Chapter Text
TW: Descriptive anxiety/ Panic attacks, mentions of torture, swearing, blood, injury, accidental self-harm...
Tim liked being up high.
It was a fact, a simple one at that, because for years he spent his life in the highest points, from his attic window to rooftops, he'd always loved being at the highest point he could touch.
Something about wind, the cold numbing the tips of his ears and nose, the wind... The wind rushing through his hair and making a mess of it in a way his Mother would disapprove of. But it never mattered at the edge of all he never knew he could have, because all the money in the world didn't buy him freedom in the end, nor did he achieve something great, in the end all his wealth couldn't save him from those heights. He flew as high as he could, and the sun melted away his wings...
He'd climb the walls and whatever furniture they'd allow him in his cell-- room in Arkham. He climbed to the roof, he'd jump from the bed and practice his falls, and perhaps he should've been more concerned for his identity, but nobody put two and two together, not like he would've at the age of nine.
Honestly, was this city just filled to the brim with morons?
Maybe that'd be a tad bit mean, but it seemed so true when all the answers are right in front of them and they still never look!
Perhaps it's because of his love for heights that he sees clearer, seeing everything from a birds eye view, high above the ground and gazing down at the world that spins before his eyes, the shapes people take and what façade they wear, Tim sees it all.
He saw the lies in his parents' faces when they'd say they'd only be gone a week, those weeks that turned to months, and he saw the lies in Bruce's eye anytime he told him he did good. Deep down, he knew what it meant, "You did good, but Dick did better."
It wasn't a competition, at least not to Dick, but to Bruce it might as well have been... He was always chasing after another Dick Grayson, Batman's greatest success in Alfred's opinion.
Tim would have to agree, seeing as he and Jason were considered Batman's greatest failures. But, he found he'd rather enjoy failing Batman, so long as it means he gets to fail alongside Jason.
But if you asked Tim, Batman's greatest failure was the very creation of Batman...
"Uh, boss?" Tim hears, breaking out of his trance to gaze down from the rafters he sits on, feet dangling as he stares down at one of Red Hood's men, one who must've finally spotted him.
The rafters were high, wooden beams that he could walk and sit and practice acrobatics on-- would Bruce and Dick be proud?-- while Jason worked on his whole crime lord boss man slash new Iceberg lounge owner thing. It was boring to Tim, the meetings and squabbling and guns being pointed at one another and paperwork and blah blah blah-ing... Yeah, it was boring, but it allowed Tim to keep an eye on Jason! That way Jason couldn't leave, because Tim follows him, he follows close behind and Jason never complains!
"No, Timothy, you're much too young to come to the Congo this weekend."
"Oh, c'mon champ, we'll be back before you know! We won't miss another birthday."
"Aw, baby bird, the Titans and I will be back as soon as we figure this thing out with Kori and her alien marriage."
"No, Robin, you're not ready for this mission."
"Come now, master Tim, trust me when I say master Bruce intends to come back. Preferably in one piece."
Tim giggles from the rafters, grinning down at the man who is staring at him like he's seen a ghost, and a bark of laughter leaves Tim before he points toward the man, looking at Jason before speaking, "Hood! They're scared of me!"
"Boss, that's the fuckin' Joker's son--"
Jason whips a pistol out of his top drawer, pointing it right between the man's eyes, which would be quite a pity if he caught a hole between them. Tim always did find that having a gaping hole in your head causes death more often than not, surprisingly.
Fortunately for this man, Jason's not intent on killing him right this second-- Bruce and Dick would be mad at Tim for watching and doing nothing-- and instead speaks in his modulated, eerie sounding voice that comes in a calm tone, something that always means you've fucked up.
"Actually" Jason stands slowly from his desk chair, spinning his gun around his finger, slow and steady calculating-- Bruce hated guns-- "Last I checked, this would be my little brother, and furthermore,"
A chuckle escapes him as he watches, suddenly letting himself fall backwards so he's hanging upside down, twisting his head to keep his eyes on the scene. Hood's man can't seem to decide if he wants to keep his eyes on the gun-- why did he shoot him-- or on Tim, like he didn't know who was more dangerous, who he should fear.
It felt Tim with a fuzzy feeling, to think he was as feared as Jason! A laugh leaves him, then another, and he's a mess of giggles and snorts while swinging back and forth by his bent knees.
"He's the one keeping me from putting a bullet through your pathetic, unorganized, single brain cell that's probably sweating from having to come up with the dumb ass shit that comes out of your mouth." Jason finishes, and silence settles in, this man before them sweating on the brow, eyes still rapidly shifting between Jason's gun and Tim.
"Boss, you might've not been around at the time, when the clown died, but that's Joker Juni--"
"Pew!" Tim shouts just as the bullet goes through the man's knee, where Jason suddenly changed his aim to, making sure the man falls with an agonizing scream tearing through him-- "That's not funny." Joker had said with the funny, comical flag sticking through his chest, the one that had impaled him, meant for Batman, but instead it was in Dad's-- no, Joker wasn't his Dad, no, his Dad was... Was... He was Jack Drake, who was never around and--
Harley had let out a scream of pure agony as she found her beloved dead on the ground, Tim sobbing into a chest with blood staining him and Bab's-- she didn't make a noise when the bullet pierced her spine--
The man gasps for air, gulps it down while his body violently trembles, "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean anything by it." He pleads, begs on his knees as Jason simply takes a seat back on his desk, kicking his feet up and twirling the gun around his fingers once again, a little trick he practiced for hours last night while making dinner-- Bruce invited him to eat dinner often at the manor, Alfred always made it the best.
Dick joined now and then, more often when he was briefly dating Babs-- "I think it should be up to baby bird back there, actually. Whatchu think, kid?" Jason looks up at the rafters, locking eyes with Tim, "Should this piece of shit get to live?"
Tim could almost see the green in his eyes, the way they go when he gets so angry he wants to end a life, and Tim can relate, only he doesn't see green, he sees-- red spilling from Bab's stomach, from Dad-- Joker's chest, the clown taking his last breath and Tim sobs, unable to look at Bruce as he battles the laughter and tears that pull and burn his cheeks, head pounding with pain and blood soaking his gloves and the purple and green of his suit and--
"Kid?" Jason almost sounds concerned beyond the modulator, and it dawns on Tim that he was... He was not okay, he was doing it again, something he did often in Arkham, being dragged away to the past to focus on every and any little detail. The way his hair tickled the back of his neck, his eyes burning and bloodshot, how it felt when Harley dyed his hair while singing whatever lyrics of any song she could remember... "You're dismissed, Larry."
"My name is--"
Another gunshot, last he checked it was one..?
"Get the fuck out, Larry."
No, no it was two, it was two, one for Babs and one for the clown..? Yes, yes Dad-- Joker was shot, and Babs... Gods, Babs–
"Tim!" Suddenly he's falling, like Icarus, speeding toward the floor when his joints give and no longer are willing to hold him up, so he falls from the skies and comes crashing down against the cold, hard reality that always seems to come at him like a bull seeing the red of his Robin uniform. But then he's in arms, caught just a hair from the floor, looking up to see Jason-- not Red Hood-- Jason.
He looks panicked, out of breath despite having more than enough stamina to make a quick run across the room, catch Tim, and not break a sweat. Yet, something now has him startled, startled him into breathing like his soul had left his body... Again.
"Jason?" And suddenly he's being pulled close, against a strong chest with a rapid heart rate and yet, no blood touches him, none greats him and drowns him beneath his own sobs. It's dry, and Jason's heartbeat is erratic, but it's real, Jason's real, and here, and swore he wouldn't go anywhere so... So he's not going anywhere.
Tim prays to the Gods who've abandoned him that Jason doesn't go anywhere.
His head thumps against the cold, hard body armor and red bat symbol that stays plastered to Jason's chest, his eyes fluttering shut for the moment so he can breath, slowly inhaling, exhaling in a way Bruce taught him–
He wonders if Bruce panicked that night when he saw Tim, or if it was an automatic response to see a monster, to see an enemy in the one person who reached out when he needed a Robin. Tim never did like to rub it in, to make himself seem like a savior, but he truly was the only person who could pull Batman back from the inner turmoil, the fight he fought against himself, and what's he got to show for it?
Arkham is dark, lacking almost any light outside those damned buzzing bulbs that flickered ominously, how the yelling and screams and threats were like a drug, to hear anyone outside a doctor or guard referring to him as a name he never asked for! And where was Bruce!? Where was he..? Caring more for his dumb identity than Tim, who he locked away and threw the key at the bottom of the harbor for all Tim knows!
Jason came for him.
Jason was here, he'd come for him, and Tim wouldn't let go so easily, he couldn't, he'd have to give Jason a reason to want him around! His parents never saw a reason to stay, Bruce... Bruce wouldn't have let him stay Robin forever, not with how he looked at him on his worse days, but Jason? It's a fresh slate! He doesn't care if Tim killed people or hurts people he doesn't care and he adores Tim so, logically, Tim will give Jason a reason to stay and keep him around all the time and everything will be okay and Tim won't ever be alone again or sent to Arkham or Blackgate and-- and everything is gonna be okay. Logically.
Logically.
He's aware he lacks many things to be a proper partner, as Jason refers to him as. Like, perhaps, a stable mind that everyone else seems to have nowadays, for whatever reason, he doesn't get it because who doesn't like a little dissociation and creative chaos now and then? Mind you, he hates it himself and minds it, but at the same time he... He's got good qualities! He can do gymnastics like Dick taught him, and he watched Jason plenty as well! Not to mention, how many six year olds can wander Gotham, in the worst areas, full of the worst crimes, with a thousand dollar camera and live to tell the tale? Tim can! He's useful, he has redeeming qualities, he's more than a maniac and a murderer and a replica of the Joker!
Tim is good. He can be good...
Bruce will even regret sending him away when he sees how useful he is, he knows it, and Batman will be begging for his old Robin back, not that Tim would ever go, no, not to Bruce and Dick. Bats weren't kind, they were cold and cruel and mean. Jason though? He didn't hesitate to break Tim out of Arkham and hug him and promise to stay!
He deserves a good partner.
Tim can be a good partner.
°°°•••...•••°°°
Guns were something Jason is fond of, Tim finds, a direct hit toward Batman, hatred for his unjust rules and false morals.
What better than a gun made from pieces of Wayne tech?
It was sleek and refined, it's taken him a couple weeks and Jason has been so patient, even if he's unaware of the weapon's very existence, but Tim finally finished it!
Bruce would be so disappointed, he'd be sick to his stomach at what his partner has become, and Dick would try to talk Tim out of it and he can hear his stupid voice in the back of his head whining about it! Tim slams his fists on the table he's been working at, a spare room in the iceberg lounge he stays at when Jason is in stupid meetings with stupid important people, if you wanna call Black Mask important.
The gun rattles with the force of Tim's fists that slam against the surface, and he pauses, holding his breath, hoping to the gods it doesn't go off seeing as it doesn't shoot bullets. Nope. It shoots bombs! Like, fireworks, lighting up the floors of Gotham and surely doing some damage! Tim wouldn't say he's an expert, but he's studied all of Jason's guns from the inside out, he's studied the way they function and operate and he's sat with Jason as he's cleaned them.
And sure, bullets are REALLY funny to shoot, but so are bright, colorful explosions that go "BOOM!" He shouts out loud, snatching the gun and spinning around in the swivel chair he's been gifted by Jason-- another reason to give him a reason to let Tim stay-- and he comes to a sudden halt as he stares out the window, staring right at the sky where the Bat signal lights up, once a symbol for the evil to hide and the good to rise, but now, all Tim sees is a symbol of darkness that comes to haunt him in the dark-- flickering lights, eerie screaming that echoes off off-white walls-- The dark knight became a lot more fitting that night.
He holds the gun up, closing one eye and pretending to aim at the symbol, adjusting his grip on the gun-- it had a silencer and everything, though it wouldn't do much good when the bombs went off, like little pop rocks jam packed inside a gun-- and he whispers, "Pow, pow!" When pretending to shoot the symbol twice.
The symbol suddenly shuts off, and a large grin spreads across Tim's face, laughter building and bubbling before bursting out, loud and hysterical while wrapping his arms around his center. He feels the scars at his cheeks stretch, doubling over as the joy crashes down like weights made of waves on his body, forcing him down into a fit of hysterics.
It was perfect if you asked him! He'd make his debut and give them all a show when he makes his grand reveal, showcasing his beautiful weapons and toys and new persona and Jason would need him because he'd need a partner and Jason would need to stay and keep him close and never let him go or lock him away and it's gonna be so great!
He spins the gun around his finger once before adjusting his grip on it, holding it to the sky before blowing at the end, as if he was in one of those old western films he'd turn on when his manor got too quiet, too lonely for him to handle...
Inside the gun were explosives, activated at the press of a trigger, sending little bombs anywhere he shot. Like, a machine gun, but Tim's was... A lot more colourful, he'd like to put it that way, because it was painted in metallic shades of blue and pink and green and yellow and purple, beautiful and bright and made of scraps and things he'd found lying around, the inner workings Wayne Enterprise technology. He likes to think himself quite creative, if he did say so himself.
He hopes Jason agrees…
What if he doesn't? What if he thinks Tim is batshit-- No, Dick, pun not intended!-- insane? What if this is all useless and he's simply here as a test? What if Jason hates him and plans to drop him off at Arkham's doorstep and leave him alone with his thoughts and doctors and the guards who drugged him up constantly!? What if this is all some game and that's not Jason, his Robin?
His breathing stutters, his fingers gripping the gun twice as tight, and he swallows, mouth suddenly dry and he focuses on that-- he focuses on standing, making his way back to the desk he's been given-- he needed to repay Jason-- and lays the gun down-- somehow-- before picking up the bottle of water Jason had said to sip on, something about him always looking dehydrated-- why'd he look out for him like that? Did he think Tim was stupid and incapable of caring for himself?--
His fists meet the desk again, an angry scream ripping from his throat, and just as fast his hands are in his hair, tugging while he grunts and tugs harder, trying to gain some control, to understand, because his brain was thinking fifty thoughts and not latching onto a single one!
The gun stares at him.
He stares at the gun.
And he opens a drawer, throwing the gun-- alongside the uniform he'd made, a new one, his new one-- in before slamming the stupid drawer shut and screaming again. It's like the world decided to become loud all the sudden, all the footsteps and voices and chatter and music and sirens blaring as loud as possible till his heart thumps with the beat of the music and his head pulses with every word spoken.
The footsteps send vibrations throughout this body that make the world tilt and spin till he drops to his knees, breathing becoming harder and harder as if he'd been shoved in the chest and held at gunpoint because Harley dragged him away unconscious and watched as if she was shocked to see what the Joker did! He screams and tugs his hair harder and harder and harder as he scurried back beneath the desk, knees drawn to his chest as his breathes feel impossible to keep in his lungs, heart rate rising while liquid soaks through the hoodie he wears, water, reminding him how thirsty he is but he'd rather scream and laugh at the same time, apparently!
He has no control, not of himself, his mind, it all became the Joker's to toy with and tinker with and treat like a clump of Clayface! Free to mold and shape in his image…
Joker Junior, is that all he is now? An extension of the blood his very hands spilt?
He felt as if gravity turned off, even for a split second, he'd float off into space, never to be seen or heard no matter how much he screamed. It's like he was a can being crushed beneath the weight of his own tears and giggles and snorts and wild thoughts that bit into him and tire away chunks till all that's left is the truth he can't hide from.
He laughs harder, hard till all the oxygen is gone, then he's gasping for air, frantic to refill his lungs only for the laughter to start up again. His fists bang the ground, hitting hard, hard, hard, harder till he hears something crack and blood form at his knuckles, and tears spill down, dripping to his hands that he can barely see through the blur.
"C'mon, baby bird," Dick's voice sounds from some unknown location, and Tim doesn't dare look up, less alone he finds him, less alone Dick has found him and drags him back, "It's gonna be okay, just for a bit, I promise."
"Dirty liar!" Tim screams, clawing his way out from beneath his desk to grab onto the first thing his fingers wrap around-- a water bottle-- and he throws it at the blurry blobs surrounding him, "I needed you! I needed you! You left me! You and Bruce left me, everyone left me, I was alone, I was so alone!" He screams, his throat burns and he sobs and laughs, hands reaching to his hair to grip again and tug as hard as he can, another pained groan leaving him, "I was so alone..."
The world is loud and aggressive, tires screeching against pavement, shouting and laughing-- is it his or somebody else's?-- footsteps and talking and chatter than never ends while horns blare throughout the city and the lightbulb hums-- it's gonna start flickering--
"Robin, focus."
"I focused on the pain, ever been electrocuted, B?" Tim chuckles, laughs, looking up at the blurry world around him while tears slip down his chin, "You probably haven't. I was! I was a lot! That was one of the treatments in Arkham, B!" His ears are ringing, a sob breaks free between chuckles and giggles, he pushes himself up from the floor to stand in the center of the room, kicking over his swivel chair, "Imagine that! Being referred to as Joker Junior while getting electrocuted! They tried to fix me! Isn't that funny!? Are you laughing, Bruce!? Are you laughing yet!? I sure am!"
He can almost imagine Bruce's face, he can nearly imagine the way his lips pull into a frown-- Tim was laughing-- how he turned away with a look of defeat he very rarely wore-- Tim was hysterical-- and turned away from Tim entirely.
Leslie's had smelt of cleaning products and something metallic, like she couldn't wash away the evidence of all her association with the Bats. Dick hadn't arrived till morning, rushed and worried and teary eyed and he had rushed inside and held Tim tight and close-- why hadn't he come back?-- but in the end Bruce and Dick walked away and somewhere along the lines Tim ended up dead, his name deemed deceased and his body might as well never had existed. All that was left was his nonexistent relations to a clown as he was dragged away, kicking and screaming and laughing-- he was laughing-- into an Arkham van by people who didn't really care if he ever recovered.
"Robin, report."
"Report what?" His voice croaks like a toad took residency in his throat, a giddy little giggle leaving him while blood dripped down from his knuckles, trailing down his wrists and drying in his hair, "Report what, to who? Not you! I needed you, Dad, I needed you, I needed you, I needed you..." He groans, the words physical agony that pierced him in the chest, "I gave everything for you, the mission, everything, all of me, to make sure this city had Batman to make sure I still had you, and you threw me away when I wasn't useful anymore..." His breath stutters when the giggles calm down, "No wonder Jason hates you."
The walls might as well be closing in on him, he can't breath, he might as well not have lungs or a single functional organ because all that's happening is his lungs are being crushed, his head is spinning as much as the room does, his lungs are being pierced with the beings that are breaking and shattering into shards inside of his chest. Tim closes his eyes as tight as he can, tugging harder on his hair to make anything seem real, to stop the voices of his family-- coworkers-- vigilantes-- heroes-- and to stop the floor from falling beneath him till he's floating in space with no oxygen reaching him in the middle of space where no star or planet can be seen in the black void. This abyss he's stuck in, that closes in on him, a void surrounds him and black holes wanna suck him until every cell is scrambled.
"You would not believe the meeting I just had, baby bird!" Jason's voice announces as his door is thrown open, and light spills in, outlining his elder brother in a soft golden light that drowns out all the noise, leaving nothing but the ringing and thumping of his heart left in his ears, his laughter finally dying down to giggles and sniffles.
His cheeks itches horribly and he could feel his eyes burn with his red they surely were, his throat was dry as the desert and with every giggle escaping his trembling lips another round of pain radiates from within, and his chest felt hollowed out, like his insides were scooped out.
Tim stands there, staring at Jason who stares back like a deer in headlights that knew it couldn't run, but didn't know what to do but accept its fate. Perhaps that's why he took him in, away from Arkham, perhaps he thought he had no choice, like he couldn't walk away without Tim begging for him to take him, and the worst part might as well be that it was true. Tim never got anywhere in life alone, did he? Born rich and privileged from the start, given the suit by Alfred and urged to take the mantle up, he couldn't even bring himself to leave Arkham without being guilty, like he was a traitor to Bruce, and Dick, and Alfred, and Babs. Hell, even Jason Todd's ghost.
Tim had felt like such a failure and it's cemented in the fact he's standing where he shouldn't, he's not worthy, he hasn't earned this, any of it.
"Rough day, baby bird?" Jason was in front of him now, stretching out his gloved hand to likely cup Tim's face, an attempt to wipe away the tears still staining and slipping down his cheeks, but he turned his face away at the last minute.
The elder pauses, nodding his head before moving away, leaving the room, and Tim with it... It shouldn't surprise him, it shouldn't hurt, they barely knew each other, so what if Tim was given a bird-themed nickname that Dick used once and yet it felt warmer off Jason's tongue? Who cares if Jason made him feel loved for the first time in literal years? Not Tim, he assures every and anyone. Who could possibly truly love, less alone, stick around, for someone as mentally unstable as Tim Drake? Or Joker Junior? People liked Tim, he was smart and sarcastic and he liked coffee, Joker Junior was all that was left because he was an idiot who laughed to much and had breakdowns and heard voices of people who long left him and have long since died and either way his parents left him and never even tried to look!--
A warm cloth touched his face, gently guiding it to look to Jason, who was crouched in front of Tim, who ended up on the floor, on his knees and softly crying, the laughter long since stopped.
There's no words exchanged, neither try nor make the effort, and for that Tim is appreciative. It's quiet now, the world gone silent, and Jason's got a warm rag gently wiping away the tears they've dried and those that fall, eyes focused on his task, never looking to Tim for answers, no questions asked as he focuses on his task.
It reminds Tim of Alfred, working on stitches or patching up a wound, quiet and letting Tim sulk over his failure... But this was no failure, and Tim was not sulking, he was staring wide eyed and full of wonder at his elder brother, who came back, who came back like he said he always would!
"Please, don't leave me here." Tim had begged in that cell, clutching Jason like he was life itself keeping him out of death's clutches.
The elder was warm and soft, despite being the Red Hood, he was warm and soft, and he had held Tim so close and promised him he'd stay, he promised and he's come back for him so far, every single time.
He'd make him a bed in the middle of the night after their Arkham breakout, and he'd made him breakfast and hasn't gotten angry with him, he's been patient and kind, something he's not with anyone else. Tim was privileged, he didn't deserve this, he's sure of that, and yet... And yet every time, the elder comes back.
Mother and Father left as often as possible, shooed him away like a stray cat yearning for a meal, love wasn't even in their vocabulary. Not to each other, not to Tim, not to anyone or anything besides perhaps their careers and business, otherwise they've long since abandoned any acknowledgement of him since they've fled the state and travel more freely it feels. No burden of a son waiting at their manor to keep them from settling somewhere nice.
Bruce was... Bruce was complicated. He was cold, he'd trained Tim so little and put him out into the world as Robin so soon, and he was distant and grieving Jason, but... But there were moments Tim swore he'd give the world for Tim, that he adored him to bits, that he saw him as a son, as much of one as Jason. But that was before everything, and that was before Tim realized how Jason might've felt, if Batman had just killed the Joker sooner..! He won't think too hard about that.
Dick was amazing, he was kind and took him to see the Titans twice, and he'd take him to see movies and ice skating and rollerblading, he'd give him tips and train with him, and he never let a moment pass without some form of physical contact and constant nicknames. Though, sometimes he wondered if Dick was trying to fill in for what he missed with Jason, and maybe Bruce was doing the same, but then again, Tim never did have the strength to ask himself that, not when he was twelve or thirteen, not before the Joker…
"You hurt your knuckles?" Jason speaks, calm and not disappointed or angry, simply asking without any emotion to the words, but Tim still winces as an answer when his hands are lifted, "Yup, these are busted. C'mon, let's go to my office, I got a first aid kit. Should just be a sprain, we'll ice these mothefuckers." He decides, standing with a grunt as he bends his knees, offering a hand to Tim.
He looks up at his elder brother, sorta like he did when he watches him fly across the Gotham skies, painted in traffic light yellow, green, and red, traveling over Gotham alongside a moving shadow, sitting atop gargoyles and offering cash to the homeless when he thought Bruce wasn't looking. He was. Tim takes the offered hand, barely assisting Jason as he's pulled to his wobbly knees that ache, likely bruised from when they'd been sprained.
Perhaps the elder teen was a mind reader, because he pauses only a moment, then he's effortlessly lifting Tim like he weighed nothing, startling him into throwing his arms around Jason's neck and holding himself closer, away from the ground. It wasn't like he was afraid of heights, of course, but it was terrifying to place so much trust in someone he assumed wouldn't hesitate to leave him just a moment prior.
And maybe it would be too hopeful to assume Jason wouldn't ask, "Can I ask what triggered all this? Apparently you scared a few of my guys, all they heard was screamin' and laughin'. 'Course I told 'em to mind their damn business and walked away but... I know a thing or two about this stuff, y'know?"
Tim is set down on the surface of Jason's desk, patted twice on the head before his elder brother wanders off, likely to grab a first aid kit and bag of ice, that's what Tim tells himself. Though he felt worse now, he was scaring off Jason's men, and no matter how much Tim held a disliking for most of them, they worked hard to keep Jason's business operating and certain people off Hood's tail. Not to mention he was concerning Jason, which shouldn't happen, it can't because then Jason will realize Tim is batshit–
"No, Dick!" Tim snaps, slamming his fists against his thighs, "It's not a pun, shut up, this is serious, you ass!"
The room falls quiet... Quiet and Tim breathes in sharply, exhaling slowly, and he repeats the process of breathing in, holding the breath in his spasming lungs, then exhaling slowly. Each time becoming easier, the weights shackled to his body and the waves crashing down upon him coming undone, lifting, easing off of him till he could breath, just a little easier.
"Feelin' better?"
Tim looks at Jason, who stands before him, med kit in hand, looking so calm given the situation, like this is nothing, and Tim breaks entirely all over again, a sob leaving him, but no tears, he was... was too tired to cry, he was... He was tired.
"They won't leave me alone," He moans like it's physically painful, because it was, it hurt, everything hurt so fucking bad, "Dick won't shut up, he's a lying ass! Bruce keeps asking how I am he won't be quiet they won't be quiet why won't they leave me alone!? They never left me alone in Arkham, they won't stop, but they aren't here and I close my eyes and they are but they... It's not real but they feel and sound real!"
He knows he sounds crazy, absolutely mad, and the worst part is that he knows it! He's so aware and it hurts, it hurts to know he's failing, he's supposed to be good, he was supposed to be good, but he's not! He's failing at being good, a good partner!
"I get it."
And Tim's eyes shoot up and lock with Jason's, mouth parted as he looks at his elder brother with all the wonder in the world again, a little noise of both pain and hope leaving him, "You get it?"
"I took a dip in the crazy pit, baby bird," He made a show of knocking at the side of his head twice before clicking his tongue, "I wasn't all right up here either when I was revived."
Tim... Tim knew that, to a degree, he understood the concept of pit madness, how it decided the majority of Jason's poorer life decisions, and it was understood that whatever Jason did or said when influenced by the green rushing through his veins shouldn't be taken seriously and acknowledged, at all. But, to compare the two of them? Literally coming back to death and some electrocution and abandonment? Tim... Tim couldn't... He... He...
He lets out a weak laugh, sad and defeated and unable to even lift his hands to catch the stray tears running down his cheeks as Jason works on them. With Wonder Woman bandages and ice he can magically fix everything, perhaps it wasn't ever the suit that gave Jason that magic he bragged about back then, no, it was simply Jason Todd. He had the power to heal, to make the mad feel sane, and he quite frankly was Tim's most favorite person in the world.
He's so afraid to lose him, "You won't leave me, right? You won't send me back to Arkham and leave and never come back, right?" He hates how hopeful he sounds, and childish, he was fifteen for God's sake, "Even... Even if you leave me in Arkham, you put me in there again... Again... Can you visit, please?"
"Timothy, you're a big boy, act like one." Mother would say.
Father would look disappointed, grumbling, "Should've thought more on this whole child rearing thing."
But before him wasn't Mother nor Father, it wasn't Dick or Bruce, certainly not the Joker, no, this was Jason. Jason hides the frown pulling at his lips as he pulls both of Tim's smaller hands in his single big one, putting the ice pack on his fingers, holding it there. He looks sad, and small, which should be impossible for Jason, because he was the Red Hood, and that should simply be impossible to make this wall of a man upset! But yet, here Tim is, going and upsetting the strongest guy in Gotham.
Tim would never survive prison, he decides.
"Tim." Jason states firmly, and he tenses, bracing for the inevitable disappointment, realizing his silly, how stupid and laughable it'd be to ever think Jason freakin' Todd, the crime lord, the Red Hood, would give him the time of day or even find worth in him. It was fun and nice while it lasted. But soon Tim knows he'll be trapped again, caged in four walls and drugged every four hours and left isolated and alone for days on end, only catching rays of sunlight when he climbs the walls to the windows and tries desperately to feel a dollop of warmth.
Nobody will come and he'll be alone, Jason's voice will join Bruce's and Dick's and Mother and Father's and Harley's and the Joker's! All agonizing and loud as the world around them, pressing and compressing till his snaps, electricity will run through his veins and make him scream and laugh and cry and beg in a chair while doctors watch and scribble notes and whisper and lie!
He tries to tug his hands from Jason's, wanting to scream but Jason holding his hands tight, ice numbing the physical pain but doing nothing for the mental, "Tim, I'd never leave you, I'm not Batman."
And the world freezes on its axis, Tim swears it does, because there's no way it could continue after this moment, not as Tim looks at Jason with so much hope and trust, like he can actively believe and continue to believe every word from Jason's mouth. There's simply no way, none at all that he could stay, that he wants to deal with this... This... This mess that Tim is!
But here Jason is, he's still here and he's the one not letting Tim go, he's going his hands with an ice pack, and he speaks once more, "I'm not Dickface, I'm not Bruce, fuck, I'm sure not Babs! I won't leave you in Arkham, in an asylum, or anywhere at all and abandon you. I don't get scared off that easily, I've died, what's left to fear, kid?"
"Clown snakes." Tim answers automatically.
Jason snorts, "Not even those scare me off."
With a small clonk, Jason's forehead bumps against Tim's, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply, "Selfish as it all is, I'd keep ya forever if you let me. You're the best brother a street kid turned crime lord could ask for."
"Really? I am?" Tim asks with a cracked smile, and Jason huffs, like he can hear it in his voice.
"Really, you are," he straightens up then, "Now, let's get home, I'm fuckin' exhausted and you wouldn't believe the shit Black Mask is tryin' to pull in Old Gotham!"
Tim's smile only grows as he's helped off the desk and tucked beneath Jason's arm, led through the doors and out toward the cold, freezing Gotham city night air, and Tim doesn't mind the cold, not when he's so warm, inside and out and held so close he could cry all over again.
Perhaps he isn't a good partner, he knows deep down he could be better, and he'll continue to try to be the good he wants to be! But, he knows he doesn't need to be good, because whoever Jason sees, whoever Tim is now? That's not J.J., that's Tim, Tim... "Can I have your last name? Like, brothers do?"
"Tim Todd?"
"Timothy Jackson Todd."
"Only if I can make fun of you for it."
"Yes!" Tim cheers in the frosty air that hurts their faces as soon as the back doors open, revealing Jason's bike, the one Tim scurried over to to grab the spare helmet he wears and quickly straps it on, ignoring the way his damp eyes burn in the cold.
Because he is Tim Todd, reborn not as the Joker's son nor a Drake, but as Jason's little brother, and whoever that is? Tim is gonna get to know him, with Jason, who isn't leaving.
°°°•••...•••°°°
Chap. Three : PT 1/6 : Lost & Found