Chapter Text
The apartment had been dusty, with no clears signs of habitation within weeks. A half-eaten bowl of cornflakes had sat lonely on the table, splotches of spoilt milk littering the faux-wood table like spots on a cat: flies skittered about absentmindedly. Pieces of clothing were haphazardly strewn over the old couch, an ironing board waiting patiently in promise. The apartment itself was hot with mid-summer’s humidity, but all the windows were securely shut.
Dick had started to suspect early on that something wasn’t quite right. While the Red Hood wasn’t the most talkative person out of those who patrolled Gotham, it couldn’t be argued that he wasn’t one of the most efficient in keeping him sector clean. The spikes in crime hadn’t been a problem initially. A robbery here or there, uncaught. An additional missing person’s report with each quarter. It hadn’t been until the murders that Dick, as well as the others, had known something strange had been going on. The deaths of twelve school-age children had littered the papers for weeks, questions regarding the climbing crime rate gripping the community with anxiety and fear. While Jason’s…brand of justice wasn’t the most ethical, it was very effective in a way that the rest of the family could not mirror: criminals feared the Red Hood, as he held judgement in his hands, in the form of two pearl-gripped handguns. Drug lords knew better than to go hunting for young blood in the Red Hood’s neighborhood. The murders were meant to be a test, an indicator of the newfound freedom that could only come with the death of a vigilante, especially one who deemed himself a guardian of the street’s youth. With no retaliatory murders in tail, crime statistics rose to a breaking point. Nightwing and Red Robin were called to Gotham, to cull the riots.
Wayne Manor had been overtly tense, as nobody could say that the disappearance of Jason Todd hadn’t deeply troubled them. Tim, the closest of the family to Jason, had kept to his “room”: his eyes had dragged between the monitor, upon which he searched tirelessly for any traces of the missing man, and Bruce, who he certainly blamed for the disappearance of Jason. Bruce himself had become increasingly quiet, no doubt reliving his previous traumas regarding the boy. Alfred continued to attempt to hold the family together, but he too, fell to the harsh reality of Jason’s disappearance, once more, and Dick spied him staring sorrowfully at a picture of them from time to time. While Damian hadn’t outright stated his worries, Dick suspected that he was distressed from the way he fretted around the house: Damian knew firsthand how effective and brutal the Red Hood had been, and if he had gone off the grid, any one of them could be targeted. Dick…Dick on the other hand couldn’t decide what he felt. His previous encounter with Jason hadn’t been a good one: there had been shouting, shoving, and his quasi-brother had left with a sheen in his eyes that could only be a precursor to crying. Dick had been angry, fuming at the time, but now, he feared the possibility that he would never see Jason again. He feared the possibility of never apologizing for what he said. The fear of Jason dying haunted him like a ghost.
The Oracle had found the remains a few months into their investigation. Splattered traces of the Red Hood’s blood had shown up in an analysis on one of the Gotham streets, smeared across pavement in a way that pointed at a hit and run. Dragging was indicated, but the marks ended at the edge of the street: there was no body. Dick, in lieu of his shock, had remembered the pained look on Bruce’s face at the news: his complexion had paled to a dull grey, and his hands had gripped at arms of the antique armchair: his head had lulled forward after a moment. Tim, in all of his quiet brooding, had let out a screech of displeasure, and then had sprinted up the stairs to, no doubt, the solitude of his bedroom to cry.
In the morning, Bruce had called off the immediate search: the legacy of the Red Hood had ended with a hit and run.
Dick stood in Jason’s apartment, waiting for the ghost of a host who wouldn’t ever return home. Jason had left his boots on the coffee table, only half cleaned, with the now cracked barrel of black shoeshine sitting idly aside. Likewise, the red, shiny helmet of the Hood’s iconic costume was tossed onto a makeshift hammock that Jason had most likely made from a few spare wires and some electrical tape, as there hadn’t been enough room for an actual bed inside the tiny living space. The helmet shone in the light, its vibrancy catching Dick’s eye: he walked over a few paces and picked it up, running his course hands over its smooth exterior.
Vanished, they had said. Gone, they had said. Jason Ramirez, the Red Hood’s sole alias, had all but left, to his surrounding neighbors. While many rarely saw him outside of his apartment, and even fewer had actually talked to him, Dick’s questioning had earned him a few insights into his brother’s daily life. According to the elderly couple down the hall, Jason had woken up early every morning in order to escort the apartment’s children to school: his intimidating height and impressive build had scared off any potential harassment, though the children themselves were convinced that Jason had just been there to give each and every one of them a high-five, prior to their departure, a notion that Dick scoffed at, considering last time he had consciously tried to get a hug from his sibling, he had been on the receiving end of a well-placed kick. Jason’s routine continued with a run through of the apartment utilities: he would play handyman, and fix any issues that arose. It seemed to Dick that nobody knew of Jason’s nighttime activities, which he inherently grateful for. When questioned about his presence in the apartment, Dick was quick to choke out that he was Jason’s older brother, which was acknowledged by most with an almost knowing nod.
The helmet smelled faintly of Jason, and Dick latched onto the smell: clean and sunny. Globs of water fell from Dick’s eyes as he waited for eternity.
On some days, when he woke up, his face was unfamiliar to him; scars rounded his nose, his eyes, his lips, all from injuries he couldn’t remember. The ridges formed a map to a treasure that was forgotten. Looking in the mirror frightened him, as he never knew what was reflected. An old man with searing eyes. A scrappy teenager, cheeks sunken in. A snot-nosed kid that smirked like death… His body felt awkward and weighty, like it was used and returned broken.
His family had never come to claim him: the doctor’s attributed this to his inability to remember anything. Dissociative amnesia, they had said, with complacent, white smiles as if he knew the fuck they were talking about. He struggled for days in his white cot, surrounded by white walls and white coats, all telling him that it was going to be okay. But it wasn’t, because for all he knew, the world was falling apart.
The only scrap of his identity came from a small, carefully folded up picture that they had found in the front pocket of his bloodied, leather jacket: they had ripped him out of that jacket. It was an old Polaroid picture, and it was worn around the edges, as if someone had run their fingers down the sides repeatedly. Probably him, in all honestly, not that he remembered. The picture depicted two young men: one, which he regarded as a younger version of himself, and the other, an older boy. They were both smiling, as if staring at a third party (probably, the photographer), and the older one had his arm slew around his shoulders as if they were close. As if they were brothers. On the back, in dainty cursive, the words, Happy Birthday, Jaybird, were written. They both seemed so happy…When he had first woken up, he had stared at the picture for hours on end, hoping that the memories would suddenly flood back, that the feelings would flood back. Or maybe, that someone would come running in and actually tell him that it was going to be okay. But that never happened.
The doctors gave him the name Jay Smith, because that was the only thing they could do. He sat in the clinic for nearly a month, eating green Jell-O, before the officer that had discovered him volunteered to take him in. Officer Travers, the man had said to him, with an outstretched hand and a thousand watt smile, Officer Andy Travers.
The thing about Jay’s amnesia was, he remembered everything but the things pertaining to his life: that’s what made him feel so comfortable around Andy. There wasn’t any pretense behind his actions and the blank slate was actually a blank slate: Jay didn’t have to deal with the crushing guilt of not remembering someone close to him. Sometimes, walking in the street a store would catch his eye, a deli or a market, and he would have a flash of recognition. It would play out like a dream, the feeling of memory quickly dissipating as Jay attempted to grab ahold of the strings: he always lost. It was infuriating at best, and frustrating at worst. He suspected that Andy was catching on: whenever they were together and he had one of his “episodes”, the cheerful officer would suddenly call for a trip to the creamery, exploiting Jay’s newfound sweet tooth.
Within days of moving in with Officer Travers, Jay had started to realize that Andy was cut from a different kind of cloth than most cops in the town, which should have been, in hindsight, evident straight off the bat. While the man was built like an ox, and stood at least two inches taller than Jay, who was no joke, Andy’s bright, refreshing smile blew away any negative guise: he had the temperament of a teddy bear. Albeit, he doubted Andy did anything along the lines of competitive basket weaving for the poor, or some shit like that, the vigor that the officer talked to Jay about his dreams for the community quickly solidified Jay’s respect for the man within a few days. In an age where corruption ran rampant within the Gotham police force, Jay had found the golden goose egg.
Andy had set three rules down the first day of Jay’s new life: no drugs, no girls, and absolutely, positively no alcohol. His eyes had borne into Jay’s with intent, a quiet, or else, dripping off of the silence that had fallen between them: Jay had nodded. Andy’s living conditions had also entailed the acquisition of a job, which, with the aid of the charismatic police officer, had come easily in the form of a waitering job at the local dinner, Katz.
Now, two months into his life, Jay Smith was as happy as an amnesiac could be.
“Order up!” Jay called over the dull roar of the crowd. Flurries of grey surrounded the counter, hands limply flapping at the workers in attempt to garner enough attention to hurriedly rush out an order: the lunch time rush was Jay’s favorite time of the day. White collared workers and street rats flocked in, mixing and mingling with one sole purpose in mind: the acquisition of a turkey BLT sandwich to cull their raging hunger. The chaos delighted Jay, because it reminded him, even in lieu of his amnesia, that he was indeed alive. His heart pumped with adrenaline, and he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face as a countertop fight broke out, “Whoa! Hold yer horses, everybody’s gettin’ food!”
Over the counter, Jay caught the eyes of a young suit who seemed to be staring strangely, seemingly fixated on Jay, pupils blow wide like giant black saucers. The kid couldn’t be older than sixteen, and his blazer sat awkwardly on shoulders that hadn’t quite filled out yet: Jay scoffed. “What do ya want, kid?”
“W-What?” Jay hadn’t believe it was possible, but the kid’s eyes seemed to grow even wider, at the implication that he was being spoken to. There was a protest of the crowd as the kid struggled forward, from his position at the back: Jay quickly silenced the people with a trademark glare. Up close, Jay could see that the kid was even scrawnier than he had initially assessed: the boy’s torso didn’t even break even with the counter’s height, and his cheeks were sunken in from malnutrition. The expensive suit contested against poverty though: possibly self-inflicted. Jay felt a buzzing sensation at the back of his brain, but shrugged it off as a side effect of exhaustion and the summer’s intense humidity.
“I said, ‘what do ya want’, it’s a question, kid. I’m taking your order,” Jay said pointedly. The kid’s face immediately flushed, a deep red seeping across his face (all the way to the tips of his ears, Jay noted). Black hair flopped over the teen’s forehead, and Jay laughed good-naturedly, “Come on, I don’ got all day!”
“S-Sorry!” The kid paused for a moment, before deciding, “I’d like a Cesar salad, please.”
“The fuck- No way. I’m sorry, kid, but I ain’t serving you no Ceasar-fucking-salad. No, you’re gonna get a freaking sandwich, like all the rest of these SOBs.”
“What? Why!” There was a flash of emotion, anger that flashed across the kid’s cobalt eyes, and Jay could feel the rebellion being suppressed carefully. The buzzing in his head was slowly intensifying: Jay was going to have to take a quick walk after the rush, or at least, a smoke to clear out his head. He’d learned early on that painkillers had little to no effect on his hyperactive metabolism, as they went out just as quickly as they went in.
“Because you look like you’d be blown away if I sneezed on you.”
“I could just leave, you know that? This is discrimination. I could report you to your boss.”
The little suit crossed his arms grumpily, a defiant expression etching itself onto his adolescent features. Jay couldn’t take him seriously though, for the fact that the kid’s lip slightly jutted out when he frowned, transforming a stature of displeasure into the expression of pout. If the boy was trying to intimidate Jay, he would have to get in line: Jay’s list of displeased patrons ran about as long as his arm, and that was just this weeks’ worth. The only things that truly kept him in his job were Andy’s good word, the boss’ sympathy, and Jay’s ability to back sass any aggressive patron that came along. Kid had guts though, at least Jay could give him that, “Go ahead, you highness, be my guest. But y’know what, I’ve got the inkling that you won’t. Why don’t you just sit yourself down over, and I’ll get your order out soon enough. Deal?”
The kid grumbled out what Jay perceived to be an affirmative phrase, and he slowly turned around, pushing his way through the mob of people. Unfortunately for Jay, ‘soon enough’ ended up being a considerable amount of time later, but at least the boy had stayed. Jay carefully wrapped the sandwich that he had made for the kid, kneading the sides of the deli paper into neat, sharp edges: he strutted out to meet the wayward teen, who was idly sitting out a high-top counter, watching the people go by.
“Here ya go, kid. One bonafide, turkey BLT, made with tender, lovin’ care,” Jay said, sticking the sandwich out between them, like a peace offering: the kid eyes it suspiciously, before reaching out slowly and retrieving it from Jay’s hold. The teen slowly unwrapped it. “Shouldn’t a kid like you be in school right now?”
“Shouldn’t you be working right now?” The kid bit back, before he unceremoniously bit into the sandwich he was holding in his hands.
“Touché.” Jay leaned against the counter, watching as the kid ate the sandwich ravenously: a feeling of warmth filled his chest before he swallowed it back down. The only thing that that warmth would leave him was a sense of rising frustration, as he was constantly reminded of the things he didn’t have, or rather, didn’t remember. Jay looked over to the kid, who in turn, was staring at him again with that strange face again, sandwich half eaten in his hands, “What? Do I got something on my face?”
A pause, “No.”
“Then, what it is? Cat got your tongue?”
The kid looked down for a moment, staring down at the sandwich, before turning back to Jay once more to stare at his face, owlishly, “You just…remind me of someone.”
“Oh, is that right? I didn’t know there was anybody out there that was nearly as handsome as me,” Jay chuckled out: the teen rolled his eyes.
“No, you just remind me of my brother. He used to make me these sandwiches, when I was younger. I was a picky eater, so he’d make them especially for me.”
“Really? Your brother sounds like a pretty cool dude.”
Another pause, and then, “Yeah, he was.”
Jay understood the implications of the phrase, and decided not to press the issue any farther. He accompanied the teen as he continued to munch on the sandwich, though, now, at a half-hearted pace. When the boy had finished his sandwich, he had reached into his pocket, in an attempt to pay Jay for his services, but he stopped the boy before he could get that far, “It’s on the house, kid. Take it as reconciliation for calling you scrawny.”
The boy had nodded, his face taunt with tension: he had the deli paper rolled up in his clenched fist.
“What’s your name?”
“Huh?”
“I said, ‘what’s your name’, kid. It’s a question.” Jay said hurriedly, as the boy turned to leave the store.
“Oh…It’s Timothy Drake.” The boy had a confused expression on his face.
“Well, Tim…is it alright if I call you that? Tim?” The boy nodded carefully, and Jay made sure to measure the words coming out of his mouth, “If you ever plan on coming back here, just ask the front counter for Jay Smith: that’s my name. I’ll be happy to make you another sandwich, alright?”
Tim nodded again, but Jay noticed the growing grin that was slowly creeping itself onto the boy’s face, no matter how much he tried to hide it under long locks of hair. They shook hands amicably, and the boy was out the door in a flash, just as Officer Travers walked in, shying his uniform cap of his head, “Who was that?”
Jay shrugged, but was unable to hide the smile that had found itself upon his face, “Just a kid I met.”
Timothy Drake sprinted down the street of Gotham, the only thing contradicting the dampness of his eyes, the shinning grin plastered on his face.