Archive of Our Own

Karma’s a bitch, or so the old saying goes, but Jason Todd would argue to his last breath that karma was more like a cold-hearted, vindictive motherfucker with a personal vendetta. Because really, how else could anyone explain how every stunt he’d ever pulled on Bruce or Dick back when he was a little shit was now being replayed in stereo by the little shits under his watch? And, of course, they weren’t just repeating his moves—they were taking them up a notch, one-upping him in all the worst ways. This thought grated at him as his bike roared through Gotham’s streets, swerving between cars as he followed the signal from their phones.

“Motherf—” he yelled as his knee skimmed way too close to the asphalt on a sharp left turn. Naturally, that was the exact moment the voice crackled through his comm.

“Jason?”

“This is a really not a good time to chat, B,” he ground out, eyes flicking between the red-blinking dot on his dashboard and the road ahead.

“Why? ” 

Bruce sounded worried. Shit. Not good. Worried Bruce was a 2-seconds-away-from-fucking-flying-back-to-Gotham-from-freaking-Austin Bruce. 

“Is everything okay?” B prompted.

“Everything peachy, rosy, and bright.”

“Jason…”

Not the freaking warning tone, B. Damn your timing!

“Took an unscheduled patrol, ran into a bit of an emergency. I’ll be back in an hour,” Jason said quickly, hoping Bruce would chalk up his tone to adrenaline—and wouldn’t think to check with Alfred.

“Jason…”

“Would love to chat, B, but I gotta run. Update you later!”

“Jas—”

The line cut, and Jason growled, gunning the bike and zeroing in on the blinking red dots that were soon-to-be-dead. Tires screeched as he swung off, taking in the Bowery—the Bowery of all places. Of course the little shits chose this area for their unauthorized, unsupervised, rogue gig. Of-fucking-course. With fists clenched and the slits of his helmet glinting in the dark, he scanned the alleys around him, every shadow and corner he knew too damn well.

The GPS had them right here. Grappling gun in hand, Jason shot forward, hooking onto the nearest building and scaling it with the precision of someone who’d done it a thousand times. Except this time, he was picturing the exact moment he’d lay hands on the little terrors.

Landing on the rooftop, he stood tall and menacing on the edge, a thousand threats ready to roll off his tongue, but all he found was open concrete. No Robins. Just two black backpacks, stashed by the roof shaft. He strode over and unzipped them, rifling through the contents.

Jaw clenched and a low growl rumbling in his chest, he stared down at the folded civilian clothes and phones lying inside.

“You have got to be shitting me.”

His anger twisted, melting into a stomach-churning worry, and he wondered if nineteen-year-olds could suffer coronary episodes—because this sure as hell felt like one. He grabbed Tim’s phone and attempted to unlock it, but of course, he didn’t know the password. Same with Damian’s.

Dropping the devices back into the backpacks and zipping them up, he rose to his feet and tried to think clearly. They'd better be alright. They'd better be safe and sound and just pulling some unhinged, non-dangerous crap, because if anything happened to them under his watch… A flashback of Dick yelling those very same words at him hit him like a bucket of ice water, and that old karma saying taunted him again.

They'd better be okay. They’d fucking better.

“Oracle, code shitstorm, come in,” Jason muttered into his comm.

“What’s the emergency, G-Knight?”

“I got two missing Robins,” Jason stated. “Their phones are left in their backpacks at my location, but the little shits are nowhere in sight. Do not alert B or Nightwing. Yet.”

“Copy that… scanning the feed…” Seconds ticked by, and Jason paced around the edges of the rooftop, scanning the surrounding alleys and streets for any sign of red, green, or yellow.

“I got reports on two unknown vigilantes beating up some goons five blocks from where you’re at, six minutes ago. I’m watching camera feeds as we speak, and they look suspiciously like our Robins. Minus the suits.” Oracle snorted. “If that’s their attempt at not being recognized, then B seriously needs to up their training on identity concealment. Total black ensembles, black domino masks, black hoodies. One of them’s holding a bo staff, and the shorter one a damn nunchaku. Aww, our baby ninja assassin. That’s adorable.”

“I’m gonna kill them. The damn idiots made rogue suits,” Jason seethed.

“Well, they wouldn’t be the first Robins to pull something like that, would they, G-Knight?” Oracle asked, and Jason could practically see her raised eyebrow and smirk.

“Can’t you even try to hide that you’re enjoying this?” Jason growled through gritted teeth.

“No, because six years ago, I was the one backing up Wing, madly searching for your rogue-costumed ass all over Gotham for over three hours. So, I gotta admit, this is a little satisfying,” Oracle replied in a pleasant tone.

“Fuck my life, I’m not offering to babysit these two ever again. See if you can track them through traffic cam feeds—” Jason paused, spotting light bleeding out from the roof shaft’s window, and retreated several steps back into the shadows, eyes trained on the door. “Got incoming; update me when you track them.”

Gun already in hand, Jason waited. The door creaked open, and two familiar voices shattered the stillness of the night, making his temples throb and his gun lower.

“‘Unhinged’ doesn’t even begin to describe you! What the hell was that?”

Relief gave way to simmering anger as Jason brought a gloved hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Pinching the bridge of his nose? He was already turning into Bruce after only 48 hours with these little brats. Perfect.

“That was exemplary fighting skill and ruthless effectiveness, if you must know, Drake. Not that an imbecile such as yourself would be in any position to appreciate it,” Damian shot back.

“You broke freaking bones for no good reason!”

“He kicked the dog! The goon was lucky I wasn’t in my Robin suit, or I’d still be playing fetch with Snuffles using his amputated leg,” Damian countered as they both moved toward their backpacks.

“This was supposed to be a rogue mission of glory, Damian!”

“And who’s the incompetent moron who screwed up the research, Drake?”

“Not my fault! Alfred wouldn’t let me near coffee, and I was still sleepless from last night!”

Jason was about to make his entrance and get this party started but paused, processing last night. Last night? They were supposed to be home last night. Slow. Painful. Death.

“At least last night wasn’t a total waste of our time.”

Jason had to stop himself from growling out loud. This was unbelievable. Tim and Damian were dead men walking.

“Yeah, but tonight we were supposed to end it…”

“Had you actually managed to accurately locate him,” Damian pointed out.

“I’ll figure it out tonight,” Tim grumbled. “He doesn’t know we know who he’s posing as, so all we gotta do is figure out his next move. I mean, it’s Clayface; it doesn’t take a gen—”

“Motherfucking Clayface?” Jason boomed, stepping out of the shadows. Both teens jumped, spinning around to face him, eyes wide with shock.

“You planned to go rogue and take down the villain that had Batman calling the League for backup? Are you out of your deranged minds?”

Tim and Damian stared at Jason, eyes wide and mouths agape, backing up a step for each of his menacing steps forward. Both were shocked into silence, clearly not expecting to be caught.

Jason pinned them with a scorching glare, one that could rival Bruce’s, even if they couldn’t see it behind his helmet. His heart pounded as he realized how close these idiots had come to getting themselves killed tonight. 

Letting out a loud exhale, he activated his comm. “Oracle, I’ve got them.”

“Alive and in one piece?”

“Not for long,” Jason stated, glaring at the two teens, who still just stood there stunned into silence.

“Tell them I said rest in peace—and be sure to leave something behind for the burial. Oracle out.”

For the first time, Jason actually felt the urge to start smacking some sense into the little gremlins’ asses then and there. He’d brawled with them plenty: punches, kicks, head-butts—the usual. But all those were fighting, or rough-housing, or training. He'd never punished them, never even considered it before now. That was always Bruce’s problem and sometimes Dick’s. Hell, Jason himself was last punished like that a little less than a year ago. He’d never thought he’d see the day he’d entertain ideas of smacking the little pains also known as his little brothers. As much as his hands itched at that moment, he decided against it, because A) This was way above his pay grade, and B) even if he did end up handing them their asses, there was a need for intel-gathering, grueling lectures, and questions before anything else. Prioritization. First, he had to get them home.

“How’d you get here?” Jason asked.

“Cab,” Tim answered, voice pitching.

“Cab?” Jason repeated incredulously. “You took a fucking cab to go take down Clayface?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, we don’t drive yet,” Damian retorted, obviously aiming for dry but sounding like a nervous kid neck-deep in trouble.

Jason felt his last drops of patience evaporate at the kid’s attitude and whished he had taken the batmobile instead of the bike. Damnit .

He shot the youngest Robin with a murderous look. The kid couldn’t see it, but he knew Jason well enough to know it was there.  “Get into your normal clothes. I’m calling a cab, and if you know what’s good for you, you’re going straight to the manor. If I have to look for you again tonight, trust me—you’re gonna wish Clayface found you first.”

Tim exchanged a glance with Damian and gulped under their older brother’s imposing figure—almost as tall as Bruce, larger than Dick, and in this moment, scarier than both of them combined. And that said something.

Jason rubbed his left temple, brow creased, head lowered as Bruce’s berating voice blared through his cell phone. Despite not having it on speaker, he could still hear every single word, even with the phone held near his hip. He was so not paid enough for this crap. In fact, he wasn’t paid at all, and this definitely warranted some kind of compensation.

He attempted to bring the phone near his ear. “B,” he tried, letting out a frustrated breath when Bruce kept talking. “For fuck’s sake, will you stop for a damn minute?” Jason finally yelled, managing to get Bruce to pause his tirade. “It’s not my fault this happened, alright? You wanna yell? Call them and yell at them ! I’m just trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do here!”

“What do you mean, what are you supposed to do? You deal with it! I left you in charge.”

“Yeah, well, when I said yes, I thought I’d have to yell at Tim to go to sleep every 48 hours and keep Damian from murdering him while he slept, B! I didn’t think I’d have to…”

“I won’t be home for another week, Jason. This is too serious to wait that long.”

Jason let out a loud exhale, leaning against the manor’s iron gate and resting his forehead on the cold metal. Putting the phone on speaker now that Bruce sounded reasonably calmer, he shoved it in his jacket pocket, freeing his hands to fish out his cigarettes and lighter, sparking one up.

“I can tell you’re about to smoke.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you the greatest detective of them all! Bruce, I’m serious—you’re gonna zip it and say nothing about it, considering A, I’m freaking 19 years old, and B, what you’re asking me to do,” he replied dryly, taking a long drag. God. Bitching motherfucking crappily fuck, he wasn’t ready for this.

“Couldn’t Alfred…?” Jason asked, exhaling smoke as he caught sight of headlights rounding the slithering road up to the manor. The taxi that he knew was bringing the little imbeciles home.

“He could. But he shouldn’t,” Bruce stated.

Damn you and your brevity, B. You wouldn’t shut up a minute ago, and now…

“Jason, if Alfred handles it, they’ll think they can get away with anything when it’s you in charge. And this is between you and them. They disobeyed you, played you, went behind your back, and risked their necks under your watch. End of the day, it’s your call—but I think it should be handled by you.”

Jason took another long drag, letting the smoke settle warm and comforting in his chest. He hated to admit it, but Bruce was right. He had an irritating knack for it—maybe not as much as Alfred, but close enough.

“Fine.”

“Have them call me first thing tomorrow morning. And put that thing out. You need to quit; it’s not goo—”

Jason hung up with an annoyed huff. Tossing the cigarette onto the grass, he stomped it out with his boot before opening the gate as the cab finally pulled up in front.

He watched Tim and Damian exit gingerly, backpacks slung over their shoulders, both wearing expressions fit for men heading to the gallows. Catching Jason’s gaze, Damian tried to mask his look with one of annoyance. Tim walked through the gate first, slowly, eyes downcast. 

This was going to be a long night.

“Paid?” Jason asked, trying to keep his tone calm under the circumstances.

Tim only nodded, and Jason waited for Damian to step onto the grounds before locking the gate with a nod to the driver. As the taxi pulled away, the quiet night settled around them, an owl hooting somewhere in the distance.

“Cave. Now.” Jason broke the stillness, his tone sharper than usual. It didn’t hold the snark or frustration they were all more used to hearing—Jason included. Instead, it carried an authority and finality they were used to from Bruce, and, on rare occasions, Dick. Damn gremlins, he thought, they’re turning me into Dickhead, too.

Damian and Tim exchanged a glance before trudging toward the manor, Jason following with his hands shoved in his pockets. Alfred, who had apparently tracked down the “missing” kids of the house, was waiting in his favorite armchair in the living room, wearing his best phlegmatically displeased expression.

“I see you brought the young men home, Master Jason,” Alfred stated, his gaze lingering on the teens before locking with Jason’s. Jason resisted the urge to snort at how tense the gremlins got under Alfred’s scrutiny.

“I got it, Alf. You shouldn’t have waited up. The terrors are fine and we’ll see you in the morning,” Jason said, marveling at his self-restraint in not embarrassing the two pains by spelling out what “I got it” truly entailed. Not that Alfred didn’t know, but hearing the words always hit differently.

“This is—” Damian started to grumble, but Jason was already so done, and the fireworks hadn’t even started yet.

“Zip it, Damian. Not a single word,” Jason snapped, already hearing Bruce in his own voice, much as he hated to admit it. “Move it, both of you.”

They made their way through the grandfather clock and down the stairs into the cave. Jason pointed to the large table they used for meetings, and his two brothers followed the silent order, slumping into chairs and waiting. Tim stared at his hands, picking at a fingernail, while Damian glared at the opposite wall of the cave, lips pressed together in a sour expression. Jason took off his leather jacket, tossing it onto a chair, and planted his hands on the table, staring both teens down for several seconds. They tried hard to hide their nervousness, but Jasoncould see the twitch in Tim’s hands and the fire in Damian’s scowl. They both knew they’d screwed up and they were in for it. Good .

“Empty your backpacks on the table,” Jason instructed, standing to his full height with arms crossing over his chest.

Tim exchanged a look with Damian before pulling his backpack onto his lap. He unzipped it with measured movements, setting each item on the table, one by one, neatly next to each other: folded cargo pants, a bulletproof undershirt, a plain black hoodie, a domino mask, utility belt, and his retractable bo staff. Jason eyed each item as Tim set the backpack aside and folded his hands, nervously cracking his knuckles.

Jason turned to Damian, who hadn’t moved to follow the order. After a short staredown, Damian stood up, chin high, and promptly unzipped his backpack, turning it upside down so his gear clattered onto the table with enough noise to wake the bats. Yeah, the kid was pissed, and Jason’s palms itched to give him a reason to be. But no. Not yet. This required patience, control—two things he definitely hadn’t signed up for.

He noticed Tim shifting nervously, mumbling something under his breath, maybe trying to keep Damian from digging himself in deeper? Now, that was a surprise. Usually, these two couldn’t get within two feet of each other without squabbling like feral cats. But here was Tim, rubbing his temples, trying to keep the little terror in line. And damned if Jason didn’t feel something catch in his chest—probably indigestion, because it sure as hell couldn’t be pride.

Damian’s sharp “Shut up” and Tim’s muttered “I don’t know why I even bother” snapped things right back to their regular brand of dysfunctional.

“Glad to see you two still have enough energy to fight each other,” Jason said flatly, leaning forward with his arms crossed over his chest. “I mean, I’d hate to think your little unauthorized escapade with Clayface left you too tired to bicker like toddlers.”

The two went silent, settling for sharp glares at each other.

“Phones,” Jason demanded, somehow holding it together. Tim shot him a cautious look but, thankfully, kept his mouth shut as he dug his phone from his pocket and set it carefully on the table. Damian, of course, practically flung his. Jason closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. Keep it together, he mentally growled, fighting the urge to throttle both of them.

“Rogue costumes?” Jason asked, his tone flat but heavy with disbelief. “And going after Clayface? What the hell were you two thinking?”

“That it’s high time someone stopped him,” Damian shot back icily. “We’re very confident that Clayface isn’t as dangerous as you all make him out to be.”

Jason let out a mirthless chuckle, bringing a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Again. The more this shitshow unfolded, the more he saw and heard Bruce—and even Dick—in himself. Freaking brats. You’ll pay for this.

“Oh, you’re ‘very confident,’ huh?” Jason asked, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Is that your vast experience talking?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t start yesterday,” Damian retorted, fire in his eyes.

“No, you started eleven months ago. Not even a damn year, brat! Your confidence doesn’t mean shit when our father, the freaking Batman, who’s got at least twenty times your experience, thinks that guy is dangerous, and we need backup!” Jason’s voice boomed, echoing off the cave walls. Heavy silence followed, as Jason shifted his glare to Tim. “And you, Tim—you’ve been in this long enough to know that was a dumbass move. You’re supposed to be the smart one! What in the hell made you think, ‘Yo, this sounds like a good idea!’?”

Tim’s gaze dropped to the table, but Jason caught the tense line of his jaw and the way his shoulders squared. Here we fucking go. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question! Start talking!”

Tim looked up at him, meeting his eyes squarely. “I’m not supposed to be the smart one; I am the smart one. And if I thought tonight was a good opportunity to catch him, then maybe you should listen!”

Jason stared, incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? I heard you two talking. He wasn’t even where you thought he’d be! What the hell, Tim?”

Tim’s brow furrowed, clearly struggling to hold his temper, though he was doing a pretty crappy job of it. “That was just a small hiccup. We almost had him yesterday, and if you’d stop distracting us and let us do our job, we could catch him in the next few days, before Bruce even gets back—”

“Are you even hearing yourself right now? If I’m not distracting you? If I let you do your job? Catch him? Did you get a concussion?” Jason leaned over the table, eyes wide with disbelief, his jaw twitching in frustration. Tim wasn’t one to easily admit defeat or apologize, but this? This was a whole new level of stupidity.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Tim snapped. “You treat us like kids, like we’re imbeciles who can’t hold our own against—”

“Oh, don’t even go there! We’ve fought a ton of dangerous scumbags together, and you know it! But going at it alone? Alone? Not even Bruce goes at it alone anymore, you morons!” Jason felt the irony smack him in the face and was sure Bruce and Dick would rub his nose in this for years. Here he was, lecturing and ready to smack some sense into the two little idiots for doing exactly what he’d done around Tim’s age. Fucking karma.

“Which is why we went together,” Damian said coldly.

“Are either of you actually adults here? Damian, you know the drill! No one goes out on patrol without Bruce, Dick, or me. It’s as simple as that. It’s how it’s always been, and it’s how it’s gonna stay because it keeps everyone safe and gets results! You don’t get to just waltz off and play hero on your own whenever you feel like it!”

“Yeah, like you and Dick and Bruce haven’t gotten your asses handed to you by villains,” Tim muttered.

“Exactly my point, smartass! If we’ve gotten our asses handed to us with several more years of experience and training than you, I think you can do the math on why you DON’T PATROL WITHOUT CLEARANCE,” Jason thundered. His last words echoed off the cave walls, startling a few bats into flight. Taking a deep breath, Jason managed to keep his next words controlled, if barely. “And the rogue suits? They seem pretty well thought out and equipped. Definitely not last-minute improv. So… how long have you been planning this?”

Damian scowled at the table, and Tim pressed his lips together, avoiding Jason’s gaze.

“Answer me, or I swear to God, I’ll start whooping your asses right here until you spill everything—and then I’ll move on to the main course!”

Both boys froze, wide-eyed and gaping. Jason leaned in, eyebrow raised, towering over them. “What? You thought I’d just yell at you and call it a night? After you risked your stupid necks under my watch? Oh, you’ve got another thing coming, you little shits. I’m gonna make sure you think twice before ever pulling something like this again.”

He let the weight of his words hang in the air for a moment, watching with satisfaction as shock and worry flickered across their faces. Good. They should be worried. Their asses were grass. Any resolve he’d lacked ten minutes ago had morphed into full-blown determination. He’d make sure these little brats learned their lesson, ensuring they thought twice before risking their lives so recklessly again. Leaning in closer, he narrowed his eyes and repeated the question, his voice low and unwavering. “How long have you been planning this?”

“A couple of weeks,” Tim mumbled. “Ever since B told us about his trip.”

“Of fucking course,” Jason snorted. “You wouldn’t have dared to do something like this under his nose. Do you realize how stupid and reckless what you tried was? You went out there alone with no one knowing. Not me, not B, not Dick, not Oracle or Alfred… What if you vanished? Huh? What if you never made it home tonight or last night? Even if you didn’t end up dead, do you realize how much you compromised your identities and the Bat mantle if someone connected the dots? Did you really think a change of clothes would be enough to hide that?”

“But nothing happened,” Tim said in an annoyed tone.

“And you’re damn lucky it didn’t,” Jason yelled, his voice slicing through the tension. “For two nights straight, you threw away your lives, your safety, your identities, your damn mantles—everything you’ve busted your asses to earn. And in just two fucking nights, you managed to completely wipe out my trust!”

Both boys looked up at that, shock erasing their stubborn annoyance. Jason didn’t give a damn. He was telling the truth—there was no way in hell he was trusting these two to be out there with him anytime soon. He’d keep a hawk's eye on them until Bruce got back. Just the thought of the two of them in Clayface’s hands while he was clueless made his stomach churn, solidifying his resolve. Playtime was over.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re both benched and grounded for the next two weeks,” Jason stated grimly.

“But Father comes back on Mon—”

“I don’t give a damn. You pulled this crap on my watch, so now you’re facing the consequences. Benched. Grounded. Two full weeks. Got a problem? Take it up with B in the morning. The three of you are doing a nice little video chat first thing.” He shot them a look that dared them to complain. “And don’t even think about phones or video games during that time.” His tone was so dead serious and not-fucking-around that it reminded all three of them of Bruce—a thought that nearly made Jason gag and caused the two teens to swallow their protests.

“Double training, too, for the full two weeks,” Jason added, ignoring the miserable groans from both boys. He stared them down, eyebrows furrowed. “Are we clear?” he asked, his tone daring them to push back.

“Yes,” Tim mumbled quietly, while Damian crossed his arms over his chest again and slumped further down in his chair.

“Good. Seeing that it’s late, you get one choice tonight. You wanna get your spankings over with now or tomorrow morning?”

The words brought instant color to both brats’ faces, and Jason patiently waited for their answer, hoping they’d want this over and done with as soon as possible, like he did. I’m listening!” he prompted curtly.

“Now,” Tim mumbled, his face flushing a deeper shade of pink as he avoided Jason’s eyes.

“Never,” Damian grumbled.

Jason’s eyes zeroed in on Damian, and he rapped his fingers on the table. The kid returned the glare, and to his credit, managed to hold it for several seconds before looking away and shifting slightly in his seat. 

“Tim, go on upstairs and get ready for bed. I’ll be there soon,” Jason instructed, his eyes never leaving Damian’s now-squirming figure.

Tim shot a glance at Damian before getting up and starting to walk out.

“Phone,” Jason called after him, and Tim let out something between a groan and a whimper before turning around and setting his phone which he had discreetly pocketed during the grilling back on the table.

Jason waited for Tim’s footsteps to fade before walking around the table and leaning against it right next to Damian’s chair. Eyes still drilling into his youngest brother, he spoke in a low voice that was somehow scarier than his earlier yells. “This attitude? It’s about to make the decision for you. Cut the drama, drop the act, and answer the damn question. Tonight, or tomorrow?”

Damian looked up at Jason, his expression still a mask of anger and challenge. Jason wasn’t shocked. He knew this was Damian’s MO. This might be the first time he’d punish the gremlin himself, but he’d witnessed the preludes to some of his punishments on numerous occasions ever since the kid moved into the manor. Jason knew Damian always lashed out. So, no, he didn’t take it personally, but he was done . So Jason simply scooted a bit further back onto the table, sitting down properly, before he reached down, picked the kid up, and draped the now-flailing twelve-year-old over his knees.

“No! You can’t! I won’t let you!” Damian yelled, to which Jason simply rolled his eyes and brought down the fist of many smacks.

“I can and I will and you won’t do shit about it. This is happening, Damian,” Jason stated in an even tone, delivering a couple more sharp smacks to emphasize his point. Damian kept squirming and vocalizing his refusal to accept the situation, and Jason realized there was no point in waiting for the kid to calm down—he wouldn’t. He’d have to calm him down himself. With one swift motion, he lowered Damian’s sweatpants and boxers, starting the spanking properly. Sharp smack after smack landed across the kid’s entire sitting region, from the crest of his butt to the middle of his thighs. Damian’s protests became even more intense, just as Jason imagined they would. From all his siblings, Damian reminded him most of himself. The kid wore anger on his sleeve and defaulted to it when he felt cornered.

Jason knew firsthand that he needed to break through that anger for the kid to reach a state of actually listening and for the punishment’s message to register. He kept the smacks coming, remaining silent, his left hand pinning the still-flailing Damian in place, his right hand ascending and descending, aiming at the same spot two or three times before moving to the next. When Damian’s breath started hitching and his feet went from flailing to only kicking with each smack, when he finally stopped yelling threats and insults, Jason picked up the pace.

“Okay, Damian. Now that I have your attention, go ahead and tell me why we’re here,” Jason instructed, keeping the rhythm steady.

“Because you’re an assh—”

Jason aimed a volley of harsher smacks on Damian’s right thigh, all on the same spot, effectively cutting him off. Tapping the left thigh warningly he asked again, his voice even. “Why are you getting this spanking, Damian?”

The kid whimpered—actually whimpered—and Jason knew it wasn’t so much from the smarting pain in his ass but mostly because of Damian’s frustration at not being able to win this. The kid had an ego the size of Gotham.

When several seconds passed and no answer came, Jason landed another ten sharp smacks on his left thigh, which, as expected, proved a strong enough motivator.

“Fine! Stop! Because I went after Clayface without clearing it with you first!” Damian exclaimed. Jason picked up the spanking from where he had left off, peppering the whole area in front of him with measured hard smacks. Damian’s butt had gained some color, but the spanking was nowhere near done.

“And?” Jason asked in that same calm tone that he was pretty sure drove Damian up a wall right now, the smacks never ceasing. The kid started squirming more and more as the sting increased, but Jason held him easily in place, each smack meeting its target.

“And for making rogue suits,” Damian said, his voice now trembling, with hisses and yelps escaping him more and more often.

“And?”

Damian whimpered, and when he spoke, Jason could tell he had started crying. “I…ah! I don’t know!”

“You’re a smart kid; I’m sure it’ll come to you,” Jason replied dyly, his smacks coming faster now.

Damian, who was now openly crying, banged his fist on the table in frustration, which earned him a few harsher spanks on his thighs again.

“I’d focus on finding an answer if I were you, kid,” Jason said sternly, focusing the next couple of rounds on the now considerably redder sit spots and thighs.

“Last night! We—fffuck! We snuck out last night, too!” Damian exclaimed. “Todd, stop!”

Jason rolled his eyes at both the use of ‘Todd’ and the command. “Newsflash, little brother: when shit hits the fan and your ass pays the price, you don’t call the shots anymore. I’ll decide when it’s time to stop. And you’ll take your punishment and answer me this: Why was sneaking out last night and tonight, making rogue suits, and going after Clayface a bad idea?”

“Dangerous! It was d…dangerous,” Damian managed through his cries.

“And?”

“Todd, please, I get it,” Damian whimpered, and Jason let out a relieved breath. If Damian said ‘please’ and ‘I get it’, they should be close.

“Then answer me. It was dangerous. What did you risk?” Jason asked, smacks now landing slower but harder, in a more predictable and steady pattern, going up and down each side of the kid’s butt and thighs.

“My safety,” Damian tried to say through tears, whimpers, and hisses.

“Try your life… Yes. What else?”

“My identity,” Damian sobbed, and before Jason had to prompt him again, he added, “your trust!”

Jason’s smacking hand stilled, and he nodded, even though Damian couldn’t see him. His left hand ran a few soothing circles on the heaving back. 

“That’s right, kid. You risked a lot tonight. Too much. If anything had happened to you…” Jason trailed off and paused, taking a deep breath before switching to lecturing mode. Mushy stuff would have to wait until the end of the show. 

“You gotta start thinking things through, Damian. Robin is not invincible. Nobody is invincible. You need to be more careful and less cocky out there.” With those words, he unfastened his belt, looping it out of his jeans with his right hand before doubling it and patting it against Damian’s red buttocks.

“You’ve got twelve coming—one for every year of life you gambled. And I’m gonna make ‘em count. I’m not gonna let you risk your neck so recklessly and needlessly again, Dami.”

Damian whimpered but didn’t speak. Jason imagined he was too spent and uncomfortable to resist or even plead. Or maybe— maybe —the kid actually finally got the message. He raised the belt and brought it down sharply, aiming for the sit spot. Damian sucked in a breath, but before he had time to vocalize, three more landed right on top of the first, and Damian’s cries reached a whole new level, his legs kicking with each strike. Jason aimed the next four at his upper thighs, then the last four spread all over. By the time the twelfth landed, Damian was sobbing and laying still over his brother’s knee.

Jason set the belt down on the table before carefully redressing the kid and pulling him up into a sitting position in his lap. Damian hissed and cried a little louder when his butt came in contact with Jason’s thighs, but Jason didn’t care. It was part of the lesson. He wrapped his arms around the kid, and to his relief, Damian melted into the embrace, hiding his face in Jason’s chest.

“You scared the shit out of me tonight, Dami,” Jason said quietly, pressing a kiss to the disheveled head.

“You spanked the shit out of me, so we’re even,” Damian replied through his hitched breathing, and Jason couldn’t suppress a snort.

“Pull anything like this again, and this will feel like a walk in the park compared to what you’ll get. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” Damian answered gloomily as his body grew heavier in Jason’s hold.

“Okay. I’ll show you some mercy and not lecture you anymore tonight, considering Tim is waiting his turn and Bruce will chew you both out tomorrow anyway. For now, go get some rest.” Jason broke the embrace and helped the kid off his lap. He watched him walking gingerly toward the stairs before calling out, “Dami?”

When Damian turned to look at him, Jason said quietly, “I love you, kid. I’m glad you’re home safe.”

Damian’s face flushed pinker than it had before his spanking, and he turned his back to Jason hastily. As he walked out, he threw over his shoulder, “Me too.”

Tim was a walking contradiction, and he one hundred percent knew it. He was smart—really smart—but not street smart. He could easily manipulate strangers but could rarely sway those he really cared about. He could patiently stake out or go over camera feeds for cases for hours on end, but he was the most impatient person in his day-to-day life. He had a great pain tolerance and brawled on Gotham’s rooftops on a nightly basis, but a freaking spanking from Bruce or Dick (and now apparently Jason—fuck his life) was enough to reduce him to a sobbing, guilty mess.

He finished drying his hair and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He should see excitement and pride there tonight. Victory. He should look at himself and think, ‘Red Robin, the Robin who beat Clayface alone’ (well, not entirely alone, but Damian didn’t really count). And yet all he could see was disappointment, weariness, frustration over being caught, and—even though he’d rather die than admit it—traces of guilt. He turned on his heel and exited his bedroom’s adjacent bathroom, throwing himself face-first onto his bed.

If he were honest, he could see the faults in his plan. It wasn’t his best. It was a bit too hopeful, a tad risky, and definitely not his most foolproof. But then again, so many great historical achievements came from reckless, hopeful, less-than-foolproof plans. The knock on his door interrupted his train of thought, and he abruptly jolted up, turning to look at the door in what he supposed could be described as a deer-in-the-headlights gaze. Which was utterly stupid, since he one hundred percent knew he was sent here to wait for Jason to hand him his ass, so such a dramatic reaction was pointless. Annoyed with himself, he shifted into a sitting position and inched back a little, putting some more distance between himself and the door. Yeah, Tim. That will make all the difference. Jason will think, hey, he’s five inches too far for me to grab him and smack his ass to grass, oh w—

The door opening jolted him out of his thoughts again, and he eyed Jason warily as he entered his room. He considered reminding him of the purpose of knocking but decided against it. He was smart enough for that. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and watched Jason grab his office chair and roll it near the bed before plopping down in it. Tim noticed Jason looked…well, spent. Under different circumstances, he might have felt for him. Under the current circumstances, he only hoped Damian had tired him out enough for Jason to go easier on him.

“What the hell were you thinking, T?”

The question made Tim roll his eyes; he couldn’t help himself—sue him. “Haven’t we beaten that matter to death already?”

“No, Tim, we haven’t, in fact! We’ve barely scratched the surface,” Jason snapped, and Tim internally groaned. His older brother pinned him with a hard gaze as he spoke. “Explain.”

“Explain what, Jason? We saw a chance and took it,” Tim said with a shrug and a tone that inched dangerously close to a whine.

“Since when do you just ‘see chances and take’ them? You’re the freaking planner, kid. Exhausting the shit out of us each and every time, looking into every detail, every risk… And you just decided to roll with this one?”

Jason sounded like he didn’t buy it, and Tim could see why. Jay wasn’t wrong; this was far from his usual MO. But then again, he wasn’t solo in this escapade, and he had to admit, Damian was quite passionate for a twelve-year-old and might have rubbed off on him. Damian might have also insinuated that Tim was too much of a pussy and a bootlicker to do something risky and dangerous and against the rules—and that Damian, the freaking twelve-year-old, had bigger balls than him.

“Sometimes greatness calls for recklessness, Jason,” Tim stated with conviction and resolution—a statement that more or less encapsulated most of his previous thoughts. Okay, maybe less. Whatever.

“Seriously? That’s what you’re going with? That’s your line of defense?”

Tim sat up straighter and lifted his hand, clenching it into a fist before dramatically raising his thumb. “Two words: Apollo 11.”

Jason gaped at him.

“Dude, Apollo 11 was basically a shot in the dark with a few equations to back it up, and they still went for it. NASA knew there were a thousand ways it could all go sideways, and they still strapped three guys to a rocket and said, 'Good luck!'” Tim spoke fast and emphatically; the more words left his mouth, the more hopeful he became that he might manage to smartass his way out of this—or at least reduce his sentence. “And sure, it was risky, but they had to try, right? Because if it worked, they’d pull off something the entire planet thought was impossible!”

Jason looked like he was malfunctioning by now—blue screen, fatal error. Tim would fix that, no problem. He lifted a second finger and had at least five more stories lined up. He had time.

“Or… take the Wright brothers, for example. They practically launched themselves off a hill in a glorified box fan, knowing full well they might crash—repeatedly. But they didn’t let anyone’s doubts or their own faceplants stop them. No! They literally invented flight by pushing through every failed attempt until they finally got it. So yeah, a little risk here, a little hope there? That's just how greatness works.”

Jason’s brow furrowed, and his mouth pursed into a line. That vein in his jaw twitched, and none of these were good signs. Abort . Tim slowly lowered his counting hand. ABORT !

“You wanna talk risk and greatness, Tim?” Jason asked, his tone at least an octave lower than usual. Fuck . “You want to throw out the Wright brothers? How about George fucking Mallory and Mount Everest? Huh? That guy wanted to climb the damn mountain ‘because it’s there.’ Guess what? He died trying, and his body wasn’t found for seventy-five years.”

Tim kicked himself mentally for forgetting Jason was as much of a geek as he was, and of course, he’d manage to counter his argument. So close.

“All that ambition didn’t mean squat when he couldn’t even prepare properly,” Jason continued. “And let’s not forget the Charge of the Light Brigade, Tim. Those guys were hailed as heroes for charging head-on into a hail of cannon fire during the Crimean War. Courage? Sure. But it was a glorified suicide mission. They were so focused on being brave that they didn’t stop to think about how stupid it was. It didn’t matter how much guts they had; it ended with a slaughter.”

Okay, this hit a little closer to home. Well played, J. Shit. Was he feeling guilty now? No! He shouldn’t start feeling guilty. He could have pulled this off; he could, he—

“You need to realize that not every ‘great’ idea ends with a shiny trophy,” Jason interrupted his thoughts again, and Tim met his glare. “Sometimes,” Jason continued, “it just gets you and everyone else around you killed.”

Tim felt a lump forming in his throat at those words. Fuck . The image of Damian—scrawny twelve-year-old shrimp Damian dressed in his rogue costume and going feral on the random gang member who kicked a dog—flashed before his eyes, and he realized they were more than lucky that they had missed Clayface. Tim’s stomach churned with guilt, and he lowered his eyes.

“I think you more than understand where you went horribly wrong here, little brother. I’m not Bruce; I don’t give a shit for apologies and promises, but you’d better never pull any shit like this again, because I swear to God I’ll wait in line to hand you your ass right after Bruce is through with you,” Jason snapped, and Tim gulped. He wasn’t sure if Jason meant it, but he one thousand percent did not want to test that.

Jason got up long enough to walk to Tim’s bed and sit on it before grabbing his hand and pulling him until he plopped stomach down over his thighs. Tim felt his face heat up and let out a loud groan when Jason unceremoniously bared his ass and brought his hand down on it. Tim winced at the loud slapping sound that echoed in the quiet room and the hot sting that followed. Jason might look spent, but his hand definitely wasn’t; he was packing some serious wallop, and Tim was hissing and groaning way earlier than he hoped he would. He didn’t nurture any illusions of going through a spanking without tears. He might not find himself on the receiving end of one too often, but he had enough experience to know that it always ended with him a blubbering mess, his ass feeling like an inferno and his ego more bruised than his face after patrols.

“Let’s hear it, kid. Why are we here?”

Tim felt tempted to kick Jason both for calling him ‘kid’ and for asking that question— as if he didn’t fucking know. Knowing that anything other than the expected answer would lead to more discomfort than necessary, he ground out, “For going rogue after Clayface.”

“And?”

“And for sneaking out yesterday, too,” Tim hissed, tears already leaving his eyes as Jason picked up the pace and intensity of the swats. Fuck, he was doing a freaking good job for someone who had never spanked anyone before. Then again, Jay had probably received more spankings than all of them combined, so in a sense, he had the experience.

“We’re risking our lives out there every single night as it is, Tim. Increasing your death chances by doing stupid shit like going out without backup and clearance is unacceptable,” Jason snapped.

Tim’s breath started hitching, and his legs were now kicking to their own accord, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He hated apologizing; he hated admitting he was wrong, even when he knew he was, so there was no point in saying anything.

“You’re also Damian’s older brother. You don’t encourage this crap. I’m pretty confident Damian was the ring-leader here, but you should have talked him down instead of riding along. He looks up to you. You can’t be that kind of example!”

Tim started sobbing, Jason’s swats now hitting the same spot several times before moving to the next. His ass was hurting something fierce, and the last little tirade from his brother really broke the dam. It looked like Jason also got the memo about how miserable he was, because he paused, and Tim felt him sigh. Knowing what would follow, Tim cried even harder, grabbing a fistful of Jason’s pants with one hand and hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. He felt Jason shifting and looping his belt off. Seconds later, the cold doubled strap of leather rested on his throbbing ass.

“You know the drill, Tim.”

He fucking knew the drill. Fourteen licks later, his ass throbbed fourteen times worse than before, and Jason was redressing him and helping him up. Tim turned his back to his brother and frantically wiped at his face. He hated this part as much as he craved it. He hated how vulnerable he felt, how exposed, how younger than he liked to pose in their day-to-day. Jason also knew it, apparently, because he got up and turned him around, pulling him into a strong hug without saying much. No more stern lectures, no more yelling, no more reprimands. He just held him close and tight, waiting for Tim to get himself under control. And he did. When they broke the embrace, Tim felt as spent as Jason looked and a hundred times more embarrassed.

“Never again, Tim. I can’t lose you, kid.”

“I know,” Tim said quietly, not meeting his brother’s eyes.

“Okay… You good here? Ready to get some rest?”

“Yeah,” Tim nodded and started cracking his knuckles.

Jason ruffled his hair and drew him in for a second, albeit shorter, hug. “Quit the drama. Love you. Keep your stupid genius ass alive, or I’ll kill you myself, you hear me?”

Tim’s lips twitched upwards, and he shot a glance at Jason at that. “I hear you.”

“Sleep, little jerk.”

“Go boss Damian around, little bitch,” Tim shot back, and Jason smirked, confirming to Tim that he could relax.

Status quo was now restored.

The End