Archive of Our Own ^beta

Waterboarding was not fun.

Tim was hauled out, coughing and spluttering, choking on the water he’d swallowed, stomach muscles burning as he dug his knees into the side of the tub to stay upright.  The instinctive reaction to jerk away from the water was halted by the cold metal locked around his throat and Tim nearly choked himself again before his body caught up to his mind and remembered that the collar was chained to the bottom of the tub.

“Well, Robin?”  Marc Bartholdi, one of Falcone’s enforcers and currently Tim’s least favorite person, stalked around the edge of the round tub until he appeared in Tim’s field of view.  Tim didn’t bother lifting his head, staring straight down into the water as he gasped for breath, his entire abdomen burning with the effort it took to keep from collapsing into the tub.  “It doesn’t have to be this difficult.  You know where the GCPD took our shipment, you were the one who handed it to them.”

“Was just,” Tim coughed, “The delivery guy.”  His limbs were shaking from exhaustion.  “C’mon Marc.”  The ropes tying his hands behind his back were wet and chafing.  “Don’t be.”  His face was three inches from the water.  “Stupid.”

Fingers tightened in his hair and shoved him down into the water.  Tim didn’t have the time to draw a breath before he was shoved in, and his air ran out quicker than before.  The goons didn’t particularly care about his thrashing, and black spots danced across his vision, lungs burning, diaphragm screaming, before the grip finally let go.

Hauling himself back out of the water, forced to remain bent over, the edge of the tub digging into his hipbones—Tim ached all over, and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up.  Batman was off-world.  Nightwing was dark for an undercover mission.  Tim had been trying to get free of the ropes for an eternity, and all he’d managed was rubbing his wrists raw.

His ears were still waterlogged, so it took a long moment to realize that the sounds in the distance were gunshots.  Getting louder.

Tim managed to scrounge up enough effort to tilt his head up.  “You might want to check that out,” he said helpfully.

Bartholdi looked none too pleased.  “My job’s to make the bird crack, the guards can handle that.”  A pause in firing, a guttural scream.  “It’s probably some stupid gang anyway.”  A tense silence lingered.  “See?”

The man had spoken too soon.  The gunshots started back up again, closer and faster, and Tim drew up a Robin smirk.  “Sure,” he said, coughing, “Definitely just some stupid gang.”

Bartholdi glowered at him before waving at a couple of his thugs.  “Go find out what’s happening and come back,” he snapped, and turned back to Tim, “Don’t worry, Robin, I’m not going to forget you.”

“Oh, goody.”

“All you have to do is tell me where the shipment is, and all of this can end,” Bartholdi said pleasantly.

“Sure, you’ll shove me in the water and make sure I don’t come up.  You think I don’t know how Falcone works, Marc?”

“I think you’re a bird, and birds can’t swim.”

Tim took a deliberately deep breath before squinting up at Marc, “You do know that I’m human, right?  Like, you’re stretching this bird metaphor a bit—”

The sudden shove didn’t catch him entirely by surprise, and Tim managed to avoid inhaling any water this time, relaxing his stomach and holding his breath as he waited for the burning to become unbearable.  The seconds passed slowly, the world narrowed down to the water, the too-thick lock chaining his neck to the bottom, the way everything was muffled and quiet.

He could still hear the gunfire.

His lungs had barely tightened before the grip on his hair disappeared, and Tim actually stayed in the water for a half-second in surprise before forcing his stomach to contract and dragging his torso out of the water.  His breaths were jagged and harsh, and Tim dimly registered Bartholdi shouting something at the guards.

The gunshots sounded like they were coming from right outside the room.  They cut out with an abruptness that sent a chill down Tim’s spine.

“Is it the Bat?” Bartholdi asked, tense.  A stretching beat of silence.

“No,” someone answered.

Tim didn’t have any time to register the disappointment before the door crashed open.  It was behind him, so he couldn’t see, but the gunfire was suddenly deafening and Tim had his head tilted up enough to catch the surprise on Marc Bartholdi’s face before a bullet cracked through his skull.

Oh fuck.

Tim stayed where he was, unable to move, entire body trembling with the exertion of keeping him upright, still coughing and shivering.  The footsteps were loud and cracking as they headed towards him, heavy and booted, and Tim shook with a particularly violent cough as trepidation curled around his spine.

The footsteps passed him to round the edge of the tub and step into Tim’s limited field of view.  Craning his neck hurt, his stomach was about to give up the ghost on staying upright, but Tim managed to tilt his head enough to catch the glint of red.

Oh fuck.

Stay away from the Red Hood, Batman had growled at him.  Their confrontation had ended with a warehouse in ruins, the Joker with several broken bones, and the memory of Jason’s Todd’s rage.  Hood was violent and volatile and his vendetta was personal.

Tim had tried to argue, tried to point out that Hood—Jason had rules, he was cleaning up Crime Alley, he didn’t hurt kids, Tim could talk to him out of uniform, and Batman had shut that down fast.

Stay away from Hood, Nightwing had insisted, face drawn and solemn, I’m serious, baby bird, he wants to hurt you.  It had taken a while to reconcile the Robin Tim remembered with a hulking crime lord who apparently hated him badly enough to want him dead, but Tim had finally agreed.

He’d stayed away from Jason, from Crime Alley and the East End and the Bowery—and because of that, neatly walked into Falcone’s trap—and he still hadn’t managed to avoid the Red Hood.

This was not Tim’s fault.

“Replacement,” Hood sneered, and there went any possible hope that Nightwing and Batman had just been exaggerating Hood’s hatred, “What a surprise.”

“Could say the same,” Tim croaked out, “Tricorner’s a little far from your stomping grounds.”

“I go where the business takes me,” Hood said, his voice distorted and low, “And it must be my lucky day.”

There was no mistaking the cruelty in that tone.  What happened to you, Tim wanted to ask, what happened to the Robin that had never failed to make Batman laugh, never failed to give Gotham hope?  What had happened to the child that brought brightness to turn him to a man that exuded darkness?

Well, Tim doubted he’d get an answer.  He was still very much chained in place, and all Hood had to do was shove him back down into the water.

“A replacement Robin, all tied up,” Hood almost crooned in the mechanized tone.  The effect was slightly horrifying.  “Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?”

“Beat me up?” Tim guessed, “I mean, I don’t know specifics, but in general.”  Hood stared at him, silent.  “I’m sorry, was that a rhetorical question?”

“You seem remarkably unconcerned,” Hood growled, “Pro tip, kid, the false bravado doesn’t work in your favor.  It just makes you a more satisfying target.”

“Pretty sure that’s the oxygen deprivation,” Tim tried to yawn and cough at the same time and nearly ended up choking.  He almost smacked into the water trying to recover.

“The oxygen deprivation.”

“You know,” Tim tried to keep his voice above a murmur.  God, was he exhausted.  “Lightheadedness, exhaustion, difficulty breathing.  Drowning is not fun.  Zero out of ten, would not recommend.”

He blinked, and the water was suddenly an inch closer than before.  His stomach was cramping, and Tim was seriously debating taking a brief dunk to give his muscles a break.  He glanced up at Hood to see if the man was doing anything, and went still.

Hood had unholstered his gun.

“Are you going to shoot me?” Tim asked.  He was pretty sure he’d drown, then.  To be fair, he’d drown if Hood just stared at him for another couple of minutes, he was fast losing his grip on his muscles and with the chain around his neck, he couldn’t break away from the tub.

Hood didn’t say anything, just aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.

Tim jerked, eyes screwing shut on instinct, the gunshot loud and the impact vibrating through his bones.  As soon as the ringing faded, Tim could hear the sound of rushing water, and cautiously cracked open an eye.

Bang.  Bang.  Another couple of gunshots, equally deafening, and Tim didn’t need to hear to see the water level receding, gushing out through the tub’s new perforations.  Hood was still holding the gun, but it was pointed at the floor now, the only sound the water spilling out in an ever-growing puddle.

Tim drooped before he could stop himself, muscles finally giving out with a spasm, and his precarious balance on the edge of the tub gave way to tip him fully into the tub.  Tim tucked his head to turn it into a flip, and landed on his bound arms in the wide, deep tub, fighting for breath for a few seconds before the water receded past his face, leaving only a couple inches remaining in the tub.

Tim went limp, utterly drained.

His hands were aching, unhappy with his weight on the twisted bonds, the collar around his neck was heavy, and he was still shivering and unable to move, even when his view of the ceiling rafters was blocked by the red helmet.  Tim tried to wriggle away when Hood braced a hand on the edge of the tub to jump inside, but his stomach burned at the slightest movement and his legs were trembling too badly to support his weight.

“S—should’ve g—got in when th—there was s—still water ins—side,” Tim stuttered, unable to more than shift in place when Hood dropped on top of him, straddling his waist.  “L—lovely weather f—for a s—swim.”

“Oh, shut up, Replacement,” Hood snapped, tone more annoyed than cruel, and Tim nearly bit off his own tongue when gloved fingers brushed the edge of his neck.  Hood was warm and practically sitting on him and Tim was shivering, the exhaustion and the drowning and the cold catching up to him all at once to leave him limp and trembling at the bottom of the tub.

Tim didn’t realize that his eyes had closed until a hand gripped his now bare neck and hauled him up like a sack of potatoes, pulling him out of the tub and dropping him unceremoniously on the wet floor, snapping Tim back to alertness.

The grip moved to his arms as Tim wriggled in place like a drowning caterpillar and with a harsh jerk, the bonds came free and Tim could catch himself with his throbbing hands.  He coughed again, his entire chest rebelling as he hacked up his lungs, and a hard and unexpected blow between his shoulder blades send him sprawling against the floor and nearly broke his nose.

Tim hiccupped and sneezed, wrung out, too exhausted to move from his curled-up position.  It felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest and all Tim wanted to do was go to sleep.  Why couldn’t he just take a little nap?

Boots splashed in the water in his field of view.  “Where’s Batman?” a mechanized voice growled.

Oh right.  That was why.

Tim tried to sit up, failed, and pretended like propping himself up on an elbow had been the end goal the whole time.  “Why would I tell you?” Tim squinted up at the red helmet, “Didn’t you try to blow him up the last time you saw him?”

Technically, Hood had tried to blow them all up, but Tim was choosing to ignore that particular bit of traumatic fatalism.

Hood made an angry noise before cutting it off, “Oh.  He’s out of town.”  He didn’t sound pleased.

Tim remembered that Hood was Jason Todd and Bruce Wayne’s ‘business trip’ had been highly publicized.  In his defense, his mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders right now.

“Where’s the Golden Boy?  Don’t tell me he’s off-planet too,” Hood grumbled.

“What, you want to blow him up too?”

“Yeah, with a half-drowned birdie as bait,” Hood nudged him with a boot, “Where is he, Replacement?”

Tim managed the herculean effort that was a shrug, and slumped back to the floor.  He was going to feel like a cement truck rolled over him tomorrow.  He felt like a cement truck rolled over him now, and then backed up and tossed him inside for some good old-fashioned dizziness.  How did he feel dizzy when he was flat on the floor?  It wasn’t fair.  Tim was demanding a refund from physics.

“Unbelievable,” Hood said from somewhere above him.

“If you’re going to kill me, could you do it quietly?” Tim unstuck his mouth to say, “‘M trying to take a nap.”  He was pretty sure Hood offed everyone in the warehouse—killing people was pretty much his shtick—and Alfred was out of town, so there was no one to give Tim a disapproving look for sleeping on the cold, damp cement floor.

“No, you’re not,” Hood snapped, crouching down to haul Tim up by the collar of his suit, and ignored all of Tim’s protesting noises to pull him upright.  “March.”

“Seriously,” Tim said, stumbling forward on aching legs, “Whatever it is you want, just take it already.”  This was torture.  “You don’t need to take me to an undisclosed location.”  At this point, Tim would probably trade his liver for a bed and some sleep.  Or his spleen.  What did he need a spleen for anyway?  “What, is this warehouse not good enough for your torture spree?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Hood said, still poking Tim in the back to get him to move faster.

There were quite a lot of dead bodies on their way out, but Tim didn’t mention it in the hopes of avoiding joining their number.  The exhaustion had settled deeper and became strangely clarifying—he was currently at the mercy of a man who hated him and his family, and he was in no condition to put up a fight.  A particularly fierce shudder set off another wave of coughing and by the time Tim could draw a full breath, doubled over, Hood had already managed to drag him over to his bike.

Tim stared at the bike, and then at the hulking crime lord next to it.  He was cold all over, and it had nothing to do with his sodden clothes.

“No,” Tim said, very quietly.

“Excuse me?”

“No,” Tim repeated, “I’m not following you.  I don’t know what you want, but I’m not going to play your game.  I’m not going to apologize for being Robin, I’m not going to help you kill the Joker, and I’m not going to let you hurt my family.”

For a long, stretching moment, there was only silence.  Hood stared at him, expression unseen behind the gleaming red helmet.  Tim scanned his surroundings for an escape route, but there was no way he could outrun Hood, not like this, not without half his gear or his bo staff.

“Cute,” Hood said, “That you think you have a choice.”

Tim was right.  Hood moved faster than Tim could react, and there was an arm around his throat before the world went black.

Tim returned to consciousness slowly.  He felt like he was swimming in soup.  Warm soup.  He snapped to alertness only to realize that he was cozily tucked in a bed, and exhaustion won out for a slower awakening.

He had his eyes open for a long, stretching moment before he registered what he was looking at.  “What are you doing?” Tim croaked in a voice that could politely be described as slow-mixed concrete.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  It didn’t come out much clearer.

Apparently it was still understandable, though, because the teen sitting in the chair by the bed just scowled.  “Monitoring for secondary drowning,” he said, green eyes narrowed, looking far, far less intimidating in a tank top and Wonder Woman sweatpants.

Tim managed to wriggle enough to figure out that he wasn’t in the Robin suit, and he was dry.  There was a mountain of blankets wrapped around him, and it was all deliciously warm like there was a warming pan or a hot water bottle somewhere.

“You choked me,” Tim said, more questioning than annoyed.

“You were getting on my nerves.”

“So you choked me?” Tim repeated, indignant.

Jason Todd glowered at him.  “If you don’t shut up, I’ll do it again,” he threatened.  Tim tried to shrink back when Jason reached for him, but all the older boy did was raise the pillows so Tim was more or less sitting up.

“Who the hell did you learn first aid from?” Tim croaked, “And why is strangulation always your answer?”

“I didn’t strangle you, I choked you, there’s a difference,” Jason sneered, “And you’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Jason had a point.  Of course, this could all be a very vivid dream.  “I’d like to think so,” Tim tried to yawn and cough at the same time, the results weren’t pleasant.  “There was a moment there where everything got fuzzy,” Tim wheezed, “Didn’t expect to survive that.”

Jason made an inarticulate sound that bore a resemblance to an angry bull.  Tim squinted at him, “You okay?”

“Peachy,” Jason said in a tone that implied he wanted to carve out Tim’s liver with a rusty spoon just for asking.

Tim squinted harder.  The room was going blurry.  “If you’re going to kill me, I’d appreciate if you did it quietly,” Tim said, yawning again, “‘M going back to sleep.”

“Replacement,” he heard but it wasn’t strong enough to drag him back from the irresistible lure of sleep.

The next time Tim woke up, it was daylight outside.  This time, he had more strength to push himself up, rubbing his eyes and blinking twice at the unfamiliar room.  Jason was nowhere to be found.

“Breakfast’s in the kitchen,” Jason’s voice called out.

Correct, Jason was nowhere to be seen.

Tim contemplated the door, and then his heap of nice and warm blankets.  “Replacement, get out of bed!” Jason’s voice echoed distantly.

Tim glowered in that direction.  “Fine,” he grumbled under his breath, slowly wriggling free of the many blankets.  He took the last one with him, wrapping it around him like a cape, only to meet Jason’s unamused gaze in the doorway.

“Oh, like you never had a blanket cape,” Tim said crankily.

“Capes are for losers.”

“Yeah, we got it, you died and turned edgy,” Tim said under his breath, but loud enough for Jason to hear because the older boy was suddenly cornering him against the wall.

“What did you say?” Jason hissed, eyes flickering a malevolent green.  This close, it was apparent that he had half a foot and several pounds of muscle on Tim, and Tim had to fight to not try to become one with the wallpaper.

“I’m just pointing out that the rest of us didn’t decide to take a villain name and dress in leather,” Tim said, because apparently the blanket cape made him brave.

“The rest of you,” Jason seethed, “I’m not a bird anymore, kid.  And you should be more careful of getting your wings clipped.”

Tim stared at Jason.  Jason glared back.  Tim calculated the odds that this would backfire spectacularly—they were pretty low, compared to his usual.

“Bullshit,” Tim said.

“What?”

“I call bullshit,” Tim jutted his chin challengingly, “You aren’t going to hurt me.  You may carry a red helmet and guns, but you’re still—Robin.”

Tim ended up wheezing the last word around the fingers clamped tight on his throat.

Jason smiled.  It was terrifying.  “You want to try that again, Replacement?” he invited.

Tim met his challenge and called his bluff.  “Do it,” he croaked, tilting his head to give Jason easier access to his throat, “Prove me wrong.”

Jason’s grip constricted, but only a miniscule amount.  The squeeze, however, was enough to trigger Tim’s defensive instincts, and even rationality couldn’t hold up to trauma-induced panic—Tim ended up coughing and choking and writhing in Jason’s grip.

Not Jason’s grip.

There was a hand at his shoulder, holding him upright as his stomach cramped painfully, and another rubbing down his back in hard strokes that didn’t stop until Tim stopped hacking on air.

He was trembling again, jelly-legged and drained, and when Jason pulled him up, he half-collapsed against the older boy.  Jason ran warm, like Dick did, and it was nice.  Almost like a hug.

“You need to eat something,” Jason said critically, as though he hadn’t been threatening bodily harm a moment ago, “I made soup.”

“Softie,” Tim said into Jason’s shirt.

Jason made an irritated sound.  “Don’t test it, Replacement,” he snarled, but he maneuvered Tim to the kitchen without a single complaint about practically carrying him.  “You get one bowl of soup because I feel sorry for your pathetic half-drowned ass, and then I’m kicking you out.”

Bruce and Dick were wrong and Tim was right.  Confronted with a Robin that clearly wasn’t a threat, Jason had chosen rescuing him over continuing his temper tantrum, and this was why Tim should be in charge from now on.

Mm, and Jason made some really delicious soup.

That was it.  Screw Bruce and Dick, Tim was dragging Hood back home.  Jason paused where he was puttering near the stove to look at Tim with suspicious eyes, “What’re you staring at me for?”

“Nothing,” Tim chirped and went back to inhaling the soup.

Now, how best to lure Jason back…Tim had a mental image of a string tied to a box above a red-helmeted cat and had to stifle a snicker.

Jason felt a thrill of dread down his spine.