Chapter Text
It happened five months ago. Well, Tim supposes it started a bit earlier, and the incident only toppled the house of cards he was standing on. In any case, it was in the middle of a mission, a case that took him three long weeks to crack. A new drug had crept into the streets, something combining cocaine, Joker toxin, and Poison Ivy's flowers. Something bad.
He hadn't slept for four days. That's at least what he read in Bruce's report when he was bedridden afterward, unable to do anything. Or maybe what started the whole thing was when Rudy, Tim's classmate, started selling the blue pills among the twelfth graders.
Five students arrived at the hospital that week. Two didn't survive. The other three looked like shadows of themselves, and maybe that's what kept Tim awake at night, the fact that they looked... haunted. But no matter what the drug's consequences were, people still took them. Kids still took them. It turns out that those who survived the experience suddenly managed to get good grades.
Tim didn't rest until he managed to crack where the drug den was located. He scanned every camera, every dealer until he reached the source. And he immediately sent a message to everyone, but didn't wait for them to come. Didn't listen to the plan that Bruce has created. He just put on the suit and left on Todd's motorcycle, like an idiot.
Everything went wrong.
He'd never seen Bruce so angry. He'd never heard him shout at such decibels. It brought him back to the days when his father would grip his wrist tightly and shake him while screaming about his poor behavior. And on top of all that, he had to watch Damian, his hand bandaged and his suit still stained with blood, looking at him with wide, shocked eyes.
Tim really doesn't know what was worse, watching his little brother nearly die from an overdose or Dick looking at him so disappointedly, so hurt, that all Tim wanted to do was run away from there as fast as possible. It didn't help that Jason refused to talk to him for two whole days.
In his defense, he didn't notice that his leg was broken. That is, he did notice the excruciating pain every time he moved his leg even slightly, but with everything going on, he assumed he'd just bandage himself up and go lick his wounds somewhere isolated from everyone.
His leg started to heal. Really. It just started healing wrong. And by the time someone noticed, it was already too late. He was forced to undergo surgery under full anesthesia, where they broke his leg again and fused it using an itchy cast that prevented him from any ability to move.
Worst of all, after everything he did, he needed help. The shame and humiliation are what finally made him pack his things and move to a distant apartment, claiming it was closer to campus.
He hasn't been to the manor since.
Tim stands on the building's roof and looks down. From this angle, everything looks like an optical illusion painting, as if he were to look away for a moment, the view would look different. He walks along the edge, his hands spreading automatically to maintain balance. It's ridiculous, after all, he has all the equipment he'd need to jump safely. And still, something in the thrill, something about the height, makes him feel alive.
He moved to a new apartment on the other side of the city. It's a good thing, he tries to tell himself. He needs independence. Tim quickly got used to the comfort of the manor, the hot meals, and the constant commotion in the hallways - the fights with Damian, the jabs to the ribs from Todd, or Dick's rolling laughter.
But the silence is hardest of all for him, and it makes Tim feel guilty. He had to leave the manor. He doesn't belong anymore. For a while now, it's been echoing in his bones, pecking at his thoughts, causing his lips to contract into a thin line. Honestly, it was hard not to notice how much he no longer fit in.
He jumps off the roof of the building. Everything is calculated, and he waits until a millisecond too late, just to feel his heart racing hard again. He's already gripping the rope tied to the next building, but that short gasp, the strength in the muscles carrying his body weight - he is addicted.
For three months now, he's been feeling... off. Like sitting in a train car and trying to focus on the passing scenery, only for the image to slip between his fingers and be replaced by a new one. The only thing that makes him feel alive again is the night patrols. The blood in his veins seems to surge with force, his heart beats at a steady and strong rhythm, and everything's fine, everything's under control.
Until it's not anymore. Until one night, he's patrolling between streets, and something's not right. Someone knocks him down, and Tim slips, and terrible pain grips his leg. There's a part of him that debates whether to call for help, but he's been avoiding pressing the distress signal for a very long time, treating himself like a wounded animal in his crappy studio apartment.
He doesn't manage to recover because he's too slow, or too arrogant, or too stupid to understand what's happening until it's too late. The world goes black before he -
He wakes up with a headache. That's not new to him. He's used to waking up with headaches, especially since lately he hasn't been able to fall asleep, and he also religiously makes sure to skip breakfast, because somehow it makes him nauseous. But that's just indulgence, it'll pass. He's so used to Alfred's elaborate meals that suddenly a banana and protein yogurt with a questionable expiration date seem plain to him, and give him a stomachache. It'll pass.
But when he tries to sit up, he discovers he can't. Oh, shit. The evening's events come back to him suddenly - did the thug knock him out with a baseball bat? Tim tries to blink a few times, grateful that his domino mask is still intact. He's on the floor. His hands are tied behind his back to a thick, cold pipe he's been leaning against until this moment. He tries to straighten up, plants both feet on the floor, and pushes himself backward through them, when a wave of sharp pain from his left leg causes him to fold and groan. Ouch ouch ouch ouch -
"Red? Are you awake?" Fuck, it's Dick. And he sounds worried. When Tim raises his gaze, he hates himself even more. Dick is right in front of him, also tied to a thick pipe - how many pipes are in this place? - and around his neck is a metal collar flashing with a faint red light. Electric shocker, he realizes with a chill, and it looks like he has a black eye.
"I - yes. What... what happened?" His throat is dry, and when he tries to swallow, he feels like his mouth is full of sand. Dick sighs in near relief.
"Dealers. I think they surprised you, because you didn't call for backup. Lucky for you, I noticed you hadn't responded in a while on the comms, so I headed your way. And then... well, you can already see for yourself."
And Tim suddenly feels very, very guilty and also very, very stupid. Lately, his headache has prevented him from enjoying the endless chatter on the comms. He started slowly turning down the volumes, keeping only Bruce's main line on, but mostly it's quiet. Until finally, without noticing, he silenced all the lines completely. It's not like anyone has reached out to him since he left the manor.
Well... apparently Dick reached out to him, and he didn't hear. He doesn't know if he's luckier or more of an idiot for putting his older brother at risk like that.
He raises his eyes to the man sitting across from him. Dick runs his gaze over his body, as if trying to assess whether Tim is hiding additional injuries. It seems he doesn't trust him anymore, Tim realizes bitterly. Not since what happened five months ago.
The boy looks away and finally begins noticing the environment they're in. They're in a large, dark room, full of mold and cobwebs. If Tim had to guess, it's probably one of the buildings slated for demolition on the more southern side of Gotham. They're sitting on a cracked concrete floor, white grains of dust already sticking to their pants. There's only one exit door, and some thin windows around, but they're completely blackened, meaning the dealers have been here for a while.
He moves to observe Dick. The hero sits across from him, leaning lazily on his left side, so he was likely injured in his right shoulder. Tim deduces it's related to the black eye, like a chain reaction to some short fight. A fight that happened because of him. He starts hating himself more and more.
"Hey, Red? Are you okay? Injured anywhere?" The man across from him finally breaks and asks, as the silence between them stretches uncomfortably.
"I..." There's hesitation in the young man's voice, and he bites his lower lip. How much to tell? How much to reveal? How much can he trust Dick?
"Please, Red." There are pleas in the voice that squeeze Tim's heart.
"I think my leg... I'm not sure. It hurts." He's less in doubt than he says, because Tim is pretty sure it's a sprain, but his heart is fluttering rapidly, and he's not sure he's ready to expose this piece of information yet. Not after last time. He clears his throat. "I think I took a hit to the temple, so maybe a concussion? I don't know for sure. No nausea, at least." He adds as an afterthought.
That seems to have been the right thing to say, because Dick's face is less tense, and his forehead is no longer wrinkled with lines of worry. "Okay, that's good news." He avoids commenting on his leg. A painful subject for everyone.
Tim lowers his head to the floor. His leg hurts, yes, but definitely not the same excruciating pain he dragged around for whole days. His boot holds the leg well, especially with the braces he put in there when he returned to patrol to stabilize the ankle. The ropes are tied in an X-shape at his wrist, so there's no point in dislocating his thumb to get free. Whoever's holding them knows them. Anxiety starts settling in Tim's stomach, a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Red, I - " Dick starts, but the door opening with a creak cuts him off, to his relief. Tim's not sure he can start dealing with any attempt at conversation. He gave up on that long ago - it seems that no apology from him will ever atone for what happened to Damian that night. He, as a person, will never forgive himself.
"Well, look who's awake! Nice to see you awake and chatting, friends." The world tilts for a moment, slips out from under his feet - no, it can't be, it can't be - but it is, it's Alton Pinto, head of the drug cartel they tried to catch five months ago. He used to be one of Crane's lieutenants in the past, and then moved to work under Poison Ivy. He gathered materials and knowledge slowly until he managed to establish an organization of his own. And worst of all, he was smart.
Nightwing suddenly straightens, his mouth snapping into a thin line. He goes from being a big brother to being a hero, the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth disappearing. "I can't say the same to you," he spits, his eyes blazing with fury.
Pinto shrugs. "Very sorry to hear, Nightwing. How's the little one, speaking of which? Did he survive the night? I'm very sorry he was part of the drug test subjects. You see, the previous dosage was a bit... unpredictable, if we call it that. But I'm working on it." His smile is the most chilling thing Tim has ever seen.
He realizes with horror that Alton is completely ignoring him, focused entirely on Dick. He must divert his attention. They won't survive as a family without Dick. Jason, Bruce, Damian... they need Dick, the older and optimistic brother, confident in himself. He must do something.
Before Dick can respond with something stupid, Tim stomps his healthy leg on the floor. "What, did you come here just to brag about something that happened by accident five months ago?" Alton ignores him, so he continues taunting.
"I mean, you don't seem like an idiot to me, but who knew? What else happened by accident that got you hired? I bet... fifty dollars it took you five months to come back because you had no idea what you used for those drugs." Tim speaks quickly, recalling details from the case file he worked on. "What happened? Did you drop a few test tubes in the lab and discover something new?"
The man spins on his heels with a burning look. Based on Pinto's reaction, it seems Tim hit too close to home. "What, did I strike a nerve? Let me guess... Poison Ivy's leaves? That was a mistake, right? They must have boosted the compound a bit, but their effects are short-term and destructive. Who told you their dosage was wrong? Or did you completely replace the leaves on someone else's recommendation?"
He can't stop his flow of speech anymore, eager for the villain to move away from Dick as much as possible. It seems these words hit the mark, as Alton abandons his unwavering facade and lunges at Tim, his fist colliding with his jaw forcefully. Pinto pushes his shirt collar upward in a sloppy choke. "Shut. Your. Mouth." He hisses, the stench of his breath causing the boy to turn his head away.
"Leave him alone! Leave him - !" Dick starts screaming, but it seems that's enough for Alton. He takes out a small remote from his pocket and aims it at Dick.
"Quiet!" He commands, pressing the button. Dick starts convulsing, a choked scream erupting from his throat as an electric current passes from the collar to his body.
"Stop! Stop it - !" Tim is panicking; he knows he's starting to go into hysteria, but Dick can't get hurt. It can't happen. They can't do without him. Tim is the unneeded one, the one who can be sacrificed.
That's the reason he didn't completely abandon the name 'Robin' to begin with. Robin is supposed to serve as a distraction, as a glittering target, so Batman can take down his enemies efficiently and smoothly. Now that Damian is here, Bruce's actual son, Robin's purpose has changed. But someone has to draw the line of fire.
Pinto listens to him because he returns the remote to his pocket. Nightwing slumps in place, his head dropping onto his wildly rising and falling chest. The older man's eyes glint with malice, his gray sideburns gleaming in the fluorescent light of the lamp swinging above them.
The adult shakes his head disappointedly. "You know what? I didn't really need both of you. I planned to extract information from you, but my whole mood dropped. But you know what I am missing?"
And Tim's stomach drops so fast that vomit rises in his throat. He knows what the next sentence is going to be, and he's so anxious about it, so terrified, that he has to stop mid-forced breath to not fall into a full anxiety attack in the middle of the room. He can't experience this again. To see the needle plunged into the neck of someone he loves, to see the bright blue liquid enter the person's bloodstream in front of him.
For a moment, he's there, five months ago, surrounded by three thugs with knives. Damian runs to him, shouting something at him that Tim doesn't remember exactly. Except then one of his attackers suddenly changes direction, and instead of running to Tim, he collides with Robin with all his might, knocking him forcefully to the floor.
Tim's mind is distracted. Someone knocks him to the ground, but all he can see is how the needle sinks into Damian's neck in slow motion. A scream tears through his throat, involuntary and so scared, so strangled that he doesn't even notice one of the goons grabs his leg in a lock and snaps the bone with a painful crack. He faints then, unable to help his little brother lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, and not blinking.
He can't see this again. He must stop this somehow. "They're on their way." Tim blurts out. "You'll never have time to do anything before they come and take down your whole little operation. I suggest you start running, Pinto. You started something you can't get out of." He tries to sound threatening, but his voice shakes slightly at the end, and his vision doesn't quite sharpen all the way.
The villain's smile is the most disturbing thing Tim has seen. Lots of yellow teeth, straight but starting to rot from cigarettes and who knows what, and wrinkles that don't reach his eyes. But before either of the vigilantes continues speaking, Alton turns on his heels and leaves the room, the door swinging behind him.
"That was really stupid of you." Dick doesn't wait long before start talking. "Don't tell him anything else, is that clear?" He shoots him a silencing look.
"But - "
"No buts. That's an order."
And that shuts Tim's mouth. Dick doesn't often use his being-more-experienced-and-therefore-more-senior in battle decisions. The young man's teeth lock with a click, and he turns his gaze aside.
"There are the knives. Can you reach yours?" Nightwing means the knife usually located at the bottom of the left boot. But Tim removed the knife from there in exchange for braces so his leg would stay straight during runs, without him having to concentrate on it. It's a substitute for the physiotherapy he was supposed to do after recovery.
"Um, I'm not sure. I - "
"Never mind." Dick cuts him off, his hands suddenly free. He runs to his younger brother, the small knife in his hand. "Let's get out of here as fast as possible. Preferably before they come back with new ideas." He emphasizes the last part of the sentence, as if it's Tim's fault that Alton wants to experiment on them. He settles for scowling.
The ropes are cut quickly, and Red Robin rubs his wrists in a meager attempt to return blood flow to its normal state. His leg still hurts, but he ignores it. That's about all he manages to do before the door opens wide, dozens of armed men streaming inside, led by a furious Alton Pinto, in one hand a syringe, this time with a green liquid that gives Tim unpleasant connotations of the Joker, and in his other hand the remote, which they both remember too late is connected to the collar around Dick's neck.
"Fuck," the young man manages to blurt out before falling to his knees, a choked and involuntary scream escaping from him. The knife falls from his hand with a harsh sound, and he starts to contort, convulsions passing through his body. The sound of electricity carried in the air makes Tim want to vomit.
"Leave him alone. Now." He picks up the knife in a smooth motion and stands in a ready stance in front of Dick, the hilt warm in his hands. He catches Alton's movement before he completes it. He starts raising his hand to signal his thugs to attack them. Tim doesn't give him the chance.
He lunges at him, the knife in his hand raised to strike. He manages to cut a thin, straight line on Pinto's cheek, but the knife is too short and not suitable for face-to-face combat, and besides, Tim always used longer weapons. He needs to train more, he notes to himself, and then takes a punch to the face from the older man in front of him.
"You little piece of shit - " Tim uses the momentum from the punch he received to drop to the floor on both palms, the knife trapped between his right hand and the cold concrete. He uses his good leg - his left leg hurts so much that for a moment he sees stars - to kick the villain in the shins, knocking him straight on his ass, to speak in Jason's language.
But it seems the thugs have now come out of their shock, and they pounce on Tim. Pulling him, pushing him, kicking him. He fights back, ignoring his body screaming at him to stop. He fights like a wounded animal, all teeth and nails. He barely notices when the needle plunges into his neck, but the moment it happens, the fight stops. Everyone backs away from him at once, except Alton, who approaches him with a smile, the empty syringe in his hand.
"Let him go." He smiles again, that terrible smile. Tim stands before him, panting. His left leg is dripping blood, his costume is torn in a million places, and he guesses his face is swollen with red bruises, but the knife is still somehow in his hand.
"Go on, little bird. Let's see how far you manage to run before you crawl back here begging for more. I heard the new compound I developed is very... tempting."
Bitter juices rise in Tim's throat, and his free hand rises to his neck, feeling the small bulge that formed. Pinto moves aside, as if to indicate the location of the door. Tim glances back at Dick, who is now lying on the floor, his body convulsing. Dick manages to raise his gaze to Tim. He blinks at him a few times, and Tim's tired mind manages to translate the code. 'Run’ Or 'Escape'. He understands the message. Run to Bruce. Get help. Dick will be fine.
While Tim's stomach contracts, he breaks into a run, his leg groaning under the weight, as he leaves another brother behind again.