Archive of Our Own ^beta

How could anyone sleep in a city like Gotham—a place where crime never rested? Red Robin certainly couldn’t. The moment his eyes closed, he knew chaos would find room to thrive. Nightwing, Batgirl, Robin—they were all out there, watching their corners. But deep down, Tim carried the weight like it was his alone. His methods were his own, and he guarded them fiercely.

The glow of the Batcomputer washed across his face, harsh on his tired eyes. Blue irises tracked the blinking image of a truck creeping through the streets, ferrying stolen tech he’d been tracing for weeks. Its destination: a crumbling warehouse in the Arkham district. Subtle as a hammer, Tim thought with a quiet scoff.

His tongue clicked against his teeth as he tapped a command. Machinery hummed, and the Batcycle screeched to life, skidding into place on polished concrete.

Already suited up, Tim reached for his mask. He slid it over his eyes, the familiar fit snapping him into focus. The world sharpened around the black frame as he pinged the coordinates to his data feed. Gotham had made its move—and so would he.

The engine’s low growl echoed through the cave as Tim swung a leg over the Batcycle. He revved it once, letting the sound cut through the silence before tearing out into the night. Gotham blurred past him—rain-slick rooftops, neon signs buzzing, shadows darting in alleys where they didn’t belong.

He kept his eyes locked on the tracker display mounted to his wrist. The truck wasn’t moving fast. Confident, careless. They thought the city’s darkness would hide them, but it was the same darkness that carried Red Robin straight to them.

As he neared the Arkham district, the skyline changed. The air felt heavier, tainted by the ruins of the asylum looming in the distance. He slowed the bike, killing the headlights, and coasted silently to the edge of a broken street. The warehouse stood ahead, all rusted metal and shattered windows, its doors yawning open like a trap that thought it was clever.

Tim smirked beneath his mask. Subtle as a hammer, he repeated to himself.

Tim killed the engine and let the Batcycle settle into the shadows. He slipped off the seat, boots silent on damp asphalt, and melted into the night. The mask’s lenses flickered as he adjusted the feed—thermal, then night vision—until the warehouse ahead pulsed with faint signatures. At least six men inside. One perched on a crate with a rifle resting lazily on his lap. Another stood near the truck, shouting orders as the rest hauled crates out of the back.

Tim crouched low behind a rusted-out car, studying their movements. Every step, every careless gesture, painted a picture. He tapped a control on his gauntlet, letting the Batcomputer sketch out a crude map of the warehouse’s interior. Three exits. One skylight. Too many blind spots if he went in loud.

He slipped a small drone from his belt and let it drift into the air. Its wings buzzed softly, almost like a moth, as it climbed higher, slipping through the cracks in the roof. Tim’s gaze followed its feed, eyes narrowing.

Stacks of tech crates filled the warehouse, stamped with military insignias scraped half-off. Black market surplus. Exactly the kind of firepower Gotham didn’t need in the wrong hands.

His jaw tightened. He could wait for backup, call Nightwing or even Batman—but that wasn’t what this was about. This was his case. His method.

Tim’s gloved fingers flexed. He inhaled slow and steady. Then, in silence, he moved closer.

Tim hugged the wall as he edged toward a broken side door, the hinges rusted but just wide enough for him to slip through. He moved like a shadow, steps timed with the shuffle of boots and the echo of crates hitting concrete. The warehouse smelled of oil, damp wood, and the acrid tang of gunpowder.

His eyes caught on one of the crates as a goon pried it open. The wood splintered, revealing weapons sealed in thick plastic—and burned into the lid, half-hidden under scuffs of paint, was a symbol Tim knew too well: the jagged black mask insignia. His stomach dropped. Black Mask wasn’t just dipping back into arms trades—he was stocking up.

Tim’s gaze flicked upward, taking in the men moving the cargo. These weren’t the usual half-drunk, twitchy recruits Sionis typically pulled in. These guys were built heavier, carried themselves like they knew how to fight. Military posture. Kevlar instead of leather jackets. He could almost smell the discipline on them.

A faint throb pulsed behind his temple, his vision stuttering at the edges for just a second. He clenched his jaw, pushing it down. Insomnia had been chewing at him for days, sharpening his nerves but dulling his focus in moments like this. He blinked hard, forcing the blur away. Now wasn’t the time.

He slid along a stack of crates, lowering himself into the shadows, his cape brushing the ground with a whisper. The drone’s feed blinked in his lens, highlighting each guard’s position. Six… no, seven. The count was slipping, and that gnawed at him.

Tim breathed steady, setting his hand on the line launcher at his belt. He had to stay sharp. If he wasn’t, Gotham would bleed for it.

Tim stilled as one of the men tapped a finger to his earpiece. Then another. Their movements slowed, almost in unison, as though they were all listening to something at once. Orders. Updates. Intel. Whatever it was, Tim couldn’t hear a word of it.

His fingers twitched toward the gauntlet, ready to cut into their comms and pull the feed, but he stopped himself. Not yet. Splitting focus now would slow him down, and he couldn’t afford distractions with seven trained men below. He needed to stay present, sharp.

Instead, he tilted his head toward the rafters. The warehouse’s metal beams crisscrossed above, half-swallowed by shadows. A perfect perch. He launched his grapple, the cable hissing softly as it carried him upward. His boots landed silent on the iron, weight shifting just enough to balance.

From above, the scene unfolded like pieces on a chessboard. The truck, the crates, the guards. He studied them with narrowed eyes, every angle and shadow becoming a potential move. Whatever their comms were saying could wait. For now, he had the high ground. And that meant the next play was his.

From his perch, Tim scanned for the usual patterns—posted guards, lazy rotations, careless pacing. But the men below weren’t spreading out. They closed in, shoulder to shoulder near the truck, rifles angled but not raised. Watching. Waiting.

He adjusted his lenses, but the screen fuzzed for a split second before snapping back. A hot sting flared at the corner of his eye, and he blinked hard, fingers gripping the cold railing. The warehouse lights seemed too bright, the shadows too sharp, edges bending where they shouldn’t.

He steadied his breath, pulling it in slow, but his pulse thrummed louder in his ears than the buzz of the drone feed. The men still hadn’t moved, every one of them fixed on the same invisible signal.

Tim flexed his hand, loosening the tension, but the tremor in his fingers betrayed him. He drew back further into the rafters, jaw tight. Something was about to break—he just couldn’t see where the first crack would land.

The creak of metal tore through the stillness. One of the warehouse doors groaned open, flooding the space with harsh white headlights from a vehicle outside. The men below didn’t flinch—they straightened, a wall of muscle and rifles braced for the figure stepping in.

Tim’s breath hitched as the light swept across the rafters. He shifted fast, firing his grapple and dropping soundlessly behind a crate stacked in the far corner. The wood smelled of damp rot, splinters biting through his gloves as he pressed himself low.

Boots struck the concrete, heavy and deliberate. A new shadow cut across the glare, sharp edges framed by the familiar carved sneer of obsidian. Black Mask.

Sionis moved with the slow confidence of someone who knew he owned the room. His men parted, creating a path straight to the truck. The lights caught the contours of the mask, the cruel grin locked in place, the void-black eyeholes searching without expression.

Tim narrowed his eyes from behind the crate, watching the black figure carve through the warehouse like it was his throne room.

Why is he here?

Sionis didn’t usually get his hands dirty with the trades. Black Mask preferred lieutenants, middlemen—always three layers of distance between himself and the product. Seeing him step into the warehouse in person, mask glinting under the flood of headlights, didn’t fit.

Tim leaned closer against the crate, his mind chewing through possibilities. A power play? A warning? Or maybe the weapons were more than they looked. He shifted his gaze back to the stamped insignia on the crates, then to the men who weren’t just hired thugs but soldiers.

His temple throbbed, a dull thud that muddled the edges of his reasoning. He blinked hard, forcing his focus back. Stay sharp.

But the question gnawed deeper the longer he watched: why would Roman Sionis risk exposure on an arms deal?

Black Mask stopped in the center of the warehouse, the glow from the headlights framing him in stark silhouette. His men stiffened, rifles angled down but ready, the air heavy with expectation.

Sionis let the silence drag, his carved grin scanning across the room as though savoring the weight of their attention. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rasping under the mask but carrying to every corner of the warehouse.

“You boys know why we’re here tonight,” he began, pacing slow circles around the crates. “This—” he rapped his knuckles on the wood, the hollow thud echoing “—isn’t just another shipment. It’s a statement. Gotham needs reminding who pulls the strings, and these toys will do the job nicely.”

The soldiers didn’t move, their focus pinned on him. Tim stayed crouched in the shadows, heart steady but mind racing. A statement? Pulling strings? This isn’t just an arms deal.

Black Mask paused, tilting his head slightly, as though listening to something only he could hear. Then, with a cruel sort of cheer in his tone, he added, “And tonight, we have a guest.”

A ripple of unease ran through the group. Tim frowned, muscles tightening. His intel hadn’t mentioned anyone else. No buyers. No rival gangs. Nothing.

He leaned closer to the crate, trying to pick apart Sionis’s words, unaware of the irony twisting the room—because the guest Black Mask was waiting on had already arrived, hiding in the shadows above and behind his men.

Tim’s brow furrowed beneath his mask, every nerve in his body wound taut as he tried to unravel Sionis’s words. Black Mask wasn’t a man who wasted air—every syllable was a performance. Yet the pause, the careful drawl, felt like theater meant for someone specific.

Sionis stopped pacing. The sound of his boots on concrete faded, replaced by a silence so sharp Tim could hear the faint hum of the overhead lights. Then the crime lord turned his head, slow and deliberate, toward the corner where Tim crouched.

The headlights from the truck carved harsh shadows across the room, catching the sheen of the obsidian mask. In the glare, the carved grin seemed to warp, stretching into something alive, cruel, knowing.

“Our guest,” Black Mask said, his voice gravel wrapped in silk, “has already made himself comfortable.”

The soldiers reacted as one. Metal clattered as safeties clicked off, rifles snapping upward. Seven sets of eyes cut toward the rafters and corners of the warehouse, sweeping the shadows with trained precision.

Tim’s lungs constricted. His heart beat hard and uneven, the sound pounding louder than the buzz of the drone feed still blinking in his lens. No. He had moved like a ghost. No alarms. No loose steps. He had checked, double-checked—every angle covered.

Yet Roman Sionis tilted his head back, addressing the ceiling beams like he could see through steel and shadow alike.

“Red Robin,” he drawled, the name ringing out in a mockery of welcome. “You really ought to get more sleep if you want to keep sneaking around my city.”

The words landed heavy, slicing past his mask and straight into his chest. His grip tightened on the line launcher until the casing creaked. His cover wasn’t just blown—this entire scene had been staged for him.

They hadn’t stumbled into his patrol route. They’d been waiting.

Tim’s chest tightened, a tremor running through his limbs that he forced himself to smother. The room felt smaller now, the walls inching closer as seven rifles swept through the dark, hunting him out. His mind jumped from one calculation to another, too fast, too jagged. He needed exits—skylight above, door to the east, maybe a blind dive behind the truck if he was reckless. Each option flickered through his thoughts, but the edges blurred, doubling, reforming.

His eyes burned, focus slipping for half a heartbeat as fatigue wrapped around him like a vice. He swallowed hard, dragging in a breath through clenched teeth. He could not afford to crash now—not here, not with Sionis staring into the rafters like he’d already won.

Black Mask’s voice cut the silence, rich with smug delight. “You know what I love about your kind?” he said, pacing with theatrical slowness, gloved hand brushing over a crate as if he owned the very air.

“Robins. You train them young, teach them to fight, make them clever.” He paused, turning that black grin toward the shadows. “But in the end? They’re just kids who don’t sleep enough. It’s easy to set a trap when they’re too tired to notice the snare tightening.”

Tim’s pulse spiked, hot blood roaring in his ears. He knows. He knows I’ve been slipping.

He crouched lower behind the crate, running through the math again, every escape mapped out like threads in a web. None of them were good. None guaranteed he’d make it out clean. But staying meant death—or worse.

He flexed his grip on the launcher, eyes darting upward toward the steel beams and skylight. Maybe a distraction. Maybe smoke. Maybe just one shot at breaking through before the bullets started.

Think, Tim. You don’t get to screw this up.

Tim’s decision snapped into place before he could second-guess it. He launched from behind the crate, cape flaring in the sudden burst of motion. Shouts erupted, followed by the crack of gunfire.

Bullets screamed past him, sparks flying where they bit into steel. One caught his shoulder, a searing line of fire tearing through his suit. He gritted his teeth, forcing his body to keep moving, momentum carrying him into a dive.

He hit the ground hard, rolling into the shadow of the truck. His landing was sloppy—too slow, too loud. The world tilted as his head spun, a dizzy rush crawling across his vision. Normally, he would’ve flowed with the impact, precise and controlled. But tonight, exhaustion gnawed at him, tugging his balance out from under him.

Above the ringing in his ears, Black Mask’s laughter filled the space, deep and mocking. “There he is!” he barked, pacing toward the truck, voice echoing off the concrete. “Not the clever little shadow anymore. Just a boy diving for cover.”

The soldiers tightened their circle, rifles trained on the truck’s frame. Sionis’s voice lowered, cruel and coaxing, like a man luring out a wounded animal. “Come now, Red Robin. Don’t make this messy. Step out nice and slow, and maybe I don’t let my men turn you into red mist.”

Tim pressed his back against the truck’s cold metal, breath shallow, blood soaking through his sleeve. His shoulder throbbed, his head swam, but his mind clawed for strategy. He couldn’t afford to be cornered. Not like this.

Tim lifted his wrist, the gadget’s small screen glowing faintly against the darkness. His thumb hovered over the distress signal—one press and the Batcomputer would light up, sending Batman, Nightwing, anyone racing toward his location.

For a moment, the temptation cut deep. Backup. Safety. Someone else to carry the weight. But the thought twisted in his chest, burning hotter than the bullet wound in his shoulder. Shame gnawed at him. He’d gotten sloppy. He’d walked into the trap. To call for help now felt like admitting he couldn’t handle Gotham on his own terms.

His jaw clenched, and instead of pressing the signal, his fingers shifted, selecting a different tool. A flick of his wrist, a sharp click, and a small dart zipped across the room. It buried itself in a crate stacked near the far wall, one Tim had already marked in his scan—gunpowder.

The explosion ripped through the warehouse in a thunderous roar. Fire blossomed, orange light splintering the shadows. Crates splintered apart, shards of wood flying like shrapnel. The shockwave hurled several of the soldiers off their feet, their rifles clattering across the concrete.

Tim ducked low, the heat licking at his cape as smoke poured through the room. His ears rang, but adrenaline cut through the haze. The chaos was his opening—maybe his only one.

The warehouse was chaos—flames licking at shattered crates, smoke curling thick through the rafters, the sharp sting of gunpowder heavy in the air. Men groaned where they’d been thrown against walls, their rifles scattered across the floor. Yet in the midst of it all, Black Mask didn’t flinch. He stood firm, the explosion nothing more than background noise, his black silhouette carved against the firelight.

With steady precision, Sionis lifted his pistol. The carved grin of his mask seemed to leer wider, mocking, as his aim cut through the haze. The moment the cape flickered in the smoke, he pulled the trigger.

The gunshot split the air.

Agony ripped through Tim’s leg as the bullet punched into the back of his calf. His body collapsed forward, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs as he hit the concrete. Pain radiated down to his heel, sharp and blinding, his boot slick with fresh blood.

He clawed at the ground, dragging himself through the smoke, nails tearing through his gloves as he tried to force his body into motion. His cape snagged on a splintered board and he ripped it free, teeth clenched, his chest heaving with frantic breaths.

He forced himself up onto one knee, weight wobbling, but the moment he tried to put pressure on his injured leg, it gave out. He crashed down hard, his palms skidding over broken glass. Every nerve screamed at him to move faster, but his body felt sluggish, heavy, betrayed by exhaustion and blood loss.

Boots crunched through the debris behind him, slow and deliberate. Each step echoed like a countdown.

Through the curtain of smoke, Black Mask emerged—calm, unhurried, the pistol still raised and steady in his gloved hand. Firelight painted his mask in shades of orange and red, the frozen grin burning with cruel amusement.

“There it is,” Sionis rasped, his voice dripping satisfaction. “You Robins can fly all you want, but sooner or later… we clip your wings.”

Tim’s arms shook as he tried to push himself upright again, vision swimming, blood soaking through his suit. His gadgets weighed heavy at his belt, each one a possibility—but his mind, frayed by exhaustion, couldn’t settle on one. Not fast enough. Not before that next trigger pull.

And still, Black Mask kept walking. Closer. Slower. A predator savoring the moment.

Tim’s fingers fumbled for the grapple at his belt. His chest heaved as he raised his wrist, lining up a shot on a steel beam half-hidden in smoke and shadow. His thumb pressed down.

The cable hissed as it fired, catching with a metallic clang. The sudden jerk wrenched him off the ground, his body snapping upward, cape whipping in the heat rising from the burning warehouse. His injured calf screamed in protest, every nerve in his leg aflame.

The sharp crack of a gunshot cut through the rain.

Agony tore through his arm as the bullet punched cleanly into muscle. His cry was swallowed by the storm, blood spraying across his gauntlet. His fingers slipped, grip breaking as the grapple’s motor stuttered. The line jerked once, whining, before it failed.

Then the world dropped out beneath him.

He crashed down outside the warehouse, concrete slamming against his ribs. The impact rattled his skull, stars bursting across his vision. For a breathless moment he lay sprawled in the open, the rain hammering down, washing heat and blood into the gutter. The crimson of his suit darkened, fabric clinging heavy to his skin.

He pushed his hand against the pavement, forcing his body to crawl. Each drag forward felt slower than the last, his wounds blazing, his head fogged with exhaustion. His cape dragged through puddles, waterlogged and heavy, pulling at his shoulders as though the storm itself meant to pin him down.

Behind him, the sound of boots cut through the rain. Steady. Methodical.

Black Mask emerged from the burning mouth of the warehouse. Flames clawed at the sky behind him, but he was untouched, the storm cascading over the smooth obsidian grin. Water streamed down the carved face, catching in grooves and making the expression shimmer, cruel and unchanging. His pistol hung steady in his hand, barrel glinting beneath the fractured light of streetlamps.

Tim clawed forward, fingertips slipping on slick concrete, nails scraping uselessly. His breaths came ragged, every inhale burning his chest. Blood leaked down his arm and leg, leaving a trail in the rainwater behind him. He could feel his strength thinning with every inch.

The boots drew closer. Calm. Unrushed. Like a predator savoring its hunt.

Black Mask’s shadow stretched across Tim’s path, long and sharp against the wet ground. And still, he walked, every step carrying the weight of inevitability.

The boots stopped just a few feet away. Tim froze, chest heaving, forehead pressed to the wet ground. He didn’t need to look up—he could feel the presence looming over him, heavy as a storm cloud.

Black Mask crouched, the muzzle of his pistol lowering until it hovered near Tim’s face. Rainwater dripped from the barrel, falling in rhythm with the storm. The carved grin above him never changed, but the voice that spilled from behind it was thick with amusement.

“Pathetic,” Sionis rasped, tilting his head like he was studying a broken toy. “The great Red Robin. Gotham’s brilliant little detective, crawling in the mud like a wounded stray.”

Tim’s arms trembled beneath him, trying and failing to lift his weight. The shame burned hotter than the bullet wounds.

Black Mask leaned closer, the black hollows of his mask staring into Tim’s own lenses. “You children all make the same mistake. You think you’re soldiers. That a few scars and sleepless nights make you wolves. But you’re not. You’re bait. And the city feeds on you until there’s nothing left.”

The barrel pressed against Tim’s temple, cold even through the rain.

“Tell me,” Sionis whispered, his tone dripping with mockery. “Does Batman ever think about how easy you make it for me? Or does he just keep sending birds into the storm, waiting for each one to break its wings?”

The words burrowed deeper than the pain, scraping raw against Tim’s chest. He clenched his jaw, the rain masking the heat of his tears, but his body wouldn’t move, wouldn’t fight—not fast enough.

And still, Black Mask smiled.

The barrel stayed pressed firm to Tim’s temple, the cold of it seeping deep beneath his skin. Black Mask straightened slightly, letting the silence drag out, savoring the weight of it.

“You know,” he said, tone almost conversational, “I didn’t expect you.” His pistol tapped against Tim’s mask with a metallic click. “Usually, it’s the other one—the loud one. The gun-toting maniac in the red bucket.”

Sionis chuckled low, the sound bubbling with contempt. “He’s the problem. He’s the one I’ve built traps for, the one who makes my nights interesting. But you? You weren’t even supposed to be on the board. And yet…” He leaned close again, the carved grin of his mask inches from Tim’s face. “Here you are. Broken. Easy.”

Tim’s breath shuddered, his muscles coiled, but his body betrayed him—too slow, too heavy. His vision swam, narrowing at the edges.

And then, cutting through the rain and fire, a new voice echoed across the lot.

“Funny,” it called, low and sharp, “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Sionis froze, his head snapping toward the sound.

Standing atop one of the rusted containment units, rain streaming down his leather jacket, a crimson helmet glowing faintly beneath the storm, was Red Hood. His stance was easy, relaxed, but the pistols in his hands gleamed like promises.

Tim forced his head up just enough to see, relief sparking in his chest even as his body screamed.

Red Hood tilted his head. “You really should’ve stuck to playing with your goons, Roman.”

The words barely left his mouth before Red Hood opened fire. Twin muzzle flashes tore through the rain, each shot cracking like thunder. Bullets sparked off the ground around Black Mask’s boots, forcing him to recoil.

Sionis snarled, jerking his pistol away from Tim and firing back toward the containment unit. Lead punched into steel, sparks showering, but Hood was already moving—diving from his perch with the rain streaming off his jacket. He landed hard, rolling through the mud, guns barking in rapid rhythm as he cut down two of the soldiers scrambling back to their feet.

Tim flinched as gunfire erupted around him, forcing himself to crawl toward the cover of a half-collapsed crate. Every movement was agony, his arm searing, his calf screaming with each drag, but he kept going.

Black Mask shouted over the storm, voice ragged with fury. “Kill him! Tear him apart!” His men surged, rifles raised, but Red Hood met them head-on. One shot, one body dropped. Another spun as a bullet ripped through his shoulder. The battlefield was chaos—fire, rain, muzzle flashes strobing against the night.

Through it all, Hood kept advancing, every shot deliberate, every step a message. His focus never wavered from Sionis, the red helmet locked on the obsidian mask.

Tim pressed against the crate, chest heaving, watching through blurred vision as his brother tore through the soldiers. Relief flickered faintly through the haze of pain—Jason had come. And he wasn’t holding back.

Gunfire rattled through the rain, sharp and relentless. Jason’s figure cut through the chaos like a crimson storm, every movement brutal, efficient, merciless. Men fell around him, their shouts drowned in the roar of the storm and the echo of his guns.

But to Tim, it all felt distant—muffled, like sound through water. His world had shrunk to the throb of his wounds, the weight of his body sagging against the crate, and the gnawing ache of something deeper than pain.

I failed.

The thought came quiet, but it struck harder than the bullet in his leg. He’d walked into this. He’d seen the signs—military precision, the staged positioning, the insignia burned into the crates—and he hadn’t stopped himself. He’d been too tired, too stubborn. Convinced he had to prove himself.

Now Jason was here, carrying the fight he’d started but couldn’t finish.

Foolish. Reckless. Weak.

His hand trembled as he pressed it to his bleeding calf, trying to stem the flow, but his body felt like it was slipping away from him. Each breath came jagged, his chest tight with more than exhaustion.

This was supposed to be his case. His win. Proof that he could handle Gotham without leaning on anyone else’s shadow. But here he was—crawling, broken, while his predecessor cut down enemies he hadn’t been sharp enough to handle.

Tim clenched his jaw, forcing the thought back, but the weight of it pressed heavy in his chest. Rain slid down his face, mixing with blood and sweat, and he couldn’t tell which sting belonged to which anymore.

Bootsteps cut through the chaos, heavier than the rest. For a heartbeat, Tim tensed, expecting Sionis looming over him again. But then the crimson helmet broke through the smoke and rain, Jason’s broad frame crouching low beside him.

“Jesus, Tim,” Jason muttered, his voice sharp even through the modulation of the helmet. One gloved hand pressed firmly to Tim’s shoulder, steadying him. “You look like hell.”

Tim tried to answer, but his throat caught. The words tangled with the shame pressing down on his chest, and all that left his lips was a ragged breath.

Jason didn’t wait. He shifted, keeping one gun raised as his other arm hooked under Tim’s, hauling him upright with practiced ease. The strain sent fire down Tim’s calf, his vision swimming black at the edges. He staggered, weight sagging against Jason’s side, but Jason didn’t let him drop.

“Don’t you dare pass out on me,” Jason barked, dragging him back against the crate for cover. “You’re still in this, you hear me? You don’t get to check out now.”

Tim’s lips parted, his voice cracked, barely audible. “I—had it handled.”

Jason’s helmet tilted toward him, the red sheen reflecting firelight and rain. His tone softened—just barely. “Yeah, well. You didn’t. And that’s why I’m here. So shut up and keep breathing.”

Gunfire rattled again in the distance, but Jason kept his body between Tim and the fight, shielding him like a wall. Tim sagged, eyes blinking against the blur, part of him still fighting the weight of failure even as his Jason stood firm at his side.

Then they were moving.

Rain pelted them in sheets as Jason dragged Tim through the open lot, firing one-handed into the blur of Black Mask’s men. Each shot was clean, controlled—Jason’s arm absorbing the recoil even as he half-carried Tim’s weight. A body dropped to the mud with every burst, rifles clattering from limp hands.

Tim clutched weakly at Jason’s jacket, blood running warm down his fingers. His head bobbed with each jolt, the rhythm of gunfire and thunder mixing until it was all one pounding roar in his skull.

Jason didn’t slow. Every step was purposeful, boots grinding through puddles, the crimson helmet turning to track every threat. Another shot. Another body fell. He moved with the same brutal efficiency as always, but this time Tim felt the difference—the deliberate choice in every move. Jason wasn’t just fighting. He was carrying him out.

A round sparked off the pavement near their boots, and Jason twisted, returning fire without breaking stride. “Stay with me, Tim!” he barked over the chaos, voice sharp and commanding. “You’re not checking out on me, not tonight!”

Tim’s breath hitched, the world tilting, but he forced his eyes open, his focus clinging to the steady strength dragging him forward.

Jason’s grip never faltered. Not once.

Jason half-dragged, half-carried Tim through the downpour, gunfire thinning behind them as Black Mask’s men faltered. The storm swallowed the last shouts, leaving only the slap of boots in puddles and the rasp of Tim’s breath.

Then, through the curtain of rain, sleek black armor cut across the lot—low to the ground, predatory, lights glowing faint through the storm. The Batmobile.

Tim blinked, confusion clouding his pain. “How—” His voice cracked, weak, but still laced with incredulity. “How did you get that?”

Jason’s helmet tilted just enough to imply a grin. “Borrowed it.”

Tim coughed, the laugh bubbling out ragged despite himself. “You mean you stole it.”

Jason shoved the side panel open with his free hand, guiding Tim inside. “Yeah,” he said, almost proud, “I totally stole it.”

He eased Tim onto the seat, movements rough but careful, like he was handling glass already cracked. Blood smeared across the console where Tim’s arm brushed, his body slumping heavy against the leather.

Jason leaned in close, voice hard but steady. “Keep pressure on at least one of those holes. I don’t care which. Just don’t bleed out on the upholstery.”

Tim pressed his palm weakly against his calf, forcing a smirk even as his vision swam. “Not exactly… in the handbook…”

Jason slammed the door shut, rounding the hood in the rain with his pistol still raised, ready to drive them out of hell.

The Batmobile roared to life as Jason vaulted into the driver’s seat. Tires screeched against wet asphalt, water spraying as the armored car lunged forward like a beast uncaged. Behind them, scattered gunfire cracked through the rain, but the plating shrugged off the rounds as Jason slammed the throttle.

Tim groaned, slumping against the seat, his head lolling toward the glass. His eyes fluttered, heavy, his breath shallow.

Jason snapped a hand off the wheel long enough to shake his shoulder, hard enough to jolt him. “Hey! Don’t even think about it, Drake. You close those eyes, and B’s gonna drag me six feet under again for bringing you back in a body bag.”

Tim let out a faint, humorless laugh, his lips dry. “You’re… exaggerating…”

Jason snorted, swerving around a burned-out truck blocking the road. “Exaggerating? You pass out on me, and I swear he’ll rip me a new one before he even looks at you.” He gave Tim another shove, keeping him upright. “So do me a favor and stay awake. Pretend you’re tough. You know, for once.”

The Batmobile tore through Gotham’s backstreets, the glow of the city lights streaking against the rain-slick windshield. Jason’s hands were steady on the wheel, but his voice cut sharp each time Tim’s head dipped too low.

“Eyes open, Tim. Don’t make me start singing to keep you up.”

Tim smirked weakly, even as his body trembled. “That… would kill me faster…”

“Then fight, damn it,” Jason growled, his tone rough but lined with something steadier. “Fight harder than you did back there. You’re not allowed to quit on me.”

The hum of the Batmobile’s engine rumbled steady beneath Tim, but the sound seemed far away, like it was coming from under water. His vision swam, every streetlight a smear of gold through the rain-streaked glass.

He pressed his hand harder against his shoulder, but his arm trembled, too weak to hold the pressure. Warmth kept seeping between his fingers, trailing down his ribs, sticky against the seat. His calf throbbed with every heartbeat, sharp and merciless.

But the wounds weren’t the only thing dragging him under. Shame coiled heavier in his chest, cutting deeper than pain. He had walked right into the trap, too tired, too stubborn to see it. He’d wanted to prove himself, and instead he’d nearly gotten himself killed—had to be carried out by Jason of all people. The weight of it smothered him.

His eyelids sagged despite his efforts to keep them open. Each blink lasted longer, his body begging to shut down.

“Don’t you dare,” Jason barked, voice sharp in his ear. A shove jolted his shoulder. “Stay with me, Tim. You hear me? Stay—”

The words blurred, drowned in the steady drum of the rain. The world tilted sideways, colors bleeding into dark. Jason’s voice was still there, rough and insistent, but the syllables broke apart, carried off by the storm.

Then nothing.

Black.

The first thing that cut through the black was the sting of antiseptic. It burned sharp in Tim’s nose, sterile and biting, dragging him back toward awareness whether he wanted it or not. The second was the voices—low, rough, threaded through the cavern’s natural echo.

He pried his eyes open a fraction. Blurred light spilled across stone walls, the ceiling arching high and endless above him. The Batcave. He lay on one of the infirmary cots, his body leaden, stitched together with pain and bandages. Every attempt to move died before it began, as though gravity itself had tripled.

“…he’s lucky,” Jason’s voice carried across the space, jagged with frustration. “Couple inches lower and he’d have bled out in the mud.”

Another voice answered, quieter but far sharper. Bruce. “You shouldn’t have let him go out there.”

The words slid under Tim’s skin deeper than any knife.

Jason’s boots scuffed against the stone as he turned, pacing like a caged animal. His helmet was gone, tossed carelessly onto the nearby console, leaving his face bare in the cave’s dim glow. Dark hair plastered damp to his forehead, scar shadowing his jaw, eyes burning with a mix of anger and exhaustion.

“I didn’t let him do anything,” Jason snapped, his voice cracking against the cave’s silence. “He went on his own, same as you would’ve. You know how he is—too damn stubborn to wait for backup.” His shoulders rose and fell sharply, breath ragged. “If I hadn’t shown up, you’d be digging another grave right now.”

The silence that followed was worse than shouting. Heavy. Suffocating. Bruce’s silence had always weighed more than words, and now it pressed down like the cave itself was collapsing.

Tim shifted, a faint twitch of his fingers against the blanket. Pain ripped through his shoulder and leg, tearing a hiss from between his teeth before he could stop it. The sound was soft, but in the cavern’s hush it might as well have been thunder.

Jason turned immediately, his expression snapping toward Tim. His jaw was tight, his eyes wide for just a moment before narrowing again, masking the flicker of worry with something steadier. “He’s awake. Sort of.”

Tim’s eyes fluttered shut again, torn between sinking back into the dark and the gnawing shame clawing at his chest. His body was broken, his pride worse. And now, all he could do was listen.

The scrape of a chair against stone broke the silence. Then came the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps—measured, precise, as though each one carried the weight of judgment.

Bruce’s shadow loomed before he did, stretching long across the infirmary floor, climbing up the cot where Tim lay. A moment later the man himself appeared, towering at Tim’s side. The cape draped heavy at his shoulders, his cowl pulled back just far enough to reveal tired eyes etched with lines of worry.

Tim forced his own eyes open, blinking through the haze until Bruce’s figure sharpened into view. The sight twisted something inside him—relief tangled with shame, pride clawing against the burn of failure.

Bruce didn’t speak at first. He simply stood there, his gaze fixed on Tim, studying him the way he did crime scenes: unflinching, unblinking, stripping away every mask until only the truth remained.

Finally, his voice broke the quiet. Deep. Low. Weighted. “You should have waited for backup.”

The words weren’t shouted, but they cut all the same.

Tim swallowed, the motion scraping raw in his throat. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His chest tightened under the weight of Bruce’s presence—judgment and concern fused into one.

Jason shifted nearby, arms folded, jaw tight, but he didn’t interrupt. For once, he let Bruce have the space.

Bruce’s hand came down, steady and firm, resting lightly on the edge of the cot. Not gripping, not restraining—just there, anchoring. His eyes softened, just a fraction. “You don’t have to carry Gotham alone.”

The weight of Bruce’s words hung in the air, pressing down heavier than the stone ceiling overhead. Tim’s throat worked as he tried to force a response, but shame tightened like a noose, choking any words before they could form.

Before the silence could grow unbearable, Jason’s voice cut in—sharp, defiant.

“It wasn’t just him screwing up.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked toward him, narrowing, but Jason didn’t back down. He pushed off the console, arms still folded across his chest, his expression carved with equal parts anger and grim certainty.

“It was a setup,” Jason said flatly. “Black Mask laid it out perfect—military guys, staged movement, all of it meant to bait someone in. And thanks to…” He hesitated, then sighed, dragging a hand back through his damp hair. “…thanks to Tim running on fumes, he walked straight into it. Sionis played him, knew exactly how to use that against him.”

Tim shut his eyes, the words sinking like lead. He didn’t need Jason to explain—he’d already replayed every mistake in the darkness of his own head. But hearing it out loud, spoken like fact, made the shame burn hotter.

Jason’s gaze flicked back toward Tim, and though his tone stayed blunt, there was no malice in it. “He’s been burning the candle at both ends for weeks. Barely sleeping. He’s sharp, but he’s not bulletproof. And Black Mask? He knew. He counted on it.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, his silence deliberate, unreadable.

Jason jabbed a finger toward him. “So don’t stand there acting like this was all on him. You know better than anyone what happens when you push past your limits. You’ve done it yourself.”

The cave fell quiet again, the words echoing long after Jason’s voice had faded.

Bruce’s eyes stayed fixed on Jason, his expression carved from stone. The cave’s hum filled the silence—the soft buzz of the computers, the distant drip of water from stalactites, the steady beep of the monitor tracking Tim’s vitals.

Finally, Bruce spoke, his voice low, heavy. “I know.”

The admission hung in the air, almost startling in its simplicity. Jason’s shoulders eased, though only slightly, as if he’d been braced for a fight that didn’t come.

Bruce shifted his gaze back to Tim. His hand, still resting against the cot, pressed a fraction more firmly against the edge, anchoring himself there. “You should have told me,” he said, not harsh, but not soft either. “About the sleepless nights. About pushing too far.”

Tim’s eyes opened just enough to catch the blurred outline of Bruce’s face. His lips parted, but shame closed his throat before the words could come. He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to hand them that weakness on top of everything else.

Jason stepped closer, resting a hand briefly against the frame of Tim’s cot. “He didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to look weak. None of us ever do. You know that better than anyone.”

Bruce’s silence returned, unreadable, but his eyes didn’t leave Tim’s.

Tim swallowed hard, voice barely scraping out. “I… thought I could handle it.” The words cracked, hoarse, every syllable weighed with defeat.

Jason gave a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, well. Welcome to the club.”

Bruce’s hand stayed braced against the cot, fingers curling against the metal as if grounding himself. His gaze never left Tim, though the silence stretched until it felt like the cave itself was holding its breath.

“This isn’t just on you,” he said finally, his voice low, edged with something rarely heard from him—regret. “It’s on me.”

Jason’s brows knit, surprise flickering across his face, but Bruce didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on Tim, heavy and unyielding.

“You became Robin because of me,” Bruce continued. “Not for the mission. Not for Gotham. You stepped into it because you thought I needed someone to keep me from falling apart.” His jaw tightened, the words rough like they hurt to admit. “You were a child, and you took on the responsibility of watching over me. I can’t imagine the weight that’s put on you. I never should’ve let it.”

Tim blinked slowly, his chest tightening under the words. He wanted to protest, to say that wasn’t the whole truth, that he’d chosen this life for more than just Bruce. But he couldn’t deny it—not entirely. He had stepped into the cave, not to save Gotham, but to save Batman. To make sure Bruce didn’t destroy himself after Jason.

And now here they were—Jason standing close, Bruce’s hand heavy on the cot, and Tim caught between them, bleeding, broken, drowning in shame and love in equal measure.

Jason shifted beside the cot, arms crossing again, his jaw tight. He let the silence hang for a beat, eyes flicking between Bruce and Tim, before his voice cut through like gravel.

“Guilt isn’t gonna help him right now.”

Bruce’s gaze broke from Tim for the first time, sliding toward Jason. The weight of it would have frozen anyone else in place, but Jason didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, his expression hard, but his voice steadier than before.

“You can beat yourself up all you want later, B,” Jason said. “But that doesn’t stop him from bleeding out on your table. It doesn’t make him sleep. It doesn’t take the pressure off his shoulders.” He jerked his chin toward Tim, who was pale against the sheets, eyes half-lidded but listening. “He doesn’t need your guilt. He needs you to keep him upright.”

The cave settled into silence again, punctuated only by the steady beep of the monitor and the distant rush of water through stone. Bruce didn’t move, but the line of his shoulders shifted, just barely, like the words had struck home.

Jason exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath, “You’re not the only one carrying this, Bruce. Don’t make it about you.”

Tim blinked, his chest heavy but his lips quirking faintly. Even half-conscious, he could feel the fire between them—raw, sharp, but still tethered by something unspoken. Family, broken and jagged as it was.

Jason lingered a moment longer, his eyes locked with Bruce’s in a silent battle neither of them wanted Tim to see. Then, with a sharp exhale, he broke away.

He picked the helmet up from the console, turning it once in his hands before sliding it back over his head. The hiss of the seal closing echoed faintly in the cavern. When the red visor locked into place, it was as if Jason’s expression vanished entirely, leaving only the faceless mask.

“Don’t screw this up,” his voice came, filtered and metallic now. A final glance at Tim—brief, unreadable through the helmet—then Jason strode into the shadows of the cave, his footsteps fading until they were swallowed by the hum of machinery.

Bruce turned back to Tim, the heaviness of his presence filling the space again. He opened his mouth to speak—

But the soft, measured sound of footsteps interrupted. Alfred emerged from the lift, his posture as composed as ever despite the faint lines of worry creasing his face. He carried a tray of supplies, neatly arranged, the faint clink of glass vials breaking the stillness.

“Master Timothy,” Alfred murmured as he set the tray beside the cot. His hands were steady, practiced, as he began to unwrap fresh bandages. “You’ve managed to give us all quite the scare tonight.”

Tim flinched slightly as Alfred’s gloved fingers brushed over his shoulder, checking the stitches there. The older man’s touch was gentle but precise, his gaze flicking to the monitor before returning to Tim’s wounds.

“Mm,” Alfred said softly, tilting his head. “Stitches are holding, though I daresay you’ve tested them more than I would recommend. Let’s keep you in one piece, shall we?”

Bruce remained silent, standing sentinel at the bedside as Alfred worked, his shadow falling long across Tim’s cot.

Alfred’s hands moved with practiced care, peeling back bloodied gauze from Tim’s calf. The sting of cool air on the wound made him wince, his fingers curling weakly against the sheets.

“There now,” Alfred murmured, as if soothing a child. “A bit of discomfort, but nothing you can’t withstand. You’ve done far worse to yourself, I’m sure.”

Tim gave a faint, humorless sound that might’ve been a laugh. His throat was too dry for it to carry.

Alfred dabbed at the injury with antiseptic, the sharp scent rising again. “Reckless decisions have consequences, Master Timothy,” he said gently, eyes still focused on the wound. “But you are not the first in this family to learn that lesson the hard way.” His glance flicked upward for the briefest second, toward Bruce, before settling back on his work.

Tim’s chest tightened at the words. His pride wanted to argue, to defend the choices that had led him into Black Mask’s trap. But the shame weighed heavier, rooting him silent.

Bruce shifted slightly at the bedside, the faint rustle of his cape breaking the cave’s still hum. “He’s right,” Bruce said at last, his voice quieter now. “You don’t have to carry it all yourself, Tim. Not every case, not every fight.”

Alfred pressed a fresh bandage into place, his touch light but firm. “Indeed. Even the strongest shoulders collapse under too much weight. And yours,” he said, giving Tim a look both fond and reproachful, “are far too young to bear so much alone.”

Tim closed his eyes, the words cutting deep, and let the silence settle around him, heavy but strangely steadying.

Tim’s lips parted, the words catching in his throat before he managed to force them out. His voice was thin, raw, but steady enough to carry.

“I just… I just wanted to keep Gotham safe,” he murmured. His gaze shifted weakly toward Bruce, eyes glazed but burning with stubborn intent. “Keep you safe. All of you. If I don’t—if I let my guard down—what happens then?”

The weight of the cave pressed down on the silence that followed. Alfred’s hands stilled briefly on the bandages, his expression softening with quiet sorrow.

Bruce leaned closer, his shadow swallowing the cot, and when he spoke his tone was firm but edged with something deeper. “What happens, Tim, is that we lose you.” His eyes hardened, sharp as steel. “And without you, none of us are safer. Gotham isn’t safer. You’re part of this family, and we need you alive. That means you don’t get to throw yourself into the fire until there’s nothing left.”

Tim blinked slowly, shame tugging at him, but Bruce didn’t look away. He spoke like he was laying down law, his voice the low rumble of a father who’d buried too many of his children already.

“From now on, Alfred will be monitoring you,” Bruce said. “Sleep. Food. Recovery. If you can’t manage those yourself, then it’s going to be handled for you. Gotham can survive a few hours without Red Robin. It cannot survive losing you.”

Alfred gave a small nod of approval, his hands once more moving with gentle efficiency as he secured the fresh bandage. “Consider it doctor’s orders, Master Timothy. And I assure you, I am far less forgiving than Batman when it comes to disobedience.”

Despite himself, Tim’s mouth twitched faintly at that. But his chest was heavy, the words sinking deep, and for once he didn’t argue.

Alfred adjusted the drip on the IV, his movements calm and efficient. Within minutes, the fog of painkillers began to settle in Tim’s veins, softening the edges of the sharp ache that had gripped him since the warehouse. His body, already weighed down by exhaustion, sank deeper into the cot, muscles loosening against the sheets.

His eyes fluttered, fighting one last time to stay open, but the battle was already lost. The heaviness of sleep pressed down with relentless force, and for the first time in weeks, he didn’t resist it.

Bruce stayed at his side, silent as the cave itself. When Tim’s head shifted faintly on the pillow, damp hair clinging across his forehead, Bruce reached out—hesitant at first, then steady. His gloved fingers brushed the strands back, a gentle sweep that revealed the too-young face beneath the mask and blood.

For a long moment, Bruce just looked at him. At the boy who had carried too much weight, who had tried to hold Gotham together alone. The boy who had come into the cave not to save a city, but to save him.

Bruce leaned closer, his voice quiet enough that only Tim could have heard, though his son was already slipping into the depths of sleep.

“Sleep well, son.”

The words hung in the cave like a vow, low and steady, as Tim’s breathing evened out at last.