Chapter Text
Jason was freaking the fuck out.
It was true, it was fucking true. Deep down some part of him had known it was likely. It was just too bizarre and farfetched a lie to come up with. Maybe not in a city of deranged lunatics like Gotham, but it would be a bit out of pocket for the squares at the FBI to start launching this kind of easily disproven psychological fucking warfare. He would really have preferred to remain in denial but the DNA results were right there, in black and fucking white.
Jason was lucky, or unlucky?, he had his own DNA testing setup to use, because there was no way he was delivering his DNA to some sketchy lab. The only other option would’ve been to break into the batcave and use Bruce's and that had about a dozen potential pitfalls.
An FBI agent. He was cursed, that was the only explanation, his life was one fucking greek tragedy after another. At least the Joker was dead, and this bio-parent couldn't sell Jason out to him, he thought with dark humor. His thoughts continued to spiral as he paced back and forth across the living room. As usual when he felt significant negative emotions like fear and panic, he could feel them coalescing into a burning green anger.
But he breathed deeply and let it pass over him. Rage was the fucking mindkiller in his case.
Talia gave him a disapproving frown from where she was lounging elegantly on the chaise longue sipping her tea. She had arrived in Gotham unannounced earlier that day with her usual aplomb, apparently having sensed Jason was having an emotional crisis. How the fuck she knew when he hadn't spoken to her in a month was a mystery, but he had come to accept that T was just like that. She had quickly corralled him and brought him to her penthouse in the Diamond District, apparently so he could have his meltdown in private.
“Sit down and drink your tea, habibi,” she instructed imperiously.
Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, he sat. And because he had never been completely compliant in his life, he sighed dramatically.
Talia set down her teacup on the coffee table, and gave him a penetrating look that made him feel as though she was x-raying his soul.
“Now, tell me what's wrong abni?”
“What do you mean, what's wrong, T?” Jason burst out, “I just told you, Willis wasn't my father! My bio-father reached out and he's a goddamn FBI agent. I'm fucking cursed.”
“Don't swear,” T instructed sternly, before giving him a considering look, “and? What is the problem?”
“What's the problem? Don't you recall what happened the last time I met a surprise bio-parent,” Jason challenged.
T's face softened, “things are different now. You are a grown man, with the skills and resources to defend yourself, as well as a healthy dose of paranoia.”
Reaching across the table to squeeze his hand gently, she continued, “he indicated that he has no wish to arrest you did he not? Do you think he was lying?”
Jason rubbed his jaw in irritation. Knowing he was being pointlessly contrary, he grumbled petulantly, “so he's a corrupt cop, perfect.”
In a very un-Talia move she rolled her eyes exasperatedly, “oh abni, don't be a hypocrite, you want him to care for you and be on your side, but also to be perfectly moral and law abiding? It's Bruce's rigidity that you object to is it not? His tunnel vision. His self-righteousness.”
“You should be glad your birth father is not afflicted by this sickness,” she said, picking up her teacup and taking a sip as though to punctuate her sentence.
Jason sighed, pouring himself his own cup. It was always difficult for him to open up emotionally. He trusted T as much as he trusted anyone but that didn't mean he enjoyed being vulnerable.
Jason had overcome so much in the last few years. He had slain his demons, and finally stopped holding on to the past like a feral dog with a bone. He was starting to feel pretty damn well adjusted, or at least as much as the average Gothamite.
“I just-” he paused, trying to articulate his jumbled thoughts, “just when I don't want or need a father anymore, when I've moved on, this bullshit happens? I've had enough disappointing fathers to last a lifetime.”
Jason hadn't asked for this. The time when he would have appreciated a father figure was long past, and the fact that this new father was a fed who knew he was Red Hood didn't exactly improve the situation.
His mental spiral was interrupted by T setting her teacup down with a sharp clink, “you seem to be under the impression that you are obliged to have a relationship with this man, you are not. You can simply do nothing. This Hotchner may try to find you, but you have successfully evaded law enforcement for years. You have successfully evaded Batman for years.”
Jason stopped his jaw from dropping open stupidly with great effort. Damn, trust T to put things in perspective. He had gotten so used to dealing with problems head on (and ruthlessly) that he had somehow forgotten avoiding your problems was actually a viable and time-honored option.
His attempt at a poker face must have failed, because Talia smiled smugly.
“I could also kill him for you if you prefer?” she suggested, lightly, “I know you like to take care of things yourself, but patricide is harder than it seems, I would know.”
Jason snorted a reluctant laugh. T had such a natural resting bitch face it was hard to tell when she was joking. Knowing her, it was a serious offer.
“That's sweet of you T, but hold off on any assassination plots for now,” he said, just in case.
“Very well, if you insist,” she said with a mock pout, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles in her green silk blouse.
“Now are you feeling better or do you want me to call your red archer friend to come and console you? He could take you out for those vile hotdogs you like.”
Jason huffed a laugh, and pulled an offended face, “I'm a grown man Ummi, I don't need you to arrange play dates for me.”
“And speaking of play dates, are you planning to visit Dami while you're –”
Jason's phone buzzed insistently, and he froze. His people knew not to bother him today unless it was urgent. It was a text from Anita.
Come to RP HQ ASAP
Fuck. If this problem had come all the way up the chain to him it must be a shitshow.
“T, I gotta go take care of something. I'll call you later,” he said, leaning over to kiss her temple.
“Of course habibi, go on,” she replied, waving him off with her usual aristocratic haughtiness.
Roaring over the bridge to Midtown on his motorcycle, Jason couldn't help but feel a flicker of unease. Anita wasn't usually the type to ask for help with anything, so he couldn't imagine it was good news. He mentally snorted, when was it ever good news in Gotham.
Navigating the gray, rain slick streets with habitual ease, Jason screeched to a stop in front of the Red Hood owned building near Robinson Park.
Concerningly, Anita and Carlos were waiting for him outside, looking agitated. Jason was wearing his more discreet black motorcycle helmet, so as not to scare the good folks of the Diamond District, but his lieutenants easily recognized him and hurried over.
“Hood, we have a problem,” Anita barked without preamble.
“Yeah I kinda figured based on your text,” Jason replied, leaning against his bike and crossing his arms, “not much to go off of.”
Carlos looked uncharacteristically angry, his jaw was tight and he kept clenching and unclenching his hands.
“You gotta see to understand boss, we'll show you,” he said, turning away jerkily.
Jason followed his lieutenants for a few minutes as dusk fell, and they came to a dark alleyway.
Two more of his guys were standing guard at the mouth of the alley. They gave him sharp, respectful nods as he, Anita, and Carlos passed them.
It was as dingy as your average Gotham alley, and they picked their way around the trash, and broken glass with an instinct born of long practice.
Fuck.
Sticking out from behind a dumpster were a pair of feet wearing brown heeled boots.
“It's Sandra,” Anita announced grimly, “I recognized her bracelet.”
Double fuck. Sandra was one of his people. A middle aged woman who supervised one of his safe use sites, and funneled those who wanted it to Red Hood approved rehab programs. Jason had only spoken to her directly a couple of times, but he knew her background as he did all his people. She had a 20 year old daughter who was doing night classes at Gotham U. God fucking damn it.
But why did Anita need the bracelet to–
They rounded the dumpster to look at the body and Jason understood.
In addition to the stab wounds to the chest which obviously killed her, her face had been completely peeled off, exposing bloody red muscle and nerves.
“Motherfucker.”
Emily was dying of curiosity, but was managing to hide it at least a little bit better than the rest of the team. Perks of her undercover experience, she liked to think. It could also be that she just looked particularly stonefaced in comparison to Penelope. Every time Hotch opened his mouth, she started looking like a cartoon wolf, eyes bugging out, and tongue rolling out of her mouth.
Emily could understand, since she was also desperate to know every detail of Hotch's encounter with the Red Hood. It had been a few days since they had recovered Hotch from his abduction and closed the Scratch case. In the immediate aftermath they had all been occupied with debriefing and filling out reports that would pass muster with the FBI. Luckily, ballistics had cleared Hotch of Scratch's murder. Emily hated to think it but it also worked in his favour that he had been drugged. He was able to plausibly claim that his memories of his abduction were too fragmented and blurry to be of any use. The theory Hotch had presented to Strauss, which she seemed to accept, was that Lewis was the target, and he had been taken to be interrogated. Once his captors realized Hotch was drugged and therefore couldn't provide any witness testimony against them, they decided to release him rather than risk keeping or killing a federal agent.
Emily might have believed this version of events herself, if Hotch hadn't discreetly informed them it was the Red Hood. His son. She still had a hard time wrapping her mind around that.
Tonight, they had finally managed to gather the whole team outside Quantico for a proper debrief. They were once again taking advantage of Rossi's oversized house; sitting out on the patio to drink wine in the lovely evening light.
As soon as Rossi settled in his seat, setting the snacks he had brought out on the table, Garcia's restraint broke.
“So what happened? Did you talk to him? Did you tell him? What did you say? What did he say? Uh..sir” she tacked on hastily.
“Slow down baby girl,” Morgan chuckled, “give him a minute to answer. But yeah, I'd also like to know. Your boy had us chasing our tails for a minute there.”
Reid nodded eagerly in agreement, that hyperfocused quest for knowledge that was so integral to his personality sharpening the angles of his face.
“So, were we correct in thinking that Red Hood killed Peter Lewis?” interjected Rossi, prompting Hotch to start from the beginning.
“Yes,” Hotch confirmed, pausing to take a deep gulp of his wine, “as I recall he burst in just when Lewis was forcing me to confess my worst fears.”
The team all shuddered in sympathy.
“And then…?” JJ asked tentatively.
“And then I lost consciousness. Next thing I knew I was waking up somewhere else tied to a chair. Quite professionally as well, hands behind my back wrist to elbow, so there was no way to wriggle out.”
An odd note of paternal pride crept into Hotch's voice as he described Red Hood's superior kidnapping skills. Emily inadvertently made eye contact with JJ across the table and had to look away before they both burst into inappropriate laughter.
“Were you able to determine his motive? Was this because of Emily's message or was he targeting Lewis?” Reid inquired.
“He was there for me. I told him the truth,” Hotch explained simply.
The team all stared at him blankly. This was really not the time for Hotch's stoic, minimalist communication style, Emily thought exasperatedly. Penelope looked just about ready to leap across the table and shake him until information started falling out.
Thankfully, Hotch correctly interpreted their expressions and continued of his own accord, “I don't think he really believed me, but he took some of my DNA to do his own tests and said he would be in touch.”
With a tiny, fond half-smile, Hotch added, “he did call me a pig at one point, but he also called Scratch discount Scarecrow, so I decided not to take offence.”
Morgan barked a surprised laugh, “kid would fit right in in Chicago.”
Emily hated to interrupt the general hilarity, but she did have her own question to ask, “did you find out anything about his identity?”
“No,” Hotch replied, frowning, “he kept his helmet on the whole time, but he did let slip that his adoptive father died in prison.”
Penelope was tapping away on her phone, most likely making a note to add that data point to her search parameters. Emily was unsure how helpful it would be considering the boy apparently grew up in the most crime ridden, recidivist area of Gotham, but it would at least help narrow things down.
Hotch paused, and Emily had the impression he would have kept this tidbit close to the chest if he didn't need them to dig up information.
“He did give me another name that I could call him by, but it's definitely not his real one,” he confessed, reluctantly.
“Another alias?” Rossi asked with a pensive frown, “what is it?”
“Well, first he told me to call him Peter, but then he noticed my negative reaction because of the Scratch connection, so he offered the name Tayir instead. Apparently, it means–”
“Bird,” Emily interrupted, wonderingly, “in Arabic.”
Shifting guiltily in her seat as everyone turned to give her inquisitive looks, she decided she might as well confess. They had all been coloring so far outside the lines lately, that a bit of extracurricular research was nothing.
“I've been using some of my old contacts to dig up information on the League of Assassins,” she began, ignoring the worried and disapproving looks she received, “apparently Arabic is one of their lingua francas, especially at the top of the hierarchy.”
“That definitely seems to confirm the connection,” JJ said with a concerned look, “Tayir could have been his callsign when he was with them.”
“Renaming is frequently used as a tool of cult indoctrination. It functions to break down a person's identity–” Reid's incongruously up-beat, academic tones cut off mid-sentence, as he spotted the stricken expression Hotch was unsuccessfully hiding.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, as Penelope blinked back tears, and the others contemplated various avenues of cult deprogramming.
The awkward tension was broken by the sound of two phones beeping simultaneously. Penelope dug her phone out of her purse and gasped, “oh my god, I just got a CODIS alert, it's–”
“Everett Lynch,” Rossi interrupted grimly, looking at his own phone, “he killed again.”
“Where?” Hotch asked brusquely.
Lifting her head slowly, Penelope looked around with wide unblinking eyes.
“Gotham.”