Archive of Our Own ^beta

Batman is really goddamn dramatic.

Usually, what he has to say isn’t nearly as dramatic, per Jason’s experiences. He’ll swoop in like Dracula, cape spreading wide and ominous around him, and say— shit, something like, “You left your cape on the floor of the Batcave, Robin,” or whatever. Why he chooses to carry on like that, Jason has no idea.

Except tonight, where Jason’s expecting— well, dramatics— instead, he finds him standing still by the arching, ceiling-high windows of the Manor. He’s staring out into the rainy night; when lightning fractures the darkness, sky-shattering and blinding, there’s an expression on his face that Jason struggles to find words for.

Plainly, Bruce says, “Jack and Janet Drake are dead, and their son saw it happen.”

It starts there.

In the next twenty-four hours, Jason meets Tim twice: First, as Jason Todd-Wayne, adopted son of Bruce Wayne, and second as Robin, adopted son of Batman.

(Kidding.)

Tim’s one of those kids that Jason kind of sees in his head when he reads books about sickly Victorian-era children being made to sell newspapers on the frigid streets. All translucent skin pulled over little bird bones, eyes wide in his pale, angular face.

When Jason offers his condolences, Tim stares at him for a long moment and says, “thanks.” And then he continues to stare at him, but, like, kind of in that way where his eyes are fixed on Jason’s face but his thoughts are clearly entirely elsewhere. It’s pretty much what Jason expects from a kid who just lost his parents— Tim’s clearly in shock and hasn’t exactly processed what the hell just happened. It makes sense.

“So, uh,” Jason says, and coughs. “What happened, anyway?”

Tim’s attention seems to shift from wherever the hell it’d been to Jason again. “We went out last night to meet up with their friends. When we came out of the restaurant, I realized I left something and went back to get it. They got into the car. It exploded. And they died.” He says it all very quickly, in one shallow breath, and then he falls silent again. It occurs to Jason that Tim looks cold, like, even though he’s wearing a whole bunch of layers and one of those shock blankets that’s draped like a square of processed cheese over his shoulders. He’s not even shivering, really, but it’s something about the way he looks— like he’s cold, inside out.

“How are you holdin’ up, then?” Jason asks gently, because shit, he feels for the kid. None of this is anywhere in the realm of easy, and it shouldn’t have happened. He’d never known Tim to be a particularly bubbly kid, always somewhat standoffish during their prior interactions, but now, after what he’d witnessed, he’s even more withdrawn. Out of the corner of his eye, Jason can see Bruce chatting in low tones with the Drakes’ housekeeper. He isn’t sure of her name, but she’s sniffling into a lacy handkerchief and waving her hand animatedly as she gestures toward the foyer. There’s a bunch of foil-covered dishes on the dining table, like everyone who had visited had brought food— well, unsurprising. Even Alfred had sent along a pie for Tim with his condolences. Looking at Tim, though, Jason wouldn’t be surprised if the kid hadn’t touched a single crumb. He doesn’t look like he’s going to pass out, but he sure as hell doesn’t look healthy.

Tim just shrugs.

“So, listen—” Jason starts, about to see if he can subtly glean any more information out of Tim, but Tim cuts him off.

“Sorry. I think I’m actually pretty tired,” Tim says vacantly. Well, Jason gets it; Tim definitely looks tired, and a little lost, too, when he looks back at all those foil-covered dishes, all just sitting on the table like headstones in a graveyard. “Thank you for your condolences, but I think I’m going to rest for a while.”

“Sure. Yeah.” Jason says as the kid gets to his feet, a puppet missing strings. Tim jerkily walks past the table and up the stairs, and Jason watches until he vanishes down the hallway before he turns to see Bruce approaching him.

“Come, Jason,” Bruce says quietly, grasping his shoulder and squeezing once. Jason wonders what Bruce must be thinking; it’s always a puzzle to try to figure out what the furrowed brow means this time, or the deep set of his mouth, or the pinches at the corners of his eyes. If Jason had to guess, this one is a bit of regret, a bit of commiseration. Janet and Jack hadn’t died next door, but still; they’re no strangers. Jason’s seen them with moderate frequency, gaily chatting with other well-to-dos at Bruce’s galas and other charity events. Now they’re dead, and a ten-year-old is an orphan. Surprise surprise, that never sits well with Bruce.

Well. It doesn’t sit well with anyone, naturally, but especially not with Bruce.

“It’s being investigated as foul play,” Bruce says to him later that night, which Jason kind of expected. After all, no one had crashed into the Drakes; their car had literally gone up in a fiery blaze of metal and fabric at the restaurant. Couldn’t be anything but foul play, and a pretty nasty explosive to boot. Jason had heard that the scene had been pretty fuckin’ gruesome, too— no shit, but the poor kid. The only good thing he can figure is that Janet and Jack had died pretty quickly, apparently. It’s the best they can hope out of the situation, all things considered.

So they go back that night, but as Batman and Robin. This time, Jason offers Tim condolences from behind the mask, but Tim’s no more animated than he’d been that afternoon.

Bruce kneels down in front of Tim, making himself smaller and more approachable and less like a looming, indeterminable blob with glowing eyes.

“Tim, can you tell me anything you might know about what happened to your parents?” Batman asks, and Tim stares at him like— like, a real deer-in-the-headlights situation. It actually makes Jason a little uncomfortable, so he looks away, looks around the room instead. It’s weird, like— this is definitely Tim’s room, judging by the backpack and the books and the way everything feels distinctly child-sized, but it doesn’t feel like Tim’s room. There’s no real vibe that anyone lives there, or— even if they did live there, they grew no roots. He knows nothing about Tim from this room, other than the fact that Tim does his homework, maybe.

“We,” Tim says. “We left at 5:30 in the evening. We met the Sullivans at 6:00. We had dinner for a couple hours. And then….” He runs his thumb over the clouds stitched into his blanket, back and forth, back and forth, tracing the round shapes. “...We came out, but I realized I left something— back in the.” Finally, there’s a crack in the veneer of shock, and Tim kind of chokes to a stop. “I went to go get it— and when I came back outside, they. The car. It.”

Bruce nods patiently. They all know what happened next, after all.

“Hey, Tim,” Jason says, because something’s been bugging him. “Your room ain’t got a door?”

Tim’s stare flicks from Bruce to Jason to the doorway, and then back to Jason. “A door,” he says, but not really like a question. Like— he already knows what Jason is asking, but he doesn’t get why he’s asking.

“Yeah, like.” Jason rubs the back of his head, unsure how to elaborate without sounding stupid. “Pretty much every other room has one, ‘s far as I can tell.”

“Mine is the only one without a door,” Tim says matter-of-factly. “My parents took it off when I was five.”

Bruce’s expression doesn’t change much save for the corners of his mouth tightening almost imperceptibly, but something about Tim’s delivery bothers Jason in a way he can’t describe. “Why?”

For the first time, Tim actually seems to flounder. He glances at Bruce, and then back at the doorway again. “They— didn’t think I should have a door,” he says mutely, and Jason’s brow furrows more. “For my own safety.”

It’s kind of weird. Like, Bruce is pretty protective too, all things considered, but— a door, it’s like. Every kid should have a door, Jason thinks. Otherwise, how do they get any privacy? Maybe the Drakes are like the, everyone-get-along, open-door-policy types, even if they hadn’t exactly felt like that when Jason had run into them at the galas.

Except, Jason can’t help but think, why does every other room have a door?

There’s a funeral, naturally.

And why is it that every time there’s a funeral, it’s raining? It’s raining today too, an annoying drizzle that feels like too little for an umbrella but too much to not have an umbrella. Tim has an umbrella— a black one, naturally —and he’s staring into the plot of dirt with a quiet calm that juxtaposes almost comically with their maid’s huge, wailing sobs. Mrs. Mac, Tim had called her.

Jason squints at her through the rain dripping off his own umbrella. Her face is hidden into that same lace handkerchief as before, and her frail, wrinkled hand is wound around Tim’s skinny shoulders tightly. Jason watches as Tim turns into her, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief moment before he turns back to the dirt.

She murmurs something to him, and the right side of Tim’s mouth twitches, the first show of expression Jason’s seen yet from him; he looks up, then, and when he makes eye contact with Jason, his expression shutters closed again. Jason feels distinctly as if he’s been shut out of a house he’d extended his welcome in.

“The door bothers me,” Bruce says, so quiet that Jason startles. His mouth is barely moving, head tilted down at enough of an angle that nobody else is likely to have even seen or heard him speak— outside of Jason, that is. “It bothers you too, doesn’t it?”

Jason sucks on his teeth and watches Tim watch the proceedings. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Yeah, it bothers me. Fuck, B, I dunno. It’s just the kid’s room, y’know? And another thing,” he says, ignoring Bruce’s muttered, half-hearted “language” under his breath, “that room doesn’t look like a kid lives there. It’s barren.”

With unexpected levity, Bruce says, “We could only wish that yours looked less lived in.” Jason makes a rude sound, knocking his elbow against Bruce’s arm, but Bruce’s tone quickly sombers again. “You’re right. The lack of decor doesn’t necessarily have to mean anything, but it’s notable all the same. He’s not telling us everything.”

“He’s not tellin’ us anything,'' Jason corrects, kicking his red sneaker into the soft, muddy dirt. “Only stuff we already know from the Commissioner. But I bet he knows more.”

That’s the face of a kid who knows more than he’s letting on, he thinks.

He swings by Tim’s place the next day under the guise of bringing over a casserole. He doesn’t know why society collectively agreed that a casserole was, like, the death food of choice, but it joins six other casseroles on the dining table. Jason hadn’t actually wanted to bring the kid any more food, but Alfred had shot him the most withering look at the mere suggestion that he go empty-handed.

The dining table looks pretty solidly the same— at first. But as Tim lethargically mills around to fill two glasses with water, Jason notices that the foil’s been peeled back from a couple of the dishes, and the insides— ravaged, is the best word Jason can think to use, like someone shoved their hands into it and clawed out handfuls of casserole. It’s impossible to imagine Tim doing it, but there’s something about the messy wasteland of food left behind that gives Jason goosebumps.

“It’s a good thing you’re eating,” Jason remarks, and means it— except, Tim seems to freeze from bottom up. Quickly, Jason backtracks, trying to rephrase. “That— That wasn’t a joke or nothin.’ It’s good, you know. A lot of people have a hard time eating after a— a loss like that, but it’s good for you to have energy.”

“Everyone brought so much food,” Tim says, kind of in a mumble. He pushes the glass toward Jason, and it scrapes over the table unpleasantly. “That’s just what you do when someone dies. I guess. Double it when two people die. Now I have a million casseroles.”

Jason doesn’t know what to make of it until he sees Tim’s mouth twitch slightly, and then he cracks a smile himself. It’s kind of funny. There’s really a fuckton of casseroles on the table.

“Hey,” Tim says, after a moment. “You like shrimp?”

“Got nothin’ against it,” Jason says, and tilts his head. “Why?”

“There are a couple shrimp casseroles here,” Tim says, and it comes out slow, pressed through his teeth. “Can you take them?”

Alfred might kill him if he comes back with more food than the amount he left with. Still, Jason feels compelled to agree at the look on Tim’s face— this weird combination of haunted and hollow, somehow. His eyes are just a touch too wide, and goddamn, Jason wishes this kid would blink more. The unbreaking stare holds Jason in place like a column of ice, and he’s unable to look away.

“Sure, yeah. Lemme guess, you ain’t a fan?” Jason takes the two foil-wrapped trays that Tim’s gesturing toward; Tim leans back away from the trays as they pass in front of him, absently scratching at a sprawling pink patch along his neck.

“Something like that.” Tim mutters. There’s a strange wildness in his eyes, now, just this edge of feral, but it flicks away as he looks back at Jason. “A casserole isn’t the only reason you came here.”

Like so many other things Tim says, it isn’t really a question. “I just wanted to check in, really. See if any progress was made on the case.” Jason says. “You know, tryin’ to be a good neighbor.”

Something about the irreverence in his tone seems to soothe the sharpest edges of Tim’s countenance. “Okay,” he says. “They haven’t gotten much past the fact that someone definitely did it. They’re trying to figure out whether it was a case of mistaken identity or a targeted attack.”

“Well, mistaken identity would make a lot of sense, right?” Jason asks, curiosity piqued by the new thread. “I mean, your parents probably had no reason to be involved in something like that, anyway, that seems like pretty shady stuff. They’re— Uh, well, they’re—” He cringes. “They were good people, so it— it could’ve been a mistake, right?” It’d make sense; a bomb planted on the wrong car, and two careless deaths. It’s still shitty and unfair and horrible, but at least they don’t have to worry about the perpetrator targeting Tim next at the very least.

“Right,” Tim says, staring at the casserole dishes under Jason’s arms. “Good people.”

Well, Jason thinks as he flips a high arc over Bruce’s shoulders and lands a few feet in front of him, it makes sense that Tim could potentially be more upset if it had been a case of mistaken identity. It’s one of those things that— it’s no win either way. Either they were targeted, or they shouldn’t have died at all, and both are hard to grapple with in their own ways.

Bruce doesn’t seem to think it’s mistaken identity, though. Jason had seen him flicking through files on the Batcomputer, footage of the incident as captured by the restaurant security cameras. Jason had gotten a glimpse of the bomb, too, a homemade thorny mess of wires; Bruce had almost seemed to recognize its structure, if his expression had been anything to go off of. Jason wouldn’t know for sure; he’s still sort of learning Bruce’s expression-speak. Dick’s amazing at it, though — he can have an entire argument with Bruce’s eyebrow and win, as far as Jason can tell.

Sure enough, as Bruce leans over Jason to peer out at the skyline, he says, “I recognize the bomb.”

“Gosh, B,” Jason says. “I had no idea you were into that sort of thing. Have you considered talking to someone about that?”

Bruce stares staunchly out over the skyline, his expression unimpressed, but Jason’s undeterred; if they don’t have something to joke about, he’ll literally perish out of boredom.

“He spent time in Blackgate, first, for a series of car bombings in which there were no victims,” Bruce says, continuing as if Jason hadn’t said anything at all.

“No human victims,” Jason says. Who else will think of the cars?

“...No human victims,” Bruce echoes flatly. “He was let out after a few years, and he seemed to go underground. Then, out of nowhere…” His eyes narrow sharply. “A series of scattered car bombings, this time with injured and dead victims. Jim’s been looking into it, but I’m sure this is his work.”

“How?” Jason asks, thinking back on the image he’d seen on the screen. “It just looked like a bunch of wires and shit to me, but I didn’t get a good look.”

The cowl gleams in the dim moonlight as Bruce angles his head to look down at Jason almost calculatingly. “Language,” he says, kind of like an afterthought. Alfred is much more meaningful with his directives; Bruce kind of does it as if he thinks that’s what he probably should do. “Every artist signs their work, Robin. Jenkins signed his bombs. Subtly, but he carved the same symbol into the side of the device every time. I was able to pick it up with enhanced imaging.”

And shit, Jason can’t really argue with that. He wouldn’t exactly consider bomb-making a craft himself, though.

“So— we’re trying to find him.” Jason asks, and Bruce makes a dissenting sound.

“No. I’m going to find him,” he says, and then rests a gauntleted hand on the railing beside Jason. “You are going to go talk to Tim Drake again. I want you to stay with him. If this was a targeted attack, it’s possible that Tim is next.”

“Oh, come on,” Jason says, and he’s aware that his voice tilts into a little bit of a whine. It’s not even that he has anything against Tim, but— tracking down a demolitions expert? Finding his little underground hidey-hole? Getting into the nitty-gritty of the Gotham underbelly? Like, come on, there’s a more exciting scenario here. Even still, Jason quickly bites back whatever else he’d been about to say, because… Well, fuck, sometimes hero shit can be kind of boring, like interviewing people and poring over shit with Gordon (and no offense to Gordon, but he isn’t exactly a bundle of fun all the time). “Fine, but next time, you’re on babysitting duty,” he says grumpily as he swings for Drake Manor.

He swears that as he flies around the corner of a worn-down apartment building, he catches a glimpse of Batman smiling.

And then:

He sees something he isn’t supposed to see, perched outside of Tim’s window.

Jason’s no stranger to hunger; in fact, he’s so familiar with hunger that he still hasn’t completely adjusted to the idea of being well-fed all the time. Sometimes, he still can’t believe he just— gets food, that he doesn’t have to fight for it, or scream for it, or bleed for it. It just arrives in front of him, served piping hot by Alfred, and he eats until he’s full. He doesn’t stop to save some for later, or pick the mold off, or squirrel it away into pockets to find for later when the gnawing at his insides starts and won’t stop.

And there’s no doubt that sometimes, he is weird about it. He can be territorial, sure, but Bruce doesn’t seem to hold it against him. He just lets Jason figure it out on his own, get comfortable on his own. Being hungry is— it’s one of those things Jason doesn’t know if he can ever go back to, now that he knows what it’s like not to have to be.

He knows hunger. He knows what hunger sounds like, what it looks like.

It’s just—

He hadn’t expected—

Tim’s raking into one of the foil trays with his fingernails, shoveling handfuls of mashed potatoes and onion and mayonnaise into his mouth faster than he can chew, literally— devouring, that’s the best word Jason can think of. He’s not even fuckin’ breathing, far as Jason can tell, just gulping down fistfuls of whatever he can get his hands on fast enough. And he’s so focused, too, so intensely focused on the tray that he doesn’t even notice Jason.

And Jason’s kind of noticeable. Bright red, bright green, bright traffic-light yellow.

Fuck, he thinks. He shouldn’t be watching this. It could be that the kid hasn’t eaten because of the grief, or maybe— Jason doesn’t know. He just knows he wants to unsee this private moment, he wants to leave Tim to it.

Tim finally stops and breathes harshly, garbled around a mouthful of potatoes. His breaths hitch sharply, over and over and over until Jason realizes he’s crying— no, sobbing, like those kind of cries that you gotta reach down and pull out of your stomach, like that. Jason’s even more spooked, now, horrified by this situation. Grief really is the craziest thing, he thinks — Tim had been okay, he’d had a couple conversations with Jason, and now, now he’s absolutely losing it and there’s potato bits everywhere, and—

Jason’s chest hurts. He doesn’t get it. He wishes Bruce were there.

He waits a few minutes until Tim isn’t making those sounds anymore, the ones that sound like he’s being fucking gutted, and then taps lightly on the slightly open window.

Tim’s head jerks up and to the right, like a puppet. Jason glances down at his own arm where it’s leaned up against the window, and it’s covered in goosebumps.

“Robin,” Tim croaks, and puts the tray down beside him. He wipes at his face with his sleeves frantically, smearing food and tears all over his face, but Jason does the polite thing and looks the hell away as Tim snatches tissues from the box on his nightstand and wipes his face. “Um— Sorry, I. I wasn’t.”

“Nah, it’s my fault,” Jason says easily, determinedly looking up at the sky while Tim blows his nose. “Didn’t exactly drop a line and tell you Robin was gonna show up, so. Uh. You okay?”

“Am I,” Tim echoes somewhat hysterically, prying the window open fully. Then his brow furrows, and he looks down at his messy hands. “How long were you here?”

Jason’s about to lie. He is. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t.

Actually, he doesn’t even say anything, because Tim seems to figure out the answer just by looking at Jason’s face. He knows Jason saw the hunger and the desperation and the rawness, he knows.

“Tim, it’s,” he starts, moving to stand inside the room. It’s okay. There’s no need to be ashamed. Being hungry is natural. That’s what he would have said, but Tim cuts him off.

“You’re a good detective,” Tim says flatly. His voice is slightly hoarse, and his cheeks and eyes are rimmed with a bright salt-pink. “And Batman is an even better one.”

“I’ll let that slide for now,” Jason says, almost desperate to bring some levity back into the situation, but the kid remains utterly blank-faced.

“—So you would have probably figured this out eventually,” Tim finishes, and trudges out of his open door and into the hallway. It still creeps Jason out to see the open doorway, for some reason; especially now, in the dark, the hallway is silent like a grave and just as dark as one. He can’t imagine sleeping like that. He wonders if Tim even does; he always looks somewhat tired.

“Figured out— What?” Jason asks, following Tim out even though he’s getting really spooked at this point. If he hadn’t known Tim, he would’ve wondered if the kid had gotten body-snatched or something; this isn’t the Tim he’s ever recalled meeting at the galas, or even the neighbor he thought he’d at least peripherally known. This feels like a stranger in Tim’s skin— or maybe, Tim’s skin had been the stranger all along.

“My parents. They were into shady things,” Tim says at the top of the stairs, his fingers curled tight around the banister. Jason glances down into the foyer, and is startled when he notices Mrs. Mac standing quietly underneath the chandelier. She looks from Jason to Tim, and shakes her head— very, very slightly. She doesn’t even react to seeing Robin in the Manor, as if it’s a common occurrence for Jason to be skulking around. “It’s okay, Mrs. Mac,” Tim says, and Jason’s surprised to hear real affection saturate his voice warm. “They were going to figure it out one way or another.”

“What kind of shady things?” Jason asks, perching up on the railing.

Tim leans forward, lacing his fingers together. “Drake Industries isn’t doing so well,” he says flatly, never looking away from Mrs. Mac. “My dad tried to keep it afloat by borrowing money and making underhanded deals with shady lenders. They started sending people to collect, and he dug himself deeper and deeper. Mom got involved with artifact smugglers when they’d go on their digs. They both got involved with people who would hurt their competitors, not always legally.”

Well, that’s a fucking condemnation if Jason’s ever heard one, even if it’s weird to Tim speak about his own parents doing shady shit so candidly.

“And they would do this often?” Jason asks, fingers steepled, head cocked thoughtfully. It’s weird, he— he knows there are rich people out there who’d do this shit, but it all feels so dystopian and otherworldly when he hears it in real life.

Tim’s breath hitches, almost imperceptibly. He’s still looking at Mrs. Mac, but not looking at Mrs. Mac, if that makes sense.

“Aye,” Mrs. Mac says, and Jason’s attention flicks to her. In the dim light, in this quiet and lonely house, she looks even more wizened than she had before. There’s steel in her age lines and flint in her eyes as she gazes at Jason. “You could say that.”

And then Jason’s possessed with the need to ask something else.

“What were they like at home?”

Tim makes a sound like his words he was about to say went down the wrong pipe, and Jason knows this kid is about to lie right to his face. Robin instinct or whatever, something about the way Tim’s eyebrows furrow, the way he opens his mouth and echoes, “what were they like at home?” And then Mrs. Mac, the way it almost feels like she’s not even breathing anymore. The way the world seems to go so very still, as if everything around Jason is dead.

“See, ‘cause,” Jason says to fill the silence, and scratches the back of his head. He’s never been great at dealing with suffocating silences, and this one leaves him feeling itchy and restless. “With the door, and the—” He gestures vaguely.

Because Jason’s not just intimately familiar with hunger. He’s intimately familiar with a great many terrible things, because before he was Jason Todd-Wayne, Robin, he was Jason Todd, nobody. And that Jason Todd never forgot what trauma looked like, the shape of it. The way it felt between his teeth and in his empty, cavernous belly.

“What were they like at home,” Tim says again, almost drowsily. “They were busy. They worked a lot. They were always talking.”

Mrs. Mac grips the broom handle so hard it squeaks.

“— But not to me,” Tim clarifies. “On the phone, mostly. And then at night, they would walk into my room, to tell me I was lucky they worked so hard for me.”

“Were you?” Jason asks quietly, his stomach churning. “Lucky?”

For that, he receives the sort of smile that pulls Tim’s face up like fishhooks.

“Sure.”

By the time Jason returns to the Cave, Bruce is already waiting for him in front of the Batcomputer.

“Report, Robin,” he says, hands clasped under his chin, and Jason thumps down beside him.

“Turns out the Drakes had plenty ‘a skeletons in their bajillion walk-in closets,” Jason says, rocking back on his heels. “Tim told me there were shady deals, artifact smuggling, sending people after their competitors. I’m guessin’ Tim caught a hell of a lot of it, since it seems like a lot of that shit went down in his house.”

Bruce grunts, standing up. “Jenkins said the same. What about what you weren’t told?”

And without dissembling, Jason says, “I think they fucked that kid up, B.”

Bruce opens his mouth, probably to call him on his language, but seems to decide not to. “What did you see?” he asks instead, the corners of his mouth tightening.

“The door was just one part of it,” Jason says, leaning up against the desk. “And there was a thing with a casserole, and then— it’s just how the kid’s been actin.’ And Mrs. Mac, she knows too, I think. I think a hell of a lot happened there behind closed doors, B, because that kid is all kinds of messed up. I dunno.” Impatiently, he drums his fingers, and patiently, Bruce waits for him to finish. “You know I’ve been there, right. I’ve seen that kinda behavior before. I was that person. And I didn’t see anything physical on him, or nothin’, like scars or cigarette burns. But it’s the way he acts. It’s—” He pauses. “Yeah. It’s the way he acts.”

After a deliberating, tense pause during which Jason can’t make heads nor tails of Bruce’s dark expression, Bruce reaches out to clasp Jason’s shoulder and squeezes briefly before pulling back. “You’re safe here.”

“Yeah, B, I know.” Jason says, and then rolls his eyes. “Or at least as safe as I can be dressing up in a costume and running around the streets of this hell city.” He looks up at the computer. “What did you figure out, then?”

“I interrogated Jenkins,” Bruce says, and pulls up an audio file. “He all but admitted to planting the bomb because Jack and Janet stiffed him on his payments. Apparently, when he called Jack, Jack claimed he’d never even heard of Jenkins and refused to interact further with him, even though Jenkins showed evidence of their messages. Jenkins planted the bomb two days later after finding out that the Drakes were at the restaurant.”

“Seems pretty straightforward,” Jason says, clambering into the chair noisily and squinting at the footage from the restaurant that Bruce’s pulled up on the side. There’s something—- annoying him, jabbing at his brain as he watches the footage of the Drakes leave the restaurant. He watches it twice, thrice, even a fourth time, but he can’t place what’s bothering him about the slightly grainy video.

“What are you looking for?” Bruce hovers, and Jason actually kind of appreciates that he isn’t just telling him the case is over. Like Bruce gets that there’s something more going on, just based on instinct, and he’s not rushing to close the book on whatever weird shit is going on here. Because, Jason thinks grimly, Janet and Jack might be dead, but the consequences of whatever they’d done when they were alive continue to poison the water black, Jason just knows it.

“I dunno yet,” Jason says, brow furrowing. He teeters on the edge of the chair, knees pulled up against his chin, and hrrms like a discontented cat. “Can you pull the footage from the restaurant?”

Wordlessly, Bruce switches from one file to another; this footage is much clearer. It’s clear enough for Jason to be able to see the faces of the Sullivans stretched wide in laughter, the faces of the politely smiling Drakes, and the face of Tim— quiet, haunted, Tim. Tim’s fixated on his plate, eyes like coal-tar pitch.

“Huh.” Jason says, glancing down. “Shrimp pasta.”

“Is that significant?”

“Well, he dumped his shrimp casseroles on me the other day,” Jason says, and rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully. “So I figured he didn’t like it. Why would he order it if he didn’t like it?”

“His parents died shortly after,” Bruce says. “That might have put him off the food for a while.”

Maybe, Jason thinks, but despite the explanation being reasonable, it’s unsatisfying.

And then— it occurs to him, all of a sudden, when Tim reaches a hand up to scratch the side of his face.

He’s an idiot. That pink patch Tim had been scratching earlier hadn’t just been some mystery rash; it had been a reaction. Jason wants to smack himself right in the face.

“He’s allergic to shrimp,” Jason says, and the words tangle up in his throat with a sudden surge of dread. “B, Tim is allergic to shrimp. Why the hell did h—”

He stops. There’s no chance Janet and Jack hadn’t noticed it; Tim not only hadn’t touched the food, but he was leaning away from it as if afraid it would bite him. They couldn’t not have noticed. No, they noticed. They noticed, but weren’t fucking doing anything. They just weren’t doing anything. Shit, they might have even ordered it for him. He smacks the table with the flat of his open palm so hard it smarts, propelling himself to his feet in a fit of flushed, brilliant anger.

“They aren’t doing anything,” he says, a little hoarsely. The hunger makes sense now; he wonders for how long Tim’s been hungry. “B. You get it, right?”

Bruce’s expression is stillwater with all the foreboding depth of a never-ending ocean grotto. For a long moment, they just stare at each other. Then his shoulders slump, slightly, and the flat cracks.

“Hn,” he grunts, and the small sound seems to carry all the weight in the world.

Yeah, Jason thinks. He gets it.

It sucks to know your next-door neighbors might have been psychopaths.

It especially sucks to know your next-door neighbors might have been psychopaths when you are, respectively, Batman and Robin.

Bruce’s silence weighs like the gravity of a planet on the Manor for almost the entirety of the next day. Jason’s impatient as he waits for nightfall, and he finds himself picking at his food restlessly with little appetite after their discovery. There must be rose bushes under his skin, growing thorny stems that punch out through him and leave him whistling air as he roams aimlessly around the hallways.

The second the sun dips down into the horizon, Jason’s out the door without even asking where Bruce is going. He makes sure to knock on Tim’s window this time, and feels oddly like Peter Pan perched outside when Tim cracks the window open.

There’s color in his face today, and he looks more— well, alive.

“Robin,” Tim greets him quietly. “Have you made any progress?”

Looking at him now, Jason wonders.

“Yeah. We got the bomber,” Jason says, resting one green boot on the floor of Tim’s room. Tim’s expression doesn’t change. “And—”

The words catch, but he pushes on. Point blank.

“Your parents,” Jason says, not unkindly. “What did they do to you, Tim?”

Tim’s mouth tilts. Not exactly a smile. Shit, but he’s so young, and that’s coming from Jason, who’s also young to people like Bruce and Jim and especially people like Alfred, but he has a couple years on Tim, so he feels justified in saying that Tim is young, too.

“Like, biblically?” Tim asks, and again, it’s like— it’s like it’s supposed to be a joke. But he doesn’t laugh, and neither does Jason, because he seems to realize what’s coming next.

Jason sucks in a sharp breath, drumming impatient fingers against the windowsill. Emotion bubbles up into his face, into his fingertips. He wants to do, but he isn’t sure what— all he can do, in the aftermath, is listen.

“You’re allergic to shrimp.”

“Yes,” Tim says tonelessly, and scratches the side of his neck almost unconsciously.

“They ordered shrimp pasta,” Jason says, “and it wasn’t the only time they did that, was it?”

A sort of uncomfortable, heavy silence drapes over the room like a weighted blanket. The moonlight from outside cuts a bright wedge over one of Tim’s eyes. They’re wide. So wide. He could be inanimate. He could be dead.

Tim grips the cuff of his pajama shirt. “There was—” He says, and then his brow furrows. “Do you believe in people being able to come back from the dead?”

Jason grunts, swiping a hand through his messy hair as he leans against Tim’s desk. “Nah, not really.” He recognizes it for what it is— fear, persistent even in the face of something as final as death. “You’re safe, now. Nobody’s gonna get you while I’m here— anymore. I know we weren’t here before,” he adds, unhappily, and Tim blinks. “But we are now. No zombies are gonna get you on my watch.”

Tim nods like he believes him. “They used shrimp to regulate my meals,” he says vaguely, like he’s not saying some genuinely unhinged shit. He sits down at the desk, knees knocking against each other, and rubs his eyes. “Which sounds kind of stupid. But I’m pretty— really allergic. They had to take me ‘cause the Sullivans— Mr. Sullivan… He. He.” Tim opens and closes his mouth. “I guess he likes me. And Dad noticed. He said having me there would make Mr. Sullivan happy, but they were still mad at me because of the clock. ‘Cause I dismantled the clock.”

Jason’s breaths stutter furiously. He gulps his interruptions back down, wraps his tongue around them and imprisons them behind his teeth. He told himself he would listen. So he listens.

“Which was wrong,” Tim continues, his expression a little tired. “But the ticking was so loud, it was— it was so much. I have trouble with those kinds of sounds, those kinds of repetitive sounds. The ticking. The dripping. The tapping. I guess it just got to be too much. It wasn’t on purpose, it wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to be bad,” Tim says, and his words kind of overlap, stumble.

“I promise,” he says, quieter. “I promise I’m not— bad.” And then there’s something new in his expression, something that gnashes its teeth and screams to be heard, and Jason finds himself fixed in place by its intensity. “Robin. I.”

“I believe you,” Jason says, his tongue unthawing. “I believe you, kid.”

“You won’t.” Tim says shakily. Before Jason can pry him, he says, “When I said I forgot my jacket. Dad was so mad that I forgot. He doesn’t yell, but I can just—” Tim’s fingers gesture a wide circle around his face. “—I can see. On his face. I th— thought. When I get back. He was going to—”

He stops.

“And then I came out. And the car exploded.”

“Stop,” Jason says, unable to help himself. “Stop. You don’t have to say anything, Tim.” Because he knows what Tim is going to say. Tim is going to say he was relieved. But it looks like it’s going to kill him, and Jason wants to protect him from that, at least. “I get it. You’re not bad for that. I believe you’re a good kid.”

“You won’t,” Tim says, and his voice hitches. “You won’t.”

Jason’s always known Bruce Wayne was a powerful man. It still boggles him how powerful he is, occasionally.

Case in point: the pile of official-looking records stacked on the dining table.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says. “Might I ask what these are doing on the dining table and not downstairs?”

Jason’s still in his pajamas, hair crookedly fluffed up on one side; his brain is rebooting after a restless, anxious night of mostly overthinking. He’s exhausted, but he still feels the way the air seems to press down. It’s smothering, practically radiating in waves off of Bruce.

“They’re records,” Bruce says. “Tim’s medical records.”

Jason’s words curl and shrivel like feathers on fire.

Alfred’s mouth opens, and then closes. He looks distinctly ill, which Jason can tell because that’s exactly how he feels— ill. He’s going to need a medical record pretty damn soon himself.

He sits down beside Bruce, despite the oppressive rage threatening to hydraulic-press Jason’s lungs into dust. It’s not directed at him, but it’s still menacing; Bruce has always had a tremendous presence, in and out of the cowl.

But for a moment, with his fingers steepled like this, indents branded deep underneath his eyes, Bruce just looks tired, almost deflated.

“All of them?” Jason asks, horrified. “How— How did you find these?”

Bruce grunts. “The Drakes were bribing their own personal doctor to keep these records hidden. Rest assured,” he adds coldly, “that doctor won’t be practicing anymore.”

Jason’s kind of wondering if said doctor will even be able to practice holding a spoon, but he knows better than to ask at the moment. “Why even make records, then?”

There’s this look Bruce sometimes gives Jason, that he kind of wonders if Dick also ever got from Bruce. It’s this look that says, sometimes people commit unexplainable evils, Jason, and I’m not sure if I want to elaborate. Bruce is kind of looking at him like that right now, like he isn’t sure how to explain what he’s gleaned from these records. Jason’s not a kid; he’s seen shit as Robin, and he’s seen even more shit as Jason Todd. Impatiently, he nudges Bruce’s leg with his own, which seems to jolt Bruce out of his stupor.

“Trophies,” Bruce says flatly, his gaze dropping to the documents. “I believe they kept them as trophies.”

Jason’s world feels like it shrinks into a pinpoint, and then blows back wide. There are at least eight records, once Bruce spreads them over the table. Alfred is so still, he could have been mistaken for furniture; when he finally does move, the expression on his face scatters nervous butterflies through Jason’s stomach.

“Master Bruce,” he says quietly. “Do you mean to tell me all of this occurred next door?”

Bruce’s head is in his hands. Jason thinks he misses a few moments of conversation to the ringing in his ears, but he tunes back in to hear Bruce say, “—a sickly child, that’s what Janet always used to say—”

Yeah, he thinks. She had said that. She and Jack used to say that all the time at the galas and other assorted charity events. Tim is a sickly child. He’s just like that. Poor health.

The words sodium poisoning leap out at him. He forces his eyes to move forward slightly.

Patient was brought in with seizures after consuming several teaspoons of table salt.

“B,” he says, through a throat rubbed sandpaper-raw. “What the hell do we even do? What do we do, huh?”

Bruce is giving him that look again. Jason wants to shake him. There’s a howling wail like the scream of a banshee raging through his lungs and rattling his bones. It’s not fair that Janet and Jack are dead, he thinks, because they should have undergone a crucible for this. They escaped— almost painlessly, too, because they likely died instantly.

“Support him,” Bruce says, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. “Make sure he has a good home where this won’t happen again—”

“A good home?” Jason echoes, wild-eyed and livid at the very— No. That’s not what he’s upset about. He’s upset because there’s no fucking justice. He’s upset because he didn’t notice. He’s upset, and for some reason, the world’s moving too quickly around him. Bruce and Alfred’s faces lose themselves into the blur. “I gotta,” he says, and then looks down. Sodium poisoning. Malnutrition. Dehydration. Water intoxication. Allergic reaction to seafood.

Jason heaves.

Oh. Actually, through the blurry red haze, he realizes that every alarm bell in his brain has been sounding off discordant wails. His stomach flips, turning teeth onto itself; the gnawing reminds him of hunger, of starving, of dying, of dying, of dying.

Another breath shudders out of him, halfway lost into something he can’t recognize, something soft. A voice he thinks he trusts instructs him to take a deep breath; Jason realizes he’s been holding it, and his mouth gapes open immediately to let the air flood out. He shivers, a motion so hard that he thinks his bones clack together like maracas.

Still. He trusts that voice, so he vacuums air with a shrieking hiss down into his lungs and tries not to choke.

“Again.”

Again.

“One more.”

One more.

The world comes into focus with soft, blurry edges— or. Oh. Jason’s eyes are watering a little.

“I shouldn’t have shown you those reports. It’s going to be okay, Jason.”

“I’m fine,” Jason says, and it comes out a crackling hiss, fizzing like soda. He pushes, but the soft wall underneath his palm is unyielding. “I’m fine. Don’t take me off this case.”

“I won’t,” Bruce says quietly. “I won’t, Jason. Take another deep breath.”

Jason doesn’t want to. He wants to get up, but every cell of his body seems to be in absolute agreement that that’s just a terrible idea, and he can’t even be sure of which way is up. A prisoner to his vertigo, he sucks in another breath.

“Don’t take me off,” he says again. “I got this, B.”

“You’re not off the case, Jason.” Bruce says, more firmly this time. His hand rests heavy against the back of Jason’s neck, and Jason focuses on the warmth in his nape.

“He coulda died, B,” Jason says, less a declaration and more a pathetic rasp. “He coulda died in that house. And then he would’ve been in one of those little child coffins and the Drakes would’ve stood there and pretended to cry and said all this shit about, about how he was a—” He chokes. “A sickly child.”

“I know.” Bruce says, low and heavy. The trick is in the few with Bruce. In two words, he says, I have regrets, too, and I wish it hadn’t ended like this, and I won’t let this same thing happen to you. Jason finds relief and restlessness, in equal parts. There’s nothing they can do, not to Janet and Jack. For a moment, Jason wishes they could come back to life.

“Tim is still alive,” Bruce says, and as if instinctively, his grip tightens slightly. “We need to focus on him.”

“You don’t have to pity hang out with me, Robin.” Tim says, comforter wrapped half around his shoulders. Jason’s perched in the windowsill again, hanging half inside the bedroom and half out. “Mrs. Mac is looking out for me. And don’t you have crime to fight?”

Jason’s about to argue the first point, but— Shit. He wouldn’t call it pity, but he hadn’t been the best about hanging out with Tim before Janet and Jack died. So he’s honest, because the kid deserves it.

“Batman’s covering my shifts for a while,” he says. “Covering his shifts” is the vaguest way he can explain the way Bruce has been aggressively tracking down anyone and everyone who had a hand— shit, even a pinky —in the cover-up. In the meantime, Jason’s taken to … He isn’t sure. But after all of this, he sure doesn’t feel good about staying away. “And sure, maybe we weren’t friends before. But we should be, now.” That, he means sincerely— because shit, try making and keeping friends when you haven’t even got a fucking door.

Tim’s staring— not at him, but through him.

“Is that Robin speaking?” he asks. “Or is it Jason Todd?”

Jason’s weight, already uneven, gives; with a sharp, shocked sound, he hits Tim’s floor with a thud.

Tim startles like a spooked cat, blanket fluttering out around him in an arc as he retreats back up against the corner wall. “Oh. Oh, no. What did I just— Why did I just— I shouldn’t have…”

Jason’s life flashes before his eyes for a second. He thinks he’s going to die. “Have you—”

“No, no one,” Tim says preemptively, and the way his voice wobbles reminds Jason of the sharp spikes of a heart monitor. So, incidentally, do Jason’s own heartbeats smacking against his eardrums. “I swear, I didn’t. I— I saw Dick Grayson’s quadruple flip, and then I saw Robin— I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t— I didn’t.”

Jason’s chest loosens a little; he believes the kid. He does. But shit, what is he going to tell Bruce? Should he tell Bruce?

The kid goes from survivor to threat to back to survivor in the span of seconds, because he looks like he regrets knowing their secret even more than Jason regrets him knowing— especially with those eyes again, the ones that seem to allow no passage for light. Jason’s guard crumbles; his fear slips right between his fingers like quicksilver at the sight of Tim’s expression.

He moves from the floor to Tim’s bed, and Robin’s back; the rocking ocean tapers out into gentle waves against the shoreline. Tim is a scared kid, and Jason knows a hell of a lot about scared kids. So he sits, and he waits, and eventually— Tim speaks.

“I thought about coming next door for help,” Tim says, and shrinks back. “But I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”

“It’s okay,” Jason says, because he isn’t sure what the hell else to say, and his gloved hand hovers between them. Tim doesn’t lean either toward or away, only remains as still as the windless night as Jason rests first his fingers, and then his whole hand against Tim’s upper arm. Then, the air seems to deflate right out of him, and he sags slightly like a hot air balloon crumpling to the ground in a heap. “It’s okay, kid.”

“You’re also a kid,” Tim says reflexively. “And you’re one of the strongest people I know. Robin.”

“Not always, though,” Jason says, and knocks his arm against Tim’s. Tim jolts like he’s been shocked, but doesn’t move otherwise. “I wasn’t always strong. I’m still not always strong. I’m just doin’ my best. And when you feel better, even if that’s in a year, or two years, or whatever, you will too. You’ll get there, just like I did.”

It’s not his best speech; shit, it’s kind of lukewarm, but he’s still kind of reeling. Except then he looks at Tim, and his entire chest goes cold.

There’s nothing. Nothing on Tim’s face. No light, no expression, no tell to read. He’s just watching Jason vacantly, head lolled slightly to the side, like— like one of his strings was tugged too far to the right.

“It’s too late,” Tim says, like he’s speaking through a dream. Jason’s frozen in place, breath caught in his throat. “It’s too late for that. For me. I can’t be like you.” His eyes focus again. Jason glances from his face to the doorway, heart smacking up against the roof of his mouth when he sees Mrs. Mac in the doorway like a goddamn apparition. He doesn’t know how long she’s been there, but she’s staring at the back of Tim’s head with all the intensity of a magnetar.

“He’s a good lad,” she says to Jason fiercely. “He never did nothin’ wrong.”

And it reminds Jason of— it reminds Jason of when Tim had pled the same, not too long ago. Now, though, the kid just shakes his head and doesn’t even turn back.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Mac,” he says, and kind of offers a smile. Except Jason’s loath to really call it that, because it’s messy and uneven and so profoundly sad, somehow. “She’s always been on my side. Snuck me food when my parents weren’t looking. Knocked on the doorway because I didn’t have a door.” On a shuddering breath, he says, “She’ll always see the best in me.”

Jason tilts his head, distinctly birdlike; he feels like he’s listening to just half of a conversation. “What else happened? You’re still keeping a secret, aren’t you?”

Tim’s staring again. Not at Jason, but at the blankets between them. Sluggishly, the kid says, “a really, really big one, Robin.”

Jason gets back before Bruce does, because Tim doesn’t say much or even move after that, and Mrs. Mac is looking at Jason like he needs to let the kid be, so Jason takes off. Tim’s freaking him out, anyhow— not by any fault of his own, because shit, the trauma practically layers over Tim like an exoskeleton— but it’s still heavy in a way that scares Jason.

He occupies himself by looping the footage again, and again, and again. He watches the Drakes pack up— the uneaten shrimp pasta goes into a takeout box for some fucking reason that Jason doesn’t even want to know. Mr. Sullivan says something jovial and claps Tim’s back, and Jason’s teeth grind together —and put on their coats. He watches them walk to the door. He swaps footage to the outside cameras, and watches as Tim pauses and says something. He turns, walks back inside. Jack and Janet continue on to the car—

And then he realizes something.

Tim does go back. He goes all the way back to his table. He goes all the way back to his table, wearing his jacket.

“I left something in the restaurant,” he’d told Bruce, that first day. Then, to Jason, later, he’d said, “I left my jacket.” Bruce would have caught it earlier, if only he’d been told the same—

Jason can’t actually tell if Tim takes anything from the table when he goes back. He also kind of can’t tell because his heart’s so loud in his ears that it’s drowned out everything else. The world seesaws precariously for a moment, so tilted that Jason loses balance. The only thing that makes sense is the gauntleted hand resting on his shoulder.

How much can a person take—

“Robin, report?” Bruce asks, and his directive knocks Jason so hard out of his haze that he jolts forward. He stares up at the concerned, tense line of Bruce’s jaw, at the pinch between his brows, but doesn’t actually see anything.

How much can a kid take—

The thought to lie and keep the information for later doesn’t occur to him, not now. Jason needs Batman’s help— No, Bruce’s. Because he’s pretty sure— Like, really pretty sure, that—

“Maybe Jack never corresponded with Jenkins,” he croaks.

Bruce’s brow furrows. “There were texts between Jack and Jenkins where they discussed payment. Unless those texts were doctored—”

“It was Tim.” Jason says, and Bruce’s hand slackens, sliding from his shoulder. There’s a moment where they make eye contact, where Jason swears Bruce can see right into his mind; his eyes flick from Jason’s face to the computer screen, and his face smooths right into a sort of perfect blankness. “It was Tim.”

There’s a seriousness to Bruce’s expression, now, the likes of which Jason’s rarely been privy to. Wordlessly, he leans over Jason to look at the footage— because he believes him. He believes him, even though Jason kind of wishes he didn’t, he kind of wishes Bruce would argue with him, because he wants to be wrong. He wants to be wrong.

“He went back because he knew,” Jason says, and the words feel like they’re being yanked out of him like one of those fuckin’ magic handkerchief chains. He can’t stop, now. “He knew Jenkins would plant the bomb if his parents stiffed the payments.”

“He was the tip,” Bruce says, half to himself. When Jason snaps his gaze up to him, Bruce says, “Someone told Jenkins the Drakes would be at the restaurant. It was their first outing since he had argued with Jack.”

Jason’s hands shake, and keep shaking. “B,” he says, or sort of rattles, and Bruce blinks like Jason’s just splashed water on him. “What— do we do? Tim did it.”

The silence that follows offers nothing, and everything, at once.

Batman and Robin turning up in most people’s dining rooms would usually be cause for alarm.

Tim just stares at them unflinchingly from the head of the table, hands clasped together in front of him like he’s expecting them to handcuff him from the jump.

“So,” he says, and no kid should look that fucking tired. Mrs. Mac reaches a hand out to pat Tim’s, and he laces his fingers between her wrinkled ones. The sight of it makes Jason’s chest ache something fierce. They still don’t have much of a plan, but he already hates this setup— it shouldn’t have come to this. It should have been stopped long before this.

“We just want to know what happened,” Bruce says gravely, wrapped in the black of Drake Manor’s shadows. Haunted fucking place, Jason thinks. “The truth.”

“The truth,” Tim says, “is—”

And then Mrs. Mac laughs, this wild and sharp thing that rings high toward the arched ceilings.

“The truth,” she says, and pops up out of her seat like a firecracker. “The truth is that Janet and Jack were evil. And if they can hear me from Hell, I want them to know it was me. It was me. I set them up. I killed them. And I would’ve done it with my bare hands, too, if I had the strength. Arrest me.” She juts her chin toward Jason and Bruce proudly, hands fisted against her hips.

And—

So. Jason wasn’t expecting this. And neither was Bruce, judging by the almost imperceptible twitch of his mouth. Panic blazes clear across Tim’s expression, so sharp that Jason’s amazed it doesn’t cleave him in two.

“Mrs. Mac,” he says mutedly, grasping at her hand with both of his. “No. No. That isn’t— I didn’t—”

“Hush, lad,” she says sternly. “It wouldn’t be my first prison stint. And if I make it out of this one too, it surely won’t be my last.”

Oh, Jason thinks.

Tim’s feigned indifference melts away like a frozen creek at the turn of spring. Where there had been some modicum of composure, nothing’s left but a sort of pure, unadulterated fear. Jason’s teeth hurt at the very sight of it.

“They were going to arrange an accident for her,” Tim says, wheeling fiercely toward Bruce and Jason. “Because she was going to go to the police, I heard them. Th— They were going to— Just because she wanted to protect me—”

“Aye,” Mrs. Mac says sagely, “And that is why I had to have them killed.”

“No!” Tim hisses. “I found Jenkins, I set it up, I—” He chokes. “They were just going to— erase her, they—”

“An excellent reason to have someone killed,” Mrs. Mac interjects calmly.

“Stop saying that!” Tim yanks his hand free from hers, agitated. “You can’t go to prison, Mrs. Mac. I planned it because I still have— I still have time, I can—”

“My boy,” Mrs. Mac says, and the tone of her voice shifts into something so gentle that it draws Jason back from his wide-eyed stupor at the unfolding scene. “You’ve been in prison long enough.”

Tim’s eyes widen, breath knocked out of him in a sharp gasp. Jason’s suddenly, jarringly reminded of Alfred.

“If they had pushed even once more—” She trails off, her wizened face drawn and haunted, and rests a hand against Tim’s face; Jason’s chest squeezes once, so sharply that it stings. “I fear you would no longer be with us.”

The silence hangs heavy, then; wordlessly, like a statue, Tim turns to face Jason and Bruce.

“Please,” he says ardently, and his fingers curve, claw-like, over his heart. “Please don’t take her away. We can— I can—”

Jason’s heart pounds wild in his ears, his gaze swiveling up to Bruce’s stoic expression. Surely, they can just let this go— after everything Tim had been through.

Still. Two people were dead. Two evil fucking people were dead, but— Bruce wouldn’t kill even the most evil son of a bitch out there. He isn’t sure what Bruce is thinking— he hardly ever is sure of what he's thinking, but maybe, maybe.

“Shit,” Jason says, and sweeps his cape out. It flutters weakly in the still air as Tim’s desperate gaze flicks to his.

“Robin,” Tim croaks. “Please.”

The emotion rings raw, so much so that it bleeds, it pulses. Just a boy and his caretaker, at the end, and Jason is vaguely reminded of Bruce and Alfred in the darkest way. He wonders if Bruce feels the same.

“Shit,” Jason says with more gusto, despite Bruce’s warning hand against his shoulder. “If only there was something you had over us. Leverage, yanno? Then we’d have to let the both of ya go.”

Tim stares blankly at Jason for a long moment, but the links click together audibly when he seems to realize what Jason’s saying. Understanding dawns like the new day over Tim’s expression as he gazes, wide-eyed, at first Jason, and then Bruce.

“Robin,” Bruce says, unimpressed— and also like he’s trying to figure out where this is going. And shit, he’s gonna be so fuckin’ pissed at Jason. Oh well.

“I— I do.” Tim says, like he doesn’t have control over his motor control. The words spill loose out of his mouth as he grips Mrs. Mac’s hands with renewed vigor. “I do. I know your identities.”

“Now hold on just a moment,” Mrs. Mac says. Jason wonders if she knows, too. 

Bruce just stands there for a long moment, unmoving. He kind of looks like one of those gargoyles above the library; Jason wonders if he’ll fall over if he pokes him. He decides not to, because he kind of already knows he’s in for it later.

“Aw, man!” Jason says dramatically, hands on his hips. “You hear that, B? The kid knows who we are! Now what? We’re just gonna have to let him go, or he might blackmail us.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll— I’ll have to b-blackmail you.” Tim says a little shakily, like the very thought of blackmailing Batman of all people terrifies him. Understandable. Jason’s proud of the kid for holding his resolve.

Leaning against a still unmoving Bruce, Jason tsks and shakes his head. “Why, that’s low of you, Tim. I guess we’re just gonna have to keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t use that information against us. Right, Batman?” He asks, nudging Bruce in the arm with one knobby elbow.

Bruce wordlessly narrows his eyes at Jason, utters the sort of grunt that says this isn’t over, and turns on his heel.

As Jason cheerfully follows him out, he winks at Tim.

“How long have you known.”

Not a question.

“Only figured out yesterday,” Jason says honestly. “Just before I found out Tim did it.”

Bruce paces the length of the floor, agitated, and shakes his head at Jason. “You shouldn’t have…”

“You weren’t actually gonna send ‘em to jail.” Jason says, leaning forward against his arms to stare at the computer. It’s still frozen on the restaurant footage. “You weren’t. Right, B?”

“I had no plans to prolong Tim’s suffering, either in terms of the law or home life.” Bruce sighs. “But GCPD is still digging, trying to figure out if Jenkins worked alone or not, and they might find out someone else was involved. It’s a complicated situation that may start conspiracies, Jason, because the Drakes were extremely high-profile people.”

“And I can uncomplicate it,” Jason argues, sitting up. “Look, Tim needs to be under observation, and now we can keep an eye on him. Mrs. Mac isn’t the one who did it, anyway, she’s just coverin’ for him. And B, who cares if he set it up? He was just tryin’ to protect himself from his parents. Protect her. Can’t we just throw off the scent a little? Let Jenkins be the fall guy? He did it, after all.”

Another sigh— this one more put-upon —but Bruce just shakes his head. “There’s still many technicalities to iron out, Jason. The Drakes had a huge web of connections, and I don’t doubt everyone they ticked off will be back to deliver.”

“Well, this sure is a conundrum… If only there was a place with a fuckton of space to keep the kid around to keep him safe.” Jason says a little sarcastically, and gestures around at the Manor. “I mean, come on, B, he already knows our identities.”

“It isn’t—”

“What? That simple? Of course it isn’t, kid’s probably got a handful of shitty relatives and all those people who sent them casseroles. But we sent food too, B.” Jason folds his arms, leaning back against the desk, and meets Bruce’s gaze. “He did something bad, yeah. But he was just tryin’ to protect Mrs. Mac, and himself. You heard her, B. After all that fuckin— starving and everything, how long d’you think he would have made it? Survived? Shit, look at him.”

“You must admit he has a point, Master Bruce,” Alfred says. He had been a relatively unobtrusive presence for part of their conversation, but as usual, he intervenes just when Jason could’ve really used the backup. “The boy was simply trying to protect himself and those he cared for. Offering him a safe home and warm meals would do him good, regardless of his past actions.”

“Hm,” Bruce grunts, but it’s the my-resolve-is-cracking grunt. Plus, how much of a push does Bruce ever really need to adopt a kid? He’d probably already started thinking about it when he’d first seen the medical records.

“How better to get set back on the right path than with Batman and Robin?” Jason wheedles, but it’s all just extra shit, because he knows he’s won. Even if he hadn’t already managed to appeal to Bruce’s proclivity toward sad orphans, it makes the most sense logically. “C’mon, B. He clearly didn’t trust law enforcement. He could use someone,” he says. “He could use us.”

“I’m not looking forward to when you join the debate club,” Bruce tells him, but his words are gentle where his expression is stern, deliberating.

Jason grins. “I’ll tell the kid the good news.”

It’ll be difficult, he knows. This kind of hurt doesn’t fix easy; it’ll be no smooth recovery. Still, though— he has hope, because once, he’d kinda been there. He’s gotta try for the kid, because someone’s gotta try.

It ends there.

Just in time, Jason thinks, for something new to begin.

“Am I a monster for what I did, Jason?” Tim asks him a month later, his thin arm tangled loose around Jason’s. Jason’s school jacket hangs loose over the kid’s shoulders, swallowing him in, and Jason’s proud to see it, somehow.

“For protecting yourself from evil people?” Jason asks, tilting his head to rest his cheek against the top of Tim’s head and glancing up at the stars. “Nah, that doesn’t make you a monster.”