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Jason stills as he approaches the door to his apartment. The stench hits him like a sweat and whiskey soaked wall. There's a clatter and a thump and the man has his gun out before his hand is on the doorknob.
The door is still locked, so the intruder must have come in through a window. With the amount of security he has here, its either an impressive feat, or a dangerous omen of exactly who or what awaits to ambush him.
Once unlocked, Jason kicked the door in, tossing a smoke pellet and charging inside, gun first.
"You just made a big mis -" Jason stomps over to the sound of, something, and then stills, "-take."
Jason squints. Takes a step. Cocks his head. And then blinks down, at the boy. The boy currently curled up on the floor in the corner of his apartment. The kid is in jeans and a hoodie that look too nice to be on someone straight off the street. In a ball, with arms over his head and face, he looks tiny, but Jason can tell the intruder is at least in his teens.
And is crying.
His hand twitches toward his pocket. He considers calling Dick and letting him deal with this. Bruce would've been his his next best bet, but the old man was - gone. Just gone, not dead, if he listened to Tim's ramblings. Even Damian and his less than stellar social skills would probably be a better option than Jason.
The vigilante's brow dips deliberately. There are about a hundred and one holes in the walls the kid could have hidden himself away in within driving distance, hell, walking distance. For some strange reason, he had chosen the crime lord's apartment.
Jason holsters his weapon after scanning the rest of his place. As he goes to kneel near the stranger, he reaches out, tentative.
"Hey, it's okay, I'm not going to hurt -"
The boy flinches and the arms lower from his pale, splotchy face.
The familiar face.
"-you."
The last word comes out like he is grinding it to dust with his teeth.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
He has his gun up again as he flips on the light. The boy blinks and squints, eyelids fluttering clumsily. He's obviously altered, most likely intoxicated - whether voluntarily or dosed. Doesn't matter. He's not one to turn down willing prey if its going to be dumb enough to wander into a predator's den.
"You deaf as well as stupid?"
Jason nudges his replacement with the toe of his boot. He hasn't seen Timothy Jackson Drake outside of the Robin getup much, especially not this close up. And especially not when he is shitfaced and blubbering. There are tear tracks marring what looks like leftover baby fat. This face is harder to look at than the one with the mask. Harder to hate.
"If this is some sort of fucking trick -"
The cries start to crinkle around the edges until the sobs stutter off into a fit of laughter. Jason opens his mouth to threaten him, but the noise turns sick and thick. It's not the laughter of a trap well laid. It's - it's - manic.
Was Robin 3.0 dosed with Joker venom?
“What happened? What are you - ?”
“What am I doing?" Tim snorts. "I think, breaking and entering.” Tim’s throat closes up over an odd sound that Jason thinks was maybe meant to be another laugh but came out more wounded whine. “Uh oh. Should call the cops. Have me arrested. Haul me off.” He hums. Giggles. “What am I doing? Well, I was going to add theft to my rap sheet. But, no luck. Can't believe you don’t have any alcohol around. Seriously - what grown - criminal - man - doesn’t have at least a good bottle of Jack hidden in his cupboard? My dad does - did.” Tim picks up a bottle off the floor, brandishing it in his hand as if to emphasize the point and huffs. "Jack's Jack. Huh. Not like he's gonna miss it."
“I have beer,” Jason supplies dryly. “Just well hidden. If you count the fridge as well hidden.”
“Huh. Fridge. Right. Clever. Where I'd least - esp - accep - expect it. Thought I looked - I must’ve -”
“It looks like you barely got through the window before falling over on the floor,” Jason eyes him, crossing over the kitchen to grab a glass, filling it with water.
He's had this routine down since he was six.
Except his dad never managed to break through a sophisticated security system while completely sloshed. Jason thinks he might be a little impressed, if he wasn't so damn annoyed.
“Are you - are you going to invite me inside to have a drunk - drink - with you?" Tim moves a leg to stand and promptly plops back down. "It - is the polite thing to do when you have a guest.”
“You’re already inside, dumbass. And guests are usually invited over.” Jason cranks the faucet off. “Thought you said you were breaking in.”
“Right! Right!” Tim scrambles up from the floor, using the wall this time for support and stumbling toward the guy who has tried to murder him several times over. “I was, I mean, I did. I mean - I had. Already. Did that. Done. That.”
“How much have you had to drink tonight?" Jason steers his houseguest toward the table, his grip maybe a bit too tight.
Tim actually starts to count on his fingers. Jason imagines breaking them.
“Not enough, not - enough. Need more. Something, something, something." Tim lightly smacks the side of his head with each repetition. "I came here for something.”
“To steal my booze?”
“No!" Tim thrusts out a hand and then reels it back in. "Yes! Both, maybe. Not sure. Wait, no! Something else, too. Also. You.”
The kid whirls around just before Jason can get him into a chair.
“You came here for me,” Jason deadpans.
“Well, it is your house - apartment - place. Who else would I be here for?" Tim scoffs. "I, I, came here for something else. For you. For me. For you to - to do it. You have to do it. You’re the only one - who can. Who will. Would. You've even - tried. I tried. I tried to do it myself. But I’m too - weak. Ra's threw me out a window - did you know that? I was falling. I was done. But - but - N'wing - Dick - caught me and now - now - it's - and I'm scared. I can't."
"What do you need me to do?" Jason leans forward, playing along out of grim curiosity.
"To kill me."
Tim says it like he is ordering takeout and Jason feels something solid stick in his throat.
“Kill - what?”
“I can’t do it. Said that. Listening?" Tim throws his head back dramatically. "I can’t. I know it sounds selfish but it’s not - it’s not. B's safe. Safer. Will be safe? He'll be - back. Gotham'll be fine. Everyone will be fine.”
"Is this some sick fucking scheme of yours?" Jason's grip on the glass is dangerously close to shattering it. "Get me to try and kill you so you can tell everyone how crazy and dangerous I am?"
"I wouldn't need - a scheme - for that."
"You fucking-" Jason stalks forward.
"You tried - Damian tried -" Tim waves a hand, "no one cares."
"Considering Dickface tried to hunt me down after, I think -"
"I'm tired."
Tim deflates, tipping to one side a little. The words are so very heavy and Jason knows that tone. He lived on the streets long enough to meet plenty who had it.
They didn't have it for long.
“What are you talking about?” Jason sets the glass down on the table, forgotten.
"Tell - tell them I'm sorry? I know you don't like them and - just - please? I guess - you don't have to - I wrote letters - prepared - B doesn't need to worry 'bout the business - taken care of. Everything is - but they might want to hear -"
"You -"
"- unless you don't tell them, that's - actually better? Yeah. I - I made a story. They won't know. Can't know -"
"Look -"
"It's all - here," Tim fishes for something in his pocket, yanking it out and tossing it on the table. "It's all there - what to do - where to - put me - covered tracks -"
"Hey -"
"- they won't know - was you -"
"Tim!"
The intruder trips at the shout and fumbles, falling into a chair and staying there.
Jason opens his mouth. Words don't come.
"It should've been me." Tim's head is in his hands again and he gasps out the words like they're his dying breath. "It should be me. Not - not them. Kon. Kon. Bart. Mom. D-dad. They're all gone. Dead. It should've been me!" He’s out of the seat, all unsteady but angry flailing limbs. “Why wasn’t it me? Why me? Why them? Why any of us? Why? I don’t - I can’t - take it anymore. If I was just some normal kid with some normal life, my dad would be alive! Maybe - mom too. You - you wouldn't think Bruce replaced you and maybe - things - it'd be different. If I didn't have to be so - so - so stupid. I thought I could be Robin? That Batman needed me? Me! Well - if - even if - he needs - a Robin - he's got a new one now, again. Dick - he just took it away and gave it to him. Like he hadn't tried to kill me! Like it wasn't the only thing - holding - me - together!"
He gestures wildly and the back of his hand comes down against the glass of water, sending it across the room and smashing somewhere that neither of them care to pay attention to.
“Tim,” Jason swallows and it hurts, “calm down.”
“Calm down! Ha!” Tim spins around, throwing his hands in the air again as he paces away from the older boy. “I’m not calm. I’m never calm. Did you know that I was s'posed t start meds when I was seven? Seven! Did - didn’t help. Nothing ever helps. And they - mom didn't - a Drake couldn't be dependent - not that it did anything. Never calm. Never stop thinking. About everything! What I - I’ve done. What I am.”
“What do you think you are, Tim?” Jason edges closer to him.
"You know," Tim spits, "you've always known. Say it."
"Say what?"
"You know what!" Tim clenches his shaking fists. "It's - you call -"
Tim slumps down onto the couch, head falling into trembling hands. The kid takes a breath and looks up at Jason, really looks. His eyes are clouded with unshed tears and the haze of alcohol but they seem so clear, so sure.
"Pretender."
It comes out as a rush of air, so quiet Jason almost doesn't catch it.
Jason doesn't say anything. He isn't exactly sure what to say. Tell Tim that no, he isn't. What use would it be? A part of him, a big part, still thinks that is exactly what Tim is. And the kid knows that. The words would be meaningless from Jason. Besides, the boy is too drunk and upset to listen. Not that he would hear Jason anyway. Tim is too busy burying his face into the arm of the couch, repeating himself again and again. That he's a pretender. That he needs Hood - Jason - to kill him. He falls asleep like that, mumbling through the couch cushions and tears.
Jason thinks about all those people he could call again. Should call. He’s not good with this. Whatever this is. Hell, there's a green-tinted monster in the back of his brain that is sickly enjoying this. He pulls his phone out of his back pocket, but pauses at the soft apologies parting past the sleeping boy’s lips like pleading prayers.
He sounds so small.
It strikes him, for maybe the first time, how much Tim is still - for all his posturing and maturity - a child.
A Robin.
He remembers those feelings. Remembers it like Bruce is still standing in front of him with that curled frown of disappointment and nights of studying Dick's moves and wondering if he'll ever be as good as the Boy Wonder and how every morning still smells like smoke and ash to him. He remembers and grabs a blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over the boy's body. He lifts Tim's legs up onto the couch, pulling off the kid's sneakers. He tells himself it's because his sofa was expensive.
He tells himself a lot of things.
The sun is just coming up a few hours later when Tim starts to stir. He can feel the warmth of it against his brow, and, as he breaches more into wakefulness, the rest of his body. His bedroom never gets this much light, but it's filtered, through a window, so at least he isn't outside. Tim has grown accustomed to waking up in odd places over the years. The sounds come next. No birds. So, not a room in the Manor. No whir of the Batcomputer. Not injured and in the Cave. Instead, there are cars - distant, below. The low gurgling of old pipes. And that ringing. Sharp, piercing, single note, ringing. Blindly, he reaches toward where his bedside table, and phone, should be. His hand meets something hard instead and pain punctures his knuckles.
“What the -“
”Hell?”
The voice is quiet and yet so loud. It’s low and serious, but edged with some sort of satisfaction or sarcasm or -
It also belongs to Red Hood.
Tim flips himself like a pancake, landing half on his stomach on the couch, and half on the floor. He corrects himself quickly, springing to unsteady feet, hands raised to fists. He blinks, squints, blinks again, and there is the former Robin, sitting in a chair - and staring right at him. Not glaring. Just - staring. There is an overturned book on the coffee table in front of him and Tim’s eyes follow it to realize that is the same coffee table that attacked his hand. He flexes his fingers, glancing with narrowed eyes at the bandaging.
”That’s exactly what I thought when I found a drunk teenager squatting in my place last night.” Hood leans back, almost leisurely. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
And then Tim really looks around and really listens and - holy shit, he’s in Red Hood's apartment. He is about to crack off a reply when his brain finishes catching him up. He isn’t just at Hood’s place right now, he was here last night. And drunk.
“You broke a glass, and about thirty minutes after you passed out, woke up, remembered you’d done it, stumbled over to try to clean it up, and fell on the broken pieces.”
Well, that explains the stinging pain. But not the fresh bandages. Hood would have laughed at Tim's pain. Or contributed more.
"Sit down before you fall down, Timbers," Hood rolls his eyes.
Tim tenses, chancing a glance at the door as his head does a neat little drumming trick and his stomach gives a well-timed turn. He lowers back down, not taking his eyes off of the man in the chair for a long moment. It’s only when he finally does, that he notices the new, not shattered, glass of water sitting on the coffee table. He is suddenly very thirsty. He tries to weigh the odds of Hood dosing him, but it's not really the guy's style. He fumbles for the glass and tips it back. The water is cold as it coats his dry throat.
”Slow.”
The warning comes too late and Tim gulps and then grapples at his stomach. He reaches with a shaky hand to place the glass back down when suddenly Hood is standing over him. The man takes the glass before the boy can break another and taps the wastebasket that had previously been placed next to the couch closer to Tim. Tim waits until Hood’s back is turned before he is gripping the edges of the basket. He retches once, twice.
“I’m okay,” he says to himself, lifting an unsteady hand and beginning to lean back, “I’m - nope.”
He bends over the basket again, hiccuping, but nothing else happens. This time, he waits a moment before settling back into the couch. Letting his eyes close, Tim attempts to stop the room from spinning. He worries that if he looks over, he might see double Hood. One Red Hood is scary enough, thank you. Despite the fact that the crime lord is actually being - nice - to him.
He tries to send his mind back to yesterday, deducing what might cause this abrupt change in attitude. Drugged, doppelgänger -
Tim’s eyes blow wide and he stares up at the ceiling, the previous night flooding his senses and memories. He can’t move. Can’t breathe. Think. And he most definitely cannot look anywhere else, anywhere he might see Hood. The panic attack is coming. He feels it clawing its way in, ready to course through his nerves and set his heart to spin.
“How do you like your eggs?”
The shock startles Tim enough that he sputters out a breath.
”Scrambled. Good.”
And now Tim does look over at Hood. Panic attack having faded fast, and now practically forgotten, he scratches his eyes and stares with a mix of surprise and suspicion at the man standing at the stove and already cracking eggs. The whiplash would hurt more but he is far too busy trying to process the fact that Red Hood is making him breakfast.
When he can find speech again, Tim protests only once, stopping when Hood declares that he needs the food and that it will help the hangover. He may or may not also threaten to shove it down the kid's throat. Neither of them say anything else and Tim just watches in a trance. Imagining Hood doing normal human things like cook or read or smile is always odd, but actually watching him doing it is something else.
When Hood is done, Tim starts to stand but stops when Hood grabs both plates and brings them back over by the couch, instead of the table. Tim manages a muttered, and very confused, thank you as he accepts his plate. This is better, easier, somehow, than the dining table. Less moving for Tim's jello limbs, but also just - better.
Tim stabs at the yellow blobs, dissecting them and then sniffing the skewered pieces.
"There are a lot of ways I could hurt you," Hood huffs, "but I wouldn't waste perfectly good food to do it."
Tim scrunches his face and glares dubiously at the man and then the food, before nibbling at a small bite. He waits a few seconds, satisfied he would feel the effects by now, and continues.
The pair eat in shared silence and, after awhile, it isn’t cold or awkward or terrifying. Instead, Tim finds it oddly comfortable. He takes his last bite but holds the plate in his lap awhile longer, holding onto the moment too. With a small sigh, he sets the plate down on the coffee table to take a, slow, sip of water.
“Do you think, maybe, you should, talk to someone?”
Tim is done drinking but he keeps the glass up to his lips. If he hadn't been trained by Batman, and literal ninjas, he would've done an impressive spit take. Every move Hood makes today surprises him. He would've expected the crime lord to at the very least boot him last night or call someone to collect him. And not at the very least? Well, the thought that Tim had allowed himself to be so vulnerable in front of his attempted murderer made him internally shudder. But this? The bandages, couch, breakfast, and - wait, where were his shoes? Tim appreciates it all more than he can say to Hood, or even explain to himself. Still, he can’t help the sarcasm.
"What? Like one of the psychiatrists in this city that end up a super villain, like Quinn or Crane? Someone at Arkham? Because I already got threatened to be sent there when nobody believed me about Bruce being alive, no thanks."
"I meant someone like Dick."
Tim looks over at him for a long moment and then turns away, bowing his head.
"Dick has Damien to worry about," he sighs and tries to make the next words less bitter, "he doesn't need to deal with this too." Tim shakes his head, vision going a little spotty. "Besides, there's nothing to deal with."
"Nothing to -" Hood bolts up from his seat - and there's that familiar rage, "are you fucking with me right now?"
"I'm -"
"If you tell me you're fine, I will beat you until you're really not fine on the outside, to match how fucked up you are on the inside."
"Fuck you."
"I should do that, though, right?" Hood takes a step toward him. "That's what you want. It's what you told me."
"Shut up."
"Hey, you said your mom and dad would be alive if you hadn't stolen my place," Hood shrugs. "You think they're lives were worth all the ones you've saved?"
Tim pales, remembering asking himself the very same question in front of his father's tombstone.
"I mean, me, Dickie, B, we were all orphaned before we put on the cape. None of what happened to our folks was our fault. But your parents?" Hood grunts. "That was all you, right?"
"Hood -"
"Or is it the old man's fault for letting another kid go out in a mask and think they can actually make any difference? Or is it my fault for fucking off and dying and making Batman go crazy so you thought you had to swoop in and save him? Or is it Dickie's fault for leaving Robin behind in the first place? Should I start with a bullet in the golden boy's head first? Does B deserve to die too? I mean, you did just go through all that trouble to save him, didn't you? What about me? No big deal. Been dead before. Who else? How far back should be track this? Guess I'll have to start making a list."
"Enough."
"Right, sorry, I'm forgetting. You first." Hood doesn't hesitate before he's picked the teen up off the couch and into the air, slamming him back down onto the sofa, hand clamped around Tim's throat, a gun aimed at the kid's temple in the other hand.
"Stop!"
Tim squirms, screaming.
"Make me!"
Tim shoves with weak and wobbly arms at Hood's chest.
”Come on, Robin,” Hood bites back, “fight me.”
”I can’t!” Tim struggles at a kick.
”Yes you can!” Hood releases the kid’s neck but pins him across the chest with one arm. ”Fight.” He demands.
”Let go!”
”I thought this was what you wanted, Timmy.”
”Stop.” Tim huffs.
”Fight!” Hood repeats and it’s almost a roar.
”I can’t. I’m not strong.”
“This is the scrawny ass kid who defied Batman," Hood pushes Tim into the couch further, "who fights mobsters and monsters with a metal stick."
"Hood-"
”You think this takes strength?” Hood grabs Tim’s shoulders, heaving him to his feet. “It’s easy for me. That’s not strong, not really.”
Tim stumbles sideways, toppling over the coffee table. Once on the ground on the other side, he kicks his feet up underneath it, propelling it toward his attacker. The man knocks the flying furniture to the side without breaking stride, advancing on the kid.
"You think you're a pretender? Not good enough to be Robin? Not good enough to live? Being Robin didn't save me. It's not about what you are."
Hood leans down, extending a hand.
”It’s about what you do.”
Tim hesitates, chest heaving.
”Strong is fighting. But not this,” he gestures around them, “not capes, not crime, not - out here.”
Hood is apparent done waiting for Tim to take the offered hand, reaching and yanking the teenager up.
”In here,” Hood puts a fist against Tim's chest, but this time it’s not threatening or painful. “It’s hard and painful, and it’s every day. But it’s what we have to do.”
Tim seems to lose all strength and he stumbles back against the table with a stifled sob.
“How?”
Hood waits this time for Tim to look up at him. There’s something different in the criminal's eyes that Tim isn’t sure he’s seen there before. Or, well, not in a very long time. Back before Lazarus Pits and crowbars and clowns. Back when Tim was just Tim, watching Robin swing from rooftops.
“With help.” Hood - Jason - sighs. “You’re part of a team, Tim. You have people that would do anything to help you. Let them. And even if you didn’t, you still could do it. You faced down against Ra's. You've outsmarted every villain in Gotham. And, to my annoyance, despite my best efforts, you've survived me. You're stronger than you think."
Tim swallows against tears, blinking them back as he glances away.
“You’re not a pretender, Tim.”
He stiffens, eyes snapping back to meet Jason's one more time.
“You’re just a kid,” Jason shakes his head. “Like I was.”
Sometime later:
Tim: uh, thanks, for - um -
Jason: Shut up. Don't mention it, literally, ever. I just want it to be a fair fight next time I try to kill you again.
Tim: uh huh
Jason: Keep it up. I'll take a shot right now.
Tim: sure