I still don't own anything that belongs to DC Comics; otherwise, it wouldn't belong to DC Comics, now, would it?

Rated T for violence, some language, and possibly some character death later on

*STOP RIGHT HERE! If you haven't read Fallen from Grace, go back and read it before this one! You will need the information from that story to understand Unforgivable Sins!*

Getting Tim into the building was not the problem for Jason. So many tenants came home drunk, drugged, or high (or dragged somebody there who was) that nobody really paid much attention to the sweating, delirious teenager in Jason's arms. The problem wasn't even the fact that Tim was convulsing by the time they reached Jason's apartment. No, the problem was figuring out exactly what to do with the kid once he was inside.

Jason, one arm wrapped around Tim's waist to hold him upright and the other hand clutching the arm the kid had thrown over his shoulders, painstakingly made his way through his living room to the couch. He gently laid Tim down on the cushions, practically wrestling with the shuddering teen to get his jacket and shoes off of him. Thinking fast, he dashed into the bedroom and pulled a light sheet and a pillow off the bed, but when he returned to give them to Tim, he found that the boy was now thrashing wildly.

"Aw, shit!" Jason spat, diving for the pair of pale arms the second he saw them fly up into the air again. He held Tim down as best he could, trying not to look up at his face so as to avoid having to admit to seeing the kid's eyes roll up in the back of his head. He pinned the boy's arms to his sides and kept his legs pressed against the couch, and it was pretty damn hard, too, what with the way he was convulsing. It went on like that for another fifteen minutes until Tim finally slipped into unconsciousness, either totally exhausted or much worse than Jason thought. Carefully, he withdrew from the teen's side and retrieved the pillow and sheet off the floor. He gently lifted Tim's head to position the pillow underneath it before covering him with the sheet.

After that, Jason really wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. He couldn't pretend that he actually liked the kid—well, not much more than he liked his other brothers, anyway—and he wasn't totally sure taking care of a sick Timmy was his responsibility, anyway. Weren't they supposed to be bitter enemies or something? Besides, the way the kid had distanced himself from everybody else the past year or so, did he even really want to be here? It wasn't like he was in his right mind, anyway, the state he was in.

Jason contemplated calling Bruce, or maybe Dick, talking them into picking the kid up. Then he pushed the thought away like it was the plague. Bad idea, Todd, he berated himself mentally. If they don't get on your case about it, he will.

Besides, he had a promise to keep. He couldn't break that promise if he tried.

So, instead of pawning him off to whoever would take him (unlucky bastard they would be), he decided he'd just let the kid stay there for the time being. Jason cautiously measured Tim's temperature, grimacing when he saw the resulting number. A hundred-plus degrees Fahrenheit didn't exactly come out to be the best scenario for the two of them. He sighed. Guess I'll be playing nurse tonight.

He was busy dabbing the kid's forehead with a cold rag when Tim shot upright, panting and screaming. Wild gray eyes scanned over the whole room, never settling on anything or focusing at all. Jason reached up and grabbed his arm, which, thankfully, attracted his attention. "Where—where—?" Tim gasped.

"You're fine, kid," Jason assured him somewhat gruffly. "You're safe. You're at my place."

"Where—Bruce—where—"

Jason blinked. Oh. "He's not here, kid. But it's okay. You're safe."

Tim gave him a look like he couldn't quite remember who Jason was before sinking back down onto the pillow and closing his eyes.

Much of the first day didn't go much better for them. If Tim wasn't trying to ask where Bruce was every five minutes, he was hallucinating or trying to escape. Jason hated the look on the kid's face every time he had to hold him down to the couch…but he'd be lying if he said it wasn't a little bit funny. At last, he just gave up and dosed the kid with enough morphine to keep him still all night.

He also gave up on sleeping in his own room. He found out—too quickly for his own tastes, at that—that instinct would force him to get up and go see if Tim was okay every time he whimpered, which always seemed to come just after Jason had fallen asleep. So, grumbling curses under his breath the whole way, he drug the covers and remaining pillow off his bed and curled up on the living room floor.

He woke up the second day to an incessant tapping on his shoulder. When he sat up, he saw Tim sitting beside him, poking him over and over and over again. "Hey, kid," he greeted him, forcing the curtness from his voice as best he could manage at that hour. "How do you feel?"

Tim's eyes met his, and Jason pressed his lips together to fight the urge to shake his head. There was a vacancy in his expression that Jason had never seen before on anyone, let alone this particular person. It was almost like his mind had totally blanked, like he didn't register anything around him. Jason gently pushed away the hand that was jabbing at his shoulder and murmured, "Let's get you laid back down, okay?" He hoisted Tim up onto his feet, got him back over to the couch, and then watched him fall asleep within minutes of being covered back up. He stuck the thermometer back into Tim's mouth, praying that the fever would've gone down and finding out that prayers (about that, at least) were still hopeless.

Getting the kid to focus enough to eat or drink during the day was impossible. Bringing the fever down was…not so much. It was much easier to bathe Tim's forehead in cool water when he was just lying there, staring up at the ceiling and not doing a whole lot of anything. Of course, attempting conversations was a little bit weird. Every time Jason tried to say something or get his little brother to talk, Tim would just give him that creepy look again and blink bemusedly at him. Jason eventually turned the TV on for noise to make himself feel a little less fidgety.

At one point in the afternoon, he noticed that Tim was grimacing and holding his stomach. Jason stood over him, examining him with his eyes. "You okay?"

Tim didn't even cut Jason a little bit of his attention.

"Are you hungry? Are you sick?" Jason paused, figuring the next question was worth a shot. "Should I call Bruce?"

Tim's eyes flashed up to Jason's face. He'd gotten eerily used to seeing them glazed over or dull, but this time, there was recognition in them. He gave his head the minutest shake before letting his eyes close yet again.

Thankfully, he was mostly still and silent the third day, spending much of his time sleeping on the couch. His fever was coming down, and he seemed less panicky and brain-damaged than the first two days. Of course, that wasn't saying a whole lot, considering the condition he'd been in. His more lucid moments consisted mostly of just asking if the Imperium had showed up for him yet. Jason had to bite his lip at that—was he getting worse?—but he stayed strong throughout the day, refusing to answer the question no matter how many times it was asked and no matter how much Tim seemed upset that he wasn't getting anything out of his older brother.

Jason got up on the fourth day determined that he could not keep Tim there any longer. Making sure the kid was still asleep, he crept into the kitchen with the phone and dialed Dick's number. The second ring hadn't even sounded yet before he heard a familiar voice, weak and scratchy, but recognizable, croaking at him from the living room.

"Jason…?"