#tim&jason

No.  He—he couldn’t think about that.  He was—he was here for a reason.  He had to stop—he had to ignore the throbbing pain, the brief, searing slice every time he took too big a step, the ache pressing behind his eyes, the shivering, the way everything felt far away and too close all at once.

The streets were fuzzy, but he could hear his heartbeat in his ears, obnoxiously loud, and that meant everyone else could hear it too, could take one look at him and know—

No.  He needed—deep breaths.  He couldn’t focus on himself.  He wasn’t—he wasn’t in danger.  He was Robin.  There were actual children in danger, and Tim had to focus on them.

Batman was off-planet, wouldn’t be back for a couple of days.  Tim was—Tim was—Tim should’ve been able to do it, to track down details and find the children before they were trafficked, he was Robin, he should’ve—

He’d tried.  And it had ended—Tim wasn’t going back there.  He couldn’t.  He’d started hyperventilating at the very thought, and the children were being shipped tomorrow, and Tim didn’t know where, and he needed—he needed to find someone to help him, someone who wouldn’t ask questions, and the list was distressingly empty.

But there were rumors spreading from the sex workers in Crime Alley, and tracking down Gotham’s latest drug lord was probably a very bad idea, but apparently this was the night for bad ideas.  Hood was supposed to be protective of children, and he didn’t seem like the kind of person that would need evidence.

Tim just had to find him, and give him the name.

That was it.

Give him the name, and limp-hobble-wince back home, and curl up in his bed and cry, cry until he couldn’t cry anymore, and maybe just spend the rest of his life in bed, it wasn’t like his parents cared.

He’d known that Tim’s parents weren’t home.  He’d known—he’d invited him—our little secret, he’s whispered, like Tim scared of him, like Tim wouldn’t tell anyone, like he’d buttoned his shirt with trembling fingers and walked numbly out of the house, his mind full of panicked static.

The Red Hood was a killer.  Right now, Tim didn’t care.  He just needed to find him and—

Tim’s steps stuttered to a halt.  …How was he going to find Hood?  They didn’t know where his base was, they didn’t know how to contact him—the man was half a myth, they barely had enough security camera footage to prove that he existed.

He could ask some dealers, but the streets were near-empty this late at night—maybe Tim should’ve come in the morning, or the afternoon—but he couldn’t stay in his empty house, not when that man knew where it was, and going to Wayne Manor would only led to questions, and Tim didn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

They were all detectives, they’d take one look at him and know, and Tim didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to do anything.  Didn’t want to—he could still feel the hands on him, the hot breath on his neck, the paralysis, unable to move, unable to fight back—

His breathing was too loud, shallow and harsh.  He was shaking again, and a man crossing the street at the intersection darted a look in his direction.  Tim immediately jerked towards the shadows, the darkness, the closest alleyway, and pressed against brick as he tried to remember how to breathe.

He couldn’t have a panic attack in the middle of Crime Alley, someone would gut him and take his wallet without a second thought.  Or—no, not thinking about that, not thinking about that—Tim wrapped his arms around himself as he leaned against the alley wall.

He was too exposed down here.  He wasn’t going to find Hood by wandering around the streets, he needed a plan, and for that, he needed to calm down, and if he kept losing it in the middle of the street, someone was going to mark him as easy prey.

And they’d probably be right.

Tim dared to go a little further into the alley, spotting a rickety fire escape and using a dumpster to jump up to it.  The movement burned inside of him, and Tim nearly lost his balance and fell backwards when he was climbing across the railing, but he was finally on the fire escape.  He chose a landing midway up, and curling up tightly in the corner, shoving his face against his knees and trying to breathe.

In, four count.  Hold, seven count.  Out, eight count.  Again.  Again.  Again.

No one was hurting him.  He wasn’t in danger.  He was alone, and he was safe.  He just needed to focus on breathing.

Breaths tickling his ear, his own breath misting the glass top of the desk as he—

No.  No, he had to focus.  Breathe.  Children were in danger, he had to find Hood.

His thighs still ached where the edge of the desk had bit into them.  He could feel the large hand splayed on his back, each individual finger searing into him.  That low, dark, satisfied voice.  The smirk on his face as he watched Tim leave.