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It was hard to open his eyes. His eyelids, his body…he was so heavy.
But he could feel something brushing against his face. Something hot and humid. And the smell, he—he knew that—
No. No—nonononono—He was dead. He was dead, Tim had killed him. He'd seen his body, Bruce had taken care of it, turned it to ash.
He forced his eyes open and—
If he could move he would have flinched.
Inches from his face, plaque encrusted, yellowed teeth, acid green eyes, fetid breath against Tim's skin—rot and cigarettes and shit.
"Good morning, son," the Joker crooned. "Did you miss Daddy?"
— —
He couldn't move. Joker had shot him up with something and he could hardly twitch. He was strapped to a reclining exam chair with…with stirrups spreading his legs. And he couldn't…he—He squeezed his eyes shut, but he could still feel the phantom sensation of Joker's breath, hot and fast, panting against his neck, and it hurt—
"Juuuunior," Joker sang. Tim's vision flashed and his head jerked to the side, cheek stinging. He tasted blood. "Stay with me now, kiddo, you don't want to miss out on the fun!"
Tim wanted to say he spat in the Joker's face and told him to go fuck himself. Wanted to say that he stayed stoic and unbreaking.
But he was already broken. Had been for a long time.
"Ss—" It was hard to get his tongue to work with whatever Joker had given him. "Sstop. Please do-on't," he slurred. "I-I-I'll be him, jusst don't make it hurt." He hiccuped pathetically. "Please."
Joker threw his head back and cackled. "Oh, Reddy, do you really think that will work on me? The real Junior only comes out after we play!
"Please," he sobbed. He knew there was no point, but the protests bubbled out of him like vomit. "Please."
Joker just grinned and ignored him. He skipped around Tim's chair, whistling as he fiddled with something out of Tim's sight.
Then came the very familiar sound of rusty wheels squeaking toward him and Tim's blood ran cold.
"Nonono, Jjjoo-oker, p-pleasse, I c-c-an't."
Joker just continued to whistle a cheery tune as he rubbed some kind of thick lubricant on Tim's temples with his grimy hands. His long, jagged nails scratched at Tim's skin as he stuck the electrodes in place.
Tim couldn't form words anymore, he just sobbed and trembled as he waited for the inevitable. He tried to go away, to force his mind into that floaty place he would sometimes go to back then, but he couldn't do it on command. He wanted to go away so bad.
He didn't even hear the click of the lever before the world went white.
The pain was indescribable and oh so familiar. He knew he screamed, and he could feel it in the ragged pain in his throat after, but he didn't remember doing it.
His body jerked and spasmed with the aftershocks. His thoughts were jumbled and he couldn't tell up from down. Joker's grin swam above him.
"Look at that!" Joker gasped dramatically. "I can see my little Junior peeking out. You've got that sparkle in your eye again, kiddo!"
Without warning, Joker snapped the lever back down again. Tim's body arced as far as it could in the straps. His teeth ground together so hard some of them probably cracked.
Joker noticed, probably from the clacking sound of his teeth snapping against each other. "Oh, kiddo," Joker lamented loudly enough to be heard over the uncontrollably choking sounds Tim was making once he had settled down again. "I forgot to put in a mouth guard, you poor thing!" Something wet and slimy and warm was stuffed into Tim's mouth and he gagged at the putrid flavor. He didn't know what it was, but the smell was almost as bad as the taste. Decay and salt and iron.
"There! Now we can play aaaall night."
— —
Tim—Jun—Ju—He—he couldn't stop laughing. His body ached, everything hurt so much, his throat was on fire and the pressure on his chest made it feel like he was trapped under a ton of bricks.
He couldn't move, why couldn't he move? He tried to get up, but there was something tight wound around and around him, digging into his skin.
And it was all so funny.
— —
The laughing was finally starting to ease, and Junior was relieved even though he knew Daddy wouldn't approve. Daddy had stepped out, he didn't remember what for, and it was just Junior all alone in his chair. It wasn't very comfortable, he wanted to get up. He vaguely remembered not being able to move before, but whatever had been making him so heavy had worn off and he was feeling restless. He struggled against his bonds, he wanted—he wanted—no, he wanted to stay in the chair. Daddy put him in the chair and Junior wanted to make Daddy happy.
"Junior!" Junior jerked at Daddy's harsh tone.
"I'm sorry Daddy," he said frantically. He was in trouble! He didn't mean to. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just—I wanted to come see you." Junior shouldn't lie to Daddy, he would be in so much trouble if Daddy found out, but he would be in more trouble if Daddy thought he was trying to leave.
Daddy did not look impressed. He bared his teeth. "Junior." His voice was calm and dangerous. "We've talked about this before. Do you remember what happens when you lie to me?"
— —
Junior's head was spinning spinning spinning. His whole body tingled and his muscles felt funny.
He turned his head as far as he could to the side and coughed again, blood bubbling up from his throat. His stomach rolled and he tried not to gag. Junior swallowed bile, acid burning his ruined esophagus, the pints and pints of rancid, congealed human blood Joker had forced down his throat threatening to come back up again. Daddy didn't like it when Junior threw up.
"Ah, ah, ah." Joker tsked. "Keep it down Junior," he warned.
"S-sorry Daddy," he stuttered, his voice thick and wet, teeth and tongue coated black. It was running out of the corners of his mouth and down his chin and neck.
"And what do we say when Daddy feeds us?"
"Th-thank—"
Junior didn't even flinch when hot blood suddenly sprayed across his face.
It took a moment to register the sound of the gunshot.
There—there was a gun in Junior's hand again oh god, not again not again— But—but he was still strapped into the chair and he couldn't move, how had—how—
"Tim? Oh god, Tim. You—fuck, I was sure he had—"
It was the Red Hood. The Red Hood was rushing over to him, and unhooking all of the bands that were holding Junior down, muttering frenzied prayers as he worked.
The second he was free, Junior lurched out of the chair, scrambling over the arms and crashing to the ground, the landing jarring every aching bone in his body. He could see Daddy's crumpled form on the opposite side. He dragged himself desperately across the ground, trying to put distance between them.
The Red Hood was here, he was going to hurt Junior just like he'd done so many times before, and he'd—Daddy was—
"Tim! Hey, hey, it's okay, no one's going to—" The Red Hood had moved and he was looming over him, growling through his helmet. Junior was never going to get away, he was too broken. He collapsed against the ground and stopped trying to fight. The Red Hood was always stronger, he would always win.
The Red Hood took off his helmet, setting it down and crouching down at Junior's side.
"Tim." His voice sounded different now, softer, shakier. He held up his hands. "You're okay, you're safe."
Junior shook his head violently, and he felt the burn of laughter trying to creep up his throat. "You killed Daddy!" he wailed.
The Red Hood froze, horror spreading over his face.
"No, no he wasn't—" He crowded into Junior's space, crashing to his knees, and grabbed Junior's face in both of his hands. His gloved palms were burning hot against Junior's clammy skin. "Tim," he said fiercely, "the Joker was not your dad. Bruce is your dad, you hear me? Come back, kiddo. You're Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne. That is your name. Snap out of it! Please."
The Red Hood's bright blue eyes bore into Junior's, and he felt—There was a fiery rage in them, but Junior felt—he wasn't afraid when he looked at those eyes. He blinked at the Red Hood, unable to turn his head away even if it hadn't been trapped between the Red Hood's palms.
"There you go, you can do it, bud."
Junior blinked and blinked—and—it was so hard to think, he was so fuzzy, he felt wrong, but there was something —
"J-Jay?" he rasped.
The R— Jason’s face brightened and tears sprang up in his eyes. "Yeah, that's me. You're doing so good, that's it."
Tim's breath hitched. "Jay."
God, he was so tired.
He slumped forward into Jason's chest and Jason sank his nose into Tim's sweaty hair. "I got you, buddy." His voice rumbled against Tim's ear and buzzed into his scalp. It made his neck prickle and warmth spread into his chest.
Then Jason's hands were running down Tim's body and he flinched violently, choking sounds of protest bubbling out of him.
"Shh," Jason hushed. "I'm sorry, bud, I'm just checking for injuries before I move you, you're okay."
"Jay— Jay, he…oh god, Jay—"
Jason gently wiped away the blood and brains that had splattered onto Tim's face and the black blood that had dripped from his mouth, and hoisted him up, scooping him into a bridal carry. "Shh," he murmured again. "He can't hurt you now. Everything's okay, you're gonna be just fine."
Tim buried his face in Jason's chest and twisted his hands in his shirt. Jason was wearing joggers and a tank top, like he'd just grabbed his gun and helmet and rushed out the door. Tim felt like he would plummet from his arms if he released his death grip on Jason's shirt, would tumble back down into the puddles of blood on the ground—bright red spreading to mix with stagnant black—and drown in it. His fingers must have been digging into Jason's skin through the thin cotton, but Jason didn't say a word about it.
Jason carried him out, away from the blood and the body, and the roar of a bike met them when he stepped out of wherever the Joker had been keeping him.
"Oh thank god." Dick's voice came once his bike screeched to a halt. "Is he okay?"
"Take him," Jason said blankly.
"What? What's the matter—"
Jason shifted Tim, trying to pass him to Dick, but Tim tightened his grip and whimpered, pressing his face harder to Jason's chest.
"Hey, it's okay, buddy. Dick's gonna take you home, okay? I gotta go, bud."
"Jason, what's going on?" Tim couldn't see Dick's face, but he knew by the sound of his voice that he was starting to panic.
"I can't be here when Bruce gets here, Dickie."
Dick paused as it dawned on him. He should have expected it. "You killed him."
"Of fucking course I killed him!" Jason erupted. "He was torturing our brother!"
"Shit, I know, Jay, I know. You…you did the right thing, okay? Bruce can't—"
"He can and he will," Jason interrupted bitterly. "Dickie…I don't want to go to Blackgate." Jason sounded steady, but Tim could feel him shaking. "Just take the kid, okay? Take him home."
He shifted again, and Tim tried to hold on, but he was fading fast and his grip was too weak. He whined and tried to call after Jason once he was hefted into Dick's arms, but his mouth was no longer cooperating and the words didn't come out right.
Dick shushed him and pulled him closer. "Hey, Timmy. It's okay, he'll be back. We won't let him leave for good. You and me, we'll take care of him, yeah?"
Tim nodded weakly into Dick's shirt, the last little twitch he could muster before his body began to shut off and he felt himself spiraling down and down and down…
— —
He came awake with a sharp inhale, his eyes snapping open. He let out a strangled moan as his screaming nerve endings caught up with his brain.
His breath caught in his throat and he coughed violently. He tried to push himself up, but only succeeded in flopping over onto his side so he could hack up a lung.
“Drake.”
He flinched away from the boy standing next to his bed.
“D-Damian,” he rasped.
“I am going to touch you, Drake,” Damian warned. “You need to sit upright.”
Tim tensed, but Damian was quick and efficient at fluffing the pillows up behind Tim and propping him up against them.
Then Damian thrust a sealed bottle of water in Tim’s face and Tim took it with trembling hands. He fumbled weakly with the lid until it cracked open. He drained half the bottle in one go before Damian lay a hand against his.
“You will vomit if you keep going,” he said, pulling the bottle away surprisingly gently.
Tim let him take it and leaned back tiredly against the pillows. He glanced around the room. He was in his own bedroom, which was very odd. He would normally be sequestered to the Cave’s medical bay.
“Cave?” he asked. His voice was barely there, even after the water.
“Pennyworth thought it prudent to have you in your room for the benefit of your mental health. We thought the med bay might be a bit too…provocative, considering.”
Oh. Well. Yeah, he hadn’t thought about that. The thought of being around any kind of medical equipment—
He stopped himself there, yanking his thoughts back.
“I’ll fetch Pennyworth.” Damian made for the door, but Tim called out, pushing his voice as strong as he could make it.
"Damian , wait." Damian turned back. "Jason?" Tim asked.
Damian crossed his arms. "Gone. No one has seen him." He paused. "And he is not answering his phone."
Tim reached a hand out. "Give me yours," he demanded.
Damian huffed, but pulled his phone out of his pocket and passed it over.
Jason was in Damian's outgoing call history, Tim noted. Four unanswered calls, a few hours apart each.
He scrolled through Damian's contacts, hoping to find the one he needed. Most of the Titans tended to have each other's numbers in their phones even if they hadn't been on the team together, so hopefully Damian…
There.
After pulling a few tricks to make Damian’s number come up blank on a caller ID, Tim tapped the name he was looking for.
Several rings and Tim was sure it was about to go to voicemail when—"I wondered how long it would take one of you to have the gall to call me."
"Roy," Tim rasped. "Where is he?"
"Drake," Roy ascertained. "Why would I tell you? Anything I give one of will just go straight to daddy Bats one way or another."
Daddy.
For a moment, Tim was sucked back to the chair, but he was pulled out of it by a hand shaking his shoulder.
"Drake?" Damian asked, rare concern in his tone.
Tim waved him off with a grateful look. "I'm not letting Bruce anywhere near him, Roy. Didn't he tell you what happened?"
There was a pause and then a disgruntled, "No."
"Then I won't tell you the details, but he saved my life Roy. I'd be…I wouldn't be able to talk to you right now if Jason hadn't done what he did. Please? I want to see him."
There were a few beats of Roy deliberating. "Fine," he finally grunted. "I'll ask him. Can you even make it to him on your own? You don't sound so hot."
Tim faltered. "Probably not," he admitted.
Roy sighed. "When you're able to get around without a babysitter, call me. I'll do what I can, but if he doesn't want to see you then that's it, got it? We're both ghosts."
"Thank you, Roy."
"Yeah." Roy hung up on him.
Tim handed the phone back to Damian. He expected the boy to turn and leave, but he stayed, standing there avoiding eye contact.
"Father has been…aloof," he said after a moment of awkward silence.
Tim sucked in a breath at the mention of Bruce. "Do you think he's going to go after Jason?"
Damian fidgeted uncomfortably. "I don't know. Maybe."
"I need to talk to him." Tim tossed the blankets aside and twisted around until his feet were on the floor.
"Drake," Damian cautioned, "you are in no condition—"
Tim ignored him and lurched off the bed.
His knees buckled immediately.
"Drake," Damian hissed as he caught Tim's weight. "Don't be an idiot."
Tim made a frustrated sound, but he let Damian manhandle him back onto the bed. "I need to talk to him, Damian. He'll be avoiding me—he won't come to me, I have to go to him."
Damian rolled his eyes. "Well you can't very well do that if you can't walk on your own, can you?"
Tim flopped back down and buried his face in his pillow. He moaned, in exasperation. The action aggravated his throat and he turned his head to cough. He grimaced at the taste of phlegm in the back of his throat.
He needed to make a plan, Bruce would—Bruce—
The phlegm tasted like blood in his mouth. There was—
Harley had snuck him a candy bar. Junior wasn't allowed to have food this week, but Harley found it in the pockets of one of the dead men Daddy had lying around, and she'd given it to Junior. He could barely unwrap it, his hands shaking and weak from hunger, and he'd downed the candy so fast he almost choked.
He was swallowing the last bite when he heard Daddy coming, whistling from down the hall. Harley's eyes blew wide with panic and Junior shoved the candy wrapper under the blanket Daddy let him have since the floor was so cold.
Later that night, Junior made the mistake of rustling the blanket while Daddy was in the room.
The wrapper crinkled.
When Daddy found it he was so mad. He dragged Harley off somewhere and he came back with fresh blood on his lips and a satisfied smile on his face.
Then he grabbed Junior by the hair, and—
That was the first time Daddy force fed Junior dead mens' blood.
"—ot responding, Pennyworth, I didn't know what to do—"
Coming back was jarring. One second he was back with Da—the Joker, and the next he was…somewhere dark. His blood was roaring in his ears and his chest felt like he'd been kicked.
He recognized Damian's voice, there was a distraught tone to it that Tim had never heard from the boy before. The words were muffled and coming from somewhere up above him.
There was a sliver of light next to him and the outline of a head appeared there. Tim was still reeling from the memory and he couldn't resolve what he was seeing for a moment.
The head was sideways and—oh.
He had crammed himself under the bed.
"Master Timothy," Alfred said gently, peering in at him. "Would you like to come out from there?"
He wasn't sure Alfred could see him in the dark, but he couldn't work his tongue right now, so he nodded.
Alfred reached out to him, and with his help, Tim crawled out from under the bed. Damian helped Alfred haul Tim back onto the mattress and Alfred pulled the blankets up over Tim once he had settled back against he pillows.
"S-sorry, Alf," Tim whispered. He looked at Damian. "I didn't mean to scare you."
Damian folded his arms over his chest and looked away. "Tt."
"Nonsense, Master Timothy," Alfred reassured him. "How are you feeling?"
Tim leaned back onto the pillows. "Bad,” he said frankly.
Alfred's mustache twitched in displeasure. "Yes, I'd imagine so. Are there any particularly acute pains that we need to address immediately?
"My chest hurts." He rubbed at his throat. "Throat, too."
Everything hurt, really. His muscles felt odd—spongy and weak. Tingling sensations danced across his skin at random intervals, and he ached. Every bone, muscle, and joint protested even while he lay still. His soft clothing and blankets felt like sandpaper against his tender skin.
"Ah," a dark expression pulled at Alfred's features. "Unfortunately you have developed aspiration pneumonia. We caught it early, so you should recover quickly, assuming your asplenia does not cause any issues. Your throat is suffering from…overuse. You'll want to be careful using your voice too much or your vocal cords might not heal properly."
"And the rest…is it all the…same as before?" Tim asked hesitantly.
He was familiar with the symptoms of electroconvulsive torture by now. That's why his muscles were weak and his skin was tingling. At least this time he didn’t think he was dealing with lingering incontinence.
Alfred took a breath and lay a hand on Tim's arm. "Not as severe," he said. "Thanks to your brother."
"Alfred." Tim searched Alfred's face. "Is he going to be okay?"
Alfred gave his arm a squeeze. "He will be, lad. I will personally make sure of it."