Chapter Text
Look, Jason had never claimed to be good at planning. His plans tended to include a lot less thinking, a lot more punching, and a definitive trend toward going wrong at the last second. And yeah, maybe his plans were suboptimal, but who cared, they got the job done and they kept him alive until they didn’t. But in all his years of half-assed planning, none of his plans had ever failed quite so spectacularly as tonight.
It was supposed to be so simple, he’d been preparing for months. Preparing, ever since Talia had dragged him, half-mad and screaming out of the Lazarus pit to inform him of his death and subsequent replacement. He was already red hood, he’d already started gaining traction, infamous for his brutality (even if often non-lethal) and speed. For a few weeks, there had been rumors of him being another bat.
Jason crushed those whispers with his habit of removing fingers.
He couldn’t give the game away yet, not until everything was ready. He had to get closer to them, find the cuts that still stung, so he could shred them open as he revealed what he’d become. He had to watch, see how fast they’d moved on (despite the small child in him begging to see his father again), he had to be ready to fight against the man who had raised him just to let him rot. So, that’s what he was doing, getting close, watching.
It was a foolproof plan, airtight, flawless, faultless, perfect. And he intended to follow it to the letter.
A muffled scream sounded from a few streets over. He leaped down from the rooftop, silent as the shadows he was once welcome to. He glanced around the alley, only to see a fight already taking place. He blinked in confusion until his eyes landed on a bright yellow cape.
His vision clouded, doused in acid green as he took in the child Bruce had replaced him with. Tim Drake was a few inches shorter than he’d been, and a few pounds lighter. His stance was steady, though lacking the easy grace of his predecessors and his eyes glittered behind the domino mask. He was sizing Jason up, assessing his threat level.
Everything in Jason cried for him to strike, show this poor mockery what being helpless felt like.
“Hood.” His replacement spoke, only urging the clamor in his mind higher.
“Pretender.” He managed through gritted teeth. The urge to fight, hurt, run, anything to feel safe, filled his lungs until he thought he would drown. He wanted to fly, Robins were always good at that, and find a hidden nest. He wanted to burn, take this colorful substitute apart, piece by piece. He wanted- he needed-
Another muted sob rang across the alley and he forced himself to drop it. His eyes still sparked with green fire, but he refused to lose innocents to a personal vendetta. He sighed deeply and slotted himself into position. Not far enough to really be considered separate but not close enough to be a single unit.
A door in the wall sprung open and men flooded out. They were armed with a myriad of weapons, a mid-tier gang, likely with territories nearby. The sharp tang of gunpowder was the only warning he got before bullets were whizzing through the air. Off to the side, Robin was ushering a shaking man, still bound, into the empty street.
Jason’s smile sharpened. He’d needed a distraction anyways. He slid a blade out of his belt and sliced a deadly arc through the group. They stumbled back, tripping over their feet, so Jason pressed his advantage. He ducked in close, stabbing one in the shoulder before spinning around and disarming another. The pit roared with pleasure, fizzing directly beneath his skin. He shoved downward, reveling in the terror of the gangster’s eyes. He pressed a steel-toed boot to her throat.
“You really ought to know better,” The woman gulped. “Well come now, let’s see the hand, it is a three-strike system after all,”
he reached for her wrist, pausing as a footstep thudded behind him. He sighed and, without breaking eye contact, let the dagger fly. A choked grunt of pain rang out as number three clattered to the ground.
“You really are lucky, you’re only on strike two so I can’t use my gun. This will have to do.” he aimed a well-placed kick to her stomach, leaving her groaning on the pavement.
His replacement was back, facing three to one and the pit roared, shaking the bars of its cage. He let another punch fly, throwing number four into a wall. He stalked over to where number three was still curled and wrenched his dagger out of their side. He surveyed the hit, and, after deeming it non-fatal, moved on.
Number five was quick work, green still pulsing through his veins and rage still making his skin itch. Within seconds, he was pinned against the wall, eyes shining with terror. Eyes that looked far too young to be where he was now.
Fuck.
“How old are you, kid?”
“Eighteen,” the kid said, defiantly. It wasn’t enough to keep the waver out of his voice.
“Do not fucking bullshit me right now. How. Old. Are. You.”
“Sixteen.” Jason’s grip loosened in shock. A small pin poked out from under the boy’s collar. His eyes narrowed as horror churned in his gut.
“Ma Gunn?” the boy nodded silently. That crazy bitch. How the hell was she still alive? He’d have to pay a visit.
Jason set him down gently. “Run. Run as far as you can. Don’t go back to her. On the edge of Crime Alley, there’s a pizza place. Ask for a job. They don’t do background checks and they pay in cash. I won’t help you again.”
Without a single look back, the kid ran, disappearing into the night.
Jason took a moment to silently wish him luck before turning back to the fight.
Robin had one of the three handcuffed and was facing off with the other two. Jason turned to leave when a swift hit to his ribs left him seeing stars. He spun around, eyes blazing with neon wrath, until he saw the weapon in the man’s hand. A crowbar.
Suddenly, he was no longer in the dark, wet, slippery alley, he was in a dim, dusty warehouse. Laughter was ringing in his ears and the smell of sickly cigarette smoke burned his lungs. The feeling of his hands, covered in slick blood, clawing at a locked door. He dimly heard the sound of metal clattering to the ground in front of him but it didn’t matter.
His mask was closing in, suffocating him. He could hear ticking from somewhere, he needed to get out, get away. He scrabbled furiously at the clasp of his helmet, only just remembering the tamper-proof explosives. He leaped for the fire escape, scraping at the metal like a trapped animal. He swung himself upward and hurled, still heaving, onto a rooftop.
He undid his helmet catch with shaking hands and tossed it into a corner. His legs dangled over the edge as he looked over the grimy horizon at the city he had to protect. He took a deep breath and let the tension seep out of his body. He was safe, the Joker wasn’t here. Belatedly, he realized the sounds of fighting from below had faded and an eerie silence remained.
The sound of soft footfalls had him whirling around, his mind once again filling with green haze. Tim’s eyes met his.
“Shit.” His replacement muttered something to himself and squinted. “Well, hi Jason.”
The acid burned his throat. That was all? All that this piece of shit had to say was Hi? “Excuse me?”
Tim was still muttering to himself “-pupil dilation…hm… Hey, Jason, could you check my pupi- right, not real, god damn it.”
The pit flickered for a moment. “The fuck are you on about?”
Tim blinked twice “You, I’m hallucinating you, Jason Todd, into existence. Because you’re dead.”
Jason froze. Was he fucking around?
Tim mirrored his frozen posture “Oh shit are you not supposed to tell hallucinations they’re hallucinations?” and, much to Jason's horror, the kid’s eyes were filling with tears. “Fuck. Please don’t leave I’m sorry I-”
The pit evaporated like mist. “Shhhhh, no, no, it’s okay, I’m not leaving. I’m here.” Jason reached a hand out only to draw it back. Hero worship lined every feature on this kid’s face even as he sobbed. Jeez, was this kid okay?
Tim took a few seconds to pull himself together. “Sorry about that” He let out a watery laugh. “I’m supposed to be the next best thing and here I am, sobbing on a roof. Fucking hell.”
Jason’s mind was stuck, repeating one phrase on loop. “Next best thing?”
Tim shrugged “Well I mean If you were alive I wouldn’t be here, I’m just a…a backup. Bruce needed someone. Sorry.”
Tim plopped himself down next to Jason, gazing at the streets below. Tears were still drying on his cheeks. This was what he’d wanted right? Tim’s apology? Recognition of his feelings? So why did it feel so hollow?
Tim seemed to feel his scrutiny and rose, swaying unsteadily, to his feet.
“I should go, I’m no use tonight” Jason’s heart seized as he took in Tim’s proximity to the edge and he took a step forward.
“Woah there Timbo,” he moved in closer, putting his hands out as though to steady Tim. “Yeah, let’s get you home.”
A hairline fracture appeared in Tim’s expression at the nickname, but he nodded and reached for his belt.
“Are you sure you’re good to swing right now?”
Tim rolled his eyes and fired.
“Sonofabitch '' Jason muttered before following behind. His ribs still ached, but the sharp pain of broken bones was notably absent. They made it to the edge of Mountain Drive before Tim took a sharp turn, rolling into a landing. Jason overshot, skidding on the muddy grass and leaving two long footprints.
“Kid! What the fuck, the cave this that way,” Jason gestured wildly up the hill where a far shadow hinted at the Manor’s high roof.
Tim looked between the Manor and another house further down the road
“...yeah? And?”
“And!? You are on concussion watch! You need medical attention! You need to go home.”
“Yes. Home. As in the place I live. Which is that way.” he pointed away from the Manor.
Jason’s mind momentarily blue-screened. Why didn’t Tim live at the Manor? He knew he lived nearby but still, Bruce always offered the Robins a place to live.
Tim, rapidly tiring of Jason’s hesitation, began walking away. Jason was left with nothing to do but follow.
‘Kid,” he hissed “C’mon you need to get your head checked out, I’m still here aren’t I?” Tim frowned
“I’ll do it tomorrow. I’m not bothering Bruce this late at night. I’ll be fine until then.” Tim steadily ignored Jason's other point.
Gravel crunched beneath their feet as Tim entered a key code. The long driveway was empty and a large swath of perfectly manicured lawn separated them from the door. On the porch a lone light glowed, attracting a small flurry of moths. The rest of the house was dark behind the tall, clear, windows. They silently traipsed to the door and Tim stared for a moment before moving to open it.
The door swung open without a sound. As they crossed the threshold, automatic lights clicked on, illuminating Drake Manor. A lengthy foyer stretched beyond him. Thick, white dust covers laid on the furniture. Jason reached out to touch one, noticing the crinkle of plastic beneath his hand. He rubbed two fingers together, absentmindedly fiddling with the gritty dust. A question rose to the tip of his tongue but when he glanced up, Tim was already gone.
Jason began a search for the stairs, eyes sharp as his gaze roamed the empty rooms. With every doorway passed, his concern grew. Unease prickled at the back of his neck. Once, after Jason was injured on a patrol, Bruce took him to a history museum. Jason had enjoyed most of it, and was able to ignore the guilt-heavy glances at his back, except for one room. The room was a recreation of a 1820 homestead, arranged to look as though the family had just left, moments before. Atleast, that's how it was supposed to be. Instead, the room felt inorganic and cold, an artificial copy of a life once held.
Moving through Drake Manor was like the recreation. It looked like someone had taken a checklist, and marked each item off one by one. Not a single item was out of place, even the blanket draped artfully over the sofa looked as though it had been sewn to the cushions. Every step throbbed with a piercing sense of wrongness. A kid was supposed to live here? He flicked the thought off and continued his quest.
As he entered the kitchen, something made him pause. Mounted on the wall stuck a small whiteboard calendar. Once every week, a note of “housekeepers” was written. Other, less consistent dates, were also marked. “Groceries” proclaimed a square, “Reschedule Parent-Teacher Conferences” announced another. On their own, they weren’t all that troubling, just the reminders of any semi-functioning adult. Iit was the small red “P”s in the corners that changed the meaning.
The P’s matched with dates Robin was scheduled for patrol. Still fine, until he inspected the handwriting. It was a perfect match for the rest of the board. That meant that Tim, 15 year old Tim, was in charge of managing an entire household. Grimacing in trepidation, Jason pulled the fridge open. Inside were leftover noodles, energy drinks, and takeout containers. All meals that Tim would reasonably make.
Finally making it upstairs, he ignored Tim’s door, opting for the master bedroom. What met him only confirmed his horrifying theory. The room was outfitted with the same dust covers as the foyer, devoid of any signs of life. Tim had been living alone, virtually abandoned, by the looks of it for months. He was just a kid, and he was left to fend for himself? He was so young.
God, he was so young. What the fuck was Jason thinking, going after a kid. He swallowed down bile as he remembered his plans for the kid, beating him bloody and bruised. Leaving a message on the wall. His stomach turned as he imagined watching the hero worship and adoration shatter into shock and panic.
Jason crept back into the hall, he could see Tim’s small form huddled under a blanket. Jason made it halfway past the door when Tim’s timid waver rose from the mound.
“Jason? I- uh- could you maybe wait for a bit? I know you can’t stay but-” Tim crumbled “Sorry, I’ll shut up. I’m fine.” Tim’s eyes were pleading even as he claimed indifference.
Something in him softened. With frightening abruptness, he was thrust back to his own childhood. Tim’s halted resignation reminded him all too strongly of his own personality. As though maybe, if he was just a little better, his Dad wouldn’t yell or hit or drink. Maybe if he was just a little better, his Mom would stop staring out the window with that terrifying, vacant, look.
“You sure? I can stay ‘till you fall asleep if you want.” Tim wouldn’t meet his gaze but bobbed his head. Jason offered a small smile as Tim closed his eyes.
Jason leaned on the doorframe, taking in the kid who he’d planned to fight not three hours earlier. Guilt crammed itself down his throat and he struggled to breathe. He sagged as the boy’s breathing slowed. Tim’s room was the only one that felt lived in. Coffee cups scattered over an antique-style desk. A worn copy of Macbeth lay, dog-eared, mid-chapter. A strand of affection wormed it’s way through Jason’s heart at the Scottish play. He preferred comedies to tragedies, but Macbeth was a classic. His visual tour continued and stopped at a leaf of paperwork, half completed.
Suddenly, the pit was keening.
Jason’s breath quickened. He couldn’t lose control, not now, not when Tim was right there, unarmed and asleep. He hurled himself away from Tim as hysteria threatened to overcome him. The pit clawed at his lungs, sticking it’s bony fingers through the gaps in his ribcage, forcing air out in harsh gasps. It gouged deep gashes in his heart as he staggered down the marble stairs.
He tried to think, set the acid on anything else, but to no avail. This time the waters called one name. He dashed through the display rooms and nearly tripped over the foyer rug. This time it was different, warmer, less frigid, howling-
wait.
He knew this feeling. He recognized the burning in his chest. It wasn’t rage, It wasn’t wrath, It was protectiveness, a desperate need for safety. He wanted to guard this kid, keep him hidden, away from danger. He wanted to hold Tim close and prove that he would stay. He wanted Tim to never have to feel the way Jason had, alone, replaced, forgotten.
He kept walking. He hardly noticed where his feet were taking him until he was back on the roof where he left his helmet. Its white eyes glared balefully at him. He turned the weight in his hands absently as he regarded the slowly lightning sky. There were a few hours left before sunrise. His mind turned back to Tim, alone in a museum of a house, so desperate for company he would ask a hallucination to stay. The fire still smoldered in his ribcage. As the eyes of his helmet came back into view Jason made a decision. He slipped it over his head, calming a bit as it's comforting pressure settled into place. He took a deep breath and dialed a code.
“Hello? Who is this? How did you get this number?” Jason smiled as Dick’s voice crackled through the speakers.
“Well hello birdie,” He purred, letting the voice modulator do most of the work. “A wonderful night to spread your wings don’t you think?”
“Hood. What the fuck do you want.” Dick snarled
Jason tutted “No need to be rude. I was offering a warning. If you don’t want it, then, by all means, hang up.”
“What did you do?”
Jason let the sing-song voice drop, opting for a threatening growl “Look dickface. Your fledgling wandered into my nest today. Keep him out if he wants to keep his limbs. Understand?”
“If you so much as touched a hair on his head I’ll-”
“You’ll what? Kill me? You didn’t kill the man who sent your last flockmate to the grave," Jason's tone wasn’t quite as free of bitterness as he’d like. “So forgive me for not shaking in my boots.”
Dick started but Jason interrupted. “Look, just keep him out and you won’t hear from me again." He deliberated for a moment. “Oh, and one more thing? What’s about to happen? Don’t stop me.” He ended the call before he could hear Dick’s retort.
That should do the trick. Knowing Dick, he would be at Drake Manor in less than ten minutes. If he was lucky, Tim wouldn’t have to wake up alone. He would wake to the sunrise, a brother, and, if Dick had any sense, a concussion check. (He had slightly less hope on that one)
Jason surveyed the city before him. Electricity thrummed through his body. It wasn’t enough that Tim would stay out of the worst part of town. He needed to do more. A thought was nagging at the back of his mind. He thought of all the kids who would still be alive were it not for the bat’s cowardness. He thought of Tim, one day having to face off against his murderer. A plan was materializing in his brain. No longer divided, Jason fired a grapple and flung himself further into Gotham.
Two days later, the Joker was found dead in his cell.