The sword entered his side.

Tim gasped a little before grabbing a batarang and stabbing it into the assassin's hand. She recoiled in pain, allowing Tim the space to snap a high kick into her chin, effectively knocking her out. He staggered backwards, wiping the blood rolling down his chin off with the back of one hand, then surveyed the room.

Twenty of Ra's' best, all lying unconscious on the floor. And one flash drive with the formulas for several biotoxins on it, laying on a table in the corner. Great.

First thing's first. In what he would call more of a wobble than a walk, Tim made his way over to the flash drive. He tucked it into a secure pocket, making sure it was safe so STAR could synthesize antidotes to the toxins on it. He was fairly sure this was the only copy, but not completely. The last thing he needed was to destroy the drive then have Ra's poison Paris.

That taken care of, he pulled the sword out, unzipping his suit so he could get a better look. From the angle, it had missed his organs, which was good. The second last thing he wanted right now was a repeat of the spleen thing. Just muscle and skin, and an artery or three, from the way the blood was coming out. That wasn't good. He pulled a compress bandage from his belt, pressed the skin back together as best as he could with one hand, then slapped it on, ignoring the sharp sting of pain. Then he did the same with the exit wound. This one being on his back, he got mixed results.

Right. He'd get those stitched up when he got back to the Cave. Which would take a while. Dick was out doing Batman and Robin with Damian and the case they were working on was big. So he couldn't call them. And he couldn't call one of the Batmobiles to his location either. The twelfth ninja had kicked him hard in the pelvis – a bruise he was not looking forward to – and destroyed that button on his belt. So it was the old fashioned way.

He tugged out his grapple, zipping up his suit as he strode towards the convenient hole the assassins had blown in the wall when they'd called for reinforcements. Once he was there, he aimed and fired, letting gravity to all the work for him.

He was just south of Monolith Square. Getting to the north-east side, where the Cave was located, would be the work of a half hour's travel. Of course, Tim forgot to factor in the other sword wound he'd gotten that night. The one on his arm was bleeding sluggishly, almost clotted, but he'd lost a lot when he'd first gotten it. The ones on his thigh and chest were much the same. And he didn't notice the compress bandage on his back catching on his suit and lifting away, allowing his wound to bleed freely. He might have noticed if he had had more than three hours of sleep last night. Or in the last week. (Not his fault. Four cases and a bunch of work at WE had kept him up. He could probably sleep tonight. There weren't any important meetings until tomorrow evening. Ugh, no, he still had to do the forensics on the Burnberry case.) But the fact of the matter was, he didn't notice.

So when, after fifteen minutes, he messed up his landing, landing face-first on the gross roof-tar-slash-gravel that made up all of Gotham's roofs, and didn't get back up, he spent a moment trying to figure out why. And then another moment after that desperately trying to maneuver so he could hit the distress beacon on his belt, the one he was lying on. It would be a really stupid way to die if he couldn't lift himself off of the stupid button for one stupid second to get at it.

So he lay there, left arm pressed against his injury while his fingers tried to wiggle their way to his distress beacon, while his vision slowly darkened and remembering why he needed to hit the button became less and less important.

The last thing he saw before his brain decided that consciousness was overrated was a pair of uncomfortably familiar boots landing on the roof in front of him.

Waking up was a bit of a surprise. Waking up in a bed, warm, and not lying on a rooftop somewhere or in a villain's lair, was so completely unexpected that Tim thought for a moment that he had hallucinated the entire night. But no, there was that stab of pain when he shifted, right where he got, well, stabbed. Maybe he'd managed to get at his beacon after all?

But no, this wasn't his bed. Tim's bed was ridiculously soft and even though he didn't spend as much time in it as Alfred would like, he still knew what it felt like. This bed was firmer, though still comfortable. And the room he was in was clean, not Alfred-clean, but tidy. Books were lined up on the shelves, and the desk in the corner had a small cactus on it.

Wait. He knew this room. He'd had this room bugged for months.

A memory crashed down on him, of the uncomfortably familiar boots. He'd seen those boots, from that angle, only once before, but it was enough for him to identify their owner. He bolted up in bed, completely missing the way his stitches strained at his sudden movement, completely missing the fact that he had stitches.

The door swung open and Jason walked in. Jason in civilian clothes, holding a bowl of soup and a glass of water. He stood there for a moment, just staring, most likely taking in the way Tim was tensed and ready to jump out the window if he took even one step closer. He opened his mouth to speak and Tim was honestly expecting some sort of verbal abuse, but he just said, "You're going to pull your stitches."

Stitches, what? Tim looked down, pulling up the not-his-shirt he was wearing, and sure enough, his side was all sewn up. As was his arm and his chest and the two on his thigh, if the way his skin felt was any indication.

Jason took advantage of his distraction to swoop in and put the soup on the table, ignoring Tim's flinch when he got close. "Eat up. I promise it's not poisoned." With that, he left the room.

Tim sat there for at least five minutes, glaring at the soup as if doing so would tell him for sure whether Jason was lying or not. Eventually, logic won out. There was no reason to stitch him up and put him in a warm bed if he was just going to poison him. If Jason wanted Tim to die (and why didn't he? Every previous encounter they'd had normally had the criminal pointing a gun at Tim's face) then he could have just left him on that rooftop and Tim would have bled out.

So he grabbed the bowl and lifted the spoon to his lips, eyes widening in shock. It was delicious! A little cold, but that was his fault, not the soup's. It had little chunks of chicken in it and wide egg noodles and more vegetables than Tim could name. Had Alfred made this?

As soon as he had finished both soup and water, the door opened again and Jason stuck his head in the room. "Oh good. You're done." And he lifted up his gun and fired before Tim could do more than flinch backwards.

Betrayal flooded through Tim until he noticed the tranq dart sticking out of his chest. "What...? Why..."

"Because you need rest if you're going to get better," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Maybe it was, because Tim was really in no fit state to think about it. His vision swam and he fell forward into an arm hastily placed to catch him.

The next time he woke, he had an IV sticking out of his arm. He barely had time to make out the label on the bag (nutrients and saline) before Jason walked in again, syringe in hand. A jolt of fear struck Tim again and he tried desperately to fight off the drowsiness. "What're you-?" Weakly, Tim lifted his other hand, trying to pull the IV out before Jason could put that in.

"Antibiotics." The needle went into the port in his IV, and the plunger went down. "Talia told me you lost your spleen, so this should keep infection off." Jason grabbed his wrist and moved his hand back to where it had been before. "Be right back." He left the room, returning with another bowl of soup and a piece of bread. The food went on the bedside table again and without a word, Jason left the room.

Once again, Tim glared suspiciously at the soup. Not because he thought it was poisoned, but because he didn't know why Jason was doing this. Why would he go through so much trouble? Was it some sort of twisted "get Replacement better so I can beat him up guilt-free" thing?

Well, Tim could deal with that when it came. For now, he had to eat. The soup this time was potato and bacon. Jason had made an entirely new pot of soup in the time he'd been asleep? What time was it? What day?

When his soup was finished and Jason stuck his head back in, Tim opened his mouth to ask. But before he could get out more than half a syllable, he had a tranq dart in his chest. Again.

Blearily, he opened his eyes. He was alone this time. Maybe he could escape before Jason tried to tranq him.

He gave it a few minutes of surreptitiously flexing his muscles, trying to get himself back to a normal coordination. He didn't know how long he'd been in bed, but however long it was, he had pins and needles all over.

While he got the lead feeling out of his limbs, he tried to remember the layout of Jason's safe house. He had all of them bugged, had ever since they'd fought over Batman's cowl. Self-preservation and whatnot. This room didn't have a fire escape by the window. It had a street lamp, but Tim didn't trust himself to be able to make that landing. So he would have to get out, go through the living room, go out the window and down the fire escape. Not a bad plan, except for the fact that Jason was probably in the living room.

Should he chance the lamp post anyways?

Before he could decide, the door to the room opened again. This time, Jason carried a plate with three sandwiches and a salad on it in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other. Tim glared and before Jason put the food down, stated, "I'm not eating that until you answer my questions."

Jason just raised an eyebrow. "Shoot."

Tim wondered if the phrasing was intentional. "How long have I been here?"

"Four days."

Longer than he had thought. Must have been all the time he'd spent sleeping. Sorry, all the time he'd spent tranqed. "And you haven't contacted Dick because...?"

"I don't have his cell phone number," Jason said dryly. "Plus, I kind of sort of eliminated ninety percent of a rival gang right before I picked you up. He'd probably skip listening to me and go straight for trying to lock me back up in Arkham." At the name, Jason's eyes turned a bit green around the edges. Tim tensed. He'd never seen that before. But then again, every time he had seen Jason since he'd come back was when he was wearing either helmet or domino. Well, there was that one time in Blackgate, but the lighting in the visitation center was very poor.

He'd have to ask Jason about that later. Important questions first. "Why did you help me?"

"I've got my reasons." Jason's eyes went a touch more green. With a downward twist of his mouth, Jason turned towards the door. "The Q and A is over. Eat up then get back to sleep."

But... Tim still had questions... Clearly, sitting here and not eating what Jason had given him was the best way to go about this. But after a few minutes, it felt less like sticking to what he had said, and more like stubbornly refusing for a stupid reason. Like a kid who didn't eat his supper because he wanted to play. The last two times he'd finished eating, Jason had come back. If he dodged the tranquilizer, maybe he could ask a few more questions.

Eating only twice in four days was a little much, even for him.

Besides, that hot chocolate smelled delicious.

And tasted delicious too.

Since he'd already argued himself into drinking the hot chocolate, he might as well eat the sandwiches too.

As Tim had thought, Jason walked in the moment he'd cleaned his plate. Ready for him this time, Tim dived to the side and the dart thunked into the headboard behind him. "Nice try. But that won't work again."

Jason smiled. Why was Jason smiling? "Yeah, I didn't think so. That's why I drugged your hot chocolate."

What? Turning already blurring vision onto the traitorous mug, Tim mentally face palmed. He should have known this was a possibility. Alfred routinely drugged both Tim and Bruce when he thought they weren't getting enough sleep and if the soup was any indication, Jason had learned a lot from the old butler.

Moving to the bedside table, Jason began clearing the dishes. "Sleep tight. You should be out until they come for you."

Them? They? Who would be interested in him? Ok, better question. Who wouldn't? But who would be most interested? Had Jason sold him out to the League of Assassins? Jason had mentioned Talia, so clearly they were sill in contact.

Tim tried to fight it, but his eyes were already drooping. The last thing he saw was Jason smiling at him sadly.

"...my. Timmy. Wake up Tim."

The voice cut through the fog and Tim forced his eyes open. It took a minute, but eventually, he saw Dick standing over him, a relieved smile on his face. "D'ck? Hw'd y'find me?"

"Your distress beacon lit up. We were already scrambling a bit when you missed your board meeting this evening, so it wasn't too far out."

"Wait. This evening?" Tim frowned a bit. "But Jason said that I'd been here for four days."

Dick's eyebrows flew into his hairline, then dropped back down as his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Jason? He was here?" At Tim's nod, he started casing the place, even though it looked like he'd already done so. The empty bookshelf was four feet to the left of where it had been, but Dick pulled it forward searching the back for something. "Aha!" And he pulled out a tiny microphone. "What a clever bug. It chameleoned itself to the same brown as the shelf. Probably why I didn't notice it before. But why would Jason bug us? He already knows who we are."

"Um," Tim cleared his throat, "that one's actually mine."

"You planted this?"

"I bug all of Jason's safe houses." He probably wouldn't have said that if he hadn't spent the entire day being drugged.

Because of course, Dick's reaction was, "You know where he is? Tim! How long has this been going on?"

Tim winced. "Ever since you became Batman."

"You should have told me."

"Oh?" Tim sat up a bit. "And what would you have done with the information? Grabbed Jason while he was sleeping and tossed him in Arkham?" Dick flinched, a guilty look on his face. "Thought so. Well guess what? I bugged Jason's Arkham cell too. I know exactly what that place did to him." An image shot through his head of Jason curled on his side, forehead pressed to his knees and hands pressed to his ears, trying vainly to shut out the Joker's laughter. The Joker, just a few cells down from his own. Then another, of Jason waking up from a nightmare in a panic, running at the door and clawing at it until his fingers bled. No, Arkham hadn't been the place of healing the brochures said it was. Not for Jason. "And if I can help it, he's not going back. Especially after today."

Dick leaned forward a bit, hand coming to a rest on Tim's mattress. "What do you mean?"

In answer, Tim lifted his shirt, showing off his latest injury and the stitches that held it together. "He saved my life."

"After all the times he tried to kill you," Dick said slowly, "he saved your life. Sorry, but that doesn't seem likely. Are you sure it was Jason and not a shapeshifter?"

"Yes." Tim sighed. "Can we just go? Since I didn't show up at the board meeting, I have to be up early for a catch up meeting with Lucius."

Dick nodded and helped Tim to his feet. It was only once he was standing that he noticed his uniform, washed and folded, under his pillow. He grabbed it and followed Dick out the door.

The apartment he had seen on screens had bookshelves and bookshelves full, and an African violet in the corner and art on the walls. The apartment Tim walked through was bare. Empty shelves and an overturned couch and dirt on the floor where the plant used to be. He felt a stab of guilt. Clearly, Jason had felt the need to move out, and fast. Probably because he wouldn't feel safe here if everyone knew where he lived. All because he'd taken care of Tim.

But life went on. Jason took up residence in one of his many other safe houses (which Tim had bugged. He had all of them bugged) and Tim went back to working himself to death. It wasn't until two weeks later that he finally caught up to the wayward Robin on patrol.

Jason was sitting on a rooftop, helmet beside him, just looking out over the city. Cautiously, making noise so that Jason would know he was there, Tim walked up and sat next to him. For a few minutes, nothing happened. Jason seemed content to just sit there, and Tim didn't want to push him/ Finally, Jason inclined his head in Tim's direction. "'Sup?"

"Not much." Another minute of silence passed, then, "You didn't answer all of my questions though."

Letting out a groan, Jason reclined back until he had himself propped up on his elbows. "I'm starting to think saving your life was more trouble than it was worth."

Tim would have been insulted, but Jason was using a light tone of voice that Tim hadn't heard in... Well, not since he'd been following Jason at night with a camera. "Why did you lie about the date? You said it had been three days, but it had only been one."

Jason sighed. "Talia said that Damian said that you didn't take very good care of yourself. Ate when pressed, never slept, that sort of thing. But you also ate at least once a day. So, if I wanted to get three full meals into you, I had to get creative."

That... Tim had to stop and think about that one. Eventually, he just croaked out, "Why? Last time I saw you, you stabbed me with a batarang."

Jason crossed his arms over his chest, his back making a quiet thump as it hit the roof. "I'm not going to make excuses for that. Or for the times before it. I hated you because I thought Bruce had replaced me with you, that I didn't matter enough for him to retire the Robin name completely."

There was a bit more silence. "But...?" Tim asked, sure there was more.

Another sigh. "I thought about it. A lot. And I still hate Bruce for replacing me. But you? You became Robin for the same basic reason I did. Because you wanted to help people. Because you wanted to do right by the name."

Jason was half right. "Not just that. Without you, Bruce was falling apart. He did alright without Dick, but without you? I don't think he would have lasted a year. So I stepped up, tried my best to fill your shoes. And I didn't, couldn't, fix the hole you left, but it worked. And everything I've done since, has been trying to live up to your name. The name you had before me." Saying all of that was risky. Tim had tried to word it right, but he didn't know what Jason would take offense to.

Luckily, Jason just swung his leg, kicking Tim in the shin.

Tim lay down next to Jason, looking up at the few stars bright enough to get through Gotham's light-and-air pollution. Of course, the moment was ruined when a bank exploded three streets down.

Jason hmm'd in a bored tone. "Never a quiet moment."

"In this city, with this job?" Tim grinned, "yeah right."

With a roll of his eyes that Tim could see, even through the domino, Jason sat up and let himself slide off the building to the street below, grapple sliding out of his jacket as he fell. Tim followed, hoping that maybe, this could bring Jason back to the family. Even if it didn't, Tim wouldn't abandon him.

Maybe they could even be brothers.

They landed across the street as the Condiment King shot spicy ketchup all over the bank. They shared a glance and a wild grin, then leapt down to deliver a well deserved beating to the unfortunate villain.

Just another typical night in Gotham.

AN: Hm. That got a little kidnap-y in the middle... Oh well.

Why is it I can only write Tim and Jason fluff, and only Dick and Jason angst? Seriously, all my stories with Dick involve one or both getting seriously injured. It's a problem. I mean, Tim got seriously injured, but at least I didn't leave it on a cliffhanger...

Anyways, this is sort of a bridge between Tim and Jason's absolutely terrible relationship preboot and their pretty good relationship in New 52. Which is never explained. I love it, but it's kind of, "Oh, these two don't seem to have developed any bonds with anyone else in the fam, let's just put them together." Explain DC, explain! And also explain why Jason is in his old costume again and why you haven't made the wonderful decision of putting his white streak back, and explain Tim and Dick's not-a-relationship and then have Jason and Damian and Cass all be awesome former-assassins together and wow, this is a long AN. Right. Shutting up now.

Hey, know that feeling you get when you're supposed to be writing two different sequels to two different chaptered stories and are writing one shots instead? No way, me too!