Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim

Tim is polishing off a bowl of leftover white cheddar mac-and-cheese when his phone rings. One glance at the caller has him almost dropping the bowl in his haste to set it aside and answer.

“Hello, Mother,” he says, scooting his chair back from the small dining table in Dick’s Blüdhaven apartment.

Across from him, Dick doesn’t bother to hide his interest as his eyes flick up at Tim’s words. 

“Hello Timothy, I trust you’re doing well. Now your father and I…”

Tim listens with a growing sense of trepidation. Apparently his parents now consider him old enough to go to galas without them. He’s to maintain their network and begin building his own among the younger generation of heirs. They expect him to properly represent Drake Industries and….

Tim doesn’t tune his mother out at that point, but he mostly could have. The expectations for his behavior aren’t anything new. The one surprise comes at the end, when she informs him that he is expected to attend the Marleighs’ annual fête—the one happening tonight. 

He automatically bites back a protest, even as his heart sinks. He and Jason have—had—plans to go to a poetry reading (Jason’s idea) at a local cafe followed by a few hours of video games at Jason’s primary Gotham safehouse before patrol. 

“Yes, Mother, of course.”

“Make us proud.” She hangs up. 

“Tim?” Dick asks, clearly concerned.  

“I uh…I guess I’ll see you at the gala tonight.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I know you were looking forward to patrol.”

He nods, forcing down his resentment as he sends Jason an apologetic text. A part of him mulishly considers defying his parents. There’s a decent chance they won’t even remember to talk to him about this, and he doubts they’ll pay attention enough to know for certain if he doesn't attend. The tempting thought disappears a second later under a sudden wave of guilt. His parents are working full time to maintain the family business and image—it’s selfish of him to feel bitter about helping out for an evening. 

“I better get back, make sure I still have a suit that fits.”

“Sure thing. I can get ready at the manor instead of here, anyway.”

As Tim finds out about an hour later, he does not, in fact, have a suit that fits. He’s grown since the last time his parents were in town long enough to attend a significant social function. He manages to not completely panic as he calls Dick with his dilemma. Dick, in turn, calls Bruce. 

Luckily, their father comes to the rescue by throwing money at the problem, despite currently being in Milan for WE business. By six o’clock, Tim is at Wayne Manor with a harried but extremely well-paid tailor. The man brings six different suits in Timothy’s size, quickly determines which one fits best, and then makes the necessary alterations on the spot. 

Tim figures out which driving service has been sent to pick him up and redirects them to Wayne Manor. Dick suggests they simply go together with Alfred driving, but Tim doesn’t feel like explaining that to his parents, in the unlikely but possible event that they notice the ride cancellation.

Unfortunately, arriving separately means that he is almost immediately set upon by various people who see a lone Drake heir as an easy mark. It isn’t anything he can’t handle, but it’s a distinctly unwelcome change from being mostly ignored while standing beside his parents. 

It takes an hour before he is able to break away enough to go after the target his mother had specifically identified—the Fyodorovs. His parents expect him to make nice with Mikail Fyodorov, the Janus executive they’ve been maintaining a connection with for a few years now. He manages about seven minutes of productive schmoozing with Mr. Fyodorov before being passed on to his wife. 

Thirty minutes later, Tim finally catches Dick’s eye from across the ballroom, allowing his desperation to show for half a second the moment their eyes meet. He then turns back to the mind-numbing conversation with Inra Fyodorov, hoping that a rescue is imminent. If he has to hear much more about Mrs. Fyodorov’s purebred English cocker spaniel’s retinal atrophy, he is going to fake a heart attack or do something equally gauche. 

Thankfully his eldest brother is an absolute pro at managing gala attendees—his carefree and natural charm allows him to get away with things that someone born into high society, like Tim, cannot.

So after a few lightly flirtatious and apologetic comments to Mrs. Fyodorov, he whisks Tim away with a friendly arm around his shoulders.

“Cocker spaniel?” Dick asks with a wry grin once they’ve meandered away.

“Did you know eye issues are fairly common for the breed?” Tim asks, sounding a bit like a shell-shocked veteran. Dick snickers.

“C’mon. There’s ggul tteok from that caterer you like over here.”

Tim enjoys listening to Dick as they munch on colorful steamed rice cakes that have been formed into impressively intricate shapes. He doesn’t completely drop the society mask since there are still plenty of people around, but he is able to relax considerably. He sips sparkling apple cider and allows his mind to rest a bit as Dick makes light conversation around him. He appreciates how Dick doesn’t expect him to answer, or really participate at all. He’s just talking so that anyone who looks at them will think Tim is occupied. Both of them know that Tim would personally prefer to simply lean against Dick with his eyes closed while they sit on a chaise lounge in silence, but that would only invite gossip and interruptions. 

Eventually someone gets bold enough to join them. When the newcomer proves to be tolerable, Dick lets them stay and Tim peaceably zones out as he pretends to be a part of the conversation.

Ten minutes later, Dick has a little audience. Tim marvels at how effortless it looks—not because he thinks it’s actually easy for Dick, but because he appreciates how much practice and skill goes into putting on that kind of show without breaking a sweat.

Feeling refreshed by the break, Tim gives Dick a quick little wave and slips away to get another flute of sparkling cider before he hunts down Mr. Fyodorov again. On his way however, he is accosted by someone he certainly can’t brush off—Samson Marleigh, the eldest son of their host for the evening. 

Samson, like Tim, is the heir apparent of his father’s company. At twenty-seven he’s already the CFO, and if the rumors are true, he’s doing quite well at it. Tim has never met Samson before, but he knows his parents would never forgive him if he missed this opportunity to network with another future CEO. Samson has light blond hair that reminds Tim of his friend Bernard, and is dressed in a perfectly fitted dark green suit. With a Hollywood cut to his jaw and dramatically dark eyes, it’s not hard to see why he’s considered one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors. 

“Hey! It’s Timothy Drake, right?”

“Yes. You’re Samson Marleigh.”

“Last I checked!”

They do the cheerful small talk routine for about five minutes before Samson breaks the script.

“So. How long did Mrs. Fyodorov imprison you? I noticed you earlier and nearly felt the need to rescue you myself before Grayson swooped in.”

Tim chuckles. “Thirty minutes or so. I’m pretty sure I could remove a dog’s cataracts by now, given the detail she went into.”

“That blasted dog, right. Well, I can hardly blame her. If the only other family I had was Mr. Fyodorov, I’d find something else to love too.”

Tim gives only a polite smile, wary of agreeing too openly with the more acidic comment. Samson catches on.

“Sorry, don’t mean to make it awkward. Father’s always saying I need to watch my mouth. I swear he’d still be washing it out with soap if I hadn’t gotten too tall.”

Tim smiles more naturally at that.

“The bar or the liquid?” he asks knowingly.

“Liquid of course! You?”

“Bar.”

“Damn. How’d they not lose their grip and make you choke on it?”

“Have you seen my mom’s nails? There’s a reason she was so pleased to become a Drake. A name to match her claws.”

Samson laughs openly at that. “You know, I heard my dad say once that marrying Janet turned your dad from a duck into a dragon,” he says, tone light and teasing.

“I don’t doubt it.”

Samson is easy to talk to. He reminds Tim of Dick, with his age and cheery disposition, though he’s more prone to acerbic wit than groan-worthy puns. He also shows a near encyclopedic knowledge of anyone who comes up in their conversation, which Tim respects. 

“Hey, want to cut out for a little bit? I’ve got a chill out room that I let my friends know about. You can escape there anytime.”

“Uh—sure, yeah,” Tim says, not finding a good reason to say no. He knows he needs to get to Fyodorov soon—the man sometimes leaves galas about halfway through after drinking too much—but his parents did tell him to network with the younger generation, right? Becoming ‘friends’ with the young Marleigh heir is surely just as important.

The fact that Samson is far better company than Mr. Fyodorov certainly has nothing to do with his decision. 

The room they go to isn’t far from the ballroom. It looks like a classic gentleman’s lounge, with a pool table off to the right and a collection of luxurious dark leather couches set in a half-circle around a roaring fireplace that dominates the wall to the left. A small bar is set in the far wall, filled with expensive liquor.

There are two other men in the room already, playing pool with whisky glasses in hand. They both look older than Samson, but not by much—maybe early-thirties, at most. 

“Hey! Lorenzo, Giddy. This is Timothy Drake. Tim, this is Lorenzo De León and Gideon Moore.”

Tim recognizes both names; The De Leóns own the Lionshead Grocery chain and the Moores are old blood, their wealth maintained through investments and dividends even though the old coal company they own is slowly fading in the face of the green energy revolution.

Lorenzo is a tall, slim man with tan skin and dramatic black hair styled in a thousand dollar haircut. Gideon is only a little shorter, but stocky, wearing a bit too much foundation to try and hide how pasty his skin really is (Tim can sympathize). The man’s classy black suit is in a style Tim recognizes; that particular designer brand doesn’t sell anything under five figures. 

They give him quick hellos and Gideon salutes him with his nearly empty glass.

“Want a drink?” Samson asks, walking them to the bar. Tim raises his guard automatically, though he gives no sign of it in his body language. Is Samson actually offering him alcohol? There are a number of reasons he might want to get Tim drunk: hoping he’ll be thrown off his game enough to spill corporate secrets, wanting embarrassing blackmail videos of an inebriated Drake heir, or simply looking for useful gossip he wouldn’t normally share. Maybe coming with him wasn’t a good idea.

“Water’s fine,” Tim says, watching closely for Samson’s reaction. But there’s no dismay or pressure; he simply goes into the minifridge and passes Tim a bottle of water. As Tim listens to the snap of the plastic seal open, he acknowledges that he might be getting overly paranoid. Being alone with one person might be dangerous, but it would be foolish for Samson to try anything with two other witnesses around.

“So, Tim. Your old man teach you to play pool?” Samson asks, pouring himself a modest half-glass of whiskey.

“It’s billiards!” Gideon insists.

“It’s not fucking billiards. Real billiards doesn’t have pockets, dumbass,” Lorenzo replies. 

“Language!” Gideon snaps. “Little ears,” he says patronizingly as he jerks a thumb in Tim’s direction. Tim raises a single eyebrow at him, doing his best to mimic Alfred’s ‘unimpressed’ look, and Lorenzo snorts.

“You fucking bothered by a little bad language kid?” Lorenzo asks Tim, who shakes his head with a wry smirk. No one could possibly have lived around Jason as much as he has and be bothered by cursing. Lorenzo grins at him, clearly catching on to his amusement.

“Cool. C’mon. Let me teach you how to shoot before Samson teaches you wrong,” he says. Gideon rolls his eyes and tosses Tim the cue stick just hard enough to be aggressive before going to the bar. Lorenzo snickers at his friend (or are they even friends?) when Tim snags it expertly from the air without flinching back.

“Okay, Tim. So the trick is….”

Lorenzo is actually pretty cool, and he’s a good teacher. Tim relaxes quickly, pleased to have an actual task to do rather than simply standing around trying to sound interesting. Tim occasionally makes observations on the physics and geometry of the game and Lorenzo sounds impressed—and like he actually understands the math. Samson and Gideon stay by the bar, chatting and laughing.

Lorenzo’s phone starts ringing about halfway through their second real game. He checks it and (unsurprisingly) swears.

“It’s my sister. Gotta take this,” he says. He points at Tim. “Don’t let Samson try to teach you any of his goddamn trick shots. None of that shit works.”

Tim smiles and then glances at his own phone regretfully as he notes the time. “I should actually go back out. My parents expect me to mingle.” He notices a couple missed messages from Jason, but his attention is dragged back when Samson speaks up.

“Your parents aren’t here,” he points out with a grin as Lorenzo walks to the other end of the room, phone to his ear. “Besides, I’m a host. You are mingling. C’mere and let Gideon make you a mocktail. No alcohol, promise. He did a stint as a bartender in Macau when he was out ‘discovering himself ’ and he’s actually really good,” Samson says. Tim walks over to the bar, tossing his now-empty water bottle into a fancy wastebasket. 

“Virgin, right?” Gideon asks with a hint of a leer as he takes out a glass and some cranberry juice. Tim feels a bit of heat tinge his cheeks, embarrassment bringing his guard back up instantly. 

“Don’t be a dick, Giddy,” Samson says. Tim imagines Jason punching Gideon in the face as he takes a careful breath, and he feels the red disappear from his cheeks. 

“Sure you don’t want a bit of the grownup juice, kid?” Gideon asks, apparently unmoved by Samson’s rebuke. 

“Pass,” Tim says cooly and Gideon goes to work with a shrug. Tim watches him make the drink carefully, well aware that he is exactly the type of asshole who would sneak in some alcohol as a ‘joke.’ He doesn’t try anything though. Finished, he hands Tim a fizzy pink drink with an umbrella that has a couple maraschino cherries stabbed onto it. 

Tim tries it carefully. “Wow. That’s really good,” he says a second later, genuinely impressed. Gideon looks smug. 

“Told ya,” Samson says. “Okay, now forget everything Lorenzo told you, I’m gonna show you how to do some trick shots.”

Lorenzo was right. Samson’s trick shots are terrible. But it’s amusing to ‘learn’ them nonetheless. Eventually Lorenzo finishes his call and rejoins them to mock Samson mercilessly. 

And then, right as Tim is thinking he really does need to head back out, the room suddenly sways like he’s on a ship in a storm.

He’s confused for half a second before he realizes what it means.

It means he Messed Up.

“Woah, hey there. Giddy actually get some alcohol in you after all?” Samson asks, catching his shoulder. Tim jerks back, bumping against the pool table. It’s coming on really fast. He’s reaching for his phone when Gideon is suddenly beside him, snatching it out of his fingers as he wraps an arm around Tim’s waist. Humiliatingly, the man’s arm is most of what keeps Tim from falling.

“What the fuck?” Lorenzo’s voice sounds weirdly far away.

“Gideon, what the hell?” Samson asks. “I could have sworn you didn’t add alcohol.”

“I didn’t. I added something better a little later.” The smirk is obvious in his tone. Tim tries to go through some basic hold breaks to get away from Gideon, but the larger man simply drags him closer. This is ridiculous, Tim thinks. He could put this guy down in seconds normally. 

“For fuck’s sake, seriously? Why?” Samson demands.

Lorenzo laughs.

“Well you were supposed to bring back some girls….”

Tim goes to hit Gideon’s chin with the base of his palm, but he catches it and Tim is treated to the horrible sensation of Gideon’s lips kissing his knuckles. He tries to yank his hand away and is faced with an overwhelming sense of helplessness when his efforts have absolutely no effect.

“Goddamn you got ‘im good.” Lorenzo says, amusement obvious in his tone.

“Get off me,” Tim says. Or tries to say. He’s not sure he really manages to hit half of the consonants. In fact he’s not even sure where he is, or who he’s talking to, but he knows he doesn’t like the expensive cologne and alcohol scent that fills his nose or the too-smooth silk his face is pressed against. Conversation starts to flow around him as he reaches for his phone—wait, it’s not in its usual pocket. Where did….

“Ugh. If I brought girls I’d have to bring Samantha, and I’m just so sick of…”

“...but he’s kinda pretty, right?”

“...messed up. I’m not going to…”

“...can share? C’mon, don’t act like you haven’t…”

“...such a fucking prude, Sammy.”

“...going to remember anything?”

“Nah. And he’ll be too embarrassed to…”

“Fine, whatever. Better than going back out. What did you…”

“...and lock the door.”

Tim feels himself being picked up and then dropped on something soft. A part of him is panicking, but that part is muffled and distant.

“...mouth. Just look at those lips.”

Tim feels something—a finger—slip between his teeth, and he instinctively bites down. 

Sudden, stinging pain registers against his cheek as the world spins even more nauseatingly. He’s dimly aware of laughter nearby, and then cold glass presses against his lips and his mouth is forced open. Burning, bitter liquid hits his tongue and he tries to spit but then something warm is pressed over his mouth and he has to swallow.

“...help him relax a little.”

His vision starts to fade out as he feels something tugging at his tie, and then there’s nothing.

Jason

It’s half past eleven and Jason is pissed. Tim’s parents aren’t even in the country right now and they’re still being fucking terrible. He ends up skipping the poetry reading, knowing he’ll be too irritated to enjoy it. Emily Dickinson isn’t his favorite after all, he’s just confident it would speak to Tim, maybe convince him to read a bit more. Kid needs to find a mellow hobby. Right now he’s got high energy video games, skateboarding, and sneaking energy drinks past his various family members who are really just trying to keep him alive for fuck’s sake—

Jason goes through his breathing exercises for the upteenth time that evening and decides to pack it in for the night. It’s too quiet in his zone to give him anything to burn off the restlessness, and he knows Helena and Kate are already covering patrol routes for Batman and Robin.

He checks his phone yet again, but Tim still hasn't responded to the half dozen messages Jason sent over the last couple hours. Jason understands why Tim isn’t answering—he has to shmooze, and his parents trained him to not look at his phone around company—but Jason doesn’t find that reassuring. Tim is just…he sometimes goes too far to be polite, and Jason knows what jackals those high society assholes can be, and—and if there's a Rogue attack, Batman is out of town…

The excuses fall flat even in his own mind. Okay, he really has no reason to be concerned. Dick is at the same gala and Tim can certainly take care of himself. 

…but it’s not like it’ll do any harm for Jason to check in on him, right?

He briefly considers calling Oracle and asking if she can get eyes on Tim through security cameras, but dismisses the idea a moment later. This particular anxiety never dissipates until Jason can see Tim in person. Normally he’d be fine, having seen Tim earlier that day, but hearing that Tim’s god-awful parents are the reason for their canceled plans has left Jason feeling like someone physically yanked Tim out of his arms, and it’s throwing his protective instincts into overdrive. He huffs in irritation.

If he'd known almost killing the kid that one time would turn him into a compulsive, over-protective mother hen, he definitely would have rethought his attack plan. 

He sends Dick a quick text to let him know he’ll be crashing the party and heads out. After reaching the nearest safehouse that has a plain motorcycle, he stashes every part of his outfit that is distinctly Red Hood and then rides for Marleigh Manor. 

Getting in isn’t hard. Bruce gets the schematics and security details of every gala event since they are so often targets for Rogues, so a quick text to Oracle gets all the information he needs sent to his phone. Bless her, she doesn’t even ask why he’s B&E-ing during the gala.

He gets in through a fourth floor window and sends Tim another text.

I’m crashing the gala. Where you at?

Predictably there is no answer. He texts Dick next.

At Marleigh’s. Where’s Baby Bird?

Texting dots appear almost immediately. 

Started looking for him when you texted, haven’t seen him in a while.

Oh good, a little unnecessary panic to keep him alert. Well aware that Tim almost certainly escaped to the outskirts of the party, he hurries down three flights of stairs to begin checking nearby rooms, ignoring the few people in the hallways who notice him enough to stare at his leather jacket and combat boots.

He walks in on one couple getting busy and another couple having a furious squabble in screechy whispers. The bathrooms are clear. He ends up finding a door that’s locked and has it picked open in seconds.

“Gonna be good for me now, schoolboy?”

For half a second, Jason is irritated about walking in on another horny couple—and then he registers what’s actually going on. 

There’s a blonde man standing by an enormous fireplace, one hand holding a tumbler of whiskey while his other hand is down his pants. His eyes are on the couch, where a shirtless man is straddling Tim. A third man is leaning over the back of the couch, holding Tim’s head up with a hand around his chin. He’s smirking as he sloppily pours clear alcohol into Tim’s mouth.

Tim’s shirt is unbuttoned and pulled open, and his belt is undone. His cheek is bright red from a strike and there’s blood leaking from a split on his lower lip, mixing with the alcohol on his face. A couple of bruising hickies stand out starkly against his pale skin, just below his collar bone. 

The man on top of Tim is groping at his bare chest and mouthing his neck. And Tim is laying there, limp and glaze-eyed and completely helpless. Tim, his little brother, his Baby Bird, they’re touching his kid brother—

“What the fuck? How did you get in here?” The man by the fireplace lowers his drink and stares at Jason. “That door was—”

Jason welcomes the Pit.

Chapter Text

PIT

PIT moves without any need for thought. He isn’t aware of his body, only the dead men who dared touch CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS. FILTH is yanked off of CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS and soon FILTH is screaming, dropped, red pouring from between the torn crotch of his pants. Behind the couch, SCUM is moving. He drops a glass bottle as he jerks back in shock, but PIT is already there, catching the bottle one-handed. He shoves the bottle into SCUM’s mouth, breaking glass and teeth as he pushes down harder, cutting through tongue. SCUM is gurgling and twitching, drowning in the alcohol that’s forced down his throat. 

There’s movement behind him and he looks up to see TRASH running for the escape. PIT is immediately at his side, grabbing his shoulder. He slams TRASH against the fireplace bricks, idly noting a cell phone flying out of his hand. PIT grabs a fire poker and stabs it through TRASH’s left ankle, then wrenches it free and stabs the other. The mingled screaming and begging and crying feed him, and his entire body hums as he gorges on the sound. There is no tugging at his edges, no call to show restraint. All of him is in harmony, his voices and pieces pure and free and joined as one in bloodlust. 

He leaves TRASH there to shriek as he walks back over to FILTH. FILTH is trying to move away, whimpering pathetically with one hand clutching at the bleeding mess between his legs. FILTH will bleed out soon, but he hasn’t suffered enough yet. PIT kneels beside him, a low growl rumbling in the back of his throat. His fingers find FILTH’s eyes, curling under one and yanking the orb free before choosing to simply grind the other into its socket with his thumb. The shrieks of pain that follow makes PIT grin and lick his lips. Next to go are FILTH's teeth, the teeth that bit CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS. PIT’s knife gouges into FILTH’s gums, ignoring the muffled pleas and carving the teeth out. FILTH chokes and gurgles on his screams as some of his teeth fall down his throat. His hands scrabble desperately at PIT’s arms to no avail. 

Once the teeth are out, PIT pauses just long enough to throw his knife at SCUM, who managed to pull the broken, bloody bottle from his mouth and is now trying to dial something into his phone. The knife plunges into SCUM’s hand with enough force to go through the phone itself and slam into SCUM's chest, skewering the device between his palm and his body. SCUM's scream is raw and wet.

PIT looks back at FILTH and snags his left hand, the one that had been groping at the chest of CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS. He rips each finger off at the bottom joint, reveling in the strength that he hasn’t felt in months. Then he does the same to the right hand. 

FILTH is in shock now, his screaming at an end. Boring. PIT leaves him to die and turns back to SCUM.

“Plea—no—don’—” SCUM is begging, is voice broken and soggy due to the mangled flesh of his mouth. That’s nice. A little palate cleanser between the shrieking. 

PIT lets his fists fly freely, and his laughter drowns out the dying screams as he delights in the delicious crunch of bone and spray of blood. The sounds and sensations overwhelm him with giddy abandon, and he abruptly drags SCUM up to him by his hair and sinks his teeth into SCUM's neck. He bites down and rips, spitting out the flesh with a grin as arterial blood drenches the lower half of his face. Without pause he begins pulling the man apart, ripping limbs out of their sockets, yanking ribs free, and grabbing mangled organs from his torso to fling about with the enthusiasm of a child unwrapping a Christmas gift.

He’s feeling high and satisfied by the time the man is reduced to chunks. 

He looks over at TRASH now. TRASH was trying to drag himself to the door, but now he’s talking, holding a hand up. He’s babbling about money, promises, other things that PIT doesn’t care about. PIT is crouching over him, enjoying the terror in his eyes. 

“Please, god, fuck, I swear, Icangiveyouanything, absolutely anything—” He’s crying, his words spilling out as quickly as his tears. 

PIT kneels down beside him and places a hand over his forehead, pressing down. His other hand hooks into TRASH’s mouth, four fingers curled around his lower set of teeth, thumb braced on his chin.

And then he begins to pull. PIT’s grin gets wider and wider as TRASH begins to thrash and shriek. His hands claw at PIT, but the struggles are meaningless. Eventually the lower jaw pulls free with a cracking squelch. Delicious. PIT tosses it aside and then digs out TRASH’s eyes as well, giggling a little. 

TRASH has gone mostly limp, merely shaking and letting out a low, gurgling keen that comes directly from his exposed throat. Well. No reason not to use up this energy.

PIT’s fists begin to fly again, and he’s soon caught up in the rush, the unfiltered glee of pulling someone apart with his bare hands. When TRASH is in pieces he turns back to FILTH. He doesn’t bother to check if he is still in shock or actually dead, immediately setting to ripping him apart as well. This is what happens, he thinks with vicious satisfaction. Anyone who comes here will see these remnants and know what happens when someone tries to touch CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS.

After flinging the last bit of flesh away from him, he looks over at CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS. He sees the marks on his chest and growls low in his throat, but anger is quickly shifting into obsessive concern. PIT presses the side of his face to CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS’ s chest, feeling for breath and listening for heartbeat. Both are slow but present. He whines a little in the back of his throat and carefully secures the undone buckle at the child’s hips. Then he folds the sides of the torn shirt back over his chest. PIT frowns. It’s not enough. CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS needs to be bundled. He gets cold and he doesn’t like his skin to be out, but there aren’t any blankets nearby. 

PIT quickly removes his own jacket and gently maneuvers CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS into the garment. He tucks it around him, feeling pleased with himself now that CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS is warmer. Something pleasant hums at the back of his mind at the sight. Now that CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS is in PIT’s blood-soaked jacket, no one will try to take him away. They can see who he belongs to. 

PIT sits down on the bloody floor with his back to the couch and settles CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS into his lap. He feels—calm. It’s strange. PIT is never calm. Calm kills him, drives him away to the corners to sulk. But not this time. Now he’s…mutating. He looks down at CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS (LITTLE BROTHER BABY BIRD TIMBIT BABY BROTHER GREMLIN), and feels no pull to leave, nothing dragging him back into silence.

PIT-BROTHER begins to pet CHILD-WHO—wait, No. LITTLE BROTHER’s hair. Yes. LITTLE BROTHER, that is a good name, more specific. Combing his fingers through LITTLE BROTHER’s hair feels right. Satisfying in a way that is so different from cutting and tearing, but no less desirable. LITTLE BROTHER is limp and defenseless, but that is okay. PIT-BROTHER is here now. He gently runs his bloody knuckles over LITTLE BROTHER’s cheeks, then lets his fingers drift to his neck. So soft, with special-cherished-perfect mark running across it. The thin, long scar that PIT carved into him, the one that reminds him of how LITTLE BROTHER screamed and bled and survived and came back to him. LITTLE BROTHER is so good. So precious and kind and loyal, coming back to PIT-BROTHER even though PIT-BROTHER hurts him, loves to hurt him (when he’s awake to scream and cry). Such a perfect LITTLE BROTHER.

He begins to sing LITTLE BROTHER’s favorite song, the lullaby he learned back home. He buries his face in LITTLE BROTHER’s hair, heart bursting with love. 

Dick

Dick texts Jason for the sixth time, his worry escalating. Tim not answering his texts at a gala is fine, but Jason should be responding since he’s looking for Tim. Instead he’s been silent for nearly fifteen minutes. Dick checked all the nooks and crannies of the ballroom, wandered through the expansive section of the gardens that is open to guests, and checked the bathrooms. No sign of either of them. It’s time to expand the search to the areas guests technically aren’t supposed to go.

He slips past the elegant red rope meant to lightly discourage trespassers. Seasoned gala attendees know that it's expected for certain small groups or couples to slip through and take advantage of the nearby rooms for private meetings and semi-secret trysts, hence the lack of an attendant. 

It doesn’t take him long to find them, after that. The third door he checks, in fact.

A distant part of Dick’s mind notes that the room must be sound-proofed, because there’s no way what happened in here was quiet.

After entering, he locks the door behind him with his lock picks, taking the moment to remember to breathe. Long practice allows Dick to restrain his gag reflex at the stench of exposed intestines, piss, and blood—the familiar, ugly smell of brutally violent death. And then he turns around and surveys the scene. 

He thinks there were three people. Those people are no longer intact however, so it’s hard to be sure. There could be additional…pieces…behind the couches or the bar. Blood is absolutely everywhere—smears, puddles, splatters. A head with its eyes gouged out and no lower jaw stares blindly at Dick from under the billiard’s table. A cursory look at the nearest chunks reveals that some sections were obviously hacked with a blade of some kind, but most look like they were pulled apart from whatever they were once attached to. Dick is reminded of the crime scenes he walked into shortly after Jason came back to Gotham. The Lazarus Pit made him supernaturally strong for a while, allowing him to literally rip enemies apart when he went into a frenzied rage.

Dick wasn’t aware he could still do that.

Jason is sitting on the floor with his back to a couch, so drenched in sticky red that it doesn’t look real. He’s holding Tim close in his arms and humming—the Farsi lullaby that always helps Tim fall asleep—as he rocks the boy gently. Tim is wrapped in Jason’s leather jacket. There’s blood on him too, in his hair, on his face, on the jacket, and on his dress slacks. 

He isn’t moving.

He’s unconscious, Dick thinks a bit numbly. He has to be. There’s no way Jason—no. Tim has pulled Jason out of the Pit madness on more than one occasion. Jason loves his little brother too much to let the Pit hurt him. Dick won’t doubt that until he has real evidence. 

“Hey Jason,” he says quietly. Jason looks up. His eyes are pure green, brighter than Dick has seen since those first few months after Jason returned to Gotham.

When Jason answers, he sounds eerily calm despite the green in his eyes. “Hello.” 

It’s Jason’s voice, but it’s not. Or maybe it is Jason’s voice, but the look in his eyes isn’t quite Jason. Dick gets the uncomfortable feeling that comes with seeing something that belongs in the uncanny valley. 

“How’s Tim?” Dick asks. He’s making his way closer at a slow but even pace. A tightness in his chest that he’s been ignoring loosens when he’s close enough to see Tim’s chest rise and fall steadily. 

Jason looks back down at his little brother. “They roofied him.” 

Dick feels like he’s been gut punched, and his heart immediately kicks up to panic speed.

What had Jason walked in on for it to end with this bloodbath?

“What—what happened?” He knows it’s not smart to remind Jason of whatever brought the Pit so high, knows he should only be focused on getting Tim away from their Pit-mad brother, but he has to know. And for some reason, he doesn’t feel like Jason is a threat to Tim right now. Which is absurd, considering the state he’s in, but Dick can’t find it in himself to be truly worried about that right now. 

“There were three men. They had opened Little Brother’s shirt and belt. One of them was on top of him, touching his chest and kissing his neck.” He says it like he’s giving a report, despite the fact that his eyes are so green they’re casting a glow onto Tim’s hair. The detached tone doesn’t stop Dick from clenching his fists, bombarded by disgust and anger and fear.

“They bit his chest in two places, and they hit his face at least once,” Jason adds, gently petting Tim’s cheek. The angry red of new bruises dapple the cheekbone, and Jason’s hand leaves fresh streaks of blood over the marks. Dick waits for a moment, but Jason doesn’t add anything.

“Is—was there anything else?” Dick asks, hating himself for having to know.

Jason considers for a moment. 

“I don’t know.”

Dick shudders and tries to shove away the worst possibilities. There’s no point in panicking now over things that might not have happened. Jason would have noticed and said something if Tim’s slacks seemed to have been put back on sloppily, so probably—probably it didn’t go that far. Dick tries to process, tries to tell himself that it could have been worse, that he should be grateful that Jason arrived before they could—

One of them was on top of him, touching his chest and kissing his neck. 

She’s straddling him, unzipping his suit. Her hands won’t stop moving over him and he just wants it to STOP—

Dick pulls himself out of the memory, clawing his way free by focusing on the blazing green fire of his brother’s eyes. Once he’s back, he takes a moment to appreciate the sight of Jason gently kissing the top of Tim’s head as one of his bloody hands combs through the boy’s hair. He really shouldn’t find that so calming, but for some reason it settles him. Maybe it’s because of the knowledge that Tim’s monsters are dead.

“How’s Tim’s pulse?” he asks after getting his breathing back under control.

“Slower than normal, but within an acceptable range.”

“And his breathing?”

“Fine.”

“Okay. And what’s your status?”

“Fine. No meaningful injuries.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear that.”

“First Brother?” 

“What?”

“First Brother,” Jason repeats, as if Dick is being slow. Dick blinks and then catches on. That’s…a weird way for Jason to address him.

“Yes, Jason?”

“They hurt him,” he says, his voice almost a whine. It sounds not quite right. He looks back up at Dick, the green in his eyes no dimmer than it was when Dick entered. That’s…unusual. Tim always helps settle the Pit, and Jason has been holding him this whole time.

“They hurt him,” Jason repeats. “Couldn’t they see that he’s mine? ” 

The worry that had faded before surges through Dick’s body in an unpleasant spike of adrenaline. 

“He’s got my mark and everything,” Jason continues with a petulant growl as he looks down again, one of his bloody fingers trailing over the thin white line that runs across Tim’s throat. The look on his face is hopelessly fond. “They really should have noticed.”

And now Dick knows something is definitely wrong (more wrong). Because Jason hates seeing blood on Tim’s neck, hates seeing so much as a small scratch or bruise. But now he’s running his finger back and forth across the scar he gave Tim over a year ago as if he’s deliberately painting the blood on.

“Hey Jason. We need to clean up here. Why don’t you set Tim down and—”

“No.” Jason leans down…and licks a bit of blood from Tim’s forehead. Dick fights to keep his body language calm even as his mind starts screaming a little. “I’m keeping him,” Jason adds with complete certainty.

Dick remembers a moment from a couple weeks ago, when Jason said that exact phrase while cuddling Tim on the couch in Dick’s apartment during movie night. His tone then had been playful, and Dick had grinned at how bashfully pleased Tim looked. He always looked like that whenever one of them gave some direct sign of wanting him in their lives. It was sweet and a little heartbreaking every time. 

But right now Tim is limp and unmoving, and there’s nothing playful about Jason’s voice.

He can’t move. He isn’t seriously injured but he can’t move, all he can do is tell her to stop, but she doesn’t—

The sickening sensation of falling swoops through his stomach. He’s struck with the sudden, desperate desire to call Bruce. He wants his dad to burst in and fix things while Dick hides under his cape and holds his brothers. He wants Bruce to wrap him in his safe arms and chase away the phantom touches that he can feel on his skin. He wants to not have to think so much, to have to make decisions about what to do with ALL THIS BLOOD. He wants Bruce and his confidence and his plans and his low, certain voice telling him, it’s going to be okay, chum. Years ago Dick went to Blüdhhaven and became Nightwing to stand apart from Bruce as his own man, but there’s no doubt in his mind now that he’d do almost anything to have his dad completely take over this disaster so that Dick could simply be a child whose only responsibility is to keep Tim and Jason’s eyes turned away from the massacre. 

But Bruce can’t be here. Even if he weren’t in Milan, Dick couldn’t call him for this. He remembers how Batman stumbled, how he was made weak by the sight of Jason’s untempered vengeance. That first scene they came to after they learned the Red Hood’s identity…Bruce broke a little more that night, as he looked at the traffickers who were hung up on the warehouse wall by nails, their entrails spilled out from stomachs that had been torn open.

Bruce can never see this. He can hear about, he can take in the facts, but Dick can’t let him ever actually look.

Which means it’s up to him. (It’s always up to him.)

Dick looks at the part of his mind that is screaming and begging for his father. He watches it for a moment, making sure he’s gathered it all up in one place.

And he chokes it until it falls silent and still. 

Not daring to take his eyes off of his brothers, Dick slips a hand into his pocket and takes out a comm. Jason ignores him as he slips the device into his ear and activates it. 

“Oracle, you there?”

“Aren’t you at a party tonight?”

“Yes. Are there any security cameras in the first floor room in the South Wing where my tracker is currently located?”

There’s about six seconds of silence.

“What the fuck happened?”

“Save all footage for the last six hours somewhere Batman can’t find it and then delete any other copies and put a safe loop on security for now in case anyone checks it live.”

“Nightwing…”

“I will tell B what happened. The whole truth. But he doesn’t need to actually see whatever is on there.”

“Fine. Erasing only this room won’t be enough though. I’ll need to wipe the entire manor’s security for the night or the police will be able to figure out who wasn’t around at time of death. There’s no way to make that level of erasure secret.”

For a brief moment Dick wants to cry with relief. Babs isn’t challenging his choices. She’s going right along with his decision to cover up Jason’s crime to protect him and Tim. He heaves in a quick breath and brings himself back under control.

“Understood. This isn’t going to be subtle on our end either, so it doesn’t make a difference,” Dick agrees.

He leaves Oracle to it and refocuses on Jason. He’s still humming and rocking Tim.

“Jason, We need to get Tim to the Cave to—”

“We’re not going to the Cave,” Jason snarls in a register that’s even lower than usual. Only years of training prevent Dick from flinching. 

“Okay. Your main safehouse then,” Dick says placatingly. “I want to get him on an IV drip and test his blood.” 

Jason nuzzles Tim’s bloody hair.

“Isn’t our baby brother cute?” he asks, ignoring Dick’s comment and looking up at him with a guileless smile. His voice sounds like Jason, but those aren’t words Jason would use. He’d have called Tim ‘fucking adorable’ or something. Or, more likely, disguised his thoughts about Tim by making them into snide remarks about Tim being small (“Travel size!” he declared, scooping up a protesting Tim from the kitchen counter and tossing him over his shoulder). Jason loves being a big brother, but he doesn’t sound like an affectionate sibling now. He sounds like someone showing off a favorite pet.

“Yes,” Dick agrees, tone remaining calm. “Is it okay to take Tim to your safehouse?”

Jason considers for a moment and then shrugs.

“Fine.”

Dick doesn’t want to stop watching his brothers, but this isn’t something he can take care of by standing around. After a calming breath he finally looks away. He goes around to the small bar and finds a couple of fancy dishcloths on one of the shelves. He brings half a dozen of them to Jason.

“Wipe off the worst of the blood.” Jason takes the cloths and Dick gets to work.

All things considered, they’re fortunate. The bar is full of flammable liquid and there’s a fireplace already filled with merry flames. How thoughtful of Jason to commit his little massacre in a place so well-primed for evidence destruction.

Under the bar, Dick finds a roll of plastic bags used to line wastebaskets and he puts them over his hands and feet, securing them awkwardly with knots at the wrists and ankles. He works his way methodically through the room, dousing everything in high proof liquor. When he comes across drinking glasses (two broken, one intact) and an empty water bottle he places each in their own separate plastic bag for later testing. Occasionally he moves chunks of body around, pushing the pieces to new locations so that the crime scene doesn’t actually match how the crime played out. 

After that, he wipes down the door knob and adds the pool cues to the fireplace. Then he locates the fire alarm and disables it. It won’t stop the alarms in the other rooms from activating when the smoke spreads, but it should buy them a few minutes. He also checks thoroughly for a built-in fire suppression system, but finds no sign of one. 

He keeps an eye on his brothers as much as possible while he works. Jason does nothing amiss; he uses the dishcloths as instructed and tosses them into the fireplace, humming softly all the while. 

But his eyes stay violently green.

“Time to leave,” Dick says, gesturing for Jason to stand by the door. 

Jason doesn’t bother to look up from Tim as he rises in a smooth motion, cradling his little brother in a bridal carry. Now that Jason is standing, Tim looks especially small and vulnerable in his arms.

“Take off your shoes and carry them in this,” Dick tells him, passing Jason one of the plastic bags once they’re both standing at the door. Jason shifts Tim so that he can hold him one-handed as he pulls off his shoes.

Dick pulls the bloody bags off his hands and feet and balls them into a fifth bag. He expertly lobs it into the fireplace, and then bags his shoes like he told Jason to.

Once they’re both ready, Dick covers his hand with his sleeve and opens the door the barest crack so that he can peer out and listen. He’d rather not go back into the hall at all, but there are no windows or other exits in the room. He waits a couple minutes until it sounds clear and then moves quickly, lighting up the entire matchbook that he’d found at the bar. He tosses it into the middle of the room and waits a few seconds to ensure it spreads.

It spreads fast. 

“End of hall; go left,” Dick says once they’re out, taking a few precious seconds to relock the door. He has to jog a little to catch up, but he reaches his brothers again right as Jason is awkwardly jimmying a window open with Tim still in his arms.

They get through the large window and deftly avoid the few security guards watching the back gardens. They soon reach the hedgerow that separates the manor grounds from the street and jog alongside it until they come to an opening in the shrubbery.

Normally Dick would tell Jason to wait while he finds a ride; one look at him and any reasonable person would be calling the cops. But there’s no way he’s leaving Jason alone with Tim right now, so they slip out together. He can only hope the late hour means no one will be around.

Dick finds the nearest car without incident and hotwires it in record time (for him, anyway. This really isn’t his forte). Jason sits in the back of the car with Tim, occasionally murmuring things Dick can’t quite hear and nuzzling Tim’s head or cheek. 

Dick taps his com again once the car is running. “O, I need you to do a subtle wipe of a car, here to Hood’s safehouse.” He gives her the make and model.

“On it.”

In the distance, the sound of fire alarms and general distress carry over on the wind.

Dick then U-turns and heads for Gotham at an innocuous five MPH over the speed limit. 

PIT-BROTHER

PIT-BROTHER feels good. Light. Like the perfect amount of buzzed where life just feels easy. He’d been angry earlier. So. So. Angry. But he destroyed the source of his fury, and their screams had tasted nice, and the feel of their blood drying on his skin is a pleasant reminder that he’s in control.

And LITTLE BROTHER is safe and here and no one can hurt him except PIT-BROTHER, because only PIT-BROTHER gets to hurt him, those are the RULES.

LITTLE BROTHER briefly stirs in his arms but can’t seem to open his eyes. Poor baby creature. His helplessness causes an automatic pang of worry, but it’s easily dismissed. LITTLE BROTHER is HIS, and he won’t let anyone take him away. He’ll destroy anyone who tries to steal his precious baby bird, who has already bled and screamed so much for him. 

He presses his face into LITTLE BROTHER’s bloody hair, going back to humming the lullaby that came from someone he can’t remember. This one is LITTLE BROTHER’s favorite. LITTLE BROTHER needs lots of lullabies because he doesn’t sleep enough, and he needs his sleep because he does dangerous work. He has to be alert on the job because he’s not allowed to die unless PIT-BROTHER says so.

PIT-BROTHER will never say so. PIT-BROTHER loves LITTLE BROTHER, knows that he’d be sad forever if LITTLE BROTHER died. PIT-BROTHER almost killed him once, and that was awful. He thinks briefly of what it would be like, knowing he would never hold LITTLE BROTHER again, never see him smile or laugh or bleed or cry or scream ever again.

He shudders and squeezes his little brother tighter. It’s too horrible to consider. 

“Both of you okay back there, Jason?” FIRST BROTHER asks from the front seat, in that weird, careful tone of voice he’s been using since he found them. PIT-BROTHER mhmms an affirmative before going back to humming. He’s glad FIRST BROTHER is here. FIRST BROTHER is also his and having both of his brothers in one place is satisfying. So long as they are with him, he can see them and hold them and protect them and hurt them and he likes doing all of those things so much. 

A little while later LITTLE BROTHER makes a small, distressed sound. He must be worried he’s still with those TRASH FILTH SCUM DIE DIE DIEBLEEDSCREAMSUFFERDIEDIEDIEDIEDIE men. 

“S’okay Baby Bird,” PIT-BROTHER murmurs, trying out the other name he likes. Yes. It tastes right. “I’m here. I’ve got you…”

LITTLE BROTHER tenses up as he visibly fights to open his eyes. Eventually his lids rise enough to show the dark blue of his irises. PIT-BROTHER knows the moment LITTLE BROTHER registers who’s holding him—his body relaxes, and his face loses the tension it was holding. PIT-BROTHER hmms approvingly. LITTLE BROTHER knows he’s where he’s supposed to be. He knows PIT-BROTHER won’t let anyone else hurt him.

“Good Little Brother. Good Baby Bird. You’re with me now. No one will take you away.”

LITTLE BROTHER lets himself drift off and PIT-BROTHER can’t keep a dopey smile off his face. His LITTLE BROTHER trusts him. His LITTLE BROTHER knows PIT-BROTHER will keep him safe (from everyone else). He nuzzles LITTLE BROTHER’s cheek enthusiastically in a burst of affection. 

He’s so lucky to have such a good LITTLE BROTHER. 

Chapter Text

“Location,” Bruce says through the comm in Dick’s ear, his voice halfway to Batman. 

“T, J, and I are en route to Hood’s primary safehouse in a commandeered vehicle. Oracle is handling security.”

“Report.” 

Dick’s heart rate picks up despite his best efforts. It’s not as if this call is unexpected; there was never any doubt in his mind that Bruce had systems in place to alert him if anything happened at the gala that he knew Dick and Tim were attending—but that doesn’t eliminate the sick dread that twists in his gut at the thought of telling Bruce what happened. Learning what those men did to Tim, knowing what they were almost certainly going to do, will hurt him in a new, jagged way; combining that with the news that Jason killed three people after four months of following the Rule…

This could break things, if Bruce reacts the wrong way. And Dick is so tired of their family being broken. 

But there’s no getting around it. He stares grimly ahead at the road as he tries to give his report as neutrally as possible.

“I entered the gentlemen’s lounge on the first floor at approximately 12:15AM and found J holding T while sitting on the floor. T was unconscious. J was alert and his eyes were bright green, but he didn’t demonstrate the aggression or anger that usually comes with the Pit. The remains of three recently-deceased men were present, thoroughly dismembered. J said the three men roofied T, partially undressed him, and that one was touching him inappropriately above the waist and kissing his neck while he was unconscious.” 

Bruce makes a sound like a wounded animal, and another voice takes in a sharp breath and then curses, low and vicious. Right. Oracle is still on comms. Dick is quiet for a moment, allowing them to process while fighting back the bile rising in his throat. The little screaming part of him threatens to wake up again but he crushes it ruthlessly. 

He continues once he’s not worried about throwing up if he opens his mouth.

“I covered the scene in alcohol and set it on fire after disabling the alarm. We exited through the South Wing unobserved, left the grounds, and located a vehicle.”

“You—you set fire to a murder scene?” Bruce asks. Dick winces. At least he sounds more disbelieving than disapproving.

“Yes.”

There’s a slight pause. “Current status?” Bruce doesn’t even try to hide the strain in his voice now. Dick takes the lack of follow-up questions (or follow-up lectures) about the crime scene sabotage as a good sign and continues his report.

“T is still unconscious and has superficial bruising. We’ll administer an IV and run blood tests at Hood’s safehouse. It’s near the Bowery clinic if we find anything more worrisome in the tests,” Dick says, eyes flickering to the back seat. Jason is poking Tim’s bruised cheek, an affectionate smile on his face. 

“J has no injuries. His eyes are still bright green but he isn’t angry. He won’t let go of T. His speech patterns are more childish and his behavior is possessive, but not aggressive unless presented with certain triggers.”

If Jason listens to Dick’s assessment, he doesn’t care enough to react. He’s humming a familiar tune in a different key than usual, and one of his fingers is running back and forth across Tim’s neck again. 

“Why aren’t you bringing T to the Cave?”

“That’s one of the triggers.”

There’s a long silence. Dick tries not to fidget, even though Bruce isn’t there to see him. 

“I want to see you, all of you,” Bruce finally says, his voice cracking slightly. “I need—I need to see you. I’m calling Superman—”

“No. I’m sorry Bruce, but you can’t. We need you to handle alibis. O will destroy all the footage of the night, but you’ll need to cover for us. I can’t leave J and T alone right now to deal with the police or the press.”

“I can do that from—” Bruce cuts himself off, obviously realizing what Dick has already put together.

Bruce Wayne’s trip to Milan is public. If he’s handling the cover, the media will be scrutinizing him closely. He can’t just appear in Gotham when everyone knows he’s in Italy. He needs to do everything from a private jet, like a normal billionaire who can’t emergency ping one of half a dozen heroes with super speed.

“I’ll send you video and pictures as soon as I can, B,” Dick says, the desperation in Bruce’s tone hitting something painful in his chest. He knows what Bruce is feeling too well, that irrational certainty that if you can’t see someone, hold them close, they might be gone or hurt beyond help. 

“Right. Of course. I’m on my way to the jet now, and I’ll contact Commissioner Gordon right after this call. You’ll contact me if there are any changes?”

“Yes. And every thirty minutes regardless.”

“D?”

“Yes?”

“Please…please tell them I love them. Both of them. When it’s the right time, I mean.”

Dick’s breath hitches, the relief shuddering through his body.

Not broken. Not broken. Not broken.

“Yeah, of course B. I’ll tell them,” he says, absently brushing away a few tears.

“I love you, D. I’m going to take care of everything else. You just take care of yourself and your brothers.” Dick slumps a little in the driver’s seat, feeling slightly lighter. It’s not quite as good as hiding under Batman’s cape and clutching his brothers while Bruce takes care of everything, but it’s enough. 

“I will, B. Love you too.”

The line goes silent. Dick straightens a little in his seat, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly. 

One little brother was drugged and assaulted.

The other little brother brutally murdered three people. 

And Dick just went against almost everything he stands for as a hero by deliberately destroying evidence of a major crime for purely selfish reasons. 

But their dad is on their side. Their family isn’t broken again. 

It’s enough. 

#

Once the initial relief at Bruce’s reaction wears off, the rest of the drive to the safehouse is, unfortunately, quite uncomfortable. Jason keeps nuzzling Tim’s hair, poking his cheeks, touching the neck scar smeared with blood, and humming and muttering randomly. 

It’s creepy as hell, and Dick is back on his last nerve by the time they reach the correct apartment complex. 

Inside the safehouse, they quickly take blood samples from Tim and set them to run in the mini lab Jason keeps in the second guest bedroom. Dick also checks his blood pressure and blood-oxygen level. Neither of the numbers that come up are ideal, but they aren’t immediately dangerous. He also swabs each of the three drinking glasses and one water bottle that he collected from the scene and sets tests running on them as well.

They move to the bathroom. Jason steps right into the shower while holding Tim, both still fully clothed. Bruising around Tim’s jaw becomes apparent once the blood is washed from his face, the imprint of fingers obvious against his washed-out skin. Once they’ve rinsed off what blood they can (it takes some scrubbing for their hair and under their nails), they set Tim on the edge of the tub and pull off the soaked jacket and dress shirt. Dick’s skin crawls as Tim’s pale torso is exposed.

They’ve all seen each other mostly undressed before, between quick-changing into their suits when an emergency happens and the sheer number of injuries they sustain, but the context of the evening makes it feel wrong this time.

And then Dick sees the hickies. He’s struck with mindless rage for barely a half second before being overcome by nausea. The only reason he makes it to the toilet before throwing up is because it’s only two steps away. He spits and then rinses in the sink quickly. When he looks back, Jason is staring at Tim’s chest, at the little bruises that adult men chewed into their baby brother. The green in Jason’s eyes almost looks like it’s slithering around his pupils.

“We should cut them off of him,” Jason says in that not-quite-Jason voice. Dick goes still. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Those marks. He’s going to see them tomorrow and be unhappy.” He looks up at Dick with a bit of pleading in his eyes. “The bruising isn’t too deep. I can flay them off. The kris is sharp enough to do it cleanly.”

What. The. Fuck.

“No, Jason. You are not going to cut flesh off of Tim to remove mild bruising that will disappear in a couple days,” Dick says through clenched teeth.

“I think he would prefer it.”

“Bullshit. Those marks would scar, and he’d have to remember this night every time he saw them for the rest of his life.”

“No, no, no, he’d remember how his brother saved him. Me. He’d remember me and how I will always protect him,” Jason insists, looking back down at Tim with a soft smile.

“The answer is no.” 

“Little Brother would let me cut them off,” he mutters darkly, sounding like a sulky child. Dick takes a long, slow breath, and decides to stop dancing around the issue. 

“Jason. You are not going to hurt Tim in any way. I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you and the Pit right now, but injuring family is not on the table. Besides, we both know you’ll hate yourself later if you give Tim so much as a papercut.”

Jason gives him a calculating look.

“Would you stop me?”

“Yes. Now help me dry him off before he gets cold.” Thankfully, Jason acquiesces without further comment.

Once one of Jason’s shirts is hanging on Tim like a dress, they pull off the wet suit trousers and underwear and move him into clean clothing. It’s all much too large for him, making him look even smaller than usual.

“Little Brother really is a Baby Bird, isn’t he? Such a little baby,” Jason says affectionately, tying up the drawstring of the sweatpants at Tim’s waist and then kissing the top of his head.

Jason and Dick change next. Jason manages to keep a hand on Tim the entire time, never fully breaking contact. The behavior looks distinctly compulsive, but Dick isn’t willing to test that theory by trying to separate them.

In the living room, Jason sits on the couch, unsurprisingly keeping Tim on his lap. Dick dares to duck out of sight for a quick moment to check the completed blood analysis. Ketamine and alcohol. The swab from one of the broken glasses shows the same results. The words on the screen make him feel sick, though it’s not as if there's anything that could have shown up that wouldn’t produce that response. The only consolation is that the ratio of the substances in his blood isn’t enough to put Tim in significant danger. 

Dick snags an IV bag and assorted materials before leaving the lab. Jason, thank goodness, is merely petting Tim’s hair when he comes back, no sharp objects in sight.

Once Tim’s IV is set up, Dick subtly takes a ten-second video of the both of them. Jason is too focused on Tim to notice or care. Dick sends the video, along with updates about the bloodwork to Bruce.

“Drink?” he asks Jason after putting his phone away.

“Yes.” 

Dick snags a couple sodas from the fridge and then pours a glass of ice water, adding a straw. Tim’s throat will be dry when he wakes up. After setting the water glass on the coffee table and passing a soda to Jason he collapses onto the nearest armchair.

“Closer,” Jason demands the second he sits down. Dick raises an eyebrow at the tone, but he stands and moves to sit next to Jason on the couch. Jason sighs with contentment and leans fully against his side, tilting his head to rest it on Dick’s shoulder. Dick can’t help but smile a little. Jason is rarely so unselfconsciously affectionate with him; it’s easier for him to dole out affection to Tim than accept it from Dick.

“You know you’re also mine, right?” Jason asks him as he pets Tim’s hair.

“I know, Jay.”

“You have to tell me if someone hurts you. Only I get to hurt you.”

The words don’t unnerve Dick the way he knows they should. Maybe he’s becoming inured to the creepiness. Or maybe he just doesn’t feel like Jason is actually dangerous to them right now.

(Or maybe a part of him wants to say a name or two and find out what it’s like to know they’ll never be able to touch him again. Maybe Jason’s possessive streak makes him feel safer.)

Dick leans his cheek against the top of Jason’s head.

“Do you want to hurt me?” 

“Of course! It’s very filling.” Jason’s voice sounds young, closer to what he sounded like when he was Robin.

“And you want to hurt Tim?”

“Yes. Little Brother’s screams taste the best.” He says it the way people mention their favorite flavor of potato chip. 

Dick considers for a moment, eyeing the gentle way Jason is cuddling Tim in his arms.

“But you’re not hurting him. And you haven’t tried to hurt me.”

Jason seems to really think for a moment.

“If I hurt you or Baby Bird without your permission, you would be very unhappy with me. Then you might try to leave, and I don’t know that I could stop you. And I love you, so I don’t want you to leave. But you love me too, so I think you’ll let me hurt you sometimes. To feed me.”

Filling. Taste. Feed. The theme is hardly subtle. Dick wonders if Jason always feels this perverse hunger when the Pit is high, or if it's a distinct element of the current permutation. Dick has always interpreted the Pit's sadism as an extension of the anger it enhances, but Jason clearly isn't angry right now.

“Will you?”

“Will I what?” Dick asks, pulled from his thoughts.

“Let me hurt you?”

Dick stares for a few seconds. “What?” he finally says stupidly, unable to process what the hell is happening right now.

“Since I protected Baby Bird so well? Can I hurt you? Just a broken finger or a cut, nothing permanent—”

“No. No we’re not doing that.”

Jason frowns at him, obviously frustrated.

“Jason, this is for both our sakes. Soon, you are not going to be okay with any of what you’ve just said here.” Dick hopes it’s soon, anyway. “I’m protecting you by saying no.”

“I thought I did well.”

“You did, Little Wing. You did so well protecting Tim. I’m incredibly proud of you for looking out for him and saving him. But now I need to protect you. If you still want to hurt me when the green is gone, I’ll…I’ll let you break one of my fingers.” 

That seems to mollify him. “Okay. Maybe by then Baby Bird will be awake and he’ll let me hurt him too. Then he’ll forget all about how those filth-scum-trash hurt him because I’ll hurt him more. And then I’ll make you guys breakfast, to feed you like you fed me.”

Dick wonders, not for the first time, how this is his life.

“You know you don’t usually feel this way,” Dick points out carefully. “You normally hate it when you feel good because Tim is in pain.”

“Yeah. I can’t remember why though.” Jason sighs, as if the rather significant discrepancy in his thinking is of no concern. 

Dick lets out a long breath, allowing himself to relax a bit. The Pit’s presence is hardly ideal, but Jason’s not attacking. In fact, despite how violent some of his comments have been, he hasn’t harmed Dick or Tim the slightest bit. Even his expressed desire to hurt them doesn’t feel malicious. The attitude of his requests is more like a child asking his mother for a candy bar than a sadist looking for an opening to torture someone. 

So maybe Jason isn’t really all that different right now. Not in the ways that really matter.

Dick turns to kiss Jason’s hair. “You’re mine too, Jay,” he murmurs. 

Jason hums happily.

Tim

Tim knows he’s drugged. It’s not good obviously, but at least he’s coming out of it enough to realize he’s under the influence. The headache and nausea are familiar, as are the time skips and the difficulty gathering his thoughts.

He eventually recovers enough to notice that he’s being held by someone. He feels like he should be panicking at that knowledge, but he doesn’t feel any fear. He realizes eventually that it’s because of the smell.

Familiar cologne. Cigarette smoke. Coriander and cumin and saffron, just like that curry the person likes to make. He can’t quite remember who the person is, but the smell is trustworthy, so Tim remains calm. 

Sound reaches his ears after a time and—oh, he likes this sound. Humming. This is a sound of safety and warmth and soft blankets and hot cocoa with extra marshmallows. 

If it weren’t for this blasted headache, he’d be able to drift. Unfortunately, other discomforts start to make themselves known. His throat feels dry and scratchy. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth. It feels like a worm is twisting around in his gut. His muscles are twitchy and weak.

He forces his eyes open. The struggle feels familiar, and he wonders if he’s done this before and simply forgotten.

“Hey, Baby Bird,” a pleased voice says. That’s good, it’s always a relief when people are pleased with him.

“Here,” the same voice says, and Tim feels a straw bump against his mouth. His nausea briefly spikes at the thought of opening his mouth (he doesn’t want to open his mouth), but he shoves the thought away as he unwillingly focuses on the discomfort of his throat. 

He takes a few sips, keeping the straw at the very tip of his lips. It’s an incredible relief when the cool water runs down his throat. 

“Good.” The straw moves away and then there’s a gentle weight on the front of his neck. It doesn’t bother him. He’s familiar with those calluses.

Even though he knows his eyes have been open, it takes him until now to actually process what he’s seeing. He’s in a room, one he knows fairly well. There’s a coffee table to his left and the walls are a familiar cream color with green accents. He’s pressed against a warm chest covered in soft, worn cotton, and there’s an IV in his left arm. The tube connects to an almost-empty bag sitting on the coffee table.

“Hey Tim,” a different, but still familiar voice says. 

“Dick?” His words are slurred.

“I’m here. So’s Jason. You’re safe.” 

Tim tilts his head up a little. Oh wow. Jason’s eyes are very, very bright. 

“Jason?” he asks, both concerned and fascinated. He raises a hand to touch Jason’s cheek.

“Hey, Baby Bird,” Jason says gently. That’s…weird. He’s never sounded gentle when he’s Pit mad before. 

“You’re so bright,” Tim says. He feels like the words aren’t quite right, but it’s all that comes to mind as he stares, mesmerized by the green light.

Jason chuckles, and Tim can feel it rumbling through his chest.

“I’m feeling a little more awake than normal,” Jason says. Tim has no idea what that means, but the green lights come closer suddenly and then he feels Jason nuzzle his forehead. It makes Tim giggle for some reason. Jason leans back and the smile he gives him is so radiant and adoring Tim feels overwhelmed by it. Tears prickle in his eyes and he has to focus to blink them away. The hand around his neck tightens slightly. 

“What happened?” he asks blearily, hoping to distract them from the slight heat he can feel rising in his cheeks.

“You were drugged.”

“I know that,” Tim says grumpily. He knows that. He’s smart, he knows when he’s been drugged. “What—patrol?” he asks, too tired to think of a full sentence.

“You’re safe now, Tim,” Dick says softly. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Tim’s brain is trying to tell him something, but he can’t push through the headache enough to catch it. 

“Head hurts,” he complains. 

“Here,” Dick says, offering him a couple of pills. Jason shifts him to sit up a bit more in his lap and Tim takes the pills quickly, and then the water again. He feels a little more in control of his body now, but he’s still exhausted.

“IV’s done. Bedtime for baby birds,” Jason says. After he removes the needle and sets it on the table, Dick places a bandage over the small wound.  Bed sounds good to Tim, so he doesn’t protest as Jason scoops him into his arms and stands. He dimly notes that they’ve come into Jason’s room after he’s set on the side of the bed that’s pushed against the wall, where he prefers.

“Stay with me?” Tim asks Jason, suddenly feeling very anxious at the idea of him leaving.

“I will never leave you,” Jason assures him, climbing in right after him. His tone is so certain, so final, Tim’s breath hitches with relief.

What remains of Tim’s anxiety melts away as Jason wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls Tim against him, moving his head to rest on his shoulder with the ease of long practice. Jason seems even warmer than usual, and Tim turns his face into his shoulder, enjoying the press and the heat. He feels Jason’s hand come up to cup the back of his head, holding him there. 

“C’mon, First Brother,” Jason says. 

The mattress moves a bit and soon he feels a different hand rest on his shoulder. 

There are still a variety of little discomforts that irritate him, but they are outmatched by the softness and the warmth and the safety. A couple minutes later, Tim drifts into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

PIT-BROTHER

PIT-BROTHER wakes up slowly, luxuriously in a way he’s not used to. Without opening his eyes he knows he’s in his primary safehouse, knows the form curled against his left side is a sleeping LITTLE BROTHER, knows that FIRST BROTHER is nearby, knows that he feels full and satisfied and rested.

He blinks his eyes open and stretches lazily—

And then startles and smacks his arm against the backboard when FIRST BROTHER snags his chin and puts his face less than a foot from PIT-BROTHER’s, staring intently into his eyes. FIRST BROTHER’s eyes are bloodshot and dark bags hang under them. 

“Hello,” PIT-BROTHER says, amused.  FIRST BROTHER looks concerned.

“Jason. Jason, I need you to come back,” FIRST BROTHER says. He seems…sad? That’s no good. 

“What’s wrong?”

FIRST BROTHER leans back a little, a small crinkle in his brow. “Jason, you’re still—your eyes are still so green.”

PIT-BROTHER blinks a few times. Why does the color of his eyes matter? 

Before he can think of a response FIRST BROTHER lets go of his chin and instead takes his face in both hands. He presses his forehead against PIT-BROTHER’s, closing his eyes.

“Jason Peter Todd-Wayne. I need you to wake up,” he whispers, sounding exhausted. “Please. Please. I need my Little Wing back.”

PIT BROTHER flinches, and suddenly more of him is awake.

Dick moves back a little, staring down at him intently.

“Who are you?”

“I’m—”

Who are you?

And the memories flood through him. 

Remembers walking in on three men assaulting CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS. 

Remembers being invited to wake up and...harmonizing.

Remembers killing FILTH, SCUM, and TRASH with his knives, his bare hands, his teeth. (Good, this was good.)

Remembers hating them for touching CHILD-WHO-IS-HIS, for marking him with their mouths and hands, and then ripping them apart to satisfy his rage. (Also good, right, correct.)

Remembers thinking fondly about LITTLE BROTHER’s blood and screams and tears as he rubbed his bloody forehead against LITTLE BROTHER’s bruised cheek. (This was good too…right?)

Remembers wanting to cut pieces off of LITTLE BROTHER-Tim’s flesh and genuinely feeling like there was nothing wrong with that idea. (Is there something wrong with that? Yes. No. Yes.)

Remembers feeling hopeful that FIRST BROTHER-Dick would let PIT-BROTHER-Jason hurt him because he did good and protected LITTLE BROTHER-Tim. And then saying as much to FIRST BROTHER-Dick. (Which was a bad idea. A good idea? Bad. Because it didn’t work. No. Bad because—)

“Jason. Take a breath. You have to breathe. It’s okay. You didn’t hurt us. You saved Tim. We’re all safe.”

He slowly becomes aware of a hand running through his hair, right around the same moment the child/teddy bear he’s holding begins to move.

“J’son?” LITTLE BROTHER-Tim asks, sounding completely lost.

PIT BR—no, Jason, abruptly realizes that he’s gone too long without breathing and sucks in a huge lungful of air. He takes a few more breaths as FIRST BROTHER-Dick continues to speak to him calmly. He sits up slowly once he no longer feels like he’s about to pass out. LITTLE BROTHER-Tim sits up after him, rubbing his eyes a bit too harshly, like he does sometimes. Jason automatically takes his wrists and gently pulls his hands away. LITTLE BR—no. Tim. Just Tim—blinks at him, clearly still half asleep. 

“Hey Timbit,” Jason says quietly, his own voice sounding distant. He feels dizzy with conflicting emotions, and his heart aches with the storm of guilt and love and fear and satisfaction.

Tim seems to take the reply as an invitation and slumps against him bonelessly. Jason freezes for a moment as he feels the sudden urge to wrap his hands around Tim’s neck and squeeze—

He just barely suppresses a flinch at the thought and then leans back, holding his arms away. He shouldn’t be touching Tim right now, shouldn't be anywhere near him after—

“Who are you right now?” Dick asks again, reaching forward and gently tilting Jason’s chin up. His expression isn’t disgusted or suspicious, and Jason feels both relief and concern. Dick should be disgusted, should be worried about what Jason wants, what he’s capable of. 

He takes a deep breath and answers as honestly as he can.

“I’m—I’m Jason. But I’m also—different.” Dick nods slowly.

“Your eyes are still greener than usual, but the brightness has gone down a lot. Do you still want to hurt Tim or me?”

“No!” Yes. No. “I mean—” He looks away, shuddering once. When he speaks again it’s a whisper.

“Maybe.”

Tim mutters something unintelligible into Jason’s chest, and one of his hands clutches at Jason’s shirt. Jason looks down at him and is overwhelmed by a flood of feeling that is both alien and fundamental. The need to cherish, to protect, to hurt, and to own swallow him and he abruptly shakes with a violent sob. Tim makes a concerned noise and starts to look up, bleary eyes opening. Jason automatically puts a hand to the back of his head and pets his hair, shushing him gently. Tim’s eyelids drift close again. Jason continues to stare down at him and at his hand on Tim’s head, as if unsure what it’s doing there.

“Jason. Jay. Please look at me,” Dick says. He sounds so understanding, so safe that Jason is coaxed into facing him again. He forces his hand to drop from Tim, afraid of what it might do if he’s not paying attention to it.

Dick waits until he has Jason’s full attention before speaking. “Obviously I don’t know what’s going on any better than you do, but I know one thing for certain—you didn’t hurt Tim. Jason, do you hear me? You didn’t hurt either of us, not even a little. You proved you’re safe, even when you’re…influenced.”

“I wanted to,” Jason says, throat dry. I would hurt you right now if you offered.

“But you didn’t.”

“This time.” 

For the first time since he remembered the previous evening he feels a single, searing emotion—contempt. Utter and complete contempt. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns away, too ashamed to look at his brothers. What kind of person wants to hurt their dearest family? Is he even human anymore? Maybe the Pit didn’t just give him life and rage, maybe it took something too.

Like his soul.

“Jason.” He looks back at Dick, startled by the sharpness of his tone. “You. Didn’t. Hurt. Us. Your actions are what matter here. I know the Pit is making you feel things differently, and that’s—probably terrifying. But it didn’t change your choices. You still chose us over yourself. You still saved Tim and protected him when no one else could. You’re still my Little Wing, and you're still Tim’s older brother.”

Jason isn’t sure when he started to cry, only becoming aware of the wetness on his cheeks when Dick reaches forward again to gently brush the tears away. Jason closes his eyes and leans into Dick’s palm.

Jason forces himself to simply breathe for a moment. He can tell he’s on the edge of having a real breakdown and he doesn’t want to fall apart—can’t fall apart, because he doesn’t know what he might do if he loses control of himself right now. Once his tears have stopped, he opens his eyes. Dick gives him a small smile and lowers his hand.

It’s then that Jason realizes he’s wrapped his arms around Tim again. He starts to let go, but Tim makes a pathetic little whining noise that makes Dick chuckle, and Jason puts his arms back with a sigh. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he finally says, back to staring down at Tim. He knows he can’t leave. Tim reacted…poorly, the last time Jason ran away, and Jason promised never to do that again. But it feels profoundly selfish to stay, knowing what he wanted to do—what he still wants to do.

“We’ll figure it out together. It never helps when one of us runs off on our own to deal with this stuff. Let us help.”

“...You won’t let me hurt him?”

“I won’t let you hurt him.”

There’s a short silence.

Jason takes in a sharp breath as a new thought barges in, crashing through the hesitant peace that Dick’s confident words had brought. “Bruce knows I—Bruce knows,” he says, suddenly feeling faint again. Because of course Bruce knows by now. Jason understood that this was going to happen eventually—he’d gone a solid four months or so without dropping a body, but he knew he was going to kill again eventually. He was okay knowing that before, and he’s not sorry for what he did to those men, but...

Bruce said things, not too long ago. Things that made Jason feel like maybe he could still be Bruce’s son. But as he thinks back on what he did, he suddenly feels very stupid for even imagining that Bruce wouldn’t hate him again for—

“He wanted me to tell you that he loves you.”

Jason’s train of thought abruptly derails.

“What?”

“He contacted me. On the drive over. After I told him what happened, he was desperate to see you and Tim. Since he couldn’t be here in person, he asked me to tell each of you that he loves you.”

“He…he must have been talking about Tim.” 

“His exact words were ‘please tell them I love them. Both of them.’”

Jason hates the way his heart aches at the thought. “Did—did you tell him what I did?”

“Yes, Jason. He knows you killed those men.”

Jason reels. He shakes his head, pauses and then shakes it again. He feels heavy and hollow at the same time.

“Are—are you sure that’s what he said?” he asks.

“I’m sure, Jay.”

Jason blinks rapidly, throat tight. He realizes he’s squeezing Tim too tightly when the younger boy shifts and looks up.

“...c’fee?” Tim slurs hopefully.

There’s a beat of silence and then Dick and Jason both snort in unison, breaking the tension. They look at each other, and then start laughing far more than the moment really deserves. Jason tells himself that the relief he feels is due to Tim ending the heavy atmosphere, and not the dangerous little thought that maybe Bruce doesn’t hate him again.

“R’you guys okay?” Tim asks, blinking up at them in confusion. It sets off another round of laughter that borders on hysterical. Clearly they both need more sleep.

“We’re okay, Baby Bird. Mentally scarred beyond all possible hope of recovery, but okay,” Jason says when Tim reaches up to tug on his ear in irritation. 

“Coffee?” he asks again, only slightly more awake.

“Oh my god! Yes! You ridiculous caffeine gremlin. I will make you coffee,” Jason rants, still grinning. He scoops Tim up and throws him over his shoulder as he moves off the bed and stands. Tim squawks and protests until Jason plops him into a chair at the small dining table.

Ten minutes later Tim is savoring his second cup of coffee as Jason makes omelets with some help from Dick. Left to his own devices, Tim would have downed the coffee ages ago, but he was warned that this is his last cup for six hours. 

Jason keeps an eye on the kid as he makes breakfast. He knows Dick is doing the same. Tim’s body goes tense right as Jason finishes plating the last omelet. What convenient timing, he thinks grimly.

“What happened last night?” Tim asks, looking back and forth from Dick to Jason after they’re seated. The light-hearted atmosphere vanishes. No one is touching the food.

“Tim, what’s the last thing you reme—”

“Just tell me what happened!” he snaps, but it’s barely more than a plea. Jason glances at Dick, silently asking to take the lead. Dick nods, obviously halfway to crying again. Jason’s jaw somehow clenches harder for a second before he turns to Tim. 

“You were drugged at Marleigh Manor during the gala. There were three men present when I found you in a room a little after midnight. They—one of them was touching you at the time. Above the waist. I got you out and brought you here,” Jason reports quickly. Tim stares at him.

“You got me out?”

“Yes.”

“They—they touched me?” he asks shakily. Jason feels his jaw clench up as he nods.

“How? What—how were they touching me?”

Jason doesn’t want to answer, but he knows that leaving the details unknown will only make Tim imagine something worse. “One of them was straddling you on the couch and touching your chest. They…gave you a couple of hickies,” Jason says.

“Where?” Tim demands, obviously panicking as he starts to feel around his neck.

“On your chest.”

Tim pulls aside the collar of his shirt and stares at the marks. His breath is already coming out short and fast.

“Tim, I need you to breathe with me. You’re safe here with me and Jason,” Dick says, swiftly moving his chair to sit in front of Tim.

“They…they…bit me?” 

“Tim, breathe.”

“No. no, no, no, no—”

“Tim! Careful!” Dick says, catching Tim’s wrist as he suddenly claws his nails over the marks. 

“Why? Why did they do that?” Tim asks, abruptly crying. “Why did they do that? Why did they do that?” His voice is small and high, the phrase repeating in a stutter.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” Dick says, carefully reaching up to wipe tears from Tim’s cheeks even as his own eyes fill with grief that spills over. Tim doesn’t flinch or pull away, and after barely a nudge of encouragement he falls into Dick’s arms, shaking as he continues to ask ‘why’ over and over again between his sobs. Dick pulls him into his lap without hesitation, rubbing his back and murmuring soft reassurances. Dick looks up at Jason, and something inside him burns.

He’s not sure he’s ever seen Dick look quite so broken. 

Jason knows a lot about hate. He’s experienced so many different flavors of it over the years. The hate he feels now is familiar in some ways—he’s felt it far too often as he comforts victims of trafficking and sexual assault. It’s the particular flavor of hate that drove him to hunt, to hurt, and to kill with a brutality that made the Red Hood a force to be feared.

Jason doesn’t think he’s ever felt hate quite this strongly before. It wrenches at him, this twisting, aching knowledge that someone hurt Tim, his LITTLE BROTHER, someone he knows and loves personally, someone so bound up in Jason’s world that his every flinch yanks at Jason’s heart as if they were connected by hooks and fishing line. 

He wishes he’d hurt them for longer. He wishes he hadn't taken as long to find Tim. He wishes he could go back and hunt them down hours before any of them even laid eyes on LITTLE BROTHER. 

But there’s nothing to hunt now, no outlet for his focused hate. There’s only LITTLE BROTHER, learning that all his training hadn’t been enough to save him from regular people. Knowing that it could have been so much worse if not for the sheer luck of Jason getting irrationally anxious at half-past eleven last night. 

He feels the Pit more strongly as he hates, but it isn’t the normal pull, like a rabid dog on a leash. It doesn’t even feel like a pull at all—it isn’t separate enough for that. It’s just—there. He’s not even sure where the Pit ends and he begins anymore. 

The feeling is surreal and begs closer examination, but Jason pushes all that away. He can deal with his own personal crisis later. For now he has to help LITTLE BR—Tim. 

Tim’s sobbing has quieted, but he’s still clinging to Dick like he’ll drown if he lets go. Dick is staring blankly into space as he holds Tim just as tightly, his reassurances petering out. Jason feels a new worry worm into him as he observes his older brother. He almost looks like—like he’s dissociating. 

Jason stands and moves over to them slowly, making sure to stay in Dick’s line of sight and telegraph his movements. He sits down in the chair Tim previously occupied and hunches down to make himself look smaller.

“Dick? Hey. You there?” he asks softly, tilting his head to try and catch Dick’s eye. Dick meets his eyes after a moment, and his distant gaze gradually sharpens. He eventually nods, looking slightly more alert.

Before Jason can decide what to do next, Tim takes a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

Dick’s gaze snaps back down to him, and he seems to come back to himself fully. “No Tim, no apologizing.”

“Dick’s right, there’s nothing for you to apologize for.”

“I messed up,” he whimpers. “They were just civilians and I—”

“Tim, sweetheart, you did nothing wrong. This is not your fault. I swear, Tim. None of this is your fault,” Dick says, squeezing even more tightly as if he can hug the truth into him. Jason feels sick as Tim shakes his head, as if he can’t believe them.

“I was watching—I promise I watched him make the drink, I was keeping an eye on it, I promise.” 

“We believe you, Tim. We know you did. But there were three of them and—”

“I never should have gone back there. Ugh! How could I have been so stupid?” He jerks back from Dick, nearly falling as he stumbles out of his lap and clutches at his head. “I just wanted to avoid talking to the Fyodorovs, and I let myself get drugged! What the hell is wrong with me!”

“Tim—!”

Jason and Dick both stand and then visibly hold themselves back from grabbing Tim’s arms to stop him from yanking harshly at his hair. Tim looks up at them, disgust melting into horror.

“What if they tell? What—what if they took pictures or—”

“Oracle will take care of anything digital, and they are not going to tell anyone,” Jason says. 

Tim must catch the certainty in his tone because his panic ebbs slightly and he drops his hands to his sides.

“How—how do you know?”

“Because I killed them.”

Tim stares at Jason, expression fluctuating rapidly. 

“You’re safe, Baby Bird,” Dick says softly. “They can’t talk about you, they can’t hurt you, they can’t touch you.”

“You…you shouldn’t have broken the Rule for me,” Tim says, sounding lost.

“My choice, Timbit, not yours. Not your responsibility,” Jason says firmly. “People like that are why I’ll never commit to Bruce’s Rule. I don’t regret it for a second.”

Tim’s eyes widen.

“Oh god—Bruce. Does he—what if—”

“Bruce is aware of the situation. He’s not upset at you at all, and he hasn’t disowned Jason or anything like that,” Dick reassures him. “He’s on his way home from Milan, and he’s only concerned about us staying safe. He asked me to tell you that he loves you.”

Tim sways a little. “...oh.” His shoulders slump, and he looks absolutely exhausted. Jason glances at Dick, who doesn’t look much better.

“Okay. Time for a break. We’re all tired and hungry. Grab your plates and move to the couch,” Jason orders. Both his brothers look surprised for a moment but then do as instructed. Jason quickly pulls up Tangled, one of their go-to comfort films, and starts it playing. When he looks back at the couch, his brothers are huddled together. Tim looks adrift as he stares down at his plate, while Dick is watching Tim with a sort of desperate tension.

“C’mon. Let’s eat,” Jason says, snagging his omelet from the table and then settling down on Tim’s other side. Both of his brothers take a bite and then immediately start to eat more quickly. Jason huffs in amusement, pleased that they enjoy his cooking (even though the omelets are room temperature by now).

The omelets are soon gone, and both Dick and Tim look more relaxed. Dick tentatively puts an arm over Tim’s shoulders, and the younger boy leans into him. Jason feels himself finally relaxing as well when he sees Dick’s gaze soften with relief as he looks down at their little brother.

They’re all kind of a mess right now. But with food in their bellies and light-hearted animation to distract them for the next couple hours, everything feels a little more manageable. Jason throws his arms over the back of the couch and leans back with a sigh. 

They’ll get through this. Together.

Chapter Text

Jason

Dick falls asleep about thirty minutes into the movie, rapidly followed by Tim. Jason isn’t surprised—it’s obvious his older brother stayed up all night to make sure Jason didn’t wake up and decide to look for sharp objects, and Tim still needs sleep because drug-induced unconsciousness doesn’t actually provide true rest. 

As the movie nears its end, Dick’s phone chirps with an instant message. Jason snags it off the table and unlocks the screen, knowing it’s probably Bruce.

Press is handled for now. You and T will need to go to the police to provide a statement sometime in the next couple days.

Another chirp, and Jason quickly turns the noise down. Neither of his brothers stir.

How are they?

Jason hesitates, but then types back.

This is J. D and T are sleeping.

Are you okay?  

The message comes through almost immediately. Jason stares at it, feeling sharp and brittle. Is he okay? (He has no idea.) Is that really what Bruce wants to know? Or is he trying to suss out if Jason is a danger to the others? Dick said that Bruce knows what he did—if he really knows how Jason tore those men apart, there’s no way he’s worried about Jason’s wellbeing. The memory of last night surges forward, and for a moment Jason can taste SCUM’s blood, feel his torn flesh between his teeth. His mind helpfully adds in the weight of Batman’s judgemental gaze bearing down on him.

He sets Dick’s phone on the side table and stalks back into the bedroom to grab his own phone. He flops backwards onto the bed and glares at the messaging app for a while. 

I killed three people he finally texts. He’s not sure why he’s restating a fact Bruce is already aware of, and anger is replaced by regret the second the message is sent. He feels jittery and off balance, like he’s taken a step only to realize he was at the edge of a building, and now there’s only air where he was expecting concrete.

D told me. How are you feeling?

Jason frowns at the message for a moment.

What, no lecture?

The little dots that signify typing pop up for a while.

J, if you’re looking for a fight I can’t give you one. I just want to know that you and your brothers are safe. 

Fuck. Bruce really has been getting his money’s worth out of that therapy Dick’s been making him attend. 

Is he looking for a fight? Probably. He doesn't usually see Bruce as an enemy these days, but there’s no denying the hostility he’s feeling now.

Or maybe he’s just looking for a distraction. A fight would be simple, after all—defending his mini murder spree is easy and straightforward, an opinion that doesn’t feel like it’s at war with some other part of him. But Bruce isn’t taking the bait, and Jason’s beginning to feel childish. He mutters a few curses and sends a more civil reply.

We’re safe.

Good. The jet’s about to land. Can I come to your safehouse to see all of you?

Jason tenses up. He feels simultaneously relieved that Bruce still wants to see him and fiercely suspicious. What if Bruce is coming to save the two sons who haven’t committed a triple homicide and drag Jason to the police? He could just be pretending to put Jason off his guard.

The more he thinks about it, the more probable the latter scenario seems. What is more likely, after all? That a couple months of therapy have made Bruce Wayne capable of overlooking the brutal slaughter of three people, or that the Batman, detective and strategist extraordinaire, is telling the enemy what he wants to hear in order to make them weak to a surprise attack?

His heart rate picks up. He can’t actually stop Bruce from coming over—obviously he figured out the location of this safehouse long ago. The request is merely a courtesy. But Jason knows his brothers won’t let Batman take him to prison without a fight. If he can just keep Bruce away until they wake up, refreshed and ready, he won’t have to face Batman alone. He types in another message and sends it.

They need their sleep. I’ll let you know when they wake up. You can come by then.

There’s a long pause.

Okay. Please let me know as soon as they’re awake.

Yeah, I will.

Jason tosses the phone aside and tries to take slow breaths. It’s entirely possible Bruce is coming over now anyway, but this is the best he can manage for now. He sits up and wanders into the lab/equipment room and checks his security. Everything is still operational. He considers getting into his gear, but decides not too. As much as he wants to be able to defend himself from Bruce, he’s not comfortable loading himself up with weapons while the thought of snapping his brothers’ bones sounds halfway appealing.

He shudders at that thought and drops into a wheeled lab chair. What is he even doing? Shouldn’t he want Bruce to take him away? Dick said they would work through this together, but there's no getting around the fact that Jason is compromised right now. Tim and Dick would both be safer if he were contained some place away from them…right?

“You. Didn’t. Hurt. Us. Your actions are what matter here…you still saved Tim and protected him when no one else could.”

What if Jason hadn’t been there? Being around Jason when he was Pit mad might have been dangerous for Tim, but it was obviously better than the alternative. He did genuinely save Tim. For all his sadistic cravings, he kept Tim safe—and even though he wanted to hurt him, he never wanted Tim dead.

The dissonance that’s been simmering in Jason’s mind ever since Dick pulled him out of full Pit madness starts to calm. He remembers how strong he was when the Pit was high—is that something he could do again, if the situation called for it? He didn’t need extra strength to kill those men, but in his line of work, fighting against a higher weight class is inevitable.

Maybe someday, access to that strength will be able to save his brothers when plain, Pit-clear Jason can’t.

There was a moment, as he invited the Pit to join him the previous night, when he felt a sense of harmony, a balanced surety that he was whole. As he considers that perhaps the Pit isn’t solely a threat, he begins to feel hints of that synchronicity again. 

He glances at his phone and considers his earlier worries. He wants to believe Bruce isn’t coming to try and throw him in prison, but if he tries, Jason will fight back. With the aid of the Pit, Jason is stronger than Batman—which means he’s better equipped to keep his brothers safe. 

The thought brings fuller clarity. Protecting his brothers is his highest priority, and he can’t do that from a cell in Blackgate or Arkham. 

He won’t let anyone take him away from them.

Dick

Dick’s nightmares have always involved forced stillness. Him standing on the ledge, paralyzed and helpless as his parents plunge to the unforgiving ground (or Bruce, or Jason, or Tim, or Barbara, or Wally, or Roy, or—). Him bound and gagged, watching the Joker beat his little brother to death with a crowbar. Him standing frozen as he finds out that the woman he just had sex with was Mirage shapeshifted to look like Kori. Him lying under Tarantula, unable to move except for his mouth, telling her, begging her to stop.

Most of those dreams aren’t even illusions drawn up by his damaged psyche. They’re just memories, replayed in surround sound and living color.

Usually it’s heavy rain that brings on the Tarantula nightmares; he’s learned better than to try and sleep when there’s thunder in the sky. Today though, with thoughts of that night brought up by the assault on his baby brother, he’s plunged into it without any help from the weather.

He wakes up gasping, instinctively shoving away the body pressed against his side. He’s been trained to wake up quietly, but it was too real, too clear, and he’s on his feet panting before he processes that he isn’t on a roof in Blüdaven.

“Dick, you’re okay! We’re in Jason’s safehouse,” Tim says quickly. He’s also standing, apparently having caught himself before Dick could push him to the floor. Dick drops out of his fighting stance, shoulders slumping as he’s left in the nauseous wake of unnecessary adrenaline. He notes that Jason is no longer in the room with them, and that the dimming light from the windows means he must have been asleep for hours.

“Sorry, Tim.”

“It’s okay. Aren’t you the one always saying I shouldn’t apologize for having nightmares?” Tim asks with a worried smile.

“Do as I say, not as I do,” Dick replies ruefully, scratching the back of his head nervously. His skin feels overly sensitive, like he’s suffering from a fever, and his nausea is rapidly getting worse. Before Tim can make a smart reply, Dick runs to the bathroom. He empties his stomach into the toilet for the third time in the last twelve hours. When he finishes retching, Tim passes him a glass of water. Dick sits back as he rinses the bile from his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” Tim asks, anxiety written across his face. Dick tries to give him a reassuring smile as he gets back on his feet. He doesn’t want to be on the floor right now.

“Just a bad dream.” Tim eyes him with unassuaged concern, but he doesn’t challenge the assertion.

“Do you want a hug?” he asks instead. Dick feels both gratitude that Tim is trying to offer comfort in the form that Dick most often prefers and repulsion at the thought of having anyone else touch him.

“Actually, I’m pretty gross right now,” he says. “I should probably take a shower.”

Crap. Now Tim’s eyebrows have gone up in alarm.

“Dick—what’s going on? You always want—”

“Not always,” Dick snaps. Tim flinches, and the guilt that immediately follows is absolutely crushing. 

“Sorry,” Tim says, ducking his head and backing up.

“No, Tim, wait. I’m sorry I snapped. It isn’t your fault. It—the nightmare really threw me. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m not mad at you at all, I promise.” Tim doesn’t look completely convinced, but it’s the best Dick can manage for now. 

“Okay. Do you want me to get you anything?” 

“No, sweetheart, thank you. I just need to clean up and get out of my head a little. Why don’t you figure out where Jason went and order us some food, okay? It looks like we slept most of the day away. And I just lost my omelet.”

The little joke coaxes a small smile out of Tim. He nods and leaves the bathroom.

Dick closes the door and lets out a long sigh. He’s got to pull himself together. Part of him really doesn’t want to take off his clothes right now, but he does actually feel gross from all the drying sweat. 

He ends up spending too long in the shower, methodically scrubbing at his skin under scalding water until the burn chases away the faint feeling of fingers.

Dick feels a little better by the time he steps out. The fact that the mirror is too fogged up for him to see his reflection helps. Towel around his waist, he slips quietly from the bathroom to the guest room. Pulling on Jason’s clothes settles him further. He layers a Wonder Woman sweatshirt over a shirt and sweatpants and covers his feet in woolen socks. He gives himself a minute of slow breathing before stepping back out of the room, prepared to be the big brother that Tim and Jason need right now.

When he doesn’t see his brothers in the living room he pokes his head into Jason’s bedroom. Tim waves at him from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed. Jason is sitting behind him, making little braids in Tim’s hair. His eyes are still green, but thankfully the glow hasn’t come back. 

“I ordered pizza,” Tim says as Dick drops into the comfy office chair that Jason keeps at his desk. 

“Great. How are you feeling?”

“I think the drugs are out of my system now,” Tim says. “Not feeling any effects since I woke up.”

“That’s good. We’ll do a final blood test tonight before bed.”

“Bruce is on his way over. He’ll be here any minute,” Jason says, not looking away from Tim’s hair. 

“Oh! That’s…great. Thanks for letting him come here.” 

Jason shrugs. “I’ve been at this safehouse almost three months anyway. I’ll be burning it by the end of the month.”

Dick idly plays on his phone for another five minutes or so before they hear a knock at the door.

“Is the Old Man seriously using the front door?” Jason snarks as he goes tense. He lets go of the braid he was working on in Tim’s hair. “Ready to be smothered by your overprotective Bat-dad?”

Tim smiles a little and scoots off the bed, hurrying to get the door. Dick and Jason exchange a look.

“What’s going on with you?” Jason asks him, blunt but not unkind. 

“Nothing,” Dick says, quickly standing to follow Tim.

He walks into the main room in time to see Tim nod shyly, and then Bruce is scooping him into a hug that lifts his feet off the ground. Tim tenses for a second but then wraps his arms around Bruce’s neck. Bruce doesn’t let him down for a good minute, and even then he moves his hands to Tim’s shoulders rather than let go.

“Are you okay?” he asks Tim seriously. 

“I’m—yeah, I’m fine. Nothing really happened to me, thanks to Jason,” Tim says, blushing slightly. Dick winces internally. Of course Tim has already started to dismiss his experience. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” Bruce says, but Dick can see the worry wrinkling the corners of his eyes. He looks over at Dick and smiles softly.

“Hey, chum.” Dick returns his smile and nods in greeting. 

“Pizza’s on its way. You want something to drink?”

“Sure. Whatever you have,” Bruce says agreeably. Dick goes to the kitchen, doing his best to ignore Bruce’s curious look. Normally Dick would have swooped in to collect his own hug by now, but he’s fairly certain that if he tries to force contact with anyone, it’ll become even more obvious that something’s wrong with him.

“Is Jason here?” Bruce asks.

“Right here,” Jason says, stepping into the main room. To the untrained observer he would appear relaxed, but to the Bats his body language is a mess of challenge and uncertainty.

“Are you okay? Did you get hurt in the fight?” Bruce asks, letting go of Tim to take a step towards Jason.

“Not a scratch.”

“Okay. I’m…glad you’re not hurt.”

Jason narrows his eyes at him, not bothering to hide his suspicion. Bruce takes a breath and briefly glances back at Tim before returning his gaze to Jason. “Thank you for saving your brother. I’m proud of you for rescuing him.”

“Bullshit,” Jason hisses. Bruce twitches and Jason looks down for a quick moment before looking up again, defensive anger in every line of his body. “You’re not proud of me. I’m a murderer.”

“Jason,” Dick says quickly, stepping into his line of sight and putting his back to Bruce. Jason’s green eyes flicker to Dick. “Jay. He’s not here to fight. It’s been a stressful twenty-four hours. Let’s just…have a drink. Okay? And then pizza.”

Jason studies him for a tense moment, and then finally shifts out of his combative stance. Dick gives him a grateful smile and then turns to Bruce. “I’m glad you could make it. Tim, why don’t you pick out a movie?”

Everyone shuffles about awkwardly for a couple minutes. Dick takes a seat in the armchair while Bruce and Jason end up on the couch with Tim between them. When Bruce moves to put an arm over Tim’s shoulders, Jason snags the younger boy around the waist and pulls him tight to his side, glaring straight ahead as Bruce rests his arm on the back of the couch instead, looking slightly crestfallen. Dick resists the urge to roll his eyes at his brother’s pettiness.

The pizza arrives a few minutes into the movie, and Bruce goes to get it. When he comes back to the couch, he tries to sit a little closer to Tim—and Jason unabashedly pulls Tim into his lap, still refusing to look at Bruce. Tim gives him an exasperated look, but doesn’t say anything. Bruce, apparently deciding to eschew subtlety as well, simply stands up and then sits down right next to Jason, also keeping his eyes determinedly on the TV screen. The three of them are now all squished into one half of the couch, and it takes no small amount of willpower for Dick to not laugh at the ridiculous image. Jason shoots Bruce an irritated look, and Bruce responds by raising his arm again and settling it over Jason’s shoulders.

Jason freezes up. Dick isn’t even bothering to hide that he’s watching them at this point, readying himself to get between Bruce and Jason if the situation devolves.

But then Tim shifts and tucks his head under Jason’s chin. He can’t really see the screen from his new position, but his eyes are drifting closed anyway. Jason’s hand goes up to Tim’s head automatically and the tension bleeds out of him as he begins running his fingers through Tim’s hair, tugging absently at some of the small braids that remain. Bruce keeps his arm around Jason’s shoulders but wisely doesn’t try to touch Tim. Dick feels a sudden yearning to join them, to curl up against Bruce and bask in the knowledge that his family is safe and together, but he holds himself back. His skin still feels a little too raw, and he doesn’t want to deal with the questions if his touch aversion returns and he has to separate from them again.

The atmosphere settles as everyone allows themselves to be drawn into the movie (except for Tim, who seems to have actually fallen asleep again). At one point Jason and Bruce both laugh at something on screen at the same time, and then immediately look embarrassed. Dick gives up on his attempts to pretend they aren’t both absurd and starts giggling. They both shoot him a dirty look, which only makes him laugh more. 

By the time the movie is finished Dick feels lighter. Things are pretty messed up, but his family’s here and they aren’t fighting. In his life, that’s always a win.

Chapter Text

Tim

“Dick will draw his blood.”

The growling voice pulls Tim from sleep.

“Okay. That’s fine Jason, I was only offering.” Bruce, Tim notes, confused before he remembers that he arrived earlier. 

Jason notices that Tim is awake and nuzzles his hair. “Time for your last blood test, Baby Bird,” he says. His voice is so gentle; he sounds like a different person from the one who snapped at Bruce only a second ago. He keeps Tim held close with an arm around his waist and uses his other hand to gently move Tim’s right forearm away from his body, holding it out to Dick.

Dick takes the blood quickly as Tim brings himself to full alertness. He catches Bruce giving him a fond look right as his stomach rumbles. He blushes as his dad chuckles.

“Any pizza left?” he asks as Dick tapes a cotton ball to the inside of his elbow.

“Yes. No one wants any of your artichoke heart nonsense,” Jason replies. Tim helps himself. It’s fortunate that the half of pizza with his preferred toppings is right in front of him on the coffee table, because Jason doesn’t seem interested in letting go of him.

After Dick leaves to start the test in the lab, there’s awkward silence while Tim eats his pizza. Bruce still has his arm around Jason’s shoulders, and Tim can feel Jason getting more and more tense every second.

“Hey B, can you get me a soda?” Tim asks. Bruce looks surprised—Tim basically never asks for things—but then nods and stands up. Tim feels Jason relax fractionally once Bruce is out of his space. He tugs at Jason’s arm.

“Lemme go,” he says, shifting to sit next to Jason so that Bruce won’t be directly next to him when he comes back. Jason loosens his arm enough to let him move, but he grumbles and keeps his arm around his waist once Tim is beside him. Tim looks up at Jason after taking another bite of pizza. His brother’s eyes are still abnormally green. Tim didn’t worry about it much earlier; Jason started braiding his hair after Tim found him in his room, and he showed no sign of anger to put Tim on edge. But now Jason seems distinctly more agitated, his gaze suspicious as he watches Bruce walk back to them. Bruce sits next to Tim and gives him a soda as Dick walks back into the room.

“Thanks,” Tim says, hoping that Bruce can see he’s grateful for more than the drink. From the soft smile he receives in return, he thinks Bruce gets it.

“Test will be done in twenty,” Dick says, dropping back into his armchair. “You feeling okay Tim? I didn’t expect you to sleep again so soon.”

“I’m still tired,” Tim says with a shrug. Dick studies him for a moment.

“Okay. I guess if the lab comes back clear there’s no reason to worry.”

“We could do more extensive tests at the Cave—”

“No.”

Everyone goes still at Jason’s hissed response to Bruce’s suggestion.

“Jason,” Dick says, calm but firm. He waits until Jason reluctantly turns away from Bruce to meet his gaze. “That’s up to Tim.”

Tim feels Jason’s arm tighten around him.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Tim says quickly. 

“Are you sure?” Dick asks him, giving him one of his most earnest looks. Tim nods, grateful that he can do so honestly. 

“I’m fine. But…um, I do need to go back to the manor soon,” he says, chancing a glance up at Jason. His green eyes briefly brighten.

“Why?” he demands.

“Jason, Tim can go back to the manor whenever he wants,” Dick says. Jason ignores him, still focused on Tim.

“Well—it’s Sunday night. I have school tomorrow. My school stuff is at the manor, and I haven’t done any of my weekend homework, so—”

“You aren’t going to school tomorrow,” Jason interrupts. 

“What? Yes I am.”

“You’re still recovering.”

“No, I’m fine. Unless the blood test shows something weird, there’s no reason for me not to go.”

“Tim, you were drugged and nearly raped—” It sounds like Jason planned to say more, but Tim jerks away,  pulling free of Jason’s arm as he stumbles to his feet.

“And I’m fine now. Because nothing actually happened,” Tim snaps, stepping around the coffee table to get more distance. “I took a ketamine nap, that’s it. That doesn’t require missing school.”

There’s a heavy silence.

“Tim, you don’t have to act like it was nothing—” Dick starts.

“I’m not acting! It was nothing! I don’t even remember any of it, okay? There are no scars, no traumatic memories, nothing.”

(He’s kinda pretty, right?)

(Lock the door.)

(Just look at those lips.)

Tim makes the mistake of glancing at Bruce as he tries to shove the words from his mind. His dad looks back at him with the kind of deep concern that he only lets show when one of them has been seriously injured. The implication that this deserves that kind of reaction makes Tim flinch. Nothing happened. There’s no reason for anyone to be freaking out. Nothing happened.

“Tim.” He snaps his gaze to Dick. “You can go to school tomorrow if you want. But you don’t need to pretend that this was nothing. You can be upset about—”

“The only thing I’m upset about is that we’re still talking about this. I’m not a baby, I can handle a couple bruises. Given what else we’ve all gone through, I don’t know why that merits this kind of drama,” Tim says, his words coming out more biting than he intended. He can feel his heart rate picking up and his stomach twist, the pizza he just ate threatening to make a reappearance. 

“I’m—I’m going to school tomorrow, okay?” He glances at Jason, quick to avoid any immediate protests. “I’ll stay here tonight. Then go to the manor in the morning before school.”

Jason doesn’t look the least bit happy, but he doesn’t say anything.

“That sounds like a reasonable plan,” Dick says. Tim feels a pang of annoyance when he recognizes Dick using the voice they use with victims. He hates being handled.

Abruptly it’s all too much. The growing nausea, the tightening in his throat, the focused gazes of his family—Tim is done. He turns on his heel and walks to the guest room as quickly as he can without looking like he’s fleeing. After managing to close the door behind him without slamming it he throws himself onto the bed, yanking the covers over him as he curls up into a tight ball.

Nothing happened.

(Gideon’s arm around his waist, his lips on Tim’s knuckles.)

Nothing happened.

(The bitter taste of alcohol and the burn on the back of his throat as he coughs on it.)

Nothing happened.

(A tug at the back of his neck as his tie is pulled off.)

Nothing happened.

Dick

Jason and Bruce both stand to follow Tim after he leaves, but Dick quickly steps between them and the guest room door.

“Give him his space,” he says firmly.

“He’s trying to pretend he’s fine with it,” Jason snaps.

“Maybe he needs to pretend for now. You can’t rush him into processing this,” Dick says. 

“Are you sure he should be alone right now?” Bruce asks, clearly holding himself back from pushing past Dick.

“I’m sure that we need to respect his boundaries,” Dick replies, giving them both a hard look. They appear slightly chastised and Dick forces his body language to relax. “He’s been sleeping while the drugs get out of his system, which means he's barely had any time to think about what happened. He deserves the space to do that.”

“How’s he gonna get space at school?” Jason asks.

“A routine isn’t a bad thing. He’s not going to benefit from wallowing during a forced vacation. If he wants to go to school, he gets to go.”

Bruce sighs. “Okay. I trust your judgement. But remember the police still need to speak with him to get a statement about that night. You and him need to figure out your cover story and prepare to deliver it, ideally tomorrow after Tim’s school.”

“That’s fine. I’ve already come up with a simple description of our whereabouts around the time of the fire. I don’t think Tim will have any issues with providing that to the police since it doesn’t have anything to do with the true events.”

Dick pauses to take a calming breath. “Thank you for coming by, Bruce. We’ll make sure Tim gets to the manor in time to get his things.”

Bruce visibly deflates at the obvious dismissal, but he nods. He looks over at Jason, who meets his eyes with a defiant gaze.

“I know you don’t believe me right now, but I am proud you saved your brother. Regardless of how I feel about your methods, I couldn’t be more relieved that you got him away from those men.”

Jason’s face flickers through a number of emotions before he shrugs and looks away.

“Whatever,” he mutters. Bruce’s shoulders slump a bit more, but he tries to give Dick an encouraging smile.

“Thanks for taking care of them. I’ll see you soon. I love you all,” he says. Jason continues to look away, crossing his arms.

“I’ll let you know how it goes with the police,” Dick says. He smiles tiredly. “Love you too, B.” 

Bruce nods and takes his leave.

Dick turns to Jason. “What’s going on? You were doing better with Bruce,” he says, making sure his tone remains calm and nonjudgemental.

“Yeah. And then I killed three people.”

“He seems to be taking it pretty well.”

“For now.”

Dick considers Jason for a moment.

“Your eyes are still too green. Is the Pit making you angrier at him?”

“I don’t need the Pit to be angry at Bruce,” Jason snaps. “I’ve got plenty of reasons.”

“Okay.” Dick resists the urge to sigh. He’s too tired for this. “I’m going to check the test. Please let Tim have his space.”

He walks past Jason into the hall without waiting for a response. 

In the lab, Dick peruses the test results. It’s clean. This time he does allow himself to sigh, relieved that one thing, at least, is over and done. Jason appears in the doorway a moment later.

“Results?”

“All clear.”

“Good. I’m going for a run. Phone’s on if you or the kid need something.” He’s shifting on his feet and not quite meeting his eyes. Dick gives him a genuine smile, recognizing that Jason’s feeling at least somewhat apologetic. 

“Thanks Jay. I’ll call if something comes up.” Jason nods and heads out.

Dick wanders back into the living room after he hears Jason leave. He tidies up, moving leftover pizza to the fridge and hand washing the dishes simply to have something to do. After that he turns on the TV to some baking competition and begins going through stretches.

After an hour he decides it’s time to check on Tim. He gets a glass of cold water to provide a pretense and knocks on the door.

There’s no response, so he pushes the door in a little and pokes his head in. Tim is sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring down at his phone. He's slouched over more than usual, with one arm wrapped around himself.

“Brought you some water,” Dick says softly. Tim looks up, eyes red.

“Thanks,” he says, so Dick slips inside. He passes Tim the water and sits on the edge of the bed as he sips at it. 

“I sent Bruce home, and Jason’s on a run. You need anything else? More food?”

Tim shakes his head. 

“Okay. I’m right outside if you need me,” Dick says. Tim glances up at him, surprised.

“You’re leaving?”

“I mean, I’m going to the living room. I can stay if you want.”

Tim shrugs and looks down.

“Do you want me to stay? We don’t have to talk. Or we can, whatever you need.”

Tim stares at his lap for a moment. “Stay, please.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Tim scoots over on the bed and brings his knees up to his chest. He sets the water aside as Dick joins him.

“I really am fine,” Tim says, not looking at Dick. “I mean—yeah, it’s creepy. And I’m embarrassed and a little freaked out but—it just wasn’t much of anything.”

Dick nods to show he’s listening but remains quiet. There’s a long silence, and Dick can practically see Tim thinking. 

“I don’t—I don’t want this to be a big deal,” he finally says. 

“Why?”

“Because it isn’t. Nothing happened. But Jason’s acting weird and Bruce was looking at me like I’d almost died and I just—can’t I just be okay?”

Dick considers him for a moment.

“You know it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. You don’t have to choose between being completely unbothered and being deeply scarred for life.”

Tim huffs a little. “I know but…I don’t want people to worry.”

“Worrying is part of the family package, Tim.”

“Yeah, I guess.” 

He’s quiet again, and Dick resists the urge to pry or advise. He has to let Tim take the lead on this. His patience pays off when Tim starts talking again.

“It’s just…it’s so embarrassing. I liked them, two of them anyway. They were cool, and I didn’t feel weird or awkward with them. But then Gideon drugged me and they just…went along with him.” 

He sounds like he still can’t quite believe that last part. His cheeks are red, shame pulling his lips into a disgusted frown. “I’m supposed to be able to read people.”

Dick feels hatred twist in his gut at the defeated look in his eyes. Tim thought he was safe, thought he’d found friendly acquaintances to spend time with away from the ordeal of the gala, and they had betrayed him. Dick knows that Tim is always eager to please, so delighted when someone takes interest enough to acknowledge his existence. Knowing that someone took advantage of that makes Dick wish he’d been there to watch Jason take them apart. 

But hatred for the dead won’t help Tim now, so Dick tries to settle that part of himself and refocus on his little brother.

“You know the stats, Tim. Most sexual assaults aren’t committed by strangers in dark alleys. That’s because these predators seem normal, likable, or even charming. Don’t blame yourself for this.”

Tim doesn’t respond immediately except to tilt his head down so that his forehead is pressed against his knees and his face is hidden. When he speaks again a few minutes later his voice is quiet enough that Dick has to lean in a little to hear him.

“I wasn’t completely honest before. About having no memories.”

It takes all of Dick’s training to keep his breathing even.

“I mean, I really don’t remember much. But…they said things. Right after the drug started kicking in. They talked like I wasn’t there. I was just…a body.”

Something is cracking inside of Dick, fracturing all the more because he can’t let any hint of it show.

“And what they said wasn’t even that bad, but…I was—helpless. And I couldn’t respond or move and I—I—I—” His breath hitches a few times and then he falls silent again.

“Tim, I’m so sorry. That's horrible,” Dick says, the words feeling woefully inadequate. “Can I hug you?” 

Tim nods his head.

Dick puts an arm around Tim’s shoulder and squeezes him close, resting his cheek against Tim’s head. They stay like that for a while, still except for their breathing.

“I don’t know how to feel,” Tim eventually admits. He no longer sounds anxious or sad, just tired. “Sometimes it really seems like no big deal. But then I get angry, or embarrassed, or I think about what they said and it—keeps changing.”

Dick nods without lifting his head. 

“That’s okay. You’re not required to be consistent. We all know recovery isn’t linear.”

“Yeah…I feel like I shouldn’t need to recover though. I wasn’t really hurt.”

“You were trapped, Tim. People you felt comfortable with betrayed you. Just because they didn’t leave a scar doesn’t mean you weren’t hurt.”

“I guess.” He slowly lifts his head from his knees, and Dick leans back as well to let him up. When they’re both leaning against the backboard Tim finally looks at Dick directly.

“Thank you. For letting me go to school and…and listening.”

“Of course, Baby Bird.” Tim still appears strained, but his body language is more relaxed and it doesn’t seem like he’s holding back tears anymore. Dick feels a light wave of relief that he managed to make things a little better.

“Do you think—is Jason going to be okay?” Tim asks after another moment. “His eyes are still green.”

“He’ll come around,” Dick says with a confidence he doesn’t entirely feel. “You know how he feels about SA. He just needs a little more time to come down. But you can tell him or me if he’s getting too clingy, okay?”

Tim snorts. “I’m pretty sure simply saying the word ‘clingy’ around him would be enough to make him let go.” Dick smirks.

“Yes. The Big Bad Red Hood may be a blatant cuddlebug, but heaven forbid anyone mention it.”

As if summoned by his name, they hear the front door open.

“Want to see if Jason will make cookies for us?” Dick asks. Tim nods. “Great. Prep the puppy dog eyes. We’ll use a dual attack and he won’t be able to resist.” 

Tim smiles, a real smile, and Dick feels lighter as he pulls Tim out of the room. 

As predicted, their resident gun-toting crime boss is unable to withstand the strength of two pleading sets of eyes, and soon the kitchen is filled with the delicious smell of baking lemon poppyseed cookies.

#

Dick jerks awake with a heaving gasp. He blinks rapidly, throwing off his blanket and taking in the dark living room. The scene doesn’t fully register—all that really matters is that he doesn’t see Tim, which means he could be trapped with her right now.

He retains enough memory to bolt to the guest room. As he skids through the door and looks at the bed, he’s struck both with relief that Tim is alone and a skittering fear at the sight of him curled up so small under the blankets. Before he thinks better of it, he’s kneeling on the bed and pulling at Tim’s shoulder.

Tim lashes out with an automatic strike as he wakes, which Dick blocks just as intuitively. 

“Dick? What—” 

“Tim, are you okay?” Dick asks urgently. He pulls back the blankets, beginning an injury check. 

“Dick, stop, I’m okay. I’m okay.” When Dick checks his neck, Tim gently catches his wrists—

He should be able to shove her away. He’s stronger than she is, and even pinned he could easily break out of her hold.

Maybe he deserves this. He let her kill—practically invited her to pull the trigger. He was supposed to save her, to show her how to save people without resorting to murder, and instead he stepped aside and let her shoot Blockbuster in the head. For him. He’d used her, hadn’t he? He let her take the mark on her soul so that he could get what he wanted without getting his hands dirty.

He supposes it’s only fair she gets to use him now. He doesn’t want her to, wants it to just stop, but he’s paralyzed by grief and guilt and her lips are pressing against his neck—

“... in the guest bedroom with me. You’re safe here. Tap your hand on the blanket if you can hear me. Dick Grayson, I’m Tim, your youngest brother. It’s Sunday morning at 1:23AM on October thirteenth. You’re in Jason’s safehouse in the Bowery. You’re on the bed in the guest bedroom with me. You’re safe here. Tap your hand on the blanket if you can hear me—”

Dick taps the blanket. 

“Good, can you please open your eyes? It’s safe, Dick. You can open your eyes.”

He’s in a familiar room. The bedside lamp is on now, allowing him to clearly see his surroundings. Tim is sitting on his knees across from him, keeping his hands at his side.

“Good, you’re doing great. Can you tell me five things that you see?”

Dick struggles to follow along with the exercises. The flashback isn’t quick to let him go. Everytime he so much as blinks he’s back on that rooftop, or worse—Tim is on that rooftop and Dick is frozen, unable to move as Tarantula pushes Tim onto his back—

“...hold two, three, four, five. And out, two three four…”

By the time Dick is firmly returned to reality he is both utterly exhausted and completely terrified of falling asleep again. 

“Thanks,” he manages to say.

Tim nods. “Want some water?”

“Don’t leave.”

“Okay. I’m not leaving. I’m staying here.”

Dick keeps his eyes fixed on his little brother, scanning him repeatedly for injury. The bruises on his jaw and cheek are darkening, and the split in his lip is scabbed over. The hickies on Tim’s chest are hidden under one of Jason’s shirts, but Dick knows they’re there, and it’s impossible not to see them in his mind’s eye. Every time his gaze moves over the spot he feels an awful jolt of anger and fear, the infuriating mix telling him to fight and to flee at the same time.

“Dick?”

“Hm?”

“Do you want me to yell for Jason?”

“No, it’s—no.”

“Okay. Um…I’m just worried that something about me is what’s bothering you. If we bring Jason in I can leave and you won’t be alone.”

“No, you can’t leave,” Dick says quickly, instinctively reaching for Tim and then jerking his arm back. He meets Tim’s eyes and realizes he’s revealed far too much.

Dick sits back and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Tim. Of course you can go if you’re uncomfortable.” The words don’t come out easily, but he thinks he manages to sound sincere. It’s not Tim’s job to deal with Dick when he’s like this, and the kid already has enough of his own stuff to work through without Dick piling on his damage. 

“No, Dick, I’m not uncomfortable. I’m just worried I’m making you worse. But I won’t leave if you don’t want me to, I promise.”

“It’s fine, Tim. Just a bad dream. I’m feeling better now,” he insists, meeting his eyes with a reassuring smile. Tim frowns at him.

“Dick…I’m not going to try and make you tell me what you saw or what you thought was happening. But I know a flashback when I see one. That wasn’t just a bad dream.”

Dick lowers his gaze with a wince. Yeah, there’s no chance he’s going to be able to convince Tim that wasn’t a flashback.

“...Okay. Yeah. I’m sorry I just—I don’t want to worry you. Especially not right now. I’ve got it under control.”

Tim nods, but it seems more like a simple acknowledgement that Dick has spoken rather than real agreement.

“It’s okay to worry me, you know. This brother thing goes both ways. Remember? Part of the family package.”

Dick smiles a little and tries to force his body to relax. It doesn’t really work. Normally after these dreams or flashbacks he doesn’t want to touch anyone, but now he’s feeling like the distance between him and Tim is a threat—like the space of the roof that was between them in his dream, a few meters of rain-soaked rooftop he couldn’t seem to move across in order to shove her off of him—

“Dick, try and breathe with me, okay? In one, two—”

“Can I just—” Dick snaps his mouth shut.

“What is it?” 

Tim’s looking at him with so much concern, and Dick knows that he could ask him for almost anything and he’d do it without question. And Dick knows he shouldn’t ask for comfort, knows he’s taking advantage, but he’s so tired and he can barely keep the tears back because every time he calms down enough to think he remembers and the waves of rage and fear and helplessness crash down on him again. 

“Can I—hug you? If you’re comfortable with it?” he asks, willpower cracking.

“Of course, Dick,” Tim says, sounding relieved as he starts to move forward.

“Wait—Tim. I need to know you’re actually okay with this.”

“Dick, we end up cuddling on a weekly basis. You hugged me earlier today,” he points out, clearly confused.

“I know, but right now—just—if you didn’t want anyone touching you, that would be understandable, and completely okay. I don’t want you to force yourself into something you’re not ready for. Just because you were okay with it earlier doesn’t mean you have to be okay with it now.”

Tim pauses at his words, considering Dick carefully for a moment.

“I’m not uncomfortable with it. Your hugs make me feel safe. And I’ll tell you if that changes. Okay?”

Dick feels warmth curl in his chest as he nods, and Tim gives him a quick smile before scooting up beside him. 

“Can I—I know it’s silly, but can I complete the injury check?” Dick asks, deciding to go for broke.

“Sure.”

Dick goes through the check, tapping joints, checking his spine, briefly pressing on the gut, checking ribs. He feels a bit more settled when it’s finished. Tim smells like fresh cotton and Jason’s body wash, and he feels perfectly soft and warm when Dick carefully wraps his arms around him and pulls him into his lap. When Tim presses his face into the crook of his neck, Dick feels tension drain out of him in a rush. He was holding himself tense for so long he aches everywhere, but at least it’s not the panicky, feverish ache from earlier. 

Dick tightens his arms around his little brother and leans back against the headboard.

“Jason’s right, you know,” Dick says after a few quiet moments.

“About what?”

“You’re a good teddy bear.”

“Ugh, no, not you too. I am not round! Or fluffy!” Tim insists.

“No, but you’re small and squishy.”

“Squishy? Did you just call me squishy?? I can bench 240! And I’m a perfectly normal height!”

Dick laughs out loud at the sheer indignance in Tim’s voice. “Fine, you’re not standard squishy. But you’re definitely squishy compared to Jason, and you two are the ones I get to cuddle.”

“That’s an unfair comparison. Basically everyone is squishier than Jason,” Tim grumbles.

Dick kisses the top of Tim’s head, hmm-ing in soft agreement. 

“But don’t tell him I said that! His ego’s big enough already,” Tim says, pulling away slightly to scold Dick to his face.

Dick doesn’t hear him. Tim’s motion pulled one side of the oversized shirt he’s wearing off his shoulder, and the neckline was dragged low enough to expose the hickies on his chest. 

“Dick?”

Tim glances down at where Dick is staring and immediately wilts, quickly adjusting the shirt and ducking his head.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. Dick shakes his head.

“No, Tim. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you of it.” 

Tim shrugs. 

Dick curses himself. He needs to pull himself together or he’s just going to make Tim feel worse.

“Dick?”

“Yeah?”

Tim still hasn’t looked up. He shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

“It’s okay, Tim. What did you want to ask?”

Tim fidgets with the ends of his sleeves.

“Are you…how do you feel about Jason killing those men?” His voice is soft and he cringes a little after asking the question, as if he already regrets it. Dick rubs a hand up and down his arm as he thinks. He considers first what Tim might need to hear, but then dismisses the instinct to try and fabricate the perfect response. Tim deserves—perhaps needs—an honest answer. Besides, he’s not sure where Tim’s coming from with the question, so it’s better to simply tell the truth.

“I’m glad they’re dead. I wish Jason hadn’t been the one to kill them. But I’m not upset at him for doing it.”

Tim looks up at him, startled.

“You don’t think it would be better if they just went to jail?”

Dick thinks for a moment.

“If you asked me what should have happened from an ethical standpoint, I would say they should have had a fair trial and been sentenced in a court of law. But you asked how I feel about it. And what I feel is relief. Relief that you don’t have to go through the ordeal of a trial; relief that you’ll never have to see them; and relief that they can’t ever hurt you again.”

Tim blinks a few times and then drops his gaze, clearly processing. Dick sees a hint of shame flicker across his face and gives Tim a quick squeeze.

“It’s okay to be glad they’re dead, Tim,” he says quietly. Tim quickly turns his face to Dick’s chest, pressing into it so that his expression is hidden. Dick smiles softly and pets his hair. Hiding his face when he’s embarrassed or overwhelmed is one of Tim’s cuter habits. 

“I don’t want Jason to kill for me,” Tim says, his voice muffled but comprehensible. 

“I know. But you can’t control him, Tim. And you’re not a bad person for appreciating the results.”

Tim’s breath hitches and Dick starts to rock slowly, resting his chin on top of Tim’s head again and pressing his hand to the back of his head and neck so that he feels as hidden as possible. 

“You deserve to feel safe, sweetheart. There’s nothing wrong with wanting that for yourself,” Dick murmurs. Tim doesn’t verbally respond, but he grips at Dick’s shirt and briefly pushes his forehead more firmly against him, so Dick knows he heard. He feels himself slowly relax, the ability to physically hold Tim away from the world softening the jagged emotions that have plagued him since he woke up from that awful dream. He wonders if this is how Jason feels, whenever he finds Tim after he’s had one of his spontaneous bursts of anxiety about their baby brother. 

Dick eventually stops rocking as Tim’s body relaxes. Eventually the boy pulls away just enough to look up and meet Dick’s eyes.

“You do too, you know?” he says. Dick gives him a quizzical look.

“I what now?”

“Deserve to feel safe.”

Ah. The joys of living in a family of detectives. 

He sighs and presses his forehead against Tim’s instead of answering. They stay like that for a few minutes, eyes closed and breathing in sync. When Dick lifts his head away he kisses Tim’s forehead. He feels like he should say something, but words feel trapped in his throat. 

Fortunately Tim doesn’t seem to expect him to say anything. He leans over to reach the bedside table and snags his phone without leaving Dick’s hold. Dick watches him, feeling oddly content to not know what’s going on. Tim doesn’t bother to hide his screen, so Dick sees him send a bratty text and smiles a little. 

Moments later Jason lumbers into the room, eyes barely open as he mutters under his breath. Tim moves himself to Dick’s other side as Jason climbs into the bed, putting Dick between them. Jason drops onto his back and deftly pulls Dick against him so that his head is resting on Jason’s shoulder. Seconds later their middle brother is back asleep. 

Dick feels tears prick at his eyes as he realizes that he does feel safer now, with Jason between him and the door. 

Jason, his younger brother with green eyes and blood soaked hands. Jason, augmented by demonic water into someone who can revel in others’ pain. Jason, who would kill for him without question, without even needing to be asked, if he knew.

Tim tucks himself against Dick’s back.

“Better?” he whispers. Dick reaches back to take Tim’s arm and pull it over his waist.

“Thank you, Baby Bird.”

Tim nuzzles him between his shoulder blades and then relaxes.

Dick isn’t ready for his brothers to know. Maybe he never will be. But he can still let them help him, when the memories and nightmares get too suffocating. 

That night he doesn’t dream at all.