Chapter Text
The man’s face twists in a way Tim can’t quite decipher—one brow arches while the other sinks, his eyes narrow into suspicious slits, and his mouth contorts into something that doesn’t even have a name.
“Bruce Wayne,” the man says, the words almost crawling out of his mouth.
The tone seemed to strike a nerve. Jason stiffens immediately, his grip on Tim’s legs tightening as he instinctively takes a cautious step back. “You got a problem?” he spits, voice low and sharp, eyes narrowing as he studies the man like he’s a threat waiting to strike.
“With Bruce Wayne? Plenty. With you kids? None.” The man’s face smooths back into neutrality, the strange contortion gone as if it had never happened. He gestures toward his camp. “I’m Oliver Queen. I’ll help you boys out.”
Jason doesn’t move immediately, his gaze flicking between Oliver’s hands and his eyes, searching for a hint of deceit. Only when the man’s posture remains calm does Jason finally release a fraction of his tension—but his jaw stays tight, and his eyes keep that wary edge, as if he’s ready to react the moment Oliver’s friendliness falters.
Oliver’s eyes shift from Jason to Tim.
Tim doesn’t have to read his mind to know what he’s thinking—he can just see the slight tilt of Oliver’s head, the narrowed eyes, the faint frown at the corner of his mouth. Tim knows he must look pathetic.
“You injured, kid?” Oliver asks, his voice calm but probing.
“What’s it to you?” Jason snaps before Tim can even reply, his tone sharp, defensive, like a warning.
Tim swallows, shifting uncomfortably under Jason’s grip. “Yeah,” he admits softly, pointing toward his shoulder, which aches even under the layers of his jacket. “It’s nothing serious.”
Jason’s eyes flash dangerously. “No. It is serious,” he says firmly, voice low but unwavering. He leans closer to Tim, his hand tightening slightly on his leg. “He needs help.”
Oliver raises an eyebrow, impressed by Jason’s decisiveness. “Alright,” he says, his tone neutral but cooperative. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with, then.” He made a move of reaching out trying to take Tim’s weight off of Jason.
But Jason just moves further back and tightens his hold on Tim.
“I can take him.” Oliver gestured. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.” Was Jason's clipped response.
Oliver glanced at him, a faint flicker of surprise passing over his face, before he straightened again. “Alright. Suit yourselves. But we need to get him checked. Follow me.”
Jason didn’t argue.
He started walking, careful with every step, shifting his weight slightly to keep Tim balanced, minimizing the jostle to his wounded shoulder.
Tim’s head rested against Jason’s back, ear pressed into the worn fabric of Jason’s jacket, breath shallow. He felt utterly fragile in this position, each step sending small bursts of pain through his arm and shoulder.
The camp revealed itself slowly as they walked through the snow-dusted streets. Tim’s view was limited, blurred by his closeness to Jason’s back, but he caught glimpses of the barricades: piles of cars stripped for metal, boards nailed haphazardly across windows, barbed wire strung across alleys like jagged ribbons.
Fires burned in barrels scattered between tents and makeshift shelters, flames snapping and spitting embers into the cold air. The scent of smoke mixed with sweat and cooked meat, faintly sweet from scraps roasting over open flames.
Tim’s stomach twisted at the smell—it reminded him of being hungry, of longing for food he hadn’t had in a while. His grip on Jason’s shoulders tightened instinctively.
Oliver walked ahead with ease, the way someone who had spent years moving through danger did. His eyes scanned constantly, assessing, taking in details the boys couldn’t see. He didn’t speak much, just moved efficiently, and Jason followed, muscles tense beneath him.
“This way,” Oliver finally said, gesturing broadly toward a larger open area. “We keep our fires here, food there, watch the perimeter over there.” His tone was neutral, but there was pride in the way he gestured, as if survival here had been won by constant vigilance and hard lessons.
Jason’s back was rigid as they moved, and Tim felt every subtle shake of exhaustion that ran through him.
Each step, each bounce, each slight adjustment in balance caused sharp bursts of pain in his shoulder, but he pressed his cheek into Jason’s shoulder to stay steady.
“This is the camp,” Oliver said again, voice louder this time, like he was emphasizing the scope to the boys. “It’s not much, but it’s safe.”
Jason adjusted Tim slightly on his back, careful not to make him feel more exposed than necessary.
Tim could feel Jason’s heartbeat under his chin, strong but uneven, and he realized how much effort it took just to keep moving, to carry him this far.
“Name?” Oliver asked abruptly, turning to look at Tim.
Tim waited a beat, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He didn’t trust anyone here, didn’t trust this man, didn’t trust that anyone would care. He echoed his name quietly. “Tim.”
Oliver nodded once and gestured toward the largest tent at the center of the camp. “Follow me. I want to see this injury before anything else.”
Jason shifted slightly as he walked, making sure Tim stayed balanced.
The fires cast long shadows across the snow and canvas, flickering across faces hardened by survival. People in the camp paused, watching silently. Some stared with curiosity, some with suspicion. Tim felt exposed, every eye on them a reminder of how fragile he was perched on Jason’s back.
The medical tent was a makeshift affair, constructed from military canvas and reinforced with scavenged plywood.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of antiseptic wipes and boiling water, a strange contrast to the open camp smells of smoke and fire. Lanterns hung from poles, flickering, illuminating the space with a dull, warm glow that barely cut through the chill.
As they pushed aside the heavy flap and stepped in, a sharp voice cut through the muted clatter.
“Hey—woah, easy. What happened?”
A blonde woman strode toward them, her ponytail messy but purposeful, like she hadn’t had time to check a mirror in days—maybe weeks. Her blue eyes swept over the boys in a heartbeat, reading injuries before they could open their mouths. Concern etched itself instantly across her face.
She reached out, steadying one of them by the elbow. “Sit, both of you. Now.”
Without waiting for argument, she ushered them toward a narrow cot near a supply table cluttered with jars, bandages, and a pot still steaming from the boil.
“I’m Dinah,” she said, already snapping on a pair of gloves. “Dinah Queen. And you two look like trouble walked through a window and dragged you after it.”
Her tone was firm, but not unkind—someone who knew how to give orders and how to care in the same breath.
Jason’s hands shook slightly as he helped Tim settle onto a tattered cot. His legs wobbled beneath him, and Tim could feel every tremor. Carrying him this far had clearly taken a toll, but Jason’s expression remained unreadable, stoic—but exhausted.
“Lay down, Tim,” Oliver said, already pulling on a pair of disposable gloves. “Where exactly is the injury?”
Tim didn’t answer right away. He just blinked, unfocused, breaths shallow and uneven. Jason continued guiding him down onto the cot, one hand behind Tim’s back to stop him from pitching forward.
“It’s his shoulder,” Jason said, voice tight. “Bullet wound. We had to cauterize it out there.”
Dinah froze mid-reach. “You cauterized a gunshot in the field?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Jason said. “He was bleeding out.”
“Let me see,” she murmured.
Tim’s stomach flipped. He hated how quickly panic clawed up the back of his throat.
Dinah reached for his jacket. The movement sent a jolt of pain tearing hot and deep through his shoulder. Tim jerked away with a sharp gasp.
“No. Don’t touch—!”
Jason’s arm caught him before he toppled off the cot. “Easy. Easy, Tim. Let her look.”
“No,” Tim said again, breath breaking. “Hurts—don’t move it—don’t—”
Dinah froze, hands up and open. “Okay. Okay. I won’t pull it.”
Oliver stepped forward with scissors in hand. “We’ll cut the jacket instead.”
Tim’s heart spiked. His breath started coming too fast. He couldn’t stop it. The room felt too small.
Jason moved behind him, bracing him upright against his chest. “Hey. Look at me. It’s just the jacket.”
Tim tried to breathe, but every inhale hitched near the end, catching on pain and fear in equal measure.
Oliver slid the scissors under the fabric with careful fingers. “You’re alright. I won’t touch the wound yet.”
Tim flinched anyway. His whole body trembled as the cold metal brushed his arm. His teeth clenched hard enough he felt them grind. Jason’s grip tightened subtly—anchoring him.
The first snip of the scissors cut through his jacket, loud in the quiet tent.
The second snip cut deeper through soot-stiff fabric. Tim swallowed hard.
Then another. And another.
Oliver’s hands stayed gentle, making sure he didn’t jostle the burned flesh beneath. Still, every vibration felt like it rattled straight into his shoulder bone.
Finally, the jacket peeled open like an unraveling shell, exposing the ruined shirt underneath—stained dark with dried blood and a faint charcoal smear.
Dinah drew in a slow breath. “Alright, sweetheart. I need to lift the shirt now.”
Tim’s heart hammered. He shook his head immediately. “No—no, don’t—don’t lift it—”
“It’s stuck to the wound anyway,” Jason muttered softly, voice hoarse. “We might have to cut that too.”
Pain burned way too close to the surface of everything. Tim forced himself not to cry.
Dinah tugged the shirt just enough to see the edge of the charred ring. Even that small shift sent fire tearing outward from the sealed burn. Tim’s back arched involuntarily. Jason caught him against his chest before he wrenched the shoulder worse.
“Okay,” Dinah said quickly, pulling back. “Not lifting. Oliver—scissors again.”
Tim squeezed his eyes shut while Oliver cut the shirt away, each slice exposing more of the cauterized wound.
When he finally opened his eyes again, he wished he hadn’t.
The wound was… wrong.
Burned black at the edges. Cracked like overcooked meat. A circle of char, swollen underneath where heat had trapped everything inside.
Including the bullet.
Tim swallowed, throat dry and tight. “Please don’t touch it.”
Dinah didn’t lie. She didn’t sugarcoat. She crouched next to him and said gently:
“I’m going to clean it. Then I have to cut it open to get the bullet out.”
Tim’s breath stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
His lungs seized mid-inhale and refused to move. A cold wave rolled through his body, hit his spine, spread everywhere at once.
“Cut—?” he whispered. “You’re—you’re going to cut it?”
“I’m going to numb what I can,” Dinah said, “but burn wounds don’t take numbing well. And the cauterization sealed dead tissue over active infection. I have to open it. It’s the only way to save you.”
“No,” Tim said immediately. His fingers curled instinctively around Jason’s sleeve. “No—no, I can’t. Don’t—don’t cut me. Please. Jason, please—”
Jason slid an arm under Tim’s ribs, holding him tight against his chest. “Tim. Hey. You’re safe. I’m here. We’re doing this together.”
But Tim’s mind had already dropped into full panic.
Every muscle trembled. Pain screamed through his shoulder. The tent seemed to pulse in and out of focus, the lantern light too bright then too dim. He felt a ringing in his ears, his heartbeat pounding underneath it like someone slamming on metal.
“I can’t—I can’t—I can’t do it—please,” Tim begged, voice shaking violently. “Jason, don’t let them. Don’t let them cut it.”
Jason’s chest rose and fell behind him, breath warm against Tim’s ear. “I know. I know you’re scared. I’m right here. I won’t let go.”
“That’s not—” Tim’s voice cracked. “It hurts too much.”
Dinah nodded once to Oliver. They moved quickly.
“Jason,” Dinah said quietly, “hold him steady.”
“I’ve got him,” Jason answered.
Tim felt Jason’s arm wrap across his chest, pinning his good shoulder. His other hand braced over Tim’s uninjured bicep, keeping the arm still.
Oliver positioned a lantern above them. The light hit the wound directly.
Dinah filled a syringe with saline.
Tim’s eyes fixed on it. Every breath thinned into a tremor.
“Please!”
“Tim,” Jason murmured, tightening his hold as Tim tried to twist out of his arms, “look at me—look at me. It’s just the cleaning first. Breathe. You can do this.”
Tim tried. He really, really tried. But the second Dinah pressed the syringe to the blackened, blistered ring of skin—
All he felt was fire.
White-hot, electric, ripping through every nerve at once.
Tim screamed.
Not loud—his throat locked halfway through it—but his body surged upward, whole torso buckling off the cot. Jason held him down hard, arms locking like steel around him as Tim thrashed.
“Hold him!” Dinah called sharply.
“I am!” Jason snapped back, voice shaking with the effort.
Tim’s breath came in choking gasps. “Stop. Stop, it burns. Jason—Jason, please!”
“I know,” Jason said, voice breaking. “I know, Tim—I’ve got you—I’ve got you—just one more—just—”
Dinah flushed the wound again.
Tim’s entire body jerked so hard he nearly threw both Jason and the cot off-balance. Tears blurred his vision—reflex, not emotion—and his fingers dug into Jason’s forearm hard enough to bruise.
He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything except scream and struggle.
Dinah dropped the syringe aside. “I need to make the incision.”
Tim froze.
Not physically—he couldn’t stop shaking—but something inside him went still in pure, cold terror.
“No,” he whispered. “Please—please—don’t cut it open—don’t—”
Jason tightened his grip around him, breath harsh near Tim’s temple. “I’m right here. I’m right here, buddy. Breathe. You’re not alone.”
Dinah positioned the scalpel just above the burnt ring.
Tim’s heart hammered so hard he felt it in his teeth.
“Jason—” Tim whispered. “Please don’t let her.”
Jason’s voice shook. “I’m here. I got you.”
Tim couldn’t stop trembling.
Dinah said softly, “I’m sorry, Tim.”
The scalpel touched the edge of the burned flesh.
It didn’t even cut yet—
Just made contact.
The pain hit like a detonation.
Tim’s vision burst white.
The sound in the room faded all at once, like someone ripped the audio out from under him. His breath whooshed out in one empty, broken gasp.
Then—
Everything dissolved.
His body went slack in Jason’s arms. His head dropped forward against Jason’s chest. His consciousness snapped out like a candle pinched between fingers.
Tim is in a corridor of white.
Not sunlight, not warmth—just blinding, sterile light that hums faintly, pressing against his skin. The floor is slick, cold, unyielding, stretching farther than it should. Every step echoes unnaturally.
Figures move behind the walls.
Frosted glass, or something like it, bends light and shadow. Shapes of people, hunched, precise, deliberate. Their forms shift, never still, but he cannot see faces.
He cannot look away.
And then he sees himself.
Another Tim stands at the far end of the corridor. Hollow eyes, skin pale and stretched. Cheeks sunken, lips thin and cruel. It moves differently than him. Smooth, deliberate, impossible.
Not mimicking him.
“You were never born,” it whispers.
The words echo, soft but sharp, vibrating through the air, through his bones. Tim’s chest tightens. Breath catches. His legs refuse to carry him forward. He tries to step, but the floor feels like ice, resisting, pushing him down.
The other Tim lifts a hand.
Fingers bend impossibly, curling over the air, hovering just above a shadow behind him. A metal table appears, gleaming under the white light, instruments aligned in perfect rows. Scalpels, clamps, tubes, shining and clean. Instruments that belong to some other world.
Tim swallows hard. His stomach twists. Something about the table, about the room, feels familiar yet wrong. His reflection reaches toward it. The table quivers under the movement. The air vibrates.
Hands press through the walls.
Pale, hairless, thin. Clammy and wet. Fingers curl over the surfaces, pressing, sliding, gripping. Faces follow—empty eyes, gaping mouths, silent screams.
Shadows of infants flash behind the frosted glass. Small, pale forms lying on metal tables, stretched taut, skin fragile. Their movements mimic the hands, but they are not alive, not yet, and that makes them worse.
Tim tries to pull back. The corridor resists. The hands climb, slither along the walls, curl around his legs. Grip his boots. Pull at his jacket. Fingers dig into his skin, cold and unyielding.
He thrashes. Kicks. Swings his arms. Pain blooms. Cold spreads from his feet, through his chest, into his bones.
The other Tim glides forward.
Silent, smooth, inevitable. Hollow eyes fixed on him. Fingers point toward him, toward the corridor itself, toward the walls that shift and bend like wet skin. “You belong to them,” the words come, low, wet, invasive, sinking into Tim’s skull.
The hands multiply.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Crawling over floor, ceiling, walls. Writhing, grasping, insistent. Faces press through the surfaces, screaming silently, mouths opening and closing like trapped machinery.
Tim backs into the wall. Cold presses through him. Ice climbs his spine. He swings, claws, scratches. Nothing breaks through. Nothing lets go.
The corridor warps again.
The table stretches impossibly, and the infants on it shift, mirrored by the shadows behind the frosted walls. Limbs twist, reach, pull at the air, at Tim, at something beyond comprehension.
The other Tim steps closer. Grin wide, teeth blackened, hollow eyes burning. Fingers hover over Tim’s forehead.
For a heartbeat, time stretches. Then the fingertip flicks, sharp, icy, precise. Pain blooms, cold and real, sinking into his skull.
Tim screams, but no sound leaves his mouth. Hands close around him. Bodies press, crawling, dragging, consuming. The walls, the air, the floor—all twist into nothing but grasping, wet, gray appendages.
The other Tim leans closer, victorious, inevitable. Everywhere. Merged with the swarm. Tim’s body thrashes, caught between the corridor and the impossible, between reality and the experiment he cannot yet understand.
The fingertip lifts, hovers, hovers again, and flicks toward his forehead. Cold snaps against his skin. Sharp. Sudden. Real.
Tim claws, kicks, screams. The corridor closes around him. The hands tighten. Faces press closer. And then—
He wakes.
He blinks, trying to make sense of the world around him. Slowly, painfully, he raises his head. His vision swims, but he notices first the weight against his shoulder. His jacket—or part of it—is torn and frayed, yet it isn’t just that: a bandage is wrapped around his upper arm, stained faintly with dried blood. Someone has tended to him while he was unconscious.
Tim’s eyes sweep the tent. The canvas walls sway gently with the breeze, the soft rustle of the forest outside leaking through. Gear, bags, and blankets are strewn across the floorboards. The usual hum of the camp is absent. Quiet. Too quiet.
Jason isn’t here.
Panic flares in his chest. His body stiffens, muscles taut, as he sits up slowly. His mind races: Where is Jason? What’s happened? The memories of the nightmare are still raw, sharp, and his chest is tight with the phantom pressure of unseen hands.
“Tim?”
The voice is soft, familiar, steady. Relief crashes through him.
Dinah steps into view, crouched at the edge of his cot. Her blonde hair falls over her shoulders, brushing against her cheeks. She looks calm but tired, the sort of calm that comes from someone who has been worrying without rest for days. She doesn’t smile, not yet—but her eyes are full of something warm, human.
Concern.
“You’re finally awake,” she says, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Her hand lingers on his cheek for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“What… how long?”
“Two days,” Dinah says quietly. Her eyes flick briefly toward the entrance of the tent. “You were out cold. Your brother… he’s been worried sick. Seriously worried.The past forty-eight hours, he’s been checking on you every hour, pacing the camp, muttering under his breath.”
“Brother?” Tim frowns.
“Jason.” Dinah says, like its obvious
Tim swallows hard. “Not my brother. He’s my friend.” Jason already has Dick Grayson as a brother. Tim’s not even close to taking that spot.
His mind struggles to shake off the remnants of the nightmare, the cold clinging to his bones. Two days. Two days lost to unconsciousness, his mind trapped in something he doesn’t want to revisit, yet can’t forget.
He tries to focus, to remember where he is, how he got here. Dinah’s voice, steady and warm, grounds him.
“You’re okay now,” she continues. “Take it easy on the shoulder and it should be fine.”
Tim nods slowly, though his chest still feels tight. His gaze drifts to her hands as she gently lifts the bandage at his shoulder.
She inspects it carefully, pressing lightly against the wound. Tim flinches, but the pain is dull, manageable.
“You’re lucky,” Dinah says, voice softer now, almost a whisper. “If you’d waited any longer…” Her words trail off. The implication is clear. The past two days have been dangerous.
Tim swallows, blinking rapidly. He wants to speak, to ask, to apologize for worrying everyone, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he nods again.
Dinah straightens, brushing her hands over her thighs. “I told the boys to get you something to eat. Drink. You’re weak, Tim. And you need to be strong.”
Tim looks down at his lap. The adrenaline from the nightmare has left him shaky, every muscle tense. He can feel his heartbeat in his ears, slow and jagged. He wants to say he’s fine, that he can handle it—but Dinah kneels closer, her eyes firm but gentle.
“Jason told me something before you woke,” she says quietly. “He’s worried your immune system might be a little… off. So I gave you some medication, just in case. Nothing strong, just to keep you steady.”
He nods, forcing a small, unconvincing smile. “Thanks,” he croaks.
A moment of silence stretches, broken by the soft rustle of the tent flap.
It opens, and a boy steps inside first. Ginger hair catches the light filtering through the canvas, eyes wide, cautious, scanning the interior. He carries a bottle of water, fingers tight around it, and moves with hesitant steps, careful not to jostle the supplies scattered across the floor.
A second later, someone else slips into the tent behind him.
Jason. His hands clutch a tray of food.
“Jay,” Tim whispers, voice hoarse, breath catching in his throat.
Jason freezes mid-step at the sound of his name, eyes immediately locking on Tim. There’s a pause, almost imperceptible, as if time slows and the tent itself holds its breath. Then a small, relieved smile tugs at Jason’s lips.
He sets the tray down hastily on a crate, almost tipping it in his urgency, and drops to his knees beside Tim’s cot. His hand hovers over Tim’s shoulder, then presses lightly, almost desperately, as if making sure he’s really awake.
“You’re awake!” Jason says, voice tight with relief and raw emotion. “Are you okay? You in any pain?”
Tim shakes his head slowly, blinking up at him. “I’m okay. Promise.”
Jason lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding, a small, relieved smile spreading across his face. His hand reaches up, ruffling Tim’s hair lightly, almost playfully, though the worry in his eyes hasn’t fully faded. “Good,” he says. “You had us worried sick.”
Tim swallows, feeling heat rush to his cheeks.
“We got you food,” says a voice from the tray Jason set down. Tim turns his head and sees the ginger-haired boy leaning casually against the crate, holding a plate like it’s no big deal.
“I’m Roy,” he says, smirking faintly despite the tension in the tent. “Roy Harper. Glad you’re awake, man. Thought you were gonna give Jason a heart attack or something.”
Tim blinks at him, a mix of confusion and faint amusement tugging at his lips. “Thanks… Roy.”
Roy leans a little closer, scanning him with sharp, green eyes that carry both curiosity and a touch of mischief. “Seriously, though. Eat. You need it. You’ve been out for two days—don’t tell me you’ve been trying to tough it out for fun.”
Jason glances at Roy, shaking his head slightly, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips. “He’s right,” Jason says, his tone gentler now. “Eat something, Tim. You need your strength back.”
Tim takes a cautious bite of the food, letting the warmth settle in his chest. He glances at Jason, kneeling beside him, eyes sharp and watchful.
“You didn’t… poison this or anything, did you?” Tim says, voice weak but teasing.
Jason raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Really? After worrying about you for two days straight, you think I’d poison you?”
Tim chuckles softly, a sound that surprises even him—it’s fragile, hoarse, but genuine. He leans back slightly, letting the warmth of the food and the tent sink in.
Jason’s hand lingers on his shoulder, a grounding presence. “I’m serious,” Jason continues, his tone lighter now, though the edge of worry is still there. “You almost had me losing it. Don’t ever do that again, okay?”
Tim swallows, the taste of the food and the raw honesty in Jason’s words blending into a strange comfort. “I… won’t,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward Jason’s, searching. There’s a tension there, unspoken, that makes his stomach twist, but he can’t quite pull away from the gaze.
Roy shifts, moving closer to lean against the crate, arms crossed. “Don’t go all brooding on us now, Tim,” he says with a smirk. “You’re supposed to be eating, not plotting world domination or something.”
Tim gives him a half-smile, half-grimace. “Plotting world domination… sounds exhausting,” he replies, taking another cautious bite.
Jason chuckles, a soft, warm sound that makes Tim’s chest tighten. “Yeah, leave the world-saving for later. Right now, you just focus on getting stronger.”
For a moment, the tent is quiet, save for the rustle of the canvas in the wind outside and the faint clinking of utensils as Tim eats. Jason watches him like he might vanish if he blinks too long, while Roy occasionally throws teasing, light-hearted comments over his shoulder.
—
Later that morning, Jason and Roy manage to coax Tim off the cot, helping him to his feet with careful hands and steadying his balance.
His legs are stiff, and each step feels foreign after two days of lying still, but the fresh morning air and the gentle warmth of the sun through the trees pull him forward.
Jason falls into step beside him naturally, his hand brushing lightly against Tim’s arm every now and then, just enough to steady him without making him feel clumsy. Roy lingers a few steps back, swinging his arms loosely, his green eyes scanning the camp with an easy confidence.
“So,” Roy says, tilting his head slightly as he catches up, “both of you actually headed to Metropolis?” His tone is casual, almost teasing, but there’s a genuine curiosity there, like he’s trying to gauge them without prying too much.
“Yeah. That’s the plan,” Jason replies, his voice steady but carrying a subtle edge, like he’s thinking more about the journey than answering the question.
“What's in Metropolis though?” Roy asks, eyebrows raised, smirking as he jostles the air between them.
“My family, idiot,” Jason shoots back, lightly smacking Roy on the side of the head.
“Hey! Alright! Fault a man for caring,” Roy protests, rubbing the spot where Jason hit him, a grin tugging at his lips.
“I’m faulting a man for being stupid,” Jason fires back, voice teasing but eyes scanning the horizon, alert.
Roy laughs, shoulders shaking as he falls into step beside them. “Fair enough. But I swear, some of these places might as well be in a different dimension for all the sense the maps make.”
Jason shakes his head, smirking faintly. “You’d get us lost faster than anyone I know.”
“What about you, Tim?” Roy asks, turning his gaze toward him, sharp green eyes now softening with curiosity. “What’s your reason for heading to Metropolis?”
Tim hesitates, feeling the weight of their stares. His voice is quiet, careful, almost fragile. “Family.”
Jason’s eyes flick to him, attentive, concern barely hidden, while Roy nods slowly, apparently accepting the answer without pushing. There’s a pause, the three of them moving through the camp.
“Is Metropolis nice?” Roy asks after a moment, glancing at Jason.
Jason lets a small smile tug at his lips. “Nicer than this shithole. Not as many zombies as here. Plus, we have a farm there.”
“A farm?” Tim asks, curiosity breaking through his quiet reserve.
“Yeah. Clark Farm. My dad’s best friend owns the place. It’s… the coolest,” Jason says, eyes briefly lighting up, like the memory itself is a small oasis of normalcy.
Roy looks around the camp, then smirks. “Hey, this camp here is cool too. Beats wandering in the woods all day.”
Jason raises an eyebrow, smirking faintly. “It’s no Clark Farm, let me tell you that.”
“Maybe not. But it’s got its own charm.” Roy chuckles, nudging Jason lightly.
Tim watches them, noting the ease between them, the teasing, the way Jason’s gaze flicks to Roy with a mix of amusement and vigilance. He swallows a little, forcing himself to focus on the camp itself—the tents, the fire pits, the faint sounds of campers moving about—but he can’t quite ignore the dynamic forming between them.
Then Roy, seemingly remembering he exists, leans a little onto Tim, a casual touch that still carries a playful weight. “Hey, Tim. Camp’s got stuff around you can do.”
“I can do?” Tim asks, voice uncertain.
“Yeah,” Roy says, grinning. “Like learning how to make fires, how to shoot the bow…” He gestures vaguely toward a clearing where a few campers are practicing with wooden targets and bows.
At the mention of shooting bows, Tim’s eyes automatically find Jason. He’s already looking at him, the faint crease of his brows giving away the protective edge beneath the teasing.
“He doesn’t need those stupid classes,” Jason says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turns to Roy, voice softer but still sharp. “I’ll teach him.”
Roy raises an eyebrow, smirking at Jason. “Oh, this is going to be fun. You and Tim—what, a private tutoring session? Don’t tell me you’re turning him into a little archer protégé.”
Jason’s eyes flick to Tim again, and the corner of his mouth quirks upward, almost imperceptibly. “If he wants to learn, he’ll learn from me. No messing around.”
Tim swallows, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. He isn’t sure if it’s embarrassment, nervousness, or something else entirely. He forces himself to nod. “Okay. Thank you.”
Roy laughs softly, shaking his head. “This is going to be great. Not his brother, my ass, Jason.”
“Yeah, yeah, asshole.” Jason goes to smack Roy’s head again, but Roy dodges with a quick step back, grinning widely. “Ha! Too slow this time.” He walks ahead of Jason and Tim, hands swinging loosely at his sides, clearly enjoying the chaos he’s created.
Tim sneaks a glance at Jason, voice low and hesitant. “You don’t have to teach me… if—if you don’t want to.”
Jason scoffs, crouching slightly so he’s level with Tim, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Timbo. I said I’d teach you, didn’t I?” He reaches over and ruffles Tim’s hair roughly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t tell me you’d rather have some old fuck teach you instead of me.”
“You’re an old fuck,” Tim grumbles, cheeks warming despite the teasing tone.
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Jason shoots back immediately, mock horror in his voice.
“You just said it too!” Tim snaps, heat rising in his ears, but there’s a laugh hiding behind the protest.
“Yeah, but I’m not eight,” Jason retorts, eyes sparkling with amusement.
“I’m not eight! You’re so annoying,” Tim huffs, shoving Jason lightly in the chest, though it barely phases him.
The clearing was small but perfect for archery practice, surrounded by tall pine trees whose branches creaked in the morning breeze. Wooden targets were propped up against logs at varying distances, and a neat row of bows leaned against a crate at the edge of the clearing.
Tim followed Jason cautiously, gripping the bow with sweaty palms, the weight of it unfamiliar and unwieldy.
Roy had already taken up a spot near the nearest target, sitting cross-legged on the ground, smirking at them with his usual casual confidence. “Don’t hurt him too bad, Jason,” he called, voice carrying easily over the clearing. “I like my new friend in one piece.”
Jason ignored him, dropping to one knee to show Tim how to properly hold the bow. “First thing, Timbo,” he said, his voice low and serious, though the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. “You hold it like this. Fingers here, elbow straight, shoulders relaxed. Got it?”
Tim nodded quickly, trying to mirror Jason’s movements. His hands trembled slightly, and the bow felt heavier than he expected.
As he tried to raise it, the string scraped awkwardly against his fingers.
Jason’s hand shot out, steadying Tim’s. “Relax your grip,” he instructed, guiding Tim’s fingers. “You’re squeezing it like it’s a grenade. The bow doesn’t like that.”
“I—I’m trying,” Tim stammered, feeling embarrassed.
“I know you are.” Jason’s brow furrowed slightly, not in irritation but in concentration. “Just follow me. Watch the stance. Left foot forward, shoulders squared, chin slightly tucked.”
Tim adjusted, shifting his weight awkwardly, feeling like a puppet with stiff joints.
He nocked an arrow, but as he tried to draw the string back, the arrow wobbled violently, clattering to the ground.
Jason suppressed a chuckle, though it was a short, quiet sound. “It’s okay. Start slow. Don’t worry about hitting the target yet. Focus on your form. Elbow, shoulder, and… draw.”
Tim tried again, drawing the string back. His arms shook under the strain, the bow creaking ominously.
He released the arrow, and it fell short, embedding itself in the dirt several feet from the target.
Roy laughed loudly from across the clearing, hands clapping together. “Nice shot, Tim! I didn’t know you were aiming for the dirt! Bold strategy.”
Tim flushed, jaw tightening. “Im trying, Roy,” he muttered, picking up another arrow.
Jason crouched next to him, giving his shoulder a reassuring pat. “Ignore him. It’s your first lesson. Nobody expects you to be perfect. Just keep trying.”
A nod left Tim, though his stomach twisted. He tried to focus, gripping the bow tighter and nocking another arrow. He drew it back with more control, feeling the tension in his arms, the unfamiliar stretch of muscles straining.
The arrow flew… and veered far to the left, striking the base of a tree instead of the target.
Tim’s shoulders slumped, and he muttered under his breath. “I can’t do this.”
Jason sighed softly, crouching to meet his gaze. “Yes, you can. You just need to stop thinking so much and trust your body. Follow the stance, breathe, and—”
“—I’m never going to hit the damn target,” Tim interrupted, frustration lacing his voice.
Roy’s laughter rang out again, light and teasing. “Don’t worry, Tim. You’re doing fine… if ‘fine’ means ‘consistently awful.’”
Tim glared at him, but Jason reached out, lifting his chin gently. “Roy’s just a clown. Ignore him. Look, I’ll do it first, then you follow. Watch my movements exactly. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Jason stood, drawing an arrow from the quiver and setting it against his bowstring. He pulled back smoothly, stance perfect, and released.
The arrow flew straight and true, embedding itself in the center of the nearest target.
Tim’s stomach sank. He tried to mirror Jason’s movements, drawing back the string with everything he had. His arms shook violently, the bow teetering in his hands.
He let go—and the arrow flew off to the side, thudding into the soft earth.
“Seriously?” Tim groaned, dropping to his knees to retrieve it. “How do you make it look so easy?”
Jason knelt beside him again, tone patient but firm. “Because I’ve done this a long time, Tim. You haven’t. That doesn’t mean you won’t get it—it just means you need practice.”
Tim’s chest tightened. “I feel like I’m getting worse instead of better.”
Roy, lounging against a log now, whistled mockingly. “If you get any worse, Tim, we’ll have to rename you ‘Arrow Magnet.’ Seriously, Jason, maybe you should just stick him with the slingshot section.”
Jason’s lips twitched, a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Ignore him. Again. Focus on your form.”
Tim nodded, swallowing hard. He nocked another arrow, trying to steady his hands. He drew back, feeling the string cut into his fingers, his arms trembling uncontrollably. He released—and the arrow arced wildly, embedding itself in the trunk of a tree far to the right.
He dropped the bow, hands covering his face. “I can’t do it. I’m terrible at this.”
“You’re not terrible, Tim.” Jason crouched beside him, sighing softly. “You’re struggling, sure—but that’s normal. Nobody hits the target their first time, or their second, or maybe even their tenth.”
Tim peeked through his fingers, eyes red with frustration. “It’s not just normal… it’s humiliating. Roy keeps making fun of me, Jason, and I can’t even hold the damn bow right.”
“Hey, I’m just providing commentary! I didn’t say you couldn’t hit the target. Yet.” Roy’s voice floated over from where he was now sitting cross-legged, smirking.
Jason gave him a sharp look. “Roy. Shut up.”
Roy grinned innocently, shrugging. “Okay, okay. But seriously, Tim… if you keep practicing, maybe—maybe in a few decades—you’ll be half decent.”
Tim groaned, letting himself slump to the ground. “I don’t even think I’m going to make it that far.”
Jason crouched beside him again, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me. You’re frustrated, yes. You’re tired, yes. And maybe this is hard. That’s fine. But you’re not a failure just because it’s difficult. Everyone starts somewhere. And right now, this is your start.”
“It doesn’t feel like a start. It feels like… like I’ll never get it.” Tim stared at the dirt between his hands, the tension in his arms still raw from gripping the bow.
“You will.” Jason’s hand squeezed his shoulder. “You just have to give yourself the chance. Now, one more shot. Just one. Don’t think about hitting the target. Don’t think about Roy. Don’t even think about me. Just—do it.”
Tim hesitated, swallowing hard.
He lifted the bow again, wincing as the string cut into his fingers. He drew back slowly, breathing deeply as Jason had instructed, trying to mimic the smooth, controlled motion he’d demonstrated over and over.
He released—and the arrow soared a little straighter this time, landing just a few feet from the target. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even good.
But it was closer.
Jason let out a quiet breath, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “See? You’re learning. You’re getting better.”
Tim forced a small, tired smile in return, though his chest still felt heavy. “Closer doesn’t feel like enough,” he muttered.
Roy, still lounging on the log, clapped slowly. “Oh, look at that progress! I think we have a real archer on our hands.”
“You two are terrible for laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you, Tim. I’m proud you’re trying. That’s more than most people would do.” Jason shook his head, brushing dirt from his knees.
Tim stood slowly, legs stiff, hands still sore from gripping the bow. “I don’t feel proud.”
Jason’s eyes softened. “You will. Give it time. And Roy—” He pointed a finger at him. “—keep your comments to yourself next time. He’s learning.”
Roy smirked, waving a hand casually. “Yeah, yeah.”
Tim slumped against a tree, letting the bow fall gently to the ground.
He stared at the targets, feeling a pang of frustration and self-doubt gnawing at him. He’d wanted to prove something—to himself, maybe even to Jason—but instead, he felt clumsy, weak, and entirely inadequate.
Jason crouched next to him again, voice low. “Hey. This isn’t about proving anything to anyone. It’s about you learning. And failing is part of learning. It’s part of growing.”
Tim closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. He wanted to believe Jason, but the ache in his arms, the sting of repeated failure, and the constant teasing from Roy made it hard. “I just… I thought I’d be better at this,” he admitted quietly.
“You will be,” Jason said firmly. “Just not today. And that’s okay. Come on. We’ll call it a session for now. Tomorrow, you’ll try again. And you’ll get closer. I promise.”
Tim nodded slowly, still feeling the ache in his arms and the tight knot of frustration in his chest.
He adjusted the bow on his back and started walking toward the camp with Jason and Roy, barely noticing the crunch of leaves beneath his boots.
“Hey!” a small voice called out, bright and eager. Tim looked up to see a kid—maybe ten or eleven—running toward him, a wide grin plastered across his face. He was holding a small, worn soccer ball under one arm. “Do you wanna play?”
Tim froze, unsure. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag, and he instinctively glanced at Jason.
Jason’s eyes met his, and a wide, encouraging smile spread across his face. He leaned closer, nudging Tim gently with his shoulder. “Go on. Have some fun, Timbo. Don’t let the bad day keep you down.”
“I… I don’t know—” Tim hesitated, feeling the weight of the bow, his sore arms, and the sting of failure still fresh.
Jason’s grin widened. “I’ll make it easy for you.” And with a quick, gentle push, he nudged Tim toward the kid, laughing lightly. “Go. Play. I’ll be right here if you need me.”
Tim stumbled forward, caught off guard by the push, but the kid’s smile was infectious. He felt a faint heat rise in his cheeks as he slowly accepted the ball.
“Cool!” the kid said, bouncing it lightly. “I’m Max. You’re Tim, right? Come on, let’s play!”
His shoulders relaxed just a little, and he looked back at Jason, who was watching with a satisfied, playful expression. Jason gave him a small thumbs-up, then glanced at Roy, who rolled his eyes but smirked. “Pushing him into social interactions now? That’s new.”
Jason shrugged, smirk still in place. “He needs it. Besides, someone’s gotta make sure he doesn’t hide in a corner all day.”
Tim gave a small, awkward smile, feeling slightly lighter than he had when leaving the archery clearing.
The ball rolled toward him, and with a hesitant but determined stance, he kicked it back to Max.
“Not bad,” Max said, laughing. “You’ve got a little skill!”
Tim felt a flicker of warmth as Max bounced the ball between them, the tension of the morning’s archery disaster fading for a moment.
For the first few minutes, it was easy—simple passes, light laughter—and Tim found himself actually smiling.
“Hey, come on, Tim! I want to show you something!” Max suddenly exclaimed, grabbing the ball and running toward a narrow trail leading out of the clearing.
Tim glanced at Jason, who smirked and gave him a small nudge. “Go on. Show him you’re not completely useless,” Jason teased.
Jogging after Max, Tim’s determination was building. “I’m not useless,” he muttered under his breath.
But before they reached the small rise where Max crouched over a rock, a group of older kids emerged from behind the trees. Their laughter was sharp, loud, and immediately threatening.
“Hey, new kid! What’s this? A baby playing with a ball?” one of them sneered, stepping forward with his arms crossed.
Tim froze for a moment, heart hammering, but he quickly straightened, fists clenched. “Back off,” he said, voice low, trying to sound tougher than he felt.
“Or what?” another boy mocked, kicking the ball away. “You gonna cry?”
Tim narrowed his eyes, straightening his shoulders. “Try me,” he snapped. His words carried more venom than he expected, and the older kids paused, surprised by the fire in his tone.
He forced himself to channel that, imagining he was Jason Todd—strong, fearless, unrelenting.
The tallest boy lunged, shoving Tim backward—but Tim planted his feet and shoved back just as hard. “Don’t touch me!” he shouted.
A chorus of laughter rose from the older kids, but Tim didn’t falter. He pushed, jabbed, and swung his arms defensively, doing his best to intimidate, to make himself bigger, meaner. “I said leave me alone!” he barked.
For a few moments, it seemed to work.
The kids stepped back, muttering under their breath, but there were too many of them. One of them lunged again, and Tim twisted, trying to dodge, but he wasn’t fast enough. A sharp shove sent him sprawling, shoulder slamming against a jagged rock. Pain seared through his arm, sharp and deep, but he gritted his teeth and scrambled to his feet anyway.
“You think hitting me will scare me?” he growled, rolling his shoulder experimentally. Pain stabbed through him, but he ignored it, narrowing his eyes at the kids. “I’m not scared of you!”
One boy sneered and tried to grab him, but Tim swung an arm hard, elbow catching the kid in the chest. A sharp grunt made the boy stumble back. Tim’s chest rose and fell, adrenaline coursing through him.
“Back off!” he shouted again, this time with more authority, more confidence. His voice carried a rasp of anger, like he had borrowed Jason’s grit and edge.
The older kids hesitated, glancing at one another. A couple of them laughed nervously, but there were still too many.
Finally, one of the taller boys barked, “Enough! This isn’t worth it,” and the group began to retreat, muttering and laughing under their breath.
Tim stayed where he was for a moment, chest heaving, shoulder throbbing, and eyes blazing. Dirt clung to his clothes, sweat stung in his eyes, but he wasn’t about to let them see him break entirely.
He managed to stand, though his shoulder protested sharply. If those kids thought being dime-store bullies was intimidating… well. They clearly hadn’t met the rest of his problems.
They didn’t even make the top ten.
He kept walking through the camp, shoulder throbbing with every step. Dinah and Oliver passed by near the archery range, and he managed a quick wave; Dinah lifted two fingers in acknowledgment, Oliver gave a curt nod before returning to whatever argument they were having.
Tim continued along the worn path, boots crunching over scattered gravel and dry leaves.
That’s when he saw them—Jason and Roy, sitting on the edge of a fallen log, leaning into each other’s jokes, laughing so easily Tim had never seen before. Jason’s usual guarded edge, the tension he carried in every movement, was gone.
Completely gone.
For a moment, Tim froze, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. He’d never seen Jason like that—not relaxed, not unbothered. Not with anyone.
He swallowed, feeling something tighten in his chest. He didn’t want to interrupt. Didn’t want to ruin this rare… whatever it was. Without a word, he pivoted on his heel and moved away, letting them have their bubble of laughter.
Tim wandered toward the lake at the edge of camp, the one spot where no one was, where no one would go. The water was still, a dark, glassy surface that caught the faint, ashen light of the sky. He crouched on a flat rock, hands brushing over its cool surface, and let himself breathe a little easier.
The quiet here was different—softer, less sharp.
He pulled out his notebook from his new pack, the edges dog-eared and worn, and began sketching—shapes, lines, abstract scribbles. It wasn’t about making art; it was about grounding himself, keeping his mind from spiraling while the sun dipped lower, turning the sky a darker color.
By the time darkness finally fell, Tim had traced patterns over nearly every page he had. He tucked the notebook back in his pack, stretched, and glanced up at the stars that had begun to peek through the twilight. The camp was quieter now, voices dimmed, shadows long and soft.
He rose, letting the chill of night brush over him, and started back toward his tent, boots crunching softly.
Tim continued on, weaving between tents and cookfires until he reached the canvas shelter that was apparently his—shared with Jason.
he lifted a hand to push the flap aside… then paused.
A voice slipped through the seams.
“I just worry about him, alright?” Jason. Tired, frustrated, trying to hide the edge in his tone.
Tim’s stomach tightened.
Roy answered, sounding more annoyed than sympathetic. “Jason, come on. He was playing with kids his age. You gotta relax.”
Fantastic. They were talking about him.
Tim exhaled slowly through his nose, pressing his lips together as he leaned just slightly closer to the tent flap.
“I know how kids his age act,” Jason muttered inside, voice low and tense. “And Tim’s—he’s different.”
Tim felt that one land in his chest like a dull tap. Different. Right. He wasn’t sure how he felt about hearing it said out loud.
Roy snorted. “So what? You never got made fun of as a kid?”
“’Course not,” Jason shot back immediately. “I have a brother.”
“Oh my god.”
“Look, all I’m saying,” Jason continued, stubborn as ever, “is that I didn't like the way those kids looked at him. Treated him”
Roy let out a laugh that was half-disbelieving, half-done-with-this-conversation. “They’re children, man. They weren’t plotting his murder. They were teasing him because he’s scrawny and weird and smarter than all of them combined.”
“Exactly,” Jason fired back. “That’s the problem.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The quiet stretched, filled only by the muffled crackle of the cookfire outside and the low hum of the camp settling down for the night. Tim shifted again, rubbing his thumb against the seam of his sleeve, the faint pulse of irritation and embarrassment thrumming in his chest.
Roy broke the silence first. “Jason… you can’t bubble-wrap him. You know that, right?”
“I’m not bubble-wrapping him.”
“You kind of are.”
Jason scoffed. “I just—I don’t like seeing him get pushed around.”
Tim’s breath hitched, something cold and uncomfortable slithering through his stomach. Pushed around? He hadn’t been pushed around. They’d just—okay, fine, maybe a little. But he didn’t need Jason swooping in like some overprotective hawk about it.
Roy sighed, softer this time. “He handled it. Did you even look at him? He wasn’t bothered.”
Jason didn’t answer.
That silence said everything.
Tim finally let out a long, quiet exhale. If he waited any longer, they’d either start dissecting his emotional fragility or Jason would fully escalate.
Enough.
He lifted the flap and stepped inside like he hadn’t just been standing there listening.
“Hey,” he said, voice steady, calm, a little too casual. “You two done talking about my dramatic and tragic childhood, or should I come back later?”
Jason’s head snapped up. Roy’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline.
Tim gave them both a flat look, crossing his arms. “Because,” he added, “I’d really like to lie down before someone starts planning interventions.”
Jason didn’t even flinch at Tim’s entrance. No guilt. No embarrassment. He just looked up, nodded once, and said, completely casually:
“Good. You’re here. Those kids won’t bother you anymore.”
Tim blinked. “…What?”
Roy groaned. “Oh my god, Jason—”
Jason ignored him entirely. “I talked to them.”
“You what? Jason—”
“They got the message,” Jason said with a shrug, like he’d just taken out the trash. “They won’t come near you again.”
Tim opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. That was—he wasn’t even sure what that was. Overkill? Embarrassing? Weirdly… thoughtful? None of it sat right.
“You can’t just threaten a bunch of—” Roy rolled his eyes and flopped back onto the bed Jason was on
Jason planted a hand on Roy’s shoulder and shoved. Hard.
Roy yelped as he slid right off the cot and hit the floor with a thud. “Dude—!”
“Out,” Jason said simply.
“You serious?” Roy stared up at him, offended.
Jason kicked at his ankle in answer—not hard, just enough force to be unmistakably get out.
Roy scrambled to his feet with all the grumbling dignity of a man twice his age. “This is why nobody likes you,” he muttered, brushing dirt off his shirt as he backed toward the flap.
“Door.” Jason pointed.
“It’s a flap—!” Roy started, then sighed and gave Tim a helpless look before ducking out into the night.
Silence settled.
Tim stared at Jason. Jason stared back, arms crossed, posture relaxed, like this was the most normal sequence of events possible.
“…Jason,” Tim said slowly, “what did you say to them?”
“Nothing crazy.” Jason sat back on the cot like he didn’t just throw Roy out of a room. “Just made it clear they’re not messing with you again.”
Tim rubbed a hand down his face. “You can’t just—Jason, you didn’t have to—”
“Yeah,” Jason cut in, tone final. “I did.”
And he didn’t elaborate. Didn’t defend it. Didn’t apologize.
Just sat there like this was his perfectly reasonable version of problem-solving.
Tim had no idea what to do with that.
“Go to sleep.” Jason didn’t even give him a glance this time—just rolled over, presenting Tim with the broad line of his back, shoulders hunched like he was shielding himself from something. “It’s late.”
“Jason.” Tim pushed, voice small but steady, because dropping it felt impossible. He shifted, trying to catch even a flicker of Jason’s expression.
Jason didn’t budge. “Sleep.”
Tim moved to his cot, lowering himself onto the thin, creaky frame. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders—an actual blanket, soft enough to feel unreal.
He took a moment just to breathe under it, letting the warmth settle over his chest. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d slept under something that wasn’t a jacket or a tarp or his own arms wrapped tight around himself.
He shut his eyes.
But—
But the darkness didn’t feel peaceful.
A cold twist curled low in his stomach. His fingers tightened around the blanket’s edge.
He was scared. He didn’t want to slip back into that nightmare again. He didn’t want to see the things he couldn’t unsee, the things that followed him even after waking.
The thought alone made his breath hitch, made sleep feel like a risk he wasn’t sure he could take.
Tim swallowed hard and tried again, forcing his breathing to slow. In. Out. Pretend it’s normal. Pretend he’s fine. The cot creaked softly as he shifted onto his side, facing Jason’s back across the small gap between their beds.
The shadows made everything feel closer. Louder. The rustle of trees outside. The distant crackle of the campfire. His own heartbeat.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
One minute passed. Then another.
His chest felt too tight.
“Jason?” Tim whispered, barely loud enough for the air to carry it.
Jason didn’t move. Not even a twitch. But Tim knew he was awake—he could see the faint lift and hold of Jason’s breathing, too careful to be natural.
Tim hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek before trying again.
“Jason… Can I—” He stopped, swallowed. “Can I ask you something?”
Still nothing. But the silence wasn’t real. It was heavy, waiting.
Tim pulled the blanket closer, voice trembling despite how hard he tried to steady it.
“…Do you ever get nightmares?”
That made Jason’s shoulders stiffen. Just a fraction. Anyone else might’ve missed it—but Tim didn’t.
He waited, heart pounding, hoping Jason would actually answer this one.
Jason shifted slightly, the blanket rustling as if to remind Tim he was still there. Then he spoke, voice low and careful, almost like he was testing the words before letting them out.
“Yeah. Everyone does.” He didn’t turn around. His back remained a wall, broad and rigid, but his tone… it wasn’t as cold as usual. Just distant.
Tim’s stomach twisted. “Even you?” His whisper barely rose above the hum of the night.
Jason let out a short, humorless laugh, more like a grunt. “Especially me.”
“What… what do you dream about?” Tim hesitated, heart hammering.
There was a pause long enough for Tim to think Jason wouldn’t answer. Then:
“Stuff I don’t want anyone seeing. Stuff I don’t like thinking about. I dont know” He trailed off, words unfinished.
Tim swallowed again, not letting himself back down. “Can you tell me?.”
Jason finally made a sound like a sigh. It wasn’t a surrender, not exactly, but it was closer to openness than he usually allowed. “It’s… bad things. People I can’t save. Things I’ve done.” His voice grew quieter with each word, almost lost in the darkness.
Not a sound left Tim; he simply listened, letting the small crack in Jason’s armor exist without pushing further.
After a long moment, Jason muttered, almost to himself, “It’s why I tell myself that sleep’s just a trap.”
Tim’s hand twitched under the blanket. He didn’t know what to say, but for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel so alone in the dark.