Flashing white pain, gripping his chest and then his head, creeping into every limb like a poker jamming into his bones.
"Concussion…. breathing apparatus…. Sedation may be necessary…."
Words drifting in a void of blurring color and sound. He opened his eyes once and cotton folds swam around him. A fuzzy apparition in a suit coat reached out and he flinched, choking on bile, retching and coughing until his head felt like it would split in two and he could only lie trembling in the arms bracing him over a basin.
Coolness flooded his arm and he fled into the dark.
Sometimes it was the Red Hood chasing him.
Sometimes it was Jason.
Usually he was alone — running blindly down an alley until he skidded to a stop, surrounded on three sides by walls he couldn't climb; no bo staff, no grappling gun.
Sometimes Batman was there. Robin. Nightwing. They found other distractions. Watched impassively. Scolded him for not getting along.
Once it was Alfred who walked away.
He woke himself sobbing, the right side of his face throbbing in tune with his pulse, and he didn't know whether to cling to the hand rubbing his fingers, or thrust it away.
I'm sorry please don't go just leave me alone don't please he's coming don't leave me …..
Strong fingers stroked down his palm, tracing every finger, gentle whispers urging him to lie quiet.
So he did.
No one would believe him, anyways.
Four broken ribs, linear fracture in the tibia, torn ligaments down the right leg, a hobbled foot, fractured cheekbone, broken wrist, dislocated shoulder, battered spine, and hairline skull fracture. His boy was nearly beaten to death. Battered beyond recognition. If the staff had held any more weight, he wouldn't be walking for months.
All it would have taken was an explosion to replay a tragedy. Bruce could no longer tell himself that Hood wasn't capable of replicating the cruelty of his own death. (It wasn't Jason. There were hundreds of multiverses, each with their own heroes and villains who were formed by the circumstances around them. Jason hadn't done this.)
If he hadn't watched the two men grappling in an alley, Bruce might not have believed it.
"Why didn't you call me?" he whispered, brushing his thumb across Tim's forehead. Mottled bruising encompassed his face from cheek to chin, swelling both eyes. There was barely an inch of skin where Bruce didn't fear causing more discomfort. It might be a few days before Tim woke fully, the doctors warned him. Too much trauma. His body needed to be quiet while his mind settled. Sedation would speed the process along.
Bruce could only think about carrying the kid to Leslie's, forcing battered limbs into civilian clothes when she declared she needed a professional team, gripping his hand in the ambulance as Tim sobbed, bewildered by the onset of lights and sound and too many hands holding him down.
Someone had tortured his son, damaged his mind, reenacted a tragedy that Bruce would give anything to amend, and when Tim had cried out for help, he called Jason .
Where had he gone wrong?
On day three, Tim started responding to voices. He drifted, bleary eyes trying to comprehend for minutes at a time before he zonked out again. Dick kept up a steady litany of chatter. How his buddies thought he was skiving off work, how many games the Knights had lost in the last season (all of them), what Babs thought about his newest costume inspiration (apparently they didn't need another red bird), and a running commentary on silly animal video compilations. Tim didn't respond, but he sighed once or twice, and he watched Dick in every waking moment as though absorbing the sound.
There was probably an indication of self-isolation or lack of attention that Dick should make note of. But Tim wasn't a kid. He was always self-sufficient, adulting from the prime age of nine when he first set out with a camera. He didn't need constant reassurance like Damian; he knew where he belonged.
He quieted down whenever Dick started talking, though, so he didn't stop.
Father read whenever Drake was restless. Damian was not aware that Drake cared particularly for novels (or understood the complexity of the story in his present state), but he had observed Todd calming under similar circumstances. Perhaps comprehension of a language was not required to appreciate the time appropriated for a reading session. He would test that theory and read to Drake in Arabic the next time he visited. It was far more soothing to the ears than the jabbering syllables of English poets.
Pennyworth visited the hospital wing less often (the manor would cease to function without him), but when he continued where the last reader left off, curbing the harshest vowels into something almost melodic, Damian found himself nodding off on occasion. It was hardly a surprise that Drake came to full awareness for the first time when the servant was in the room.
He looked around owlishly, as though surprised to find himself in a hospital bed. The eyes that settled on Damian were wrought and undisguised, like an injured dog cornered by jackals. When Pennyworth squeezed his hand he burst into tears.
Damian walked out of the room. Grayson would have known what to do. Even Todd would have responded in an effective manner.
He did not know how to fix this.
The longer Timothy's spaces of cognizance lasted, the more the doctors fretted. He wasn't eating enough. His responses were monosyllabic and passive. They suggested antidepressants and steroids.
Bruce refused. His son had just survived a traumatic event, and he was barely awake three hours in a day. His moods swung from melancholic to apathetic at the mere fluctuation of a tone. He didn't need something else meddling with his body's chemistry.
"A..lone?" was always Tim's first question upon awakening, after his initial, squinting sweep of the room.
"Just me, kid," was sometimes the answer, or "Dick is here, too," or "Dami's by the window," or "I just stepped out for a moment. You're okay."
The panics attacks were normal, Bruce was told. Pressure on the brain took time to settle down. Tim lost time, relived the assault, struggled to recognize his surroundings. After the third instance of dismantled traction devices and IV's, they called in backup. Barbara, Cass, Stephanie, and Tim's old team took turns spelling out the Wayne family, ensuring that he was never left alone for long.
The system worked out fine, until Jason took his turn for the night.
He called Bruce twenty minutes later, swearing and muttering over the line as a nurse ordered him to leave the room.
"He won't calm down, B. He won't stop screaming."
Frantic shrieks coupled with a nurse's shouts and Jason's husked, rapid breathing. Bruce was dressed and on his way in ten minutes. It was an isolated instance, he reassured his second son. Tim woke from a nightmare and confused Jason for the other Hood. He would be fine once he was a little more awake.
He was wrong.
It was a good day. Tim was alert and picking at the useless remote, looking miffed that his television privileges were cut off until his brain resumed normal functions. Dick was reading off one of his fellow officer's snippy texts ("When are you coming back you lazy knob" was always funnier with dramatization and some added script) when Jason popped his head in, a queasy smile plastered in place.
"Kiddo awake enough for a visitor?"
Like a hair trigger Tim jolted, blue eyes snapping to the door. A fit of full-bodied trembling spiked the monitors and he yanked his free arm around, dismantling the IV as he grabbed for Dick's hand. White fingers tangled in the young man's sleeve, forcing him to scoot closer. He wasn't breathing right — rapid, shallow breaths like a bird flapping under the cat's claws. Jason stepped inside and the kid jerked his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut as the monitor started to shriek.
"Whoah, Timmy! What's going on," Dick hushed, casting Jason a baffled look. "It's just Jason."
"No… don't…." Tim whispered.
"Timbo?" Jason said softly, using the tone he reserved for scared kids in the drug dens, or three-legged alley strays. "It's me. Nobody's gonna hurt you."
Tim sobbed in the next breath, trying to hold it in and find his calm. He whined sharply, sputtering under a new wave of panic.
"Tim, it's okay," Dick insisted, silent questions firing at his brother. What did you do thistime? Jason shook his head, expression flitting from awkward to haunted in an instant. "It's only Jay. Tell me what's wrong."
"I … I can't… don't let…" Gasping in his next breath, Tim said in a rush, "I don't want him here. Please."
Jason wasn't one to beg for his place. Before Dick could catch his eye he was gone.
He didn't come back.
Jason wouldn't visit. Not even Bruce's accusations of familial responsibility, or Alfred's gentle prodding would move him. Something was unhealthily wrong, Dick realized. Tim was the rational one in the family. He put himself on patrol before Batman ever accepted him as Robin, lost both his parents to murder, pulled himself back from the edge in time to save their killer, and put his differences with Jason and Damian behind him after every quarrel. He was moody, oversensitive, and snappish on occasion, but he thought things through and he didn't stigmatize his teammates.
So how was it that the moment Jason showed up, the teen fell apart? Dick could understand the logic behind his brother's sudden absence, but now Jason wasn't even trying. Not one call or text asking how Tim was doing. It seemed like every time the family was almost together — almost normal — something like this happened and it took months to coax Jason back into the manor.
'What happened? ' Dick pleaded. He knew Jason was getting his texts. He'd sent over a hundred in the last twelve hours, without a single loading circle of doom. 'Jaybird, talk to me.'
Silence.
He finally tracked down Jason in the Cave. There was a cold plate of macaroni and cheese at the computer, set out by Alfred who-knew-when, an empty coffee mug, tabs pulled up on every screen… and two red helmets glaring from the desk.
"Jay?" Dick posed softly, eyeing the congealing pasta with a worried sniff. "What are you doing?"
Agitated typing paused for a moment before resuming, charts and graphs zipping through numbers. No, coordinates.
"Jason," Dick snapped.
"What do you want, Dick? " Jason growled, employing more venom than was due for a nickname.
"When did you last sleep?" Dick accused, sniffing the empty mug and hoping it was drugged. His brother's eyes were shadowed, maniacal almost, and he sported at least three days worth of scruff. (He smelled like he hadn't showered in that long.)
"You're not my warden, Circus Freak," Jason retorted. "Go fret over Damian; I heard him threaten to skip school tomorrow."
"Jason, how long have you been here?" Dick asked, stabbing out to turn off the monitor.
A pistol barrel loomed in his face.
"... Jason…" Dick said warily, raising his hands.
"Back. Off," Jason spat.
"Just tell me what this is," Dick pleaded, softer. Either his brother was on the edge of Pit Madness or he was about to have a nervous breakdown. He wasn't sure what he would do if it was the latter.
"Back away from the computer," Jason warned him, the gun wavering as his eyes blanked out for a second.
"When did you last sleep?" Dick reasoned, stepping away carefully.
"Why the twenty questions?" Jason parried, tossing the gun onto the desk and rubbing his eyes. "Go cuddle Tim for a while. I think he's scared to be alone."
"Bruce is with him." Since when did Jason voice his concerns so… avidly? Dick turned his attention back to the charts. "So what is all this?"
"Timelines," Jason spat, reaching agitatedly for the mug and grimacing when he realized it was empty. "Tracking my doppelgänger."
"Your lookalike?" Dick realized.
Jason rolled his eyes. "That's usually the translation of the word. Found his helmet a few blocks from Vince Avenue. The tech is definitely a few years ahead, but between that and the phone tracker I think I can find a universal match."
"You can't just track people across the multiverse," Dick said dumbly. Because... that would be too easy, wouldn't it? Not only for them, but for everyone who wanted them dead.
"You can hang out with Bruce if you're gonna be a pessimist," Jason growled. "And tell Al we're out of coffee."
"You don't need more coffee, Jay."
"You don't need a bullet in your skull, Dick."
Humphing, Dick snatched up the cold lunch plate and the empty mug. He'd be nice and play waiter — this once.
They had plenty of decaf.
The kid was scared of him. Wide-eyed, cold-sweat terrified of Jason Todd. That was ... expected. Really, he couldn't blame him. It wasn't like he didn't knock the Replacement around for existing back then, and the invading Hood probably dragged up old memories.
Fiddling with the imposter's visor, Jason detached the eyepieces carefully, looking for the recording piece. He always carried one after sealing the truce — just in case the Bat accused him of bonking one of his baby birds. Video evidence was invaluable in a family of martial artists who jumped to bad conclusions.
The doppelgänger's helmet didn't have a visible camera. Either he didn't have a higher figure to hold him accountable, or the tech was that good. Jason bitterly wished for the Replacement, or one of his dorky friends. Of course it would be a technological impediment standing between him and a schizophrenic trauma victim.
Me in the future, sans a conscience and a decent supply of hair dye, Jason considered, tapping the inside of the helmet. What would he prioritize on a revenge spree?
Attention, that was obvious. Someone had to hang around to mourn their poor life choices. But this Hood seemed to be content with simply battering a kid to death — he didn't even taunt Batman for showing up late.
How much sadism was buried in the darkness; caged until Jason decided he was done behaving himself?
He just wanted to beat up a Robin, Jason acknowledged, flinging the helmet across the room. He buried his head in his arms, the ongoing calculations a pestering whine in the background. Teleportation device, old smartphone, tech-free helmet. What am I missing...?
His eyes shut.
Bruce wanted the truth. Why else would he be here at all odd hours, hovering, waiting, anger lacing every quiet sigh that he thought Tim couldn't hear above the monitors?
"I don't... remember right," Tim volunteered, searching for words that should be so easy to rattle out. He hated concussions.
Bruce whirled away from the window, attention honed on him, and Tim swallowed hard, scrambling for the basics of communication. "I — I didn't s-see his face — it was blurry? He got my staff, I wasn't … w-watching for him..."
"Tim." A broad, warm hand swept back his hair and another clasped the cold fingers of his left hand. "It's okay. You don't have to talk about it right now."
He must have said something about Jason after all. He must have. Why else were they avoiding the subject, clamming him up the moment he tried to give his report? (Tim didn't react well when Hood entered the room, and Dick wasn't an idiot.)
Which meant they knew , and they'd bundled it all up and blindsided the truth, because no one wanted Jason to run off just because Tim had antagonized him.
I didn't do anything wrong, Tim thought, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head into the pillow. Bruce shushed him softly, stroking gentler, and he buried his face before he shamed himself further. He'll kill me next time. He'll kill me for sure, and ... and I don't wantto go but...
This wouldn't be the last assault. He knew that now. That tentative truce was only the hunter biding his time. Hood would be back the moment Tim let down his guard.
Maybe it was time to leave the Robin name behind for good.
Trembling as Bruce whispered consolations, Tim clenched his fingers in the pillow before he could grab for the comforting hand. He didn't want to leave this behind, but if Bruce were to choose between him or Jason...
He just wanted to live.
"It's quite past your bedtime, Master Damian."
That was an absurd statement, considering that Damian often patrolled into the wee hours unless he was forced to go home early. He took the warm milk from Pennyworth anyways, inhaling the comforting, earthy spice of cardamon, nutmeg and turmeric, with just a hint of sugar. It was a comforting alternative to the too-sweet chocolate Grayson guzzled. It tasted like home.
"Drake is not responding well," Damian voiced, reviewing Father's texts. There was little implied: 'staying later' and 'mind Alfred,' but it had been six days since the attack. There were nurses in plenty to do the job, and Drake should be cognizant enough to spend the night alone.
"A breach in trust does not seal like a normal wound," Pennyworth told him. Damian averted his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the time he pushed Drake off the dinosaur. An established rivalry was not the same as betraying one's confidence.
"His skull was fractured," Damian ventured. "Compromised emotions are a symptom of cranial trauma."
"Master Timothy is recovering to the doctors' satisfaction," Pennyworth reassured him. "If no further complications present themselves, we will soon see him home."
Home meaning the manor, since Drake's injuries had breached the contract of his emancipation and the government did not consider him fit to live alone any longer. He would return to his old room, whining every day about petty grievances, and Damian would have to get along with him as long as the crutches were necessary. (After that, he could hardly be faulted for a dagger flashing at his brother's hideous face. Drake would have poorer reflexes if Damian did not keep him on his toes.)
"When will he return, Pennyworth?" Damian prodded, shifting both hands to wrap around soothing, warm ceramic.
"When he is ready, Master Damian," Pennyworth said vaguely. "It is rather late, I see, and your father will expect to see you rested in the morning."
Heeding the precaution (order, threat), Damian finished the milk and handed the mug back. He would not give Father further reason for concern tonight. He dressed himself quickly and went to bed, waiting as the minutes ticked by, as if Father would appear in the doorway and check in on him one more time.
He fell asleep curled around Alfred the cat, feeling more alone than his first night in a strange house, with strangers occupying his father's attention and customs laid in stone that he did not understand.
Father did not return the next morning.
The Red Hood wasn't normally welcome in the Tower, but the demon brat made a great pathfinder. It only took a few jabs at Timmy's current mental state to convince Damian that they needed answers on the Hood case now. Jason strolled behind a sulking Robin, nodding smugly at the yellow menace zipping around. "Speedy," he greeted.
"Why is he here?" the newest Kid Flash accused, darting close as though he might accidentally trip up a certain red menace.
"Got a job for you punks," Jason said, twirling the impostor's helmet. "I need this thing picked apart. Figured your pinkette might recognize the tech."
"He is here on obligation," Damian snapped at his teammates. "His counterpart from another universe was the one who injured Red Robin."
"That was you?" Beast Boy sputtered. "Again?"
"It wasn't my fault this time!" Jason griped. "That's why I brought this thing. We've got a real villain to track down."
"Funny, I thought one was already standing in the room..." Raven muttered.
This was going to be a long day.
"Tim."
A long suffering sigh followed. Spreading the gelatin more evenly to make it look eaten, Tim mumbled, "Hate jello." He couldn't have solids for another two weeks — he was lucky his jaw wasn't shattered. Recovery from battle wounds was always worse than the infliction.
They still could've given him any other color but red.
"You're supposed to eat," Kon stated.
"Make me."
He bit his tongue, half expecting Kon to growl at him. 'You never shut up, do you?' But that was the Hood speaking. Kon would never hurt him, or scrub the cameras if an assailant snuck into his apartment. Simple reasons why he felt like picking at dessert instead of turning away the lunch tray completely. Why he didn't hesitate to blurt out, "Wanna stay. With y'guys. For a while."
Kon went stiff, reading behind way too many lines, and Tim jammed a spoonful of jello into his mouth before he started blabbing everything. (Which was a stupid move because… ow.) He dropped the spoon in anguish, cradling his jaw.
"You're not supposed to rush meals," Kon chastened, already scrambling out of his chair.
'S'fine," Time said quickly. It wasn't. Nothing was okay. It was all going to be voiced sooner or later, probably in an embarrassing display, but not here. Not when Bruce might overhear.
"Just a few days… with everyone. Miss you," he said lamely, satisfied when his voice barely quivered.
Scorching blue eyes were unrelenting, but Kon let it go. For now. "Okay."
That was all he needed to hear. Tension fleeing, Tim sighed and pushed the tray table back, laying back gingerly to close his eyes. Kon would watch the entrances while he slept. He could finally let down his guard without the nurses pushing sedation.
He didn't want things to end this way (it hurt, knowing the choice would be forced on him soon), but... at least he had a back door now.
The imposter's phone tracker was no help — all coordinates shimmied back to the line in Jason's pocket — but once the password was hacked he learned more than he wanted to know. (Raven wouldn't even tell him what his psychotic self would use for a password, but she looked like she might crisp his insides afterwards.)
There were photographs. Trophy kills. Yellow capes and blacks, dainty bat hoods, a lineup of boots on a filthy cave floor. Nightwing's ensemble. Bodies arranged around bloodied messages. Most of them were Robins. Not all of them kids that Jason recognized.
"You should go," Starfire said softly, pushing the dissected helmet into Jason's free hand. He couldn't let go of the phone, couldn't tear his eyes away...
"Hood." She jerked his attention to her, holding up a small disk. He took it numbly. "You shouldn't be here," she repeated.
No. No, he shouldn't. Not with murder in his name and horror quenching bright faces. He didn't belong in a place like this.
"See you at the cave, Brat," Jason said thickly, tucking the impostor's helmet under his arm. His head felt heavy under red chrome, the lenses distorted and uncharacteristically fogged.
How many kids died because he hadn't stopped at the first Replacement? How long before the next one screamed in death's throes?
He had video footage of the fight, and the last number dialed. The kid had called Hood — tried to call him. What cruel cadence was woven into that final conversation, before the bastard snapped his last photo and fled the universe?
Jason didn't want to know.
Two brothers weren't eating enough to keep a gerbil alive, and the third one was playing with his food. Dick groaned, rubbing his temples, and ordered, "Dami, don't feed Titus at the table."
Blue eyes looked properly cornered before Damian huffed. "As if I would suffer an animal to eat this swill."
Dick didn't mean it. It just... snapped. Slamming a fist on the table, he bolted up and grabbed both his own plate and the one Alfred had set out when Jason promised to come up to dinner twenty minutes ago.
"Grayson..." Damian piped up anxiously.
"I'm going to sit with another adult for a while," Dick snapped. "Tell Alfred I'm bringing Jason's dinner to him."
He didn't need to scrap about it — Damian didn't understand, he didn't have to pull the child card — but his chest burned and his throat ached and he wanted nothing more than to grab his escrima sticks and punch through a mob. (Fighting crime on a nightly basis tended to develop bad coping methods.)
Jason didn't look up when Dick stalked downstairs, mumbling a grudging, "I'll be there in a minute."
Smacking down both plates, Dick plonked into the second chair and spun around, glaring at the dismantled red helmet.
Green eyes looked equal parts mystified, burnt out, and disgruntled. "You need to spar with someone?"
"I might kill you right now," Dick snapped. No, that was undeserved. Jason was only trying to help.
Rather than snarl back, Jason shrugged and turned back to the screens. "Let me know when you're ready to verbalize like a normal person, then."
It wasn't like him to act this... subdued. Dick gave his brother a second glance-over. He'd definitely gone hollow around the eyes. Shadows melted into scruff, and he looked like he ate and slept in that same jacket. Had he kicked his boots off once since the attack?
"Jason, you really need to sleep," Dick urged. He was pretty sure that if he put his hand out, he'd feel the heat of a furnace.
Rubbing his face, Jason gave a dark chuckle that melted into a keen. "Can't shut my eyes," he admitted. "Not without seeing..."
Mutely Dick held out his hand, and Jason surrendered the impostor's phone. The photo album was open, dark sequences mingled with flash photos, all focusing on...
"They're all kids," Dick whispered in horror.
"And Bats," Jason added morbidly. "Some of them are Bats." He dropped his head into his arms and moaned. "I'm a bloody serial killer, Dick."
"Not... you're not..." It wasn't Jason killing kids. It wasn't.
But it was. Another life, a path missed, a tortured soul lashing out at everything around him. It could have been Jason.
In another universe, this was reality.
"They can't link it," Jason mumbled, jabbing blindly at the screen where a futile 'no match ' hovered. "He keeps jumping before it can lock onto him. He could come back any time and we wouldn't know where from."
"Jay... this is enough," Dick urged, clutching the leather-clad shoulder.
"Tim's not safe," Jason babbled, raising his head to stare fiercely at the helmet. "He wasn't finished. He'll come back and get Tim, and then Dami, and he won't stop there, maybe it'll be Steph next, all because he wouldn't let go..."
Because I wouldn't let go.
The self-directed jab broke down into a sob. When Dick pulled him down Jason clung to him, breathless cries yanked from his throat, horror and guilt and exhaustion tearing down every sharp edge.
"It's not going to be me!" Jason pleaded, fingers digging into Dick's arm to make him understand. "I won't do it. I won't let it get that far, I swear!"
"You won't, Jay," Dick whispered, rubbing shoulders that were suddenly too thin and stretched.
"Promise me!" Jason yelled. "Promise me that if I ever — if I go too far — you'll stop me. I don't care what Bruce wants. Don't put me in Arkham. If I ever get that far, you put a bullet in my brain."
Reeling, Dick frantically shook his head. "What — no, it won't — we don't even have to talk about this, you would never —"
"I already did!" Jason spat. "Some other universe, some messed-up reality; this isn't just a fluke coincidence! Every day I tell myself I'm not gonna be what the Joker created, but every day I could warp into something just like him. It only takes one shove, Dick. Promise me you'll never let it get that far. Don't let me murder you!"
"You won't, and I won't let you," Dick swore as he gripped Jason's hands, grimacing at the bruising strength. "You won't kill anyone, Jay. You're already a better person than him."
"Promise me," Jason rasped, green-lanced eyes glinting in the screen light.
Jaw clenched, Dick nodded sharply and delivered one more lie. "I promise."
"One more week." Leslie put her foot down and that was that.
Tim was finally managing full sentences. He could track a neurological test with minimal hesitation. His leg was plastered and there was nothing that therapy and time's natural healing couldn't set to rights. By all sound logic he should have gone home yesterday.
"Once Tim is actively participating with the therapists and eating regularly, I'll consider discharging him," Leslie said sternly. "If I send him home now he'll be back in two days. He's underweight, apathetic and indicating signs of depression. You don't have the resources to back him at the manor. Trust me, I know how things work over there."
Bats and emotional hardships didn't mix well, she implied. Dick stepped between them before Bruce could say exactly what he thought about physicians who drove for extended stays and long-term medications.
"That's fine, Leslie," Dick said reasonably. "It's just a few more days. We know he's in good hands."
He dragged Bruce out for something stronger than hospital coffee and texted Bart to take his place.
"Tim still needs full-time attention," he tried to explain while Bruce fidgeted at the cafe table. "Leslie knows what she's doing."
He just wished he knew what was going on in his little brother' head.
It was an odd day when sulking seemed to be an improvement. Tim was clearly tired of the hospital food, the wires, the lack of privacy, and the doctors prodding him from every side. He banished Dick from the room, managed to swallow two-thirds of everything set before him, made an exaggerated effort to prove he could handle the crutches without a therapist at his elbow, and grumbled incessantly until he mixed his words up and started cussing instead.
A sulky Tim was at least a fighting Tim, and he was showing more vivacity than Bruce had seen in two weeks. It was a monumental development.
Then Jason popped in.
"Baby bird up?" he posed, stepping inside as if he'd been present and involved during the entire recovery process. There was a box under his arm and a flicker of unease in green eyes — the only indicator that kept Bruce from dragging him out for a behavioral explanation.
Tim went white.
"Bruce, I don't want — I don't want him — here, please he can't — s-stay if I say no…." Days of progress lost in an instant. Tim fumbled at Bruce's sleeve, stammering, losing his words to mind-blocking panic.
"It's okay, Timmy," Jason said quietly, telegraphing each movement as he slowly set the box on the floor. "I know what's scaring you. He's not gonna get to you again."
"Bruce please, make him go…." Tim whispered. "Please, I'm s-sorry I don't — I don't want — don't let him…"
"Jason," Bruce said, accompanying the order with an apologetic sigh.
"Wait a second, B," Jason hedged, tossing open the box flaps. "I need to show him something first."
Tim whined sharply and turned his face into Bruce's arm. "Don't — no — please..."
" Jason," Bruce insisted.
"It's — here. Look," Jason said, yanking two helmets from the box. "It wasn't me. It wasn't. I didn't do it."
"Jason, that's enough," Bruce said, his arms full of a teenager who was sobbing apologies and pleas without drawing breath. "He doesn't need this right now."
"He needs to know, B!" Jason declared. "He needs to believe that I'm not going to hurt him. It wasn't me, Tim!"
Jolting at the sharp tone, Tim yanked away, covering his ears. "Please I'll go just make him — Kon, please, Kon!"
"That's enough, Jason!" Bruce snapped, stunning the young man out of his babbling explanation. Unshaved and wild-eyed, Jason looked maniacal. "Go home and rest. You've done enough."
Flabbergasted, Jason looked frantically from Tim to Bruce, and whirled with a snarl when the window slammed open and Superboy ambushed the small wing. "He's not going to get better the longer he thinks I'm out to get him!"
"You're not disproving anything right now," Bruce said darkly.
Kon stalked forward, hands drawn into white-knuckled fists, and Tim started breathing again.
"Fine, I'm going!" Jason exclaimed, dropping the helmets into the box and kicking it towards Kon. "While you're soothing his feathers, tell him there's two Reds tramping across the universe, and someone went out of his way to make sure he survived until Christmas."
"Get out of here!" Kon warned him.
"I'm leaving!" Jason railed. "I know when I'm unwanted."
"Jason…" Bruce shut his eyes. Once again he lacked the verbology to negotiate between his quarreling sons. Why couldn't he learn from Dick's silver tongue, or Alfred's perpetual calm?
"No, I didn't mean — he shouldn't — you don't — I won't — please don't…." Tremors turned to hyperventilation as Tim huddled into himself, hugging his broken arm. "He — shouldn't — I'll go — I won't — won't mess it — please don't be — I won't get in the …"
"Timmy?" Jason said, so hushed and gentle that Kon looked between him and Bruce with befuddled animosity. Ignoring the clone, Jason stepped closer, hands limp and harmless, footsteps soft. "Timmy, you gotta listen to me. Please."
Tim choked, shivering.
"Timbo. Baby bird. It wasn't me," Jason whispered. In a sudden frenzy he grabbed both the dismantled helmet and the whole, laying them on the bed. "Please look."
Blue eyes cracked open like it was a threat. Tim glanced between the empty-eyed helms, confusion cycling with trepidation. "W...what?"
"Multiverse travel," Jason said in the same quieting tone, tapping the imposter's helmet. "Ask Bruce. I came right for you, baby bird. Stabbed the dirty bastard in the leg. He won't come near you again."
"There was another Red Hood," Bruce explained, finally understanding the connotations. "Jason called it in. The other Hood jumped universes before we could take him down."
"... Two…?" Tim said detachedly.
"It wasn't me," Jason swore. "I know I messed up, but we're past that, I'll paint the bloody helmet it it'll make you believe me…."
"You really haven't slept since it happened," Kon realized, scorn layered with reluctant compassion.
"Why does everyone care about my sleeping habits?" Jason ranted. "He doesn't sleep for weeks and everyone gives him coffee! Why am I — that's not even the point! I'm not the Hood — not that Hood. Stop looking at me like I'm going to murder you!"
Tim flinched out of his stupor and the moment of calm was lost for good. Rubbing the teen's shoulder, Bruce instructed one last time, "Jason, I think it's time for you to go."
Irrationality vanished under a blank stare. Dropping his hands, Jason nodded mutely and turned on his heel. Tim jerked uneasily, as though he might call for him to stop, and Bruce shushed him with a few strokes through his hair. "Later, Tim. We'll talk later."
He didn't know how Jason pinned it down, but he finally had insight into his son's trauma. There would be plenty of talk later, and hopefully — this time — Bruce would find his answers.
"Tim, did you really think that Jason….?
"Did you think that I would let him….?
"Tim, it's okay. You can talk to me….."
The video chip found in the doppelganger's helmet told Bruce everything that Tim refused to communicate. How he had failed. Where he stood.
No wonder his own son was afraid to call him.
"But we wouldn't have….
"But he trusts us….
"He would have said something if he thought…."
But Tim wouldn't , Dick realized too late. He was the logical Robin. The sensible one. If he met resistance he ebbed with it until he melded, skirting the problem without disrupting the flow of the tide. Of course he wouldn't say anything.
He acted like it didn't bother him at all. And Dick did nothing, because he couldn't read the signs.
"Drake is overdramatic. He is predispositioned to report hazardous influences on his environment."
And yet the audio Damian replayed in the Batcave declared the opposite view. When faced with impending death, Drake's ebbing hope was not that his family would save him, but that his would-be-murderer was not the same one as he was led to believe.
They nearly spent Christmas commemorating another headstone. This was unacceptable.
Jason looked up from the pillow mashed under his head and rolled his eyes. "So the dweeb thinks we hate him. You can stop wallowing about it and plan his Christmas party already. Geez, are you all that thick?"
And so it was that on Christmas Eve they finally managed to beg, bargain, and manipulate Leslie into discharging their lamed bird. Bruce led him to the sitting room, hovering in case he tripped over his crutches, while the others crammed impatiently on the couch. No loud surprises, Bruce was very clear on that. Tim startled too easily, even now.
There was a host of awkward fidgeting before Dick burst out, "Merry Christmas, Timmy!"
Because it really was all of that, and more. A glowing tree laboring under heirloom ornaments and a new generation of children's crafts, wreathes and garlands shimmering with tinsel, a stocking for each family member hanging over the hearth. Gingerbread and thumbprints, tea cookies and sugar cookies, peppermint melts and homemade fudge. Hot cocoa and cider, already dealt out in everyone's preferred mugs. Underlying the stereotypical greeting and typical festivities was the warmth and anticipation and generosity only found when family gathered together, putting all else behind for the sake of time well spent. It was Christmas, and Tim was home.
Tim looked around him with wide eyes, gold and green and scarlet gleaming in the sudden sheen before he wiped it away, leaning shyly into Bruce's side. "Oh."
Tucking him in as narrow shoulders trembled, Bruce smiled softly and kissed the bowed head. "Welcome home."
Christmas day passed for him as another mark on the calendar. Another day lost. Another haze of distemper and disillusionment, of low-life's sniveling under his fists and families shying away from his blazing eyes and shock of white hair. This was his empire. Built on the impenetrable steel forged of despair and blood. His incontestable domain.
He hovered outside the ruins of what used to be home, vaguely disquieted when he felt no pain. There was no remorse for the fallen. No memories to dredge up. He wasn't even sure which were his memories anymore, and which belonged to the heroes of other worlds.
It probably didn't matter. One day he would join the bones in this scorched ruins and feel nothing. He just had to finish it once and for all.
Maybe then, he would finally remember the magic of a snowfall, and the carol of endless slumber would lead him home.
.
.
.
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Finis
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