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Wind against his face. Tim could feel the darkness of the night, the heartbeat of the city. Gotham was thrumming with energy. He flew, his cheeks rosy against the cold. He flew– and he knew he would never fall– because Bruce would always catch him.
---------
(Tim JJ screamed as electricity pulsed through him. He was on fire.
Every nerve in his body screamed. His blood burned– flickers of light fluttered in his vision. Something was burning, hot liquid pain eating through his nerves. He couldn’t breathe through the pain, couldn’t think– all he knew was that he wouldn’t survive, couldn’t survive this–
Junior made an animalistic, desperate sound, arching against the restraints.
Joker smiled at him, yellow teeth stained and sharp like a wolf. He lowered the electricity enough for a brief respite.
“You’ll be good– won’t you Junior?”
Junior nodded, panicked giggles spilling forth. His chest hurt, but he couldn’t help but laugh.The Joker Venom pulsed in his veins, turning every choked gasp into a burst of giggles. The venom squeezed his lungs, flooded his brain, until all he could do was laugh to ease the burning pressure.
“Say it! Tell papa what you’re gonna do and I’ll stop.”
“The bats are going to go BANG– and they will splat splat– Splat. I’mma make them SPLAT.”
“Good boy,” Joker crooned. His smile felt too oily and sharp to be genuine.
Joker pushed the lever up.
Junior screamed.
Liar. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR.)
___________
The gun felt cold and heavy, the metal cool against his hand. Junior’s hands twitched: it was hard to keep them still, nerve endings firing and twitching after Joker broke his fingers. He knew it was loaded with three bullets. One for each of the bats. Junior’s hands trembled as he fought to keep it level.
The three bats in question had been bound and gagged– save for Batman, courtesy of the Joker. Joker had wanted to hear him beg. Imagine, he’d hissed, the great big bat reduced to nothing but a shivering, pathetic mess.
The thought made a burst of giggles rise up. His ribs hurt with the force of his laughter, but he couldn’t hold it back. The Joker venom crawling through his veins made it impossible. It felt pervasive, a burning sensation that he couldn’t shake.
Nightwing was straining against his bonds, with almost a frantic desperation. Underneath the cowl, his clear blue eyes were calm and pleading, the unspoken message hung in the air: You don’t have to do this.
(Dick liked cereal and hugs. His favorite food was mac and cheese, despite being lactose intolerant. He smelled safe– petrichor and cinnamon–and his arms were always warm.
Nightwing’s parents went SPLAT!
Blood and flesh and the broken angles of their bodies, seeping the ground red.
SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA)
Junior swallowed back the taste of bile.
“Cmon, Junior,” Joker’s voice slithered through the air, “Don’t keep Papa waiting.”
Right. Right. He could do this. All he had to do was pull the trigger. He swallowed down his giggles, steadying his arm as he aimed.
“Tim,” Batman’s voice was deep, soothing. It felt like a cool balm on an aching wound. Something in his chest screamed– His ribs couldn’t hold back the bleeding, snarling monster that was his heart. He was scared that everything would spill out, burst from his chest until the rot from within showed, black muck pooling around his dead body.
“Tim.”
That name again. (He was NOT-Tim. Tim loved photography and flying and the feeling of wind against his hair. Junior was a broken thing, infested with rot and maggots and mold. He could almost imagine them, creeping beneath his eyes, squirming in his heart. He would never be Tim. He was Junior. Joker drilled that through his skull again and again, carved the word Junior into his skin until he understood that Tim was dead– would forever be dead. That he was never to utter the name again.)
“You don’t have to be scared.”
Why would he be scared? He had the gun. He had the power. Why would he be scared?
(Why couldn’t he shake the trembling, the coldness in his stomach, the aching in his heart as he made eye contact with The Bat? Why did something in him scream– like a broken bird with it’s wing broken, yet still aching to fly–straining against the torture and the brainwashing as it ached to break free?)
Batman looked at him. The opaque lenses of the mask had been retracted, showing his light blue eyes. His expression was calm, despite the gun being shakily pointed at him. When he looked at Tim, his eyes flickered with guilt and some other emotion he couldn’t place. (It couldn’t be love. No one loved Junior. And that Bat was bad, Joker had told him, he would hunt Tim down and hurt him and that’s why Junior had to kill him.)
“I know you’re in there, Tim. You love photography and skateboarding and–”
“SHUT UP!” Joker roared. Junior flinched as a piece of spittle landed on his cheek. Joker’s eyes blazed with anger. (Bad things happened when Papa was angry. But that was because Junior had been bad and he’d deserved the punishments)
“–and you’re kind and–”
“Kill him, Junior!” Joker was screaming now, “KILL HIM! SHOOT HIM! PULL THE TRIGGER, NOW!”
Junior shook, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think– everything was too loud. His heart fluttered in his chest like a dying bird, smashing against the walls of his ribcage.
He could almost feel the sensation of another boy. They shared the same skin (wasn’t that funny?). They were both two broken things, stretching against a body that was too small, pulling against the skin as they ached to break free. Both broken, except Tim was just better at hiding it.
Junior pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The Joker fell to the ground, dead. There was a bullet hole between his eyes, seeping dark red blood onto the floor.
Junior couldn’t breathe. Claws dug into his lungs, squeezing.
The blood red stark against his powdery white skin– that grotesque face still against death. Something tore in his chest, howling with approval. A sweet, slick monster that licked its lips, satisfied with the stillness in front of him.
It felt good.
Red, red, red, pooling from the dead body, licking at the edges of Tim’s feet. (Would Tim still bleed red, or would the rot in him stain his blood black?)
He imagined nestling the gun under his chin, that cool metal biting into his skin. Would it hurt when he pulled the trigger? When the red and the rot and the thing crawling inside him finally spill out?
Junior’s hands were shaking as they gripped the smoking weapon, his breath trapped in his chest. Laughter strained against his ribs, with a relentless pressure that demanded to be released. He kept his mouth clamped shut, because if he started laughing he would never, ever stop.
“--im, Tim!” The sound of Batman’s voice snapped him back to reality. The world righted, and he felt bile rise in his throat.
“Oh– Oh god. I killed him–I killed–”
“Put down the gun,” Batman said coaxingly, a voice reserved for victims. Belatedly, Junior realized Batman was freeing himself, barely giving a grunt of pain as he dislocated his thumb, slipping a hand out of the ropes.
Junior should’ve been scared, because he knew the bad things the Big Bad Bat did, but it was hard to think through the numbness in his chest, the ringing in his ears.
“Tim, listen to me,” Batman coaxed.
“Don’t call me that!” Junior snarled. He clasped his hands over his ears, the gun clattering out of his grip, as if he physically could erase the name from memory.
The tension in the room seemed to dissipate a bit once the weapon was out of his grip, but Junior could still see how tense the bats were. Every muscle in Hood’s body was locked, and Nightwing and Batman had a sort of forced calm. Like they didn’t want to scare Junior.
“That’s not my name.” A panicked giggle escaped, and Junior clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes wild. “That’s not– Tim’s dead. I’m not– don’t call me that.”
“Okay,” Batman said simply. “Okay. Can I call you kiddo? That seems pretty neutral.”
They were– they were placating him. Junior stumbled back, squeezing his eyes shut. His giggles were turning into wet, rasping breaths that jostled his broken ribs, sounding suspiciously like sobs. He inhaled wetly, it hurt. Junior didn’t want to be hurt anymore.
Horrible, screeching laughter rang in his head. Junior clamped his hands over his ears, harder, as if that could force the laughter away. His wet, raspy breaths were turning choked, and he desperately tried to stifle them. He could do nothing as Batman freed himself from his restraints, then making quick work of Nightwing’s and Hood’s.
He could do nothing, hands clamped over his ears, tears silently dripping down his face as he willed himself not to choke on his sobs. He couldn’t force himself to move, frozen with fear.
Batman moved closer, deftly kicking the gun away. Junior closed his eyes, praying his death would be swift, hoping the Bat wouldn’t break every bone in his body.
Batman’s mouth moved, his eyes pinched with worry, but Junior couldn’t hear him over the roaring in his brain, the hands clasped over his ears. Batman moved closer, and something in Junior kicked in. He skittered away, backing up until his back hit the wall.
“Stay back!” He snarled.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Junior didn’t trust him, but true to his word, the Bat didn’t move forward, arms held up in a gesture of peace. Junior tried to see around him, but the Bat had blocked his view of Joker’s body, and of the other two vigilantes.
“It’s just you and me. I won’t hurt you kiddo, promise.”
“No! I can't– I killed him. I–”
“It’s okay. You protected us.”
Junior leaned over and vomited. There was nothing to vomit up, except for clear bile and an alarming amount of blood.
Batman’s expression grew tight. “You’re hurt. Please, let us help. I promise I won’t hurt you.” He took a step closer.
“No– stop–”
Batman ripped off his cowl, and Junior stared at Bruce. He had dark eyebags and some unshaved stubble, eyes tight with worry.
“It’s Bruce, kiddo.” Bruce’s voice was strangely insistent, eyes scanning for recognition. “Please. It’s Bruce– don’t you remember me? You are Timothy Drake-Wayne. Dick Grayson and Jason Todd are your brothers.”
Junior stiffened. That was wrong. That couldn’t be– (Tim laughed nestled between Jason and Dick in a movie night. Jason kept trying to throw popcorn and catch with his mouth, to no avail. Dick was mercilessly teasing him, and in turn got popcorn shoved down his hoodie.)
Batman took advantage of his hesitation, swooping in and cradling him against his chest. The hold felt gentle and tight in all the right places. The kevlar felt firm against Junior’s cheek, Batman’s heartbeat steady in his ears, downing out the horrible laughter.
Batman smelled like rain and gunpowder and a hint of musty cologne. Junior jerked once, twice and–
Warmth flooded through him as something cracked. Memories and sounds and smells rushed through. Memories of Wayne Manor, where it smelled like old wood, warm and homey. Of Jason cooking him pancakes, of Dick roping them all into a “cuddle fest”. Bruce’s study, where he could always go to if he needed anything (anything at all, chum).
Tim leaned over and promptly vomited again. Bruce gently pulled Tim away from his puddle of sick, murmuring reassurances under his breath.
“Bruce–” Tim choked out.
Bruce’s expression flooded with relief, “Shh, shh, it’s okay, chum. I’m here.”
Tim sobbed against his father’s chest. Bruce’s arms tightened around him.
Somehow, Nightwing and Red Hood had come over in the commotion. Nightwing gently put a hand on Tim’s shoulder.
“Yeah, baby bird,” Dick said softly, “We’re here.”
“Mhm,” Jason chimed in, “I’ll put a bullet through whoever tries to hurt you again.”
“Jason!” Dick hissed, “Now is not the time.”
“What? I mean it! I’m not going to say some mushy bullshit.”
Tim laughed wetly.
His eyes were drifting closed, the injuries and adrenaline pulling him down. He breathed– and for once– it was a gentle breath.