The Drake mansion was big.

Jason realised that within thirty seconds of walking through the front doors. 

It was almost as big as Wayne Manor, but it felt larger—more lifeless. It was filled with expensive art and hundreds of looming statues, instead of laughter and cheer. 

A museum, rather than a home.

The ceilings were high enough that the chandeliers looked like they’d fall and crush someone eventually.

Jason kind of hoped they would.

It would make the night more interesting, at least. 

He stood near the edge of the ballroom, hands shoved into the pockets of the suit pants Bruce had insisted he wear.

The suit was stiff. The shoes were worse. Jason had already decided that if anyone attempted to make him dance—or, god forbid, socialise—he was taking a swan dive straight out the nearest window. Consequences be damned. 

Across the room, Bruce was doing his Brucie Wayne thing—smiling, shaking hands, nodding politely at whatever boring business talk these people loved so much.

Jason watched him for a moment, then looked away before Bruce could spot him and give him the behave look.

Not that Jason was planning to do anything.

He was just… brooding. Silently. In this corner. By himself.

Dick had said he was sulking, but he wasn’t sulking, thank you very much. He was thirteen, and thirteen-year-olds don’t sulk. He was merely… embroiled in thought. Yeah. Embroiled… thoughtfully. Nice.

A burst of laughter cut through the room, dragging Jason out of his sullen musings. 

It had come from Bruce’s little circle of sycophants. 

Jason glanced over.

Bruce stood near the centre of the group, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass while he listened to something a broad-shouldered man beside him was saying. The man laughed loudly at his own joke, champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his glass as he gestured enthusiastically.

A woman stood at his side, close enough that their shoulders brushed whenever he moved. Her smile was immaculate, yet sharp-edged. It showed exactly the right amount of teeth and never slipped, even while her eyes skimmed across the ballroom, as if she were searching for imperfections—a curtain out of place, a table a centimetre too far to the left, a waiter dozing at their post. Every so often she adjusted something small—straightening the man’s cuff, smoothing the line of his sleeve—with quick, practised movements, as if the room needed constant perfecting.

Jason scoffed. Pff. As if anyone was going to throw a fit over a slightly crooked tie. 

They both had that same polished look the house did. Perfectly arranged. Perfectly performed.

The man said something else, and the circle laughed again. The woman’s sharp-edged smile softened with demure giggles.

Jason’s skin crawled at the sugar-sweet fakeness of it all.

God. He hated high society.

Bruce smiled politely.

Someone near Jason murmured something about the Drakes and what a wonderful evening they’d arranged.

Jason looked back at the couple by Bruce.

Right.

So those were the hosts.

A hand clapped lightly on his shoulder.

Jason jolted and jerked away automatically, shoulders rising to his ears as his whole body tensed.

“Relax,” said Dick, amused. “It’s just me.”

“Dick!” Jason snapped, punching him in the arm lightly. And he didn’t mean his name. “You scared me, you bastard.”

Some nearby guests shot them scandalised looks at his vulgar language, faces morphing into thinly veiled disgust when they realised who they were looking at. 

Dick noticed immediately. Of course he did.

He flashed them a quick, apologetic smile that somehow managed to look both charming and harmless. The kind of smile that made fancy men laugh and call him chum, and women old enough to be his grandma simper and pinch his cheeks—never mind that Dick was seventeen and not seven. 

He had a talent for charming adults into forgiving things they definitely wouldn’t forgive from Jason. 

Jason rolled his eyes.

“Careful,” Dick murmured under his breath, leaning casually against the wall beside him. “Bruce’ll hear about that.”

“What, the swearing?” Jason scoffed. “Pretty sure they’ve heard worse.”

Dick snorted softly and nudged Jason lightly with his elbow.

“You could at least pretend to enjoy yourself.”

Jason leaned against the wall next to him and gestured broadly at the ballroom. “Oh yeah. I’m having the time of my life.”

Dick followed his gaze across the glittering room, lips twitching.

“Free food,” he offered.

Jason considered that. 

“…Okay, the food’s decent.”

Before Dick could respond, a woman in an elaborate green dress drifted toward them with a purposeful smile.

Jason knew Dick clocked her approach at the same time he did, because the older boy stiffened before forcing his muscles to relax.

“Richard,” she said warmly.

Dick straightened automatically, a polite smile sliding into place.

“Mrs Kensington,” he greeted.

Jason immediately took half a step back.

He knew that tone.

Small talk was coming.

Mrs Kensington’s gaze slid to Jason briefly—taking in the rumpled tie, the slouch, the general lack of enthusiasm.

Her smile dimmed by half a watt.

“How lovely to see you both tonight,” she continued, clearly addressing Dick.

Jason was already edging away.

Dick caught the movement and shot him a quick look.

Don’t.

Jason ignored it.

Dick narrowed his eyes at him. Jason took that to mean Don’t you dare leave me alone to deal with this by myself, Jason, or I will make you regret it later.

So obviously, he shot Dick a little mocking grin that meant Fuck you, you’re on your own. Every man for themselves!

Which Dick seemed to gather perfectly well, because he sighed and muttered, “Don’t cause trouble,” under his breath.

Jason grinned faintly.

“No promises.”

Then he slipped into the crowd.

It was easy for him to escape the gala.

No one was really paying attention to him. The room was too full of glittering dresses, clinking glasses, and important conversations for anyone to notice one teenage boy drifting toward the doors. Especially one they liked to ignore anyway. 

God forbid they acknowledge the Crime Alley scum that had somehow wriggled its way into their society.

Jason stepped out into the hallway, and the noise of the ballroom dulled to a distant murmur—violins and laughter bleeding faintly through the closed doors. The quiet felt almost startling after the crush of people.

And just like that, the Drake mansion felt impossibly bigger.

The corridor stretched out in front of him, long and wide and lined with polished marble.

More statues.

Jason slowed, eyeing the nearest one suspiciously as he passed.

It was some kind of classical… something—a marble man standing dramatically on a pedestal, one arm raised toward the ceiling like he was about to give a speech that could rival Bruce’s. The sculptor had carved the face with an unsettling amount of detail. The eyes had tiny grooves where pupils should be.

Jason paused.

The statue stared past him with cold, blank intensity.

“…Yeah, no,” Jason muttered under his breath.

He shifted a step to the side.

The statue kept staring.

Jason shifted again.

Still staring.

“Don’t you start,” he told it defensively.

For a long second, he stood there, hands in his pockets, glaring up at the thing like it might come to life and scold him back into the gala.

It didn’t.

Jason huffed and walked on, trying very hard not to glance back over his shoulder.

The rest of the hallway wasn’t much better. More statues stood along the walls every few yards, frozen in dramatic poses. Gods. Heroes. Some lady with a sword and a very intense expression.

They all looked like they were watching him.

The house felt different away from the ballroom. The distant music and chatter just barely reached this far, leaving the corridors strangely hollow. Every step echoed faintly off the polished marble floors.

Jason shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

Weird house.

Wayne Manor was huge, too, but it didn’t feel like this. Even when it was quiet, there were always signs people actually lived there—Alfred somewhere in the kitchen, Dick leaving things lying around, Bruce pacing in his office.

This place just felt… staged.

Like nobody was meant to touch anything. Like a fancy art showroom, or something.

Jason wandered past another statue and slowed again, eyeing it warily.

At least the Drakes didn’t seem to have kids.

That would’ve been miserable.

He tried to imagine living here—tiptoeing around all this expensive nonsense, afraid to knock over a vase worth more than a car. Getting stared down by marble statues every time you walked to the kitchen.

No sliding down bannisters or swinging from the chandeliers here.

Jason snorted softly.

Yeah. No thanks.

Still…

It was kind of weird.

Most houses this big had kids somewhere. Or at least signs of them. Toys shoved under furniture. A jacket tossed over a chair. Something.

If he and Dick lived here, they would’ve had a field day drawing moustaches on the paintings and dressing the statues up in increasingly ridiculous outfits.

But the Drake mansion was spotless. No vandalised artworks anywhere in sight.

Perfectly arranged.

Perfectly performed.

Just like the hosts.

Jason shoved the thought aside and kept wandering down the corridor, the distant music fading further behind him as the house grew quieter around him.

Maybe the Drakes just didn’t have any kids. They didn’t seem the type for them. Too cold, too… aloof. Curated. Yeah, curated. 

Jason frowned slightly.

Actually…

He thought they did have a kid. A son, maybe.

But if that was true, the place gave absolutely no sign of it.

And he wasn’t at the gala downstairs. Jason was sure of that, because he’d been keeping an eye out for anyone else around his age to lament his misfortune with. But there’d been no one.

Maybe the Drakes’ son, if they actually had one, was allowed to sit out of galas.

Lucky bastard.

Jason sighed, locking eyes with another statue, this one was a small ancient Greek-looking kid carved from pale marble, completely naked like all those old statues seemed to be. 

He stood twisted slightly at the waist, one arm drawn tight across his stomach while the other hung awkwardly at his side, fingers curled. His head was tipped back just enough that his mouth sat half-open, like he’d been caught mid-gasp. 

The sculptor had carved the face with an odd tension too—his brows were pinched together, the eyes hollowed just enough that shadows pooled inside them—so instead of looking heroic or noble like the other statues, the kid just looked… uncomfortable. Tortured. Haunted.

Jason shuddered. Ugh. This place was giving him major heebie-jeebies. 

He tore his eyes away from the statue and kept walking.

One corridor fed into another, then another, the ceilings still ridiculously high and the floors still polished enough to see blurry reflections in. 

Jason shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. He couldn't hear the gala anymore.

Okay. Maybe he’d gone a little farther than he meant to.

He turned a corner.

More hallway.

More statues.

“Seriously?” he muttered.

Jesus Fuck. What the hell did these creeps have so many statues for?

His footsteps echoed faintly off the walls.

The sound seemed too loud in the quiet. His skin was starting to crawl. He almost regretted leaving the gala.

Jason slowed, glancing back down the corridor he’d just come from. Nothing there but a row of pale statues and an empty hallway.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself, “not creepy at all.”

Jason did not look at the statues.

He definitely did not look back at the weird Greek kid statue.

Because that thing had absolutely looked like it was about to start crawling off its pedestal.

Totally normal thought to have. Completely rational.

Jason scuffed his shoe lightly against the marble floor, trying to ignore the prickly feeling creeping up the back of his neck.

Wayne Manor was old too. It creaked sometimes. Pipes clanked. Floorboards groaned when the wind hit the windows wrong.

But Wayne Manor didn’t feel like this.

This place felt…

Jason frowned slightly.

… watchy.

Like the house itself was judging him, monitoring him, waiting for him to take one wrong step.

He rounded another corner. And froze.

For a second, he thought he’d imagined it.

But then he heard it again.

A faint sound.

At first, it sounded like the wind slipping through some crack in the old place—a thin, wavering sound that rose and fell in uneven breaths. Wayne Manor did that sometimes when storms rolled in, the air whining through old pipes and loose window frames.

Except there wasn’t any storm tonight.

Jason frowned.

Weird pipe, maybe.

He stood there for a moment, listening.

Nothing.

Jason huffed quietly. Great. Now he was hearing things.

Probably just the wind or pipes or some fancy rich-people house noise.

Or—

His gaze flicked back down the hallway behind him.

—or maybe that creepy Greek kid statue had finally come to life and was wandering around somewhere.

Jason grimaced.

“Awesome,” he muttered.

He turned to keep walking.

The sound came again.

A quiet hitching noise, like the house itself was trying to breathe through a blocked nose. It drifted down the hallway in uneven little bursts, breaking off suddenly and then starting again a few seconds later.

Definitely not pipes or wind or old houses.

Jason stilled.

“…okay,” he said slowly, glancing around the empty corridor, “this place is so haunted.”

The sound came again.

Faint.

From somewhere deeper in the house.

Jason tilted his head.

“…Hello?”

The sound cut off.

Silence.

Jason shuddered, “Oh hell nah.”

He’d seen enough horror films to know how this went. Lone kid, rich person’s house, a party loud enough to cover up any unwanted sounds.

Hell no. 

Jason was getting the fuck out of here.

He took one step back.

Then another.

Nope. Absolutely not. He was not doing this. Whatever that noise was—ghost, demon, cursed statue—it was none of his business.

He turned on his heel.

Took three quick steps in the opposite direction.

The sound came again.

A stifled, broken little noise—like someone trying not to make any sound at all and failing.

It sounded pained and so utterly heartbroken that Jason stopped walking, even as every atom in his body screamed otherwise.

“…yeah,” he muttered under his breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.”

He stood there for a long second, staring down the empty hallway like it had personally offended him.

He could leave.

Should leave.

He could hear Alfred’s voice in his head. Master Jason, please kindly refrain from investigating haunted mansions alone.

The sound came again, a heartwrenching sob that choked and broke off into silence again.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Stupid,” he muttered. 

Stupid stupid stupid.

This is how people die in horror films.

He turned back toward the sound.

It didn’t take long for him to track down the source.

All he had to do was follow the choking sounds of sobbing, getting louder as he went turn after turn, until suddenly he found himself in front of a door.

Just a door. Same as the others—dark wood, carved edges, polished to a shine that reflected the low light. It didn’t stand out at all.

Except the sound was definitely coming from behind it.

He stopped a few feet away, staring at it, a faint frown pulling at his mouth.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Not weird. Totally normal.”

He glanced back over his shoulder.

The hallway was empty.

Another sound.

Quieter this time. Thinner, reedier. Like whatever—whoever—it was coming from had tried harder to keep it in.

Jason’s expression shifted, something uneasy settling under his ribs.

“…Hello?” he called quietly, dread pooling within him.

The noise cut off immediately.

The silence that followed felt heavier for it.

Jason waited, listening, but nothing came. No movement, no breath, no shift of fabric. It was like the sound had never existed at all.

“Right,” he muttered under his breath.

He stepped closer, drawn in despite himself, until he was standing right in front of the door. 

C’mon. He could do this. He was Robin, goddamit. Jason was not going to be scared of a weird crying door in a weird, rich couple’s house. Dick wouldn’t be.

He breathed out heavily and knocked twice.

“Hey,” he said, forcing a little more confidence into his voice this time. “You—uh… you okay in there?”

Nothing.

Not even the faint sound he’d been following.

Jason frowned.

“…Yeah,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “That’s not creepy at all.”

He reached for the handle and turned it.

It didn’t move.

Jason blinked, then tried again, putting more weight into it this time.

Still nothing.

Locked.

“Seriously?” he murmured, under his breath.

Of course it was.

He leaned in slightly, closer to the door now, lowering his voice without really thinking about it.

“Hey,” he said. “I know you’re in there.”

For a second, nothing happened.

Then he rattled the handle, the lock giving a sharp metallic clink in the quiet—

—and the sound came back.

Not faint this time.

A loud gasping sob, choked and uneven, like it had forced its way out. As if whoever was inside hadn’t been able to smother it fast enough.

Jason went still.

It wasn’t ambiguous anymore. There was no mistaking it.

Someone was in there.

“Shit,” he breathed.

Another broken noise filtered through the door, muffled by the wood but still too clear, too raw to ignore.

Jason stepped back slightly, dragging a hand through his hair, his pulse picking up for a reason that had nothing to do with the creepy house or the empty hallway.

He looked at the handle again.

Then at the frame.

Then back at the handle.

Locked.

From the outside.

Fuck.

His jaw tightened.

Yeah, no. Not happening. 

He grabbed the handle again and yanked harder, testing it, but the door held firm, the lock refusing to give.

Inside, the crying hitched sharply at the noise, then cut off again, like whoever it was had panicked and tried to swallow it down.

That silence again.

That horrible, choking silence that sent wrongness crawling through him. No one should be able to choke sobs like that into silence. 

Jason exhaled slowly, something colder settling into place, something harder.

“Great,” he muttered. “Fantastic.”

He stepped back, eyes moving over the door more carefully now—the hinges, the frame, the way it sat in the wall.

Jason’s mouth pulled into a thin line.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “Let’s see how well that holds up.”

Jason took two steps back, braced himself, and drove his shoulder into the door.

It shuddered hard in its frame but didn’t give.

Pain shot down his arm.

“Ow—Jesus Christ,” he hissed, stumbling back a step. “What is this thing made of?”

Inside, the crying stopped dead.

Jason froze for half a second, suddenly aware of how that must have sounded from the other side—someone slamming into the door, rattling the handle, making everything worse.

“Wait—shit, no,” he said quickly, stepping forward again. “I’m not—I’m trying to get you out.”

Silence.

Then, so faint he almost missed it—

“…Go away.”

The voice was thin and hoarse and very, very young.

Jason’s stomach dropped.

Oh.

A kid.

Locked in a room. 

Crying and alone.

Something hot and furious flared in Jason’s chest so fast it almost made him dizzy.

He stepped back again, this time eyeing the hinges instead of the handle. Fancy old door. Fancy old screws. Fancy old people with more money than sense.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’ll do.” He rolled his shoulders. “Stay away from the door, okay?”

He planted one foot, grabbed the handle to steady himself, and kicked hard just above the lock.

The door shook with a crack that jolted all the way up his leg. The frame splintered, but the door didn’t give.

Jason kicked it again.

Wood cracked louder this time, and the lock tore halfway loose.

One more—

The door flew inward with a sharp bang, rebounding off the wall hard enough to rattle the paintings beside it.

Jason stumbled and caught himself on the frame, breathing heavily. He looked up.

It wasn’t a room.

It was a cupboard. A dark, narrow, airless little space stuffed with coats and storage boxes and folded linens on high shelves, barely big enough for a person to stand in comfortably.

And there, crammed into the back corner beneath a row of hanging coats, wedged beneath two piles of boxes, was a kid.

Small.

Smaller than Jason had expected.

He was folded in on himself so tightly it looked painful, knees dragged up to his chest, one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other clamped over his mouth like he could physically hold the sobs in if he pressed hard enough. His suit was neat in that expensive, miserable way rich-kid clothes always were, but it was rumpled now, the collar crooked, the fabric crushed from however long he’d been wedged in there. His hair had fallen messily across his forehead, and his face—

Jason’s breath caught.

The kid looked terrified.

Terrified.

Huge blue eyes stared back at him out of a face gone white and blotchy from crying, and his cheek—

Oh lord.

His cheek was bright red and swollen, a thin cut beneath his eye slowly dripping blood.

For one awful second, neither of them moved.

Then the kid flinched so violently he knocked into the wall behind him as he tried to make himself even smaller, like he was trying to disappear into the corner.

“Hey—hey, no.” Jason dropped immediately into a crouch, hands lifting in front of him in a placating manner. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

His voice had slipped into his Robin voice without meaning to. The one meant to comfort victims and kids. 

The kid continued to stare at him, chest hitching, his hand still pressed over his mouth.

“Okay,” Jason said, quieter now. “Okay. Sorry. I’m not—” He stopped, scrubbed a hand over his face, and tried again. “You’re okay. I just heard you.”

The kid didn’t answer.

Up close, Jason could see the tear tracks drying on his cheeks, the way his shoulders shook even though he was clearly trying with everything he had to stop it. 

He couldn’t have been much younger than Jason, maybe a few years at most, but there was something horribly small about him anyway, folded up in that dark little space with coats brushing his hair and nowhere to go.

Jason’s gaze flicked once around the cupboard, taking it in properly, and his jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

They’d locked him in here.

They had actually locked him in here.

In this tiny little closet. In complete darkness.

The kid made another tiny choking noise behind his hand. Then he seemed to realise he’d done it, because his eyes widened with panic.

Jason’s anger sharpened into something colder.

“Hey,” he said, soft, despite the cold rage within him, “You don’t have to do that.”

The kid blinked at him.

“That,” Jason repeated, gentler this time, nodding at the hand over his mouth. “You don’t have to be quiet.”

For a second, the kid just stared, like he didn’t understand the sentence.

Then, slowly, shakily, he lowered his hand.

The breath that came out of him was shaky and gut-wrenching.

Jason stayed where he was, crouched in the broken doorway, trying very hard not to look as furious as he felt.

“…Hi,” he said after a moment, because apparently his brain had abandoned him completely.

The kid swallowed.

“Hi,” he whispered back.

Jason nodded once, absurdly relieved by the sound of it.

“Okay,” he said. “Good. Great. So you’re real, which is nice, because for a minute there I thought this house was haunted.”

The kid stared at him.

Then, to Jason’s utter shock, he let out a tiny, strangled laugh that turned into a hiccup halfway through.

There you are, Jason thought.

“There we go,” he said, before he could stop himself.

The kid’s expression crumpled with mortification, like he hadn’t meant to make any sound at all.

“I’m Jason,” Jason said quickly, before the kid could work himself up into a panic, keeping his voice low and steady. “Bruce Wayne dragged me here against my will, so technically I’m a hostage too.”

That got him another confused blink.

Good. Confused was better than terrified.

After a second, the kid swallowed again and said, so quietly Jason almost missed it, “Tim.”

Jason repeated it once in his head.

A lightbulb went off in his brain as it all clicked into place. The Drakes’ son.

Tim.

Oh shit.

Timothy Drake.

Of course.

He looked at the broken door, then back at Tim huddled in the cupboard.

“Why’re you in a cupboard, Tim?”

Tim swallowed, studying Jason nervously.

“I…” his voice caught, eyes flicking past Jason like he expected someone to be standing there, listening, “I was—”

He stopped.

Jason waited.

Tim’s fingers twisted tighter in his sleeve.

“…I was in the way,” he said finally, the words quiet and careful. “Before the gala.”

Jason’s jaw tightened.

“I was talking and—” He hesitated. “—too loud. And I— I talked back.”

That last part came out even smaller.

“They said I embarrassed them,” Tim finished quickly, like that explained everything.

Jason went very still. For a second, something sharp and furious flared up in his chest, but he shoved it down.

Now wasn’t the time.

“Right,” he said instead, voice quieter than before.

Tim nodded with a quick, jerky movement.

Jason glanced once around the cupboard—the cramped space, the boxes, the coats brushing Tim’s shoulders—

Then back at him.

“…Okay,” he said. Jason leaned in slightly, bracing a hand against the doorframe. “Well. That’s stupid.”

Tim blinked.

And just like that, Jason made up his mind.

Yep. This kid was coming back to the Manor with him. 

Look, Bruce wasn't the only one allowed to kidnap pathetic-looking children in need of love.

Now it was his turn. Bruce was just gonna have to deal.

“Okay, Tim,” he said, his voice suddenly very certain. “You’re getting out of here.”

Tim blinked at him, a perfect picture of innocent confusion, “What?”

Jason grinned crookedly at him, all mischief and sparkling confidence, “You’re getting out of here! Ever had hot chocolate with rainbow sprinkles before?”

Tim frowned, thrown by the question. His eyes were still wet, lashes clumped together. “I… no?”

Jason recoiled.

“No! It can’t be true!” he gasped dramatically, pretending to collapse against the fractured doorframe, clutching at his heart. “Don’t worry, Tiny Timmy, I’m here to save the day. We shall not rest until we get you your rainbow hot chocolate!” 

He leapt to his feet and held out a hand in Tim’s direction, “Come forth with me! We shall begin our quest!”

Tim let out a watery giggle.

Jason forced a grin, heart aching at the sight of him. The way Tim was still pressed into the corner even while he laughed, like he didn’t quite know how not to.

“C’mon,” Jason said, gentler now, keeping his hand outstretched. “Quest awaits.”

Tim’s smile faltered.

His eyes flicked past Jason, over his shoulder, toward the hallway beyond.

Freedom.

Tim went very still. “I… I can’t.”

Jason blinked. “What?”

Surely he’d misheard.

Tim shook his head quickly, pulling his knees in tighter, like even the idea of moving had scared him.

“I can’t,” he repeated, a little more urgently now. “I’m not—I’m not supposed to leave.”

Jason’s hand didn’t drop, but something inside him flared hot and angry. “…Says who?”

He already knew.

Tim’s gaze flicked, just for a second, toward the hallway again—and then away, like even looking was dangerous.

“My parents,” he said finally, voice small. “They— I have to stay here.”

Jason stared at him.

“In a cupboard?” he said flatly.

Tim flinched at the tone, shrinking further into himself.

Jason immediately exhaled, dragging a hand down his face.

“Okay—hey, no, that didn’t come out right,” he muttered. “I just—”

He cut himself off, crouching down again so he wasn’t looming over him.

“Tim,” he said, more carefully this time, “they locked you in here.”

Tim’s shoulders tensed.

“I know,” he said.

Jason’s chest tightened.

Right.

Of course he did.

“They’re gonna be mad,” Tim added quickly, the words picking up speed now, like he needed to explain it before Jason did something stupid. “If I’m not here when they come back—if I make noise or if anyone sees—”

His breath hitched.

“They said I had to stay.”

Jason went very still.

Then he huffed out a quiet breath through his nose.

“Yeah,” he said. “No.”

Tim blinked at him.

Jason leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice like he was letting him in on some important secret. Tim leaned a little closer toward him, like he couldn’t quite resist Jason’s magnetic personality, even as he tried his hardest to.

“Here’s the thing,” he said. “Your parents are idiots.”

Tim’s eyes went wide.

Jason held up a hand quickly.

“Not you,” he added. “You’re fine. Great, even. Ten out of ten. No notes.”

Tim stared at him, eyes large and watery.

Jason’s expression softened just a fraction.

“But this?” He jerked his chin at the cupboard. “This is messed up. And you don’t have to stay just because they said so.”

Tim shook his head immediately, panic creeping back in.

“Yes, I do,” he insisted, voice tight. “I have to—”

“No,” Jason cut in, firm. “You don’t.”

Tim’s breath hitched again, his hands curling tighter into the fabric of his sleeves.

Jason could see it then. The fear, the way the idea of disobeying didn’t even exist as an option to him.

Something in his chest twisted.

He leaned back slightly, giving Tim a little space, even as he kept his voice steady.

“Okay,” he said. “Then we don’t leave.”

Tim blinked at him, clearly confused.

Jason tilted his head, a hint of that earlier mischief slipping back in, softer this time.

“We don’t leave. Instead, we… take a temporary strategic relocation for the purposes of acquiring life-saving hot chocolate.”

Tim stared at him. “What?”

Jason nodded seriously. “Very official. Extremely necessary. Possibly heroic.”

A pause.

Tim’s mouth twitched, just slightly.

Jason held his gaze.

“They don’t have to know,” he added.

Tim went still again. Thinking it over.

Jason could see the war playing out on his face—the fear, the instinct to stay exactly where he’d been told, warring with something newer, shakier. The idea that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to.

He didn’t move, just kept his hand out between them.

Waiting.

“...They’ll know,” Tim said finally, voice small.

Jason shook his head, firm, certain in a way he absolutely wasn’t, but would die before admitting.

“They won’t,” he said. “Trust me.”

Tim searched his face, like he was trying to find the catch.

After a long moment, he took a shaky breath.

And then, slowly, carefully, like he was expecting his parents to appear out of thin air the second he tried to leave, he unfolded himself.

Jason stayed very still, giving him space, watching as Tim pushed himself up with stiff, unsteady movements. His legs wobbled slightly when he stood, like they’d been locked in that position too long.

Jason pretended not to notice.

“Okay,” he said lightly, like this was no big deal. “Step one complete. Proud of you.”

Tim blinked at him, startled by that, but didn’t argue.

Good.

Jason tilted his head toward the hallway.

“Lead the way, Tiny Tim. This place is a maze.”

Tim hesitated again, glancing toward the open door, the corridor beyond it.

Then he nodded.

“This way,” he said quietly, and then after a moment added shyly, “and I’m not tiny.”

He flinched away like he expected Jason to hit him.

“Nah.” Jason smiled at him, despite the way Tim’s flinch made his heart hurt. “Look at the size of you!”

He gestured between them. Tim only came up to his shoulders. “Pocket-sized!”

Tim scowled and slipped his hand into Jason’s still outstretched one. 

“Mother says I’m perfectly average for my age,” Tim muttered, with all the wounded dignity of someone trying very hard to recover from being called pocket-sized.

Jason snorted. “Yeah? And mother also locks you in cupboards, so I’m not exactly taking her word as law.”

The second the words left his mouth, he regretted it.

Tim withdrew immediately. His shy little scowl vanished, the faint spark of indignation snuffed out like a candle. His shoulders drew in again, and his fingers twitched once in Jason’s hand, as if he might pull away.

Jason winced internally.

Smooth, Todd. Real smooth.

“Okay,” he said quickly, squeezing Tim’s hand before he could retreat. “That came out wrong. I’m sorry.”

Tim looked down at their joined hands. Anywhere but at his face.

Jason ducked his head a little, trying to catch his eye. “I’m not making fun of you.”

A pause.

Then Tim gave the tiniest nod.

Jason breathed a sigh of relief.

“Good,” he said, brightening. “Because you are definitely still pocket-sized. That part stands.”

Tim huffed, indignant, but amused despite himself.

Jason took that as a win.

“C’mon, Average-For-His-Age-Tim,” he said, giving his hand a gentle tug. “Lead on.”

Tim rolled his eyes very faintly—so faintly it was barely there at all—but Jason saw it, and something in his chest eased a little.

They stepped out into the corridor together.

“Right,” Jason said after a second, like something had just occurred to him. “We need hero names.”

Tim blinked. “What?”

“Hero names,” Jason repeated. “Obviously. We’re on a mission. A quest! You can’t just walk into a high-stakes operation without proper identities.”

Tim frowned, considering that with all the seriousness his small, pint-sized body could contain, “…we’re getting hot chocolate.”

“Exactly,” Jason said, nodding solemnly. “High stakes.”

Tim looked like he wasn’t entirely convinced, but he didn’t argue.

Jason snapped his fingers. “Okay. I’ve got it. I’m—” He paused for dramatic effect. “—The Great and Powerful Robin.”

Tim stared at him.

“There’s already a Robin,” he said, like Jason had just committed some kind of serious crime. “You can’t be Robin too.”

Jason scoffed. “Yeah, but I’m way cooler than him.”

Tim just stared at him, looking mortally offended. Like Jason had just killed his dog or something. 

Jason blinked at him.

Then he grinned.

Huh. Tim was a Robin fan. The more you know.

“Alright, alright,” he said, holding up a hand. “Didn’t realise you were the name police.”

Tim frowned harder. “I’m not— it’s just—”

“Fine,” Jason said easily. “Scrapped. Gone. Dead to me.”

Tim rolled his eyes. Actually rolled them.

Jason lit up.

“Oh, we’ve got attitude now. Careful, Tiny Tim, it suits you.”

Tim ducked his head again, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“If I can’t be Robin,” Jason sighed dramatically, “then instead I,” he placed his free hand over his heart, “am Sir Jason Todd the—”

He paused.

Frowned.

“…the—”

Tim watched him, the corner of his lips quirking slightly the longer Jason stumbled over his words.

Jason squinted slightly, like the answer might appear if he stared hard enough at the wall.

“…the Magnificent.”

Tim looked unconvinced.

Jason waved a hand. “Alright, fine. Sir Jason Todd the Brave.”

Tim tilted his head. “…Brave?”

Jason grinned. “I just kicked down a door in a haunted statue mansion. I think that qualifies.”

“It’s not haunted.”

Jason leaned down slightly, lowering his voice. “You say that, but I’m telling you—that naked marble kid statue was watching me.”

Tim stared at him.

Then, very quietly: “I don’t like that one either.”

Jason barked a soft laugh. “Yeah, fair.”

He straightened again, thinking.

“…Sir Jason Todd the—” He snapped his fingers. “—Valiant.”

Tim considered that.

“That’s better,” he admitted.

Jason beamed. “Thank you. I thought so too.”

He pointed at Tim. “And you—”

Tim tensed, just a little.

Jason caught it. Adjusted immediately.

“…are Wizard Tim,” he said, a little softer.

Tim brightened a little. “Wizard?”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “Strategic. Knowledgeable. Knows the map of the mysterious castle.”

Tim glanced down the corridor ahead of them.

“...I do know where we’re going,” he said, a little uncertain.

“Exactly,” Jason said. “Wizard. You can guide us with your wizardly knowledge, and I’ll keep us safe with my insane knightly skills.”

He threw his hand through the air, jousting an invisible opponent with his invisible sword.

Tim went quiet for a second.

“Okay,” he said finally.

Jason nodded once, satisfied.

“Good,” he said, squeezing Tim’s hand. “Then Sir Jason Todd the Valiant—”

Tim made a face at the length of it.

“—and Wizard Tim,” Jason continued, ignoring him, “are on a quest.”

“…for hot chocolate,” Tim added quietly.

Jason grinned. “Exactly.”

After that, Tim seemed to untense a little, easily caught up in Jason’s quest rhetoric. 

They kept walking.

The corridors grew brighter, the silence thinning out bit by bit until it wasn’t really silence anymore. The faint hum of voices started to bleed back in, low and indistinct at first, then sharper. Laughter. Glasses clinking. The tail end of a violin.

Tim’s grip tightened in Jason’s hand.

“Hey,” Jason said quietly, not slowing. “You’re good.”

Tim nodded, but it was uncertain and nervous.

Jason caught his eye. “Hey, Wizard Tim. I, Sir Jason Todd the Valiant, swear upon my honour, that I will protect you from—”

They turned one last corner.

He trailed off, glancing ahead as the corridor opened up fully into the entrance hall.

“Shit,” Jason muttered, “...rich people.”

Tim let out a small, startled breath that almost counted as a laugh.

“Terrifying creatures,” Jason went on, a little quieter now. “Travel in packs. Known to ask boring questions.”

Tim let out a small breath of air that was almost a giggle, but his face was pale. 

The entrance hall wasn’t empty like it had been when Jason had snuck away. Now, there were a few guests standing outside the ballroom, caught up in conversation.

“Jason,” he murmured, voice quiet. “We should go back. My—my parents—what if they—”

Jason squeezed his hand once.

“Hey. It’s okay. Stick with me,” he added, softer. “We’ll be okay. Knight’s promise.”

There were only a few people. They could easily sneak past—

The sound of voices grew suddenly louder.

Jason’s head snapped up.

Footsteps.

Multiple.

And then—

The ballroom doors opened.

A group of guests spilt into the entrance hall, laughing, voices overlapping as they made their way out—coats being fetched, goodbyes exchanged, the easy chaos of people leaving all at once.

Jason went very still.

“…Oh,” he said under his breath.

Shit.

Tim’s breath hitched sharply behind him.

Too many people.

Too many eyes.

Nowhere to hide.

Jason glanced back at him.

Tim looked like he might bolt.

“Hey,” Jason said quickly, stepping back toward him, lowering himself just enough to catch his eye and block him from view from the rest of the room. “Hey—don’t panic. We’ve got this.”

Tim shook his head, already retreating into himself, shoulders drawing tight.

“They’re going to see me—”

“No, they’re not,” Jason cut in, quiet but firm with a fake confidence.

Tim’s gaze flicked wildly toward the entrance hall, where more guests were filtering through, voices echoing off the high ceilings.

Jason followed his line of sight.

Then—

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Okay,” he said. “New plan.”

Tim blinked at him, panic still high.

Jason grabbed his hand.

“Stick with me,” he said.

And before Tim could argue—

Jason stepped out into the entrance hall.

It was complete chaos.

Self-important chaos. Full of expensive coats and bright laughter and the soft clink of jewellery as guests drifted toward the open front doors in loose clusters, buoyed by champagne and the satisfaction of having been seen.

Jason hated every single one of them on sight.

“Just keep moving,” he muttered to Tim, low enough that only he would hear.

Tim nodded once, quick and jerky.

Jason didn’t let go of his hand.

They plunged into the crowd.

At first, it worked. Most people were too busy talking to really look at them, and Jason had already perfected the art of walking through rich-people spaces like he didn’t care enough to be questioned. He kept his chin up, and his expression set somewhere between bored and annoyed, like he belonged there and resented it.

Tim, unfortunately, looked like he’d just crawled out of a locked cupboard.

Which, Jason supposed grimly, was because he had.

Jason caught the first double take out of the corner of his eye—a woman in silver silk breaking off mid-laugh, her gaze snagging on Tim’s crumpled suit, the tear tracks still drying on his face, the streak of blood beneath his eye. Her mouth fell open slightly.

Then a man beside her turned too, his brows drawing together.

Another woman glanced over.

Then another.

The shift was subtle, but Jason felt it immediately, that change in the air when attention started to catch like fire. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. Confusion sharpening into curiosity.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

Maybe he hadn’t thought this through.

“Don’t look at them,” Jason muttered.

Tim’s grip tightened painfully in his. His breathing was growing faster, and Jason was praying Tim didn’t work himself into a panic attack before he could get them out of here.

They were halfway across the hall when the worst happened.

“Timothy?”

Jason’s stomach dropped.

He turned.

Jack Drake stood near the foot of the staircase, one hand still wrapped around a departing guest’s arm as though he’d been in the middle of some hearty goodbye. Beside him, Janet Drake had gone utterly still, that sharp-edged smile dropping off her face so quickly it was like it had never been there at all.

For one suspended second, the whole room seemed to hold its breath.

Then Jack’s face hardened.

“Timothy,” he said again, sharper this time.

Tim flinched so hard Jason felt it travel down their joined hands.

And then Jack was moving.

The crowd parted for him automatically—rich people, curious to watch the drama unfold. Like piranhas drawn to blood in water. Janet followed half a step behind, heels clicking across the marble with precise, terrible purpose, her expression stone cold and severe.

Jason instinctively stepped in front of Tim, pulling him slightly back.

Jack barely seemed to register him, gaze fixed on the trembling child behind him.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, reaching straight past Jason—

—and grabbing Tim by the shoulder.

Tim yelped.

It was a small sound. 

But it hit Jason like a gunshot.

“Hey!” Jason barked, shoving Jack’s arm away hard enough to break his grip despite their size difference. “Get off him!”

A collective gasp rippled through the nearest guests.

Jack recoiled half a step, more from surprise than anything else, like he couldn’t quite process that anyone had dared touch him back.

Janet’s eyes went cold enough to freeze blood.

“Excuse me?” she said.

Jason barely heard her. He was too busy looking at Tim.

Tim had gone white as paper. The yelp had died instantly, cut off so fast it was like he regretted making it the second it escaped, but his whole body had folded inward anyway, one hand clutching at his shoulder while new silent tears spilt fresh and fast down his face.

Something in Jason snapped.

“You locked him in a fucking cupboard!” he shouted.

An electric thrill of scandal skittered through the crowd like lightning. 

Janet straightened, every inch the offended socialite.

“I think you are very confused,” she said, voice low and venomously composed.

“Oh, am I?” Jason shot back. “Because I’m pretty sure I just kicked down the door you locked your kid behind.”

“Jason.”

Dick’s voice cut through the tension a second before he actually appeared in view, slipping out of the crowd and into the bubble that had formed around the four of them. He appeared calm, relaxed, the picture of grace.

Only Jason knew him well enough to catch the tension in him. The tightness around his eyes. The way his gaze skittered across them all, cataloguing the tension, their stances, and Jason’s fury.

Dick took one look at Tim and went still.

Really still.

His gaze flicked over the rumpled suit, the swollen cheek, the blood.

Then up to the Drakes.

The mask of civility Dick had been wearing vanished.

“What happened?” he asked, and for once, there was no charm in his voice at all.

Jack drew himself up, offended dignity settling over him like a cloak. “This is a private family matter.”

“The hell it is,” Jason snapped.

“Jason,” Dick said again, sharper this time, but he didn’t look away from the Drakes.

Tim was crying harder now, though still almost soundlessly, his face turned down like he could somehow hide it if he just looked at the floor hard enough. One hand was still clutching his shoulder, and the other was tightly grasped in Jason’s jacket, like he might be ripped away from him at any moment. Jason could feel the trembling running through him. He hated it. Hated all of it.

“Timothy,” Janet said suddenly, cutting cleanly through the tension.

Her voice had changed.

Gone was the cold edge. In its place was something softer. Sugary and concerned. A worried mother.

Jason felt Tim’s trembling become more violent.

She stepped forward.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, her expression shifting seamlessly into alarm. “What happened to you?”

Jason stared at her.

You have got to be kidding me.

Tim flinched again as she reached for him, shrinking back instinctively—straight into Jason.

Janet turned her gaze—slowly, deliberately—onto Jason.

“And what,” she said, quiet but cutting, “did you do to him?”

Tim froze.

The room went very, very still.

Jason blinked.

Once.

Disgust rolled through him. Oh, they had to be joking. 

He let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Oh, that’s rich,” he said.

Jack stepped in beside his wife, his expression grave now—every inch the righteous, concerned father.

“I think you’ve said quite enough,” he said, voice carrying easily across the silent hall. His gaze moved over Jason slowly, taking in the scuffed shoes, the stubborn set of his shoulders, the way he stood planted between them and Tim.

Disapproval settled into every line of his face.

“I think it’s very clear that Timothy has had a… difficult evening.” Jack continued, placing a steadying hand on Janet’s arm, as though restraining himself. “And from the look of things, that difficulty seems to have begun when you decided to involve yourself.”

Janet’s expression softened further, the picture of wounded concern. Her eyes flicked over Tim’s rumpled suit, the tear-streaked face, the blood beneath his eye.

“Mr Drake—” Dick began.

“Oh, darling,” Janet murmured, like the sight physically pained her, steam-rolling over Dick. “You must have been so frightened.”

Tim shrank further into Jason’s side.

Jason felt his jaw tighten.

Jack’s gaze swept over him again—lingering on the way Tim was clutching his jacket, the way Jason’s shoulders were squared like he was ready for a fight.

“Young man,” Jack said, his tone firm but patronising, “I’m sure you meant well. But Timothy is not accustomed to… roughhousing. He’s a sensitive child.”

A murmur rippled faintly through the watching guests.

Janet nodded faintly beside him.

“Timothy startles easily,” she added gently. “He always has. Loud voices, sudden movements… it can be very overwhelming for him.” Her eyes lifted to Jason again, sympathetic now. “And you do seem like a rather… energetic young man.”

Jason could only stare at them, mouth agape.

For a moment, he genuinely couldn’t tell if they were serious.

Beside him, Dick exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Mr and Mrs Drake, I’m sure Jason didn’t—” he started.

Jack went on, his tone smoothing into patient authority. “If you frightened him or got a little carried away, we can address that privately. There’s no need to make accusations or cause a scene.”

Behind Jason, Tim’s grip on his jacket tightened painfully.

Jack extended a hand toward his son. “Come here, Timothy.”

Tim shuddered.

Then another voice came from behind the crowd.

“What is going on?”

Bruce.

Jason could’ve cried with relief. Bruce was here. Thank god. 

Everything was going to be okay.

The crowd shifted again as Bruce stepped into the entrance hall, every inch the polished billionaire right up until his eyes landed on Tim.

Then on the broken state of him.

Then on Jason, standing half in front of the boy like a rabid guard dog with his teeth already bared.

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. Jason knew that, just like Dick, he’d catalogued the entire situation in a single glance.

Jack’s attention snapped toward Bruce. “Ah, Bruce. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

He sounded almost relieved, like Bruce’s arrival had restored the proper order of things.

“Your son seems to have… involved himself in a family matter,” Jack continued smoothly. “Timothy had a bit of a fright this evening, and Jason here appears to have gotten rather carried away trying to help.”

Janet inclined her head, expression full of quiet regret.

“Timothy is a sensitive child,” she added gently. “He startles easily. I’m afraid Jason may have been a little too… forceful.”

Jason made a strangled noise of disbelief.

Behind him, Tim’s grip tightened again, fingers twisting in the back of Jason’s jacket like he was afraid someone might pry them apart.

Bruce’s eyes flicked once over Tim again—the tear tracks, the swollen cheek, the blood beneath his eye, the way the boy was pressed behind Jason like he was trying to disappear, or perhaps merge into one with him.

Then Bruce looked at Jason.

Jason held the look for half a second.

He needs our help, Bruce.

That was all he had time to communicate.

Bruce’s eyes sharpened another fraction.

Across the small circle, Jack was still talking.

“Of course,” he went on, gesturing faintly toward Tim, “we appreciate Jason’s concern, but Timothy can be… easily overwhelmed. A confrontation like this is hardly helpful.”

Dick shifted beside Jason, tension visible now in the line of his shoulders.

“Mr Drake—”

Bruce raised one hand slightly.

Dick stopped immediately, though his jaw remained tense, a vein ticking near his ear.

The movement was small. Almost lazy.

But the room fell quiet anyway. Even the whispering crowd fell silent.

Bruce’s attention returned to Jack and Janet.

“A misunderstanding,” he repeated.

Jack nodded, relieved to have the situation reframed so neatly. “Exactly.”

Bruce was silent for a moment.

Then he said, very calmly, “Jason.” 

Jason straightened a little. 

“What happened?”

Jason spat, voice filled with disgust, “They hit him and locked him in a cupboard!”

The crowd gasped. A few women nearby fanned their faces, as if Jason’s accusation was too much for their weak hearts.

Janet’s hand flew to her chest.

“How dare you,” she breathed.

Jack looked genuinely scandalised, his face flushing with righteous indignation. He let out a short, incredulous laugh, like the very idea was too absurd to entertain.

“That is an outrageous accusation,” he said sharply.

Janet shook her head slowly, eyes wide with wounded disbelief.

“Bruce, I’m sure you understand,” she said, turning to him with the strained patience of someone forced to endure something terribly uncouth. “Jason is… clearly upset.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Jason, pitying now. “And we all know he’s had a rather difficult past.”

The implication hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.

Jack sighed, like a man burdened by the unfortunate realities of the world.

“No offence meant, of course,” he added smoothly to Bruce. “You’ve done admirable work with the boys. Truly.” His eyes slid back to Jason. “But you can’t always undo what a child has already been through.”

Another murmur stirred through the watching guests.

Jason bristled.

Janet nodded faintly beside him, lips pressed into a sympathetic line.

“Trauma can… distort things,” she said gently. “Children sometimes lash out when they feel overwhelmed. They imagine the worst.”

Her gaze drifted meaningfully toward Tim.

“Timothy has always been sensitive,” she said again, voice soft and poisonous. “You know that, Bruce. He’s prone to dramatics when he’s upset.”

Tim’s fingers clenched painfully tighter in Jason’s jacket.

Jack spread his hands slightly, as though presenting an unfortunate but obvious truth.

“We would never harm our son,” he said firmly.

Then, with a small, indulgent shake of his head, he added, “Honestly. Lock him in a cupboard? What a dreadful thing to suggest.”

Janet gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Really, young man,” she said, her tone almost motherly. “Where do you come up with these stories?”

Behind Jason, Tim flinched.

“Oh, bullshit,” Jason snapped.

“Jason.” Dick again, low, warning—but it was half-hearted.

Jason ignored him, taking a step forward.

Bruce’s eyes shifted to Tim.

“I found him,” Jason shot back. “Locked in a cupboard—”

“Enough,” Janet cut in sharply, the softness slipping for just a fraction of a second before snapping back into place. “Timothy, darling, you can tell us what happened.”

All eyes turned to Tim.

Jason felt his stomach drop.

Tim had gone completely still.

Frozen.

His breath came shallow and uneven, shoulders trembling, gaze still fixed somewhere on the floor, like if he didn’t look up, none of this would be real.

“Tim,” Jason said quietly, urgent now. “You can—”

Tim’s fingers tightened painfully.

Jason stopped.

Janet stepped closer again, her voice gentle, coaxing.

The room had gone so quiet that Jason could hear someone’s dress rustling nearby.

Someone shifted, their shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

A champagne glass clinked faintly.

“It’s alright,” she said. “You’re safe now. Just tell us.”

Safe.

Jason’s hands curled into fists.

“Tell them you got frightened,” Janet said softly. “It’s alright.”

Tim opened his mouth.

Closed it.

His throat moved like he was trying to swallow something too big to get down.

His eyes flicked to his parents.

Janet was still holding out her hand.

Tim’s eyes flicked sideways.

To Jason.

Just for a second.

His gaze was filled with fear and—shit—apology.

Oh.

Oh hell.

He was going to lie. He was too scared not to.

“…I—” Tim’s voice caught. “I was—”

Jason didn’t let him finish.

“Fuck this,” he said.

Jason caught Tim by the hand and pulled him back a step—too fast, maybe, but away from Janet’s reaching hand, away from Jack’s looming shadow, away from all of it.

“Jason—” Dick started.

Too late.

“C’mon!” Jason snapped, already turning, already pulling.

Tim stumbled after him, legs unsteady, breath catching, but he didn’t resist. He just followed, dragged forward on instinct more than anything else.

“Timothy!” Jack barked.

Footsteps—fast—closed in behind them.

Jason didn’t look back.

The crowd erupted as he shoved through it, bodies jolting aside, startled protests breaking into the air as glasses clinked as people tumbled into each other. Someone yelped when Jason clipped their shoulder. He didn’t slow down, didn’t apologise—just kept moving, dragging Tim through the chaos.

“Jason!” Dick’s voice again, closer now.

Good.

Jason darted toward the side of the entrance hall, aiming for the corridor they’d come through.

Behind them—

“Stop them!” Jack’s voice, furious now.

A hand grabbed for Tim.

Tim yelped again—high, sharp, and terrified—and his grip on Jason faltered for half a second as he twisted instinctively away.

Jason spun.

“Don’t touch him!” he snarled, shoving away the arm hard enough to make the owner—a blond man in a suit—stagger.

The room gasped.

Dick was there a second later, sliding between them with a speed that didn’t belong to a normal seventeen-year-old, one hand braced lightly—but firmly—against their chest.

“Sir,” Dick said, voice smooth but laced with something unmistakably dangerous, “I think everyone needs to take a breath.”

The man bristled, outrage flushing his face. “Get your hands off me—”

Tim made a small, broken sound beside him.

Jason looked down.

Tim had folded in on himself again, shoulders hunched, one hand clutching his sleeve so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His breathing had gone uneven, hitching, silent tears spilling down his face faster now.

“Hey,” Jason said, the word coming out rough, softer than anything else he’d said in the last five minutes. “Hey—”

Tim shook his head quickly, like even that was too much.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

Jason’s chest tightened.

“Stop,” he said immediately. “You didn’t do anything.”

Tim’s breath hitched harder, his whole body starting to shake now.

Jason looked up.

At Bruce, who was watching Tim with sorrow in his eyes.

At Dick, who was simmering with silent anger.

At the crowd watching like this was entertainment.

Something cold and certain settled into place.

“…we’re leaving,” Jason said.

“Jason,” Bruce warned.

“No,” Jason shot back, already stepping away, already pulling Tim with him again. “We’re leaving.”

This time, he didn’t give anyone the chance to stop him.

He turned and ran.

Tim stumbled after him, half-dragged, half-following, breath breaking into quiet, panicked sobs he couldn’t seem to hold back anymore. Jason tightened his grip, not letting go, not slowing down.

Behind them, voices rose—

“Jason!”

“Stop—”

“Wait—”

Jason hit the corridor at full speed, hauling Tim with him.

Tim was crying properly now, gasping sobs ripping out of him.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, the words tumbling out between uneven breaths. “They’re gonna— they’re gonna be so mad—”

“They can get in line,” Jason snapped, not even breaking stride. “So am I.”

Tim made a small, helpless sound, his steps faltering again.

Jason slowed just enough to keep him upright, tightening his hold.

“Hey,” he said, sharper now, forcing Tim’s attention back to him. “Stay with me, yeah? Don’t fall over, I’m not carrying you in these stupid shoes.”

Tim let out a weak, broken huff that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t dissolve back into sobbing halfway through.

Jason adjusted his grip, steadier now.

“Almost there,” he said, even though he had no idea if that was true. “You’re good. I’ve got you. Sir Jason Todd the Valiant, right?”

Behind them, footsteps echoed into the corridor.

“Jason—wait!”

Jason didn’t slow, but he did glance back just long enough to check—

Yeah.

Dick caught up easily, barely even out of breath, eyes flicking quickly over Tim before darting forward again.

“Wrong way,” he said under his breath, already moving ahead of them. “This way. Service exit will be quicker.”

Jason swore quietly and followed without arguing, letting Dick take the lead.

They cut down a narrower hallway, shoes slipping slightly on the polished floor as they turned too fast. Tim stumbled again, catching hard against Jason’s side, breath stuttering into sharp, panicked gasps.

He was struggling to keep up.

“I’ve got you,” Jason said, tightening his grip without thinking. “Just—keep up, okay? We’re almost there.”

Tim nodded, even though it didn’t look like he could actually control his legs anymore.

Dick shoved through a side door at the end of the corridor.

The cold night air hit like a slap in the face.

Jason blinked against it as they spilt outside, the noise of the house cutting off behind them like a door slamming shut.

For a second, it was just—

Dark.

Gravel.

Breathing.

Then:

“Car,” Dick gasped, breaking into a run once again.

Jason followed, dragging Tim along beside him, not letting go.

“They’re gonna—” Tim started, voice cracking.

“Don’t,” Jason cut in. “Don’t think about it. It’s gonna be okay.”

Dick reached the car first and yanked the driver’s door open.

Jason barely clocked it until—

Wait.

Neither of them could drive.

“Dick—” he started, even as he shoved the back door open instead and half-pushed a semi-catatonic Tim inside.

“I’ve got it,” Dick said, already climbing in.

That was… concerning.

Jason didn’t have time to argue.

He climbed into the passenger seat next to Tim and slammed the door.

For a second, no one said anything. The only sound was their heavy breathing.

Then Tim cracked.

He curled in on himself, hands coming up and hovering near his face like he didn’t know where to put them, breath breaking apart completely.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t— I didn’t—”

“Hey, hey—” Jason turned toward him immediately, one hand hovering for a second before settling awkwardly on his shoulder. “Stop. You didn’t do anything.”

Tim shook his head hard, like he physically couldn’t accept that.

“They’re gonna be so mad,” he whispered, words tripping over each other. “I wasn’t supposed to—”

“Tim.”

Jason leaned in a little, trying to catch his eye.

“Look at me.”

It took a second.

Tim did, barely.

Jason held his gaze.

“We’re leaving,” he said. “That’s it. Nothing else matters right now. None of this is your fault, okay?”

Tim’s breathing hitched again, but it slowed a fraction, like the words had at least reached him.

Jason reached across and clicked Tim’s seatbelt into place.

Dick started the engine.

The car jerked slightly as he pulled it into gear.

It shuddered forward, jerked again, jumped forward another meter, then stalled.

Dick swore and smacked the wheel.

He started the engine again. They jumped forward another few feet, car juddering all the way, entire bodies rocking back and forth from the motion. 

The car stalled again, engine spluttering and dying.

Jason closed his eyes.

Fuck. We’re not going anywhere—

The car rumbled to life again and shot forward. 

Jason braced a hand against the seat as they swung out of the drive, tyres crunching hard over gravel.

“Jesus Christ, Dick!” he gritted out, one hand braced over Tim’s chest to keep him pressed to the seat as extra protection, the other clinging tight to his own seat. “This is why you failed your driving test four times!”

“Mm,” Dick ground out through gritted teeth, his eyes glued to the road and his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

That was not a reassuring answer.

Miraculously, they made it to Wayne Manor alive and in one piece.

Jason wasn’t quite sure how, considering Dick had run several red lights and stalled at least nine times on the way. 

Alfred was waiting for them in the kitchen.

It was warm and drenched in a soft, yellow light. There was a kettle hissing softly on the stove, and the lingering smell of cocoa and sugar in the air.

The warmth hit Jason properly now that he’d stopped moving. It clung to his skin, sank into his bones, and chased out the lingering chill from outside.

It didn’t feel anything like the Drake mansion, and he was thankful for it.

Alfred had clearly been forewarned of their arrival by Bruce and had apparently moved impossibly fast while Dick was busy committing several traffic violations, because there were mugs on the counter, a blanket draped over the back of one chair, and the man himself was standing by the stove waiting for them when they finally traipsed in. 

They barely made it three steps inside before Tim folded.

Not dramatically. He just sort of… stopped being upright.

One second, he was standing there in the middle of the kitchen, still holding Jason’s hand, breathing too fast, eyes glassy and far away, and the next, his knees buckled as if somebody had quietly snipped all the strings holding him together. A broken marionette doll.

“Whoa—hey—”

Jason caught him awkwardly under the arms before he could hit the floor, and Tim made a small, broken sound and clutched at the front of Jason’s shirt like he was drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he choked immediately, the words slurring together with panic. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t supposed to—”

“Stop that,” Jason said at once, breathless and sharper than he meant to be. He shifted his grip, trying to hold him up. Tim felt horribly light. “You didn’t do anything.”

Tim shook his head hard, not looking at him, every breath sounding like it had to be dragged up from somewhere painful.

Dick shut the kitchen door with his foot and leaned back against it for half a second, eyes closed. 

“Well,” he said faintly, “that was deeply illegal.”

“No one asked you to drive like a maniac,” Jason shot back automatically, as he guided Tim toward the nearest chair.

“No one asked me to become the getaway driver in a child kidnapping-slash-rescue operation either, and yet here we all are.”

Tim let out a tiny, strangled laugh.

Jason looked down at him immediately. “You’re not allowed to laugh at him,” he informed Tim seriously. “You’ll make him think he’s funny. And he nearly killed us at least three times on the way here.”

“I heard that.”

“Good.” Jason stuck his tongue out at him. “No wonder you don’t have a licence if that’s how you drive.”

Tim let out another quiet, wet giggle.

Alfred turned from the stove, expression melting the second his eyes landed properly on Tim. 

“Master Tim,” he said, in the same voice he might have used for a frightened bird perched on the windowsill. “It is a pleasure to meet you. You are quite safe here.”

Tim blinked at him, dazed.

Jason helped him into a chair. Or tried to. The second he loosened his grip, Tim’s hand tightened convulsively in his shirt.

He paused.

Tim froze too, like he’d only just realised what he was doing.

His face crumpled with fresh embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, trying to pull his hand back.

Jason caught it before he could. 

“Nope,” he said firmly. “Absolutely not. You grabbed on first. That means I’m trapped here forever now. House rules.”

Tim gaped at him. “What?”

Dick snorted.

Alfred’s mouth twitched.

Jason seized the opportunity before Tim could spiral again.

“Also,” he said, reaching for the nearest mug on the counter and thrusting it into Tim’s hands with all the ceremony of a knight presenting a sacred relic. “Behold!”

Tim looked down.

It was, perhaps, the largest and most ridiculous-looking mug of hot chocolate he’d ever seen in his whole life. 

The Robin-themed mug was piled high with whipped cream, marshmallows, and a frankly irresponsible amount of rainbow sprinkles.

Jason lifted his chin. “A promise is a promise. Quest successful!”

Tim stared into the mug for another second, then up at Jason.

“Rainbow sprinkles,” he said softly, like he still didn’t quite believe it.

Jason looked offended. “Obviously. Do you think I’m a liar?”

That earned him a small, amused huff of air.

“The first successful mission of Sir Jason Todd the Valiant and Wizard Tim's Grand Aventures!” Jason crowed excitedly.

Tim smiled softly, still staring at his cocoa with something like wonder in his eyes.

Alfred quietly set another mug in Jason’s hand, then one in Dick’s. 

Dick took his and perched on the edge of the counter, sipping from it and accidentally giving himself a whipped-cream moustache.

Jason snorted. “You’ve got—”

“I know,” Dick said, “I can feel it.”

He made no move to wipe it away, though, continuing to sip at his drink nonchalantly. Tim giggled again.

Dick smiled softly at him.

Tim kept holding the mug, but his hands were shaking too badly to actually drink from it. It looked too big in his hands. Bright and ridiculous and overflowing with whipped cream. Like it belonged to a completely different world than the one he’d just come from.

Well... it kind of did.

“Okay,” Jason said, dragging a chair over with his foot and dropping into it beside him. “New rule. You have to at least try it before passing judgment on my excellent taste.”

Tim swallowed. Nodded. Lifted the mug with both hands.

He made it halfway before the cup shook aggressively in his trembling hands and hot chocolate sloshed out of the side—luckily missing Tim’s fingers.

Jason’s stomach twisted.

Without comment, Alfred stepped forward and crouched in front of him. 

“May I?” he asked softly, indicating to the mug.

Tim hesitated.

Then gave the tiniest nod.

Alfred steadied the cup while Tim took one small sip.

His shoulders relaxed by a fraction.

“There we are,” Alfred murmured, as though Tim had accomplished something far grander than taking a drink.

Jason leaned back in his chair. “Well?”

Tim wrinkled his nose. “It’s… really sweet.”

Jason pointed at him triumphantly. “Exactly. Perfect.”

“Too sweet,” Tim mumbled, a little shyly.

Jason scoffed. “Wrong.”

Dick snorted softly. “Kid’s got taste, Jay.”

“Debatable. He’s been through enough without also being wrong about hot chocolate.”

Slowly, Tim’s lips started to twitch up into a small smile as he watched the two brothers verbally spar.

Dick grinned over the rim of his own drink. 

“Jason likes to dump half the sugar jar in there,” he said, by way of explanation for the sweetness.

“It’s a creative decision.”

“It’s a crime against hot cocoa.”

“Okay, cocoa police over here, Mr-I-Just-Drove-Without-A-Licence.”

“Minor detail.”

Tim looked between them.

Then, very quietly, he laughed.

It was only a small sound. Thin and tired and still a little nervous.

But still, Jason felt something ease within him. The anger he’d been carrying with him since he broke Tim out of that cupboard was finally starting to ease up.

There you are, he thought again.

Alfred rose and disappeared for a moment, returning with a damp cloth and a small first aid kit.

Tim locked up, eyes widening a little. He withdrew back into himself, any signs of cheer vanishing instantly.

Jason watched it happen. The subtle tightening of Tim’s muscles, the way he instinctively braced.

He leaned over a little before Alfred could say anything. 

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “He’s just gonna clean your face up, okay? No evil plots. No surprise surgery.”

Tim’s mouth twitched faintly around the rim of his mug.

Alfred looked deeply offended, as if Jason had just suggested he add the milk before the water when he made tea. “I should hope not, Master Jason.”

Tim glanced uncertainly between them, then nodded.

Alfred worked gently. Ridiculously gently. He dabbed away the dried blood under Tim’s eye, cleaned the cut, and pressed a cool pack against the swelling in his cheek. Tim flinched once, then seemed startled when nothing bad followed.

Jason had to look away for a second.

He made eye contact with Dick, who smiled at him softly, sadly.

When he looked back, Tim was watching Alfred with the wary confusion of someone encountering a wild animal for the first time—curious, but not entirely trusting it not to bite.

The blanket from the chair ended up around Tim’s shoulders. 

Tim tugged it closer with one hand, the other still stubbornly curled into the front of Jason’s shirt like he didn’t want to risk letting go, as if Jason might vanish if he did.

The kitchen fell into a comfortable quiet.

Dick was humming softly to himself as he finished his drink. Alfred was sitting at the table playing solitaire. 

Tim finished maybe a third of the hot chocolate before the fight started gradually draining out of him.

His eyes grew heavier. His grip on the mug loosened. His words, what few there were, grew slower and softer until they barely counted as words at all.

Alfred leaned over and gently removed the mug from Tim’s weak grip, placing it safely on the counter as the boy started to sway toward Jason, eyes half closed.

“You don’t have to stay awake,” Jason told him, trying for casual and not quite landing it.

Tim blinked at him, suddenly awake. “I’m not tired.”

Dick made a strangled noise into his mug that roughly translated into He’s so cute, oh my heart can’t take it.

Jason silently agreed.

He raised an eyebrow at Tim. “Sure. You’re not tired. And I’m charming.”

Tim frowned, considering that even as he swayed from visible exhaustion. 

“You’re…” He stopped to yawn mid-sentence, too tired to even look embarrassed about it. “A little bit.”

Jason put a hand dramatically over his heart. “Dick, write this down. I’ve finally found someone who appreciates me.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “Yeah. A half-conscious eight-year-old.”

“Ten,” Tim mumbled automatically, eyes closed, gripping his blanket tightly.

All three of them looked at him.

Tim opened his eyes when none of them responded, looking far too much like a sleepy, confused dormouse.

Jason grinned at him lopsidedly. “Right. Sorry. By a terrifyingly opinionated ten-year-old wizard.”

Tim’s mouth twitched.

Then he swayed more violently.

Jason set his mug down so fast it sloshed over the rim. “Okay, nope. You’re done.”

Before Tim could protest, Jason had shifted his chair closer and was gently trying to guide him to lie on his shoulder.

Tim watched him through half-lidded eyes with the vague confusion of someone too exhausted to follow the logic but too tired to argue with it either.

“You can lean,” Jason said, a little awkwardly, when Tim didn’t cooperate with his attempts to get him to rest on him. “Or whatever.”

Tim stared at him for another second.

Then, slowly—carefully, like he expected the offer to be revoked—he leaned sideways until his shoulder bumped Jason’s.

Jason went very still.

Dick made another strangled noise into his mug. Jason was pretty sure that one translated into AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Which… yeah. Same.

Tim stayed there.

A second later, he leaned a little more.

Then a little more than that.

And then, apparently deciding halfway measures were stupid, he more or less tipped sideways into Jason entirely, blanket and all, boneless with exhaustion.

Jason jumped, surprised by the suddenness of Tim’s collapse, and caught him on instinct.

Tim let out one long, shaky breath and curled in close like that was the most natural thing in the world.

It did something weird and painful to Jason’s chest.

Alfred was smiling softly at them. Dick had tears in his eyes. Actual tears.

Jason shot him a look that said Get it together, man.

Dick put a hand over his heart and made eyes at him. This is the cutest thing I ever saw in my whole life.

Jason wrinkled his nose. Ew.

But he still adjusted the blanket over Tim’s shoulders so that he would be comfortable. Dick made yet another noise. Jason tensed a little and told himself not to be weird about it.

Tim’s fingers found the front of his shirt again and twisted there tightly.

Jason glanced down.

“Yeah, alright,” he muttered. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Dick smiled a little from the counter. “You’ve been chosen.”

“Shut up.”

Tim’s breathing evened out gradually against Jason’s side.

By the time the sound of a car pulling up outside drifted faintly through the house, he was asleep.

Not proper bed asleep. More like utter collapse. His face was tucked into Jason’s shoulder, cheek warm through the fabric, one hand still fisted stubbornly in his shirt like he was afraid someone might try to take this away too, even in sleep.

Jason hadn’t moved an inch. 

Even when Dick had finished his hot chocolate, hopped off the counter, and started taking a million pictures of them from a hundred different angles, he’d remained completely still—death-glaring him, sure, but he hadn’t moved, not when Tim finally looked at peace.

The front door opened.

Soft footsteps padded down the hallway.

Dick straightened from where he was looming over Alfred’s shoulder, offering unwanted advice on his solitaire game. “That’ll be Bruce.”

Of course it was.

The kitchen door opened a moment later.

Bruce stepped inside—and stopped.

His gaze swept over the room in one quiet, comprehensive glance, lingering on the empty mugs, Dick and Alfred, and finally—Jason and Tim.

He looked worn out. No doubt from all the damage control he must’ve had to do at the Drakes’ when Jason and Dick essentially kidnapped their only son.

Bruce's eyes landed on the sleeping boy curled into Jason’s side and stayed there.

His face softened.

“He fell asleep,” Jason said, as if Bruce needed the explanation.

Bruce nodded once.

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Bruce crossed the room, slow and careful, like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet atmosphere.

He shed his suit jacket and deposited it on a nearby chair, rolling his shoulder and unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt. He collapsed into a nearby seat, rubbed his brow, and then turned his attention to Jason.

“What happened?” he asked. Which was Bruce’s way of saying Tell me everything.

And so Jason did.

“I got bored, so I left the ballroom. Went wandering. The place was creepy as hell.”

Dick made a faint noise, but didn’t interrupt.

“I was creeped out by all the statues, then I heard someone crying.”

Bruce’s expression sharpened, just slightly.

“I thought it was haunted at first, or maybe the pipes or something,” Jason admitted, a bit sheepishly. “But I followed the crying and I found this door.” He swallowed. “It was locked. From the outside.”

He looked down at Tim.

Asleep, he looked younger somehow. Smaller. The bruising on his face stood out more with the panic gone. The cut under his eye had been cleaned up, but it still made something vicious curl in Jason’s chest every time he looked at it.

The kitchen went very still.

“I broke it down,” Jason said. “He was inside.” His hand tightened slightly in the blanket around Tim’s shoulders. “In a cupboard. In the dark. Crying.”

Alfred’s card bent slightly in his grip. 

“He’d been crying so hard he could barely talk,” Jason added. “And his face was already like that when I found him.”

Dick’s mouth had gone thin and hard. Bruce’s face was solemn.

“He said they put him there because he was in the way. Too loud, or something stupid like that. Said he embarrassed them.”

Bruce was silent for a beat. Then, very evenly, “And after that?”

Jason huffed once through his nose. “I got him out. I— I couldn’t leave him there, B. He was just so… he needed help. We were trying to sneak past the guests when… yeah. When they saw him.”

His jaw tightened.

“And then they tried to say I did it.”

Bruce’s eyes darkened. “So they did.”

Jason huffed once through his nose. “So then I told them to go to hell.”

Dick made a noise that suspiciously resembled a laugh muffled into a cough.

“You sure did,” Bruce muttered, an utterly fond expression on his face as he stared at Jason.

Alfred said nothing at all.

“Has he said anything?”

Jason shook his head. “Not really. Mostly just apologising. For everything.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

His eyes dropped to Tim’s hand fisted in Jason’s shirt.

“He… won’t let go of me. He hasn’t since I found him in that closet.” Jason lifted his chin, defiant. “We’re not sending him back."

The kitchen hummed softly around them—kettle ticking as it cooled, pipes creaking faintly in the walls, the faint hum of the refrigerator. The sounds of home. Alive. Lived in. So wildly different from the cold detachedness of Drake Manor.

Bruce wrinkled his nose, as if he was offended by the very idea of it. “No. Of course not.”

Jason sagged with relief, something unclenching in him so abruptly it almost made him feel lightheaded.

Dick exhaled, some of the tension leaving him. 

“Cool,” he said weakly. “Great. Amazing. Love that for us. We’ve kidnapped a kid.”

“No,” Jason corrected. “We rescued one.”

Alfred set a fresh cup of tea down beside Bruce and placed a hand on his shoulder. Bruce kept looking at Tim, a furrow between his brow.

Then, after a moment, he reached out very carefully and smoothed one hand once over his hair.

Tim didn’t wake.

He only made a small sleepy sound and pressed closer into Jason instead.

Jason tried not to look smug about that.

Failed, probably.

Bruce’s mouth quirked into a soft smile.

“We’ll deal with it in the morning,” he said quietly. “For now, the Drakes are… appeased.”

Jason nodded once, and didn’t ask how him how he'd managed to appease them. He’d rather not know.

Dick nudged his knee lightly with his foot.

“If your arm falls off, I’m not helping you,” he said under his breath.

“Shut up,” Jason muttered. Then, louder, without opening his eyes, “Also, he ran at least three red lights.”

Dick choked. “Oh my—”

Bruce turned his head slowly.

Dick pointed at Jason and narrowed his eyes. “Snitch.”

“You nearly killed us,” Jason said, cracking one eye open just enough to glare at him. “I’m just making sure it’s on record.”

“You said I did great driving!”

“I said we survived. Very different. You’re a terrible getaway driver.”

Alfred made a soft, noncommittal sound that absolutely meant he agreed with Jason, reshuffling his cards to start a new solitaire game.

Bruce exhaled through his nose, a smile tugging at his lips. “We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

Dick groaned. “Traitorous household. I risk my life—”

“You risked our lives,” Jason cut in.

“Still counts.”

Jason shut his eyes again. “Go away.”

Dick huffed, but there was no heat in it. He hovered for a second longer, then gave Jason’s shoulder a light, careful squeeze—making sure not to jostle Tim—and stepped back.

The kitchen settled.

Tim shifted slightly against him, breath hitching, fingers tightening in his shirt.

Jason adjusted a little, just enough to make sure Tim was properly supported, the movement automatic, instinctive.

He settled again.

Good.

Jason leaned his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling for a second before letting his eyes fall shut.

His arm was definitely going numb.

Didn’t matter.

Also didn’t matter that his shirt was probably ruined.

Worth it.

The kitchen stayed warm. The lights stayed low. Dick kept up a soft stream of nonsense under his breath with Alfred that Jason only half listened to. Bruce sat nearby, half slumped over his mug of tea with a small smile on his lips as he took them all in.

And in the middle of it all, Tim slept on.

Warm, and safe, and stubbornly attached to Jason’s shirt.