A/N: This is a crosspost from AO3, where I post under the same name. I've had this sitting in my notes since July 2020, but I made myself promise to at least try to get this done in time for Whumptober. Well, it's now 2021 and this has grown threefold from my initial word count expectations so… here we are. Vaguely inspired by something I saw on r/AITA a while back. I'm initially posted this at [checks time] 3AM, and haven't edited it since then, so let me know if you find any typos. Title is from Orla Gartland's Pretending + Did It to Myself.
Tim was in a good mood, despite the long day in the office. He'd promised Alfred he'd drop by the Manor for dinner, and the last meeting of the day had let out early enough he had time to detour by a local coffee shop to treat himself to a hot drink. It was a pleasant walk to the little shop; the Gotham skies were slightly brighter than usual, and a gentle fall breeze wafted through the late-October air. It didn't take long to get his coffee, and soon Tim was making his way back to Wayne Tower and his car.
He was so focused on the heat of the coffee burning into his palms that he didn't notice the shady figure lurking in an alleyway waiting for his approach. A heavy arm grabbed Tim from behind, wrapping around his torso and pinning his arms to his sides. Hot coffee splashed over Tim's shoes and the pavement, and before Tim could even yell in anger an acrid-smelling cloth was slapped over his nose and mouth. The sensation of being hefted onto someone's shoulder and hauled down the alleyway was the last thing he remembered.
Tim woke up some time later in the back of what was probably a van, his wrists held together with a zip tie and crushed painfully behind his back. They'd thrown a burlap sack over his head, and the loose fibres threatened to make him sneeze. The driver wasn't bothering to be careful either, the van thumping into pothole after pothole. Tim groaned as his head bounced off the floor of the van, the burlap sack scratching painfully into his throbbing temple. He wiggled slightly, testing the give of his restraints, and received a kick in the back for his efforts.
There was no indication of how long Tim had been out, and he could only guess at how many people were in the van and where they were taking him. He was missing the weight of his cell phone and wallet, and God knows what the goons had done with his messenger bag. Tim had no choice but to lay silent, and wait until they arrived at their destination.
After around ten minutes the vehicle lurched to a stop, and Tim was pulled out of the van with a rough grip on his upper arm. He stumbled, loafers sliding over loose gravel.
The most he could see through the sack was the occasional colour and changing light, but the transition from gravel to rough concrete and the creak of a metal gate coupled with the stench of the not-so-distant harbour was enough to tell Tim he was being brought to one of Gotham's many abandoned warehouses.
Tim had spent many, many hours of his relatively short life lurking in what felt like every dilapidated warehouse Gotham had to offer, and they each had the same eerie bad vibe in common. This one was no different.
It reminded him of his bet with Jason about being able to guess which warehouse district he was in based solely off the level of fish and dust in the air, and Tim had to stop himself from chuckling out loud. He'd bet five bucks he was on West Side, this time.
The goon escorting him didn't seem to be pleased with the aborted huff Tim let out, judging by the grip on his arm doubling in pressure and the rough shake that made his teeth clack together.
Tim nearly tripped over a slight incline, and took note of the decreasing light and increased stuffiness of the air. They must have brought him inside the warehouse proper. Tim's suspicions were confirmed when a door was pulled shut behind him, and the shuffle of footsteps ahead of him meant Tim was accompanied by at least three goons. More manpower never meant anything good when it came to kidnappings, so Tim crossed his fingers and hoped the thugs were of the more incompetent sort.
Tim was led deeper into the warehouse, and then made to wait as the thugs bustled about before him. Tim felt the air shift as something moved in front of him, with the sound of a dull scrape against concrete. Tim was pushed forward into the space, all the ambient light he could see through the sack disappearing in an instant as the door closed behind him.
He was manhandled into a chair about six feet into the room, likely bolted to the floor as it didn't even budge when Tim fell into it. One of the goons grabbed his wrists, slipping more zip ties over his wrists and cinching them closed, securing him to the chair. He heard the goons step back, and breathed an internal sigh of relief as they finally pulled the coarse sack from his head. A stifled click sounded at the same time, and Tim blinked to clear his eyes from the sudden blinding light that greeted him.
He was in a windowless concrete room, and the air was slightly stale as though it had only been recently cleaned. The ceiling lighting had been gutted, bare wires dangling, and spotlights had been set up to compensate. They surrounded his chair, letting the goons blend into the monochrome-grey of the room's shadows. Smears of dust were barely visible in the far reaches of the small room, and Tim could see a grungy mattress set in the corner alongside a bucket. There looked to be only one door directly opposite him, a large, steel and concrete contraption with a wheel set in its centre. He counted four men all up, two standing near the door and others behind him but still visible in his peripheral vision.
So, he seemed to be in what was possibly an old safe room in what was definitely an abandoned warehouse. As cliché as you could get.
None of the goons had been willing to speak so far, and coupled with their all-black combat gear and ski masks it didn't paint a pretty picture. There weren't many groups Tim knew of outside the regular Rogues that had a personal vendetta against Tim—Red Robin, rather—and even less that would capitulate on dramatics for scare factor. Based solely off the fact he was grabbed straight after work, Tim guessed this was business related; a well-funded ransom attempt to siphon money from Wayne Enterprises, rather than something more sinister.
He could only hope.
But, now that he was settled, it was time to play the part. Tim let tears well up in his eyes and turned his gaze to the man on his left.
"Please," he said imploringly, "I don't know what you want from me but if you let me go—"
Before Tim had a chance to finish the man hit him with a solid right hook. Tim's head snapped to the side with the force of the punch, and he felt a sharp sting as his teeth cut into his cheek. Blood pooled in his mouth and Tim coughed, the coppery tang dribbling over his lip and down his chin.
He tilted mostly upright, wobbling slightly, shoulders hitching as fake tears left his eyes.
"I, I'm sorry, if you just—"
The same man hit him again, this time splitting his lip. Tim spat out blood and winced as the movement tugged at the raw edges of his lip. The thug was still hovering, so Tim quieted with a false whimper and let his head hand down. It wasn't worth pushing his luck and inciting further violence just yet, especially if they were happy to rough him up before they even told him why he was here.
Tim sniffled pathetically to complete the illusion and shifted in his seat to get more comfortable. He froze as the rest of the men turned towards him at the movement. At least half of them had a hand twitch towards their weapons, and though they hadn't yet proven to be as trigger-happy as your typical Gotham con, it wasn't worth antagonising a room full of goons packing considerable heat just yet. They'd already shown they were willing to hurt him to get what they wanted, and Tim still had no clue who they were. This was definitely not boding well for him so far; he needed to get more info, and fast.
After a moment one of the lackeys by the door lifted a hand to his ear, then gave a nod to the man on the other side. The man nodded in return, and together the thugs turned and pulled open the door. Tim could see through to a large, empty warehouse, the greyish-purple tones of twilight faint through a distant window. Before Tim could attempt to orient himself further a final man strode into the small room, though unlike the others, he wasn't wearing a mask.
He was blonde, a plain white man with a forgettable face, but something about his blank gaze made Tim want to shrink back into his skin. A flick of his wrist had the goons pulling the heavy door shut with a dull thud, trapping them all inside. Great, so their leader was finally showing his face. Ha.
The man stopped a short distance before Tim. Up close he looked even more unnerving; the bleached pallor of his skin stood in stark contrast to the black of his clothes, leeching any hint of warmth from his expression. His eyes seemed to bore right through Tim, and his cracked lips lifted in a mirthless grin.
Now or never, thought Tim, and turned up scared-hurting-rich-kid to the max.
"I— please, I promise you'll get whatever ransom you want, don't hit me again, just let me call Bruce and we can figure something out," he pleaded.
"Fer Chrissakes, kid, cut the shit, we know you've been through this before," snapped one of the goons, and Tim's blood froze.
He remembered that voice.
In an instant Tim's vision fizzled out and went grey around the edges, shock hitting him like he'd been dunked in a tub of thirty-degree ice water. One moment he was strapped to a chair in a harshly lit concrete room and then—
he was back in the foyer of Drake mansion, with Jack and Janet Drake standing before him, their eyes leadened with anger and disappointment.
"Honestly, Tim, what did you expect?
"You should have known better."
Tim's stomach dropped what felt like thirty storeys. His lungs seized, and he blinked frantically to clear the memory and pull himself back to the present, near gasping as he tried to wrench his focus back into place.
Tim was still struggling to concentrate on anything other than his heart pounding in his chest, but he managed to catch the end of one of his kidnapper's hissed conversation.
"…you'll mess it up, Doug," the thug said.
The last man who'd walked in sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"It's pointless keeping up the charade now, then, isn't it," said the man, with an exaggerated moue.
"Sorry, Boss," grunted the goon who must have been Doug in apology.
Each newly remembered voice struck Tim like a dart thrown with pinpoint accuracy, and though he was no stranger to encountering thugs who'd previously whaled on him in the streets, these voices in particular were dredging up memories that left Tim unmoored.
There was no way this could be happening.
The boss crouched down before Tim, grinning at his heightened panic.
"Things aren't going to go the same way as last time, Timothy. I'm sure you can already tell," he said with a nod towards the dried blood on Tim's chin and the makings of a painful bruise. "You better hope your dad gets back to us quickly or you'll end up with a lot worse than a bloody lip."
He gave Tim one last considering look, smirking at Tim's silence before he rose from his crouch. He pulled a brick of a phone from his pocket and snapped a photo of Tim in the chair, the flash momentarily blinding him and—
he was blinking glowing spots and tears from his eyes, salt spilling down his cheeks, and Tim didn't understand why he was here and what the men were saying—
Tim was too focused on trying to slow his breathing to make out what the man said to his guards before the door closed with a solid thump.
Tim's mind felt fractured, memories fraying at the edges, his senses swirling together in a confusing maelstrom of real and remembered. The ghosts of his parents felt solid and implacable, as though any minute now they would step out from the shadows to dismiss him.
An all-encompassing sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach at the thought of having to return to the mansion and face Jack and Janet for a second time, and admit to himself what he'd purposefully forgotten.
Tim let out a shuddering exhale, and mentally shook himself. He was seventeen, he was Red Robin, and his parents were dead. He was an adult. Mostly. Sure, he was trapped in a small room with a collection of goons who reminded him of one of the worst moments of his life, but he was fine. They'd only hurt him slightly, and they needed him alive to extract any amount of money from Bruce Wayne.
Not only that, but Tim had promised Alfred he'd make it to dinner and that he'd text when he was on his way, so Alfred at least must have realised something was up. Bruce would have tracked his cell phone when Tim didn't answer and realised something was wrong, and put someone on the case.
One of his guards laughed, and Tim flinched. The sound intermingled with the memory of his mother scoffing and sent doubt trickling down his spine. Tim did his best to ignore it and forced the fear down; the Bats were definitely coming, they wouldn't leave him.
His family was coming.
They were.
Half an hour later, Tim was still sitting in the same chair. The thugs had set up camp in a corner of the room, chattering amongst themselves at a murmur with the occasional cruel grin thrown in Tim's direction. He'd managed to get a handle on most of the intrusive memories popping into his head, compartmentalising them as best he could; though even if Tim could suppress the thoughts mentally, the rest of him didn't seem to be getting the memo.
Tim found himself flinching at the most innocuous things, stray memories piling up at the locked doors of Tim's mind and leaking through slowly, painfully, despite his renewed effort to block them out.
A flash of red from a pack of cards, and—
the same colour of his mother's lipstick, her mouth downturned and taut with barely restrained anger —
Tim suppressed a shudder, willed away the uptick of his pulse. He had to focus on something else, something concrete, like the zip tie around his wrists. It hadn't slipped once since he awoke, still pulled taut over the material of his suit jacket. Could he use the extra length as a shiv, or snap it open on the chair?
Across the room, a thug's boot scuffed across the dusty concrete floor. The movement caught a spotlight and gleamed momentarily—
just like Tim's father's polished Italian loafer turning towards the front door, the last thing Tim saw before the door shut and they left—
No, no, he couldn't think about that, he couldn't, he had to focus on his wrists, the tape. He had to stop trembling. Shaking hands were a weakness, something to be exploited, and Tim couldn't let that happen again, couldn't let himself be tricked into believing that—
Tim's eyes blurred. This wasn't like last time—Tim wasn't eleven anymore, and the Drake mansion was no longer home, the manor was. Tim just had to wait a little longer, keep himself together for a short while more, and he'd be able to go home. Bruce was coming.
It would be fine.
It would.
Tim was so focused on attempting to calm himself down that he didn't notice the approach of one of the goons until the man was only a few feet away. Tim cursed himself for not paying attention, schooling his face to be as neutral as possible. He knew his rabbiting pulse would betray his fear to the mercs in an instant, like a shark scenting blood; the thumping beat of his heart in his ear drums sounded loud enough to startle a bat a city over, jumping with each twitch of a muscle from the man before him.
"You don't have to do this, you know," said Tim quietly, before the thug could speak. "Wayne Enterprises has a program for ex-cons, to get them back into the workforce. If you let me go now, Bruce might not even press charges."
Fat chance of that. Bruce never took kindly to the kidnapping of any of his charges, whether they were in costume or not.
The man laughed incredulously. "You think we'd want your daddy to pay us to sit in an office all day? We do this 'cause we're good at it, kid." A vindictive smirk spread beneath his ski mask. "You ever wonder why your parents never sent the cops after us?"
Tim's face crumpled, his carefully maintained composure fracturing into countless pieces. He could barely hear the jeers of the goons, entirely consumed with the sick bloom of utter dread that spilled through every inch of him and enveloped him head to toe.
Tim never needed to wonder why his parents never sent for the police. Why his ransom was paid so quickly. Why he was returned before the night even turned truly dark.
Tim instinctively recoiled from that line of thought, trying to force it back into the deep recesses of his mind like he'd been doing for years. But the black combat gear still visible in his field of vision and every word spoken by the thugs before him were inescapable, serving as a constant reminder keeping his memories front and centre.
Tim brought his head down, drove the truth he didn't want to admit back as far as he could, and tried to focus on breathing through the heavy pall of horror pooling in his lungs.
At that moment, the door was pulled open again, and Tim jerked upright at the sound of footsteps. The leader was back, a burner phone clutched in his hand.
"Fortunately for you, Timothy, someone back at home cares for you very much," he said, voice sweet and mocking. He lifted the phone to his ear.
"Now, Wayne, I want you to speak very carefully. We don't want anything else to happen to Timothy now, do we?"
The man stepped closer, circled Tim's chair and stood menacingly behind him, and held the phone up near Tim's ear.
Bruce's voice crackled into the room, small and tinny. "—is Tim? I'll get you whatever you want, just let me speak to my son."
Tim pulled on his restraints, near dizzy with momentary relief at the sound of Bruce's voice.
"Bruce!" Tim called. He strained towards the phone, ignoring the painful twinge in his wrists. "Bruce, I'm okay, they haven't— I'm okay," he spoke directly into the receiver.
"Tim? Oh, thank God. Listen, someone is on the way, stay calm and do what they say—"
One of the men twisted a hand into Tim's hair and yanked, forcing his head back at a painful angle. Tim let out a yelp.
"No, no, no, Mr. Wayne, that won't do," the man sang. He leant in close, breath ghosting on Tim's cheek and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He reached out with the hand not holding the phone and wrapping it around Tim's neck. "Remember what we promised?"
"I told you, I'll get you your money, as long as you don't hurt Tim."
The man clucked into the phone, fingers tightening around Tim's neck. "That isn't how this works."
"Bruce," wheezed Tim. He knew Bruce was playing up the role of a frightened father, knew he wasn't purposefully antagonising the boss into hurting Tim, knew he'd only be speaking like that on a ransom call if he was surrounded by police other than Gordon he had to fool—but Bruce couldn't know the leader had a hand around Tim's neck.
"Shut up," the man growled, and squeezed.
Without the reinforced neck of his Red Robin costume, Tim's windpipe crumpled under the pressure like a cardboard tube. Tim choked on a reflexive inhale, failing to drag in any breath. Tim fought his restraints, trying to wrench himself free, but the man's grip was simply too strong. He felt his fight rapidly deplete with each second that passed. The world closed in on him, blackening at the edges, and Tim thrashed, feet scrabbling for purchase against the dusty floor. He felt the grate of cartilage in his neck, lungs burning with the effort as his body frantically tried to heave in any possible molecule of oxygen.
The boss eventually let go, moments before Tim thought he may black out. He keeled over, gulping in as much air as he could through his abused throat.
"Y'see, we could've avoided that, but you've been too cocky, Mr. Wayne," said the leader, voice light and dangerous.
He hauled Tim up by the back of his collar. Tim gagged, the material cutting in to the fresh bruises on his neck.
A flick sounded, and suddenly one of the goons to Tim's left was holding a knife to his cheek. Tim gasped at the feel of cold steel on his burning skin, cringing away instinctively as it caressed his cheekbone.
The leader leant in close. He curled his hand over Tim's shoulder, running circles over the bony ridge with his thumb. It made Tim's insides churn and a fresh prickle of sweat erupt on his skin. Tim's hands shook in their restraints.
"Your son is in a very precarious position, Wayne," said the man, voice low and dangerous. "He's at our mercy, and that depends on your willingness to lighten your pockets. I'm a very capricious man, you see, and each misstep of yours results in one more mark on your boy, here." At that he dug his thumb into Tim's shoulder, hard. Tim let out a pained squeak.
The knife shifted, the thug edging it at the corner of Tim's mouth. It left a stinging depression on his lips with each panting breath he took.
The leader brought the burner around into Tim's line of sight, close enough he could almost hear Bruce's voice through the staticky buzzing in his ears.
"Listen closely," murmured the man. "I'm giving you one final chance to talk to him. No hints, no business, one last word between you and dear old dad before he makes a decision. Understood?"
The goon holding the knife dug it into the meat of Tim's lip, and his breath stuttered as a droplet of blood glided down his chin. Tim nodded.
"Good boy," said the man with a brisk pat to Tim's shoulder. He flinched away. The thug with the knife stepped back, and the leader brought the phone to Tim's ear.
"Tim," said Bruce, pleading. "Tim, son, we'll get you out of there, I promise, just hold on."
And—
And it wasn't real, Tim knew he was putting it on, knew Bruce was exaggerating even if he was worried about Tim—but he still felt a deep yearning pull on his heart at the sound of Bruce's voice. He just wanted to go home.
"Dad," Tim sobbed, and before he could hear Bruce's reply the man pulled the phone away, stepping back towards the door.
"You heard him," he said. "Your son will be fine, for now. You have my details, Wayne. Wire the money in the next ten minutes if you want Timothy back in one piece."
He ended the call with a press of a button, and exited the room with a flourish, the door closing behind him like a klaxon.
He left Tim in the chair, shaking, tears silently dripping from his eyes.
The man hadn't been gone for long when the other goons left their positions, crowding Tim's chair.
"How you enjoying your stay this time, buddy? All scared 'cause you got pushed around a little?" asked one of the thugs, feigning concern.
"Naw, maybe he's rememberin' last time and how he was so scared he was gonna wet his pants," snickered another goon.
Tim ignored them, gaze flicking up for a split second before he diverted his attention.
"Oi," one of the men called, clicking his fingers in Tim's face. "We're talkin' to you."
Tim kept his eyes trained on the concrete floor.
"Boss said he was still negotiating with Wayne. Y'think he'll take long? Getting tired of waiting for that rich idiot to make up his mind 'bout how much his kid costs," said the man as he kicked at Tim's chair.
"There's other ways to pass the time, you know," snickered one of the thugs, elbowing his neighbour.
Tim did his best to let their words wash over him. He'd failed pretty miserably at staying calm and not getting lost in his memories so far, but being beaten up? He was used to that. Not as a civilian, but as a vigilante, certainly. Bruce had said someone was on the way, and he wouldn't lie like that. Tim just needed to stick it out like he had so far, and he would be fine.
"What, wanna give him a few more bruises? I don't think the boss would mind too much," replied one of the thugs, voice thoughtful.
"Naw, I'm thinking something a little more… satisfying, you might say. The kid's gotten prettier over the years, more than you usually get in our business. Might need some more hands-on punishment to keep him in line," crooned one of the men.
Tim stopped breathing.
The man stepped closer, boots entering Tim's frame of vision. "You're older now, you couldn't blame us for wanting a little fun before we return you to daddy dearest," he leered, resting a hand on his belt.
Tim's heart pulsed in his chest. Suddenly the mattress in the corner made a lot more sense.
One of the other lackeys let out a harsh snort. "C'mon, wait until Wayne's gotten back to us, at least. If we play it right we could even get him to pay more than the ransom. Double, even."
"Shut it, Doug, the boss said he hadn't even sent the money yet. Maybe we should give him some incentive."
The man stepped in closer, raising a hand to lightly brush against Tim's chin. He jerked back, trying to get as far away as possible. The other thugs laughed at his distress, and even the thug who'd defended Tim earlier rolled his eyes at their antics rather than intervening.
Tim pressed back against the chair as hard as he could, but the bolts kept it locked into place. He couldn't escape.
Tim choked on an involuntary whimper, focusing on the salt stinging his split lip to anchor himself in the present. He couldn't, wouldn't let himself fall into further disarray, he had to hold on and wait and hope that his family would show up to rescue him soon.
Distantly, Tim could hear the men egging the thug on, and tried to ignore the hand sliding into his hair. His gut churned at the feel of the hand carding through his locks, and his eyes blurred.
"Stop," Tim managed to stammer out, but it only seemed to encourage the man and his entourage, if the hand that slid back to his cheek and the sound of a belt buckle clicking was anything to go by.
Then Tim heard something over the blood rushing in his ears. It was faint, like the sound of sparklers on the Fourth of July, but Tim couldn't tell where it was coming from. None of the goons seemed to have noticed it, including the man still groping at Tim's cheek.
The sound came again. The concrete wall began to hiss and fizz, and within a few moments it had almost entirely crumbled away. A muted bang sounded and the last of the concrete fell away, leaving a large hole in the foot-thick wall and a solid black view into the warehouse.
The mercs had frozen when the wall first began to crumble, but were quick to reach for their guns when the last of the dissolved concrete had settled.
The darkness beyond the wall shifted, revealing two pinpricks of glowing light.
"Hello, boys," Red Hood purred. "Having some fun without me?"
The thugs yelled as they scrambled into action, but there was little they could do against the Hood; he instantly popped each of the men closest to Tim in the kneecaps, and they went down screaming. Tim flinched at the spurts of blood, keeping his head down as Hood grunted and fired at the remaining mercs. Despite the silencer, the gunshots were alarmingly loud thanks to the acoustics of the concrete safe room, leaving Tim wincing at the ringing in his ears.
A moment passed without any sound save for the pained groaning of the goons, and Tim lifted his head slowly to take in the scene. Hood had dragged the men into the far corner of the room and was tying them together back-to-back. Their wounds were leaking sluggishly, the floor speckled with blood, but there was no tell-tale sign of arterial spray. Tim let out a shaky sigh of relief.
Hood rose, apparently done with his task, and strode across the room to Tim's side. He flicked out a knife and slashed the zip tie from Tim's wrists. Tim brought his hands around to his front, hissing as he rubbed at his aching wrists. He kept his fists clenched as tight as possible, aware he was still trembling.
Hood dropped into a crouch before Tim, and gave a cursory glance over Tim's injuries. He could feel Hood's heavy gaze linger on his bruised throat and rubbed-raw wrists. Hood reached forward, and Tim had to fight to suppress a flinch at the movement. Hood froze, noticing the aborted movement. Tim opened his mouth to apologise, but no sound came out.
Hood's shoulders went slack. He reached up, disengaging the locking mechanism of his helmet with a hiss. Jason's face emerged, white streak pressed flat to his forehead. Jason straightened his hair with a quiet curse, then turned to look over Tim more closely.
Even through the domino, Tim could see the concern painted over Jason's face.
Jason reached forward again, slower, this time, and took Tim's chin in his hand. Almost painfully gently, he guided Tim's head left then right, examining the forming bruises on his face and neck. He gave a tiny nod, seemingly satisfied they were surface level and could have been worse.
Jason removed his hand and rocked back onto his heels.
"Not hurt anywhere else?"
Tim shook his head.
"You sure are a magnet for trouble, aren't ya kid," said Jason.
Tim relaxed incrementally with each word Jason spoke. Even with the smoker's rasp, his voice was a soothing comparison to the harsh mechanical grate of Red Hood's voice modulator.
Suddenly, as if the rest of him had noticed that Jason was safe, Tim felt the stress almost physically leave his body, and pitched forward over his knees. His breath puffed warm and humid onto his face, and his heart was jittery in his chest. His hands were shaking hard enough that it couldn't be hidden with a clenched fist, and this time Jason seemed to have noticed.
Tim heard Jason report back to someone on comms, before a hand slid over his still-trembling fists and another pressed against his shoulder.
"C'mon, kid," he sighed. "Let's get you home."
Tim nodded weakly, and let Jason lever him upright and guide him over to the hole in the concrete.
They'd almost made it out when Jason stopped abruptly by the still-moaning thugs.
"Kid. Did they hurt you," asked Jason.
Tim was lost. He levelled Jason with a frown; hadn't they already established that?
"You know what I'm asking," growled Jason.
Tim's eyes skittered across to the men collapsed on the floor. They looked half the size as before, huddled on the ground with tears and snot leaking from behind their ski masks. One of the men was sprawled backwards, propped up against a fellow thug, the gunshot wound in his shoulder weeping a thick drool of blood. His belt buckle was half undone, reflecting the light from the spotlights overhead.
Oh. So that's what Jason meant.
Tim didn't have the energy to explain the concept of "yeah, sort of, but it was mostly threatened rather than attempted, and it's not like it's anything new" to Jason, so instead he just shrugged.
In the wake of Tim's non-answer, Jason made up his mind and stormed over to the goons. He loomed over the man in question, twirling his knife in a rhythmic spin. He murmured something, quiet enough Tim couldn't hear, empty fist clenching when the man chuckled something in return.
Tim would have been worried Jason was going to kill him, if his brain hadn't stopped processing emotions and was instead blasting the equivalent of a white noise soundtrack.
Instead of lunging with his knife or reaching for his gun, Jason lifted his foot and brought his boot down heavily on the man's crotch. A sharp crack sounded as what must have been the man's protective cup gave way beneath Jason's steel-toed boot. The man let out a gurgling whine, writhing as Jason dug his heel in deeper, pinning the man in place. He let off after a moment before giving the thug another kick in the balls for good measure. The man twitched, letting out a high-pitched shriek before he devolved into wracking sobs.
Jason strode back over to Tim, leaving the man hunched over and weeping.
"Let's go," he grunted, steadying Tim's elbow as he ushered him out of the small room into the wider warehouse.
The leader lay crumpled just before the heavy door, face down in a small pool of blood. The burner phone lay a short distance from his hand, as though he'd dropped it when he fell.
Tim looked away. "Is he—?"
"He isn't dead," Jason rasped, "none of them are."
Tim let the matter drop, and followed Jason out to his bike. Jason kept a tight grip on his arm the entire way, as though he was worried Tim would vanish into mid-air the second he let go.
The bike was hidden under a half-broken awning, melding into the shadows. Jason wheeled the bike out then propped it up on its stand. He rifled through the saddlebags, pressing a spare helmet into Tim's hands. Tim fumbled to put it on, the smooth material sliding under his sweaty hands.
Jason had already put his Red Hood helmet back on, and was waiting patiently for Tim to be ready. Jason straddled the bike, keeping it steady as Tim tried to get on as gracefully as he could with his jelly legs. He clutched at Jason's middle, not sure whether his shaky hands would be enough to keep him on the bike going at any speed, but it seemed Jason had the same thought; he held both of Tim's hands in place with one of his own, keeping them locked around his waist as he eased off onto the access road.
Tim pressed himself against Jason's back, willing himself to focus on the warm leather of his jacket and not the countless unwanted thoughts streaming through his mind in a never-ending torrent. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, and listened to the burn of rubber and rushing air.
It felt like no time at all before the bike was rumbling to a stop. Jason patted Tim's clasped hands, and he groggily peeled himself off Jason's back, mind still running at quarter speed.
He stumbled off the bike, and he must have managed to remove the helmet because the next thing he knew Tim was following Jason along the street like a lost duckling. He didn't know where Jason was taking him, and didn't think he could ask without the words getting jumbled up in his mouth. His phone was still lost, his wallet too, and there was no way the Red Hood could be seen dropping Tim off at the Manor.
A pang of terror sparked through Tim at the thought Jason was going to leave him at a police station, and that he'd need to tell them what happened and ask to call Alfred himself. He'd need to wait by himself, alone, and field their questions about his parents or guardian and endure their pity and—
Tim was reaching out to grab at Jason's leather jacket before he could tell himself to stop. Jason twitched, and he must have been debating whether or not to throw Tim's hand off because he froze long enough for Tim to regret every decision he'd made that night.
If anyone in the boarded-up apartments on the narrow street glanced out through the broken slats of their windows, they'd see a roughed-up Tim Wayne clinging to the Red Hood like a scared little kid, and that was more than enough to threaten the Hood's hard-won reputation and hint at a connection between the Waynes and the Bats. Tim's heart thumped, but he couldn't bring himself to release his grip.
Despite all this, Jason didn't throw off Tim's hand, and instead just prodded him forward gently with a nudge at his shoulder, momentarily tucking Tim under his arm.
They kept moving along the darkened street, and the cooling air cut through Tim's rumpled jacket. He kept his eyes down, letting the cracked asphalt blur through his unfocused eyes.
They'd been walking down a wide alley for a minute when in his peripheral vision, Tim saw flashing red and blue lights accompanied by the sound of radio crackling into the open air.
Tim looked up to see a small collection of police cars, their lights arching across the alley and reflecting off the oil slick staining the road. A handful of cops bustled about, some consulting their radios and others inspecting a map spread across the hood of one of the cars.
Tim came to a sudden stop, and was almost pulled off his feet when Jason continued forward, not noticing Tim's hesitation.
They'd called the police?
They'd been searching for him?
Tim's heart thumped with the beginnings of hope. Jason wouldn't be caught dead within a block of the police, not even the Commissioner. There was no doubt this was their destination. Tim still felt half his age, clutching at his big brother's jacket, but the memories warring in his mind faded the slightest at the knowledge that Bruce hadn't been lying.
It didn't mean Tim was ready for Jason to disappear back into the night without him.
"They're not gonna maul you, kid," said Jason, voice tinged with a hint of exasperation.
Tim wove his fingers tighter into Jason's jacket, the smooth leather creaking.
Jason lowered his voice. "I wouldn't hand you off to a dirty cop anyway. I made sure of it. These guys are clean as can be, as far as y'get in Gotham."
Tim stayed silent.
Jason let out a muttered curse. "Look, I dunno why you're so freaked out, and I know you're not playing' it up for Gotham's so-called finest, but we gotta go above board this time, a'ight? If it makes ya feel better I'll be watchin' you the whole time, at least until Bruce has you in his sights."
"Bruce?" Tim whispered. "He's here?"
"I— yeah, buddy, he's here," said Jason, perplexed.
Tim loosened his grip, and shuffled forward minutely.
"Thank Christ," sighed Jason in relief.
Jason walked with Tim until they were within thirty feet of the police caravan, where he reactivated his voice modulator with a press at his jaw.
"Yo, piggies!" called Jason. "Brought you your latest Amber alert!"
The nearest cop spun around. Her eyes widened at the sight of Tim shadowed by the Red Hood, and she spoke rapidly into her walkie-talkie. A moment passed and soon Commissioner Gordon emerged from behind a nearby police car. He waved away the officer and jogged across the empty laneway.
Once Gordon came closer, Jason ushered Tim forwards with a gentle press to his back, but Tim was still reluctant to leave the relative safety of Red Hood's company.
Gordon gave Jason a nod. "Thanks, son," he murmured. He turned towards Tim. "Your father's been worried sick."
Jason snorted. "I bet. Figured I'd better return his little birdie before he panicked and tried to make the rescue himself."
Gordon's moustache twitched. "Let's get you back to your dad, now," he directed to Tim.
Tim nodded, and once Gordon turned to head back to the cavalcade Tim spun and threw his arms around Jason.
"Thanks," he mumbled, cheek pressed into the Kevlar-weave of Jason's chest.
Jason hesitated a moment before giving Tim a quick squeeze in return.
"Anytime, baby bird," he grunted.
Tim let go and slipped back to Gordon's side. Tim glanced back at Jason, and saw him throw a quick salute before he slunk back into the shadows.
Tim could hear the police scattered about murmuring after Jason's departure, questioning the Red Hood's presence, and that he'd helped rescue a Wayne kid at all, let alone accept a hug from one. Tim managed to dredge up a tiny bit of confusion through his brain fog; Hood's weakness for troubled kids was pretty well documented, even if Tim hardly qualified.
Gordon accepted a shock blanket from another cop and laid it across Tim's shoulders, before guiding him deeper into the police cavalcade. A familiar voice soon rose above the chatter, and Gordon gave Tim's shoulder a quick squeeze when he stiffened. He pushed through the crowd, sensing Tim's urgency. Tim almost had to jog to keep up with Gordon's longer strides. They dodged around a police car, and Tim's eyes watered immediately at the sight of Bruce wildly gesturing to a police officer doing his best to placate him.
Tim felt his lip quaver involuntarily and drew a shaky inhale. "Bruce," he said, voice cracking.
Bruce spun at the sound of Tim's voice, frenzied eyes overtaken with immediate relief.
"Tim!" Bruce called, frantic, and flew past the police between them.
Bruce pulled Tim into a crushing embrace, the shock blanket swept aside as Bruce hauled Tim in as close as he could.
"Sweetheart, you're okay," he breathed. His large hand cupped the back of Tim's head, strong arms lifting Tim onto his toes.
Tim sniffed, nodding into Bruce's chest, surrounded by the familiar scent of Alfred's laundry detergent and Bruce's expensive aftershave. Tim clutched at the back of Bruce's jacket, crinkling the material beneath shaking fingers. Bruce pressed his lips to Tim's temple, swaying slightly as he held him close.
Tim sunk into Bruce's arms, and let the world fade around him.