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Tim wants to wake up.
Tim really wants to wake up right now.
Dear God, he has to be dreaming. Patrol has gone to utter shit: between running across a disgruntled Red Hood and getting caught in the crosshairs of a trigger-happy mage, who's escaped and managed to get a shot in at Hood before disappearing with a cackle and a flash of … whatever. Lightning? It doesn't matter.
What matters is that Tim is now doing damage control with a tiny, wailing figure swimming in the Red Hood's clothes.
Despite the noise, he'd scooped the figure into his arms – it was a kid's wriggling shape he could feel through the clothes – and got the both of them off the street. Hearing the wails had hurt something inside him – crying children have that sort of effect – but he'd put off fixing whatever was wrong until they were both somewhere relatively safe.
Now, Tim takes the helmet off as carefully as he can, watching out for safeguards and possible electric shocks.
The Red Hood is … kind of known for that. Aside from the guns, anyway.
A head comes out, along with a masked face. Not that the mask fits so well anymore, but it manages to hang on.
Jason – and it is still Jason, just … a hell of a lot younger – stops wailing. Then, he throws himself at Tim and, really, Tim is not good at this. Or prepared.
Even Red Robin has his limits.
Cautiously, Tim wraps his arms around him and makes shushing sounds. Jason doesn't comply when he tries gently pushing him away after a few seconds, and Tim leaves it be.
"Um. Jason," he says. Tim can only hope he can understand him or hear him properly despite having his face smushed into the Red Robin costume. Or that he's even paying attention.
Breathe, Tim. You can do this.
"What do you remember?"
A pause in the sobbing. Then "I don't know!" rings shrill in his ears.
That's … not very helpful. Except it is, because if he doesn't remember anything, not even things he should have known when he was whatever age he's been turned into now, then that could mean … a lot of terrible things about the spell used.
"Nothing at all?" Tim presses.
Face still buried in the suit, Jason shakes his head. His little hands cling to Tim like he trusts him, which is weird. Jason grew up with the street smarts needed to survive in and around Crime Alley. He wouldn't trust anyone he didn't already know.
Of course, if he lost his memories…
"Do you know who I am?" Tim asks, desperation leaking into his voice. Almost miraculously, they don't have an established protocol for de-aged sort-of allies and, really, they shouldn't have to. There are some pretty crazy and strong villains in Gotham, but he can't remember anyone possessing both the inclination and capacity to actually de-age someone back to childhood.
It's just not something people think about going for when considering a defensive strategy.
None of that matters, though, as Jason pulls away from Tim somewhat to look at him. His tiny face scrunches in the effort of remembering.
"Dad?" he tries.
"No," Tim says, more forcefully than he meant to. Jason shrinks, and he bites back a curse. Jason's childhood was … not pleasant. Despite having magic-induced amnesia, it's still entirely possible his subconscious retains certain information or instincts.
He tries to smile. "Jason, I'm your brother."
Never mind that he's supposed to be the younger brother. Also, the one Jason hates with a fiery passion, if the murder attempts are anything to go by.
Jason's expression clears. "Oh." A beat. He looks around. "Where's Dad?"
Shit.
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Since Jason did not turn back into his regular, surly age within the next ten minutes, there really wasn't much Tim could do besides take him back to the Batcave. He hands Jason off to Bruce and Alfred, gives them the rundown on what he knows happened, and gets an assurance that Zatanna will be contacted as soon as she can be reached.
Tim nods, then glances at Jason, who sits on the medical bed, being tended to by Alfred. There are bruises left over from the fight with the mage, with Tim, and probably from whatever else he'd run across on his patrol that night. Relatively, it's not too bad, if the de-aging isn't counted – though, personally, Tim does - but it goes a long way to explaining all the crying and clinging earlier.
"I'm four," Jason says, almost proudly.
Tim doesn't listen for Alfred's reply. Instead, he turns around and makes for his ride. Bruce's eyes keep drifting back towards Jason, and he understands that, he really does. Jason is his son, the one who won't come home – who can't, in the most complicated and hurtful ways. It's unsurprising Bruce would want to gravitate around him while he's so compliant.
"Was he like this before?" Tim can't help but ask as they watch the small boy submit to Alfred's tender care. He isn't sure whether or not he's grateful the demon brat's out on patrol with Dick at the moment. On the one hand, Damian isn't here to antagonize Jason, but on the other, Dick isn't here to handle the fact that there is a child version of Jason in the Cave.
Dick would know what to do about something like this. Dick would probably smother the kid in hugs and reassurances, and really? Jason probably could have done with more of that in his early years.
"Never exactly like this," Bruce says.
The Jason Bruce knew, even in the beginning, had had so many scars already. This Jason … doesn't.
Maybe that's a good thing.
Tim puts the helmet on – and then, Jason's attention is zeroed in on him in a way eerily reminiscent of the adult version's gaze. Awkwardly, Tim raises his hand to wave. He's not whether it's a goodbye or a 'hey, there', but he waves.
Jason hops off the bed and runs towards him.
"Where are you going?" he demands, little hands grabbing for Red Robin's cape.
"I'm heading out," Tim says, simply. He swings his leg over the other side of the bike, trying to ignore Jason's incredulous expression. "Bye, Jason."
He doesn't let go of the cape. "When are you coming back?"
Tim blinks. "Um…" His brain stalls. Reboots. Updates pending. "I don't really live here, but don't worry. Bruce and Alfred will take care of you."
"But you have to come back!" Little hands tug at his cape insistently, and with a small exhale, Tim gets off his bike. "You have to!"
"You're always welcome to stay, Tim," Bruce says, seriously.
And Tim can't. He can't see the home he no longer has a place in and be fine the way people want-expect-know him to be nowadays. He can't go into his old room, the room he trashed and then cleared out when he became Red Robin. There's only so much Tim can take, and this is not one of them.
So, he takes the helmet off and goes down on one knee like he'd done earlier when he first got Jason off the dark streets. "Jason. Bruce is your - our - dad; he'll take good care of you. And you're going to love Alfred."
"No!" Jason wails. "Don't go." He falls forward and clings to Tim, sobbing again and…
And Tim is tired.
"If I may, Master Timothy," Alfred says over the loud sobbing of a desolate child. "Perhaps it would be prudent to stay, at the very least for Master Jason's sake. We have rather missed you at the Manor, and it would do all of us good to have you here again."
Only Alfred can say something like that and make Tim believe it.
His head is starting to hurt. He blames the noise Jason makes.
"This predicament will likely only last one or two nights," Alfred adds after a beat, "If you truly cannot stay long."
Tim sighs slightly, his hand coming up to awkwardly pat Jason's back. "I'll be back after patrol."
God, he hopes he doesn't regret this.
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Author's Note: Thanks for reading! I'm not sure if I'll continue this, but I've been itching to write a de-aged fic for a while.
