oh well, i guess weâre gonna pretend
Rating: T
Warnings: Blood and Injury, Torture (non-graphic, mostly implied)
Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd
Summary: Robin!Tim gets caught and help comes from an unlikely source.
Cross posted: FFN and AO3. (A/N found on both sites)
For: @lurkinglurkerwholurks for the prompt: A character flipping into hardcore MINE mode over another when the latter is in danger or threatened (bonus points if the two characters are currently on the outs but nevertheless go totally Ride Or Die)
~o~
This was bad.
This was the kind of bad that Tim had managed to avoid so far since taking up the role of Robin. Â Heâd only hit the streets officially for the first time three months ago, post-many months of intense physical and mental training. Â This was exactly the second time Batman and he were apart for longer than a couple of hours at a time.
It was almost funny, actually, how fast Tim managed to screw everything up. Â After all, he took on Robin in order to stop Batman from spiraling into a hole he would likely never escape from alone after the death of his partner. Â The death of his son.
As far as Tim was concerned, he had one job: Donât die. Â He would also be the first to admit that that was harder than heâd thought it would be.
Heâd made a mistake. Â Heâd gotten caught. Â Heâd beenâwas being beaten. Â And he wasnât sure if Batman even realized he was gone. Â Theyâd separated earlier in the night, exactly according to plan. Â Tim on recon on one end of town, Batman on the other, chasing two different leads on the location of a major arms deal that was supposed to go down the next night. Â They would then continue on their normal patrol routes, Tim flying truly solo for the first time, and meet back in the Cave afterwards. Â It was a first flight. Â A test of trust on the Batâs end and independence on Timâs.
Problem was, the empty warehouse Tim was supposed to investigate hadnât been empty when heâd arrived. Â Either someone tipped the mooks off that the Dynamic Duo was onto them and theyâd moved up the date, or Batmanâs information had been faulty. Â Tim was leaning towards the former. Â However, before he could comm the Bat and warn him of the change, someone had clubbed him from behind.
Tim wasnât supposed to check in forâŠmaybe another hour?  Two?  He wasnât sure.  Time seemed to be dragging by unnaturally slow, and there wasnât exactly a clock he could check himself on.  Heâd passed out a few times, too, which didnât really lend itself to accurate time keeping.
His only frame of reference?
The bruise count. Â Turned out, baseball bats hurt when they were swung into flesh and bone rather than rawhide. Â His ribs could attest to that. Â The more time passed, the more aches and pains he accrued.
The other hint that heâd overstayed his welcome: He could no longer feel his hands.  They were strung up somewhere above his head, metal cuffs digging into exposed wrists and holding him up so his bare toes barely grazed the ground.  Come to think of it, he couldnât feel those either.  Which wasâŠconcerning.
But on the plus side, if he couldnât feel them, they couldnât hurt.  Unlike his rib cage, twinging and protesting at his current position and every subsequent movement.  Actually, his cheek hurt now, too.  WhichâŠow.  Ow.
Timâs head snapped to the side with the force of the next blow, and he groaned as that set his whole body rocking, reigniting the pain signals through to his brain.
ââlistening, brat?â
Tim blinked his eyes openâwhen had they closed?âsquinting under the pale yellow glare of the stereotypical bare bulb abandoned warehouse lighting and into the leering face of his captor.
Miles Bandiniâs gold tooth glinted a tad too bright in the dim light. Â A greasy combover made his forehead appear entirely too large, and a domineering sneer that could put Two-Face to shame completed the mob boss look.
The best part was, there really wasnât anything special about this guy. Â He wasnât a psychopath, didnât have a PhD in some random field, and hadnât assigned a colorful, inappropriate persona to theme his wrongdoings. Â He was just another crime lord whoâd taken a shine to Gotham and the ease of criminal activity therein.
And Tim, like an idiot, ran straight into his trap.
Noticing Timâs attention, Bandiniâs sneer somehow deepened. Â âI guess youâre still alive, then. Â For now.â
Tim remained silent, mustering what energy he had left to raise his head and glare.
This seemed to amuse the crook. Â He patted Timâs cheek, right on the bruise one of his goons had left behind. Â âWonder where your big friend is, hmm? Â Itâs a shame heâs left you alone for so long.â
The henchmen chortled behind him.
âLook, Robin,â Bandini drawled. Â âYou seem like a nice kid. Â So Iâm going to give you one last chance to walk out of this building alive. Â Answer two questions for me, would you? Â Just two, and you get to see the sunrise.â Â He leaned forward, hook nose only centimeters from Timâs. Â âWhere is the Batman? Â And how much does he know about us?â
Tim licked his cracked, bloody lips. Â Tongue working in an effort to muster up what moisture he had left. Â He opened his mouth.
Bandini leaned forward eagerly.
Tim spat in his face.
The man recoiled with a cry, hand flying up to where a mixture of Timâs blood and spit now coated his cheek. Â Beady black eyes met his, a murderous expression twisting the manâs features.
Tim barely had time to think âuh ohâ before the crook pitched a roundhouse into his stomach. Â Something in his chest shifted.
Pain exploded as every broken bone, every abused muscle, every organ screamed in protest, even as his voice choked out nothing more than a strangled unf.
Tim couldnât breathe. Â Tim couldnât breathe. Â What air he managed to pull through his mouth came in short gasps and wheezes, not remaining long enough or deep enough in his lungs to perform the appropriate gas exchange. Â Spots danced before his vision, fuzzy black creeping in on the edges.
Bandini was yelling, the words distant and muffled as if through fabric, gesticulating wildly with something suspiciously shiny, silver, and gun-shaped at Tim.
With a detached sort of panic, Tim realized he was going to die. Â Either from his injuries, or from the bullet the crime lord was prepped to gift him, didnât matter.
Only a year into the job and heâd already failed his main objective.
Something cold and achingly familiar pressed into his forehead. Â The barrel of a gun.
Tears prickled in Timâs eyes. Â Iâm so sorry, Bruce.
The gunshot echoed through the warehouse. Â Tim flinched. Â The gun barrel slid away from his forehead.
WaitâŠTim shouldnât have been able to flinch.  He wasâŠnot dead?  For sure, everything hurt too much for him to be dead.
A low, ominous chuckle burst through the ensuing silence, echoing through the warehouse and sending a shiver down Timâs spine. Â The sound of something heavy landing on concrete slammed into his eardrums.
Welp. Â Only one way to find out. Â Reluctantly, Tim pried his eyes open, blinking in an attempt to bring the world back into focus.
The first thing he noticed was Miles Bandini collapsed on the ground at his feet, blood pooling around him from the hole in his chest. Â The second thing was the bright red helmeted figure standing in the center of the room, back towards Tim.
âWell, well, well,â the Red Hood drawled. Â âWhat do we have here?â
Whatever shock Bandiniâs mooks seemed to be in began to wear off, half pulling their weapons, the other half taking an uncertain step back.
âGet him!â a voiceâah, the second in command accountant in the tweed jacketâscreamed.
Quick as lightning, the Red Hood swung in Timâs direction, gun hefted in one hand, knife in the other, and Tim flinched. Â If he wasnât dead before, he was definitely screwed now. Â Hood pitched the knife in his direction. Â But instead of slicing into Timâs chest, it collided with the cable holding him up, cutting through the metallic fiber like butter.
Tim hit the ground with an oof, what little air he had managed to suck in abandoning him in one pained puff.
Ow ow owowowowow.
Fire lanced up his arms and shoulders as they were released from the strain of holding his weight, joining the steady inferno of what had to be at least two or three broken ribs in his chest. Â His vision whited out as agony encompassed every inch of him, making him uncomfortably aware of every little hurt heâd received since being strung up.
Okay, Tim. Â Breathe. Â Breathing was good. Â Breathing was life.
It really shouldnât have been this difficult to pull in air.
Around him, gunshots rang off the walls and old shelving as round after round was shot off at the lone figure devastating their ranks. Â Despite everything, Timâs inner fanboy lit up. Â This was as cool as it was dangerousâfor the crooks and Tim alike.
It had been years since heâd last seen Jason fight. Â Rather, fight in a way that didnât involve Tim actively defending himself. Â Jason was all muscle, visible beneath even the thick leather jacket, and yet he had the deadly precision of an expert marksman and the grace of a martial artist. Â He used all of those things to his advantage as he tore through the mob, laying waste to everyone within his rather large range. Â After all, how many people could claim to have been trained by Batman and the League of Assassins? Â These amateurs didnât stand a chance.
Tim just wished he had his camera.
And then, as quickly as the bloody battle started, it ended. Â The Red Hood loomed in front of him, hovering almost protectively, gun pressed against the forehead of the last perp standing.
âThe only one who gets to take a potshot at my replacement,â Hood hissed, âis me.â
Tim shivered. Â From Hoodâs tone, or the blood loss, he wasnât sure.
Then Hood leveled a kick into the manâs rib cage, an audible crack sounding through the warehouse as the man fell to the ground with a howl.
âTell your friends,â Hood said lightly.  Then, when the man gaped up at him: âUnless youâd rather join themâŠ?â  He gestured at the limp forms of the bullet-riddled, definitely dead crooks scattered around them.
The guy was gone next time Tim opened his eyes. Â Huh. Â That was fast.
A brief thrill of panic shivered up his spine as Hoodâs blank lenses suddenly leveled down at him. Â Tim silently cursed himself. Â He shouldâve used the distraction to escape, should have unpicked the cuffs and scooted out of here before Jason turned on him. Â Problem was, he didnât think he could move even if he tried.
Jason cocked his headâalmost considering. Â He sighed, the sound echoing strangely through the filter and voice modulator. Â âGuess if you bled out now, there would be no point, hm?â
Tim stared.  Not quite comprehending as the former Robin crouched beside him, rolling him over onto his back.  Which actually helped the breathing issue, butâŠ.
âIâm going to move you, Pretender,â Jason warned. Â âThis buildingâs rigged to blow, and that perpâs got the trigger. Â Try to stay loose.â
One arm tucked under Timâs neck, the other under his legs, and wow, okay, apparently they broke his tibia.
Tim blacked out.
He came to blinking up at the stars through a fire escape in an alley he recognized to be near the docks. Â His body instantly protested his very existence, screaming as though heâd been dropped into a compactor and then thrashed in a woodchipper. Â Dimly, he became aware of a shadowy figure over him, of gloved hands tightening a pressure bandage around his thigh.
It all came back in a rushâhis capture, the fight, Red Hoodâand Tim instinctively scrambled back from the man looming over him, heart pounding out of his chest. Â He regretted the movement instantly as it jarred his broken body, his wrist apparently some degree of broken as it caved under his weight so he flopped gracelessly back against the pavement.
âOi, hold still,â Jason snapped, âyouâre making yourself worse.â
Tim froze at the command, staring wide-eyed at the crook who had himself beaten Tim to a bloody pulp only a few months ago.
This image didnât fit. Â It didnât make sense. Â There had to be some ulterior motive to saving him, perhaps some mind game to mess with Bruce. Â What else would motivate Hood to help him out of the blue?
Resolve flared, hot and fast. Â Tim wouldnât allow himself to be used against the Bat again.
But Jason just continued twirling the fabric around Timâs leg until he was apparently satisfied, snipping off the end and tying it off. Â He snagged another pressure bandage and began work on Timâs shoulder. Â Not speaking. Â Not even looking at him.
Slowly, Tim allowed himself to relax, mind spinning in confusion.
âWâWhy?â Tim wheezed. Â Wishing he could muster something a little more intimidating than the dry, barely audible croak that squeezed out of his throat.
Jason continued wrapping the bandages, quiet for long enough Tim figured he hadnât heard him.
But then, âNo one deserves to die without having a chance at fighting back.â  Quiet.  Angry.  AndâŠif Tim didnât know better, a hint of the growl Batman always got when he was feeling particularly protective.
Jason tied off the last bandage with a couple quick motions and stood. Â He unslung Timâs utility belt from over his shoulder, pressing the emergency tracker embedded in the side. Â How did he know whereâ?
âBats should be here soon,â Jason said, voice flat, which didnât match the gentle pat he gave Timâs uninjured leg. Â âDonât wait up.â
The older teen stood, his combat boots retreating down the alleyway the last thing Tim saw before his eyes closed against his will.
âOh, and Replacement?â Tim heard, almost as if through a tunnel. Â âDonât expect a repeat performance. Â This doesnât change anything.â
Despite his swollen cheeks, Tim grinned against the pavement. Â Of course not, he thought. Â Inexplicably giddy. Â Why would it?
Tim passed out to the sound of a grapple fun firing off into the distance and the rumble of a familiar engine echoing into the alleyway.








