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The world felt…fuzzy, when he opened his eyes. Something was wrong, he could feel it, but there was a corner of a bed in his field of view, muffled cursing behind him, and his limbs felt so heavy he could barely move.
Danger, his senses screamed, trepidation ratcheting up too fast for his dulled senses to follow. He felt exposed—his face was bare, but he could see familiar dark red sleeves extending to bare hands, and the juxtaposition was enough to wake him up further.
He remembered patrol. Then…Ivy? Then—
Tim twisted, his heart suddenly racing, and stared up at a red helmet.
“Good morning, Replacement,” the mechanized voice drawled.
Shit.
Tim was pinned, arms wrapped tight around him, forcing him against an armored chest, his legs tangled underneath him. Tim scrabbled against the hold, searching for his staff, his comms, a weapon because he was trapped and Hood would never let go—
Hood released him.
Tim sprawled back, and needles of ice slammed into every available inch of skin—Tim couldn’t even move, he could only writhe and thrash as the chilling void attacked him.
He was cold, no, he was empty, he was a desert, he was a black hole and it was eating him from the inside out, he was going to die, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it, he couldn’t do anything except lie there and scream.
Arms grabbed his shoulders, and Tim was curling up against hard armor again—the void receded like it had never been there and Tim felt tears prickle his eyes as he shook, pressing tight against Hood.
Ivy. Definitely Ivy.
Hood stared down at him, satisfaction palpable in the air.
“It’s okay,” Hood soothed, “I’m right here.” He rubbed a hand on Tim’s back, easing him through the worst of the shivers.
It didn’t sound comforting. It sounded like nails screeching down a chalkboard, and it set every one of Tim’s nerves alight with dread.
His muscles were spasming and Tim grabbed the leather jacket with trembling fingers, keenly aware that Hood just had to shove him away to watch him choke on his own screams as he struggled. Ivy’s pollen wasn’t deadly, but it was debilitating, and it would be hours of agony before Tim would recover.
Recover, weak and vulnerable, ready for whatever torture Hood had planned next.
“I’m right here,” Hood said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
A promise. A threat. Tim tried to force his foggy mind to think—Batman was out on JL business, Nightwing and Robin were in Bludhaven, Black Bat and Spoiler were in Star City on a case.
And no one was close enough to save him from Hood.
Armor sparked under his fingers, and Tim’s muscles seized as electricity sparked through them, punching the breath out of his lungs in a painful zap.
“Oops,” Hood said, unapologetic, “Guess the armor settings are acting up.” The words were punctuated with another jolt, and Tim’s teeth clacked together painfully.
No.
“H—Hood,” Tim started, and nearly bit through his tongue as Hood sent another spike through him.
“Sorry, Replacement,” Hood said, sounding very not sorry at all, “But you can always get off of me if it’s bothering you.”
Tim could imagine the curve of the malicious smile behind the helmet as he gritted his teeth and held on through another spike—fuck that asshole, he knew that Tim couldn’t let go.
But the only part of Hood’s armor that conducted electricity was the chest piece, and there was an easy solution to the problem—Tim twisted, careful to keep pressed against Hood so that the ice-cold needles of agony didn’t come back, until his back and cape were pressed to Hood’s armor, and Hood’s arms were curled around his waist.
Hood chuckled, low and dark, and Tim tensed further.
He shifted his grip, and Tim clutched his arms, almost about to scream—to beg, because the void of pure, shrieking emptiness was worse than the shocks, he’d take as many jolts as Hood wanted to avoid going back to that—but Hood merely laced his right hand with Tim’s, drawing it slightly away from his stomach.
“Shh,” Hood said, a gloved thumb stroking over his palm, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Tim refused to show any sign of how nice it felt, the soft, gentle circles, the light pressure—the not-light pressure, and Tim didn’t even have the time to register what was happening before bone snapped.
Pain coursed up his hand after the shocked half-second of delay, and Tim had to bite down his response.
“How are you doing, Timbo? Feeling better?” Snap went his middle finger, and Tim’s teeth clenched tight with the effort of holding back the groan.
“S—stop,” Tim forced out through gritted teeth, “Hood, don’t—”
“You want me to let go?” Hood asked, his thumb pressing against Tim’s ring finger. Tim weakly twitched his hand—cold bit into it as soon as he curled it back, and he was forced to relax it, let Hood grasp his finger, dig his thumb against the back, and push.
“Fuck you,” Tim hissed, swallowing back the sharp cry.
“That’s rude, baby bird,” Hood hummed, twisting the last finger with a sharp snap, “I’m here, helping you, out of the goodness of my heart.”
The cold, dead, blackened pit he called a heart, maybe.
“Hood, please, just—” Tim pressed his lips shut as Hood dislocated his thumb, taking a ragged breath before continuing, “What do you want?”
Hood carefully, gently brought Tim’s right hand back to his body, cradling it in his own. “I just want to help out my little brother,” he said softly, extending Tim’s left hand, “Is that so wrong?”
Tim squeezed his eyes shut—five more broken bones, he didn’t need to watch—but Hood wasn’t twisting his fingers. He loosened his grip, enough that Tim had to hastily lace their fingers together to catch the gloved hand, and Tim snapped his eyes open when Hood moved his right hand, still lightly clutching the broken fingers.
Hood managed to pick up a small, metal object without letting go of Tim’s hand, his fingers curling between Tim’s as he flicked the top off. With a soft click, the flame stuttered into existence.
Dread shot straight into terror.
“No,” Tim said, strangled—the heat was present and painful against his right hand, but Hood was moving it towards his left, and that burn was getting hotter and hotter and hotter—“Hood, stop.”
“I’m not holding you here,” Hood said, wiggling the fingers of his open left hand to prove his point, “You can let go at any time.”
Tim squeezed harder, nails biting into gloves, something, anything to get Hood to break, pushing frantically against Hood’s hand to force him to move, to push away from the lighter flame curling into the back of his hand with excruciating agony.
And Hood didn’t stop.
Tim started writhing, curling away from the flickering flame, trying to yank Hood’s arm back, trying to yank the lighter back with broken fingers, but none of it made a difference—Hood wasn’t moving, a rock solid line, and Tim couldn’t fight against him if he couldn’t even stop touching him.
The flame dropped down an inch, scorching fresh skin, and Tim started screaming.
Hood rubbed a thumb against unburnt skin, light and soft, and Tim tried to focus on the steady rhythm, on anything but the torture, but he couldn’t, it wasn’t enough, he couldn’t do this—
Tim yanked his hand away, jerking roughly out of Hood’s hold.
He’d had the naïve hope that the cold and the heat would cancel each other out. That the void would numb the agony. That he could have a break.
It didn’t. Cold stabbed like splinters of ice, jamming straight into broken fingers and the growing, throbbing burn, and flaying him to the bone. Tim didn’t scream, didn’t have the breath to scream, didn’t have enough mental clarity to remember how vocal cords worked, and all he could do was gasp like a beached fish.
Tim didn’t know how long the void had him. How long Hood let him suffer, watching him writhe in his lap, glee effusing every corner of that bright red helmet until Tim could almost see the metal twist into a smile. How long he was lost as pain and pain warred using Tim’s nerves as a battlefield.
The emptiness receded. The ice needles melted to nothingness, the stabbing agony dulling to an echo as the burn flared into fresh prominence. He was crying—deep, wrenching sobs, tears spilling down his face, hitched, strangled breaths and he didn’t care that Hood was an enemy, that Hood was torturing him, that Hood hated him and wanted him to suffer, all he knew was that he was curled up in his lap, a gentle hand stroking down his spine.
The shudders eased slowly—breaths turning to hiccups and tears beading slower and slower. Both hands throbbed in unequal agony, and Tim tucked them against Hood’s jacket as he shivered.
“Poor Timbit,” Hood tutted, smoothing a hand gently down Tim’s back. The other was wrapped firmly around his waist, and Tim hated that it made him feel better. “That looked like it hurt.”
“F—fuck y—you,” Tim snapped.
“Ouch,” Hood laughed, “Guess that’s what I get for trying to help a baby bird in distress.”
“You’re n—not helping.”
“So you want me to leave, then?”
Tim couldn’t help the involuntary whimper of distress at the thought, and laughter echoed eerily through the voice distorter.
“Poor baby bird,” Hood soothed, “So cold and empty and alone. Abandoned by its nest.” Fingers slithered down his spine, and Tim waited for the pressure to grow painful, for Hood to twist and squeeze and break. “All alone, trying to fly on tattered wings.”
Hood’s fingers traced out the pattern of wings on his back, completing one loop before stilling.
“Poor baby bird,” Hood repeated, his tone turning gleeful, “Why don’t we give you some new wings, hmm?”
“Hood, no—stop—”
“Don’t you want to fly, Timmers?” Hood asked innocently, tearing off Tim’s cape. He dropped it to the side before rustling in a bag next to them, and drawing out a large, serrated knife.
Tim stared at it, wide-eyed, and swallowed roughly. “Hood,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “Please—just tell me what you want—you don’t need to do this—Hood, please—”
“I’m just trying to be a good brother,” Hood hummed, his other hand moving to yank Tim’s hair, forcing him to look up at that expressionless red helmet, “Isn’t that what you want, baby bird? Isn’t that what you sob into your pillow—a chance at a family? A chance with your favorite Robin?”
Tim’s heart twisted, the words a precisely aimed knife. “You asshole,” Tim croaked out, unable to stop the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, “You’re not my brother.”
“That wounds me, Replacement, it really does,” Hood laughed, and the knife came back.
It sliced through the collar of his uniform, a straight line down his back. Hood made a few more cuts to bare his back entirely, ripping flutters of cloth off, careful to not accidentally nick him.
“Hood. Hood, don’t—”
“You wanted to be Robin,” Hood said softly, one arm tightening low on his back as the knife point rested a little off his spine. “You wanted this.”
“No, I—”
The knife slid through skin easily, tracing a long diagonal from his spine up to his left shoulder.
“Hood, stop—”
Another one, parallel to the first, about an inch below it.
“Please—”
Another one, and Tim jerked as it reached the small of his back and more sensitive skin—the knife bit deeper, and Hood chuckled.
“Careful there,” he hummed, tracing the fourth line, “Don’t want to accidentally cut something important.”
Tim stilled completely, his heart racing in his chest, keenly aware of how easy it would be to take that knife and shove it in his spine and paralyze him forever.
“You don’t need to be afraid, baby bird,” Hood soothed, finishing the fifth cut with a flourish, “I’m very precise.”
That’s exactly why I’m afraid, Tim didn’t say.
“One wing down, one more to go,” Hood said, smirk evident in his tone as he drew the knife up and started tracing out to his right shoulder.
The cuts were shallow, but Hood went slow and they stung fiercely against the cold air. Tim took ragged breaths against the kevlar weave of Hood’s armor, suppressing the tears—this was a game, and Tim refused to play. If Hood wanted him broken, he’d have to try a whole hell of a lot harder than that.
“Look at that,” Hood murmured once he finished, the knife clattering somewhere in the distance—pity, Tim wanted to grab it and shove it against Hood’s throat and see how he liked playing a death by a thousand cuts. “Stunning.” The rough glove brushed against some of the cuts, and Tim couldn’t help the flinch.
“Ah, whoops,” Hood said, maliciousness oozing out of his words, “I don’t remember the last time I washed these gloves. We need to clean out these cuts.”
“No, Hood, we don’t, I’ll do it later, you don’t—”
“What kind of big brother would I be if I let you leave with infected wounds?” Hood asked in mock outrage, and Tim barely managed to snap his mouth closed and avoid biting his tongue before something cold was dribbled over his left shoulder blade.
It hit his wounds, and the chill immediately turned to raging fire.
Tim couldn’t entirely strangle the scream, jerking away from the burn—no, not back, back meant the void, meant the needles of emptiness, meant agony so bad he couldn’t even move—and pressing forward, plastering himself against Hood’s armor, squeezing closer and tighter like that would make a difference.
It didn’t. Hood just chuckled, ignoring Tim’s shudders as he dripped more—of the acid? Antiseptic? Salt water?—down his back, careful to get in each and every one of the five cuts on his left.
“Stop,” Tim hissed through clenched teeth as the tears slid free, “Hood, please, stop, please.”
“I’m just cleaning out your wounds,” Hood said innocently, “They need to be treated.”
“Not like this, Hood, please.”
Hood stilled.
“You want me to stop?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“You don’t want me to clean your wounds?”
“Please, Hood, just—you’ve had your fun, just stop.”
Hood sighed, and set down the bottle, “I’m helping, Timmy, isn’t that what you want?”
“This is absolutely not what I want,” Tim said through gritted teeth, “Would you please just stop it?”
Hood was silent.
“The pollen will wear off soon and we’ll go our separate ways and we won’t ever have to see each other again,” Tim said, glaring at Hood’s collar, “Could you stop being an asshole for that long? Please?”
Another stretching moment of silence, before Hood broke it, his voice level, “You’re bleeding.”
Tim sucked in a sharp breath, “Hood, don’t—”
“I won’t clean your cuts, baby bird, got that memo loud and clear,” Hood huffed, his free hand moving away. Tim warily unwound, just a fraction.
A familiar click-and-hiss.
“I will have to close them, though,” Hood said, soft and malevolent, and terror spiked.
“Don’t, Hood, don’t—” and then the flame touched the edge of the first cut on his right, and Tim couldn’t strangle the screams.
Hood moved achingly slow, blood hissing and spluttering on contact with the flame as he swept the lighter over the cut as skin bubbled and blistered. Tim twisted—but he couldn’t move back, not with the threat of the void, and he couldn’t press forward, there was nowhere to go, and he could only writhe uselessly as Hood cauterized his wounds.
“One down,” Hood said, his free hand rubbing gently against Tim’s ribs, “You’re doing great, baby bird.”
“Hood—please—stop, stop—” the rest of the words were lost to a shriek as the lighter came back.
“Doing so good, baby bird,” Hood soothed, “I know it hurts, I know, I’m sorry.”
“You’re not sorry, you fucking asshole—”
“My, my, Timothy, what would Alfred say?”
“He’d tell you to stop, Hood, Jason, please,” Tim sobbed into Hood’s armor, broken and burnt fingers curling into the collar of the leather jacket in the hopes that the pain would drown out the agony crawling through him. “Jason, please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please stop, please.”
“Sorry for what, Replacement?” Hood asked levelly, holding the lighter right above the fourth cut.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry for Robin, I’m sorry for replacing you, I’m sorry for all of it, please, Jason, stop, I promise I’ll give it up, I promise I’ll leave, just please stop.”
A gloved thumb was rubbing gentle circles against his ribs. “Apology accepted,” Hood said softly, and Tim had time for a single second of desperate hope before the lighter pressed to skin.
Tim screamed, his throat raw and hoarse and tearing, tears leaking down his face as Hood wrenched wails with every second of torture. Tim didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, what combination of pleas and apologies and begging was babbled out between shrieks and gasping breaths and sobs.
“Shhh, baby bird,” Hood soothed, “Just one more. You’re almost done, I promise.”
The flame came back, and Tim didn’t have the clarity for words, for anything other than the all-consuming pain around him, diving into his soul, flaring along his spine in cruel mimicry of outstretched wings.
He didn’t notice when the lighter clicked closed, the agony unending, searing through every one of his senses as his muscles spasmed weakly. He didn’t have the energy to fight, to speak, to even scream and he lay there, limp, tears dripping down his face as he was forced to endure the relentless pain.
He felt like a drowning man, suffocation pressing in from all sides, nowhere to run, no energy to move, and surrender coiled through each of his limbs as the darkness pressed closer. He couldn’t fight Hood. He couldn’t stop Hood. He could only lie here and take the torture and hope that Hood eventually got bored. Or hope that he ended it, once and for all.
Fingers drifted back to his hair, tugging gently at the strands in slow, smooth motions. Tim waited for the fingers to close into a fist, to tighten, to twist, but they remained gentle and soothing, a counterpoint to the agony, and his eyes finally slid shut.
Pain ebbed in and out as Tim drifted back to consciousness. His muscles ached, sore and exhausted all over, and flashes of pain spasmed through his limbs. He was resting against a broad chest, nose buried in a soft shirt, and Tim cracked his eyes open to see light blue.
There were arms wrapped around him, low on his back, a loose grip. Tim was curled up tightly in a lap, coiled into as small a shape as he could manage.
His next breath stuttered.
He raised his head weakly—his throat was sore and raw, his cheeks itchy, his face bare of a domino mask—until he met green eyes.
Jason looked wrecked.
Dark circles ringed red, puffy eyes, tear tracks glimmering against blotchy cheeks. His expression was twisted, and Jason stared back, something fractured and haunting in his eyes.
“Tim?” Jason rasped softly.
Tim didn’t dare move. “What happened?” he whispered, his throat too hoarse to speak properly.
“Ivy and Scarecrow got into a fight,” Jason said, his tone emotionless, “You got in the middle of both of them.” Pollen and fear toxin—an unholy combination.
Tim slowly, carefully unclenched his hands from where they were fisted in Jason’s shirt. He stretched them out—unbroken and unburnt. His back ached, but there were no shrieking lines of fire running down it.
Tim moved back slightly, and Jason let him break his grip, his arms sliding to the side as Tim straightened.
“Pollen still affecting you?” Jason asked quietly.
Tim did a mental diagnosis, straightening and easing away from Jason—a dull pang of loss, a shivering desire for warmth and safety, but nothing more. He shook his head silently.
Jason nodded, and shifted—he spread his knees to slowly drop Tim to the floor before he straightened, pressing back against the wall as he pushed upright and stalked out of the room in clipped, rushed motions.
Ten seconds later, Tim heard retching from the bathroom.
Tim was frozen to the spot for a full minute, listening to Jason throw up, before he finally managed to gather the pieces of his floating mind and force himself up. He—he wanted hugs, he wanted to curl up with his family and finally feel safe.
He could still hear Hood’s cruel laughter in his ears, the way he said baby bird like it was a threat, like it was the edge of a poisoned knife, like he’d taken every ounce of family and distilled it into acid.
Tim stumbled to the kitchen and got two glasses of the specialty orange juice Jason kept in there, draining one before heading to the bathroom. He eyed the coffeepot, but he already felt like he was jittering out of his skin, coffee was not going to help.
Jason was dry heaving by the time he entered, stomach empty but still churning, hunched over the toilet. Tim settled a hand between his shoulder blades—Jason tensed, and Tim froze.
Gradually, the muscles under his palm relaxed, and Jason slumped back.
“Orange juice,” Tim offered. The cool juice had felt like heaven on his sore throat, and the sugar had helped dissipate the dull fog of fatigue.
“Thank you,” Jason murmured, rinsing out his mouth before accepting the glass. He leaned against the side of the bathtub as he took small sips.
He wasn’t looking at Tim. He was curled half away from him, staring into the distance, and Tim wanted to reach out and force him back.
“I’m sorry,” Tim said, and the words impacted Jason like they were a knife—Tim could actually see his expression shift to agony as he curled up further.
“Don’t,” Jason said hoarsely, shaking his head, “Please don’t—you didn’t do anything—”
“Neither did you,” Tim pointed out, feeling faintly ill himself. How long had he screamed and begged and sobbed unending cries of stop, please, I’m sorry, Hood, please?
Jason didn’t look like he believed him.
“You didn't,” Tim said, his voice still too hoarse for emphasis, but he crossed his arms and added a glare for good measure, “You would never hurt me.”
Jason made a harsh, unamused laugh, “I already have.”
“Before,” Tim scowled, “And you apologized and I forgave you, because you weren’t in your right mind, because you’re my brother, because I know you’ll do anything in your power to protect me.”
Jason still didn’t look like he believed him, his expression pained and resigned and despairing.
Tim crawled forward, until he could rest his arms on Jason’s raised knees. “You,” Tim said firmly, “Are not allowed to feel guilty over my fear toxin hallucinations.” He leaned forward, keeping Jason’s stare, “I’ve hallucinated Damian hurting me before. Bruce telling me I’ll never be a good enough Robin. Dick tearing the R off my chest. My family walking away. My family dying. My family dying at my hand—”
“I get your point,” Jason cut him off, “But this is different.”
Tim didn’t ask how, they both knew that this particular set of hallucinations had a distinct probability of becoming reality back in the days when Jason had been angry at everyone and everything and lashing out just to make them hurt. Instead, he laid his head down on top of his crossed arms.
“You really want to make it up to me?” Tim asked softly.
“Yes,” Jason replied near instantly.
Tim hid the smile. “Make me waffles,” he said, “I’m hungry.”
A stretching silence, broken by Jason’s shaky inhale. “You’re spending too much time with Steph,” he said, his tone too stuttering to sound entirely exasperated.
“Come on, Jay, it’s the one thing Alfred doesn’t know how to make,” Tim huffed, shifting as Jason straightened—he pulled Tim up, and Tim didn’t get the chance to get his feet under him before Jason hefted him up entirely. “Sometimes I get cravings too.”
“I swear, the lot of you only come and find me when you want me to cook something,” Jason grumbled as he carried Tim into the kitchen and set him on a stool. Some part of Tim mourned the loss of warmth, but it was assuaged by the easy way Jason moved around the kitchen, getting ingredients and laying them out and pouring him another glass of orange juice.
“Any special requests, baby bird?” Jason asked, glancing up.
He could still hear Hood, cruel and mocking in his head, twisting Tim’s nickname into a parody of affection.
But Hood wasn’t his brother. Jason was, and all Hood could claim was some painful memories and a few forgotten nightmares.
“Cinnamon, strawberries, and cream cheese?”