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Tim is sleeping in the guest room that’s unofficially his, because no matter how many times he tells Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth that he’s fine going to his own house when he’s done talking to Batman over the comms—the Robin suit is locked up but Tim’s confident he can wear Mr. Wayne down—they always insist he sleeps at the Manor.
It’s been a week and a half. Tim’s starting to suspect that this is a battle he’s not going to win.
But it’s not the worst thing in the world. It’s nice, to wake up and eat breakfast with real people and get a ride to school and talk about his day with someone. Besides, Tim needs all his energy to convince Batman to let him out as Robin. The fact that Tim’s on the comms has definitely reduced Batman’s violence, but not the kind of danger Batman throws himself into, and Tim knows that sometimes Batman forgets he’s there.
One time, Batman called him Robin and immediately cut the comms and when he came back he was soaking wet, but they didn’t talk about that.
Tim sleeps better in Wayne Manor, sleeps better knowing that there are other people in the house, and often he doesn’t get up until Mr. Pennyworth knocks on the door after his second alarm has gone off. School starts way too early in the morning and Tim’s convinced it should be a crime.
Usually, Tim finally drags himself out of bed at the prospect of Mr. Pennyworth’s breakfast, but this time he’s blearily silencing his first alarm when a piercing shriek splits the air.
Tim bolts upright, fully awake, heart pounding. He has a half second to wonder if it was a dream when it sounds again, louder and longer and keenly terrified.
Tim gets all the way to the door before he realizes that it’s Mr. Wayne screaming. Tim has never, ever heard Batman scream. Not on fear toxin. Not on anything. Tim can hear the sound of pounding footsteps and meets Mr. Pennyworth’s gaze as the butler leaps the last of the stairs, shotgun in hand.
Mr. Wayne is screaming like he’s dying.
There’s mud all over the hallway, sticking to Tim’s socks, and he follows the trail to the door. Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t bother announcing himself or even knocking, he just kicks the door in with a fluidity that astounds Tim, and barges in, shotgun raised.
He stops dead in the doorway. “What in heaven’s name,” the butler whispers, horrified.
Mr. Wayne has stopped screaming. Tim eels past Mr. Pennyworth and sees Mr. Wayne half-collapsed against the wall, a hand clapped over his mouth, eyes wide and face startlingly pale. Mr. Pennyworth’s hands are shaking, and the shotgun is aimed squarely at the bed, where a curiously dirt-covered figure is pushing themselves up, face scrunched up in pain.
Tim notes several things at once. The bloody, muddy hands. The grimy suit. The dazed expression in blue eyes. The very, very, very familiar features.
“Dad,” Jason Todd croaks out.
Mr. Wayne makes a sound like someone thrust a hand into his chest to claw out his heart. Mr. Pennyworth’s hands still, even as his expression fractures. “Who are you?” the butler demands, “Answer, or I’ll shoot!”
Jason doesn’t register the shout. His gaze is unwaveringly trained on Mr. Wayne, and faintly confused, like he can’t understand what’s going on. “Dad,” he repeats, voice raspy and wispy, and attempts to move forward, but his movements are extremely uncoordinated.
Mr. Wayne—Mr. Wayne is crying. Tim can hear the sobs.
“Halt!” Mr. Pennyworth orders in a trembling voice, “I demand to know who you are!”
Jason doesn’t even look at him, and Mr. Wayne isn’t moving or speaking or even blinking, so Tim steps forward, past the butler, until he can put a knee on the bed. “Master Tim!” Mr. Pennyworth inhales sharply, but Tim ignores him, focused on what caught his eye when Jason tried to move.
He carefully, gently, stretches out a hand. Jason’s attention swings to him when he gets close enough, and Tim holds his hand palm up, waiting with bated breath.
Jason studies his palm for a stretching moment before lifting his own and placing it in Tim’s. Tim holds his wrist instead of his hand, and tilts the hand up to the light.
Jason’s fingers are bleeding. His fingernails are gone, and his hands look like he tried to dig through mud. Tim suspects that if he follows the mud trail outside, it’ll lead to the family plot past the gardens.
Mr. Wayne makes a high, fractured, keening sound. Mr. Pennyworth mutters faintly, “Oh, my word.” Tim turns to look at them—Mr. Pennyworth has lowered the shotgun and Mr. Wayne has both hands clapped over his face and both of them look like they’re seeing their worst nightmare.
“Jason?” Tim calls out. Jason keeps tugging at Tim’s grip, eyes back on Mr. Wayne. Tim swallows. “Robin?” he tries, softer.
Jason’s gaze snaps to him, suddenly intent. It fades just as quickly, but for a moment, Tim can’t breathe.
It feels like a dream come true. It feels like a miracle.
But dreams don’t come true, and miracles can be poison, and both Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth look incapable of doing anything but staring, so Tim casts around for the courage he had two weeks ago when he went to Bludhaven to convince Dick Grayson to come home, and pulls on Jason’s hand.
“Jason, come with me,” Tim says quietly, levelly. The tone he uses on the comms when Batman is shuddering on a rooftop and taking too-fast breaths. “Jason, please come with me.”
“Dad,” Jason almost whines, other hand outstretched to Mr. Wayne, who is definitely having a breakdown, but Tim can only handle one crisis right now, and the dead boy is the priority.
Jason doesn’t feel dead though, his skin is warm under the dirt, and Tim can feel his pulse, and he shows a surprising resistance to be moved when Tim tugs at him. “Come on, Jason,” Tim cajoles, “Dad will come with you.”
Jason slumps towards him like a puppet with his strings cut, and Tim is so surprised at the sudden lack of resistance that he nearly goes tipping off the bed. Jason’s grip twists in an instant, gripping Tim’s hand, and Tim almost squeaks as he jerks to a halt.
Jason still isn’t looking at him. “Dad,” he repeats, and now he sounds like he’s begging, and Mr. Wayne is frozen where he’s sitting on the floor, tears streaming down his face. Tim quickly adjusts and manages to pull Jason off the bed and towards the door.
The walk downstairs is slow, mainly because Jason moves like he doesn’t know how his legs work, and the only reason they get anywhere is because Mr. Wayne is following them, chalk-white but apparently as unwilling to let Jason leave his sight as Jason is for him. Mr. Pennyworth is still holding the shotgun, like he expects Jason to turn into a zombie at any moment.
Jason might actually be a zombie—he was dead, Tim knows that, he’s seen the files, and Jason’s limbs are uncoordinated, and he’s extremely dazed—but if he is, he’s a very polite one. He doesn’t try to eat Tim’s brains once.
But the only way to know for sure if this is Jason or a very, very cruel trick is to run the tests down in the Cave. Jason makes no reaction at being led into a giant underground cavern, and no reaction to being pulled to the medbay.
Jason does balk, however, when Tim pulls out the needle for the blood draw. He doesn’t try to fight Tim, but he pulls at Tim’s grip with quiet, distressed noises and Tim halts, because he doesn’t want to hurt Jason, he doesn’t want to hurt his hero, but they need to know the truth—
“Here,” Mr. Pennyworth’s voice is uncharacteristically hoarse, “Let me.”
Tim passes the blood draw kit over and merely holds Jason’s hand as he shies away from the needle. Mr. Wayne is at the foot of the bed, looking ready to faint where he stands.
Mr. Pennyworth finishes the blood draw in complete silence and heads to the chemical analysis lab, and Jason uses the increased freedom of movement to reach for Mr. Wayne again. “Dad,” Jason repeats, looking confused and frustrated, and Mr. Wayne watches Jason with fractured eyes.
“Maybe you should help Mr. Pennyworth?” Tim suggests, but Mr. Wayne ignores him and Jason’s certainly not paying attention to him, so Tim just sits in the chair and holds Jason’s hand.
Holds Jason’s hand. A year ago, this would’ve been the greatest moment of his life. Six months ago, Tim would’ve given anything for the chance. Now, he can feel nothing but his stomach twisting into tight knots as his mind puzzles through a hundred what-if scenarios, each worse than the last.
What if this is a villain and Tim just led them to the Cave and—
What if this is a mass hallucination?
What if someone attacked Tim and this is all a dying dream?
What if this is Jason, but he’s still dead and they can’t see it?
What if this is Jason’s body but something else inside?
What if Jason is a vengeful spirit?
What if—
Both Tim and Mr. Wayne snap their gazes to Mr. Pennyworth when the sound of polished footsteps reaches their ears. The butler looks like he’s aged ten years, his eyes glistening.
“The—the preliminary blood tests came back positive. It’s a match.” Mr. Wayne doesn’t respond. Tim doesn’t know what he’s thinking—ruling out outcomes and updating the list of possibilities? Staring blankly at Jason? Jumping to worst-case scenarios?—but before anyone else can speak, the Batcomputer’s speakers crackle to life.
“Okay,” Oracle’s voice booms out, “What the everloving fuck is happening down there? I let you have your pity party because I was still recovering, Bruce, but I swear to god, if you dare disturb Jason’s memory—”
“Oracle,” Mr. Pennyworth clears his throat to cut over her, “We’ve—had a bit of a shock this morning.”
“What kind of shock and what does that have anything to do with Jason’s blood—”
“Perhaps,” the butler swallows, his gaze trained on Jason and equal parts grief and joy, “Perhaps it’s better if we show you.”
Jason is easily wrangled to stand in front of the Batcomputer, and Mr. Pennyworth switches on the video. Mr. Wayne still looks like a ghost, standing just out of Jason’s reach.
There is a long silence from the other end of the call. Tim squeezes Jason’s hand in his nervousness. To his surprise, Jason squeezes back.
“How,” is the only thing that echoes through Oracle’s harsh voice.
No one answers. “We don’t know,” Tim steps forward, “We just—he was in Mr. Wayne’s bed.”
“Is it…permanent?”
Judging by the way everyone startles, no one thought of that. Mr. Wayne jerks forward, eyes wide and terrified, and for the first time, he meets Jason’s outstretched hand and folds the mud-covered boy into a hug.
Tim can see the tension leave Jason’s body as he slumps against his father. “Dad,” Jason whispers, content.
“Agent A, you should call the League. Get someone there to—verify. And I’ll call Dick.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Mr. Pennyworth asks mildly, watching Mr. Wayne cradle his formerly dead son. There are a lot of tears. And sobs. And murmurs of how Jason was missed so, so very much. Tim feels awkward standing next to them. “What if it’s not permanent?” Mr. Wayne’s crying gets louder. “What if…it isn’t him?”
Oracle’s voice is quiet. “If it was you, would you wish to know? Even if it wasn’t permanent?”
Mr. Pennyworth takes a shaky breath. Oracle doesn’t wait for an answer before signing off. Tim stands there, leaning against the Batcomputer table, and watches Mr. Pennyworth raise a wavering hand to brush some dirt off of Jason’s hair.
If this isn’t Jason, it’s going to break them. And this time, Tim doesn’t know if he’ll be able to fix it.
Tim takes a deep breath before descending the last few steps. His phone sits in his pocket like a leaden weight, with its accompanying photos. His breath feels short, like his lungs are being squeezed. Like he’s trapped in a coffin six feet below, screaming for help.
He spots Jason curled up on the medbay cot, marginally cleaner out of the burial suit and with some of the mud scraped off, and Mr. Wayne is holding him like he never intends to let go. Mr. Pennyworth is hovering and Barbara Gordon is sitting on the other side of the bed, holding Jason’s limp hand.
For a moment, Tim panics, and then he detects Jason’s chest rising and falling, and he breathes out slowly. Jason is just asleep then, though he doesn’t stir even when a motorcycle roar fills the Cave.
Nothing Tim said managed to convince Dick to come back to Gotham, but Oracle is clearly made of sterner stuff. The motorcycle rolls to a stop in the garage, and Tim can see the anger in Dick Grayson’s jerky movements before the older boy pulls the helmet off to reveal the scowl.
“Why am I here?” Dick’s voice rings out loudly as he stalks towards them, “I told you all I don’t want to come back to Gotham, someone better be dying—”
Dick freezes mid-sentence when he finally gets a good look at the medbay.
Mr. Wayne raises his head. “Dick,” he croaks out, “It’s Jay. He’s—he’s back.”
Dick looks abruptly colorless and Tim hurries to his side to catch him if he falls.
“I told you you’d want to come by,” Barbara smiles, and it’s sad and disbelieving and achingly hopeful.
Dick’s mouth opens and closes and opens and closes. “How,” finally manages to claw out.
Tim speaks before anyone gets a chance. “He crawled out of his grave,” he says, and everyone in the room flinches. “I—I checked it. And took pictures. It looks like something tore up the grave from the inside.”
Mr. Pennyworth covers his mouth with a hand, Barbara muffles a sharp inhale, Mr. Wayne nearly crushes Jason to his chest, and Dick makes an awful, heartbroken sound. Dick moves, faster than a walk but not quite a run, and soon he’s pushing onto the cot to get closer to Jason.
“Jay?” Dick says softly, “Jaybird?”
“He isn’t completely lucid,” Barbara cautions, “He didn’t recognize me, and he’s only called for Bruce.”
“I’ve sent a request for assistance to the League,” Mr. Pennyworth says, “They should be arriving soon.”
Dick doesn’t act like he’s heard them, he’s intent on Jason. “Hey, Little Wing,” Dick murmurs, and Tim can see Jason’s eyes flutter open. He looks at Dick for a stretching moment, and then curls back against Bruce, burying his face against his father’s shoulder.
Dick makes a choked sound. Jason’s free hand is curled into his shirt.
Before Tim can decide what he should be doing—uploading the pictures to the Batcomputer, developing a list of theories, getting Jason a blanket—the zeta sounds, and John Constantine and the Martian Manhunter step through. The Cave erupts into a flurry of movement as instructions are lobbied to set up a clear space for the superheroes to work, and Tim finds himself standing on the sidelines, along with Dick, as Mr. Constantine stands next to Jason’s bed.
Barbara is at the Batcomputer, Mr. Pennyworth and Mr. Wayne are hovering at the very edge of the radius Mr. Constantine demanded, and the Martian Manhunter is silently waiting his turn. Jason is strapped down to prevent him from moving, and he does not look happy about it.
Dick is biting his lip so hard that it’s started bleeding, but he still spares half a glance at Tim to give him a smile. “Hey, kiddo,” Dick says, “How are you doing?”
Tim wants to point out that it’s okay, Dick doesn’t have to force himself to make small talk when his dead brother is right there being checked over, but he notices Dick’s hands trembling and realizes that it isn’t about him.
“I’m fine,” Tim answers.
“It must’ve been quite a shock,” Dick says quietly, gaze drifting to Jason before snapping back, “You sure you’re okay?” Tim nods. Why wouldn’t he be okay? He wasn’t—Jason wasn’t his friend or his brother or anything, Tim didn’t have a personal connection to be emotional over his resurrection. “You want a hug?” Dick half-extends his arms and waits.
The hug is for Dick, not Tim, Tim can see the fractured expression in Dick’s eyes, and so he allows himself to be swept up in the second ever Grayson hug he’s gotten.
It’s just as good as the first, even when Dick crumples to his knees and clutches Tim like a life raft, tears soaking Tim’s shirt as Tim gingerly pats him on the shoulder.
Tim keeps his gaze aimed at the medbay, heart in his throat, and watches the superheroes work.
“Well?” Both of the superheroes are done examining Jason, and Jason is back in Mr. Wayne’s arms and very, very grumpy. Dick is stroking his little brother’s hair, and Barbara and Mr. Pennyworth are surrounding the cot.
Tim stays where he is. On the outskirts. Waiting.
It’s strange how the knot in his stomach is equal parts hope and dread.
“Well, I can’t tell you how this happened,” Mr. Constantine lets out a slow breath, “No traces of magic on him. But yes, that’s Robin. It’s his soul, no passengers, no curses, no time limit. It’s like Death gave him back up.”
“Is it permanent?” Mr. Wayne asks hoarsely. His voice sounds even worse than the Batman growl.
“As permanent as living gets, mate.”
Dick bursts into tears again and scoops Jason into a hug. Mr. Wayne looks…happy, there’s a smile on his face for the first time in six months, and despite the tears, something in Tim’s gut clenches. Mr. Pennyworth is dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief and Barbara’s eyes are shiny. Even Mr. Constantine looks somewhat fond at the scene.
The Martian Manhunter steps forward, and his voice is measured and even, “I concur with John. What I have seen indicates that this is truly the mind of Jason Todd. However, it is fractured.” The Cave draws silent as they all stare at the telepath. “Jason has undergone severe trauma. He has hidden parts of himself to protect himself from the pain. He is not entirely lucid, not even when he’s awake.”
Mr. Wayne looks pale again. “A side effect of—dying?” he forces the word out with great difficulty.
“Of death? I do not believe so,” but the alien exchanges a glance with Mr. Constantine, who only shrugs. “But the…circumstances surrounding his death were acutely traumatic, from my understanding. I believe his mind sought to protect itself.” Mr. Wayne looks abruptly old. Dick is clutching Jason so hard that the boy is trying to wriggle free. “I do not believe it is permanent.”
The tension dissipates so fast it nearly makes Tim lightheaded, and that’s when he realizes he was holding his breath.
“How do we help him recover?” Mr. Wayne asks, brushing the hair away from Jason’s face. The boy tilts his head into the gesture but doesn’t make a sound. “Do we—can you just unlock—”
“I would not recommend it. Unlocking by force would be…unpleasant, and have long-ranging effects on his emotional state. This is a desperate attempt at self-preservation. Time and support should help him recover.” The Martian Manhunter’s voice drops to a softer tone, “Let him remember home and family slowly. He will reemerge when he realizes it’s safe.”
Home and family. It’s enough to drop a stone through the pit of Tim’s stomach.
He distantly hears Mr. Pennyworth and Barbara thanking the heroes for coming by as he watches Mr. Wayne press his forehead to Jason’s hair. He’s crying again. He’s more emotional than Tim’s seen in the past two weeks, his defenses utterly wrecked, and yet he seems more whole.
The cloud of grief that clung to him is gone. To all of them. Barbara is smiling brightly, Dick rests a head against Mr. Wayne’s shoulder without a single insult, and Jason curls up in the midst of his family, safe and alive.
Well. It looks like Tim’s job is over.
This was always supposed to be temporary, just a crutch for Batman until he recovered, but Tim wasn’t expecting it to last only two weeks. He—it’s the heights of ridiculousness to say that he got used to it, to staying in the Manor, to talking to Batman on comms, to being with his heroes instead of watching them through a camera, when it was only a handful of days.
He’s happy. He really, really is. He’s so happy that Jason’s alive, that Jason’s back, that they had a miracle, that he can barely feel the pain of his heart shattering into little pieces.
Tim always knew this was temporary. And now it’s time for him to go. He’ll just—pack up his stuff and move it back home before giving Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth a short goodbye. They don’t need to worry about him when they should be focused on Jason.
Should he get them a gift for letting him stay in their home for two weeks? Should he get Jason a gift for coming back to life? Or are they not going to make a big deal about this?
Tim is drawn out of the spiral of questions by the sound of echoing footsteps, and he looks up when the footsteps stop right in front of him. The Martian Manhunter looks down at him.
Oh.
Tim goes cold. It’s like ice spreading through his veins, trickling down his arms and into his fingers, a strange, paralyzing numbness. It makes sense. Tim is a liability. Now that Jason’s back, Mr. Wayne doesn’t need him, and Tim knows too many secrets. Of course they want to take them from him.
He’s going to forget Batman. Forget Robin. Forget all those nights with his camera, watching his heroes, wishing he could be one of them—
“Your place is still here,” the Martian Manhunter says softly, “You are not forgotten.”
What? Before Tim can speak, the Martian Manhunter glides away. Tim’s memories are still intact—Batman is Bruce Wayne, Robin is Jason Todd, newly back to life, Nightwing is Dick Grayson is…waving at him?
“Tim,” the older boy beckons, an exhausted smile on his face, “Get over here.” It takes Tim a while to unfreeze, but eventually he steps up to the cot, and with Dick’s encouraging expression, nervously shuffles on top of it. “C’mere,” Dick pulls him even closer, until he’s pressed flush to his side.
“What?” Tim manages, this time out loud, and Mr. Wayne looks him, his expression fonder and happier and directed at him, and Tim stays perfectly, utterly still as Mr. Wayne leans over to hug him as well.
“Thank you,” Mr. Wayne says quietly, “You were very helpful today, Tim. I’m proud of you.”
Tim feels like a tiny volcano is erupting inside of him. His whole face is burning. He wants to protest that he didn’t do anything, but his throat is locked up and his eyes are prickling and he doesn’t want to cry in front of his heroes.
He eventually manages to breathe again.
Jason’s fingers are wrapped tightly in his.
Six months later, Talia shows up with a scowling child.