Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The kid was out cold.

Jason hadn’t moved for almost an hour, just kept an arm draped loosely against Tim’s narrow shoulders, hardly daring to move in fear of waking up the twelve-year-old breathing slow and steady against his chest. The kid was a furnace under the blanket, all bony limbs and oversized hoodie sleeves that swallowed his hands. One sock was halfway off, and his hair stuck up in every direction, flattened in some places and wildly curled in others. Tiny fists still clutched Jason’s jacket like a lifeline, even in sleep—like letting go might mean falling, or worse, waking up alone.

It was both infuriating and heartbreaking.

Infuriating, because this shouldn’t have happened. Heartbreaking, because it had.

Jason couldn’t stop thinking—couldn’t stop burning.

Because how the hell had this happened?

How had a twelve-year-old—twelve—slipped through every net in their so-called “family?” A twelve-year-old had crept past Bruce’s security, ghosted Alfred, and evaded Bat-grade surveillance like it was child’s play? How had he hunted down the city’s most dangerous crime lord? Why had he decided to hunt down Jason Todd, Red Hood, the man who had never hidden his dislike for the passing down of Robin? How could Tim slip through the cracks, only to track him down and fall asleep in his bed like it was the only safe place he had?

Like it was normal.

Like there was nothing else for him.

Like Jason wouldn’t wake up and realize that it had all been a mistake.

As if he would wake up and it all had been a dream.

It wasn’t, though.

It couldn’t be. Not when Tim’s head weighed heavily on his chest, when the kid had barely made it through the door before collapsing. Not when he was far too slender for his age, exhausted by life and the pains that he had endured. Not when he was shaky, trembling, and trying so hard not to cry. The way he’d looked up at Jason- eyes wide and voice small. The way he’d curled into the warmth, had sighed as the warmth soothed something that had been aching within him for years.

The way he had clung tightly to the man that planned on hurting him and asked, “Can I stay?” 

Voice soft and painfully young, reaching as if he didn’t care who Jason was, that he was the Red Hood, the crime lord with a vendetta against the Bats.

No please . No sorry . Just— Can I stay?

Like he already knew the answer might be no. Like he’d heard no before. 

Jason had said yes, of course he did. What else was he supposed to say when a broken, haunted twelve-year-old showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night? What else was there to do when there was a child running on empty, burning himself down to keep those that he loved happy- even as he believed they didn’t love him? How could he not when this self-less child kept trying to carry the world, and saw the good in him, even after all that he had done?

He should’ve been furious. Should have shouted from the rooftops, taken to patrol, should have done something other than lie here now and ache-ache for the child on his chest. The child who had been failed by everyone in his life, who had believed himself to be loveless. And maybe he was angry. Angry at Bruce and Dick for never seeing it. At Alfred for never saying anything. At Jack and Janet Drake for being shitty parents.

But the anger had nowhere to go—it twisted inward, bitter and sharp and useless, because Jason knew who it was really for. Not Tim. Never Tim.

It had never been his fault, even when he had seen him flying in the nightsky, wearing the colors he had died in. Following Batman and Nightwing with solemn faces, wandering Gotham in his death shroud. Not even when he had seen green at the sight of him- at the boy he foolishly believed to be his replacement.

No, it was for the rest of them.

For the man who called himself a father but didn’t notice when his kid went missing. For the butler who was supposed to know everything and somehow missed this. For the brothers too busy saving the world to see that one of their own was drowning in silence.

And for Jason himself.

Because the truth was—he hadn’t seen it either.

Not really.

He had been blind, stewing in anger. Angry at the injustice of his death, Bruce didn’t believe him, and Bruce wouldn’t avenge his death. He had been so, so angry, caught up in the heady warmth that the Lazarus pit madness brings.

It had robbed him of his life, of his humanity. It had stripped away his kindness and optimism, leaving him broken.

For so long, he’d been consumed with everything h’ed lost that he’d stopped looking for what might still be worth saving. Only this kid- too small, too smark, too tired- had shown up and shattered the fortress Jason had built around himself. Tim hadn’t knock on his door like a soldier, nor had he marched in like a rival. He’d arrived with a question mark, with shaking hands and wide eyes, too brave for his own good. And now he was here, curled up like a secret Jason hadn’t realized he’d been keeping space for, something warm and real and breakable.

The guilt sat heavy in his throat- because maybe he hadn’t pulled the trigger, but Tim had been left behind. And yet he had come anyway. He had slipped through the cracks, climbed through shadows, and crawled through Jason’s broken world like he belonged there. Like he somehow knew, Jason might be just as broken; believing with all his might that Jason would be able to catch him.

So the kid showed up in his space like a ghost made real, shivering and silent and stubborn, trying not to look like he needed to be held. Like he needed Jason to be the one who saw, the one who wouldn’t let him fade away into nothingness. As if he knew Jason needed him as much as he needed Jason.

And somewhere in the silence, as he reflects on the damage he’s caused, he can’t help but feel that it’s fitting- to feel like a monster, to want something so much, to want to hold his baby brother within his arms. 

There is an ever-increasing part of him that can’t help but feel unworthy. Innocence, after all, once lost, can never be regained. And Jason? Jason has stared death in the eyes and come back in pieces. He tore himself from the grave, dug through the ground. He had lived through darkness, had shed his softness and kindness alike. There is no regaining his innocence, no way of denying the way violence is haunting him. How can he when there is blood staining his hands? How can he when it’s so much easier to be angry, to linger in the green.

But he can’t. Not anymore. Not with Tim sleeping on his chest, clutching his jacket like it was the only anchor he had left. As if it were the last tie to something gentler than all he’s ever known.

Jason exhaled shakily and tightened his arm just a little, just enough to keep Tim close without waking him.

“Jesus, kid,” he muttered softly, shifting to rest his cheek against Tim’s hair. “What the hell did they do to you?”

There was no answer, only the sound of Tim’s breathing, steady and slow, like maybe, for once, he felt safe.

And Jason would be damned if anyone took that away from him now.

Chapter Text

Jason moved carefully, inch by inch, slowly easing out from under the blanket, as if it might explode if he moved too fast. Tim murmured something faint and unintelligible, but didn’t wake. Just curled tighter into the dented space Jason left behind, burying his face into the still-warm blanket like a cat chasing heat.

He hesitated, just for a moment, watching the way the kid clutched the fabric, how his fingers twitched like he was still holding onto Jason’s jacket even in sleep. Then he turned away, jaw tight.

The floorboards creaked as he stepped into the main room, every step heavier now that he wasn’t guarding something fragile. He pulled on his boots with practiced movements, shoved his arms back into the leather jacket he hadn’t meant to take off, and tossed his helmet on the table beside his guns. The clatter was sharp in the quiet.

He dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and ripped out his burner phone. The screen lit up. He stabbed in the number with more pressure than necessary, like it was the phone’s fault.

Dick picked up on the third ring.

“Jay?” came the voice—surprised, confused, and just a little hopeful, like maybe he was dreaming. “Is that—?”

Jason didn’t wait.

He didn’t breathe.

He exploded.

“Why the fuck is Robin sleeping in my bed?”

There was a beat of dead silence on the other end, and then Dick’s voice again—careful, uncertain, too slow for Jason’s blood-boiling pace.

“…Sorry, what now?”

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, teeth gritted, pacing like a caged animal. He could still feel the warmth of Tim’s too-small body curled up against him like a kicked puppy who’d finally found a quiet corner.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Dick. Tim. Tiny. Four-foot-nothing and apparently fucking Batman’s emotional support child? He knocked on my door at two in the goddamn morning. You wanna guess how many guns I had pointed at him before I realized he was twelve?”

There was movement on the other end—rustling, maybe the sound of Dick sitting up or getting out of bed. His voice, when it came, was lower. Sharper. “Wait—Tim’s with you? At your place?”

Jason let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Oh no, not just with me. Asleep . Out cold. Curled up in my bed like he lives here. Like this is where he had to be. Like the rest of you weren’t good enough so he came to me. ”

“Jason—”

“He had a hoodie on, Dick,” Jason cut in, voice dropping. “Big enough to drown in. No coat. Soaked through. He was shaking. Not from the cold either. And he still looked me in the eye and asked, real quiet, ‘Can I stay?’ Like he was bracing for a no. Like he expected it.”

The silence on the other end turned heavy. Guilty.

“Jesus,” Dick finally whispered.

“Yeah,” Jason said. His throat felt raw. “Jesus.”

Another pause on the line.

Then—softly, stunned, like the air had just been knocked out of him—
“He found you?”

Jason scoffed, low and bitter. “Oh, he found me. Kid hunted me like a goddamn ghost story. Knocked on my safehouse door in the middle of the night wearing a hoodie three sizes too big, soaked to the bone, shaking like a leaf and trying to act like he wasn’t. Looked like a kicked puppy that hadn’t slept in a week.” He paced the length of the room again, fast and agitated, phone pressed hard to his ear. “You wanna try again and tell me how exactly a middle schooler managed to track me down better than you ever did?”

“Jay…” Dick’s voice was softer now, the bravado peeled away. “We didn’t know he was looking.”

Jason barked a laugh—sharp, jagged, joyless. “Yeah? Well he was. And he’s good at it. He’s been watching you idiots dance around each other for months while he’s been doing your damn job. Keeping tabs. Patching cracks. Holding it all together like he’s not still a kid .”

“Hey,” Dick said, and there was some fight in it now, some guilt, some sting. “That’s not fair—”

“You left him alone, Dick.” Jason’s voice cracked, low and furious. “Don’t even try to defend it. You left me , and then you left him . And now he thinks it’s his job to fix Bruce. To hold the family together with duct tape and spit. He’s twelve , Dick. Twelve. And you’re all too busy playing damage control with each other to even see him.”

There was no immediate response. Just the quiet hum of the phone line and the sound of Jason’s boots pacing over the worn wood floor.

When Dick finally spoke, his voice sounded different. Smaller. Older.
“…Is he okay?”

Jason stilled.

He turned, eyes drifting back toward the bedroom—toward the lump curled beneath his blankets. Tim hadn’t moved, still tucked into himself like he was afraid of being kicked out at any moment. One hand peeked from beneath the blanket, still gripping Jason’s jacket in his sleep.

Jason’s anger flared and softened all at once. He exhaled through his nose.

“No,” he said, voice stripped down to the truth. “He’s not okay.”

A beat.

“But he’s safe. He’s here.”

The silence stretched. Then:

“…Can I come get him?”

Jason’s eyes went ice-cold.

“No,” he said flatly.

“No?” Dick echoed, startled.

“You heard me.” Jason’s voice was iron. “You don’t get to come play big brother just ‘cause you got a wake-up call in the middle of the night. This isn’t about your conscience. He’s staying here. With me . Until I say otherwise.”

“Jason—”

“You want him safe?” he cut in, sharp and furious again. “Then start acting like you give a damn. Not just when it’s convenient. Not just when you’re scared. And don’t ever let him sneak out again.”

Another pause. This one quieter. He could hear the breath leave Dick’s lungs, like the guilt had finally landed.

“I didn’t know he needed me,” Dick whispered.

Jason exploded.

“ Of course he needed you, Dick! He’s twelve. ” The words ripped out of him like a shot, raw and furious and shaking with something too sharp to be grief and too bitter to be love. “Twelve-year-olds need guardians. Supervision. Someone to make them dinner and tell them to go to bed and check that they fucking came home from school in one piece!”

“I—” Dick tried, but Jason didn’t let up.

“You think just ‘cause he’s quiet and clever and doesn’t cry in front of you that he’s fine? That he doesn’t notice? That he doesn’t need anyone ?” His voice cracked. “You don’t get it. You never fucking got it. You were eighteen , and you still clung to Bruce like he hung the stars. And Tim? He’s twelve. He’s alone. And he went looking for me , Dick. Me . The family fuck-up. The dead one.”

“Jay—”

“He came to me,” Jason snarled. “Didn’t go to the Tower. Didn’t call you. Didn’t even knock on Bruce’s door. He found a way to track me , the one person who’s supposed to hate his guts, because whatever we are, I was the only one left who didn’t leave .”

There was a heavy, choking silence on the line. Jason could hear Dick breathing. Could imagine the wide, wounded look in his eyes, the way he’d be sitting there in the dark like a kicked dog, too late to stop anything, too slow to fix it.

Good.

Jason wasn’t done.

“He needed you, and you weren’t there,” he bit out. “You know what he asked me, right before he passed out? ‘Am I allowed to stay?’ Like I was gonna kick him out for existing. Like he didn’t even know if he deserved a place to sleep.”

“Oh my god,” Dick breathed.

Jason pressed the heel of his palm to his eye, trying to force the burn away. “I don’t know what the hell happened in that house, but you should’ve noticed, Dick. You should’ve seen it. He’s been breaking down for weeks. Quietly. Neatly. Like he thought that’s what he was supposed to do.”

He paused. Lowered his voice.

“He looks like I did. Right before I died.”

The words landed like lead in the silence between them.

When Dick finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Jason…”

“I’m not letting him go,” Jason said. Not softly. Not cruelly. Just like it was the goddamn truth. “Not until he believes he’s wanted. Until he stops flinching every time someone reaches for him. Until he stops thinking he’s only worth something when he’s useful.”

“…Can I at least come see him?”

Jason’s voice was steady. Final.

“When he wants you to.”

And then, without waiting for an answer, Jason hung up.