#rascaljoy

He’d made a mistake.  He’d gotten caught.  He’d been—was being beaten.  And he wasn’t sure if Batman even realized he was gone.  They’d separated earlier in the night, exactly according to plan.  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.  They would then continue on their normal patrol routes, Tim flying truly solo for the first time, and meet back in the Cave afterwards.  It was a first flight.  A test of trust on the Bat’s end and independence on Tim’s.

Problem was, the empty warehouse Tim was supposed to investigate hadn’t been empty when he’d arrived.  Either someone tipped the mooks off that the Dynamic Duo was onto them and they’d moved up the date, or Batman’s information had been faulty.  Tim was leaning towards the former.  However, before he could comm the Bat and warn him of the change, someone had clubbed him from behind.

Tim wasn’t supposed to check in for…maybe another hour?  Two?  He wasn’t sure.  Time seemed to be dragging by unnaturally slow, and there wasn’t exactly a clock he could check himself on.  He’d passed out a few times, too, which didn’t really lend itself to accurate time keeping.

His only frame of reference?

The bruise count.  Turned out, baseball bats hurt when they were swung into flesh and bone rather than rawhide.  His ribs could attest to that.  The more time passed, the more aches and pains he accrued.

The other hint that he’d 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 couldn’t feel those either.  Which was…concerning.

But on the plus side, if he couldn’t feel them, they couldn’t hurt.  Unlike his rib cage, twinging and protesting at his current position and every subsequent movement.  Actually, his cheek hurt now, too.  Which…ow.  Ow.

Tim’s 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.

“—listening, brat?”

Tim blinked his eyes open—when had they closed?—squinting under the pale yellow glare of the stereotypical bare bulb abandoned warehouse lighting and into the leering face of his captor.

Miles Bandini’s gold tooth glinted a tad too bright in the dim light.  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 wasn’t anything special about this guy.  He wasn’t a psychopath, didn’t have a PhD in some random field, and hadn’t assigned a colorful, inappropriate persona to theme his wrongdoings.  He was just another crime lord who’d taken a shine to Gotham and the ease of criminal activity therein.

And Tim, like an idiot, ran straight into his trap.

Noticing Tim’s attention, Bandini’s sneer somehow deepened.  “I guess you’re still alive, then.  For now.”

Tim remained silent, mustering what energy he had left to raise his head and glare.

This seemed to amuse the crook.  He patted Tim’s cheek, right on the bruise one of his goons had left behind.  “Wonder where your big friend is, hmm?  It’s a shame he’s left you alone for so long.”

The henchmen chortled behind him.

“Look, Robin,” Bandini drawled.  “You seem like a nice kid.  So I’m going to give you one last chance to walk out of this building alive.  Answer two questions for me, would you?  Just two, and you get to see the sunrise.”  He leaned forward, hook nose only centimeters from Tim’s.  “Where is the Batman?  And how much does he know about us?”

Tim licked his cracked, bloody lips.  Tongue working in an effort to muster up what moisture he had left.  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 Tim’s blood and spit now coated his cheek.  Beady black eyes met his, a murderous expression twisting the man’s features.

Tim barely had time to think “uh oh” before the crook pitched a roundhouse into his stomach.  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 couldn’t breathe.  Tim couldn’t breathe.  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.  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.  Either from his injuries, or from the bullet the crime lord was prepped to gift him, didn’t matter.

Only a year into the job and he’d already failed his main objective.

Something cold and achingly familiar pressed into his forehead.  The barrel of a gun.

Tears prickled in Tim’s eyes.  I’m so sorry, Bruce.

The gunshot echoed through the warehouse.  Tim flinched.  The gun barrel slid away from his forehead.

Wait…Tim shouldn’t have been able to flinch.  He was…not 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 Tim’s spine.  The sound of something heavy landing on concrete slammed into his eardrums.

Welp.  Only one way to find out.  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.  The second thing was the bright red helmeted figure standing in the center of the room, back towards Tim.

“Well, well, well,” the Red Hood drawled.  “What do we have here?”

Whatever shock Bandini’s mooks seemed to be in began to wear off, half pulling their weapons, the other half taking an uncertain step back.

“Get him!” a voice—ah, the second in command accountant in the tweed jacket—screamed.

Quick as lightning, the Red Hood swung in Tim’s direction, gun hefted in one hand, knife in the other, and Tim flinched.   If he wasn’t dead before, he was definitely screwed now.  Hood pitched the knife in his direction.  But instead of slicing into Tim’s 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.  His vision whited out as agony encompassed every inch of him, making him uncomfortably aware of every little hurt he’d received since being strung up.

Okay, Tim.  Breathe.  Breathing was good.  Breathing was life.

It really shouldn’t 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.  Despite everything, Tim’s inner fanboy lit up.  This was as cool as it was dangerous—for the crooks and Tim alike.

It had been years since he’d last seen Jason fight.  Rather, fight in a way that didn’t involve Tim actively defending himself.  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.  He used all of those things to his advantage as he tore through the mob, laying waste to everyone within his rather large range.  After all, how many people could claim to have been trained by Batman and the League of Assassins?  These amateurs didn’t stand a chance.

Tim just wished he had his camera.

And then, as quickly as the bloody battle started, it ended.  The Red Hood loomed in front of him, hovering almost protectively, gun pressed against the forehead of the last perp standing.

“The only one who gets to take a potshot at my replacement,” Hood hissed, “is me.”

Tim shivered.  From Hood’s tone, or the blood loss, he wasn’t sure.

Then Hood leveled a kick into the man’s rib cage, an audible crack sounding through the warehouse as the man fell to the ground with a howl.

“Tell your friends,” Hood said lightly.  Then, when the man gaped up at him: “Unless you’d rather join them…?”  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.  Huh.  That was fast.

A brief thrill of panic shivered up his spine as Hood’s blank lenses suddenly leveled down at him.  Tim silently cursed himself.  He should’ve used the distraction to escape, should have unpicked the cuffs and scooted out of here before Jason turned on him.  Problem was, he didn’t think he could move even if he tried.

Jason cocked his head—almost considering.  He sighed, the sound echoing strangely through the filter and voice modulator.  “Guess if you bled out now, there would be no point, hm?”

Tim stared.  Not quite comprehending as the former Robin crouched beside him, rolling him over onto his back.  Which actually helped the breathing issue, but….

“I’m going to move you, Pretender,” Jason warned.  “This building’s rigged to blow, and that perp’s got the trigger.  Try to stay loose.”

One arm tucked under Tim’s 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.  His body instantly protested his very existence, screaming as though he’d been dropped into a compactor and then thrashed in a woodchipper.  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 rush—his capture, the fight, Red Hood—and Tim instinctively scrambled back from the man looming over him, heart pounding out of his chest.  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.

“Oi, hold still,” Jason snapped, “you’re making yourself worse.”

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 didn’t fit.  It didn’t make sense.  There had to be some ulterior motive to saving him, perhaps some mind game to mess with Bruce.  What else would motivate Hood to help him out of the blue?

Resolve flared, hot and fast.  Tim wouldn’t allow himself to be used against the Bat again.

But Jason just continued twirling the fabric around Tim’s leg until he was apparently satisfied, snipping off the end and tying it off.  He snagged another pressure bandage and began work on Tim’s shoulder.  Not speaking.  Not even looking at him.

Slowly, Tim allowed himself to relax, mind spinning in confusion.

“W—Why?” Tim wheezed.  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 hadn’t heard him.

But then, “No one deserves to die without having a chance at fighting back.”  Quiet.  Angry.  And…if Tim didn’t 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.  He unslung Tim’s utility belt from over his shoulder, pressing the emergency tracker embedded in the side.  How did he know where—?

“Bats should be here soon,” Jason said, voice flat, which didn’t match the gentle pat he gave Tim’s uninjured leg.  “Don’t wait up.”

The older teen stood, his combat boots retreating down the alleyway the last thing Tim saw before his eyes closed against his will.

“Oh, and Replacement?” Tim heard, almost as if through a tunnel.  “Don’t expect a repeat performance.  This doesn’t change anything.”

Despite his swollen cheeks, Tim grinned against the pavement.  Of course not, he thought.  Inexplicably giddy.  Why would it?

Of course, he’d realized this only after Alfred texted to remind him of family dinner at the Manor tonight.  Even Jason was supposed to be there, which was a blessing and a curse in itself.  When the invitation had come last week, there really hadn’t been a reason to say no.

So now here he was, squealing up Wayne Manor’s driveway with eyes half-lidded and pop music blaring in a vain attempt to keep himself from passing out from sheer “doneness with the world” mid-drive.

He ground the car into park, the engine giving a splutter of protest before going silent along with the heavily autotuned singer from the radio.

Dick sagged against the steering wheel, groaning into his frozen fingers.

He couldn’t do this.  He was too tired.  He couldn’t face his family right now, couldn’t handle the drama that was sure to drown him the second he walked through that ridiculously fancy door.

Dick loved his family.  He did.  He did.

But dealing with them on a good day was hard enough when all they did was make each other miserable.  With only Dick to act as mediator.  It was exhausting.  Dick hated picking sides, hated that it was necessary.  Hated that Bruce always mysteriously, conveniently disappeared before he could be dragged into the mess.  Finding middle ground took patience and energy Dick didn’t always have.  Now, would be a good example.

He loved his family.  But the thought of walking into a storm of petty arguments and insults made his stomach twist.

Dick sighed into his hands.  He couldn’t hide out here forever.  Alfred would come looking.  If anything, Dick could just…sleep.  Sink into his bed and not get up until his brain and body had reset into some semblance of functional humanity.  Retreat into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness until he was ready to take up the older brother mantle again and be the responsible adult for a spell.

Yeah.  Bed sounded good.


Now he just needed to get there.

“Okay, Dick,” he whispered.  “Baby steps.”

Step one: Take hands off wheel.

He pried his fingers up—one by one by one—until finally their death grip on the pleather ring was relinquished.

Two: Exit car.

He fumbled with the handle, tugging it so the door unlocked and cracked open.  He nudged it with his foot so it swung out all the way with a dull thud.  Cold, damp air flooded the interior, making Dick shiver.  He swung one leg out, then the other.  Stood up.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, made him stumble back against the car, head heavy and blood rushing loud and fast in his ears.  Whoops.  He remained still, blinking until the spots left his vision.  Okay?  Okay.

Three: Knock on front door.

Muscle memory had him shut the car door, press the lock button on the fob.  He must’ve spaced out for a sec, because the next moment he was up on the porch, hand wrapped around the knocker.  The brass handle barely touched the plating before the door swung inwards.

Dick blinked owlishly at the sudden empty space in front of his fist, at the butler standing just inside.

“Master Dick,” Alfred greeted.  “Do come inside.  The weather is dreadful.”

“Hey, Alf,” Dick mumbled, tongue strangely uncooperative as he shuffled into the front foyer.  “Made it.”

The butler’s eyebrows furrowed.  “Are you quite all right, Master Dick?” he asked, a touch of concern audible in his tone.  “You seem a bit out of sorts.”

Dick nodded numbly.  “M’good.  Promise.”

Alfred frowned deeper at that, wrinkled hands grasping Dick’s wrists to check his pulse.

Dick sagged against the door frame, allowing the butler to fret over him; brush his knuckles to his forehead, check the dilation of his pupils.

“Alf, I’m fine,” Dick croaked; tone dry and cracked even to himself.  “Just tired.”

Alfred pursed his lips.  “If you say so, Master Dick.  However, I must insist that you remedy this situation before attempting any of your extracurricular activities.  Dinner won’t be ready for another hour or so.  Go rest.”

Dick nodded; more of a droop as his head sagged to his chest and stayed there.  “‘Kay.”

Step…four.  Five?  Go to bed.

The walls spun lazy circles around him as he plodded down the hallway, every footstep dragging as if cement had been sealed into his feet.  At some point he stumbled through an open door as his hand (when’d he put it on the wall?) suddenly didn’t support him.

Blinking, he realized he’d wandered into the main living room.  Didn’t exactly process more than that, hazy vision zeroing in on the couch.  Shuffling across, Dick flopped bonelessly onto the beautiful beautiful silk, sagging into the cushions with a muffled groan.

Just five minutes.  Five minutes, and then he’d slip upstairs and hide in his room before any of his siblings caught him like this.

He was fine.  He just.

Needed…

Five.

…

Dick couldn’t call it sleep, exactly.  That is, he never lost consciousness and fell into the peaceful, black abyss of nothingness.  He just kind of…drifted.  Not fully aware of his surroundings.  But not completely oblivious to them either.

It was almost like he was…floating.

A distant part of his mind prompted a word for the sensation, but the far greater part was content with just…existing.  Not thinking.  Not processing anything.  Just drifting through a hazy gray fog.

Dick would rather just be asleep.  But it seemed his body wouldn’t let him.  So this would have to do.

As if through cotton, he thought he caught snatches of phrases, whispered words echoing around him.

“—when did he—?”

“How long—?”

“—moved at all—?”


“—imbeciles do to Grayson?”

The words became clearer, louder; persistent enough against his senses that Dick began to lose his grip on whatever gray area between sleep and awareness he’d found himself in.

“—you must have done something.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it?  Newsflash, brat: This is the first time I saw him today!”

Nope.  No.  Dick didn’t want to hear it.  Wanted instead to sleep and float and forget for a minute how useless he was, how selfish he was to purposely ignore his siblings, how much he wished for a moment he didn’t have to exist until he was ready to face the world again.

He turned his nose into the fabric of the couch, squeezing his eyes so tight he saw stars, attempting to block out the invading sounds without actually moving his limbs to do so.

The whispers, which had been growing steadily louder, stopped.

Crap.  Had they noticed him move?  Please don’t drag him into whatever this was.  Not now.

Then, “Dick?”

Soft.  Concerned.

Dick almost (might have) whimpered.

There was a beat of silence.  Two.

“You good, Goldie?” Gruff.  Somehow gentle, in its own way.

Dick shook his head before he could think the gesture through, huddling deeper into the couch with a shiver.  He was okay.  He just needed to rest, to sleep, and he would be fine.  He…he needed…

He almost jumped at the feeling of small hands on his arm, of a leg looping over his waist.  A familiar small figure climbed over him, pushed at his torso and tugged at his limbs until suddenly someone was wedged in between the couch back and Dick’s chest, both arms wrapped around him in a hug.

Dick blinked down at the spiky black hair—the only part of the barely teen visible since his face was buried in Dick’s shirt.  Slowly, hesitantly, Dick’s arm squeezed back where it had been maneuvered around Damian’s waist.  He pressed his chin into the soft raven crown and closed his eyes.

Damian relaxed into the hold, pressing his nose under Dick’s collar bone.

This.  This was nice.

But before he could settle again, process the new sensation, revel in the warmth radiating from his littlest brother, another hand tapped his knee.

“Oi, Dickhead, move your feet,” Jason griped.

Confused, brain still not quite present, Dick shifted his feet back slightly.  Jason snorted.  And then hands wrapped around Dick’s ankles, hauling them into the air.  Dick felt the brush of a shoulder on the underside of his calf, heard a muffled grunt, felt a dip in the couch cushions.  And then his feet were rested on someone’s—Jason’s—lap.

Jason patted his leg a couple times before propping up his forearm on Dick’s calf.  Dick heard the familiar crackle of an old paperback being opened, the slide of a bookmark being removed from yellowed pages.

There was a rustle by his head, fabric on fabric as someone—Tim, it could only be Tim—sat down in the armchair by Dick’s head.

Thin fingers brushed against his scalp, began to card through his hair; gentle and unsure at first, gaining confidence as Dick instinctively angled into the touch.  It had been years since he’d been on the receiving end of this, of someone gently stroking his hair and massaging his scalp.

A memory, brief and hazy, of a larger hand mimicking the same path through his curls as Dick lay injured and feverish in his early Robin years came to him.  He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this till today.

How much he’d missed being held, being pressed into by people he loved on all sides, sharing a space too small to reasonably contain them all.  If there was one thing Dick missed the most from his circus days, it was the touching that came with shared love, affection, and not enough room to do anything but express it.

But that was the circus.  The Manor was different.  Larger, emptier, easier to escape in the aftermath of disagreements in.

Dick minutely braced himself for the words to start.  For the chatter that would inevitably escalate to something sharper, something louder, and ruin this moment.

But it was quiet.

Well…relatively.

Dick could hear(feel) Damian’s breath against his chest, each puff warm and slightly tickle-y.  Could hear the sshhhk as Jason turned a new page in his book, an occasional quiet whistle or snort through his teeth as he read.  And of course, Timmy clumsily typing with one hand at speeds that still defied all human logic, the other one still curling in Dick’s hair.

No one arguing.  No one speaking.  Just…being.

It was…peaceful.

Dick.  Dick could handle this.  This was good.  This was nice.

Slowly, surely, Dick relaxed.  Damian pressed tightly into his torso.  Jason’s legs bouncing up and down beneath his calves.  Tim’s hand scratching through his hair.

Tears rose unbidden to his eyes as a knot in his core he didn’t even know existed began to ease, warmth taking its place.