand answers, but the words shattered in his throat, crumbling into a cough that ripped through him, raw and jagged. His body jerked violently, each spasm a fresh eruption of pain, his chest a battlefield of fire and splintered bone. The agony was unyielding, a wildfire consuming his lungs, his muscles screaming with every convulsion. He was left gasping for air that felt like shards of glass, each breath a ragged, desperate fight against the collapse closing in.Instinctively, he curled inward, clutching at himself - or trying to - but his arms refused to obey, weighed down by blankets or weakness or both. Before he could collapse entirely, Hood’s hands were there again, firm and steady, holding him upright against the solid warmth of his own body.“Easy now,” Hood murmured, his voice a blend of steel and silk, firm enough to anchor Tim but soft enough to keep him from flinching. One hand pressed lightly against Tim’s back, tracing slow, deliberate circles until the coughing subsided, while the other stayed locked around him, unyielding in its grip. “You’re not ready to talk yet. You need to take care of yourself first.”Tim gaped up at him incredulously, confusion tinged with disbelief clouding his expression. He wanted to argue, to insist he was fine - but humiliatingly enough the words wouldn’t come right now. Instead, he focused on the sensation of Hood’s hand against his spine, grounding him even as it disturbed him, and tried to ignore the unsettling implication of his words. It was strange - too strange - to be held like this, cared for like this, by someone who had personally counted all his broken pieces before.“You hungry?” Hood asked, his tone shifting slightly, teasing but not unkind. He reached for the bowl resting nearby, mist unfurling in delicate tendrils above that vanished into the dim light. The scent hit Tim again, overwhelming and achingly familiar; it smelled like home, or what little Tim had ever known of it. For a moment, he let himself sink into the memory of Alfred's unwavering presence during nights when Tim couldn't bear to face himself alone. The simplicity of those moments tugged at him now, a bittersweet ache blooming in his chest as though his heart were folding inward under the weight of longing.His gaze lingered on the bowl, anticipation humming softly through him like the first notes of a forgotten melody. For the first time in weeks, his stomach didn't feel so tight, as if the mere promise of warmth and sustenance had begun to loosen the knot inside him.“I made this for you,” Hood admitted quietly, dragging Tim’s attention back to him as he lifted the spoon towards Tim's lips as though presenting a gift. But Tim stayed frozen in dismay, only now realizing Hood intended to feed him. “Come on,” Hood coaxed, voice laced with an unyielding patience that brooked no refusal, “Just a little taste Timmy. Please.”Tim hesitated, mortification warring with fear and hunger. His cheeks flushed faintly, though whether from shame or fever, he couldn’t tell. Hood didn’t suffer fools - or resistance - and Tim knew better than to tempt him. The weight of that knowledge settled heavily in his chest, mingling with the apprehension coiled tight in his gut.He glanced down at himself, noting how thoroughly entangled he was in the blankets, how heavy his limbs felt, as though they’d been filled with sand. Even the thought of lifting his arm felt Herculean; there was no realistic way he could feed himself. Still, the ache in his stomach gnawed at him, persistent and undeniable, a sharp contrast to the numbness that had dulled his appetite for so long.But it wasn’t just hunger driving him now: it was the quiet terror of what might happen if he opposed. So when Hood tilted the spoon slightly closer, he found himself opening his mouth without thinking.The broth hovered just beyond his lips, steam brushing against his skin like a whisper. For a heartbeat, the sensation fractured into something else entirely - a single bead of water rolled down his chin, denied no matter how his throat cracked with thirst. The tang of rust filled his mouth as his chains creaked softly in the background.Tim stiffened, suddenly hyperaware of how vulnerable he was, how utterly dependent on Hood’s nonexistent goodwill. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as though even the act of breathing might give too much away. But before he could retreat, Hood’s voice cut through the smog once more, softer this time, almost indulgent, wrapping around him like a velvet shroud that left no room for refusal.“That’s good, Timmy,” Hood said, delight creeping into his voice, each word carrying the weight of quiet triumph. “See? Not so hard.”The first bite slid past his lips almost too easily, the warmth of it spreading briefly across his tongue like the sun's fingers reaching through the clouds. For a fleeting moment, it felt like the world had paused - like the calamity inside him had softened - but before he could even swallow, his body betrayed him.A violent shudder coursed through him, sudden and uncontrollable, as if every nerve ending had ignited in the span of a single breath. His throat locked tight, muscles seizing with a ferocity that stole his breath, while his mouth watered reflexively, flooding with saliva he couldn't swallow.The taste turned bitter, wrong - poisonous - not because of the broth itself but because his body would always remember what his mind refused to acknowledge. Somewhere deep inside, fragments of memory surfaced, sharp and jagged: days writhing in agony, stomach twisting violently, fluids draining from him until emptiness took root. The faint sting of an IV line taped hastily to his arm, threads as thin as spider silk tethering him to life. Poison. Betrayal. Survival.He gagged hard, the spoonful surging back up his throat, sour and viscous, before spilling over his lips in a wet, humiliating mess. Before he could process what was happening - or why - he lurched backward instinctively, desperate to escape the source of this violation. But Hood’s hand shot out faster than thought, fingers gripping his chin with bruising force, forcing him to stay still, to face him. Tim's heart lurched.“Is this some kind of petty revenge?” Hood snapped disbelievingly. “I took the time to make this, just for you, from scratch, and you throw it back at me like a spoiled child? I thought we were past tantrums, pretender!” he practically spat, his voice laced with barely restrained venom. Each syllable seemed to carve itself into Tim's skin, sending shockwaves through him that left him quaking.It threatened to drag Tim’s attention from the important task of keeping his stomach under control as Hood’s grip tightened, nails digging into Tim’s jawline, anchoring him cruelly to the present even as his mind scrambled to make sense of the chaos erupting within him. He focused on the sharp prick of nails probably drawing blood, trying to breathe through the overwhelming sensations.“I - ” Tim tried to speak, to explain, to plead, but the words dissolved into another wave of nausea. His chest heaved, lungs straining for air as his stomach revolted violently, rebelling against even the thought of swallowing again. Panic surged higher, blooming through the cracks in his chest like oleanders. He wanted to tell Hood - to warn him, beg him to wait, plead for him to back off until his stomach settled - but any use of words would loosen his control over his body, and he could already feel the full-body strain of holding it in.Hood didn’t wait for answers. Instead, he reached for the bowl again, lifting another spoonful to Tim’s lips, his movements deliberate and uncompromising. “I’m not letting you waste away because you're too damn proud to accept help! Don’t fight me on this Timmy,” he growled, gruff and commanding, his voice tight with leashed frustration. “You can't afford to be stubborn right now. Open your mouth.”Tim flinched, his gaze darting between the spoon and Hood’s darkening face, searching for some sign of mercy, some reprieve. But there was none. Only the cold certainty in Hood’s eyes, daring him to defy. Desperation scraped at the edges of his awareness as he tried to think, to argue, to find words that would stop this before it went further. But the moment the spoon came closer, hovering just beyond his lips, his body shattered whatever tenuous control he’d managed to hold onto.His stomach roiled violently, acid burning the back of his throat, and then everything unravelled.The first wave hit him like a freight train, unstoppable and merciless. His stomach contracted violently, muscles clenching with such force it felt as though they were trying to tear themselves apart. He gagged hard, retching fast and hot, scorching his throat like molten lead before spilling out in a torrent he couldn’t contain. The pressure behind his eyes built excruciatingly, sharp and unrelenting, until it felt like they might burst from their sockets. Each retch stole what little breath he had left, leaving him gasping, choking, drowning in the chaos erupting within him.He tried to squirm away, instinct screaming at him to escape - to distance himself from the mess, the disgrace, the constricting weight of Hood’s presence - but the unforgiving grip only tightened, pulling him closer instead of letting go. For a split second, Tim registered the shift, the way Hood’s hands moved from controlling to restraining, but then another wave crashed over him, dragging him under again. This time, his body seemed set on turning itself inside out. The vomit spewed upward in a sickening rush, spilling over them both in a grotesque cascade of half-digested tea. It soaked into the blankets swaddling him, seeped into the fabric of Jason’s shirt, clinging to their skin like an accusation neither could ignore.It burned. God, it burned. Wherever the bile touched raw wounds - on his wrists, along his collarbone, soaking down the tenderized expanse of his back - it felt like lye eating through flesh, dissolving him piece by piece. But the pain barely registered, drowned out by the relentless contractions wracking his body. His stomach refused to relent, insisting there was still more to purge even as dry heaves took over, wrenching his frame with spasms that left him shaking like a plucked wire, his body little more than a raw, empty shell. Acid bubbled up again, thick and bitter, catching in his throat and forcing its way into his mouth and up his nose. He choked on it, gagging harder as he fought for air, each labored breath ragged and shallow.Humiliation clawed at the edges of his awareness, faint but insistent - a dull ache beneath the overwhelming tide of physical agony. He knew how this must look: weak, pathetic, disgusting. The thoughts flickered briefly through his mind before being swallowed whole by another wave of sick. Would Hood’s hands curl into fists, his patience snapping like a thread stretched too thin? Would his lip curl in disgust, his voice cold and cutting as he stepped back, distancing himself from the chaos Tim had created - or worse, would he simply leave, done with Tim’s frailty, abandoning him to drown in the mess he’d made? Tim couldn’t focus long enough to dwell on it, not when every fiber of his being was consumed by survival - the desperate need to breathe, to stop vomiting, to just make it end.But suddenly, Hood’s demeanor shifted. The frustration melted away, replaced by something quiet yet deliberate - an urgency that hummed beneath the surface. One hand slid to tilt Tim’s chin upward, angling his head with practiced ease. The touch was firm but steady, almost gentle in its precision, though it left no room for rejection. His other arm coiled around Tim’s waist, pulling him closer while subtly repositioning him. Every movement radiated precision, holding Tim steady even as his world threatened to spin out of control.“I’ve got you,” Hood reassured, though the edge in his voice betrayed lingering tension. “You’re alright. Just breathe.”For a moment, Tim thought he imagined the softness creeping into Hood’s tone, the faint shudder of concern beneath the command. But there was no mistaking the way Hood adjusted his hold; not loosening it, exactly, but shifting it so that it felt less like restraint and more like support. Still firm, still controlling, but somehow steadier.Another heave tore through him, weaker now but no less brutal, and he gagged again, coughing so violently his windpipe contracted around nothing. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with bodily fluids until he wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began. His body shuddered uncontrollably, muscles twitching with exhaustion, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse entirely.But Hood held him steady, grounding him to the present even as everything else threatened to slip away. “That’s it,” Hood said, his voice mellowing with commiseration. “Just let it out. I’ve got you.”Tim wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that the words meant something beyond empty reassurance, but all he could focus on was the burn in his throat, the sting against open wounds, the way his lungs yowled for oxygen between spasms.Through the haze, he dimly registered the way Hood’s grip shifted again, cradling him closer rather than pushing him away. It wasn’t comfort - not really - but it wasn’t cruelty either. Not anymore. The realization flickered faintly in his mind, like the faint flicker of a candle flame, guttering in the wind, but it was enough to anchor him just slightly. Enough to make him stop fighting Hood’s care.He sagged against the larger man; too weak to hold himself upright, too tired to care about anything beyond the immediate need to survive. His thoughts were sluggish, clouded by fever and fatigue, but fragments surfaced unbidden - impressions of hands holding him down, voices softening when he stayed quiet, promises whispered in tones both cruel and tender. He didn’t want to think about them, didn’t want to remember, but they lingered at the edges of his awareness, shaping his instincts even as they eluded his conscious grasp.“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them. They tasted strange on his tongue - too small, too fragile - but they felt necessary, like an offering he couldn’t refuse to give. “Please, I didn’t mean to waste it. I’m so sorry.”Hood didn’t respond immediately, his silence heavy and unpredictable. Tim flinched inwardly in anticipation, bracing for anger or disgust or something worse; but instead, Hood’s arms tightened fractionally around him, pulling him closer still. The gesture was possessive, almost suffocating, yet strangely reassuring in its intensity. Tim leaned into it without meaning to, seeking refuge in the warmth despite everything - the mess, the pain, the humiliation. It was easier this way, safer.His mind drifted hazily, skipping over the sharp sting of regurgitation burning his wounds, the dull throb of injuries he couldn’t name, the fever boiling beneath his skin like cinders waiting to reignite. All that mattered was the weight of Hood’s arms around him, grounding him even as they trapped him. What mattered was the sound of Hood’s breathing, steady and deliberate, cutting through the turmoil in his head. What mattered was not making him angry.The faint hum of Hood’s earlier frustration clung to the edges of his awareness, buzzing softly where he couldn’t reach it. He hadn’t meant to provoke him; not meant for the hardness in his tone or the pressure of his grip to settle so heavily between them.But the truth was murkier, buried beneath years of instinct he couldn’t untangle. Somewhere deep inside, he knew why he clung to Hood now, why he whispered apologies and pressed closer despite the degradation. But he didn’t think of it that way; this instinct to appease, to submit. All he knew was that Hood had been softer when he seemed compliant, and surrender had usually worked before. Compliance kept people from hurting him - at least, sometimes. And it was all he had left to offer in the face of his blunder. Tim couldn't bear to lose this kindness right now in the face of the alternative.So he curled inward, tucking himself into the strength of Hood’s body, his fingers brushing hesitantly against his shirt, clinging lightly to the fabric as if he was just as afraid to touch as he was to let go.“Please don’t be mad,” he whispered, the words barely audible, muffled against Hood’s chest. He hated how small his voice sounded, how desperate, but he couldn’t help it. Desperation was familiar - it was safe. Safer than trying to fight when he had nothing left to fight with.Hood’s hand moved then, smoothing roughly over his matted, sweat-soaked hair in a gesture that was equal parts soothing and patronizing. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice carrying an edge of quiet command, laced with something Tim couldn’t grasp: something heavy and unyielding. His chest tightened at the sound, his breath hitching as if bound to each word. “You’re fine, sweetheart. Just relax.”The words wrapped around him like chains, grounding him even as they left him trembling. Tim nodded faintly, though the motion barely registered. Relax. Right. As if that were even possible. But he tried anyway, forcing himself to breathe slower, deeper, ignoring the way his lungs rattled with each labored exhale. He focused instead on the rhythm of Hood’s blood pounding beneath his ear, steady and strong, anchoring him to the present even as his thoughts threatened to drift away.He didn’t dare look down at the mess they were both covered in - the sour smell of vomit clinging to their skin, the sticky wetness soaking through the blankets. He didn’t dare think about how Hood must feel about it, how angry the man undoubtedly was with him. Instead, he closed his eyes and let himself sink further into the cocoon of Hood’s presence, retreating into the numbness that always followed moments like these.---When Timmy finally stopped vomiting, collapsing against him like a broken bird seeking shelter from a hungry fox, Jason felt something throb deep in his gut - a mix of anger, concern, and something darker he didn’t want to name. The baby bird was shivering, weak as hell, clinging to him like Jason was the only thing keeping him from shattering completely. And maybe he was. That thought settled over him like smoke, heavy and suffocating, but also… satisfying.Jason tightened his grip slightly, cradling Tim closer without meaning to. He could feel the rapid flutter of Timmy’s pulse beneath his fingers where they rested lightly on the boy’s throat; not enough to choke, just enough to remind himself - and Tim - that he was still in control. “Shh,” he murmured, low and steady, though there was no real need. Tim wasn’t fighting anymore. Not now. Not after this. “You’re fine, sweetheart. Just relax.”But Jason knew better than to believe it. Fine? Tim wasn’t fine and after all of this Jason couldn't fathom how he hadn't seen it sooner. As he held the trembling boy in his arms, clarity struck like lightning - a truth so obvious it made his stomach turn.
Red Robin - the always put together perfectionist that even Batman turned to for help - wasn’t Timmy. They clearly weren’t the same person, no matter how much Jason had been conflating the two. Red Robin, just like Timothy Jackson Drake, was simply one of the many masks the helpless, forgotten baby bird used to shield himself from a world that demanded too much and gave only cruelty in return. He was just an abandoned kid trying to survive and Jason despised himself for not seeing that sooner.And yet, the Bats should have known better - they were the ones who brought him into their nest to begin with. Jason had seen neglect before; hell, he’d lived it. But this… this was different. This wasn’t just Bruce letting another one slip through the cracks; it was Bruce shoving him headfirst into the abyss. Dick pretended not to notice - or maybe he didn't care in the first place. Even Alfred, with all his meticulous care, couldn’t patch up every crack in the foundation. Look at what they’d let happen to their so-called precious baby bird. They’d dropped him from the nest, left him broken-winged and bleeding on the ground for the scavengers.The thought made Jason’s teeth grind, his hand tightening fractionally around Timmy’s neck before he forced himself to ease up. No point in scaring the kid more than he already was. Still, the rage simmered beneath the surface, sharp and unrelenting. How hard would it have been to make sure Tim ate something other than takeout or drank water instead of coffee? How difficult was it to check if the kid was sleeping, showering, living like a human being instead of some ghost haunting the city? And it just peaved Jason to know that they hadn't even been keeping his little bird safe in the manor; no, he'd been tramping around the city doing god only knows what, clearly not giving a shit if he lived or died.And now here he was, limp and shaking in Jason’s arms; covered in his own vomit, smelling like death warmed over. It pissed Jason off - they’d left him broken, starved, barely holding on.But Jason wouldn’t let them finish the job. No, he’d pick up the pieces they were too blind or too selfish to salvage. He’d stitch Timmy back together, even if the process tore them both apart. Because no one else would - not the way Jason could. Not the way Jason would.He shifted slightly, guiding Timmy’s head to rest against his shoulder, his fingers brushing absently over the curve of his jaw. The kid flinched faintly but didn’t pull away, which told Jason everything he needed to know. Tim trusted him right now; not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t have a choice.And Jason… well, Jason liked that. Liked the quiet surrender in Tim's stillness, the way his body seemed to fold itself toward Jason even as his breath hitched in complaint. Liked knowing that Timmy had nowhere else to run, no one else who could hold him together like this. It wasn't pity or revenge - it was something unspoken, something Jason carried like a blade tucked close to his chest.“I’m sorry,” Tim was whispering over and over again, the words muffled against Jason’s chest, small and pathetic and utterly heartbreaking. Jason could have laughed at how predictable it was, if every apology wasn't another crack in his tenuous control over the Pit. Of course Tim would apologize. Of course he’d think this was his fault. That was what happened when you grew up under Bruce Wayne’s roof: you learned to shoulder blame like it was your birthright, even for things beyond your control. Hell, especially for those.“Enough,” Jason warned sharply, his voice low and edged with quiet authority. He stroked a cogent hand along the back of his little bird’s head to allay his renewed shivering, unphased when he tried to recoil. It probably calmed Jason more than it helped Timmy. “You don’t get to carry that. Not anymore. Leave it behind.” His touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary, a silent reminder that Tim’s burdens belonged to Jason now. Guilt wasn’t an option - not unless Jason decided it suited his plans. For now, all that mattered was keeping his little bird steady.Tim blinked at him, eyes glassy and blank like he didn’t - or couldn’t - understand. It didn’t matter. What mattered was one thing: Jason was here now. He was taking charge, and no one - not even Tim himself - was going to screw this up again.Jason’s hand drifted to Tim’s sternum, feeling the erratic rhythm of his breathing beneath clammy, feverish skin. The kid shook against him, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. “You’re safe now,” Jason reassured himself. Timmy seemed to relax slightly at the sound of his voice, leaning into Jason’s hold as if seeking refuge. And maybe that’s where he belonged - with Jason. Maybe that’s where he’d always been meant to be.Jason tightened his grip, pulling Tim closer until their bodies pressed flush against each other. The kid smelled terrible - like bile and sweat and sickness - but Jason didn’t care. He pressed his lips briefly to the top of Timmy’s head, a gesture both possessive and protective. “You’re mine now,” he whispered, soft enough that Tim might not hear. “And I’m never letting you go.”Tim’s breathing steadied slightly, though it remained shallow and uneven. The trembling in his limbs eased enough that Jason no longer felt like he was holding onto a live wire. Progress, small as it was. But Jason wasn’t about to let him check out completely again - not mentally, not physically.“You still with me?” Jason checked, his voice quiet but edged with teasing firmness. He tilted Tim’s chin up again, forcing their eyes to meet - or close enough, anyway. Tim blinked sluggishly, his gaze unfocused but lingering just long enough to reassure Jason that he hadn’t slipped away entirely. Good. That was good.Jason’s fingers brushed absently over the scar at Tim’s neck, checking the pulse there one last time before pulling back slightly. The kid was foul, soaked in refuse as he was, and the smell was starting to get to him too. Not that Jason was particularly squeamish, but there was a difference between tolerating messes and letting them fester. And this? This definitely needed dealing with. It wasn’t just about hygiene either; Jason suspected treating Tim’s other injuries would have to happen sooner rather than later. Some of those raw patches on his skin were already inflamed where the sick had burned through, and Jason didn’t want to think about what other damage might be lurking under all that grime.Plus there was the fact that this probably wasn’t Timmy’s last episode of the night. Whatever had triggered the vomiting earlier didn't seem done with him yet. Jason could feel it in the way Tim’s body tensed intermittently, muscles twitching like they were bracing for another round. Great. Just what he needed: a repeat performance while Tim was naked and wet. Perfect timing.He shifted slightly, preparing to pull away and get things ready - the tub filled, supplies gathered - but before he could move an inch, Timmy’s hand shot out, gripping his shirt with surprising strength considering how weak the kid was. The sudden desperation in the gesture caught Jason off guard, though he didn’t show it. Instead, he paused, glancing down at Tim’s pale, trembling fingers clutching at him like he was the only thing keeping him rooted in reality. Which, honestly, didn't seem far from the truth anymore.“Where are you going?” Tim breathed, his voice thin and wavering, as though each word cost him everything he had left. There was no fight in it, only a hollow ache - a plea born of instinct rather than hope. “Please… don’t leave me.”Jason expected to feel annoyed: irritated by the clinginess, the reliance - but instead, something warmer swelled in his chest. Fondness, maybe. Either way, it made him smirk faintly, shaking his head as he leaned closer again, his free hand brushing lightly over Timmy’s head. “Seriously? How have you survived this long without someone holding your hand every five minutes? You can’t even take care of yourself for ten seconds without panicking.”The jab was meant to lighten the mood - or at least remind Tim whose rules they were playing by - but it backfired almost immediately. Baby bird shrank visibly, his grip loosening as he tried to pull away, reproach flashing across his features. Jason saw it instantly - the fear that he’d messed up, that he’d crossed some invisible line.“Relax,” Jason said, lightening his voice. He reached out again, catching Tim’s wrist before he could retreat further. “I’m not going anywhere. Not really. Just need to get a few things ready first.” He tugged gently, urging Timmy closer until their bodies were nestled together once more. “But since you’re apparently incapable of functioning without me glued to your side…” He sighed dramatically, leaning in to gather Timmy up in his arms, cradling him like he weighed nothing at all and enjoying the way his little bird immediately pressed into him. “…Guess I’ll just have to bring you with me.”Tim relaxed instantly, melting into the embrace with a quiet sniffle that Jason pretended not to hear. Honestly, he would’ve done this anyway - carrying Timmy to the bathroom, keeping him close while he cleaned him up - but letting the kid think he was doing him a favor? All the better for corralling the unruly birdie later on.“You’re such a mess,” Jason shook his head as he muttered under his breath, shifting Tim slightly in his arms as he stood. The kid clung to him tightly, burying his face against Jason’s shoulder like he was trying to disappear. “But don’t worry. I’ve got you. Always will.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Jason held Tim as though he were a songbird whose wings had been plucked bare by sadistic hands - its melody silenced, its frail body swaying in the wind of another’s breath. The kid clung to him, fingers twisted tightly into the fabric of Jason’s shirt like the curling legs of a dying spider, knuckles white against the grime staining both their skin. It wasn’t only simple refuse that clung to them now; it was fear curdling like sour milk, desperation bleeding like dye, shame festering like mold. Their clothes were steeped in the rank perfume of collapse.Jason didn’t mind. If anything, it made this moment feel more real, more raw. Like proof that Timmy belonged here, pressed flush against him like the last note of a violin string: frayed and quivering into silence.He shifted Tim slightly in his arms, adjusting his grip as he moved through the dim hallway toward the bathroom. His boots thudded softly against the floor, each step deliberate, steady - a rhythm meant to ground them both. Tim’s breathing hitched erratically against his chest, shallow gasps that rattled unevenly, like a broken music box gasping for its next note. Jason could feel the tension coiled tight beneath Tim’s skin, even as the kid seemed miles away, lost somewhere Jason couldn’t follow.But Tim wasn't allowed to float away just yet. There was still too much Jason didn’t understand: what had happened to Timmy in the first place, why he hadn’t called even a single person for help, why he insisted on breaking himself over and over again. The answers mattered less than the fact that they existed at all; consequences always did, whether Tim acknowledged them or not. Whatever it took, however messy or difficult, it was time for him to face the music - Jason would make sure of it.Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, resolve hardening in his chest. “Almost there, baby bird,” he muttered under his breath, though he wasn’t sure if Timmy heard him - or understood. Still, the words felt necessary, like threads tied into knots before the edges could finish fraying. “We’ll get you all cleaned up in no time.” And then Jason would get answers about what the hell Tim thought he was doing.The bathroom light flickered faintly as Jason stepped inside, casting harsh shadows across the tiled walls. He set Tim down carefully on the closed toilet lid, carefully hanging his IV on the shower rod and bracing himself for another reaction as he moved back. And sure enough, it came instantly. Tim stiffened the moment Jason’s hands left him, his body lurching forward like a clockwork toy wound too tight. His fingers scrabbled weakly at the air, groping blindly for purchase, before landing on Jason’s arm with surprising force. A whimper escaped him, soft and broken, barely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing.Jason sighed, rolling his eyes even as he crouched down in front of Tim, balancing carefully just out of reach but not pulling his arm away just yet. “I'm not goin' anywhere, Timmy,” he reassured, though the edge of annoyance to his voice was impossible to mask. “Just need to clean myself up first, then we'll get you all taken care of. You think I wanna smell like this all night?” He gestured derisively at his shirt, stained and sticky with bile and sweat. “Trust me, this isn't what I call a good time.”Tim didn’t respond, assuming he even heard Jason at all. His wide, unfocused eyes skittered across the room like trapped moths fluttering against glass, searching for a way out but finding only reflections of chaos. Each glance seemed to slip through his fingers, leaving him grasping at fragments too slippery to hold. Instead, his grip tightened on Jason’s arm; nails digging in faintly, leaving crescent-shaped marks that would fade before morning. His chest rose and fell too fast, too shallow, each exhale shaky and strained.Jason watched him for a moment, studying the way Tim’s body shook despite his apparent detachment. It was hypnotic, almost - how someone who once seemed untouchable could come undone like this. Jason had witnessed it countless times before; hell, he'd personally drawn the blueprints for collapse, laid the charges that brought walls crumbling down. But with Tim, it was always singular - a revelation carved from ruin, a glimpse of divinity amid the wreckage. And now, viewing it from this perspective - as the axis around which Tim’s fractured universe spun, rather than the force shattering it - he felt something shift.He’d dismantled Tim piece by piece a dozen times over, but never had he seen him surrender like this. Never so open, so desperate. Timmy wasn’t fighting him now; instead, he leaned in, folded himself toward Jason like a sunflower turning for the sun. Jason couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at him - or held onto him - like this. Like he was gravity itself, bending space around him, holding every fragment of Tim’s shattered world in orbit. Without him, the stars would scatter, the void would swallow everything whole.And honestly? Jason kind of loved it.“What am I gonna do with you?” Jason murmured after a long pause, gently prying Timmy’s fingers loose, lingering just a moment longer than necessary before standing to turn on the shower. The water sputtered to life, icy at first, then warm, tendrils of steam unfurling into the cold bathroom air like ghosts rising from the drain.He peeled off his shirt, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, and stepped under the spray. He hadn’t showered since patrol two nights ago, and he doubted he’d get another chance anytime soon. The scalding water hit him like a wave, biting at the patches of skin burned raw by bile, but he welcomed the sting.Through the mist of steam and running water, he kept one eye on Timmy, watching the way the little bird flinched and fluttered his hands like fragile wings seeking shelter every time Jason moved further away. Jason smirked faintly, leaning his head back to let the water sluice over his face. “Relax, Replacement. You're not getting rid of me that easy,” he called out, his voice carrying over the rush of water - half-scolding, half-soothing. Then, with a scoff under his breath, he muttered, “‘Sides, it’d be like leaving a toddler with a box of matches.”When Jason finally stepped out of the shower, dripping wet and marginally cleaner, he wrapped a towel around his waist and turned back to Timmy. The birdie hadn’t moved beyond curling into himself, like a pill bug bracing for the inevitable crush of footsteps. Jason crouched down again, tilting Tim’s chin up gently until their eyes met - or close enough, anyway. Tim blinked sluggishly, his pupils blown wide, swallowed whole by the dim light.“Still with me, Timmy?” Jason asked, his tone teasing yet laced with an odd sort of fondness. He brushed a strand of sweat-damp hair off Tim’s forehead, his fingers trailing lightly against the skin as if reluctant to break contact. To his quiet satisfaction, Tim leaned into Jason’s touch as though drawn by an invisible string. “Good,” Jason murmured softly, his thumb grazing Tim’s sharp cheekbone before pulling away. “You’re holding on so well, aren’t you? Just focus on me, baby bird - I’ll get you all fixed up.”Jason reached for Timmy’s soiled shirt. He tugged gently at first, wary of where it was stuck to Tim’s wounds and testing the waters - but Tim reacted instantly. His body went rigid, every muscle locking up as if bracing for impact - or escape. A low whimper escaped him, barely audible, muffled by the heavy silence stretching between them.“Hey,” Jason murmured, his voice soft but edged with practiced reassurance. “It’s just me. Just Jason. You’re fine.” He paused, leaning closer to study Tim’s face. The little bird’s breath hitched unevenly, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts like a fish gasping for air on the cracked bed of a dying river. His gaze skittered across the room, restless and unmoored, unable to settle on anything. His lips parted faintly, trembling as though the words he needed were too fragile to form, too afraid to leave his mouth.“What is it now, baby bird?” Jason asked, aiming for softness but letting frustration seep through. He was trying, damn it, but Tim threw up hurdles at every turn. “You really think I’d hurt you? After everything I’ve done for you?” His fingers stilled on the hem of Tim’s shirt as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, laced with both affection and quiet reproach. “Don’t fight me on this, Timmy. You know I’m only trying to help. Why won’t you just… trust me?”Tim flinched violently, his hands shooting out instinctively to bat at Jason’s - not forcefully, not even effectively - but enough to betray how desperately he wanted Jason to back off. His chest stuttered, each exhale rattling like broken machinery grinding to a halt, sharp and jagged against the heavy silence.“P-please…” Tim whispered, his voice cracking like steps over thin ice. The fractured words were so faint that Jason almost missed them. “…Don’t…”Jason paused briefly, caught off guard; not by the plea itself but by how hard Timmy had clearly worked to verbalize it. The kid sounded wrecked, shattered, like speaking was costing him everything he had left. For a split second, Jason felt something stir in his chest - a flicker of guilt, maybe, or pity - but he shoved it down before it could take root. Pity wasn’t useful here, not when there was work to be done.“Oh come on, baby bird,” Jason chided, his frustration bleeding through despite the undercurrent of strained affection in his voice. “You’re covered in puke and who knows what else. What am I supposed to do, huh? Leave you wallowing in your own filth because you can’t handle five minutes of discomfort?” He leaned closer, his tone shifting from exasperation to something almost pleading. “I’m just trying to take care of you, Timmy. You know that, don’t you?”To Jason's relief, Tim's entire body seemed to crumple, folding in on itself like paper left out in the rain. His chest sank inward, as though the air had been sucked out of him, and his hands gave one last twitch towards his shirt before going still. Whatever fight he’d managed to muster was gone now, snuffed out like a candle flame in the wind. Jason sighed, shaking his head as he finished pulling the shirt off Tim’s body, tossing it carelessly onto the pile of soiled clothes growing steadily in the corner.“Gods, you’re such a mess,” Jason muttered under his breath, running his fingers lightly over the bandages wrapped around Tim’s torso. They were disgusting too, soaked through in places where bodily fluids had seeped into the fabric. He peeled them off carefully, wincing faintly at the way they stuck and pulled at the raw, inflamed skin beneath. It was difficult to gauge the full extent of the damage, but it was clearly past time for Timmy to get help.“How could you even let it get this bad?” Jason wondered rhetorically. Injuries were one thing; they all pushed themselves too far sometimes, and Tim wasn’t the first to crumble under the strain. But even at their lowest, none of them had ever let themselves go quite this far, and even on the streets they'd at least had enough sense not to sit in their own waste. He shook his head faintly in disgust, reaching for the roll of gauze nearby. His movements were deliberate as he wrapped Tim’s IV port carefully, shielding it from water. “Don’t worry, Timmy,” he added softly, the reassurance more for himself than his absent little bird. “I’ll have you cleaned up in no time.”Jason shifted Tim to rest against his chest as he tugged his sweatpants off, then effortlessly lifted him into his arms. He carried Tim toward the shower, setting the tub to fill as he kept talking. “I used to think you were the perfect little upgrade.” His voice was quiet but edged with faint reproach. Who'd’ve thought the great Timothy Drake - Red Robin, genius detective, and majority shareholder of two Fortune 100 companies - knows less about taking care of himself than the average kindergartner? he thought disbelievingly. “But you’re more trouble than I ever imagined.”He stepped into the tub, lowering Tim down slowly until they were both seated, Tim cradled awkwardly against Jason’s chest. Without missing a beat, Jason grabbed a washcloth and soaked it in the water, his movements deliberate and unhurried. “Now hold still,” he instructed firmly, voice no-nonsense. “I don't want you aggravating your injuries.”He started scrubbing carefully, forcing himself to willfully disregard the way the rough texture of the washcloth caught against Tim’s skin in places where grime had caked on stubbornly. Each stroke was slow, deliberate, almost reverent - as if cleaning away the stains could somehow restore what had been lost, like polishing a tarnished heirloom to wholeness, every motion sealing cracks with the permanence of Kintsugi.Despite the tremors running through his body, Tim remained patient and pliant throughout; leaning faintly into Jason’s touch as though he was a moon held in Jason's orbit. Beneath the translucent layer of skin at his throat, his heartbeat pulsed wildly, like starlight flickering in an endless void - bright, fleeting, yet impossible to ignore; betraying the panic simmering beneath his compliant exterior.It was only minutes later that Jason was draining the tub for the first time, watching the murky water swirl down the drain, a cascade of shadows dissolving into nothingness. He refilled it in short order, but it wasn’t enough - not even close. He refilled the tub; once, twice, again. There seemed to be no end to the detritus and despair washing off Timmy, as though every stroke of the washcloth peeled back another layer of damage Jason hadn’t realized existed.And yet, as clarity emerged, so did dread. It pooled low in his gut, cold and heavy, spreading outward until it felt like frost creeping through his veins.He started scrubbing again, slower now, methodical; a careful unearthing of ruins lost to time, revealing the crumbling remnants of sacred beauty. The washcloth traced Tim’s chest, skirting over piano-key ribs that seemed to quiver under his touch - gossamer strings waiting to snap. Bruises bloomed across his torso, deep purples bleeding into sickly greens and merging like oil and water, swirling into patterns that reminded Jason of frostbitten petals clinging to a dying rose. Beneath the discoloration, faint fractures etched themselves into Tim’s skin, delicate as cracks in porcelain.“Christ,” Jason breathed, his fingertips ghosting over the jagged lines, as though afraid they’d crumble beneath his touch. Tim shuddered faintly at the contact but didn’t recoil outright, face hidden against Jason’s shoulder - a small mercy that reassured Jason that although he’d have to keep an eye on them, the bath remained his priority. “What the hell even happened to you?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of water lapping against the sides of the tub, each word heavy with disbelief and quiet fury.The question hung unanswered in the heavy silence between them, echoing through Jason’s thoughts and driving the green through his veins. But even as his fury simmered beneath the surface, it couldn’t blind him to the subtle shift in the water’s hue where it should finally be clear. Fresh red tendrils were unfurling around them, staining the bath like threads unraveling from a tapestry - a quiet reminder of how easily everything could come undone.And then he found it - the source of the fresh blood clouding the water like ink bleeding through parchment. Two deep puncture wounds gaped open on Tim’s thigh, raw and livid, their ragged edges a testament to the blade’s cruel twist before it was wrenched free. The injury looked deliberate, calculated; a message carved into flesh, meant to leave scars long after the wounds themselves had closed. They oozed sluggishly, refusing to heal properly, clearly infected despite whatever meager attempts had been made to treat them.Jason’s gaze lingered for only seconds before his mind surged with fury, teeth clenching tight enough to shatter like kneecaps under a hammer. He imagined storming out - to rage, to scream, to tear apart whatever unfortunate fool had dared to think themselves above the Red Hood’s rules, just so he could finally think without the poison of the Pit whispering in his ear. But even as the thought came, he reined himself in. Not for the first time since bringing Tim home, Jason reminded himself that patrol was just around the corner - but treating the little bird had to come first. The green served no purpose here, and losing control now wouldn’t just be counterproductive - it would be cruel, unleashing his rage on someone too fragile to withstand even the echo of it.He forced himself to breathe. In. Slowly. Out. Carefully. Tim needed him here - steady, focused - not lost in vengeance. Not yet.“Hold still,” Jason murmured softly, though Tim hadn’t moved an inch from where he cowered against Jason’s chest. His voice was low, almost tender, as if trying to soothe a frightened animal. He pressed a dry, folded towel firmly against the wounds, his hold tightening when Tim whimpered faintly, jerking instinctively beneath his touch. “Shh, baby bird,” he added, crowding closer to nuzzle faintly at the top of Timmy's head, his tone shifting from command to quiet reassurance. “I need to stop the bleeding before we can finish cleaning you up. Just breathe through it. It’ll be over soon.”Once the bleeding slowed to a trickle, Jason wrapped a makeshift bandage around Tim’s thigh, securing it firmly but carefully to avoid cutting off circulation. It wasn’t a perfect fix, but it would suffice for now - long enough for him to get the rest of Timmy's bath finished. Satisfied with the temporary solution, he returned to the task at hand.But as he worked, his fingers brushed against raised welts along Tim’s arms and sides - or what Jason had initially assumed were welts. A cold dread settled in his chest as realization dawned. They stretched and crackled with every twist of Tim’s torso, raised ridges mottled with blackened edges that crumbled like ash beneath his touch. Electrical burns. Of course, why wouldn’t they be? The marks ran parallel to veins, dangerously close to vital organs, mapping pathways that hinted at calculated intent rather than random violence.Jason swallowed hard as sour spittle pooled in the back of his throat and threatened to choke him. How close had these come to his heart? How many inches separated his little bird from death?Jason could no longer chalk this up to the usual Gotham fare; some thug’s revenge or a Rogue’s twisted game. Tim’s injuries weren’t the work of amateur cruelty or even the Rogues’ brand of calculated malice. This was something darker, more deliberate, and far beyond the usual games of cat and mouse. What unsettled him most, though, was the silence: no whispers, no boasts, no trail of breadcrumbs leading back to a culprit. It was as if Red Robin had simply vanished without a trace, leaving Jason to wonder how - or even if - they would have found him if Tim hadn’t escaped.“Who the hell did this to you?” Jason murmured, his voice barely audible over the sound of water sloshing around them. His hand hovered over one particularly nasty burn under Tim’s collarbone, hesitating before pulling away. He couldn’t risk causing more damage - not yet, not until he fully grasped the extent of what he was dealing with. But the implications coiled around him, serpentine and suffocating. Someone had taken their time with Tim; had carved their malice into his skin, savoring every gasp, every shudder, every fractured cry. This wasn't Timmy simply neglecting himself after a rough week on patrol.The derision that had clung to him earlier dissolved, replaced by something darker, sharper; fear and rage and guilt twisting together like barbed wire in his chest, threatening to shred his composure. Jason forced himself to breathe, slow and deliberate, anchoring himself to the faint rhythm of Timmy’s heartbeat against his own. “It’s okay,” he whispered. He gently stroked Timmy’s hair with his free hand, fingers soft as a dying breath as they combed through Tim’s tangles. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. No one will touch you again; not while I’m still breathing.”When Jason finally turned his attention to Tim’s back, the devastation there didn’t surprise him - not really. It was as if some part of him had already known, had braced for the worst. And yet, the sight carved an empty ache into his chest - a pressure dam groaning under the weight of a fury too vast, too raw, to process.At first, he mistook the dark patches marring Tim’s skin for dried filth, stubborn remnants of dirt and sweat that refused to wash away. But they didn’t rinse off with a little elbow grease the way everything else had. Each stroke of the washcloth sent Tim thrashing, his body writhing in violent protest, even as his mind remained disconnected. The sounds he made were unbearable; raw and guttural, like a wounded animal gnawing off its own leg to escape a trap. Jason tightened his grip, securing Tim with a hold that was both firm and desperate, his mind racing to understand what the hell was wrong.He braced himself for the worst, and still it wasn’t enough; the truth unveiled itself in a way that left Jason gutted, breathless. Scabs stretched taut like cracked parchment over a landscape of whip marks - a macabre latticework that split open under Jason’s touch, weeping raw flesh and infection. Blood bloomed into the water, swirling like ink spilled across the surface of a moonless lake, tendrils of crimson and sickly yellow unfurling in languid, hypnotic spirals.Carefully, painstakingly, Jason worked to loosen the muck and mire, softening it with warm water before scrubbing assiduously until the full extent of the damage was laid bare. Beneath lay the true horror: raw, gaping wounds that crisscrossed Tim’s back in brutal symmetry. Near the base of Tim’s spine, the skin split wide enough to glimpse bone - a stark white flash amidst crimson ruin, like a secret dragged violently into the light. Worse still, gangrene lurked at the edges of some wounds, its sickly green tendrils creeping outward like moss devouring a fallen tree. Treatable, maybe - but only just. Only if Jason acted quickly.Jason froze in horror, his hands trembling as they hovered uselessly above Tim’s ravaged back. “No,” he breathed, shaking his head as rage surged inside him; a blackened storm that crackled and hissed, tangling with a panic so sharp it felt like lightning splitting open his chest, illuminating the fragile edges of his eroding sanity. He dug his nails into the crumbling remains of his composure, fighting to hold himself together.“You stupid fucking bird,” Jason rasped, his voice splintering like the hollow bones of a bird underfoot. “Why didn’t you reach out? Why didn’t you call for help?” His words faltered, choked by their own venom as he shook his head sharply. No. This wasn’t Timmy’s fault. Maybe Tim had failed to ask for help, maybe he’d let himself fall too far - but the baby bird was their responsibility, now more than ever. Nothing could justify leaving him alone long enough for someone to carve such cruelty into his skin, especially when they all knew Tim’s sense of self-preservation was as unreliable as a compass at the North Pole.He pulled Timmy closer, cradling him tightly against his chest; Tim wiggled faintly in his hold, his breathing hitching erratically, but Jason barely registered it. All he could think about was how close he’d come to losing him. How close Tim had come to dying alone; forgotten, discarded like trash. Like Jason.“You're okay. You're safe now. I’ve got you. Shh, I’ve got you. You're gonna be perfectly fine.” Jason whispered frantically, repeating the words over and over as he rocked them both in a futile attempt at self-soothing. The green surged within him, threatening to burst clean through his ribcage, but he forced himself to keep speaking; each word a lifeline against the rising tide of panic. “You hear me? I won’t let them hurt you again. Never again. You’re safe with me. Always. Always.”The words spilled out in a torrent, desperate and disjointed, laced with an edge of hysteria he couldn’t contain. He buried his face against Timmy’s shaking shoulder, inhaling deeply, clinging to the warmth radiating from the kid’s skin as though it were the only thing keeping him rooted in reality. His grip tightened unconsciously, heedless of the pain it must have caused, as if holding Tim closer could ground them both. “I’ll fix you,” he murmured, his voice breaking under the weight of his promise. “I’ll protect you. I’ll make sure nothing like this ever happens again. I swear.”But the words felt lifeless; utterly meaningless in the face of such overwhelming devastation. This wasn’t supposed to happen - not on his watch. Not again. Yet here he was, sheltering Timmy in his arms, gluing together shards of a shattered mirror that should have gleamed with untarnished brilliance. It wasn’t skill or strategy that had saved Tim; it wasn’t some grand plan or heroic intervention. No, it was blind chance. Pure accident. Tim had wrenched himself free of hell’s chains, hauling his tattered soul back from the brink of extinction; all while Jason remained oblivious, distracted by his own selfish pursuits.How could Timmy be safe when Jason hadn’t been there to stop this? How could he promise protection when he hadn’t even known the little bird was in danger in the first place? The realization settled over him like a shroud of volcanic ash, choking and inescapable: if Tim had survived, it was despite Jason, not because of him.Batman may have failed his precious songbird - left one of his nestlings to plummet to the ground and rot in silence while he played hero, again - but Jason never expected any better from a man like that. Not from Dick or Alfred either, not after how they’d left him to the beast that plucked his feathers one by one, leaving him raw and flightless in the dark. Why would he ever think they’d guard another fledgling any better?No, it was Jason who’d failed here.The guilt gnashed at him, sharp and unyielding, carving jagged fissures into his already mangled psyche. The Lazarus Pit swelled inside him further, feeding his anger, his fear, his desperation. He snapped his head back - once, twice - cracking it against the shower wall, the plaster biting into his skull like teeth. The pain cracked through him like a fault line, shifting and grinding, until the broken pieces of his mind locked back into place and his thoughts coalesced into something resembling order.“You’re mine now,” he whispered fiercely once the green wasn't crushing the air from his lungs like a landslide, his voice trembling with steadfast determination. “Do you hear me? No one else gets to hurt you. No one else gets to touch you. I’ll kill them first. I swear to God, I’ll tear them apart if they even think about laying a finger on you, birdie.”Timmy didn’t respond outside of the labored breaths caught in his throat, of course, and Jason hadn't expected him to. His body was sagged limply in Jason’s arms, utterly spent. Jason didn’t mind; that wasn't the point. He needed this. Needed to say the words, to hear them aloud, to remind himself that he was here now. That he could still fix this. “I’ve got you,” he repeated, softer this time, almost pleading. “Always will.” Because if he didn’t… if he couldn’t…The water was still warm when Jason started again, his movements quick and efficient now that he understood the urgency. He worked with single-minded focus, eager to finish cleaning Tim so he could set him firmly on the path to healing; patch him up and tuck him into bed safe and sound. And once Timmy was settled, Jason could finally step out for a nice, long patrol. He could finally clear his head, maybe even find some answers about who the hell thought they could put their hands on Red Robin and live.Just as long as he could burn off the storm raging beneath his skin before it spilled over onto the one person who didn’t deserve it. The last thing his little bird needed was to weather Jason’s pent-up explosions - and there would be plenty of those waiting in the wings.Tim relaxed into his touch now as he worked, his body soft and pliant against Jason’s hands. Too soft. It wasn’t so absentminded anymore - it was something else entirely. Something Jason couldn’t quite name but didn’t have the mental space to dwell on. His fingers brushed down Tim’s arm, eliciting a faint shiver that rippled across the kid’s skin. Goosebumps rose where his palm lingered, delicate and fleeting, like frost forming on glass - or cracks spiderwebbing outward under pressure. Jason frowned, pausing briefly before continuing.“Easy there, baby bird. I'm just gettin’ you cleaned up,” he reminded, his voice low and soothing despite the storm brewing inside him. “We’re almost done.”At the back of Jason’s mind, something prickled; a faint unease, an instinct honed by years of surviving Gotham’s streets and then prowling its rooftops as a vigilante. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, like the whisper of petrichor in the air before a storm.Jason pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. He couldn’t afford distractions - not now, not when Timmy’s health was so precarious. Besides, this wasn’t the first time Tim had acted strangely when injured or sick. There was something about pain and exhaustion that made him clingy, affectionate even - like a moth circling a flame, drawn to the warmth even as its wings turned to ash. Or maybe it was just trust. Either way, Jason didn’t have time to dwell on it when he already had a laundry list of problems waiting for him to fix.Finally satisfied that Tim was as scrubbed down as he could manage for now, Jason eased back slightly; his hands lingering on the kid's shoulders for a heartbeat too long, as though afraid to let go. He reached for the drain and the water swirled away in cloudy rivulets, carrying with it the evidence of everything Tim had endured.Jason turned the tap again, and fresh, warm water cascaded into the tub, clear and untainted. As the water rose, pooling around them again, Jason’s gaze drifted lower, instinctively mapping his birdie’s injuries and committing them to memory like a ledger of failures - each mark a silent accusation he couldn’t escape.His eyes caught on the angry red expanse spreading across Timmy’s crotch like a wildfire, burning through skin and leaving behind a landscape of blisters and raw flesh. It crept down his thighs in fiery streaks and climbed up his back in blistered tendrils, weaving together a tapestry of devastation that looked as though it had been torn from the aftermath of an inferno. The sigh that escaped Jason as he dragged an exhausted hand down his face carried the weight of a thousand storms.He reached out, running prodding fingers along the worst of the rash as Tim's legs fell open to accommodate him. “You're killing me here, kid,” he murmured, shaking his head slowly as he traced absent patterns over the inflamed skin. Tim’s wobbling breaths were hot against his throat, quivering like the wings of a moth caught in a web. “This isn't rocket science. How do you go from being the most competent teenager in the western hemisphere to forgetting to change after you soil yourself?”Even if the sick fuck who'd tortured Red had kept him sitting in it, he still couldn't fathom why the baby bird hadn't cleaned up once he escaped. How many injuries does a kid need to rack up before a guy has to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose? He chuckled darkly, the sound brittle and empty, as the scorn pooled in his chest like nitroglycerin primed to ignite. “You really couldn't figure this one out? Even babies cry when they need changing, Timmy.”Tim stirred weakly at that, his head lolling against Jason's shoulder as he blinked up at him through half-lidded eyes. His lips parted uselessly a few times, struggling to form words, before finally forcing out a disjointed plea. “Please,” he breathed, the word barely audible, delicate as a thread about to snap. “Not yet… Medical…” His hand pressed weakly against Jason’s chest, the gesture as much an offering as it was a surrender; while his gaze was downcast and desperate, tears balancing on his lashes like raindrops on the edge of a leaf.Jason jolted in shock, dislodging Tim’s hand in the process. He was taken aback by the spike in his little bird's terror before he realized his touch had turned punishing - blunt nails snagging on the blistered terrain of Timmy’s skin, leaving behind faint crescents that wept with shame. Of course, now wasn’t the time for scolding; he knew that. It was just hard to keep his head through the cloud of green choking him like mustard gas: thickening with every new trigger, unrelenting and nearly unbearable. The last hour - hell, the entire last day really - had been a minefield of revelations, each one detonating another crack in his already uncertain restraint.He ground his teeth until they ached, forcing himself to breathe through the storm surging inside him. This wasn’t about him - not right now. It couldn’t be. He purposely relaxed his grip and smoothed an apologetic touch over Tim’s thigh as though hoping to absorb some of the pain he’d caused. Then he reached for the shampoo to start working it through Tim's stringy hair, each stroke deliberate and measured as he worked out the knots. “Doesn’t matter now. I’ve got you. You’re not falling apart on me - not if I have anything to say about it. That's my job, apparently. Fixing whatever disaster you stumble into next.”Timmy didn’t respond, and by the time he finished with his hair, the kid was practically melting into him, his body yielding and boneless; like wax melting around a candle’s flame. Jason rinsed them both one final time before turning the water off, droplets cascading over their skin in warm rivulets that quickly trailed into gooseflesh as it cooled.He stepped out of the tub, swiftly drying himself off and pulling on a pair of sweatpants, before turning back to carefully lift Tim from the water. His little bird barely stirred as Jason bundled him tightly in another towel, cradling him close. For a moment, Jason simply stood there, holding him - his little bird fragile and trembling, cocooned in the damp fabric like the safety of a chrysalis - and wondered if he was stitching Tim back together or sewing shut a coffin.Jason carried Tim back to the bedroom without ceremony, cradling him close. His heartbeat fluttered erratically, like the frantic thumping of a rabbit caught in a snare, palpable anywhere they touched - a tangible reminder of what Jason was meant to save. But he had to pause when they entered the room, fighting the urge to recoil against the smell. The single bed sat in the corner, already covered by a tarp from earlier - stained and reeking with remnants of Tim's sickness. The sour scent rolled over him in waves, repugnant and suffocating, settling into his lungs like poison he couldn’t expel.“Fucking hell,” Jason grumbled under his breath, lowering Tim carefully onto the clean side of the mattress to avoid jostling him. He pressed a firm hand into Timmy’s shoulder until he went limp against the bed - a silent reminder to stay put as the kid chased his touch like a compass needle pointing north - before stepping back. Jason steeled himself; first things first, get rid of the dirty tarp.He gathered it briskly with mechanical movements, each fold deliberate and measured, tying it off inside a heavy-duty garbage bag. Sealing away the remnants of sickness felt like burying evidence of a crime scene - one he couldn’t quite escape no matter how tightly he knotted the plastic.Jason's lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line as he smoothed a fresh tarp over the mattress, green swirling around him like a tsunami only seconds from dragging him under at the thought of what was still ahead. Tim might be clean now, but each of his wounds would require hours of painstaking work. Several of them were already oozing and draining, staining the edges of the towel in dark, wet patches. Some of them may even require surgical intervention - a grim prospect Jason could only be grateful he was already prepared for, assuming he was willing to pay the price.The memory of mottled, fetid green creeping up Timmy's back like mold on bread kept dragging at his mind and his self-control. It would haunt Jason's nightmares as surely as the press of graveyard dirt in his lungs like cement filling cracks in a driveway; the wet squelch of a crowbar snagging on exposed muscle as the grotesque crescendo to his agony. But Jason knew exactly where that rage would go later: into the first half-dozen unlucky bastards stupid enough to cross his path during patrol.For now, he shoved it down, flexing his fists in time with his breathing until the inferno inside him quieted just enough to concentrate. “One thing at a time,” he assured himself, each word sharp-edged and final - a vow carved into his very bones. You’re mine now, he reminded himself silently. And I don’t let what’s mine stay broken.Once the bed was ready, Jason positioned Tim gently, ensuring he was comfortable despite the severity of his injuries. Tim curled towards him at every motion, reaching out like a shadow chasing the sun whenever he came near. He searched blindly for Jason, fingers splayed like branches caught in a windstorm, before collapsing limply back onto the mattress like fallen leaves when they failed to find purchase. Fever glaze clouded his eyes, pupils blown wide into black holes that swallowed the light whole. He shivered intermittently, muscles trembling beneath clammy skin. Even nearly unconscious, he gravitated toward Jason, clinging to him like a drowning man clutching an anchor to keep from sinking.Jason stepped away briefly, retrieving a pair of gloves from the medical kit and pulling them on with deliberate precision. The sharp snap of latex against his wrists reverberated through the room, each sound a small ritual tethering him to reality - a vivid reminder to stay focused on the tasks at hand. Next came the supplies: antiseptics, gauze, sutures, tweezers, ointments, you name it. Everything he’d need to give Tim as complete care as he was capable of providing.Years ago, Alfred and Leslie had drilled field medicine into him until it became second nature - a skill set honed by necessity rather than choice. Between the League’s brutal lessons and the demands of running a criminal empire, his abilities hadn’t dulled; if anything, they’d evolved. And this safehouse - stocked meticulously for emergencies like these - proved how deeply survival was etched into his bones. With their training and these tools, Jason knew he could handle just about anything short of open surgery.He stopped to assess Tim’s injuries, mentally cataloguing which seemed the worst off and what kind of treatment they'd require. Then the memory of his little bird thrashing desperately beneath the washcloth surged to the forefront of his mind, each movement jerky and erratic like the final spasms of a moth caught in molten glass; its wings melting but still trying to fly. He gnawed at his lip well after the sharp tang of blood filled his mouth as he considered his options for anesthetics.Timmy had already endured two severe panic attacks in just a few hours - one so violent it had stolen his consciousness entirely. Two. Two too many. Jason clenched his jaw, the muscles twitching like taut wires ready to snap. The poor little bird couldn’t handle another episode; not while Jason was lacing him back together, not when even the smallest flinch could tear open wounds like a hot knife slicing through butter. And the Cave, the Bats, anyone associated with them - they were all out of the question. Bringing them in now would only muddy the waters of an already impossible situation; dragging their useless, suffocating presence into a mess they wouldn’t understand.If Bruce - or Dick - or Alfred - or anyone else - tried to insert themselves before Timmy was stable enough to recover on his own, Jason would put a bullet through Bruce’s skull without hesitation. Point-blank, no second thoughts. They weren’t needed here - not unless complications arose - and Jason intended to make damn sure they stayed far away. Their interference would only complicate things further, destroying any chance Timmy had of getting the care he needed. Besides, Jason didn’t trust himself to stay calm if they showed up. Not after everything he’d seen tonight. Not after realizing just how far they'd let Timmy drift - a feather caught in a storm, spiraling closer to the void with every passing second.The thought settled over him like smoke; thick, heavy, and suffocating, curling around his mind until there was no room left for doubt. It had been inevitable from the start, lurking in the shadows of his thoughts ever since he’d first realized Timmy had electrical burns: he had to drug him.Jason hated drugs - their hollow promises whispered like ghosts into empty bottles, echoes of needles clinking against cracked countertops, memories etched into his skin like scars he couldn’t scrub away. And yet here he was, faced with the grim necessity of introducing Timmy to something new, something else he might later turn against himself. But keeping him awake would only prolong the suffering, risk further injury, and push Jason closer to the edge of losing control entirely. No. Better to knock him out, let him rest while Jason worked. Let both of them find a fleeting reprieve - a tenuous pocket of calm before the storm swallowed them whole.A tranquilizer, then. It would keep Tim under until morning, giving Jason time to finish what needed doing without fearing another meltdown. More importantly, it would give him space - space to patrol, to vent, to hunt down whoever might know something about Red Robin’s recent activities - without risking Timmy bearing the brunt of his rage while he should be healing. A short patrol wouldn’t hurt anything - not when Gotham’s scum flouted his laws with reckless abandon - and it might just hold back the tide of green long enough for him to breathe again.Decision made, Jason reached for the tranquilizer gun nestled among the medical supplies. It gleamed faintly in the low light, cold and clinical - a tool meant for efficacy rather than comfort. He loaded it quickly, unwilling to entertain second thoughts, double-checking the dosage before turning back to Timmy. The little bird had been eerily silent since earlier, though Jason could still tell he was awake by the way he swayed faintly toward him, instinctively seeking warmth or solace - or perhaps just the illusion of safety. Jason hesitated for a split second, guilt flickering at the edges of his resolve like embers threatening to reignite, before pressing the muzzle haltingly against Tim’s thigh.“This is for your own good,” he reminded soothingly; though whether it was meant for Tim or himself, he wasn’t sure. “You’ll thank me later.”The trigger clicked softly, barely audible over the sound of Tim’s labored breaths. Within moments, his body went slack, completely unresponsive save for the faint rise and fall of his chest. Jason exhaled sharply, shoulders trembling as the weight of everything crashed down on him all at once. He’d done what he had to do. What needed doing. But the taste of it lingered like ash on his tongue, bitter and impossible to wash away.Jason felt the slow drip of a cold sweat trickling down his neck, indistinguishable from the damp curls clinging to his skin if not for the dewy sheen that coated him like a second layer. He forced himself to focus, shaking off the unease as he meticulously inspected Tim’s IV line for damage. Relief flickered briefly - none of the little bird’s restless twisting had dislodged it. At least one thing was holding together.It was time for another full dose of antibiotics - and fluids. God knew the kid needed them at the rate he was going. Jason swapped out the old IV bag quickly, his movements swift but precise, ensuring the flow rate remained steady before stepping back to survey the rest of the damage. Towels pooled around Tim, fallen petals encircling a wilting flower - fragile, fleeting, their pristine whiteness stark against his fever-flushed skin; a fragile barrier between salvation and surrender. Jason shifted them carefully, tucking some partially beneath him to absorb whatever blood or fluid seeped free during treatment, each motion deliberate and measured.As he worked, Jason’s mind raced through priorities, each one clawing at him like a predator circling its prey. The ribs - definitely fractured, possibly worse - demanded attention soon, but they could wait just a little longer. The knife wounds dotted Timmy’s torso like constellations of violence, familiar yet no less devastating. The burns across Tim’s arms and sides, though… Those were another matter entirely. Some ran so perilously close to Timmy’s heart that Jason wondered if it beat out of sheer defiance. Every inch of him screamed for immediate attention.And then there was his back, the injury that concerned Jason the most. Yet something held him back from starting there; something primal, instinctual. Those injuries were vast, overwhelming, a chasm too wide to cross without risking losing himself entirely. To face them head-on would be to plunge into the abyss - and Jason feared he might drown before reaching the other side.He wouldn’t have a choice soon, but if he was going to gamble with what little remained of his sanity, he decided it was better to shore up the cracks before facing the collapse.He turned his attention to the stab wounds scattered across Tim’s chest and abdomen - dozens of them. Most were shallow, jagged, designed not to kill but to maim, to maximize pain. They formed a macabre masterpiece, each laceration a brushstroke in an alien landscape where muscle peeked through bruised skin like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Some had scabbed over, others remained raw and angry, weeping faintly despite their superficiality. Before the bath, they’d gone largely unnoticed, concealed beneath layers of filth. Now, clean and exposed, they seemed almost otherworldly - a requiem of suffering carved into living canvas.Jason rinsed them one by one with saline, watching as the clear liquid ran pink and then red, pooling briefly before soaking into the towels below. Each wound told a story - a moment frozen in time when someone had decided Tim’s body was a canvas and pain was their medium. The muscle in Jason's jaw twitched as he forced himself to examine them closely, confirming what he already suspected: most were superficial, only needing butterfly stitches.But two in particular stood out - one high on Tim’s thigh, the other lower, treacherously close to the femoral artery. Jason paused, taking a steadying breath. These weren’t just cuts - they were statements. Twisted blades that dug deep and vicious into the meat of Timmy's thigh; deliberate motions, the kind of cruelty designed to linger long after the act itself ended. The first cut yawned open like a mouth trying to scream, its edges puckered and inflamed. Jason pressed gently around it, testing for signs of infection or deeper damage. Nothing yet - but that didn’t mean it wasn’t coming. He sanitized the area thoroughly, the antiseptic fizzing softly against torn tissue, before threading a needle with practiced ease.His eyes narrowed in concentration, sharp as an eagle’s gaze, as he carefully stitched part of the wound closed, each movement deliberate and precise. He tied off the thread with steady hands, ensuring the sutures held firm, then placed a Penrose drain and packed the wounds tightly with sterile gauze before leaving them open to heal. Sealing them completely risked trapping infection inside - a mistake he wouldn’t make, not now, not when Timmy was already fighting so hard to stay alive.As he secured the dressing, Jason allowed himself a brief moment to marvel at the sheer resilience of the human body. How could something so fragile withstand such brutality? And yet, here Tim was - still breathing, still enduring. Still unbroken, though the cracks ran deep.Jason fell into the rhythm of it - cleaning, stitching, tending. Each motion was deliberate, precise, like the steady beat of wings against a storm’s fury. The world outside faded, leaving only the two of them: one broken, one breaking. His hands moved over Tim’s body with an almost ritualistic cadence, tracing the map of damage carved into skin and bone with near reverence. It was maddening. Exhausting. Beautiful in its own terrible way. It wasn’t just pain etched there - it was art. Cruel, grotesque art. A shattered mosaic of scars and wounds that told stories Jason didn’t want to hear but couldn’t look away from.The air shimmered like heatwaves rising off asphalt, distorting the edges of reality as Tim’s wounds crystallized into stark relief. Jason shook his head sharply, dragging himself back from the trance-like state he'd fallen into. This wasn’t art; this was ruin. Agony. Survival carved into flesh. And he was responsible for piecing it back together - or at least, for trying.The electrical burns drew his attention next, their blackened edges curling inward like scorched feathers. They ran along Tim’s arms and sides, mottled and raw - some shallow enough to heal cleanly, others deep enough to leave permanent marks after a painful recovery. Jason soaked a fresh cloth in saline, pressing it gently against the worst of them. The liquid fizzed softly, dissolving dried blood and dead tissue until the true extent of the damage revealed itself. Beneath the surface, the burns were worse than he’d feared - cracked skin peeling back like bark stripped from a dying tree, exposing tender flesh beneath.He leaned closer, examining them carefully, his breath catching faintly at the sight. There was something mesmerizing about how destruction mimicked creation - how these wounds seemed to echo patterns found in nature: lightning splitting through clouds, rivers carving paths through rock, nests abandoned mid-storm. But this wasn’t natural, he reminded himself fiercely. This was calculated, deliberate cruelty. Someone had done this to Tim - not out of necessity or even anger, but for sport. For pleasure. His nostrils flared violently at the thought; the electric rage coursing through him like a wildfire threatened to crush his rational mind before he forced it aside, turning his focus back to the task at hand.The debridement was painstaking work - better suited for a hospital, requiring both precision and patience. Jason reached for the local anesthetic, injecting it slowly around the worst of the burns. Even unconscious, Tim flinched faintly at the needle’s bite, muscles twitching involuntarily beneath Jason’s hands like frayed wires. He worked methodically, stripping away dead tissue layer by layer until healthier flesh emerged beneath. Each scrape of the scalpel felt like peeling back another fragment of Tim’s soul, exposing raw nerves and fragile hope.The smell was acrid, nauseating - a mix of burnt plastic and rot - but Jason ignored it, focusing instead on the task at hand. When the worst of it was done, he soaked the wounds in antibiotic ointment, smoothing it over the exposed areas with tender strokes - each motion a quiet promise to protect what little remained - before wrapping them tightly in gauze. For now, only Tim’s arms could be bandaged; the rest of his body still needed access, leaving too many wounds open and vulnerable - like secrets laid bare, too delicate to shield.As he worked, Jason’s thoughts were drawn inexorably to the deep scabbing around Timmy’s wrists, eyes following like magnets. Would these bind him further - stealing his mobility, his strength, his wings? Would they ground him forever? Jason couldn't help wincing as he studied them closely, soaking away the eschar to examine the true extent of the damage. Deep gouges carved into the skin where it had been stripped away entirely, leaving behind raw, angry welts and jagged scabs that gave way with every flex of Timmy’s fragile hands, like pages torn from a wet book.The sight turned Jason’s stomach, but with a sharp exhale, he forced himself to focus, anchoring his trembling hands on the rattle of Timmy’s shallow breaths - a sound as fragile as the flicker of a dying flame. He smoothed copious ointment over the ravaged skin and wrapped fresh bandages around his twig-thin wrists, each layer a fragile cocoon shielding what little remained of Timmy’s wings against the storm.Next, Jason took a slow, deep breath, steeling himself before carefully shifting Tim onto his front, arranging the towels around him to keep pressure off of his injuries where possible. It was worse than he’d imagined; Tim’s back bared to the world in a grotesque parody of a peepshow. Even after scrubbing away the filth, the full extent of the damage remained elusive, hidden beneath layers of overlapping scars and fresh trauma. The newer wounds swelled angrily, pulling the surrounding skin taut and leaving the older scars sunken like fissures in cracked earth. Jason sucked in a startled hiss at the sight, eyes wide and face twisted in a grimace.Whip marks crisscrossed Tim’s skin like jagged fault lines splitting the surface of an alien moon - some shallow and fading, others gouging so deep they revealed glimpses of bone beneath. Below the surface, ruptured blood vessels painted bruised constellations across pale skin - maps of suffering etched in shades of purple and blue that mingled with infectious tendrils of red and green, forming galaxies of agony. Several wounds had healed improperly, dirt and debris embedding itself into the flesh before it could close cleanly, like stardust settling into the cracks of a forming planet.Jason leaned closer, entranced as he studied the wounds with a mix of admiration and dread. There was something hauntingly beautiful about it; like looking into the spiraling depths of a black hole, pulling him into its infinite, silent hunger. Whoever had done this… they were skilled. Cruelty alone couldn’t carve such intricate torment; it required a surgeon’s precision, an artist’s patience, and a predator’s instinct. To inflict this much damage without killing Tim outright - to stretch his suffering possibly indefinitely, all while leaving a wretched facsimile of the boy in place - was pure calculated truculence. A masterpiece of torment, etched into living flesh with surgical precision.Morbid fascination tugged at him, pulling him deeper into the labyrinth of destruction carved into Tim’s skin. How long had it taken? What instruments had they used? How many screams had escaped those cracked lips before silence claimed him? Jason’s breath hitched faintly, his pulse quickening as the questions swirled in his mind like smoke curling from embers. He couldn’t help but respect the craftsmanship - the cold, calculated artistry behind every laceration, every bruise, every exposed piece of bone. It was horrifying. Exquisite. And utterly intoxicating.His thoughts kept spiraling further into darkness until his eyes caught on Timmy’s slender wrists, both fitting easily within one of Jason's hands. He focused on the flutter of his pulse under the delicate skin there - a fragile flicker of life, stubbornly clinging to existence despite everything it had endured.His fingers stilled abruptly against Tim’s back, trembling as if recoiling from an unseen force. This wasn’t Red Robin, he reminded himself - the wretched little cuckoo so defective and pathetic that he was chased from every nest he dared to land in; the paltry, third-rate replacement who’d expected to slide into a dead boy's still-warm suit and steal his family without reaping the consequences. No, this was Timmy, his baby bird so tiny and helpless he still needed allofeeding. The boy who plummeted three stories into a dumpster, his shoulder wrenched free as though gravity itself conspired to chastise him for defying bedtime rules. The boy who could decipher the language of a killer’s rage in streaks of blood yet still scrawled ‘committed’ and ‘accelerant’ wrong on every report Jason had ever read, his letters sprawling awkwardly across the page like a toddler learning to write.The realization hit Jason like a punch to the gut, forcing him to reel back from the precipice of cruelty. No matter what Red Robin had done - or what he deserved - this broken creature before him wasn’t the same person. Red learned his lesson a long time ago, but Timmy didn’t deserve this. Whatever twisted satisfaction Jason might have found in admiring the craftsmanship of these wounds dissolved under the weight of that truth. It wasn’t Timmy he wanted to hurt; it couldn’t be. Even now, as anger simmered just beneath the surface, he knew deep down that his rage wasn’t meant for the fragile boy lying pliant in his hands. Jason’s baby bird - broken-winged and bleeding - needed someone to hold him together until he could soar again - or at least stop falling.The thought sent a fresh wave of determination coursing through him, stoking the fire of his resolve and urging him forward. Jason trailed a gentle hand down the back of Timmy’s head, his fingers brushing lightly over the nape of his neck before giving a reassuring squeeze. “You’re mine now,” he promised softly, his words steady as iron chains forged in the heart of a tempest. “And I’m not letting you fall anymore. I'll catch you every time you do.” He meant it, too - every word. Even if it destroyed them both.The weight of time pressed down on Jason as he glanced at the dim glow of the clock on the bedside table - hours had slipped away unnoticed, swallowed by the meticulous work of tending to Tim’s wounds. His hands were stiff, his muscles aching from the strain, but there was still so much left to do. He felt any hope of patrolling before he got some sleep slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, each grain marking another moment lost to this endless vigil.A faint glance at the IV drew his attention as he realized it was already empty, and he wasn't sure how long it had been that way. Jason pursed his lips as he thought, standing and leaning over to unhook the bag and switch it out, fingers manipulating the cool plastic tubing with steady precision. The antibiotics trickling through it were woefully inadequate, a mere drop in the ocean for a tiny, defenseless little bird fighting innumerable invisible battles against the waves of infection. With a grimace, he reached for an IM syringe, the vial glinting dully under the gleaming overhead light. Jason decided it was a reasonable precaution; he was only barely grasping the severity of Timmy's injuries, and he would definitely need surgery if things went much further south. Jason would handle it, of course, but recovery was already going to be brutal enough without adding another complication. He sunk the needle into Tim's less injured thigh with a slow, steady depress of the plunger.But while he was at it… Jason’s gaze flickered to Tim’s face, tracing the sickly contours of his features with his eyes - pale and ashen, like a wax figure left too close to the flame, its edges softening and melting into something unrecognizable yet achingly human. It was too soon for another dose of sedative, he knew that much. But the thought of Tim waking now, mid-procedure, sent a cold shiver crawling up his spine. One wrong twitch, one startled gasp, and all his painstaking efforts would unravel like threads pulled from fraying cloth. No, better to keep him under, safer to let him drift just a little longer. Decision made, Jason prepared the gun with quiet deliberation, each motion deliberate and measured.The click of the trigger reverberated through the stillness - sharp and final, as though sealing a pact - followed by the melodic hiss of the drug entering Tim’s bloodstream. “I’ll keep an eye on you,” Jason murmured, his fingers caressing Tim’s wrist as he adjusted the sensor. Timmy’s fingers twitched faintly against the bed, a reflexive response to Jason’s touch, though his face remained slack and unresponsive. He could feel the racing pulse beneath his touch - a lifeline tethering them together regardless of Tim's own thoughts on the matter.Stepping back to gather his tools, Jason added softly, “And if you so much as twitch toward waking up, I’ll tie you down tighter than Bruce ever dreamed of.” His voice was low, almost tender, though the threat beneath it was unmistakable. Whatever it took to keep Tim safe; even from himself.Jason watched closely, waiting for the subtle signs that the tranquilizer had taken effect before turning his full attention to Tim’s back with razor-sharp focus. Debridement would be slow, painstaking work - far more intricate than anything the burns had needed. Hours of severing layers of scabbing and necrotic tissue stretched ahead of him, peeling away decay until only healthy flesh remained - or as close to healthy as Tim’s ravaged body could offer right now. Jason exhaled sharply, shaking out his hands before picking up the scalpel. Focus. Just breathe.The first scrape of the blade sent a shiver coursing through him, sharp and electric, as dried blood and filth flaked away to reveal raw, inflamed skin beneath. Each pass of the scalpel uncovered new layers of damage, fresh horrors buried beneath old scars. Some scabs lifted easily, brittle and lifeless; others clung stubbornly, rooted like weeds in poisoned soil. What emerged was a landscape of ruin - pockets of gas glimmering faintly beneath the surface, their oily sheen shifting between green, black, and sickly yellow, like sunlight catching on rotting leaves.At first, the infection drained sluggishly, oozing from the wounds like tar seeping through cracks in pavement. But as Jason trimmed deeper, cutting away more dead tissue, it began pouring freely, filling the air with a cloying stench that clawed at the back of his throat. It wasn’t merely metallic or smoky - it was darker, fouler, primal. Like decay given form, crawling outward to claim everything it touched. Rotting meat left too long in the sun, mingled with the sulfurous tang of spoiled eggs and the fetid reek of sewage. A miasma of ruin that seemed alive in its own right, clinging to Jason’s senses and refusing to let go.Jason narrowed his eyes in concentration, studying the grotesque mise-en-scène before him with a detached fascination as he worked. The nausea clawing at his throat felt distant now, overshadowed by the strange allure of what lay beneath the scalpel. Life unraveled into decay, each thread woven into a tapestry of ruin painted with strokes of morbid grace. It was an insidious masterpiece creeping inward, spreading tendrils of ruin through veins and sinews until nothing remained untouched.He imagined it like roots burrowing into poisoned earth, feeding off corruption until the soil itself turned toxic. Except these roots weren’t content to grow - they exploded, rupturing flesh from within like bombs detonating silently beneath the surface. Each burst revealed something darker, deeper, more intricate than the last - a fractal pattern of destruction spiraling endlessly outward.His fingers tightened around the scalpel as the green-tinted haze layered over his vision once more. The room seemed to tilt slightly, pulling him under. For a moment, he didn’t see wounds or infection - he saw beauty. A symphony of ruin, each note played in shades of blackened skin and oozing filth. It was vile, yet breathtaking; a paradox that clawed at his senses and rooted him to the spot. Jason couldn’t look away.Tim shook and twitched intermittently throughout the process, his muscles spasming sporadically as though trying to flee the pain even in unconsciousness. Jason pressed a strong hand into Tim’s shoulder, tightening his grip to anchor him against the mattress, but it was futile - Tim’s movements only grew more erratic and pained over time. The tranquilizer wasn’t enough; it couldn’t dull the agony of what Jason was doing to him.With a resigned sigh, Jason reached for padded restraints. He secured Tim’s torso carefully, fastening straps around his thighs, hips, and the tops of his shoulders, each movement deliberate and measured. The restraints were designed to minimize pressure on Tim’s injuries, but Jason knew they wouldn’t erase the discomfort entirely. Still, better this pain than the alternative - Timmy thrashing uncontrollably and risking paralysis or worse. Even drugged into submission, Tim tensed and went limp repeatedly, his body instinctively seeking relief while his mind remained locked in darkness.Jason paused, leaning closer to brush a strand of damp hair off Tim’s forehead. His fingers lingered there, tracing the curve of Tim’s temple before falling away. “I’m sorry, baby bird,” he murmured apologetically, his voice low and steady despite the tide pulling at his edges. “But sometimes you have to break before you can heal.”
It was a lie - or at least a half-truth. Jason didn’t know if Tim would ever fully heal, not from this. But the thought crystallized within him like frost spreading across glass, freezing his resolve into something unyielding. He returned to the task at hand, working in sections to sanitize and pack each wound as he went.Saline cascaded over Tim’s skin, washing away fragments of decay that clung stubbornly like ash after a firestorm. Beneath it all emerged glimpses of untouched earth - raw but resilient, trembling faintly under the weight of exposure. Jason applied antibiotic ointment and sterile gauze with steady hands, setting up drains where needed to prevent fluid buildup. The process was grueling and relentless, hours slipping by unnoticed as he moved methodically from one section to the next.Blood pooled briefly beneath his hands, bright crimson blossoming like petals spilled onto the towels below. Each drop seemed alive, pulsing faintly with echoes of Tim’s heartbeat - a fragile cadence marking the precipice Tim rested on. Jason monitored it closely, ensuring Tim stayed within the safety zone.By the time he reached the lower half of Tim’s back, exhaustion settled over Jason like a leaden shroud, pressing down with the weight of the life in his hands. His hands trembled slightly, though whether from fatigue or adrenaline, he couldn’t say. Still, he forced himself to keep moving, finishing the final section with the same precision and care he’d started with.Jason stepped back, hands slick with blood and antiseptic, and surveyed his work as he removed his gloves. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at Tim’s prone form stretched out across the bed. The room was silent except for the soft hum of medical equipment and the occasional gunshot ringing through the Alley - a stark contrast to the chaos that had consumed him hours earlier. His gaze swept over the gauze swathing Tim’s back like a burial shroud, pristine and white against the raw landscape of his skin. Drains snaked from the deepest injuries, their tubes glinting faintly under the harsh light, each one a silent sentinel guarding against the return of decay.But the boy beneath it all… Timmy was still a mess. Filth and saline had pooled around him during the procedure, seeping into the towels and leaving them sodden, a swamp of antiseptic and old blood. Jason’s stomach churned again at the smell. Tim’s skin glistened faintly in the dim light, slick with a mixture of antiseptic solution and bodily fluids that he couldn’t bring himself to ignore. Rivulets of diluted ruin traced paths along his sides, pooling in shallow depressions where the mattress met his body. To Jason, it looked like Tim was drowning - not in water, but in the aftermath of his own survival. Each streak seemed to mock him, a reminder of how far they still had to go before any semblance of normalcy could return.He exhaled sharply, dragging a heavy hand through his sweat-drenched hair before letting it fall limply to his side. The difficult part was over - the debridement complete, the wounds packed and monitored - but the sight of Tim lying there, streaked with remnants of his own unraveling, sent a fresh wave of guilt and fury crashing over him. Jason clenched his jaw, forcing himself to meet the reality head-on.Tim’s breaths were shallow now, his body still save for the occasional tremor that rippled through him like aftershocks of an earthquake. “Alright Timmy, almost done,” Jason murmured softly, reaching out instinctively. His fingers brushed the curve of Tim’s forehead, tracing it softly before trailing down to stroke the corner of his eye with a calloused thumb; reassuring himself that the fragile pulse beneath his touch was still there. “Let’s get you sorted out.”Jason shifted Tim onto a fresh set of towels, his movements deliberate and measured to avoid putting pressure on any of the newly treated wounds. Once Tim was settled, he turned his attention to the cleanup. Supplies lay scattered across the room - scalpels glinting faintly in the low light, their edges smeared with dried blood and tissue; garbage bags half-full, overflowing with used gauze and soiled towels. It was chaos made tangible, a grim tableau that felt like it belonged in a slasher movie rather than the sterile confines of his safehouse.He worked methodically, gathering everything with quiet precision. Contaminated items were sorted onto the dirtied tarp for later disposal via burning - the acrid stench of charred gauze and melted plastic already lingering in Jason’s mind. A lesson every Robin learned well: leave no trace. Nothing could remain behind.When the room was as close to clean as Jason could manage tonight, he finally set about collecting the supplies he’d need next: warm water, fresh towels, antiseptic wipes, mild soap. He pulled on a new pair of gloves, snapping them into place with practiced ease before turning his attention back to Tim.The kid looked smaller somehow - diminished, like a shadow stretched too thin by moonlight. Lying there surrounded by clean towels and freshly sanitized tools, Tim seemed almost otherworldly; bathed in the green-tinted haze that crept into Jason’s vision whenever he stared too long. His body was pale and translucent, fragile as spun glass, as though one wrong move might shatter him completely. Jason paused for a moment, staring down at him, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t name.Jason worked carefully, taking extra care around the fresh wounds to ensure none of the stitches tore or bled under his touch as he meticulously waterproofed them. He wrung out the cloth, hesitating for a fraction of a second as he watched droplets bead from the fabric before pressing it firmly against Tim’s skin. Each stroke felt like peeling back another layer of suffering, exposing raw nerves and fragile hope.The smell lingered faintly despite his efforts - sharp, bitter, nauseating - but Jason ignored it, focusing instead on the task at hand. He moved arduously, each stroke of the cloth unfaltering as he erased traces of the ordeal they’d just endured. Yet even as the filth disappeared, the memory of it clung - in the tension coiled tight in his shoulders, in the way his fingers trembled despite his best efforts to steady them. Every movement felt heavy, laden with meaning, as though he were performing some kind of ritual rather than a simple act of hygiene. And perhaps he was. Washing away the decay felt symbolic somehow, like wiping clean a slate marred by ruin.His thoughts drifted briefly to earlier - to the first time he’d tried to give Tim a sponge bath, before the Pit surged inside him like a storm breaking loose, forcing him to stop lest he spiral completely. A futile gesture, given the ceaseless war Jason waged within; a battle as unrelenting as the Shadows devouring Gotham’s streets. One careless pass of his hand too roughly over a scab, one little stream of blood running down Timmy's arm, had been enough to send him spiraling, panic clawing at the edges of his mind until the green haze surged forward, whispering promises of violence and vengeance.He clenched his fists briefly, nails digging into his palms through the latex gloves, grounding himself in the sting. Don't all things bleed before they heal? He took a steadying breath and dipped the cloth back into the basin absently, memories surfacing as steam curled upward in soft spirals, carrying with it the sharp tang of antiseptic mingled with soap. Pressing the damp fabric against Tim’s shoulder, he wiped away remnants of saline and grime with slow, deliberate strokes.It was ironic, really. After all, hadn’t he just spent hours cutting away dead tissue, lancing wounds, causing deliberate pain in the name of healing? Lessons Jason had long internalized - that survival demanded sacrifice - had vanished the instant he saw how defenseless and exposed the baby bird was. The sight of Tim - raw, fragile, utterly dependent - had eroded something deep within him, leaving only fear where resolve should have been. Yet even now, those lessons returned, whispering cruel truths: pain was not merely inevitable; it was essential.Fear - that’s what it came down to. Fear of shattering what remained. Fear of pushing too hard, too fast. Fear of stripping away every last feather from the broken wings of the little bird cradled so precariously in his hands. Jason dragged the cloth along Tim’s side, rinsing away traces of drainage that had leaked from beneath the bandages. His movements were steady now, less tender than before. Each stroke carried an edge of frustration, a silent acknowledgment of his earlier failure. Still, he worked methodically, ensuring no area was neglected.And yet… something had shifted. His touch grew firmer, more resolute. He tended to Tim's most painful injuries without hesitation, no longer flinching at the sight of fresh blood or the rattle of uneven breaths as he washed away his little bird’s suffering. He remembered the necessity now - the inevitability of pain in the pursuit of survival. And he was angry; furious, even. Angry at himself for waiting even after Timmy was safely in his grasp. For letting pride and fear get in the way of doing what needed to be done. If he’d acted sooner - if he hadn’t hesitated - maybe some of this could have been avoided. Maybe Tim’s life wouldn’t teeter on such a razor-thin edge.Jason paused again, running the cloth over Tim’s hip where dried fluid had pooled. The skin there was raw and blistered, cracked open like parched earth under a relentless sun - untouched by infection for now but far from healed. Steam curled upward mockingly as he wrung out the cloth once more, underscoring the futility of trying to cleanse what couldn’t truly be erased.But regret was useless now; Jason had faltered, and only time would tell if it was too late. He resolved silently that he wouldn’t hesitate next time Timmy needed help. No matter the pain. No matter the cost.Still, the thought lingered - a sobering reminder of how easily things could go wrong. If Tim’s stitches had been in place during that meltdown earlier, they’d surely have torn open completely. A sobering thought, one Jason contemplated longer this time. He frowned slightly, studying the battered figure before him as he wiped away another streak of filth from Tim’s thigh. How was he going to prevent that when Tim woke up again? Even if he didn’t panic immediately upon waking, the little bird would surely find a way to spiral eventually.He considered the merits of keeping Tim partially sedated once the tranquilizer wore off - ensuring he stayed calm, compliant, cooperative. But the thought made him uneasy, memories of his mother’s addiction lingering like ghosts in the corners of his mind. Restraints were another option, though probably counterproductive given the state of Tim’s injuries. Either option carried risks, of course, but Jason couldn’t afford another episode like the last one. He doubted the fragile shell of Timmy’s health could withstand another blow.Jason tucked the thought away, letting it settle heavily in his chest like stones sinking into water.He continued working, dragging the cloth along Tim’s lower leg, careful not to disturb the fresh bandages wrapped snugly around his thigh. The scent of antiseptic filled the air again, sharp and clinical, a stark contrast to the chaos swirling inside him. For now, though, Jason pushed the thoughts aside, deciding he could revisit them once Tim was settled for the night. Mending the little bird’s broken wings and tucking him securely into the nest of clean towels became his sole focus - not the tempest raging within him or the green smog hammering at the edges of his splintered mind.“You’ll hate me for this later,” Jason admitted to himself, his voice barely audible above the rhythmic swish of the cloth against Tim’s skin. “When you survive this, you’ll hate me. But I don’t care. Hate me if you want - as long as you're alive to do it.” His words hung in the air, fragile and fleeting, dissipating into the silence like smoke.By the time Jason finished wiping Tim down, the towels beneath him needed changing again, but Tim was finally free of the filth that had clung stubbornly to his skin for hours. Pale and gleaming in the low light, Tim was a study in contrasts - cracked yet cleansed; raw yet enduring. Jason leaned back with a tired sigh, exhaustion settling over him like a second skin.Jason allowed himself a moment to breathe, though the air felt heavy in his lungs; thick with the weight of responsibility and the ghosts of the battles still to come. Almost done, he told himself, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. This was the homestretch, or so he told himself. But even as he mentally ticked off his tasks, his mind raced ahead to what came next: monitoring Tim’s vitals, preparing for another round of antibiotics, keeping him hydrated, starting physical therapy. There was always more to do, always another hurdle to clear. Survival wasn’t a finish line; it was a gauntlet, endless and unforgiving.Jason took a last weary breath, holding it for several seconds as he counted, before reaching for the ointments and creams spread neatly across the bedside table.He started with the obscene landscape of reds and purples stretching across Tim’s crotch, thighs, and back like wildfire consuming dry brush. It was angry, insistent, spreading tendrils outward in patterns that defied logic yet made perfect sense in their cruelty. It bloomed outward from his genitals in jagged lines that blurred into the inflammation already ravaging his back, leaving behind a battlefield of cracked tissue and exposed nerves; impossible to ignore yet unbearable to look away from.Jason struggled to keep his mind on track through the steady stream of green pumping through his veins. He applied creams methodically, smoothing them over the worst patches with gentle strokes that belied the volcano simmering beneath his skin. His thoughts kept drifting to the long road ahead, unfolding endlessly like a map drawn in shadows.Bedsores. Infections. Complications he hadn’t even considered yet. They loomed in his mind like wraiths waiting to strike, each one hissing promises of failure if he faltered. Tim would need to stay largely on his front for the foreseeable future; his back couldn’t handle pressure, not with wounds still draining, stitches holding tenuously, and infection lurking just below the surface - ready to surge forward at the slightest provocation.His brow furrowed deeply in a scowl as his hands moved automatically. Later - once Tim was stable enough to leave alone for more than five minutes - he'd brush up on long-term wound care. Because this… this was uncharted territory. Even during his time with the Outlaws, even after dragging himself through two grueling years with the League and patching up countless injuries, Jason had never dealt with something like this. Never faced the aftermath of so much damage all at once. Some of these wounds - namely the gangrene carving paths down Tim’s spine - were alien to him, unforgiving and cruel.Jason paused, his fingers hovering over the last patch of inflamed skin before he smoothed the final layer of cream across it with deliberate care. The rash was quiet now; or as quiet as it could be, subdued beneath layers of ointment but still simmering underneath, a dormant fire waiting for its chance to flare again. He shook off the thought, forcing himself to move forward, his arm extending automatically as he reached for supplies. There was no time for dwelling - not when there was still so much to do.As he worked, his thoughts drifted to what came next - to the moment Tim woke up and truly realized where he was. After the tranquilizer wore off, reality would crash down on him like waves against a crumbling shore, relentless and unforgiving. Jason had already seen glimpses of it - the way Tim needed help with everything: sitting up, eating, drinking, breathing. Basic tasks reduced to impossibilities by the sheer weight of his injuries.And that was fine. More than fine - it was expected. Necessary. Jason didn’t mind taking care of him. Didn’t hesitate to cradle him close when he trembled, to feed him broth spoonful by agonizing spoonful, to coach him through each shallow breath until oxygen filled lungs that refused to cooperate. But practicalities demanded solutions as invasive as they were inevitable - solutions like catheters.There was no room for hesitation; not when necessity loomed over him like a shadow too vast to escape. Tim couldn’t move, couldn’t control his own body without risking further injury. Every twitch, every involuntary spasm carried the potential for disaster - stitches yawning open like hungry mouths, wounds weeping like widows, infections spreading like rumors. What choice did he have? While it would surely embarrass Tim, Jason had already faced far worse indignities in caring for him. He’d cleaned up messes that would make most people recoil, cradled Tim through tremors that left them both shaken, whispered reassurances when breaths came shallow and uneven. This was just another step - a cruel but necessary measure to spare Tim further pain. Less humiliating for him than waking up covered in his own filth again. Less dangerous too.Decision made, he exhaled slowly, steadying himself out of habit. His hands moved with practiced precision as he carefully wound fresh gauze around Tim’s torso, each strip secured with calculated efficiency that revealed none of the storm still churning beneath the surface. The bandages wrapped Tim’s body like fragile armor, cocooning him in layers of white until he resembled a ghost emerging from the ruins of himself. Finally, with unwavering hands, Jason retrieved the catheter kit.The process was meticulous, requiring precision despite the haze of fatigue clouding his mind like a green-tinted fog. Jason cleaned the area gently, antiseptic fizzing softly against inflamed skin already ravaged by rashes and neglect. Each touch elicited faint tremors from Tim’s body - involuntary spasms that rippled through muscles too weak to resist, as though recoiling at the invasion. Jason’s lips drew into a tight line, but his hands remained steady. If a little more discomfort now was the price to keeping Timmy on the road to recovery, then so be it.He inserted the catheter slowly, guiding it into place with practiced ease, though every movement felt heavier than the last, his limbs weighed down by the relentless march of inevitability. The tubing snaked downward, a clear intruder threading its way into Tim’s fragile form, connecting to a bag positioned carefully out of sight but within easy reach. Jason adjusted the straps securing it in place, ensuring nothing would shift or irritate Tim’s already delicate skin. When he was satisfied, he covered the area lightly with gauze, taping it down securely before stepping back to survey his work - a tenuous patchwork holding together what remained of Tim’s broken body.For a moment, he simply stood there, shoulders sagging under the weight of commitment as though Atlas himself had passed him the world. Then the tidal wave of exhaustion crashed over him, pinning him in place despite the adrenaline that had carried him this far. Thirty-six hours. Maybe more. He’d lost count somewhere between dragging Tim out of that dilapidated apartment and scrubbing filth from his broken body. Emotional highs and lows had battered him relentlessly - panic attacks, flashbacks, moments of rage, guilt, and despair - all while the Lazarus Pit surged inside him, whispering promises of chaos and retribution until Tim’s stability finally silenced it. Even now, its quiet hum lingered beneath the surface, foreign and unnatural, like a storm retreating only to leave devastation in its wake.The thought of patrol flickered briefly through his mind, dim and distant, before fading entirely. There was no point anymore; not with dawn creeping closer and his energy reserves depleted beyond repair. Besides, even if he’d had the strength, leaving wasn’t an option. Not now. Not when Tim still needed him. Needed him to stay. To watch. To protect.With the catheter secured, Jason switched out the drip again before he turned his attention to dressing Tim, pulling on a clean pair of sweatpants and a loose-fitting hoodie - his own clothes, oversized and soft enough to accommodate the many layers of bandaging swaddling Timmy’s tiny frame. Each garment settled over him like shadows folding around a candle flame, shielding it from the wind. Warmth coursed through Jason as he adjusted the fabric, smoothing it over Tim’s chest and legs with gentle strokes that lingered longer than necessary. Possessiveness bloomed within him, sharp and insistent, rooting itself deep in his chest like ivy clinging to stone. This was his now. A responsibility carved into his bones, a burden etched into his soul, a salvation forged in the crucible of necessity.Jason straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension coiled tightly in his muscles. For a moment, he allowed himself the illusion of relief - Tim was clean, bandaged, dressed, and stable. But even as he stretched, the weight of everything he’d done - and everything he still had to do - pressed down on him like an unrelenting tide, pulling him deeper into its undertow. The room felt smaller than it had hours ago, its walls closing in as though they too were conspiring against him. He glanced at Tim’s fragile form one last time before turning to gather the scattered supplies. His hands moved thoughtlessly, tidying up the remnants of their ordeal - discarded gauze, empty antiseptic bottles, bloodied towels - as if restoring order to the chaos around them could somehow restore balance to the fractured world within him.His thoughts drifted as he worked, turning inevitably to the Bats. Someone would come looking for him soon; they always did when he missed patrol, too obsessed over the last time he disappeared to risk letting him slip his leash for even a night. Bruce would send the golden boy first, playing the concerned patriarch while maintaining plausible deniability. Or maybe Alfred would call, his voice reserved but laced with quiet disapproval, asking where Jason had been and why he hadn’t checked in. The thought ignited a low-burning fury in Jason’s chest, hot and acidic, threatening to consume him whole.How dare they? How dare any of them think they had the right to question him when they'd stood idly by as their baby bird plummeted from the sky like Icarus with wings scorched black, crashing into the unforgiving earth below? And if they discovered Timmy now, they’d want to interfere - to swoop in like vultures feasting on carrion, pretending concern when all they’d ever done was abandon him to the wolves. But they didn’t deserve the chance to twist the knife further, to carve their betrayal into the wounds they’d already inflicted. Jason’s teeth ground together with enough force to rattle his jaw, nails carving half-moons into his palms as he forced himself to focus on the cleanup. He couldn’t afford to think about it - not now, with the Lazarus Pit whispering venomous promises in his ear like a snake coiled around his spine, poised to strike. Right now, fury burned too hot, too bright, threatening to consume him like a black hole collapsing entire galaxies into silence if he allowed himself to dwell on their endless cat-and-mouse games.Jason’s fingers hovered over the keypad of his phone consideringly. His temple throbbed in time with the green pulsing through his vision like a lighthouse beam slicing through a storm-tossed sea, illuminating wreckage too vast to comprehend. The last thing he needed was the Bats sniffing around, poking their noses where they didn’t belong. If he wanted to keep them at bay, he had to act now - before they sought him out and the rage took hold, consuming him whole like wildfire racing across parched plains, leaving nothing but ash in its wake.The words came easily, clipped and cold: “Staking out a new gang creeping into the Alley. Don’t expect updates for a few days.” He hesitated for half a second before adding one final line, each syllable laced with venom: “Stay out of my territory unless you want trouble.” There. That ought to be enough to buy him some time. Golden Boy would read between the lines - Jason wasn’t asking; he was warning. And if they ignored him, well, they’d remember soon enough what happened when people crossed him.As he hit send, a darker thought flickered at the edges of his mind, insidious and cruel. It would take them a single night to notice Jason's absence; but how long would it take them to notice their precious baby bird was missing? The idea twisted something ugly inside him, anticipation blooming like poison ivy in his chest. Let them scramble; let them panic. And when they did… they didn’t deserve answers - not after everything they’d done. Or rather, everything they hadn’t done. His lips curled into a vicious smirk as he imagined their frantic calls, their desperate searches, their hollow apologies once they realized just how far gone Tim really was. The thought lingered, a seed planted deep in the soil of his rage, waiting to sprout.He hurled the phone onto the bedside table with enough force to rattle the lamp beside it, as if hoping the impact might shatter the fragile threads of civility holding him together. It landed with a loud thud, screen lighting up almost immediately as Dick replied. Jason didn't bother reading it, unwilling to entertain Goldie at the best of times - this was far from the best of times. It didn’t matter anyway; Dick might be a nosy, self-righteous bastard, but he knew well enough to keep the other Bats off Jason’s back. At least temporarily.A faint sound - a hitched breath, barely audible - pulled Jason from the labyrinth of his thoughts. His head snapped toward Tim, every muscle in his body tensing as though bracing for disaster. But Tim was still asleep, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven rhythms. The movement was almost imperceptible, yet it felt seismic in the suffocating silence of the room. For a moment, Jason simply stared, his vision swimming with exhaustion and the green fog that refused to relent. It would be so easy to give in - to let the weight of everything drag him under - but he couldn’t. Not tonight.With a long sigh, Jason rose from the chair, his limbs heavy as though chains bound him to the moment, each link forged from the suffocating grip of fate. He hesitated briefly at the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Tim’s shivering form, before he sank heavily into the space beside him. Jason shifted closer, pulling Tim tenderly against him, careful not to disturb the tubing or bandages. His body was warm, pliant, fitting perfectly into the curve of Jason’s arms like sunlight slipping through cracks in a stormcloud - fragile, fleeting, but undeniably alive. Jason tightened his grip slightly, anchoring him closer as he let the tension drain from his muscles in a slow trickle, bit by bit. For now, this was enough. This was everything.He closed his eyes briefly, leaning his head against Tim’s, breathing in the faint scent of soap and antiseptic still clinging to his skin. Sleep tugged at the edges of his consciousness, insistent and inevitable, but Jason resisted just long enough to ensure Tim was secure. Safe. Whole. When he finally let himself drift, it was with the knowledge that he could open his eyes at any moment and see that Tim was right there. As exhaustion finally claimed him, Jason allowed himself one fleeting thought: This is where I belong. Then, with Tim’s shallow breaths lulling him like a fractured lullaby, he surrendered to sleep.—The world unraveled in fragments, jagged shards of sensation slicing through the haze like broken glass catching light. Pain bloomed first - a searing, relentless tide that dragged him back from the depths of unconsciousness only to leave him gasping for air he didn’t remember needing. It wasn’t pain as he knew it; it was something else entirely. Something vast and unknowable, stretching endlessly outward like shadows cast by flames flickering in an empty room. Each breath felt stolen, forced into lungs too fragile to hold anything but ash.He surfaced briefly, clawing at the edges of awareness, but there was nothing solid to grasp onto. No ground beneath his feet, no walls to press against. Just the pain - always the pain - pulling him apart piece by piece until he was certain he could feel himself demolecularizing. Threads of flesh tearing free, unspooling like yarn pulled loose from a sweater knitted too tightly. Blood flowed where skin should be, warm and sticky, pooling beneath him or maybe inside him; he couldn’t tell anymore. Everything blurred together, bleeding into one another until even the boundaries between body and mind dissolved.And then - the cutting. Over and over again, sharp edges that sliced through tender places he didn’t know could hurt this much. Not knives, not exactly, but something colder, sharper, more deliberate. Like icicles splitting open frozen rivers, cracking through ice so thin it shattered under their weight. He tried to scream, to pull away, but his voice was gone, swallowed whole by the void around him. His limbs refused to obey, heavy and useless, pinned down by forces unseen yet unyielding. Every movement sent fresh waves of agony coursing through him, electric and unrelenting, until he was convinced his bones were breaking apart beneath his skin.When the burning came, it was worse. Fire licked at raw nerves exposed to the elements, consuming everything it touched without mercy. But it wasn’t fire - it couldn’t be - not when it shifted suddenly into ice, freezing him solid before melting away into numbness that hurt almost as much as the heat did. Back and forth, over and over, until he lost track of which was real and which was imagined. Was he awake? Dead? Was he even real? He didn’t know. All he knew was the pain; and the hands.Hands everywhere. Touching him. Pulling him apart. Stitching him back together. Their touch was both gentle and brutal, careful and careless, leaving trails of fire across his skin wherever they lingered. They prodded at wounds he didn’t realize existed, pressed into flesh too tender to bear even the slightest pressure. He felt them peel layers away, exposing things no one should see - muscle, bone, organs laid bare like pages torn from a book - and yet he saw nothing at all. Only darkness. Endless, suffocating darkness.Time ceased to exist. Minutes stretched into hours, days collapsed into seconds. He drifted in and out of consciousness, each return more terrifying than the last. Memories blurred with reality, twisting into grotesque shapes that haunted him even as he struggled to wake up fully. A whip cracked somewhere far away - or maybe right beside him - and he flinched instinctively, muscles tensing despite themselves. Shadows loomed overhead, faceless figures leaning close enough to whisper secrets he couldn’t understand. Their voices echoed faintly, distorted beyond recognition, blending seamlessly with the sounds of his own screams trapped inside his head.Then - the hands found him again. This time lower, deeper, violating spaces meant to remain untouched. Something cold and unnatural pressed inward, forcing its way past barriers designed to keep the world out. Pressure built rapidly, unbearable and overwhelming, like the entire sea bearing down on him at once. His bladder swelled painfully, straining against limits he didn’t know it had, until he was certain it would burst. Panic surged within him, clawing desperately at whatever remained of his sanity, but there was no escape. No reprieve. Just the hands; always the hands.His mind recoiled instinctively, shying away from any hint of consciousness, retreating further into the abyss where dreams became nightmares and nightmares bled into truth. Fragments of memory surfaced briefly - faces he recognized but couldn’t name, places he’d been but that no longer existed - before sinking back into the void. And then, just as the pressure became too much to bear, a single word formed in his mind. Clear. Sharp. Horrifying.
“Ra’s.”
It was his last thought before everything stopped.