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Jason Todd is a simple man. And most of the time, simple men accomplish their goals with simple solutions. Like, for instance, technically-but-not-really kidnapping a mafia lieutenant and torturing him until he reveals where and when the next meeting is so the Red Hood can bust it up like strict parents at a high school party. Simple solutions like that.
“I’m going to ask you this one more time,” Red Hood snarls. He’s got the douchebag’s hand in a steel grip, two fingers already dangling limp from the snapped joint. He prepares to snap a third. “Where?”
“I ain’t talking. My boss will kill me if I tell you.”
“What am I, a Sour Patch Kid?” Jason starts to bend the finger backward. The guy jerks and screams bloody murder; you’d think he’s never been tortured before.
Then Jason’s phone rings. He sighs and lets go. Before Douchebag can sigh in relief, Jason presses a gun to his jugular and pulls back the hammer. “Hold that thought.”
He answers the call. “Red Riding Hood. Talk fast or hang up.”
“Oh. Uh. You’re not Conner.” A hiccup. “Must’ve...must’ve dialed the thingie wrong. Wassup, Jay?”
Is that the fucking replacement? Jason hasn’t seen Tim since Bruce came back from his forced trip through the timeline. It’s like he dropped off the map once Bruce died and stayed off it even after he returned, going full black sheep on everyone. The only updates Jason got that the kid was still alive were Red Robin sightings in the newspaper.
“This had better be a joke because I’m kind of busy right now.” He digs the barrel of the gun into Douchebag’s neck, making him whimper.
“God, what’s with everyone in this family and work? Should just...just fuckin’ quit. Y’know? Who cares? Gotham’s going to hell anyway in a muffin basket.” Tim laughs, a high-pitched giggle.
“You’re shitfaced.”
“Bingo.” He makes laser noises, and Jason can imagine him doing finger guns on the other end. “You should—y’should be the smart Robin, Jay-Jay.”
“Uh-huh. What do you want?”
“Hm? Oh, I dunno. I was trying to get home but forgot where I live.” Snorting laughter. “Was gonna call Kon but I think he’s in space? Not sure. I drank so much alcohol, Jason. ‘s kinda like fear gas but...better. I’m gonna marry it. Bart can be the flower girl.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. Shit.” Jason pulls his gun back and tucks it into his waistband. He pats the lieutenant’s face. “Tonight’s your lucky night, shitnozzle. You get a head start.” He leans in close to his face. “Just make it exciting for me when I track you down again later, will ya?”
With that, he turns and brings the phone back to his ear. Tim is making airplane sounds into the speaker. “Where the hell are you?”
Jason’s car—a ride he “borrowed” from a drug peddler who peddled to one kid too many—is parked right outside. Thank god he didn’t take his motorcycle tonight. Bruce wouldn’t be happy if he found out that his third favorite child got trampled in the middle of the highway.
Tim makes an “I don’t know” sort of noise that’s somewhere between a raspberry and a hum. “Prob’ly somewhere. I found this bar that doesn’t ask for ID’s. We should—should really bust ‘em for letting in kids.”
Jason starts the engine. “Don’t you have a million fakes?”
“Didn’t wanna lie more than I already do.”
Shit. Fucking fuck shit. “Go outside and look for a street sign.”
“‘m already outside.”
“Then look for a fucking street sign.”
There’s some jostling, some grumbles as Tim obeys. Jason can picture him getting up from whatever cracked sidewalk he collapsed on, drunk off his ass. He’d better not be in one of the sleazier parts of town. A small kid like Tim, inebriated out of his mind? He’d be easy prey for any creep prowling around tonight, even with all his martial arts training. Jason speeds up.
“Corner of...I think that’s a four? Fourth and Oak. There’s...places. A Thai restaurant ‘cross the street.”
Jason knows where that is. It’s along his usual patrol route. “I’ll be there in five minutes. Don’t move until then, got it?”
“Yep, yep, yep. Hey, do you have any money? We should get some food, like noodles or something. I only brought a little cash to the bar because I wanted to be resp—responinable. Respodible.”
Jason rolls his eyes and hangs up. Jesus fuck.
It doesn’t take him very long to find the street corner Tim described, and then Tim himself. He’s propped up against a light post, resembling a scarecrow someone abandoned. Jason stops the car along the curb. “You owe me for this,” he says as he climbs out.
Tim looks up blearily. A smile blooms. “Hey, Jay. I didn’t actually”—he hiccups—“didn’t think you’d actually come.”
Jason grabs Tim’s arm and hauls him to his feet. Tim wobbles like he’s on stilts. “I told you I would, didn’t I?”
“Thought you might ditch anyway.”
“Gee, thanks. Did you drive here?”
“Took an Uber. She was really nice, played a buncha Broadway stuff.”
“Fascinating.” Jason half-drags Tim to the car when his legs refuse to work. The kid reeks of alcohol. He’s got a half-empty bottle of vodka in one hand, swinging it as he hobbles along. “Fuck, kid. How much have you had?” Tim has been dosed with all sorts of toxins in the past—Joker, Scarecrow, Ivy—but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to alcohol poisoning.
“Uh...a lot? A lot. Soooo much.” Tim lets Jason shove him into the passenger seat, putting his vodka in the cup holder like the priss he is. It’s like handling an alcoholic American Girl doll. “Did you know that...that alcohol tastes disgusting? It’s mind-hoggling. You grow up your whole entire teenage years thinkin’ that alcohol is like, the best thing ever. But it’s not. It’s gross. Like...nail polish remover.”
Jason goes around to the driver’s side and gets in before Tim can go rogue and smash up his radio or something. “Then why the fuck did you drink so much?”
“It’s like vegetables. Y’don’t do it for the taste.” No argument there. “Where...Where’re we going?”
“My place.”
Tim rests his head against the window and closes his eyes. “Mm-kay.”
“And if you even think about puking in my fucking car, I’m going to shoot you right between the eyes. You’ve been warned.”
“Mm-hm.”
Now Tim is sitting on the couch in Jason’s shitty apartment, tipping precariously to the side in a poor imitation of Pisa. Jason brings him a glass of water. “Here. Drink this.”
“Don’t wanna.” Tim tries to take a sip of vodka instead, but Jason snatches the bottle. He plants the water in Tim’s hand.
“Drink.”
“You’re a bully.” But he obeys.
“Yeah, yeah. Complain about it when you’re sober.”
Jason wants to sit down, but he’d rather not go too far in case Tim chokes on his own vomit or succumbs to alcohol poisoning like the jackass he is. However, Jason’s not about to share a sofa with the kid. They’re still on tenuous terrain. So, standing it is.
Tim really does look like shit. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair a mess. His gray Armani button-down is wrinkled.
“I’m guessing this is your first time getting sauced?”
Tim shakes his head. He holds up two fingers. “Second. The first was in the desert.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Tim snorts. “Forgot you don’t know about that. When I was...when I was looking for Bruce. I worked with the League of Assins.”
“Assassins.”
“Snassins.” Tim gulps down more water, seemingly irrelevant to the fact that half of it misses his mouth completely and soaks into the collar of his shirt. “Pru, Owens, and Z. We were in the desert lookin’ for Bruce after he got...y’know. Lost. Spent a night in the desert, so we sat around drinking a bottle of whiskey Pru had with her.”
“Never imagined a goody-goody like you would get into the hard stuff.”
Tim shrugs. “Bruce was dead,” he says simply, as if that clarifies everything. “Really strong stuff, but it felt good. We had a fun time.” He stares into his water glass, swirling it around to watch the whirlpool. “Then the Council of Spiders murdered Z and Owens the next night, so. That was that.”
Jason doesn’t entirely know how to respond to that. He has no idea who those people are, but Tim’s eyes dim at the memory, so they must have been important.
“Why are you drinking now, then? Did your cat die or something?” Her name is Ruby. Jason’s met her a couple times.
“No. Just wanted a break.”
“From what?”
Tim gestures vaguely to the room around them. “Y’know. All of it. Isn’t that why you drink?”
“No.” Yes.
Tim looks at Jason for a moment, eyes eerily focused, staring through the lie. Jason swears the bastard’s got X-ray vision, but he doesn’t see through walls. He sees through your soul, picking apart the details inside and turning them into data. When Tim finally looks away, Jason lets out a breath.
“Anyway, I needed to shut my brain off,” Tim says. “I wanted to—to let go, have fun, kiss strangers, get into trouble. You know? I wanted to stop feeling, just for one night. It started to work after the third appletini.” He hiccups. “Maybe the fourth.”
“And now?”
“Hm?”
“Is it working the way you wanted it to?”
Tim shrugs, a lopsided smile curving his mouth. “Dunno. It’s kind of hard to tell.”
“Well, I hope you don’t expect me to give you the lecture on responsible drinking. God knows you already know everything and elected to ignore it. And, truth be told, I don’t care.”
Tim opens his mouth to retort, but he closes it just as fast. He slaps a hand over his mouth and shoots up, running to the bathroom.
Jason rolls his eyes. “Dumbass.”
He follows the path Tim charted across the hall and finds Tim on his knees, vomiting into the toilet. No surprise there. Jason leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Fair warning, I’m going to hold tonight over your head for as long as you live.”
Tim wretches into the bowl, coughing. “Fuck you.”
Jason grimaces. He’s never been more thankful than right now that he missed Roy’s alcoholic years. Maybe he should send Roy an apology text for all the times he’s had to take care of Jason when he’s hungover, though. This is definitely the universe’s way of humbling him.
It takes a while, but eventually Tim finishes hacking up his internal organs. Jason hands him a tissue to wipe his mouth. Tim pushes himself back so he can lean against the bathtub and catch his breath. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Do what?”
“This. Look after me. You can just—just drop me off at my apartment. I won’t be mad or resentful or whatever. I’m not your problem.”
Now that’s just rude. So what if Jason has tried to kill him twice? He’s not a monster. “I don’t give a shit if you’re my problem or not. I’m choosing to take care of your drunk ass out of the goodness of my heart, so shut up.”
Tim ends up spending the next twenty minutes hurling all the alcohol he drank on and off, miserable as can be. Jason fetches one of Roy’s hair ties from his nightstand and hands it over, keeping a safe distance away.
Once nothing comes up but bile, Tim rinses his mouth out in the sink, grimacing. “I take it all back. Alcohol and I are—ugh—getting a divorce.”
“Probably a good idea. Do you think you’re going to puke again?”
Tim shrugs, which answers absolutely nothing. Jason rolls his eyes and goes to grab a mixing bowl from the kitchen. When he comes back, Tim is on the floor cuddling with a bottle of shampoo. (Kori always complains about having to use Jason’s whenever she spends the night, so he started buying her favorite lilac shampoo and conditioner for her visits.)
Jason resorts to somewhat carrying, mostly dragging Tim back to the living room where he deposits him on the couch. He drops the mixing bowl in his lap, just in case. Then, as an afterthought, he refills Tim’s water glass. Alcohol is dehydrating, after all. Plus Tim did just lose all of the fluid in his body vomiting.
Jason turns on the television, not even bothering to check what’s on the screen. “Here. Rot your brain with something that isn’t booze.”
Tim smiles, his pupils swallowing the blue of his irises but straining to focus on Jason’s face. “You’re good, you know that?”
“Fuck off.”
“You keep it a secret, though. You pretend to be bad because that’s what everyone thinks you are. You’ll let some people see the good parts, but not the ones who care.”
“Shut up and drink your water.”
“I’m not good,” Tim says, wrinkling his nose. “I’m a fraud. Y’know that? I’ve been a fraud from the start. I took Robin from you and tried to—tried to be like you and Dick. Then I took Red Robin and thought that would somehow make everything I did okay. I could make bad decisions and not have my badness touch anyone else.”
Jason has no fucking idea what to say to that. He should have expected to get pinned under some teary speech on the kid’s self-loathing since Tim clearly has the tolerance of a stick bug, but Jason shouldn’t be the one here to witness it. Dick, maybe. Even Bruce could handle the weird tension floating in the space between them now. But Jason is alone. Tim’s walls are gone, making Jason feel like an intruder in his own home.
“You wanna know what Bruce would do if he found out about all the lines I crossed?” Tim asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “He’d be done with me. Completely. He’d add it to that...fucking list of his. The one that says who’s good and who’s bad. I’m on the bad side.”
“You’re not on the bad side, kid. Trust me. I’m on the bad side. You’re a goody-two-shoes at heart, just like the rest of ‘em.”
Tim just shakes his head. “I’m not. I’m just better at pretending than you are.” He downs the rest of his water, eyes red-rimmed when he comes up for air. “We’re the red ones, Jay. You and me. We can’t take anything back.”