Work Text:
"Remember to exercise extreme caution," Kaldur reminds them over the telepathic link. "We have no idea what we're going to be dealing with."
Tim's more than willing to follow that advice, considering that Batman was concerned enough to bring the team in for reconnaissance in Gotham. There's apparently been a new drug on the streets with some nasty, Light-reminiscent side-effects, and Batman is considering the possibility of higher-up involvement from the likes of Lex Luthor, the Joker, and goodness knew who else. Therefore, Tim was sneaking into a warehouse on the docks with Kid Flash--more teamed with him for his ability to escape with evidence quickly than for his stealth.
Tim cuts a hole in an upper window, slips in carefully and pulls the piece of glass behind him, setting it on the floor silently. Bart follows and drops down quietly next to him. They're on a catwalk overlooking the warehouse. Tim crouches down, scanning the room. There are crates stacked everywhere, at least fifty grunts milling around. They look like your typical Gotham crooks. There's also a group of people, dirtier than the others, who are working quickly and efficiently to package the drug.
Tim turns to Bart, gesturing to tell him to take the left flank. The younger boy nods, creeping off to the side.
"We're looking at fifty-plus men, all armed with machine guns," Tim informs the others. "At least twenty unarmed. Whether or not they're bystanders is unknown."
"Acknowledged," Aqualad responds. "See what you can find, but be careful. I will inform Batman and Nightwing of your findings."
Tim agrees and heads off for the stairs, climbing slowly and carefully. He can just see Bart hiding behind a crate, and he speeds up a bit, leaping off the stairs to land next to him.
"Look around for anything suspicious that could tie this to The Light," he tells Bart, and the boy nods, turning to keep watch as Tim scans the crates. They move down the row methodically, finding nothing at first, but in the next row Bart points out a few discarded vials and needles. Tim recognizes them as Scarecrow's hallmark, and when he finds Joker venom in the next crates, it only confirms it.
He gathers the syringes in a plastic bag and hands them to Bart. "Run these out to the others. I'll be right behind you."
The speedster eyes him warily. "You sure?"
"Yes. Go." The boy nods and runs off in a burst of smoke.
Not a moment too soon, as it turns out. A sudden explosion rocks the warehouse maybe two hundred feet behind him, and Tim leaps behind a crate even as he draws his bo staff. "Be advised, we have another assailant. I don't have a visual."
The crackle of gunfire echoes somewhere behind him, and he hunches down beneath the crate.
"Robin, stay down. We're on our way in, do not engage if unnecessary," M'Gann says in his head. Tim agrees wholeheartedly, but he may not have a choice. As he tries to creep around the crates to get out of the line of fire, he runs right into a couple grunts who are running away from the firefight. He disarms and knocks them both out in short order, but not before one of them shouts, "It's one of the bats...!"
That shout brings more of them running, and Tim groans internally before leaping into action, taking down as many thugs as possible. His training is superior to theirs, and he's making good headway, but with these numbers it's only a matter of time before someone gets a lucky hit in. He's just swept the feet out from under one guy when two gunshots ring out, and Tim flinches even as he ducks, knowing he was sloppy and it's too late to dodge--
There're two thuds behind him, and he turns to see two grunts sprawled on the floor, dead, blood pooling beneath their skulls. He scans the catwalk, searching for the shooter even as his mind races. Why would someone--
There. His eyes alight on a figure standing on top of a crate, fifty feet from him. A red helmet hides his face, and he's wielding an AK. The gun is trained on Tim, but the man's hand is relaxed on the trigger.
"Hello there, Babybird," the man says, and Tim starts. The voice is younger than he was expecting--though there's definitely some filtering going on--but he's more startled by the statement itself. That's something Dick calls him sometimes, but he's never called him that in public or in front of the team. So how the hell does this guy know about it? He tightens his grip on his staff, even as he throws a handful of smoke grenades at the man, immediately turning to run for an exit. He makes it twenty feet before a crushing weight slams down on his shoulders, and he staggers and falls.
"Smokescreen. Oldest trick in the book," the voice is so close now, right in his ear, even as a forearm tightens, rock solid, around his throat. "That all you got?" the voice asks condescendingly, and Tim growls, delivering a vicious kick to the guy's shin as he twists the forearm clutching him, breaking the grip and scrambling for his fallen staff. He snatches it back up and twists to land, battle-ready. The guy just laughs. "So you do have some spunk. I like that. Makes things more fun. Not that bats know what that is."
Tim fires a net at him. The guy easily dodges. "Well that was original. What's taking the rest of you kiddies so long, anyway?"
Tim pales. He knows about the team.
"Whoever this is knows you're coming, be--" he's cut off as the man's weight slams into him, knocking him against a crate hard. Even though his head is screaming at him, Tim lashes out and claws at the hand that's pinning his head against the wood. There's another laugh, one that sends chills down his spine.
"Now now, is that any way to treat your predecessor?"
Tim freezes. The hand suddenly disappears, and Tim's shoulder hits the concrete, staff clattering to the floor. Blood pounds in his ears, even as he lifts his head, staring at the figure above him. It's stupid, but his mind immediately flashes to Dick. But no--his brother is bigger than he is, certainly, but he's not huge. This guy is built like a brick house, almost Bruce's size if not bigger. That leaves only one other option.
"Jason?" Tim breathes disbelievingly. There's a hiss as the helmet is removed, and Tim stares. The face is the same as the one in the photos, the painting, the hologram--older than it had been, but still shockingly young in a way that Tim couldn't quite describe, the slightest bit of stubble on his cheeks and chin and the vaguely murderous glint to his green eyes betraying his age--barely eighteen if that.
"Hello, Replacement." Jason smirks.
Tim's brain has two modes: overdrive or complete shutdown. For a moment, he goes into the latter. The first vague thought that comes into his mind is of Bruce's reaction to all this.
"I see dear old Dad neglected to mention I was back," Jason says dryly, and Tim blinks. Bruce already knew?
Then why was Jason here?
"Fairly typical of him to be so close-mouthed, I suppose," Jason continues, almost airily. He jams his foot down on one end of Tim's staff, launching it into the air and catching it easily, twirling it thoughtfully. "Stupid of him, though. You'd think after there was a sizable trail of bodies, he'd stop dragging bitty kids into his service."
"I joined up myself," Tim blurts desperately. It's stupid, he knows, and he doesn't know why but he feels a need to defend Bruce and Dick...and try and convince Jason that their whole arrangement isn't what he thinks. "He didn't replace you, Jason, I swear, I made him take me on."
Jason's face stays impassive, though Tim can see the barest hint of surprise in how one dark eyebrow lifts just slightly. Then the older boy's face hardens, and Tim's pulse starts racing without his permission.
"Your mistake," Jason grits out, and the rage in the tone is frankly terrifying. Tim expects the first blow, and so he's not surprised when Jason's heavy boot collides with his ribs hard, knocking the breath from his lungs in a pained gasp. He rolls and scrambles to try and get away, shaking, grasping at his side, too shaken and horrified to even consider fighting back, but Jason catches him and holds him down even as he punches him, so many blows in such rapid succession that Tim can't keep track of what new thing is hurting. Every nerve is on fire, but he's a bit confused even in his pain-weakened state. Sure, this beating hurts, but none of it is lethal. He knows Jason's capable of killing him. So why isn't he?
Jason seems to wonder the same thing, panting hard as he leans back a bit from Tim, seeming almost scared by his own outburst. His face quickly returns to it's hardened state, though, and Tim knows why--outside, he can vaguely hear shouts. The team's here.
Jason grabs Tim's bo staff again, holds it against Tim's throat. "Watch yourself, kid. And please tell dad I said hi."
And then he swings the bo staff against the side of Tim's head, the blow almost enough to send him off into oblivion.
Almost.
Tim's still just barely conscious. Conscious enough to hear Jason's footfalls as he runs off, dropping the staff. Conscious enough to be in agony as his head throbs and his vision spins sickeningly. He faintly hears an odd buzz, and then Bart's beside him, his voice shrill and panicked--and sharp, ow. Glass shatters somewhere, and then Dick is beside him, too, calling his name. He makes himself raise his hand and grasp Dick's wrist as tight as he can. "Jason, it was Jason, Dick, it was Jason," he gets out, and he can see Dick's face go slack with shock--and Bart does likewise, like he knows who they're talking about, which is odd--but the pounding in his head suddenly doubles and he sinks back with an involuntary groan. He can still faintly hear the others talking rapidly--every word feels like it's stabbing through his skull, and his skin feels too tight--and then someone's arms are beneath his knees and shoulders. When they lift him, the jostling makes his vision white out, and he loses consciousness.
He comes around a few times, but never quite enough to really be aware of what's going on around him. One time he drifts near the surface and is only aware that his head really hurts and Dick is yelling at Bruce somewhere nearby. He's too tired to act on his concern, so he gives up on listening and goes back to sleep.
When he does finally actually wake up, pain reduced to a dull throb and an ache that goes all the way down to his bones, he blinks a few times before glancing around blearily, mildly surprised to find that he's in the med-bay in the cave. He supposes the Manor was closer than taking him to the Watchtower, and he was due some off-time, anyway, but it's still new.
He hears voices outside the room--and geez, have Bruce and Dick been going at it this whole time? He strains to listen. "...can't bench him. Look how well that worked last time."
His pulse spikes a bit. His entire being doesn't ride on being Robin, but the idea of being helpless and locked up at home while Dick and Bruce and the team were still out there terrifies him. He can't hear Bruce's response, but Dick continues insisting, "At least if he's Robin he's with us or the team...safer than him being at school..."
Tim is straining really hard to hear what Bruce says, but the only thing he catches sounds like "...risk it."
There's a deadly silence for a moment, then Dick speaks, voice colder than Tim has ever heard it. "...bit late for that."
A few moments later, Tim hears the roar of a motorcycle leaving the cave, and he slumps back against the pillow, gazing at the ceiling. The door opens with a hiss, and Bruce steps in, shoulders slumped. He only looks more exhausted when he sees Tim's awake. "How are you feeling?" he asks, fiddling with the IV bag as he checks his vitals on the machines, never making eye contact with Tim.
"Sore. But otherwise fine," Tim quickly amends, watching Bruce carefully. "How long was I out?" he asks cautiously.
"A day and a half," Bruce responds, finishing with whatever he was doing and sitting down, flipping through a conveniently-placed file.
"Is the team alright?" Tim asks, head spinning.
"Fine. You were the only one in the line of fire." Bruce says testily. Tim ignores it, fixing his gaze on Bruce, who still refuses to meet his eyes.
"It was Jason. Jason was there."
It's completely silent in the room for a moment. Bruce sighs. "I know."
Tim huffs out a breath. "Yeah. He mentioned something to that extent."
Bruce's head snaps up. "What else did he say?" he asks sharply.
Tim shrugs. Now he doesn't want to make eye contact. "Something about how you never learn and are a secretive jerk."
Bruce almost snorts, but the sound cuts off too quickly to be a real one. Tim chances a glance at him. His fists are clenched and he's sending a death glare to the floor. "You knew he was alive." It's not a question.
Bruce grits his teeth. "Yes," he says simply.
"Why?" Tim asks. When Bruce looks at him, he clarifies, "Why didn't you say something? How long have you known?"
"Since he kidnapped the Joker and tried to force me to kill one of them three weeks ago," Bruce says, and Tim pales.
"H-how...how did he...he did die, right?" Tim stammers, but the look on Bruce's face makes him wish he hadn't said anything.
"He did," Bruce forces out. "I don't know what happened. I don't know how. I don't know anything." Abruptly, he stands and turns to leave. "Bruce, wait!" Tim says, and his mentor pauses halfway to the door, fists clenched.
"What...what are you going to do?"
He's a little afraid of the answer.
"Already done." Bruce starts to leave again.
"What's already done?" Tim asks, dread pooling in him.
Bruce heaves a sigh. "He's in temporary custody in Arkham until we can figure out--"
Tim hears nothing past the first few words. "Arkham!?" he chokes out. "Why...?"
"What am I supposed to do?" Bruce growls. "Let him roam the streets killing left and right?"
"Not lock him up like some sort of insane freak for being upset about the fact that he died!" Tim bursts out before he can fully consider the wisdom of making that statement.
Bruce's knuckles turn white and for a moment Tim is irrationally afraid that he's about to be slugged. But Bruce gets control of himself quickly. "I don't have any other options, Tim."
"But...you're Batman!" Tim insists. "Why not lock him up here in the cave, or somewhere in the Watchtower, or...have you even bothered to talk to him...!?"
"Of course I did!" Bruce insists hotly. "He wants nothing to do with me, or any of us. He won't listen to reason, and he'll break out of anywhere we put him. There was no other way."
Tim is already seething, and he can see why Dick drove off in a rage. Bruce sounds like he's trying to convince himself.
"This isn't up for discussion, Robin," Bruce--no, Batman--declares firmly. "We can't risk him raining down destruction."
"And conveniently intervening in things you thought you had control of," Tim says far too sweetly, and Bruce shoots him a glare. Tim has been Robin long enough to be immune, and his own stare is just as hard. "You can do what you want, Bruce. But Jason isn't going to stay in Arkham, one way or another. And when he's out, I highly doubt he'll be happy with you. What are you going to do then?"
Bruce keeps the gaze for a moment before he turns and leaves. "Get some rest, Tim." Now he just sounds tired. And old.
Tim's not one for throwing things, but he sends a magazine flying into the wall before he collapses back in the bed and fights tears for no reason at all.
The point winds up being moot, because as Tim predicted, Jason breaks out two days later. Surprisingly, though, repercussions don't come. Jason, as the Red Hood, continues to interfere in the drug trade around Gotham, but for the most part keeps his distance from the bats. Tim isn't sure whether he should appreciate the break--Damian's arrival is more than enough for him to deal with at one time--but he can't help but feel apprehensive. There's no way Jason is just going to forget about everything Bruce has done to him, and both Bruce and Dick are harder and colder than ever on the subject of Jason. Tim hopes something gives soon, because otherwise there's no telling what will happen to all of them.