Neither of them speak a word to each other as Tim hobbles into the apartment clutching his side, Bruce following in soon after.
A tense hush has fallen over the pair of them since the fight―one which was ended swiftly by Batman after barely more than four short minutes. It didn't matter how many times Bruce had knocked him down, Tim's hurt and anger and pride had always forced him back to his feet with renewed resistance and belligerence.
Now, however, everything just hurts. Inside and out.
"Hand it over," Bruce orders, almost the moment they reach Tim's living room. The words are brittle. A warning. Don't fight me again on this, Tim, is what he means to say. You won't win.
With a sigh, Tim starts taking off his cowl and kevlar whilst Bruce disappears into the bedroom, returning with a change of clothes.
With the armour off, the damage across his ribs is already starting to make itself known. Bruises and large, red welts angrily mar his torso. Bruce makes the mistake of glancing over once and his face almost crumples, leaving Tim with a sick sense of satisfaction.
Taking the proffered clothes, he slips into them without word of protest, his Red Robin gear in a neat pile by Bruce's feet.
Then, the quiet finally breaks. "I'll… be back in the morning." Bruce sighs tiredly, managing to look defeated. "I'll pick you up for work."
There's something unspoken in there, but Tim realises too late that it's an olive branch.
"Don't bother," he snarls back in return instead, already heading for the door. Bruce may have barred him from patrolling, but Tim can't stand to be in the same room as the man right now. He needs some fresh air.
Bruce doesn't ask where he's going as he leaves and Tim doesn't supply anything, only watches the sadness bloom into something regretful and unhappy as he disappears out of the man's view, the elevator doors closing behind him.
Bruce doesn't follow.
After less than three hours sleep, Jackson reawakens that same morning groggily, with tired muscles that protest all movement when he shifts stiffly into a sitting position on the sofa. It's the belated realisation that it was the sound of the doorbell which woke him, followed by the soft pattering of Narelle's socked feet toward the door. Jackson's pretty sure she hasn't slept at all yet. He doesn't know what time she got in last night, but it was certainly after they did.
Despite his desire to eavesdrop on Narelle and whoever is paying them a visit at this ungodly hour of the morning, he keeps dozing off unintentionally, lilting and jerking upright over and over. He's too tired to really listen, so he misses large chunks of the conversation, and some time between zero point five seconds and an eternity later, Narelle's face appears around the corner of the living room wearing a tense, but kindly expression.
"Mornin' kiddo," she murmurs softly, clinging to the doorframe with her nails as she studies him a moment, a little crease forming between her eyebrows as she looks him over.
Jackson figures his sleep deprivation must look pretty plain―even to Narelle, who has no idea her son and current charge were feloniously running around Gotham last night―because apparently the sight of him is enough to inspire a moment of diffidence. It takes her a minute to shake the uncertainty off before she moves to sit by him on the couch, giving a tight, sympathetic smile in the process.
Jackson scoots over as she parks herself on his left.
"You've got raccoon eyes…" she tries for humour, even though her lips twist into something concerned as her gaze flicks between his left and right eyes, giving her worry away. "Looks like you didn't get a great amount of sleep last night. Nightmares?"
Jackson just nods. Grateful for the lie, easily supplied.
Narelle pats his knee once, expression falling, the lines on her face drooping. "I understand," she empathises, voice not devoid of pity either. "I still get them sometimes too."
Silence falls between them like the closing of a curtain on this largely one-sided conversation, mostly because Jackson doesn't know what to respond with. The exhaustion weighs too heavily, making him feel as though he is attempting to wade through honey. The quiet in the lounge makes room for the sound of the radio, an 80s pop ballad coming from the kitchen. It's both familiar to him and not at all, like every second experience he has seems to be―he knows all the words to the song, but doesn't know the name.
Narelle takes compassion on his fatigued plight, rescuing the stale conversation anew with likely what she has been meaning to say all along.
"There's someone here to see you, Jackson," she begins unhurriedly, waiting and watching for his reaction. "She'd like to talk to you, she's… from CPS."
If she notices the slight hitch in his inhalation, Narelle is nice enough not to say anything. Then, after a juncture of thick silence in which he can hear the radio in the other room for a second time, he slowly, nervously agrees, "…okay."
Amid everything that had happened since Sunday, he'd all but completely forgotten the police had mentioned an interview with a social worker. Thrown so sharply in contrast against the events that transpired last night, Jackson suddenly feels as though he's somehow missed a step descending down a flight of stairs and has just now caught himself just before face-planting straight into the floor.
Narelle eases herself off the couch steadily, rising inch by inch in a way that echoes his own somnolent yearning, but he pushes up on tired palms and shrugs off the heavy quilt he'd not quite sloughed.
Jackson follows after her as she leads the way to the kitchen, stumbling in with a shiver against the slight bite of coolness in the air and half wishing he'd now brought the blanket with him. The radio is more audible now, that same 80s pop tune reiterating the chorus with a newly modulated key change, its incongruence to his own emotions making the world feel asymmetrical and bizarre. It almost feels as though he has alighted from a spinning cup ride at a county fair, the circular motion still spinning about his head though the world has come to a standstill. Jackson knows his feet are on solid ground, but the vertigo manipulates his mind.
At the dinning table sits a tawdrily dressed woman who might as well be the fortune teller at his carnival fete, such is the manner of her clothing and make-up. Her crocodile skin loafers tap idly to the beat of the song―green, yet a mismatch for the colour of her oversized linen shirt, which is chartreuse in shade. The bright purple eye-shadow makes for an even more alarming combination when underscored by large, rectangular glasses with clear frames. Beyond all this, however, is the large perm of orange hair which looks as though it might have been the wig of a circus clown originally. Jackson half expects her to break out a deck of tarot cards, but then feels guilty for judging her based on image, even more so when she stands and shakes his hand with a genuine, merry smile wedged between her powdered cheeks.
"Hello, you must be Jackson," she greets him cheerily, smile impossibly widening as he nods. "It is lovely to meet you. My name is Nancy and I'm with the department of social services."
"Hello," he greets back shyly, giving her a short nod as she gestures to the chair opposite her own. "Nice to meet you too."
Behind him, Jackson can hear Narelle bustling about in the kitchen and a moment later the smell of pancake batter hits his nostrils, making his mouth water. Briefly he wonders if Sidney is up yet, maybe sitting just outside in the hall. A pang goes through his chest at the thought of the other teen as Jackson remembers their argument from before the twilight hours of the morning, but he shakes that thought away quickly and refocuses on Nancy, who's now saying something about how his case is a bit different from the usual types she deals with in Gotham.
A clipboard appears to magically make its way into her hand without him seeing where it comes from as she says, "Just answer what you can for me, okay?" Then, she scribbles something down with the pen that seems to have popped out of thin air also.
"The police already came," he huffs, still half distracted, trying not to sound overly annoyed or anxious towards her. "I have to do this again?"
Nancy's face pinches in sympathy and she looks a little bit like Narelle when she does it, her head bobbing up and down with a nod as she replies, "Yes, unfortunately. You understand that, right?"
Jackson's eyes flutter shut as he sighs and wills away the physical and emotional fatigue that comes from performing this circus routine again.
"Yeah," he acknowledges a moment later, forcing himself to blink away the sleep that sits in his peripheral and focus his gaze on her. "I understand."
Nancy readjusts her clipboard as she says, "Good. We should get started."
The first few questions are glossed over, Nancy seemingly informed of his amnesia. Instead of his full name, she tells him that she puts down 'Jackson' and they leave the middle and last names section blank.
"Is there any thing else you can remember?" she queries, just managing a single glance up over the rim of her glasses before she pushes them back into place over the small hook in her nose. "Nothing has come up since you spoke with the police last? It might help us locate your parents faster if there's anything more you can recall."
The radio on the breakfast bar behind him breaks the silence in his thoughts and the scent of cooking keeps the world from going too still. The 80s pop ballad dies, the chords fading into nothingness to be sharply replaced by the sound of the morning news bulletin. Jackson manages to tune out the anchor for a moment, thinking deeply and recalling the few little things over the past few days. Seemingly, all he can dredge up is the mostly unimportant things, like how he likes the smell of coffee and how he recognises some streets like one might faintly recall the passageways of ones home, but then the reporter mentions the word 'Batman'and Jackson's attention shifts wholly.
"―seen last night in the Downtown area up to the Narrows. The amassing of vigilante's last night has unnerved citizens and whilst police are yet to release a full statement, Commissioner Gordon has reassured the public that there is no reason for alarm or overreaction at this stage―"
"I'm sorry," Nancy interjects, clearing her throat and speaking loudly enough to be heard by Narelle at the stove. "Would you mind it if we turned the radio off?"
Narelle jerks as she flips a pancake, surprised by Nancy's attention. "Oh, of course," she nods and twitches an amiable smile their way before switching the dial off and returning to the stove.
The sudden silence feels unnerving and in it―though afterwards he silently chastises himself for conjuring such self-important drivel―he cannot help but wonder if the convergence of vigilante's upon The Narrows has something to do with him. The thought possesses him like a vengeful spirit and, slowly, he can feel himself start to clam up, despite the part that says it isn't helping him any as the questions start to blend into one another and time begins to lose all cohesion.
Eventually, Nancy leaves just after Narelle collects Sidney from upstairs. Jackson sees his case worker to the door where she hands him her card and tells him to call if he needs anything before Narelle steps outside to speaks with her.
Jackson lingers long enough to just overhear Nancy announce her intent to expedite Narelle's foster application and the words get lodged in his ears, making it suddenly hard to swallow past the new-formed lump in his throat, even though he's not entirely sure why. There's something in his heart that can only be described as bittersweet, a side of longing and heart-ache buried under the rubble of nothingness that he's used to finding when scratching with stunted nails through a past which no longer exists. Some part of him feels terribly sure someone is out there missing him, but then again, maybe that is just wishful thinking.
Sidney is in the kitchen, already tucking into jam covered pancakes when Jackson slides into the seat alongside.
Neither of them say anything, not to begin with.
Jackson keeps his eyes studiously fixed to his plate, fully aware of the uncomfortable, darting gaze that shoots quick glances his direction. Sidney doesn't say anything, but his tense muscles start to relax after a minute and Jackson feels himself eventually following suit.
It's an unspoken truce.
Neither of them like how things ended between them last night and neither of them are willing to budge, but the chord of rope that binds them together still remains unsnapped, tethering them to safety as they dangle precariously over the precipice of No Turning Back.
"Are you still planning to… do it?" Sidney asks. It's a hushed sound, tinny and hollow and mumbled around a mouthful of pancake.
"Yeah," Jackson replies lowly in a volume to match. "I am."
Sidney doesn't seem to notice his disquiet. Instead he huffs, "There is really nothing I can say to make you see reason?"
Jackson shakes his head. "No, this is… something I have to do."
A long, drawn sigh, escapes the other teen and in his peripheral, Jackson sees a head drop just the minutest amount, a detectable trace of defeat in the looseness of Sid's frame.
"I get it," Sidney whispers back, sounding far more understanding than Jackson has any right to ask from him. "I just… be careful, okay?"
Running off to save the life of the vigilante directly responsible for putting Sid's father in jail is never something they'll see eye to eye on, yet in spite of it, not all is lost between them.
"I don't want to lose anyone else," Sidney finishes thinly, sounding partly choked of air. "I don't want to lose my brother."
Jackson's breath nearly hitches, but for just a split second, something else inside takes over his airways and forces out the last of his exhalation.
"You won't," he returns, finally glancing up at Sid's face for the first time. He's not sure the other teen is aware of it, but there's a myriad of emotions written all over him. The voice he uses is a carefully constructed one, something Jackson might use to soothe a crying child or someone in distress. It's a warm and genuine sound, he hopes, as he tries to wheedle something forcibly relaxed into the tone as well. "I will come back. I promise."
Sidney doesn't look particularly comforted by Jackson's attempt at inspirited reassurances, but an anxious smile appears on his face and Jackson takes it as a win, because it is a smile nonetheless.
The plan is a simple one. Almost too simple, if Jackson is being realistic. Most of him reviles at the idea of going out so unprepared. No back-up plan? No part B or C or D or E? Or one, two or three? That's so unlike you, a jovial voice laughs in his ear, a distant memory whistling past like the wind.
Jackson knows where he is going. He will head to The Narrows, locate Batman, deliver the information then get the hell out of there. Hopefully not die in the process. It seems stupid when he says it out loud, which is why he deliberately avoids explaining the lack of specifics to Sid, whose attitude splinters more every hour that creeps closer to the ultimate school bell.
There's no guarantee Batman will be there, of course. There's no guarantee any of the vigilante's will be in The Narrows tonight, but he has to try anyway.
After the day is over he packs a bag, a light one―a water bottle, flash light and a map. Narelle cheerfully leaves for work, leaving only himself and Sidney, who shoots him silent side-glances with increasing frequency as the dusk drifts closer to dark. It's clear he's keeping his mouth shut deliberately and Jackson appreciates the effort.
Yet, when the time eventually comes, Sid sees him to the door despite all his misgivings. Neither of them say anything. It makes for a quick departure―an exchanging of nods and thin lips pressed together so tightly they go white, foreheads fixed sternly in their anxiety. Then, Jackson turns his back and hikes his grip up on the straps of his bag, beginning his journey to The Narrows with a short jog down the front steps. There's half an expectation that Sidney will say something then, but he doesn't. There's no noise made, except for the sound of the front door shutting, sealing the silence between them.
Jackson is on his own now.
The thought settles as a heavy weight in his stomach and he swallows hard to rid himself of the taste of bile on his tongue.
He really is doing this.
Taking a deep breath he renews his resolve, marching forward in a stride aimed at banishing his own apprehension. It doesn't take very long for him to hit a good pace, navigating the same route from last night as though it has been proverbially etched into the back of his hand.
It kind of hurts, in its own way, that the Gotham streets are more familiar to him than his own mind. Skirting down back-streets and alleyways like a bird might circle updraughts, his feet lead him where the echoes of his broken psyche refuse to go.
The city's haze is only slightly thinner tonight, making it easy to see the slight glittering of the few stars whose shine can be seen in Gotham. Only the brightest get through the light pollution, only the strongest survive. It's the type of city where lost souls go, not to find their dreams or be found themselves, but to disappear forever. It's odd, but in a way Jackson feels as though he's already vanished, swallowed up by the city―a ghost in every manner except for his living flesh. The person he's sure he once was haunts the streets in search of the memories he has lost, but Jackson cannot help but wonder if that person has all but faded away. Maybe that's a good thing, but… although it's something can never admit to Sid―hell, he's not quite he's admitted it to himself yet―that buried, suffocating part of him is still dying for resolution.
It's not like he doesn't want to stay with Sidney and Narelle, he does. Jackson already loves them like family, but he cannot discount the idea that maybe there is someone out there desperate to find him, waiting for him to come home.
Perhaps it was never about saving Batman at all, a selfish part of him taunts, rearing its vile and ugly head. Maybe it was always just about you and your stupid quest for answers you're not even completely convinced are something you should know.
After all, the vigilantes had called him by another name, but there was still recognition in their eyes when they looked at him. And Jackson could read every tense muscle in their bodies, the parts that gave themselves away, the parts that couldn't lie. Nightwing and Red Hood had angled themselves towards him, they'd let their guards down and their frames had read confusion and guilt, but also overwhelming relief preceding their tightened fear as he'd unwittingly dispelled their illusions of who he wasn't.
The vigilantes have answers, of that he's sure, but saving Batman comes first.
It's unsurprising really, that when he allows himself to relax, to ignore his own doubts and fears buzzing about his brain like flies, it's easy to get his feet to stumble in the right direction. They take him right to Red Hood.
Jackson is on the verge of The Narrows, clinging to the shadows and tucking himself into the tight spaces where light refuses to go when he sees the tall vigilante and briefly freezes. Every muscle in his body throbs with its own rigidity, sharp and jagged like ice.
The tall vigilante doesn't see him to begin with and Jackson is quiet, light on his toes. Part of him knows how to melt away, how to become nothing more than a shadow, a creature of the night. But he doesn't ask himself or wonder why, he just accepts it as one of the many things he may never understand or remember.
Perched on a precarious looking series of roof shingles, the Red Hood puffs out a concentrated lungful of cigarette smoke into the night air, the striking red helmet sitting beside him, within arms reach. Over the ledge his feet dangle, holding still―the man seemingly not worried by the height of the building. As Jackson creeps closer, he can make out a red mask still obscuring the vigilante's identity from full view, but the faintest glint of the moon in the sky allows him to make out a single streak of starlight silver in his otherwise midnight coloured hair.
Below where the Red Hood is reclining lazily on the building's roof, Jackson spies the window to an apartment open, a light on inside. It appears as though the idle vigilante must have crawled out of it in order to heave himself out for his current smoke and the ember tip of the tab is slightly visible with every draw the man inhales, making it easy for Jackson to pinpoint his location even through the inky blackness.
Thankfully, the buildings in The Narrows are close enough that their shadows stretch widely, spreading the gloomy umbrella of darkness through the mild haze and blocking out the gloaming of the moon.
Jackson takes his time creeping along the street, taking deep and forcibly steady breaths as he ventures closer, all the time keeping at least one fixed eye on the unaware vigilante. His steps never scuffle on the pavement and he stays light on the balls of his toes and feet as he moves, stealing ever nearer.
In the face of such direct proximity to Red Hood, all traces of composed self-possession abandon him, leaving him with little more than icy desperation sliding through his veins. There's no turning back now though, not when he is so close to finding the Batman.
Jackson knows he should settle in for the long wait. The Red Hood doesn't seem inclined to move any time soon, but he'll have to report back sometime. When the vigilante does, he'll be ready to follow…
Except an aching wanting, a yearning for all his questions to be answered takes ahold of him instead.
The Red Hood knows something about him, or at least about the person he was before. It would be stupid to confront him directly, he recognises that, but the open opportunity to glean information is too accessibly obtainable and easy for him not to do something.
In the end, there's little hesitation between what he knows he should do and what he wants to do.
Jackson silently darts up the dark green fire escape of the complex, fingers and feet touching cold metal but never applying enough pressure to make it creak as he ascends to the top floor. The door at the top isn't much of a challenge either, the lock has been broken before, possibly by thieves, but maybe even by the Red Hood himself.
Jackson applies pressure and the door swings inward with the tiniest groan of protest, the noise stealing his breath out of fear. After a moment of pause and a silent prayer, he relaxes an iota. No shuffling or scraping sounds comes from the roof above him.
The room inside is revealed to look more like a cosy loft, albeit there's very little in the way of furniture inside―not enough for Jackson to be convinced this is the Red Hood's real home, anyway. No, this is just a safe-house, he deduces. There's dust and cobwebs decorating both the ceiling and the floor, an uncomfortable looking olive sofa with deep gouges that appear to have been made with a knife, several dead pot plants about the place, a fridge, an unplugged television that might not have been moved since the eighties and little else aside from a rattling, old fridge in the corner and a coffee table wedged between the sofa and the TV.
Only the coffee table shows true signs of recent life, two unwrapped cartons of cigarettes sitting neatly on top, next to an orange lighter, a silver knife―large and serrated on one side―and a burner phone, or the remnants of one.
Jackson's eyes roam all over the apartment for a second time, noting shadows on the walls where pictures once hung, a landline cable in the corner that probably hadn't seen any use in at least fifteen years or more and pointlessly looking for clues even as his hopes begin to shrivel up like a dried raisin.
This is stupid, he's not sure what he even expected coming in here. There was never going to be anything useful. Maybe it was all just a subconscious ploy to sabotage himself and his wretched thirst for answers. There was no need for this, he could have waited safely outside and left such curiosity well enough alone, remaining unsatiated.
Demoralised, but resigned, Jackson is already turning to go when a movement seizes his awareness like a ghostly hand jerking him backwards.
With helmet back on, the Red Hood looks up, already halfway through the window before he seems to notice Jackson just standing there like an imbecile, not moving because he feet are suddenly super-glued to the floor.
"Shit!" the vigilante swears, pulling the last of his body into the room gracelessly. "Tim?" The words come out distorted, wrong. Terrifying.
Jackson's mouth goes dry, his legs turn to jelly.
He can't do this! What the ever-loving hell had he been thinking? This is the Red Hood. '―That guy kills people!' the quiet memory of Milo's voice supplies, echoing around his head like a soft chime in the wind, somehow barely audible under the clamorous noise of blood whooshing past his ears.
He never should have come here. The single thought inspires his legs to move without his conscious input, making ready to sprint for his life.
Apparently, Jackson gives himself away, for the Red Hood taps something nearby his ear on his helmet and says, without missing a beat, "Oracle, send out an alert. I've got eyes on Tim."
Whatever is said after that, Jackson doesn't know. His feet fly out the door, taking him back down the fire escape and onto the street, Red Hood giving chase shortly after.
Jackson leads them down twisting streets, the thorny brambles of Gotham city, wending through The Narrows without stopping to think where his feet are leading him. Occasionally, when he makes a sharp turn he'll hear a slew of profanity behind him as the Red Hood loses sight of him, but no matter how hard he tries, he never truly loses the vigilante.
Jackson takes a flight of steps down to the waterfront, fleeing past the vile, noxious river. It doesn't take him long to realise that Red Hood has the advantage on flat ground, the man's shouts sounding horrifyingly close. Cutting a left, he races back toward the safety of the murky shadows that the various building structures cast, scrambling down a vennel not much bigger than the width of his own body. For a second he thinks the Red Hood won't fit. He spares a frightened glance backwards to find the Red vigilante vanished, but a smaller, somehow more sinister figure in his place.
Jackson is too late to bite down on a faint, but audible, shout of strangled distress as the black-clad figure all but slithers after him, moving at almost twice his speed. Above him, a loud clang of two feet landing on a weathered fire escape alerts him to the position of his original pursuer; the Red Hood shooting upwards like a dart to run along the rooftops.
There's no thought behind Jackson's movements and he's out-numbered now. Even if he stopped to fight them off, he would lose… and probably earn a bullet between the eyes, if Milo's warnings proved correct.
He hurtles down a slightly wider alley, more than a little desperate to get away from whatever other thing is chasing him, but he realises a moment too late that they're corralling him―straight into a dead-end alleyway.
The passage is wide, more of lane than a street, but still much bigger than before. Certainly large enough for the Red Hood and the smaller, but more terrifying vigilante clad all in black―bar the symbol on her chest―to stand apart behind him, blocking the only exit.
At the end of the alley is a dumpster, so full to the brim with trash that the lid doesn't even come close to closing. A few rats scamper off at the abrupt sound of his shoes skidding to a halt. Above him, several scuffling noises alert him to the presence of more vigilantes; the violent, upwards jerking of his neck treating him to the sight of them standing atop the surrounding buildings. He recognises Nightwing up there from the blue streak of cerulean, but there are others too―a blonde girl and an angry looking child.
His panic ratchets up to a ten, gasping breaths as loud like jet engine as they ricochet off the red brick. The metallic tang of blood lingers after each laboured pant. There are more of them than he realised.
Jackson's brain scrambles. Competing sides of himself arguing he should find a way out of this mess before berating himself for getting into in the first place. Then, out of nowhere, there is a heavy noise behind him. A deadened sound and the slight fluttering of fabric.
A single cry of terror is snatched away, stolen by the darkness. Jackson turns, with dread already filling the space between his ribs.
And there, standing almost within arms reach, is Batman.