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It was never a good sign when Tim woke up unable to move.
In the very best of circumstances, it meant he was hurt badly enough to need some form of restraint keeping him from aggravating his injuries. A step down from there but still technically a ‘good circumstance,’ if only by the measure he’d gotten used to as the new Robin, was that he’d just woken up after being dosed with fear toxin and had been strapped down to keep him from trying to punch Batman while the antidote ran its course. Occasionally it might even be because Dick had captured him in those octopus arms of his and was passed out on top of him, purring like the low rumble of the Batmobile and just as unstoppable a force. Tim counted that last one as below fear toxin on the hierarchy because, well, at least the fear toxin didn’t always manage to jam an elbow into his bladder and then refuse to wake up to let Tim go to the bathroom.
Tim cracked his eyes open. His vision was blurry. That probably wasn’t a good sign. His head was blurry too, thoughts unfocused and smearing together. Un-good sign number two. Number three was that he didn’t recognize his nebulous, vague surroundings. If waking up unable to move was bad, waking up unable to move in a place he didn’t know was. . .
Tim couldn’t find it in himself to be alarmed for a moment. He really just wanted to go back to sleep. The fact that he had to pause, close his eyes, and force his sluggish brain to feel concerned about the situation. . .
Shit.
This was bad.
Okay. Tim focused as best he could with his muffled mind. Why couldn’t he move?
He tried to twitch his fingers. He wasn’t sure if it worked. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t lift his head to look. He probably should’ve thought of that.
His nose itched. Tim reached up to scratch it. His hand couldn’t make it up. There was a pressure at his wrist, dampened but still there– a strap? A rope? A manacle? He tried pulling harder against it but his limb refused to cooperate, his strength failing him and his arm giving up the fight against gravity. The surface beneath him was cool against his fingers, but Tim barely felt it.
He made a soft sound that wanted to be a whimper but lacked the energy.
Can’t move. Probably drugs. Wait it out, then, try to recover his strength. Wait for Batman. How did he get here? Tim couldn’t remember, but then again, he also couldn’t think straight. He tried to focus, tried to think back– had he been fighting? Out on patrol? The last thing he remembered was going to bed, and then–
Then there had been someone standing over him.
Not Batman. Tim had thought it was him at first, but the silhouette was all wrong, and the light gleamed red off the– motorcycle helmet?– that they were wearing. Their voice, when they spoke, was filtered and metallic. Maybe it had been a robot; except– hadn’t they been wearing clothes? Robots didn’t usually do that.
They’d broken into his room. At home. While he was sleeping. So probably he was still in his pajamas. Tim hoped he was still in his pajamas. But his pajamas meant– no lockpicks, no batarangs, no panic button. No tracer. Batman would still come for him. Batman would get here. But Tim didn’t know when. Fuck, he didn’t even know how long he’d been asleep. Something tightened in Tim’s chest, real fear piercing through the thick haze blanketing every neuron in his body. He was alone. He was unarmed. He was, Tim was vaguely guessing, in a warehouse.
This felt disturbingly similar to–
No. Tim would be fine. He’d been taken as Drake, which meant this wasn’t about Robin. This was. . . this was probably an attempt at squeezing a ransom out of his parents. Which meant he wasn’t safe, not by any means, but he was more valuable alive.
He wasn’t going to end up like. . .
He couldn’t remember being knocked out. He couldn’t even remember what the probably-not-a-robot had said. It was all too blurry, blurry like his vision and his mind and everything else, and Tim was. . . pretty sure there had to be drugs involved in that too. Fuck, the not-robot had been so close when he’d woken up, the drugs had probably been administered before he even opened his eyes. Maybe it had been the sting of a needle or bite of the dosage that had woken him in the first place, though Tim couldn’t remember it. The more he tried to focus on that snippet of consciousness the less he was sure of. He really just wanted to go back to sleep.
Instead, he tried to talk.
“Mngh,” he said, because his tongue was just as uncooperative as the rest of his body. Fuck. The kidnapper, or kidnappers, were probably having just as shit a time trying to contact his parents as Tim ever did. If he could give them Bruce’s number instead, Batman could trace the call and come save him. Assuming the kidnappers didn’t think he was trying to trick them, which he was, and assuming Tim could actually manage to speak, which he couldn’t.
They’d gotten into his room, despite all the security. These had to be professionals. Hopefully they weren’t the kind of professionals that liked to cut off ears or pinkies or. Other minor extremities. Tim had seen documentaries.
“Hhey,” Tim managed. A whole word. Incredible. “Hey, s. . . s’anyone. . . th’re?”
The voice that answered him wasn’t metallic. It was warm, and alive, and it sounded. . . familiar.
The face that swam into focus above him was familiar too.
“Shit, babybird,” Jason Todd said softly. “I can’t believe you can talk right now. You’re a strong little fucker, aren’t you?”
“J’son?” Tim slurred. He tried to squint up at the person leaning over him, to resolve their features into something else, someone else, because what his eyes were telling him couldn’t be accurate. That couldn’t be Jason Todd. Jason was. . .
Jason was. . .
Jason was standing over him, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as he gave Tim a wry smile. It was him. A little older-looking, a little more tired, but undeniably Jason. Tim would know. He’d spent years scrutinizing those illicit pictures he’d taken of Robin, examining that strong jawline and stubborn nose half-hidden under the mask. Then he’d found every picture of Jason Todd that had ever been snagged by the press, burning those stilted expressions and blurry creepshots into his brain. And though Wayne Manor wasn’t exactly flooded with framed photos– not anymore, Dick said– Tim had seen Jason’s hung in a place of honor beside an old tintype of Thomas and Martha Wayne, dressed in a suit for some unknown occasion and smirking out at Tim with that wicked mouth, those eyes that promised mischief. Alfred had caught him staring at it one day and, rather than reprimand Tim for invading such a personal space, had sat him down and handed him a cardboard box full to the brim of old scrapbooks and pictures still behind glass. Tim had gone through it with the careful reverence of someone cupping a soul in their hands. Jason asleep on the couch with Dick. Jason with ice cream halfway down his face and a pair of sunglasses in his hair. Jason sitting beside a snowman that had two suspicious points on its head and a towel tied around its shoulders.
This Jason had a shock of white running through his hair where it fell into his eyes, where it had always fallen into his eyes when it was long enough. He had that same scar running through one of his eyebrows, the one Tim had always kind of wanted to smooth his thumb over, as if that could wipe it away. His eyes were the same intense blue, the same eyes that had looked out at Tim from every picture he could scrounge up, that had silently told him to help Bruce.
“Yeah,” Jason said, and in his voice was the echo of every shout Tim had ever heard over the rooftops. “It’s me.”
Tim relaxed, relief flooding his body. Of course it was Jason. Tim didn’t know why he’d thought it wasn’t. And if Jason was here– if Robin was here– that meant everything was okay. Tim was safe. Robin was here to save him.
It had been painfully easy to kidnap the Replacement.
Batman, for all his paranoia, had never anticipated attacks coming from his own family. Here was a guy with measures to take out Superman “just in case” (and fuck if Jason was ever going to understand why Clark let him get away with that), but who figured Dick wouldn’t use his all-access pass to the Batcave for evil. Which, y’know, maybe he was right about the golden boy being physically incapable of betraying him, but also superheroes these days came head-to-head with mind control on a regular basis. That was Batman’s excuse for the kryptonite he kept locked in a vault, so why shouldn’t it be the same for his family?
Jason had asked, once, and Bruce had said it was because he’d prefer to deal with that kind of thing in-house.
“When it comes to mind control,” he’d said, “There’s a few different kinds to look out for. One is more analogous to possession, where the victim’s mind is suppressed entirely and the controller puppets their body. This offers them the most precise control but also means they don’t have access to the victim’s memories– things such as passwords or code phrases. Thus, those security measures are more than effective. For the more insidious types of mental manipulation, the ones where the victim is both aware of their actions yet unable to stop them, no countermeasure exists that wouldn’t restrict their freedom at any other time as well. And if someone comes after me who knows my identity, I’d rather be able to deal with it here, away from prying eyes.”
Which was, of course, predicated on the assumption that none of his family members would ever go against him of their own free will. That Batman simply had to snap them out of it and everything would be fine. It didn’t account for any potential Judases in the mix.
It didn’t account for Jason.
So yeah, kidnapping the Replacement had been easy. Easier than Jason had made it on himself. He didn’t want to give up the game too early, after all, and using the override code that Batman had given him once upon a time would’ve been a dead giveaway. So rather than simply disabling the Replacement’s security Jason opted to work around it, to be just a little bit sloppy. He wanted Batman to find him. Just not too soon. Not until Jason had finished setting everything up.
He’d watched the manor for a couple days before he’d made his move. Not Wayne Manor, Drake Manor. He’d been shocked to realize that the Replacement wasn’t staying at Bruce’s place, hadn’t been snatched up by the Batman before Jason was even in the ground. Then he’d been shocked that his replacement was Tim Drake, the gaunt little shit that Jason vaguely remembered seeing hovering in the corner of a rich-bitch party or two. He’d been younger, then, and when Jason first laid eyes on him again he keenly felt every one of the days he’d spent underground, every year. Then he’d just felt angry, because that was easier. Anger was the easiest emotion he had these days.
He pitied the brat. He really did. It wasn’t his fault that Bruce had picked him when he decided to upgrade from Jason. That was why he’d wanted to make sure this didn’t hurt, why he was doing this in the first place, but apparently he’d underestimated how willful the little bird would be. His medical history hadn’t mentioned any kind of resistance to drugs, so him being conscious right now was a surprise.
Well, maybe conscious was being too generous. He definitely still seemed out of it, if the way he was slurring his words was any indication. He had this goofy smile on his face too, looking up at Jason like he’d hung the stars in the sky instead of just shooting the guy up so high he could probably taste clouds.
He didn’t want to give the kid any more propofol, not if he could help it. He didn’t want to kill him. Not yet.
He perched on the edge of the table he’d strapped the kid to, letting out a breath.
“Careful,” he said, “Your face is gonna get stuck like that.”
The Replacement’s eyebrows scrunched together in confusion, and his lips formed an exaggerated pout before the corners twitched back up into that ridiculous smile. It would’ve put one of Dick’s grins to shame.
“Don’ care,” the Replacement said. His fingers, inches from Jason’s hip, strained upwards for a moment before relaxing again, like he wanted to touch Jason.
(When was the last time someone had touched Jason in a way that wasn’t a sucker-punch?)
(It didn’t feel like as long as it really had been. He could remember the last hug Bruce had given him with aching clarity, even though it had been years ago for everyone else)
(At the same time it felt like so much longer than that)
Jason looked away from the Replacement’s stupid face. He reached down, unlatching the sheath at his thigh and pulling out the knife. He considered it for a moment, weighing it in his hand and testing the edge against his finger. He didn’t draw blood. He knew how to handle blades safely after all his time with Batman.
“You know what, this is good,” Jason said. “Now I can ask you a couple questions.”
The Replacement didn’t reply beyond continuing to stare at Jason like the second coming of Christ. Jason was just going to assume that meant he was okay with being quizzed.
“Your file didn’t mention any allergies,” he said, “Is that accurate?”
The Replacement blinked slowly up at him. He had big baby blues, even more puppy-dog than Grayson’s. Jason sighed.
“Are you trying to nod?” he asked.
“Uh,” the Replacement said, “Yeah. Am I. . . m’I not?”
“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Jason said.
“Okay.” The Replacement’s voice was airy. Jason hadn’t expected a response or an agreement, so that was a pleasant surprise. He turned the knife over in his hands.
“I’m gonna try something,” he said, “And I want you to tell me if you feel it, okay?”
The kid blinked again, then seemed to remember his body wasn’t exactly working with him right now.
“Nod,” he said, “M’nodding.”
“You sure are,” Jason muttered, and leaned over to press the point of his blade against the thin stretch of bare skin exposed at the Replacement’s waist where his pajama top had ridden up. The kid slept in Superman PJs. Jason wondered if Bruce knew about that.
He hadn’t broken skin yet, the point and pressure just dimpling the Replacement’s flesh. Jason looked up again, made eye contact.
“You feel that?” he asked.
“No. What m’I supposed to be. . . feeling?”
“Nothing,” Jason said honestly, “You’re not even supposed to be awake.”
“Don’ wanna be,” the Replacement said, his expression falling back into that pout. His eyelids drooped, then he blinked and seemed to jerk back to alertness. “M’so tired. . . but I gotta. Gotta stay awake.”
“No you don’t. You can go back to sleep if you want.” Jason started to bear down on the knife, not looking away from the Replacement’s face. “You must be so fucking exhausted.”
“Nn,” the kid grunted, his nose scrunching up. Jason immediately stopped pressing down, glancing at where blood had started to pool around the shallow wound. He hadn’t punctured anything important, just dug into skin.
“Does that hurt?” he asked. His breath was caught in his chest, tangled around his ribs, and he only managed to wrench it free when the Replacement gave the slightest shake of his head.
“Doesn’ hurt,” he mumbled, “Just. . . pressure.”
“Good,” Jason said. “That’s good.”
He pulled the knife away, wiping the flat of the blade on his pants before sliding it back into the sheath. He examined the wound he’d left behind. The kid would have felt that if the propofol wasn’t doing some semblance of its job, so Jason felt okay to continue.
Not that he would’ve just, like. Put the kid back. He had a plan, a goal, and as much fun as it would be to watch Bats freak out over how easily Jason had waltzed through his security it wouldn’t be worth the compensation afterwards, how much more difficult it would make Jason’s second attempt. No, if the propofol hadn’t worked Jason would have just gotten the kid out of here, locked him down tight in one of Jason’s safe houses and figured out an alternative. Maybe he should’ve done that to begin with, actually, really let Batman stew in it. Let him realize he’d lost another one of his birds. Did he care about this one enough to kill, Jason wondered? If Batman arrived here, now, right this second, would he kill Jason to keep him from finishing his replacement off?
Jason trailed his index and middle finger over the oozing slice in the kid’s belly, the fresh blood burning hot against his skin. When he drew his fingers away they were coated in crimson, fat droplets running off his skin and dribbling back into the puddle below.
He leaned down, cupping the Replacement’s cheek.
“Hold still, and close your eyes,” he said, bringing up his bloody hand, and he started tracing his fingers along the hollow curve of the Replacement’s eye socket. The kid obediently let his lids fall shut, but then he giggled. Jason flinched. It wasn’t the same laughter that haunted him, but–
“Hol’ still,” the Replacement echoed, “Like I h’v a choice.”
“Right,” Jason said, and cursed his slightly-shaky voice. “Right, yeah, you’re pretty much dead in the water, huh?”
He dipped his fingers again, bringing more blood up to the kid’s face and painting his right eyelid red. He hadn’t been planning on doing this, but he was kinda liking how it looked. Plus it worked, like, thematically, so there was that.
The Replacement was quiet as he worked, and Jason figured he’d nodded off again. Good. Even if he’d checked that the kid couldn’t feel anything he’d still prefer he be asleep. He didn’t need to be aware through the whole process, able to understand what was happening. Not that he seemed to be able to understand much at the moment.
Jason hadn’t been planning on showing his face. Not yet. Not for this. That was why he’d worn the hood while breaking in, why he hadn’t let anyone see him yet who might recognize the person he used to be. The Replacement waking up had taken him by surprise, and now he was reevaluating his plan. He hadn’t wanted this to be his big reveal. Still didn’t. When he showed Batman exactly who was behind the Red Hood he wanted it to hurt as badly as he could possibly manage, wanted to hurt him even a fraction of how much he’d hurt Jason. He wanted Bruce to suffer, and that meant he really had to stew in his hatred first. Jason had more ideas, more half-formed plans, thoughts of how to make himself Batman’s number-one problem. Things that wouldn’t be nearly as effective if they weren’t prep for the worst case of regret Bruce had ever come down with.
But now, because Jason had wanted to air himself out while setting things up for what he’d thought was an unconscious Robin, the kid had seen his face. Worse, he knew who Jason was, which Jason hadn’t expected. Why had Bruce revealed him posthumously, ripping the shroud from his dead Robin? Had he held Jason up as an example of what not to be, a cautionary story about listening to daddy and playing nice?
Whatever. It was fine. The kid was probably too high to remember this anyway, and as long as Jason didn't leave any physical evidence the whole thing could be dismissed as a hallucination. The cat wasn't necessarily running loose in the streets.
He drew his hands away from the Replacement’s face. There. The crude rendering of the Robin mask gleamed in the warehouse’s floodlights, except in the patches where the blood had begun to dry. It wasn’t about to be winning first place on Face Off, but it was recognizable and that was what mattered. Apparently blood was a tricky medium to paint in. Who knew?
“C’n I open my eyes now?”
Jason blinked. Apparently the kid wasn’t asleep. Fuck, the little shit must have a will of steel. He felt something vaguely like pride in the pit of his stomach. Tough kid.
“If you want,” Jason said. He wiped his hands on his pants. It didn’t get them totally clean, but it helped. “I’m serious that you can just go to sleep, though. It’ll be better that way.”
“I don’t w’na sleep,” the kid said quietly. Jason didn’t look to see if he’d opened his eyes again.
“I thought you said you did.”
“Mh. Yeah. I do. Bu’ not. . . me. I don’ wanna. Jus’ my body.”
“Your body has the right idea,” Jason said. He drummed his fingers against the table.
“My body’s been drugged,” Replacement said, so indignantly that it actually got a laugh out of Jason. He looked down, and the kid was giving him a groggy sort of glare. “M’body’s stupid, Jason. Hasn’ even seen documen’aries.”
“Uhuh,” Jason said, trying not to smile.
“An’ if I sleep,” the kid continued, then faltered. Jason watched his throat bob as he swallowed. “’F I sleep, I might not. . . wake up again.”
Jason’s nails dug into his palm. He would. The kid would. He’d be fine. Jason was setting this up carefully, covering every base, making sure of a million different things. He had to time this right, had to make sure everything worked out the way he wanted.
But.
The kid had no way of knowing that.
“You will,” Jason said, fierce and sure. “I promise. You’ll be fine.”
Better than fine. But he didn’t expect the Replacement to believe him. He didn’t even know why the kid hadn’t questioned his presence more, asked how a dead man could be seated beside him upright and breathing. Unless, fuck, had Bruce gone the way of a deceased family pet with him? Told his new Robin that Jason had gone to live on a farm?
Something touched his hand. Jason stilled. His tapping fingers had been just close enough to the kid’s that he’d managed to reach out and brush them over Jason’s, pinky and ring finger settling against Jason’s skin. Jason looked up and the kid was looking back at him, making direct eye contact with those big baby blues ringed in red. It felt like he’d punched Jason in the gut.
“I know it’s gonna be fine,” Tim said. “You’re. . . you’re here. So it’s fine. S’all. . . fine.”
He closed his eyes again, apparently unaware of what he’d just done to Jason’s lungs. When he spoke again, his voice was absent. Breathy.
“Robin’s here to save me,” he whispered.
Jason couldn’t breathe.
“Yeah,” he croaked out after a moment, “Yeah. That’s right. I’m here to save you.”
Batman would be here soon. Hopefully. Jason had left a note, and he was patched into the Bat’s frequencies– he’d know when he was on the move. He’d know when to put the final pieces in place. He had alarms set to go off the moment there was chatter, the moment Bruce set foot in Drake Manor.
But.
For now. . .
“Does he talk about me?” Jason asked. He regretted it immediately, hated that he’d let the question pass his lips. “Fuck, forget it, don’t answer that. I don’t wanna know. God he’s an asshole.”
“Batman?” the Replacement asked tentatively, seeming to be having trouble grasping this current conversational thread.
“Yeah. Batman. Asshole,” Jason repeated. Slower. More emphasized.
The kid’s fingers pressed down a little harder on his. He was warm. Human. Alive.
“Batman’s coming to save me,” he said.
Jason yanked his hand away, getting to his feet. The Replacement made a distressed noise but Jason was already walking away, stalking over to where he’d left his helmet. He needed it, needed it on now. The fingers of his right hand stuck to the outside as he picked it up, tacky, half-dried blood clinging to the slick surface of the red hood. Jason settled the cushioned helm over his head and felt immediately better.
“Jason?” the kid asked, but Jason barely heard him. He couldn’t breathe quite right.
“It’s okay,” he said. For some reason it didn’t seem to calm the kid this time, not even when Jason tried again. “It’s all okay.”
The Replacement started trying to tug at his restraints again, with no more success than the first time. Jason tapped his fingers on the butt of the pistol at his hip, the hilt of the knife strapped to his thigh. Bullet or blade? Bullet or blade?
He wasn’t any closer to deciding fifteen minutes later, when his alarms went off. Bruce had finally realized he was missing a kid. Took him long enough. His line held nothing but dead air, which wasn’t surprising. Jason had only tuned in as a precaution. Dick was over in Blüdhaven right now, too far away to be of any help unless Bruce wanted to delay his rescue. When Batman came for his Robin, he’d be alone.
Jason let out a breath, the same way he did before taking a shot. Three minutes from Drake’s to the manor. Twelve from the cave to the warehouse. Four minutes before Jason set things into final, decisive motion.
He slipped his hand into his pocket, felt the bottle there. It was an old gatorade bottle with the label peeled off, because that was what Jason had had on hand at the time. Bruce had been injured in a fight– not with Jason, Jason had had to be free to pick up the leftovers which meant he’d had to be hands-off. He’d tailed Batman for weeks before he finally got his break, finally collected half a bottle of the vampire’s blood after he’d left the scene. He’d shot the criminal Bruce had left behind in the head, partially to cover his tracks– seeing the Red Hood dragging a plastic bottle through a puddle of blood was the kind of thing you didn’t really forget– and partially because he’d had to sit quietly by for weeks watching Bruce trussing these guys up after only a mild bruising, leaving them for the cops that were just as corrupt as the criminals they arrested.
The blood would still work, even after the wait. Jason knew. Jason had done his homework. Jason still hoped he wouldn’t have to find out. The blood was a backup, nothing more– if Bruce wasn’t willing to turn the kid, wasn’t willing to save his life, Jason refused to just sit by and watch him die. And hey, if the bastard did try to give the kid up for dead, Jason would take him on. It could be nice, having company.
Four minutes had passed. Jason clenched his fists. Relaxed. He walked back over to the table, looking down at the little Robin. Bullet, he decided. It’d send a message.
He pulled his gun from the holster. Flicked off the safety. The kid was staring up at him, eyes wide, baby blues reflecting Jason’s red helmet. The Replacement’s knuckles were white as he pressed his fingers against the table. Saw the gun.
“No,” he breathed, “No no no, please no, please. . .”
“It’s okay, babybird,” Jason said. He aimed, hands steady on his pistol. Gutshot. Messy and deadly, but aiming away from any major arteries. The kid would bleed out, but not too fast.
He took a deep breath.
“This is for your own good.”
He let it out.
The gunshot rang through the warehouse, echoing off the walls. The Replacement gaped up at him, eyes still wide, still forcing Jason to look at the shiny picture of what he’d become. Jason lowered the gun.
“It’s okay,” he said. There was blood soaking the Replacement’s Superman pajamas. “It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay.”
He reached down and gave the kid’s fingers a small squeeze. There were tears clustering at the corners of his eyes, and when he blinked they streaked down his cheeks. Some of the bloody mask washed down with them, leaving rusty red trails on the Replacement’s skin.
“Ah,” the Replacement gasped. His mouth worked slowly, like he wasn’t sure how to move his face anymore. Jason knew it hadn’t hurt, but the kid still probably felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Not to mention that he’d seen what was coming. Knew what had just happened.
“I told you you should’ve gone back to sleep.” Jason’s words were bitter. He swallowed and the taste stayed on the back of his tongue. “Don’t worry. He’s gonna turn you, and if he doesn’t, I will. It’s okay, babybird. You’re gonna be okay.”
“I don’t wanna die,” the kid whispered. His voice was barely audible but it still cut straight into Jason’s ribs. “I don’t– I don’t want to die.”
Jason closed his eyes. He gave the kid’s fingers another squeeze before letting go, drawing away, and leaving the Replacement to bleed out on the table.
As careful as he’d been with the plan up until now, he’d have to play fast and loose from here on out. The prep work was done and now everything else was up to Batman. Jason needed to hang around until the deed was done, make sure the Replacement turned without a hitch, and then he needed to get the hell out of dodge so Batman didn’t waste any time fighting him when he should be hauling the kid back to the manor. Either manor.
On that note, Jason couldn’t be too close to the kid when Batman did arrive, or else Batman would consider forcibly removing Jason from proximity to be job number one with saving the Replacement’s goddamn life falling down to his to-do list. Which would make sense in any other circumstance. If Jason wanted them both dead there’d be nothing stopping him from stabbing Batman in the back while he was working on the kid.
So Jason climbed the short ladder up to the catwalk that spanned the width of the warehouse. His boots rang loud and echoing on the metal mesh, and when he took up final position in the middle of the walkway it took a moment for the sound to fade out. He took a deep breath. Leaned his elbows on the railing, trying to project nonchalance and cold, cruel intent.
He could hear the Replacement’s struggling breaths below him. They sounded wet. The kid must still be crying.
Well.
Batman wouldn’t be here for a while longer.
“Hey,” Jason called, “Talk to me, kid. Let’s find your happy place. What do you like to do?”
There was silence below him. The kid didn’t answer. There was only a drawn-out sniffle and a noise like the kid’s body was trying to hiccup but was too drugged-out to remember how.
Jason would take it.
“I like to read,” Jason said. “Haven’t had much time for it lately, though. Cooking either. Not that my current setup’s great for the culinary arts.”
More silence. Jason was watching the Replacement’s chest carefully, making sure it was still rising and falling.
“And I’ve got a thing for theater. Come to think of it, I should check and see what I missed. I wonder if anything good’s come out since I went under.”
He was mostly just talking to fill the void now. To hopefully give the little Robin something to latch onto. Something to distract him. He didn’t really expect the near-inaudible response that came this time, so soft that Jason almost missed it.
“. . .ft’ography.”
“What?” Jason straightened up a bit, eyes moving from the kid’s chest to his face. He was looking back at Jason, eyes hazy, which Jason considered to be a step up from slowly leaking tears or gawking at Jason with adoration he didn’t want.
(Or deserve)
“I like. . . pho tog ra phy.” The kid enunciated a little harder this time, hitting every consonant like he was pounding a punching bag. Methodical but forceful.
Jason took that in. Registered it. Nodded.
“Cool,” he said. “Photography. You wanna talk about it?”
“I want to go home,” the kid said. Jason’s jaw clenched, then relaxed.
“I know,” he said, “You will. Soon. Until then, tell me about– about how you got into it. You always like cameras, or. . ?”
“Mh,” Replacement grunted. “Dunno. Always liked. . . pictures. C’mra came second. Then. . . figured I liked. Tech. So. That too.”
“Tech,” Jason said like he was agreeing. Like this was the most fascinating conversation he’d ever had and not a verbal struggle by a kid hopped up on propofol. “Like the I’m in, I uploaded a virus to the mainframe kind of tech or the I just built a cool robot version of myself kind of tech?”
“. . .robots are cool,” the Replacement said.
“Yeah,” Jason said, “Yeah, they are.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Why’re you doing this?” the Replacement asked. He didn’t sound angry. Didn’t even really sound upset, or all that curious. His breathing had evened out and, despite the blood starting to drip off the edge of the table he was laid out on, he seemed like he’d relaxed. Probably just too exhausted to keep struggling.
Jason closed his eyes for a moment. It didn’t help. He was gonna have the image of crimson-soaked superman PJs burned into the back of his eyelids for the rest of his fucking life, which with any luck would last a little longer the second time around. He could take it, though. He could shoulder this. Because. . .
“Because you deserve to live, kid,” he said. “And this life is gonna kill you.”
The Replacement let out a shaky breath that might have been trying to be a laugh.
“You make no sense,” he mumbled, then, with an abrupt and startling clarity, “Fuck I’m high.”
Jason snorted. He dug his nails into his palm.
Then the screech of tires outside had Jason tensing.
Batman rarely used the front entrance. He preferred skylight-busting over every other form of entry, which was ostensibly for strategic purposes but Jason had privately suspected it was because he was a dramatic bastard sometimes. So it said something about his current state of mind that he was so goal-oriented at the moment that he took the direct route, the big warehouse doors slamming open as the shadow of the Bat filled the entryway– then Batman froze. Presumably the smell of the Replacement’s blood had just smacked him full in the face.
Jason rolled his shoulders. Breathed in.
Showtime.
“Relax,” he called, and he felt Batman’s attention snap to him with all the force of a freight train. It was only years of fighting by the guy’s side and a certain recent dose of pissed-off spite that kept him from tensing up again. “The kid’s not dead. Yet. You were cutting it close, though, I gotta say. Kinda disappointed in you, Bats. Couldn’t run a red light with family on the line?”
I know, was what he was saying. I know what this kid is to you. And I know what happened the last time you were late showing up.
“Is that why you took him?” Batman snarled. “Because you think he’s descended from me?”
Bruce’s voice was more than cold. It was absolute zero in Jason’s ears, cutting through him like an icy wind. He could only remember a handful of times that a fight had gotten Bruce’s hackles up enough to force his fangs, but he knew, with the same certainty he had that the sun would rise in the morning, that all of Bruce’s teeth were bared at him right now.
Beneath the hood, Jason bared his own teeth right back in a feral grin. Nasty and mirthless. His jaw hurt from clenching so hard.
“Aw, no need to play coy, Brucie,” he purred. Batman didn’t flinch, because he was captain self-control and a flinch would be giving the game away. If Jason hadn’t already known his identity, the lack of reaction might have made him doubt his guess.
He continued, gesturing down at Tim with a magnanimous sweep of his arm. “I know he’s your newest playmate. Had to pick up a new model after you broke the old one, right?”
Batman’s fist clenched at his side. It was the smallest movement, the slightest indication of emotion, but for Jason it may as well have been a white flag of surrender. He had Bruce. He had him. Jason tipped his head to the side, enjoying the power he held in this moment.
(His stomach felt like it was turning inside-out. There was bile in his throat)
“Ba’man?” the Replacement managed. He was straining, trying desperately to tilt his head back, but the straps and the drugs were keeping him prone.
“Hush, babybird,” Jason said. “The adults are talking.”
“Tim,” Batman gasped, almost like he was begging. “Tim, I promise, I’m going to get you out of here. You’re going to be fine.”
Jason clucked his tongue. His nails were biting so deep into his own skin that he wouldn’t be surprised if he was bleeding. Good thing he was going to torch the building after this anyway; getting caught out as Jason Todd by a few stray drops of blood would be a bullshit way to be revealed.
“This is the part where I would say something about not making promises you can’t keep,” he drawled, “But you’re in luck. I want you to save the kid. You can go ahead and run to him, by the way. I know why you’re holding back, and there’s no booby traps. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
To anyone else Batman might’ve seemed completely unaffected, but Jason could see the way his weight shifted on his feet as he tried to decide if he should chance it or not– approach Tim and risk, among other things, blowing them both to kingdom come if Jason had planted a land mine or something. . . or stay where he was and watch Tim bleed out.
Jason huffed. Okay. Time to speed this along.
He pulled his knife out of its holster and, flipping it once in the air, hurled it in the Replacement’s direction. Batman tensed, looking ready to dive towards the kid, but then realized the trajectory wasn’t a deadly one. The knife hit the concrete a scant few feet from the table, blade shattering against the floor and hilt bouncing and skittering until it came to a stop just before Batman’s feet.
“There,” Jason said, “Good enough proof for you?”
Batman was on the Replacement in a second, bent over him, hands cupping the kid’s cheeks. It was tender. It was protective.
It felt like Jason was the one gutshot and bleeding out.
“Well.” Jason straightened up, bracing his hands against the railing, and Bruce’s cowled head snapped up in an instant, eyes locked onto his every movement. He’d put himself between Jason and the Replacement, body curled half-over the kid like he could do some revisionist shielding. Jason couldn’t see the kid’s face anymore.
“I am so glad to have facilitated this little family reunion,” he said, “But the kid’s gonna wake up ravenous in a bit and I’d rather not be around when that happens.”
A lie on two fronts. For one Jason knew full well Bruce wouldn’t let the kid feed live for at least a month, knew because Dick had gotten blood-drunk one night after a particularly ill-advised hook-up and crawled into his bed to cuddle and spill all the gorey details of his turning. For another, Jason wasn’t leaving the scene until he saw Bruce blood the kid. The bottle in his pocket was a solid weight and Jason held that weight like an anchor.
“You want me to turn him,” Batman said, and there was something to his tone like dawning horror if you knew where to look. “This– all this– was to get me to turn him.”
Jason snorted. “Well he sure as shit ain’t gonna survive the trip to the hospital. Up to you, though– I mean, you can just let the kid die if you don’t care about him that much. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
His tone was pointed, but he hit the wrong target. Batman stiffened, and for a moment Jason thought he’d figured it all out, ruined the game, but then he said something even worse.
“Joker?”
Jason bit down on his lip so hard it split under the pressure. He felt blood starting to trickle down his chin, collect in the padding of his helmet, and he’d have to clean that out later but he didn’t care right now because–
“Call me that again,” he snarled, “And I’ll make sure babybird loses more than his humanity next time.”
(Liar)
(But Batman didn’t know that, and Jason was just so)
Angry.
(He wanted to hit him where it hurt)
He didn’t wait to see Bruce’s reaction. If he stayed any longer he was going to jump off the catwalk and take a swing at his father, and as satisfying as it would be to actually trade blows with the bastard he needed to remember the kid. If they fought the Replacement could bleed out in the meantime and Jason– Jason didn’t want that.
So he turned and ran, sprinting down the catwalk and vaulting out the window at the end. He landed badly on the ground outside, impact jarring up his legs and forcing him to his knees to try to take some of the force from the fall, but he hadn’t been that high up. He was fine. Everything was fine.
He fell back on his ass, panting, and pressed his back against the outer wall of the warehouse. When had he run out of breath? He itched to take off his helmet, to get a lungful of the fresh night air– as fresh as it got in Gotham, anyway– but he couldn’t. Not with Batman still on the scene. He had to keep breathing the same overheated air, tasting his own blood on his tongue and feeling the lining of his helmet stick to his chin.
It took him a moment before he was able to check the cameras he’d rigged up inside.
The footage was grainy, but clear enough for Jason to make out the important details. Batman was bent over the kid, mouth moving in the shape of soothing lies as he undid the straps holding him down. The kid was trying to reach for him but he didn’t have the strength, and Bruce gently pushed his straining limbs back to the table. There was no dark smear of blood at the kid’s mouth. Was Bruce seriously going to chance a run to the hospital? He’d never make it alive. Jason had made sure of that.
Bruce leaned down. Pressed his lips to the kid’s forehead. Jason bit down on his already-bloody lip and the pain held him in place.
Then Bruce pulled off his glove and brought his own wrist to his mouth, biting through the flesh and veins until blood spilled down his chin. He brought it to the kid’s mouth and the Replacement twitched once before closing his eyes. Jason could see his throat start working. It was messy, rivulets running down his cheeks where the blood flowed too fast, too much, and the kid couldn’t keep up. By the time the wound had healed over there was almost as much blood around his mouth as there was around his eyes.
Bruce had been talking the whole time, words the cameras were too low-res to let Jason lip-read, and his free hand had come down to run gentle fingers through the Replacement’s hair. Encouraging. Apologetic.
The Replacement managed to say something back and then– then Bruce’s shoulders were shaking as he gathered him up in his arms, tucking the kid to his chest and half-hiding him under the cape. The camera caught the ugly twist of his mouth. Crying. Bruce was crying.
Jason pressed himself more tightly against the warehouse wall as Bruce left the building. He lost visual once he’d left the cameras’ range. There was a moment of stillness, when the ambient sounds of the city swelled in Jason’s ears, and then the purr of the batmobile’s engine. The abandoned crates, cracked asphalt and tufts of stubborn grass were picked out in swaths of white and orangey red as the taillights flicked on. The light made a pass at Jason as the car drove off and he pulled his feet a little closer, hiding in the warehouse’s shadow. There were only a scant few inches of darkness between his boots and the batmobile’s trail.
Then the light faded out, and Jason was left alone.
Tim held the mug in both hands, cradling its warmth. It was one of his favorites, one he’d brought over to the Wayne manor during their last struggle with the Riddler. He and Bruce had been up all night and Tim had gone through a pot and a half of coffee trying to keep up with the vampire. He didn’t use to drink so much. It used to be that Tim slept when he wanted because there was no one waiting for him, no one to hold him to the accountability of consciousness except himself, and the nights he spent stalking the streets were a hobby he could tap out of whenever he felt himself getting tired. Then came Robin, and suddenly Tim was running on a combination of caffeine and adrenaline at all times and only dropping when he ran out of both.
And now Tim was holding a mug that still smelled faintly of coffee but held something far sweeter. Thicker. Crimson. The ceramic was warm, and Tim was so cold.
He felt like shit.
Dick was on his way, Bruce had told him, but for now it was just the three of them in the med bay of the cave– Tim sitting on the edge of a cot he’d been strapped down to until an hour ago, Bruce in a chair at his bedside, and Alfred standing by with a coffee pot full of blood. Tim had been drinking it cold at first, too desperate to wait, and the only reason he knew that was from the torn-open blood bags that littered the floor around him. He couldn’t remember details, just a ravenous, vicious hunger that tore him up from the inside out and left no room for thought. He was still so hungry. Part of him thought he should maybe still be strapped down, especially with Alfred standing so close and smelling so much better than the pot in his hands, but he was proving to himself that he was stable by drinking his mug in slow, even sips with generous pauses in between.
It was quiet. Bruce had apologized, over and over and over, before Tim was even coherent enough to understand what he was saying. But Tim didn’t blame him, and it seemed that Bruce had realized his apologies were more for himself than for Tim and was now holding them in. Tim could see them collecting in Bruce’s gut, a weight he wouldn’t allow anyone else to share the burden of.
Tim would deal with that. Later, when he felt less like absolute garbage. When he no longer felt the phantom sensation of a bullet in his gut.
He took another slow sip of blood, and the old scent of coffee crawled up his nose and made him want to cry.
“You’re doing well with that,” Bruce said. “I couldn’t control myself half so well even a month after turning.”
Tim doubted that, but he took the compliment anyway, giving Bruce a small nod as he lowered the mug back into his lap.
“Thank you.” His voice was hoarse, like he’d been screaming for hours. Maybe he had. Tim couldn’t remember.
He could remember–
A face. A stubborn nose. A wicked mouth. And eyes that were the same intense blue they’d always been in pictures, at least before they’d burned green above him in the warehouse’s gloom.
“I’ll tell you what I can remember,” Tim said. “Later. I can’t–”
His voice broke around the words and Bruce reached out, placing a hand on his knee and squeezing. It was grounding. Tim could feel Bruce even with his eyes closed right now, the same way he could feel his hand even when he wasn’t looking. He wondered if that would fade with time. He’d have to ask.
Later.
“It’s alright,” Bruce said. “However much time you need, you have. Take it.”
Tim closed his eyes. His blood called out to Bruce’s echo.
“I was hallucinating,” he said quietly, “For a lot of it. I don’t have much that’s helpful anyway.”
He wasn’t going to tell Bruce what he’d seen, what his scared and drugged-up mind had conjured for Tim to cling to. Bruce was hurting enough already, he didn’t need to know that in Tim’s dying moments he’d had the last Robin standing over him offering words of comfort. He didn’t need to be reminded of Jason. Not now. Not ever.
Tim knew he was always thinking of him anyway.