oh well, i guess we’re gonna pretend
Rating: T
Warnings: Blood and Injury, Torture (non-graphic, mostly implied)
Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd
Summary: Robin!Tim gets caught and help comes from an unlikely source.
Cross posted: FFN and AO3. (A/N found on both sites)
For: @lurkinglurkerwholurks for the prompt: A character flipping into hardcore MINE mode over another when the latter is in danger or threatened (bonus points if the two characters are currently on the outs but nevertheless go totally Ride Or Die)
~o~
This was bad.
This was the kind of bad that Tim had managed to avoid so far since taking up the role of Robin. He’d only hit the streets officially for the first time three months ago, post-many months of intense physical and mental training. This was exactly the second time Batman and he were apart for longer than a couple of hours at a time.
It was almost funny, actually, how fast Tim managed to screw everything up. After all, he took on Robin in order to stop Batman from spiraling into a hole he would likely never escape from alone after the death of his partner. The death of his son.
As far as Tim was concerned, he had one job: Don’t die. He would also be the first to admit that that was harder than he’d thought it would be.
He’d made a mistake. He’d gotten caught. He’d been—was being beaten. And he wasn’t sure if Batman even realized he was gone. They’d separated earlier in the night, exactly according to plan. Tim on recon on one end of town, Batman on the other, chasing two different leads on the location of a major arms deal that was supposed to go down the next night. They would then continue on their normal patrol routes, Tim flying truly solo for the first time, and meet back in the Cave afterwards. It was a first flight. A test of trust on the Bat’s end and independence on Tim’s.
Problem was, the empty warehouse Tim was supposed to investigate hadn’t been empty when he’d arrived. Either someone tipped the mooks off that the Dynamic Duo was onto them and they’d moved up the date, or Batman’s information had been faulty. Tim was leaning towards the former. However, before he could comm the Bat and warn him of the change, someone had clubbed him from behind.
Tim wasn’t supposed to check in for…maybe another hour? Two? He wasn’t sure. Time seemed to be dragging by unnaturally slow, and there wasn’t exactly a clock he could check himself on. He’d passed out a few times, too, which didn’t really lend itself to accurate time keeping.
His only frame of reference?
The bruise count. Turned out, baseball bats hurt when they were swung into flesh and bone rather than rawhide. His ribs could attest to that. The more time passed, the more aches and pains he accrued.
The other hint that he’d overstayed his welcome: He could no longer feel his hands. They were strung up somewhere above his head, metal cuffs digging into exposed wrists and holding him up so his bare toes barely grazed the ground. Come to think of it, he couldn’t feel those either. Which was…concerning.
But on the plus side, if he couldn’t feel them, they couldn’t hurt. Unlike his rib cage, twinging and protesting at his current position and every subsequent movement. Actually, his cheek hurt now, too. Which…ow. Ow.
Tim’s head snapped to the side with the force of the next blow, and he groaned as that set his whole body rocking, reigniting the pain signals through to his brain.
“—listening, brat?”
Tim blinked his eyes open—when had they closed?—squinting under the pale yellow glare of the stereotypical bare bulb abandoned warehouse lighting and into the leering face of his captor.
Miles Bandini’s gold tooth glinted a tad too bright in the dim light. A greasy combover made his forehead appear entirely too large, and a domineering sneer that could put Two-Face to shame completed the mob boss look.
The best part was, there really wasn’t anything special about this guy. He wasn’t a psychopath, didn’t have a PhD in some random field, and hadn’t assigned a colorful, inappropriate persona to theme his wrongdoings. He was just another crime lord who’d taken a shine to Gotham and the ease of criminal activity therein.
And Tim, like an idiot, ran straight into his trap.
Noticing Tim’s attention, Bandini’s sneer somehow deepened. “I guess you’re still alive, then. For now.”
Tim remained silent, mustering what energy he had left to raise his head and glare.
This seemed to amuse the crook. He patted Tim’s cheek, right on the bruise one of his goons had left behind. “Wonder where your big friend is, hmm? It’s a shame he’s left you alone for so long.”
The henchmen chortled behind him.
“Look, Robin,” Bandini drawled. “You seem like a nice kid. So I’m going to give you one last chance to walk out of this building alive. Answer two questions for me, would you? Just two, and you get to see the sunrise.” He leaned forward, hook nose only centimeters from Tim’s. “Where is the Batman? And how much does he know about us?”
Tim licked his cracked, bloody lips. Tongue working in an effort to muster up what moisture he had left. He opened his mouth.
Bandini leaned forward eagerly.
Tim spat in his face.
The man recoiled with a cry, hand flying up to where a mixture of Tim’s blood and spit now coated his cheek. Beady black eyes met his, a murderous expression twisting the man’s features.
Tim barely had time to think “uh oh” before the crook pitched a roundhouse into his stomach. Something in his chest shifted.
Pain exploded as every broken bone, every abused muscle, every organ screamed in protest, even as his voice choked out nothing more than a strangled unf.
Tim couldn’t breathe. Tim couldn’t breathe. What air he managed to pull through his mouth came in short gasps and wheezes, not remaining long enough or deep enough in his lungs to perform the appropriate gas exchange. Spots danced before his vision, fuzzy black creeping in on the edges.
Bandini was yelling, the words distant and muffled as if through fabric, gesticulating wildly with something suspiciously shiny, silver, and gun-shaped at Tim.
With a detached sort of panic, Tim realized he was going to die. Either from his injuries, or from the bullet the crime lord was prepped to gift him, didn’t matter.
Only a year into the job and he’d already failed his main objective.
Something cold and achingly familiar pressed into his forehead. The barrel of a gun.
Tears prickled in Tim’s eyes. I’m so sorry, Bruce.
The gunshot echoed through the warehouse. Tim flinched. The gun barrel slid away from his forehead.
Wait…Tim shouldn’t have been able to flinch. He was…not dead? For sure, everything hurt too much for him to be dead.
A low, ominous chuckle burst through the ensuing silence, echoing through the warehouse and sending a shiver down Tim’s spine. The sound of something heavy landing on concrete slammed into his eardrums.
Welp. Only one way to find out. Reluctantly, Tim pried his eyes open, blinking in an attempt to bring the world back into focus.
The first thing he noticed was Miles Bandini collapsed on the ground at his feet, blood pooling around him from the hole in his chest. The second thing was the bright red helmeted figure standing in the center of the room, back towards Tim.
“Well, well, well,” the Red Hood drawled. “What do we have here?”
Whatever shock Bandini’s mooks seemed to be in began to wear off, half pulling their weapons, the other half taking an uncertain step back.
“Get him!” a voice—ah, the second in command accountant in the tweed jacket—screamed.
Quick as lightning, the Red Hood swung in Tim’s direction, gun hefted in one hand, knife in the other, and Tim flinched. If he wasn’t dead before, he was definitely screwed now. Hood pitched the knife in his direction. But instead of slicing into Tim’s chest, it collided with the cable holding him up, cutting through the metallic fiber like butter.
Tim hit the ground with an oof, what little air he had managed to suck in abandoning him in one pained puff.
Ow ow owowowowow.
Fire lanced up his arms and shoulders as they were released from the strain of holding his weight, joining the steady inferno of what had to be at least two or three broken ribs in his chest. His vision whited out as agony encompassed every inch of him, making him uncomfortably aware of every little hurt he’d received since being strung up.
Okay, Tim. Breathe. Breathing was good. Breathing was life.
It really shouldn’t have been this difficult to pull in air.
Around him, gunshots rang off the walls and old shelving as round after round was shot off at the lone figure devastating their ranks. Despite everything, Tim’s inner fanboy lit up. This was as cool as it was dangerous—for the crooks and Tim alike.
It had been years since he’d last seen Jason fight. Rather, fight in a way that didn’t involve Tim actively defending himself. Jason was all muscle, visible beneath even the thick leather jacket, and yet he had the deadly precision of an expert marksman and the grace of a martial artist. He used all of those things to his advantage as he tore through the mob, laying waste to everyone within his rather large range. After all, how many people could claim to have been trained by Batman and the League of Assassins? These amateurs didn’t stand a chance.
Tim just wished he had his camera.
And then, as quickly as the bloody battle started, it ended. The Red Hood loomed in front of him, hovering almost protectively, gun pressed against the forehead of the last perp standing.
“The only one who gets to take a potshot at my replacement,” Hood hissed, “is me.”
Tim shivered. From Hood’s tone, or the blood loss, he wasn’t sure.
Then Hood leveled a kick into the man’s rib cage, an audible crack sounding through the warehouse as the man fell to the ground with a howl.
“Tell your friends,” Hood said lightly. Then, when the man gaped up at him: “Unless you’d rather join them…?” He gestured at the limp forms of the bullet-riddled, definitely dead crooks scattered around them.
The guy was gone next time Tim opened his eyes. Huh. That was fast.
A brief thrill of panic shivered up his spine as Hood’s blank lenses suddenly leveled down at him. Tim silently cursed himself. He should’ve used the distraction to escape, should have unpicked the cuffs and scooted out of here before Jason turned on him. Problem was, he didn’t think he could move even if he tried.
Jason cocked his head—almost considering. He sighed, the sound echoing strangely through the filter and voice modulator. “Guess if you bled out now, there would be no point, hm?”
Tim stared. Not quite comprehending as the former Robin crouched beside him, rolling him over onto his back. Which actually helped the breathing issue, but….
“I’m going to move you, Pretender,” Jason warned. “This building’s rigged to blow, and that perp’s got the trigger. Try to stay loose.”
One arm tucked under Tim’s neck, the other under his legs, and wow, okay, apparently they broke his tibia.
Tim blacked out.
He came to blinking up at the stars through a fire escape in an alley he recognized to be near the docks. His body instantly protested his very existence, screaming as though he’d been dropped into a compactor and then thrashed in a woodchipper. Dimly, he became aware of a shadowy figure over him, of gloved hands tightening a pressure bandage around his thigh.
It all came back in a rush—his capture, the fight, Red Hood—and Tim instinctively scrambled back from the man looming over him, heart pounding out of his chest. He regretted the movement instantly as it jarred his broken body, his wrist apparently some degree of broken as it caved under his weight so he flopped gracelessly back against the pavement.
“Oi, hold still,” Jason snapped, “you’re making yourself worse.”
Tim froze at the command, staring wide-eyed at the crook who had himself beaten Tim to a bloody pulp only a few months ago.
This image didn’t fit. It didn’t make sense. There had to be some ulterior motive to saving him, perhaps some mind game to mess with Bruce. What else would motivate Hood to help him out of the blue?
Resolve flared, hot and fast. Tim wouldn’t allow himself to be used against the Bat again.
But Jason just continued twirling the fabric around Tim’s leg until he was apparently satisfied, snipping off the end and tying it off. He snagged another pressure bandage and began work on Tim’s shoulder. Not speaking. Not even looking at him.
Slowly, Tim allowed himself to relax, mind spinning in confusion.
“W—Why?” Tim wheezed. Wishing he could muster something a little more intimidating than the dry, barely audible croak that squeezed out of his throat.
Jason continued wrapping the bandages, quiet for long enough Tim figured he hadn’t heard him.
But then, “No one deserves to die without having a chance at fighting back.” Quiet. Angry. And…if Tim didn’t know better, a hint of the growl Batman always got when he was feeling particularly protective.
Jason tied off the last bandage with a couple quick motions and stood. He unslung Tim’s utility belt from over his shoulder, pressing the emergency tracker embedded in the side. How did he know where—?
“Bats should be here soon,” Jason said, voice flat, which didn’t match the gentle pat he gave Tim’s uninjured leg. “Don’t wait up.”
The older teen stood, his combat boots retreating down the alleyway the last thing Tim saw before his eyes closed against his will.
“Oh, and Replacement?” Tim heard, almost as if through a tunnel. “Don’t expect a repeat performance. This doesn’t change anything.”
Despite his swollen cheeks, Tim grinned against the pavement. Of course not, he thought. Inexplicably giddy. Why would it?
Tim passed out to the sound of a grapple fun firing off into the distance and the rumble of a familiar engine echoing into the alleyway.