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He immediately knew this was a dream when Bruce Wayne smiled at him, for seemingly no reason. The man didn’t tend to do that often. Smiles were reserved for when Red Robin delivered a swift kick to Penguin's family jewels, or when he led the League of Assassins on a frantic chase.
Tim Drake was a lot of things and an idiot was not one of them. He was aware where rational thought prevailed and where it wilted.
(Unlike Bruce.)
So, he sat back and enjoyed the rather unsatisfactory show.
Alfred's pancakes tasted like ash and Bruce's plastic smiles became the source of climate change, in his humble opinion. This dream verse was weird and warped and comparable to a nightmare.
Wasn’t it ridiculous?
His nightmares held events which would overjoy others.
Lord knows Damian Wayne would kill to have his father constantly smile at him. God knows Dick Grayson would die to be in constant supply of Alfred's legendary pancakes.
(“I miss home.” He told Tim one night.
“The Manor?” Tim had asked absentmindedly.
“Yeah. Something like that.”)
It was weird and irregular for Tim. He had never liked not knowing and not being in control. So, when the dream abruptly tilted on its axis, all he could do was clutch at metaphorical straws to somehow magically fix it.
‘This isn’t lucid dreaming. This isn’t what I want.’ He thought grimly.
Tim viewed the changing landscape through steely lenses. He was dressed in his Robin costume - something which pained him - and his bo staff almost hummed in his waiting hands, as if it could sense his hidden apprehension. Alfred and Bruce melted into a familiar, dark, stormy night and all he could feel was an utter sense of dread.
“Show me, Tim. Show me what you have that I don't.”
Well, he'll fucking kill you.
Blood roared into his ears as he turned around slowly. He wasn’t sure what to expect but he knew who that voice belonged to. How could Tim not?
It was Robin.
It was Jason Todd.
The dreamscape must have been working overtime. Jason flickered from the iconic boyish hero, short as ever due to malnutrition and dressed in Dick's jarring costume, to the pit-mad, murderous, monster, donning a brown leather jacket and dark pants.
“Your pants are darker than Batman's underwear.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he could help it. Jason was decidedly not amused, judging by the way he swung his fists and guns.
He's gonna rock your shit by the end of the night!
Tim decided he resembled an ancient statue of Ares.
Jason snarled at him, awaiting his first move.
‘What if I just didn’t move?’ He mused. It seemed like a good plan. He wasn’t really in the mood to be beaten up a second time.
Or a third. Or fourth. Fifth. Sixth?
It seemed the elder man had followed his train of thought because the amalgamation of Robin and Red Hood leapt towards him. Tim tried hard to not focus on the flying fists which morphed into firearms.
Suddenly, they were both travelling through the air. He dodged punches and Jason threw them. His bo staff spun into a dizzy blur as he made a mockery of Dick Grayson's treasured trapeze tricks. Jason's fists, quite literally, gunned for his pressure points.
They re-enacted the danse macabre mid-air.
“You can't be that good.”
And Tim smirked.
“I am.”
The scene shifted and changed. His nightmare turned into a dream as his fist landed squarely on Jason's chin. With every punch, the second Robin's face grew bloodier and bloodier. It began to resemble the pathetic state Tim had been left in the first time round.
At some point, Jason began gurgling blood.
Tim kept going.
He could have killed you.
No words were exchanged during this brutal revenge. He had nothing left to say to his former hero. Jason Todd's pitiful, mangled face meant nothing to Tim.
Nothing at all.
The elder's mouth opened and closed, resembling an innocent fish. The ghastly sight of him was anything but innocent, however. Ominous red liquid seeped from his head, creating a demented halo around his matted dark hair. Jason's left arm rested in an odd position; judging by the twisted angle, it was most likely broken.
He'd finally stopped flickering, with human flesh permanently coating his fingers and his jacket and pants clinging to him. His signature red helmet lay next to him, perfectly cracked in half.
Enhanced healing wasn’t doing shit for Jason. The damage he'd delivered was laid out for all to see. Maybe Ra's had somehow withholden that specific factor from the second Robin.
(That was an amusing thought.)
Blood roared louder in Tim's ears.
White light filtered through the dreamscape, indicating that he would be returning to the land of living soon. He kind of didn’t want to.
Tim knew he should be wholly horrified by this. Robin didn’t maim.
But Jason Todd fucking did.
Belatedly, he realised that he'd been the villain of this dream.
He had every right.