Archive of Our Own

“So, you’ve known these guys how long?” Jason asked nonchalantly, checking his clip and mulling over how much he could bribe Luthor for kryptonite bullets and whether Bruce would ask questions if he borrowed $20 mil or so.

“They were Dick’s team, and then mine, and now we’re not really together except when Damian’s running missions,” Tim said, sticking out his tongue in concentration as he crossed two wires and frowned at the sparks. That looked safe. “We still hang out.”

Jason was still trying to get past the notion that Tim had secret friends while he was limping into Crime Alley to cozy up with a gunslinging villain. “And they’re just randomly off-planet every time a villain breaks out?”

Scoffing, Tim flapped a hand until Jason helpfully passed him a wrench, and then proceeded to glare balefully until his pliers were fetched. Picky picky. “Not everybody lives in Gotham. We can’t just call Superman over every time someone bumps their knee. People have normal jobs, you know.”

“Yes, they do,” Jason snarked. He waited for the followup grumble, for the ‘gee, sorry we interrupted your killing spree,’ and was left to fill in his own sarcasm. “Your Dad is not paying me enough for this.”

Tim’s mouth tugged down in a pout. He still got weirdly twitchy over the ‘your Dad’ remarks. Like Jason really planned to upend the family secrets after he was carried home by Bruce Batman Wayne and screened by Talia al Ghul over murder coffee hour. 

“He’s not just my Dad —” Interrupted by a clash of sparks and the revving of power, Tim yelped and slid out of the crawlspace, flicking charred flecks off his suit. He grinned sheepishly and pointed at the glowing tube. “Got it! Just an electric short. I fixed it.”

Just an electric short. In something that was supposed to transport Jason from one end of the world to another. The whole zappy-zap thing with the Zeta-Tubes was another brain twister, and one Jason was going to rip Bruce one for later. Sooo, you have an entire inter-dimensional travel system and you still make me their personal uber.

“If that thing melts my face….” Jason threatened, fingering a dull-edged, crimson birdarang that might not slit Timmy’s throat but could still give him a quick trip to sandman land if he threw it hard enough.

“It’s not going to melt your face,” Tim was quick to reassure him. Jason didn’t quite catch the mumbled afterthought, but if it had anything to do with mutations on a cellular level he didn’t care to know. 

“I can go first if it helps,” Tim offered. “The programming is preset, so you won’t get lost.”

“If I wake up in Kansas I’ll let you know,” Jason said tartly.

“One more thing,” Tim said, eyeing Jason’s Sig and looking up with a slow, beleaguered sigh.

“Nope.”

“Does Bruce even know you still have that?”

“Is it pointed at your face?”

“I have meta friends; you don’t need a gun.”

“You have meta friends; I’m definitely playing the outlaw.”

“Jason,” Tim groaned. “They’re going to think you’re threatening me.”

“Oh, I’m threatening,” Jason drawled. “Tell me, does Bruce know you nabbed the Town Hall photo on his desk because you were actually following the Penguin —”

“All right, we’re going,” Tim grumbled, smacking a few shiny buttons. “Just don’t blame me if Kon bodyslams you.”

“Not my problem if you’re exiting the chute first,” Jason pointed out. 

“It’s your problem if you’re still trying to find your stomach while I’m talking him down.” Tim stole the last word by dodging into the Zeta-Tube, golden energy spiraling until he vanished and the coils stilled.

That seemed… perfectly natural. Conveniently, ostentatiously natural. Jason breathed in shakily, tapping the activation button. He… he could do this. Nothing like flinging his genetic code through time and space. Easy peasy. Walk in the park. (A park flooded with Poison Ivy’s pollen and set on fire, but a park nonetheless.)

He stepped forward before he could lose his nerve, gritting his teeth as golden light flooded his vision. The pod crackled once, the essence of burnt wires curling on Jason’s tongue, and he caught a burst of purple flares before he stumbled out of the tube, head reeling and stomach clenched.

The room was dark. Dark and cold and ringing of emptiness. The panel by the wall was scorched, tendrils of purple electricity skittering across melted wires. Forcing open the stuttering door, Jason stepped out cautiously, pulling out his Sig.

He cursed at the light heft, immediately noticing the empty clip.

Forget the rules. He was so going to murder Tim.

Jason heard the fight six halls down. Fists slugging flesh and the thud of metal denting the walls and the snarling yips he’d come to associate with Tim pretending he was invincible when he was backed into a corner. (The brat had just finished his follow-up with Leslie and somebody was trying to crack his bones again.)

Steel-toed boots striking carpet, Jason skidded around the last sharp corner and flung a birdbatboomerang blindly at the taller fighter. And then he stood shock-still, wondering if he should’ve checked the effect of Zeta-Tubes on previously scrambled brains, because there were two of them.

Two Robins.

In merry jester fashions. Bright green and yellow and festive red, with nary a bladed gauntlet between them.

Jason swore and did a quick scope of his own hoodie and dark pants, grateful to see that the Zeta-Tube hadn’t swapped his colors out. Because that would be the last straw. Forget Hoodie and turning a new leaf and finding Jason — this kind of shenanigan would’ve left him no choice but to swear an oath of silence and join a monastery. At least they sported neutral colors and sensible prayers and… and….

Suddenly aware of blood sponging into that green and yellow fabric, Jason ambled into the tall Jester’s focus line and leaned against a pillar with cryptic nonchalance. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Jason?” smaller traffic light squeaked. 

Baring his teeth in a feral grin, Jason sized up the burlier clown who dared take a staff to the kid’s fragile wrist bones. (Because it was definitely Tim’s secret twin wearing the cape, identical to his counterpart in height and stature despite the uniform switcharoo and the unscarred cheek and the fact that he seemed utterly flummoxed that Jason would pop in to make sure he was still breathing.)

“Who?” Jester’s mask narrowed dangerously, a white shock of hair falling over his eyes. He’d lost one glove and sported a spectacular boot print across the cheek. Good — at least mini Robin had put a word in before he got sucker-punched.

“Lemme guess, you’re Joker Junior,” Jason pondered, curling his lip at the bright yellow ‘R’ on the uniform. Where was a good crowbar when he needed one? “Or is it Court Jester? Jack of Spades?” 

“What did you call me?” If Jester bristled any more he might split his highlighter tights. Some trick of the light made his mask flicker iridescent green. 

Not-Scarred Timmy wouldn’t stop looking at Jason like he was a phantom. He crouched at Jester’s feet, barely breathing, until Jason sidled closer as he waggled the fingers of one hand by his thigh. The kid took the hint and scuttled over to huddle behind him. He was shivering like he’d run three rounds of fear gas. Shock, Jason hoped, because the blood was minimal but there were lumps of swollen flesh like someone had beat the kid with a shovel, and he couldn’t fix internal bleeding with a power outage and no Alfred. Jester growled — a guttural snarl like a doberman deprived of prey — and Jason flicked out the party gun.

“You really want to fight me with that stick?” Never mind that the bullets were rubber. A straight shot could still scatter brain matter at this distance, and goons usually thought twice when he dropped that tone. I’m not dead yet, but if you really think you’re quick enough to outdraw the Hood, I’ll give you a two second head start.

It worked on most two-bit movers and candy-thieving nuisances. (It helped more when Jason was allowed to shoot people, but the convenience of a reputation was that people tended to remember the worst bits and fill in the rest.)

Jester dropped the staff, hands falling lax too easily. “Kid, get behind the wall and stay there,” Jason murmured, eyeing the kevlar-mapped leotards for suspicious lumps of C4.

“But he’s Robin,” Not-Tim murmured, his tone almost frantic as he tugged on Jason’s sleeve. “He’s Robin.”

Yeah, yeah, he noticed that with the first glaring flash of traffic colors. Either some halloween store was selling knock-off brands, or Zeta-Tubes hated classic red and black (in which case Jason would never combine the colors en route again).

Green gloves twitched and Jason dropped, shoving the kid down as metal kissed leather and armor-piercing rounds splintered the wall where he’d been standing. He caught a glimpse of Canary-Tim fumbling for a birdarang, and stopping the gun suddenly became Priority #1.

Forget his promise that he wouldn’t kill in front of the kids. He was not bringing home a still-warm body.

Another curtain of bullets spattered the floor. The Jester might be handy with a pistol, but Hood didn’t miss.

One, two, three rounds in quick succession. One at the meat of Jester’s shooting arm, one at the seam near the gut where kevlar often failed, one at the junction of the neck. Jester dodged them like a bloody Leaguer. Like he knew Jason’s brain waves and predicted the trajectories. Like he’d been bloody Bat-trained. Like he’d stared death in the face and come out laughing, and the straight shots were harmless feathers he could flick out of his path. 

And here Tim thought his meta friends’ presence would be the problem. Jason would love to review their absence reports.

He didn’t have time to overanalyze the lack of fabricated superheroes who were conveniently AWOL every time there was blood on the asphalt. Three more bullets spewed and Tim yelped, grabbing his bloody arm as a birdarang clattered. Jason sprang to his feet and dropped his aim, slapping out straight at Jester’s chest and switching gun hands when the man’s attention wavered between two unverified threats. Bumping into him, shoulder to shoulder, Jason twisted like he was overbalancing and caught Jester’s wrist, twirling with the lunge that wanted to pit a bullet between his ribs. It placed him neatly between Jester’s shoulder blades for a point-blank shot at the exposed skull.

His quarry slithered, suddenly more shadow than flesh, and Jason valiantly wished he’d considered Talia’s training offer. A heavy arm knocked him down before a solid backhand clubbed away the party pistol, and he found himself in the unfortunate position of looking up from the scuffed carpet as the bear of a circus clown barreled into him. He swore and rolled, narrowly missing the fist that cracked the floorboards.

“Jason!” Tim cried out.

Masked eyes crackled with green energy and Jason almost swallowed his teeth as raw knuckles grazed his jaw. 

“Is that it?” Jester accused. “It’s not enough to replace me — you decided to find an alternate placeholder?”

The gun trained on Timmy again, barrel shivering in white-knuckled fingers, and Jason full body decked the bear.

He wasn’t a heavy fighter — years of surviving day to day had probably stolen those crucial inches he deserved to have on Dick — but he was Alley born and he’d survived Black Mask’s personal fighting ring. He twisted over the flurry of bulk and cape and flipped onto Jester’s shoulder, grabbing the offensive yellow fabric and twisting it. Jester squawked, yanking on the ties, one hand reaching to tear at Jason’s hair which was rude. Even the False Facers weren’t allowed to get away with it, and that just earned him the full feral Hood treatment. Jason leaned in with the grip, tilting over Jester’s shoulder just enough to sink his teeth into cartilage and rip.

Yegh. Blood in his mouth again. He really should get checked for rabies. (Not that Bruce was taking him seriously when he threatened.)

An irate howl pierced his senses, because facial mutilation was always a shocker no matter how many parts came in spares. A fist grabbed at Jason’s neck — too slow — and he wriggled off, palming a knife while feinting with the empty Sig. Green gloves snagged his gun hand — predictable — and he stabbed with prejudice. 

Blood sprayed as his blade met unprotected biceps, and Jester… didn’t let go.

Jason had all of two seconds to regret his life choices before his face spiderwebbed the wall plaster. A low pulse filled his ears (another concussion would be bad, he needed his brain matter) and the pain in his wrist finally exploded. White hot nerves stabbed with crunched bone and he strangled a yell, slashing at the green bands that locked tight around his mangled wrist and twisted. A knee to the stomach stole his air and the free hand clocked him hard enough for the room to fade under a wash of grey.

He heard the whistle of a Robin lunging, the whap of metal on iron shoulders, followed by the yelp of an idiot who just tried to slap a bear with a stick. There was a crash across the room like something heavy had revamped the wall structure.

“Stay down!” Jester snapped, reaching down to palm the abandoned Sig.

Green boots filled Jason’s vision. Green like the Joker’s hair; green like Poison Ivy’s nets, green like the whispers of eternal pits.

“I’ll ask you again, nicely,” Jester said, all empty smile and sharp teeth and glowing green eyes. He hauled Jason up and dangled him by the back of his jacket, tucking the barrel under his chin. “Who are you?”

Jason huffed, pawing feebly at the grip on his collar like it mattered and not at all because he had a few stashed blades in the lining of his jacket and a pistol in his belt where the convent nuns were too chaste to pay heed. “Depends on who you’re talkin’ to.”

Red for the bike helmet and the blood in his wake. Robin for the handouts he divvied out from corpses. Hoodie because he still favored the old fashioned sweater and Knights cap over a Batsy uniform.

Hound because he went rabid and killed all his trainers.

“My friends call me Jay.” Jason took one moment to relish the ripple of naked uncertainty that stole Jester’s confidence, and stabbed a tanto through his gauntleted wrist. Thank you, Damian. 

Hitting the ground in a crouch, he shoved forward, nailing the clown in the crotch with his skull. It failed to have the desired effect, because this clown had Bat armor equivalent protection, but it served to dizzy them both as they tumbled to the floor.

Jester rolled upright first, Sig at the ready, and Jason realized belatedly that he was mildly outclassed. And presently handicapped. And possibly fighting Deathstroke’s second cousin.

Sneering, Jester roved the Sig with slow deliberation, like he was trying to find the best places to slowly bleed out his prey. It would be simple courtesy to warn him the clip was missing, but Jason wasn’t feeling particularly contrite at the moment.

Click. 

Click, click, click.

Red mottled Jester’s face and Jason shrugged. “Yeah. I live with trolls.”

He gave the angry bear two seconds to sputter before he slammed both feet into a green-clad ankle, bruising through kevlar padding if not outright popping the joint. Jason wrangled one hand behind his back, snagging the Weston that the nuns couldn’t divest him of, let alone Bruce Pacifist Wayne, and unloaded the clip into Jester’s snarling face.

Click, click, click, click.

No clip.

Despair washed out adrenaline in a cold rush. Forget about killing Tim when he got back. The anti-death squad was trying to murder him. 

Jester smiled crookedly. That was the only warning Jason got before a hand seized his throat and the Sig flipped around, swinging down to crash into his jaw; bludgeon his left eye; crunch his nose in a squirt of hot blood.

‘Those who live by the sword will die by it.’

Okay but did it literally have to be his own gun?

“Jason, stop!” High pitched cries bled with nostalgic longing; of childhood dreams shattered. “Leave him alone!”

Jason pried at vice-like fingers, sucking in a brief gasp before they tightened again, and suddenly he was in a hollowed-out fire department with a black cowl looming in the window and broad hands trapping him as the sharp bark ordering him to stop when he couldn’t stop, he wanted to live and nobody was coming for him, nobody cared —!

“Stop it already!” The full prejudice of a bo staff clanged on bone and the pressure vanished as Jester dropped with a howl, clutching his head. Not-Tim staggered, masked eyes blown wide as if he regretted taking out a Bane-Class villain.

“G-Get back!” Jason rasped, scrabbling back as he rubbed his throat. His fingers found metal — a smooth barrel — a trigger — and he whipped around the Beretta, noting with morbid satisfaction that it was Jester’s custom shooter. ‘Vengeance is mine; I shall repay.’

“Jason, no!” Red and yellow and green sprinted between them and Jason staggered, terrified as his grip spasmed. Fake Tim’s mask hung askew, his unblemished cheek screaming at Jason that this was all a bad dream and he couldn’t hurt anyone but himself, yet stricken blue eyes begged for him to listen. He dropped his aim, shuddering as he clicked the safety forward, his sloshed brain a train wreck of could’a shot Timmy, you promised, what would you have told them, how could you go back knowing you killed a kid?

Jester had no such qualms. He crept up from behind Tim, a monster looming in the dark, and socked him with the soft-round pistol. Jason lurched with a bitter yell. Iron flecked his teeth and sparks surged in his wrist, but the wet thunk of rubber bullets colliding with his ribcage stole his breath.

“Tell Bruce he’s wasting his time on you,” Jester said, ambling forward while Jason remembered how to breathe. A hand gripped his hair and twisted, exposing his face to the tanto that twirled once before tracing around his eyes in stinging slices. “Jason Todd died, and I’m the monster hiding under the bed.”

Panting a harsh laugh, Jason pulled out a switchblade, grunting when that, too, was smacked aside and the tanto kept tracing. “I’m the thing that kills monsters.”

The glow left masked pupils and they appraised him blankly, thoughtfulness tugging at Jester’s expression. He shook it off an instant later, spinning the tanto around and lashing down with the hilt, making the room go dark for a moment.

“Would it… kill you… to avoid th’face?” Jason groaned, retching dryly as pressure screamed to a pinnacle in his skull and green and yellow spiraled in a blur. Triggered a friggin’ migraine, the bastard!

“I’m sorry it has to be this way.” It almost sounded authentic, which was infinitely more concerning than the threats. “If Bruce didn’t learn anything from my death, maybe he’ll think twice after the pattern repeats.”

That was cryptically ominous and not at all impersonal. Jason writhed, slapping at the hand that snagged him by the jacket and dragged, and felt his control slipping like the wetness beading under his shirt. 

“Y’r… picking stupid fights…” he warned, because there was once an empire of False Facers and now there was a fancy ornamental carpet spiffing Black Mask’s throne room. “Should let th’kid go.”

Jason could hang out a bit. He probably wouldn’t bleed to death. Bruce would come after him — he was pretty sure of that by now — but Tim attracted broken bones and explosives and the further Jason could get him away from the angry bear, the safer they would both feel.

“He’s the problem,” Jester said unsympathetically, dropping Jason into a hot, narrow room and yanking his arms up against a grate. He hissed as wire slithered in the netting, closing in harshly on his broken wrist to tie off with circulation threatening pressure.

“Batman is so going to kill you,” Jason muttered. 

“Batman doesn’t kill,” Jester retorted. The bitterness in his voice was off; like a kid who wanted just the one thing for Christmas and woke up to a barren tree.

Shaking stars out of his eyes, Jason drew his legs in, glaring when Jester eyed them like he wanted to crack a few more bones. “Yeah, Batman doesn’t kill. But his butler has a shotgun.” 

Alfred might very well kill him if he’d scrambled his brains again — the kiddies were very concerned about Jason’s state of mental awareness these days — but nobody needed to know that.

Jester’s face twisted, anguish dousing the green behind his mask. He stood haplessly for a moment, fists clenched rigidly against his sides, while Jason tried to figure out the trigger so he could poke a little deeper.

“Let the brat go home,” he said carefully. “He’s fifteen, okay? Pretty sure he’s got a book report due tomorrow. You want to punch somebody, you’ve got me.” I can take it. 

Another spasm rippled the stoic mask. Okay, what was with this guy and how could he twist the knife?

“Look, I’ve outlived my time,” Jason reasoned. He was old in Crime Alley years. He’d offed three crime bosses and cheated death at least a dozen scores in the last year. Karma was going to catch up sooner or later. “You want to send a message to Batman, fine. Drop me off at the Bat Signal and see where it gets you. At least let the kid finish high school.”

Oh, that was definitely a trigger. Chin trembling and hands shaking, Jester roughly shook his head as if trying to dislodge something unpleasant, like compassion. 

“His Dad’s waiting up for him,” Jason said gently.

He saw the instant he’d gone too far. Jester stiffened, teeth baring and arms braced for a fight. “He never came back for me.”

Never came back for…. oh joy, there was another eldest Bat brat besides Dick who was conveniently absent from all the photos. If Jason had known he was interfering with a Wayne rivalry he definitely would’ve called in backup of the broom-swinging, passive-aggressive butler sort. One ‘Ahem’ and this whole mess could’ve sorted out.

“You think you know Bruce,” Jester spat, grabbing up Jason’s ankles and brushing off the kick to the face. “You think he’ll rush in at the last minute and kill everyone hurting you. That he’ll do anything to keep you safe.”

“Kay, you’re wrong on a few points,” Jason muttered, grunting as his legs were finally pinned, wire snagging around his ankles. Batman was more of a leech than a hero, because he showed up when he wasn’t wanted and Jason couldn’t stake a gas station holdup without the nervous stalker trailing after him.

“You think he’ll care if something happened to you,” Jester rambled heedlessly. “That he’ll put down your killer.”

“That’s actually my job but keep going.”

The party gun loomed in his face and Jason shut up. He might flirt with death but he wasn’t courting it yet.

“You’re wrong,” Jester said shakily. “He’ll move on without you. He’ll find another homeless, unwanted kid to fill your place.”

Jason wanted to comment on how the billionaire was an obsessive collector already so what did it matter if one more urchin found a safe zone, but the gun was trembling and he didn’t want Jester to get twitchy at this range.

“If I have to take them from him one by one, I’ll show him who he really is,” Jester hissed. He snapped the party gun into his holster, lurching to his feet and hobbling for the door.

“So finish it already!” Jason shouted. Don’t go out that door — leave him alone — you don’t need to kill a kid! “You want Bruce to regret everything, right? He didn’t grieve enough over you? You want Alfred to clean out another room for a kid who’s not coming home?”

Jester sobbed, one fist braced against the door as his shoulders tucked in. “Stop talking!”

“I’m not one of them,” Jason insisted. “He pretty much kidnapped me; he didn’t raise me. They won’t have to fill my place when I’m gone, but that kid out there — he’s what, your little brother? You’re really going to do this to your own family?”

“It’s not my family,” Jester said, like he was trying to shake off a terrible truth. “Not anymore.”

“Yeah, and I’m bloody Kryptonian,” Jason snarked. “Like Bruce would actually move on if one of his kids dropped off. He won’t stop coddling me, and I’m not even on the adoption list. How do you think he feels about his son?”

“Shut up!” Jester shouted, spinning around and firing without aim. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

Rubber bullets pinged off the grate and punching the floor at Jason’s feet. He flinched despite himself, fear curling in his spine because he didn’t want to die and he didn’t really get a choice in the matter because there was a madman with a gun and Jason was at his mercy.

So this was why Bruce freaked out over guns.

Jester drew himself up, power over the weak bolstering his stance, and when he spoke again his voice was steady. “I’m not going to let him forget. Not this time. He needs to know what it means to lose.”

The thought of Bruce standing over a fresh grave — of lowering in a teenager into the ground as people patted him on the shoulder and returned to their normal lives….

“Do you really want that?” Jason asked faintly. “You want him to lose everything that makes him care?”

“I want him,” Jester said raggedly, “To understand.”

“So kill me,” Jason said slowly. The words felt hollow and sure. “You’ll make your point. You get your kill fix. Just don’t hurt the the kid anymore; don’t make Bruce bury him.”

He saw resignation settle on Jester’s shoulders; tilting his chin up even as his hands quivered. “It’s not your call.”

Fear slapped into desperation, swamping the numbness with fire and hate. “I swear, I don’t care if you’re Bruce’s own blood and kin!” Jason gnashed, kicking out with bound feet as the shadow melted away from the doorframe. “You lay one hand on that kid and I’ll kill you like I killed Two-Face. I’ll bludgeon your face and scatter pieces of your skull from here to Bludhaven! I’ll crawl out of my grave if I have to!”

“Already played that card,” Jester’s voice echoed with a brackish laugh. “Welcome to the Dead Poet’s Society.”

Jason spat curses, wrenching on the wires until his broken wrist pulsed hotangrytorn and he couldn’t feel his fingers. He heard a choked whimper and the sliding of fabric on carpet. Jester reappeared like a horror movie clown, puddling Tim in the corner, and Jason snarled a few of Damian’s choice profanities as he scanned the kid for new bruises. Tacky blood stained his cheek, the telltale ‘J’ scar glaringly absent. His wrists were tangled behind him with plastic-coated cables, probably gutted from the security systems. (Which meant Jester must’ve scoped the building ahead of time — plotting how to murder a child.)

Jason swung back to the monster, a biting remark quick on his tongue, and cold dread settled in his stomach as the man set down a bulky, coiled bundle. A bundle strapped to wires and a glowing box. A box that was counting down.

Jason swore. 

“You have one hour,” Jester said in a flat tone. “See if Bruce comes for you this time.”

He slammed the door shut and the bolt snicked like a gunshot. Jason’s vision speckled grey, panic numbing the pain as he yanked furiously against the furnace grate.

58:57

58:54

58:49

Now was a good time for Bruce to do his freakishly obsessive friendly stalker thing.

The clock pulsed like Jason’s heartbeats, one second lost after another. Red numbers flashing in a black box. Red on Tim’s yellow cape. Red fire bundled in innocuous packs of C4; enough to take down an entire building.

Jason was starting to hate the color.