Chapter Text
Jason has been up for almost thirty-six hours when someone breaks into his flat. He’s so tired that for one second, he considers ignoring it and just going to sleep, except Tim picks that moment to walk into his bedroom.
“Oh,” Tim says, frowning at him. “Were you asleep? It’s, like, five pm.”
Jason frowns back. Tim is in civvies, wearing jeans and a nice sweater that looks like his mum got it for him, which means this is – what, a social visit? They don’t do social visits. They barely do visits. Last time Jason saw Tim, Tim was arresting a group of thugs while snapping at Red Hood to fuck off and let him do his job, like Jason was the one intruding on Tim’s territory.
“You have ten seconds to say whatever it is you came to say before I kick you out,” Jason says, which would admittedly sound more threatening if he weren’t lying in bed right now.
Tim is, for some reason, staring at Jason’s naked chest. “Is that a tattoo?”
“No,” Jason snaps.
“It is. Oh my god. Does Bruce know? Does Alfred know?” Tim tilts his head, considering. “If you’re allowed to have one, do you think I could-“
“You’re fifteen and Bruce hates body mods almost as much as he hates crime,” Jason interrupts. “So, no. Also, piece of advice, kid: if you’re still asking for adult permission, that means you’re probably too young.”
“I’m sixteen,” Tim says, which has got to be a lie, because if it isn’t, that means there must’ve been some sort of birthday party at the Waynes’ that Jason wasn’t invited to. Tim must be deliberately messing with Jason’s head. “Anyway, that’s not what I’m here for.”
Jason groans and resists the urge to bury his face under the covers and scream. “What are you here for, then? Are you really bored enough to come here just to piss me off?”
The change in Tim’s posture is subtle enough that anyone else might have missed it. This is still Tim, in his expensive jeans and sweater, but it is Robin who next speaks. “I know you’ve been investigating that human trafficking case these past few weeks.”
“So?”
“I also know you’ve gotten nowhere.”
“So?” Jason repeats, annoyed. “I don’t need you to rub that in. Get a life, Jesus.”
“I came here to propose something.” Tim takes a deep breath. “I think we should sell me.”
*
The problem, Tim reflects, is that Jason broke into Titans Tower back in April, on his own deathiversary because he inherited Bruce’s sense for the morbid.
The timing of it all is not ideal. Tim’s dad is still recovering, which means that he’s always around now, and he’s still in a wheelchair, which means their household currently consists of two people whose mobility has been temporarily impaired. Considering they live in a house not designed with impaired mobility in mind, this just makes Tim’s life a million times worse.
For his two weeks of sick leave, Tim mostly lies on his bed, ordering UberEats and watching TV. He watches all Fast and Furious movies in one sitting. He binges Death Note. He watches three K-Dramas that he doesn’t care about, just because he has the time. Throughout it all, he tries to ignore his dad as best as possible, who is confined to the first floor and can only scold Tim about his hermit lifestyle at mealtimes.
By the time his doctor’s note runs out, he genuinely feels like he’s going insane, and for the first time in his life, he’s almost glad about returning to school. He's a sophomore now, which means that his crutches don’t automatically get him bullied. That’s something, at least. In theory, Gotham Academy has all these posters up about how they’re a Zero Tolerance school, but from what Tim’s seen, most of that is bullshit. Not that he cares either way. He’s not exactly bullying material.
He’s not bully material, either. If schools were salads, Tim would be the cucumber. He’s usually in there, but he’s not remarkable enough to get any attention, good or bad. He likes it that way. It means that if he skips, it’s that much easier to just delete his absences from the system, because no one will be able to remember if he was really there or not.
His crutches are a serious problem, though. It was fine when he was just lying in bed all day, but he needs them to get from class to class now, and besides, it’s the sort of thing that sticks in people’s minds. At least three teachers tried to assign another student to carry his books for him. Tim would literally rather flip his skateboard off the roof again, like he did when he was eleven and his parents had been gone for one whole month, longer than they’d ever left him on his own before.
And then, when he gets home from school in the afternoons, his dad is always there, always wanting something or criticising and never, ever leaving him alone. And – look, Tim knows that by Gotham standards, he’s had it easy with his parents. His dad is still alive, for one, and his mom only died when he was already a teenager. Their family is wealthy, Tim’s never had to worry about food or money.
And- he also knows that, while his dad can be an absolute dick, he’s nothing like Jason’s dad. He’s not beating Tim or anything. He’s a bit of an asshole, but then, so are a lot of people. It’s just that this is the first time in Tim’s life that he’s having to live with this 24/7.
It wouldn’t be so bad if Bruce hadn’t benched him. Tim hadn’t really realised how much he needed to be Robin until Jason broke his leg and prevented him from doing his job for at least two months.
“Just focus on being Tim for a while,” Dick had told him when he complained that one time. “Robin will still be there when you get back.”
“I don’t want to be Tim,” Tim said. “I want to be Robin.”
Dick got all weird then, like that was a sign of depression or something. It’s not, though. Tim doesn’t think being Tim is depressing. He just thinks being Robin is better.
Bruce isn’t helping, either. He’s pretty much told Tim not to return to the Batcave until he can walk in without crutches, and while Dick frequently checks in with him by sending him approximately twelve memes a day, Bruce…doesn’t. Tim sent him one text, early on, to let him know that the doctor said he can expect a recovery time of seven weeks. Bruce left him on read.
All of this goes to say that Tim has a lot of time on his hands right now, now that he’s finished the last K-drama. And while his broken leg means that he can’t suit up again for the moment, what he can do is hack the Batcomputer database and access the casefiles from his laptop at home.
That’s how he finds out that Bruce and Dick aren’t getting anywhere with arresting Red Hood for his numerous crimes, which include, but are by no means limited to: stuffing eight severed heads in a duffel bag, publicly executing an additional four people in the middle of Crime Alley, and, of course, breaking eleven of Tim’s bones including his leg, and slitting his throat while he’s at it.
He also finds out that instead of doing anything useful, like putting Red Hood in handcuffs and then dragging him to prison or, at least, to the Cave to yell at him, Bruce has been attempting to extend a dinner invitation.
Tim has known Red Hood’s true identity since he broke into Titans Tower in a knockoff Robin costume, but this is still wild to him, even by Wayne standards. Like, what does Bruce think is going to happen? Jason has made it pretty clear that he hates all of their guts and also, he’s literally insane. That would make for one uncomfortable dinner.
So Tim reads about Batman and Nightwing being more or less useless from the confines of his bed (or, when his dad is at PT, from the confines of their couch downstairs), and when that gets old, he starts stalking Red Hood a little bit.
He doesn’t set out thinking of it as stalking, but now, months later, he can admit to himself that that’s what it is. Was. He mostly stopped as soon as he was able to walk without crutches. But for a little while there, he made it his business to find out everything that Batman couldn’t be bothered to: where Red Hood lives, where Red Hood actually lives, where Red Hood does his shopping for groceries and where he does his shopping for guns, the people he talks to, the people he kills. The cases he investigates.
Bruce eventually clears him for active duty again. Things return to normal, or at least as normal as they ever get in Gotham. Tim spends his weeknights grappling all over Gotham, stopping seven minor kidnappings and a fear gas outbreak on his first night back on the job, and on the weekends, he texts Kon to give him a lift from Gotham to San Francisco. He could Zeta in, but the Zeta tube is at the Cave, where people (Bruce) might ask uncomfortable questions about why he’s not spending the weekend with his invalid father, so using Kon as a superpowered Uber is way simpler.
And sometimes, whenever Tim has a moment between vigilante-ing in Gotham and vigilante-ing with the Teen Titans and sitting through English 10 and dodging his father, he’ll check up on Red Hood again. Just out of habit, really. Just to get a heads up if Jason decides to beat him to a pulp again. It’s called being cautious, and it’s not weird, and he tells himself all the way over here until the Uber driver (not Kon) drops him off a block away from Jason’s secret apartment. Tim is doing this out of the goodness of his heart. He’s here to help.
*
“I think we should sell me.”
Jason shrugs. “Sure.”
“Really?”
Jason sits up, grabs the bottle of Gatorade from the bedside table, and chucks it at Tim’s face. “No. What’s wrong with you? You’re not a piece of old furniture.”
Tim ducks and lets the bottle hit the wall behind him. Because Jason cares about the environment, this means the bottle is glass and not plastic, which in turn means that it promptly shatters into a million pieces and paints his wall in huge splashes of blue.
Tim delicately takes a big step away from the mess, taking care not to step on any shards of glass, and says, “You should probably get someone to clean that up.”
“Get someone- do you think I have a maid?”
Tim frowns with all the confusion of someone who has a trust fund about the size of the GDP of a small country. “Don’t you?”
“No. Some of us actually have to work for our money.”
“Fuck you, I work,” Tim says, sounding a little offended.
“What, Daddy let you intern at the firm?” Jason says mockingly. “Easing the way for Prince Timothy to take over?”
Tim stares at him. “Did you hit your head or something? You know what my job is. Isn’t that, like, your whole- you know, thing?” He makes a vague wavey gesture at Jason before deepening his voice and saying, “I’m going to kill you because you took my job and now I’m doomed to be an emo serial killer. Ringing any bells?”
“Is that supposed to be me?”
“Yes,” Tim says. “Except you sounded much more stupid.”
“Stupider,” Jason corrects automatically.
Tim nods. “Yep.”
“That’s not – never mind. Alright, I’ll bite. Who’re we selling you to, Dobby?”
There’s that subtle shift again as Tim stands up a little straighter, his eyes serious now. “Eric van Redgrave.”
Jason laughs. Tim doesn’t.
“I’m serious,” Tim says, which, yeah, Jason is starting to realise this. Yikes. “He’s the best lead we have in this. If the rumours are true, he has actual bodies in his closet. That trafficking ring you’ve been investigating? He’s their best customer.”
“I know. They’re my reports,” Jason says, annoyed. “Which, if you’d actually read them through instead of just skimming the abstract, would have told you all about how Eric van Redgrave is, like, next-level evil. Even by Gotham standards.”
“That’s exactly why this is a good idea. Rumour has it he has a type. Although no victim has been officially linked to him yet, a lot of the kids who’ve gone missing have looked kind of similar. Dark hair, blue eyes.” Tim says all of this like it’s supposed to be new information, when really, he’s mostly quoting from Jason’s files. Unfuckingbelievable.
What’s also unbelievable is this plan, Jason thinks. “So, what, you want to volunteer?”
“Yep.”
“Look – Tim. Listen to me. If you read up on my investigation on this, you know what they’re saying Redgrave has done. You can’t think that Bruce would let you within one mile of that man. Even as Robin.”
Infuriatingly, Tim nods, like Jason has made a good point. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I came to you.”
“To me,” Jason repeats flatly.
“Aren’t you always saying all that stuff about how much I suck and how I should just fuck off and die?”
Jason is pretty sure he hasn’t said it like that.
“No, you have,” Tim says. “I rewatched the footage from Titans Tower, like, for research. Anyway, I figured that this means you’d be cool teaming up for this. Also, Bruce has told me to take a break from Robin this week, so I’m free now. This is great timing.”
That – right. Okay. Jason is struck by the uncomfortable feeling that if he also rewatched the footage from Titans Tower, he would, possibly, feel a little bit bad about saying all that stuff to a fifteen-year-old, even if said fifteen-year-old is really annoying. Also, he would possibly feel a little bit bad about the part where he broke a few of Tim’s bones.
Nothing good can lie down that train of thought, so Jason focuses on the more pressing matters, meaning figuring out what the hell is wrong with Tim. There are approximately a dozen questions he could ask here, so, naturally, he instinctively settles on the least important one. “Don’t you have school?”
Tim lifts his shoulders in a delicate shrug. “It’s cool.”
“Excuse me? It’s ‘cool’?”
“Yeah.”
“What does that mean?” Jason demands, feeling like he doesn’t really want to know.
“Just that it’s, you know. Cool. I’m only in year 10, it’s not like they’re teaching us anything important right now.”
“What.”
“Also, summer break starts in two weeks, and we only have our English exam left, so that’s-“
“If you say cool again, so help me God, I’ll break something.”
“-not that important,” Tim finishes, which is somehow worse. “I already speak English, anyway. Chill out.”
Jason closes his eyes and counts to three. He’s never having children, he decides, or becoming a teacher, and if Bruce ever tries to adopt another kid, Jason will make him cut that shit out immediately. Tim’s supposed job is probably something stupid like Twitch streamer.
“Look.” Tim’s tone makes his eyes snap open. “I know you hate my guts, but this case is important. So you should at least hear out what my plan is. And if you work with me on this, I’ll owe you a favour, no questions asked, okay?”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll fucking hear you out if it’s that important to you, Christ.” Besides. Everyone always talks about how smart Tim is. How bad can this plan be, anyway?
*
Yesterday
The thing about Tim’s dad is that he can be great and charming, but he can also be a little bit of a dick. The thing about Tim’s dad is also that there’s this photo Tim found in an old newspaper that shows him and Eric van Redgrave, having a drink together and laughing.
When he shows this photo to his dad now, Jack barely glances at the screen before frowning up at Tim from his wheelchair.
“So?”
“So, is that, like, a distant acquaintance, or some guy you’d just met at that party, or…” Tim trails off.
His dad snorts. “’Some guy’. Be glad your mother isn’t around to hear that, she’d have a heart attack.” For one brief moment, Tim and his dad share a fond smile as they remember Tim’s mom.
Since Janet Drake died, Tim’s grief for her has taken the form of an emotional rollercoaster. Some days it feels like he’s not grieving Janet Drake, the person, but Janet Drake, the illusion he’s created of her in his head. On other days, there are moments like this, when he or his dad remember a character trait of hers, like getting upset over forgetting the name of some random rich guy. These are the moments when Tim feels, absurdly, like his grief is more justified now.
Then his dad says, “That ‘guy’ is a good friend,” and Tim’s amusement dies a swift death.
“He is?” he asks uncertainly.
“Oh, yes. I’m surprised we never took you to one of his parties. He’s one of the few people who knew how to make your mom laugh.”
This time, Tim can’t find it in him to muster up another fond smile. “Just to be clear, we’re talking about this man right here, yes?” he asks, pointing at his screen again. He zooms in for good measure, so that his dad can fully take in the broad face, bald head and ginger moustache. “Eric van Redgrave.”
“Everyone calls him Red,” his dad says. “Of course, that nickname’s from a time when he still had hair.”
Tim, who has done his research, knows that the name is actually because Eric van Redgrave has buried enough bodies that there’s this joke in the underworld about his tap water running blood. He supposes he ought to be glad that his dad hasn’t heard of that. That means they probably won’t have to arrest Jack Drake at the end of this case.
He isn’t stupid. He knows that half of Gotham’s underworld is based out in Crime Alley, and the other half goes to the opera and attends fancy dinners. He knows that statistically speaking, this means that his parents have interacted with some of those people at some point over the past few decades. But it’s one thing to know this in theory and another to find an incriminating picture of your dad with a guy who, if Gotham had a yearbook, would be the runner-up for Most Likely to Destroy a Small Country for Profit.
Tim takes a deep breath. He’d originally started this conversation to get some basic intel, but now inspiration strikes, the gears in his mind already turning to figure out how he can use this to his advantage.
“Hey, Dad?”
His dad grunts.
“Are you still in touch with- um, Red?”
“He came to the memorial,” his dad says, which confuses Tim for a second before he remembers that, yeah, they did have an additional memorial service to honour his mom once his dad woke up from the coma. Tim would’ve gone, but there’d been a fear gas outbreak in Gotham, and with Dick helping the League on a mission, Bruce had needed every available hand to help.
Tim had reasoned to himself that it’s fine, he’d already attended the actual funeral a few months before. It’s what he would’ve told Bruce if Bruce had asked, but Bruce just assumed he was free, and Tim didn’t correct him, so that’s on him.
What’s messed up though is that he can’t even remember what reason he gave to his dad for not attending. This was shortly before Titans Tower, so he couldn’t have used his leg as an excuse, so what was it? Did he fake the flu or something? There’s no way Tim can ask.
So Tim didn’t go to his mom’s memorial, but Eric van Redgrave did. That’s great. Really good to know that a man presumably responsible for 12 % of missing people in Gotham last year did a better job of honouring his mom than Tim did. Another thing to feel guilty about, if Tim ever had the time to feel guilty about anything. Because he doesn’t, he’s been vaguely considering using one of his vacation days for it. One designated day a year to feel like an asshole doesn’t seem that unreasonable.
“Now that you mention it,” his dad says, pulling him out of his spiralling thoughts, “I think he’s hosting a party either this weekend or next – no, it’s got to be this one. Next weekend there’s a gala to raise funds to clean up Gotham Harbour, Red wouldn’t miss that.”
Tim has heard of this gala. Bruce is also invited. It’s taking place on a yacht, which Dick made fun of, but Tim genuinely thinks that it’s the perfect place. Nowhere else would be better suited to demonstrate how badly Gotham Harbour needs cleaning up.
“Are you going? To the party, I mean.”
This has already turned into a longer conversation than they’ve had in weeks. His dad, who can be very perceptive when he wants to be, raises his eyebrows. “What’s up with this sudden interest?”
Thinking fast, Tim says the thing he hopes will make the most sense to a man like his dad. “There’s this girl at my school whose parents are going, and I-“ Here he ducks his head in a bashful manner, like he’s trying to hide a blush. “-I guess I was hoping to see her there.”
His plan works. His dad laughs and reaches out to clap him on the shoulder. “That’s my boy! A girl, eh? What’s her name?”
Improvising, Tim says the first name that comes to mind. “Connie.” Christ. Thank god Dick isn’t here to laugh at him. This would be prime blackmail material.
“Glad to hear you’re taking after your dad. Your mom would be glad, too. You know, I didn’t want to tell you this in case it was true, but your mom always thought you were a bit of a fruit.” His dad tries to clap him on the shoulder again, but this time, Tim has moved out of his range. “Actually, you know what, you’re right. I’ve been stuck in this house for way too long. What the heck, right? Let’s go to that party.” His dad winks. “I can’t wait to meet that Connie girl.”
Mission about an 80 % success, Tim thinks on his way back to his room. Now all he has to do is hire an actress or something.
*
Today
By the time Tim finished telling Jason the details of his plan, Jason had been up for thirty-nine hours in total. Now, it’s getting close to a nice even forty-eight as Jason puts on his Red Hood get-up and climbs on his motorbike to be fashionably late to Eric van Redgrave’s fancy party.
Jack Drake consorting with that asshole hadn’t been a surprise. It’s rich people, so that’s pretty much what Jason would expect. What did surprise him is Tim involving his dad in this case. That’s some ruthless thinking.
“I’m not doing this to arrest him,” Tim had said after Jason pointed this out. “I’m just being smart. Bruce uses his connections as Brucie Wayne all the time.”
“He’s not using his connections to arrest Alfred, though.”
“Oh my god,” Tim said, throwing his hands up, “why would you say it like that? Now I feel like a dick.”
Jason had let it go, because time is of the essence today and they’d still needed to finetune the plan. But this unprecedented display of willingness for patricide strikes him as odd – although perhaps Jason isn’t one to talk.
This is what Jason and Tim’s (mostly Jason’s) investigation uncovered: Redgrave is using his parties as a front. Usually, at some point in the evening, there’ll be a point when the host and a few select others disappear to a quiet room in the cellar to participate in a small auction. On his tax declaration, he’s filed this as a wine sale, with wine grown on a Redgrave-owned vineyard in California. Every bottle is sold for approximately 20,000 – 50,000 USD. Occasionally, other vintners join the auction with bottles of their own, which are sometimes acquired by Redgrave himself.
Tonight, Jason needs to pretend to be a vintner.
“Jason Todd is dead,” he’d argued. “And I’m a shit actor.”
“Don’t go as Jason Todd, then. Go as Red Hood. Everyone will believe Red Hood is doing human trafficking.”
“Excuse me? Red Hood famously busts human trafficking rings.”
“Does he, though?” Tim had asked. “Do people know? Or do they just remember the severed heads and your general bad-guy vibe?”
It had taken up all of Jason’s energy not to punch him, which would have proven Tim’s point, so he bravely refrained. By the time the green had faded from his vision enough to focus again, Tim had already moved on.
So Red Hood is attending the party today, which means Tim forging him an invite. Jason sort of expected an old-fashioned piece of paper, probably heavy and smelling of roses or tulips or the blood of children. Instead, Tim supplied him with a chip.
“They’ll scan this at the door and let you in.”
“What, that’s it? No fancy paper invitation?”
“We’re not in Bridgerton,” Tim said, frowning, which is infuriating both because he’s making fun of Jason but also, worse, because apparently Bridgerton is Tim’s go-to reference for old stuff. God, Bruce has done wrong by that kid. Tim probably never even entered the pre-20th century parts of the Wayne library.
Now, feeling more tired than he’s ever been in his life, Jason parks his bike in a handicapped spot and shows the chip to the doorman, who waves him inside. He feels weird wearing his helmet, but he should’ve remembered that it’s Gotham. Most people barely glance at him.
It takes him about thirty seconds to locate Redgrave, laughing and talking to a group of guys in suits with a flute of champagne in his hand, and another minute to locate Tim, who is talking to his dad.
Jason only knows Jack Drake from pictures, most of them years old at this point. The man who stood tall next to his wife, usually wearing muddied clothes and a proud grin on his face as he was being photographed after a successful dig, only bares a passing resemblance to the man who currently appears to be berating his son. It’s not just because of the wheelchair, either. This is the face of a man who looks several years older than his age, who woke up from a months-long coma to find himself a widower.
Jason feels something like pity for him, coupled with a strong sense of smugness. Jack looks unhappy with Tim; Jason knows the feeling. Tim probably earned the tongue-lashing.
He focuses his attention on Redgrave instead, eyes tracking the man across the room as he moves between groups. The chip sits heavy in Jason’s pocket. In less than an hour, it will also gain him entrance to the infamous wine cellar.
He wonders if Bruce or Dick knows what him and Tim are up to tonight. Probably not. Didn’t Tim say something about Bruce benching him? No, that’s not right. Bruce told me to take a break from Robin this week. Why? What did Tim do? The only times Jason got benched were when he got too violent with a criminal, which in retrospect is hilarious, because everything Bruce benched him for practically counts as pacifism for Red Hood these days. Tim isn’t like that, though. An asshole, yes. A tendency for violence, no.
Whatever. Jason shouldn’t even give a shit about this. Tim must have deserved it, just like he deserves Jack Drake…
“-the hell is the matter with you, boy?”
…yelling at him. Huh.
After catching that last bit, Jason casually drifts closer to the two Drakes. He comes to a stop just far enough away to not be actively eavesdropping, waving down a waiter for champagne that he can’t drink (helmet), and gets momentarily distracted by the waiter asking Red Hood to sign his face.
“I’m a big fan,” he says. “You killed my boss last month.”
“I did?”
“Thanks to you, I was able to get a much better job. Better pay, better benefits. Mr van Redgrave has really been a godsent.”
“You’re welcome,” Jason says awkwardly, glad his voice is filtered through the modulator. Looks like someone will be looking for a new job soon, if tonight goes well. This guy appears to have shit luck.
The waiter beams, and Jason uses his new fan to ask under his breath, “What’s up with those two?” He nods at Jack and Tim Drake.
“Oh.” The waiter rubs his neck. “There’s a bit of a disagreement there. Happens with families all the time, especially the ones with teenagers. You know the Waynes?”
Jason blinks. “Sure.”
The waiter lowers his voice and says conspiratorially, “A couple years ago, I was hired for one of their parties, and the oldest son had a screaming match with Mr Wayne that ended in them both walking out of their own party.”
“No,” Jason says, scandalised.
“Yes,” the waiter says eagerly. “This was right after the younger son died, too. Everyone was talking about it for weeks.”
Jason’s smile slips. Before he can do something stupid, like murder everyone in the room, he overhears another, longer bit of Jack Drake’s argument with his son.
“-stay home next time if you’re just going to embarrass me, Tim.”
“In that case, why don’t you just stay home?” Tim snaps, two spots of colour high up on his otherwise pale cheeks. “You’re embarrassing me, too.”
“How dare you speak to me like that?” Jack Drake barks, loud enough that several heads now turn to stare at them. “Obviously you’ve forgotten your manners while I was in the hospital. When we get home-“
“-you’ll what, Dad? Ground me?”
“If you keep up this attitude, I’ll do worse,” Jack threatens. “And this is the last time I’m taking you anywhere, boy.”
“Gosh,” Tim says, “how will I cope?” Then he storms off in the direction of the bathrooms. Everyone who’d been plainly listening now pretends to be engaged in conversation, except for Jason, who keeps staring.
Jack Drake stares back at him, then, to his surprise, wheels over. “You’re that new vigilante character, aren’t you? I’ve heard about you.” He sighs. “You got any family?”
“No,” Jason says.
Jack Drake nods and sighs again. “Word of advice: keep it that way. Kids are nothing but trouble. Everyone always says it gets better when they’re older, but that’s a load of crap. Only thing my kid’s done recently is make my life miserable.”
Jason watches as Jack Drake wheels away to talk to someone else. He knows he ought to follow Tim now, complete the next stage of their plan, but he has to take a moment and wait for the green to recede again. No matter what Bruce and Dick were screaming about all those years ago, he can’t imagine Bruce talking like that about Dick. Not to a random guest. Not to anyone.
In the bathroom, Jason locks the door, then quickly checks for cameras, even though Tim undoubtedly already did that. Can’t hurt to be sure. Only one stall is occupied; Jason knocks on the door.
“Hey! You in there?”
“Just getting ready,” Tim replies, voice a little muffled. There’s a ripping noise, then a low groan, and then Tim emerges. He’s still wearing his tuxedo, looking like an aspiring young entrepreneur, but his hair is now artfully tousled, there’s a ring of bruises around his neck, his bowtie hangs loose around his ripped shirt, and there’s a strange glitter in his blue eyes. “All done. Just need you to punch me.”
“Fuck no,” Jason says. “Use makeup. I know you know how.”
“I do know how, but it’s never as convincing, especially if someone touches my face.”
“No one’s going to touch your face. If they do, I’ll rip their hand off.”
Tim stares at him, incredulity written across his features. “No, you won’t, because that would ruin the plan. You do remember the plan, right? It’s pretty important that you don’t rip anyone’s hand off for touching me, actually.”
Jason grits his teeth. Tim is, unfortunately, right. “I’m still not punching you. Nothing that impairs your vision.”
“Don’t give me a black eye, then. Go for the cheekbone or jaw. And hurry up, I think the auction is starting soon.”
Jason takes a deep breath and shifts into fighting stance. Then, without warning, he catches Tim with a quick and carefully controlled right hook to the jaw. Tim stumbles back two steps before catching himself, blinking heavily while he probes his skin.
“Happy?”
Tim regards himself in the mirror. “Should be enough. Alright, now we just need to-“
“What was that argument with your dad about?” Jason interrupts. He doesn’t know why he does it. There’s just this odd, yet strangely familiar feeling in his gut. The old Robin instinct kicking in.
Still looking at his reflection, Tim says, “Nothing important. I was just picking a fight with him to help sell our story. My presence tonight won’t be questioned if people think there is good reason for me to be there. I thought that’s why you were talking to my dad after I walked away. To make it seem like you were, you know.
Discussing ‘business details’.” The air quotes are audible.
That’s- well. Jason is man enough to admit that, yes, that would’ve been good if only he’d thought of it. He doesn’t point out that it was Jack Drake who came over first, because he doesn’t want Tim to thinks he’s smarter than Jason. No need to feed his ego.
“Get a move on,” he says instead.
“You’re the one who had to throw a fit about hitting me,” Tim points out, but he seems to finally deem his looks good enough, because he walks to the door. Right before opening it, he says, “I’ll meet you out back. You can pretend to catch me during my smoke break, knock me out, and then it’s on.”
“Not going to say goodbye to your dad?” Jason asks before he can stop himself.
Tim snorts. “He probably left without me.”