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“Which hurts more?”
He turned his head in an attempt to shield himself from the incoming blow. A carved smile burned itself into his brain; a horrible cackle filled the empty space around them.
“Forehand?” The crowbar ripped out a chunk of his flesh that it had gotten stuck on; the prongs dripped with blood. “Or backhand?” A white-hot pain made its way through his chest, like he was being branded. Jason was glad the crowbar was painted red. It was easier to pretend that way, easier to pretend that it was just paint dripping off metal and pooling on cold concrete.
“Say ‘hello’ to the big man for me.”
The bomb had nine seconds left on it. His heart thrummed in his chest, as weak as it was.
Nine, eight, seven.
Was nobody coming for him? There was such little time left.
Six, five, four.
Was he going to die?
Three, two, one.
Batman. Bruce. His father— his father’s absence hurt more than his broken bones and shredded skin.
The blaze consumed him.
_________________________________________
A month ago, Jason had tried to kill his replacement. The imposter Robin had run away from him, fear painted across his face, agony clear in every step of his broken leg.
And Jason hadn’t cared.
And now? Now he was watching a building burn to the ground, listening over hacked comms to the replacement beg for Batman to come help him, to save him from the flames. He clearly didn’t fucking know that Batman’s comms had broken in the fight earlier.
Against his better judgment, Jason had slunk closer to the building, watching out for Batman the whole way. Smoke poured out of the windows like upside-down waterfalls, twisting into the sky. The flames roared and crackled; the wood groaned and the metal creaked with the strain. He heard painful-sounding, wheezing coughs echoing from inside, barely audible over the flames. He had to be close.
Jason climbed inside the window. He had no trouble breathing, thankfully; the filter on his helmet protected him from the worst of the smoke, and the way he crouched down to the floor made sure he was breathing in air that was almost entirely clean.
Why was he doing this, exactly? It wasn’t his problem.
Jason hated his replacement. The fake fucking Robin ripoff. The green reminded him constantly that his place in the world had been stolen from him, both by the Joker and by some kid that thought he could do better.
Yet now, when the replacement was dying and Batman was nowhere to be found, Jason could feel nothing but worry. The green around his vision, the crazed whispering in his head— it did nothing to sway him. Because as much as the Lazarus ooze told him that this kid had taken everything from him, it didn’t seem to notice the phrasing it continued to use.
Kid.
He crept through the fire and smoke, searching for the silhouette of a person. Jason had to leap to the side to avoid a flaming plank of wood that tumbled down from the ceiling— and suddenly, he had a direct line of sight to a figure pinned under a chunk of concrete, head pressed sideways to the ground. Jason’s mind raced. He had a choice, here; he had a choice to save the person he hated the most or let him die.
Alone. The same way Jason had.
That didn’t feel right. Did he actually hate this kid enough for that? This fake Robin, that had run up to take his place? That had stepped up in a time of need?
The replacement. The imposter. The fraud. The child. Tim Drake, the one he’d researched; the kid who had learned, through Jason himself, apparently, that Robin was magic.
And now that magic was crumbling around his ears, and what did he have to show for it?
The same thing Jason did. A lifetime of pain and a pseudo-father who was absent in his final moments.
Well, Jason wouldn’t be.
He rushed forward and heaved the concrete up and off, tossing it away and lifting the kid up. He held Tim like a small child, resting Tim on his hip with one arm supporting him. Jason yanked his leather jacket off and wrapped it around his replacement, pressing his face into his shoulder. Jason’s shirt would hopefully help prevent more smoke inhalation.
And so he ran. The timer was counting down, the clock was ticking, and Tim’s time was running out fast. Jason climbed out the window and sprinted away, some kind of weird panic eating away at his chest, like the building was about to explode.
Once they were a far enough distance away from the building, Jason took a moment to check on Tim, only to realize the kid was staring up at him with the widest eyes he’d ever seen.
Well, Tim had every right to be scared of him. Jason had tried to kill him.
It felt like all the Lazarus water had drained from his veins, then; the anger had been sapped, leaving only an empty horror. He’d almost killed Tim. He’d tried to kill Tim, and for what? In his efforts to avenge his death, he’d become the person he really hated the most. In his mind, he’d carved that smile on his face, he’d grabbed that crowbar and taken to swinging it.
Forehand? Or backhand?
Jason turned his head away, then forced it back to look at Tim. Tim, who could only see the bright red helmet. Tim, who was now wriggling, trying to escape.
“Shut up,” he snapped, and he figured that probably wasn’t the right thing to say. Tim wasn’t even speaking. “Stop wiggling, you little shit— you probably have pneumonia or something. Just try not to fall asleep.”
Tim was more afraid of Red Hood than the fire, clearly.
Jason wanted to blame him. He wanted so badly to keep being angry. He wanted to want Tim dead. But when he looked down at the kid in his arms, skin ashen gray and burned, eyes hollow the same way Jason’s were, all he could feel was regret.
“Why did you save me?” Tim croaked, his movements starting to cease. Jason couldn’t tell if that was because Tim was relaxing or if it was because he was losing consciousness. “Why would you help me?”
Jason had to agree that it was a good question.
Was it the way Tim’s voice had cracked when he begged Batman for help? The way his voice was wet with tears that evaporated against his skin? The way he’d wondered aloud if Batman just didn’t care? Was it the way that the last of Tim’s innocence was now completely shattered?
Robin wasn’t magic. Not anymore. And Bruce? He wasn’t, either.
“Well? What do you gain from this?” Tim snapped. “Why did you help? Are you just going to kill me now? What’s your motivation?”
His voice was raising, getting more desperate, more angry as Jason didn’t respond.
Jason had died alone. He’d been fifteen, bruised and battered and broken and completely and utterly alone. Death had come in a violent storm and there had been nobody there to make the transition smoother. Nobody there to cradle him and tell him it would be okay. Nobody there to save him.
And every fucking fiber in his body would be damned if he let that happen to another Robin. Another kid.
“Think of this as a formal apology,” Jason muttered. His voice came out mechanical and harsh through the modulator. “We’re even now.”
He walked back towards the building and, when he spotted the Batmobile, he opened the door— seriously? Unlocked? Did Bruce even give a shit about safety?— and set Tim down in the passenger seat. He grabbed his jacket and took it back.
He had DNA on that thing, after all. He couldn’t have Bruce finding out who he was. (Or Tim, even, who was supposedly an even greater detective than Batman himself.)
“Really, why’d you do it?” Tim asked, and Jason paused. “I’ll know.”
It was a bad idea to say anything. What was he supposed to say, anyways? Confess that he’d had a change of heart when he’d heard Tim calling for help? It felt like bullshit even to himself.
“Why’d you become Robin?” Jason heard himself ask. Tim straightened his spine, then slumped and hung his head.
“I… I always say that Batman just needed a Robin,” Tim answered slowly. “But it’s not just that, I guess. The Robin before me— well, the actual Robin— he was my hero as a kid. He said Robin was magic. I wanted to be like him. I wanted to be him, you know? But I’m not living up to it.”
Jason didn’t know exactly what to say to that, so he stayed silent, arms folded.
“I answered you,” Tim added, “so now you answer me. Why did you save me?”
Jason sighed and shut the door; Tim rolled the window down.
“Fine,” Jason frowned. It was a useless gesture, invisible behind his mask. “I don’t fucking know why I saved you. But you’re here now.” He jabbed a finger at Tim. “And what did you think you were living up to, huh? A fucking blaze of glory death? Alone? Is that what you fucking wanted? You—“ he turned away, the whirled back around and grabbed onto the door of the Batmobile. “You are the magic in it, not the fucking mask.”
And he walked away into the darkness.
He wished he weren’t such shit at communicating. Maybe he could have told Tim that no Robin ever felt good enough, that the fucking traffic light suit only ever led to pain, that Batman wasn’t worth a miserable life and an even worse death.
Tim was just a kid. Even though his childhood had been stolen from him, he still needed protection.
But that wasn’t it either, was it? Not exactly.
Jason wasn’t sure he could ever sort through the tangled mess that his feelings seemed determined to be. But the one thing he could figure out for sure was that trying to kill Tim had been the worst way to avenge his death. As he walked, he felt a little knot in his chest loosen and ease its hold on him.
At least this time, when the building collapsed in on itself and the flames roared higher, a Robin wasn’t inside.