Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Robin landed on the rooftop in a forward roll, scraping an elbow on the uneven gravel without feeling it. He was already running hot emotionally, since Batman wouldn’t believe him about that piece of shit Garzonas falling to his death on accident.

Jason Todd didn’t commit murder at the age of fifteen, thank you very much, Bruce. Yet here he was, patrolling without permission because he was benched under suspicion of—of fucking murder, and lying about murder, and violating the rules and betraying the Mission and everything this supposed dad had ever taught him. So fuck him and everything he thought they’d been building, as a supposed family, for the past three years.

He was making back-up plans at this point.  Dredging up ideas he’d put to rest years ago, once Bruce lulled him into a sense of (false) security through careful, consistent reassurances and promises and follow-through.

What happened to all that? One (perceived) slip-up, and all that trust was gone, apparently.

Good to fuckin’ know.

Jason had a lead on some real family, anyway. Which he would be looking into later.

The figure Jason had seen on this rooftop was still there, opposite edge, leaning over and watching something happening below—must be something noisy, because the person didn’t turn when Robin showed up. Might be a scout for a gang, or a drug runner meeting up with their supplier, or some random civilian.

If it was someone thinking of jumping, Jason had to intervene.

He crept closer, realizing how small the figure was as he drew near. Tiny. Narrow shoulders and skinny legs under an oversized coat, hood obscuring the head.

Robin listened; didn’t sound like a fight happening below, not a mugging… the kid shifted and did something, and Robin strafed sideways enough to catch sight of a camera in the kid’s ghost-pale bare hands. Fancy camera, by the looks of it. Scout for a mob, more likely at this point. Fuck.

Well, it coulda been Jason in another life, so he wasn’t looking to give the kid shit about it. Maybe he could help ‘em out.

He waited, obscured by a vent, until the people below seemed to leave. The kid sat back and stared at the screen of their camera for a moment. Then they tucked the thing into their coat, zipped it up, and stepped up onto the ledge. A fire escape sat around eight feet below—not so fast, kiddo.

Robin leaped forward and reached out, snagging the kid by their bare wrist, starting to speak, but then—

Skin-to-skin contact was the only method of activating soulmarks.

Many people never met their soulmate; with billions of people across the planet, the odds of living near or crossing paths with the one person whose soul was perfectly matched to yours used to be infinitesimal.

In school, when everyone learned about soulmarks, you learned that maybe one out of every thousand people encountered their soulmate before the advent of technology. The internet, where you could join a mark site and search through uploaded photos using tags that people picked to describe their marks (often the wrong words, in the end, to describe the shared image on two bodies’ skin), allowed more like one in twenty people to identify their match in modern society. You were probably fucked if your perfect person lived in a technology-free monastery, or an isolated village in a jungle somewhere.

And sometimes one half was eighty years old and their soulmate was ten, and they got a decade or two of pure friendship before saying goodbye.

One out of ten people were born without soulmarks, and were considered either lucky or tragic, depending on the person.

A soulmate didn’t have to be romantic, but most were—it was the deepest, most perfect connection possible according to philosophers and magic-users alike, and that usually included every type of connection two people could make. Intimate, sexual, emotional, social; it was supposed to be everything possible between two people.

Or three, if you were extra-lucky. One trashy reality show was all about third soulmates finding their matches, either separate or already together, and everyone trying to get past their own hang-ups and social expectations around polyamory.

Another reality show featured people whose marks were similar enough to be ambiguous – one season was all flowers, another was stars and planets; the weirdest season was all fish. A dozen crotchety old fisherman trying to connect with marine biologists, teachers, chefs, and aquarium workers.

(Not that Jason watched any of that shit; he was too busy surviving, then too busy kicking ass.)

The moment his skin touched the kid’s, a jolt of overwhelming energy shot through his entire body, coalescing at the mark on his upper left pectoral.

The two birds he’d known and hated since he first understood what the mark actually meant: one upright, wings beginning to spread; the other a mirror image reflected underneath, head downward, looking injured or dead.

Jason’s parents were soulmates, so when he watched Willis smack the shit out of Catherine as she cried and shielded little Jason, he understood the real truth: soulmates could use the connection to control. To hurt. To destroy. And sometimes you couldn’t get away.

So for Jason, waking his soulmark hurt.

He cried out at the feeling, hearing the kid shout in surprise and fear at the same time.

Then Jason realized that this might be it: the final straw. This was a child, his soulmate, and they met when he was out as Robin.

That meant this kid would have to learn his civilian identity.

And that would be enough to tip Batman over the edge. Jason wouldn’t be worth the trouble, at that point. A kid wouldn’t be able to keep a secret. They’d go on tv and blast their soulmark all over social media and Robin was done. Oh, but Bruce would be caught, then, too—it would be too easy to make that connection—

It was over.

It was over.

Fuck! FUCK!

“No!” Robin shouted, shoving— “get away from me! No!”

The kid flew backward, pure terror on their tiny (tiny!) face, and one of their legs seemed to give out, and then they were gone, over the edge of the building.

Clang!

Hit the fire escape.

Not dead, not fucking murdered, not an accident, either—Bruce would kill Jason either way—shoving a kid off a building—

His soulmate—

The world turned grey, sound turned off. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

Jason turned and ran.

Chapter Text

When Tim’s soulmark activated, it hurt.

Well, pain layered on pain, in this situation.

He could see the idea of elation, of joy, just outside of his reach. His soulmate was Robin! Jason Todd! But the touch of his skin hurt Tim’s entire body, and then a horrible fiery pain shot through the mark on the back of Tim’s right calf and he couldn’t catch himself when Robin shoved him away, told him to get away, and Tim fell.

His arms flailed wildly without thought or control, and maybe it stopped a fatal head injury from the metal railing of the fire escape landing, but his right arm took the impact and cracked like a twig.

The rest of Tim rattled and clumped like trash on the metal grating, and he curled up and held his shattered arm to his chest and tried to breathe.

Everything hurt, but his soulmark hurt the worst.

Tim retreated inside his brain as he waited—for what, he wasn’t sure. For Robin to lean over the rooftop ledge and apologize? For Batman to appear, and take him to a cell somewhere to live out the rest of his days alone so he couldn’t expose their identities?

For someone to come erase his memories?

Tim had read up on soulmarks, of course; his parents weren’t soulmates, but the idea of it seemed exciting and romantic to little Tim. They lived in a world with aliens flying around, mad scientists creating beastly atrocities, and magic users pushing demons back into portals every once in a while—and almost everyone on the planet had their own tiny bit of access to something magical themselves.

A way to know that there was someone out there that they truly belonged with, however it ended up looking.

Tim had convinced himself to be okay with anything and everything: if his soulmate was a lesbian woman, and just wanted him as a friend, or if they were way older or younger and felt more like a parent or a child than a partner, or maybe they’d only want to be a business partner or a pen pal, even. Anything. Tim would take anything his soulmate wanted to give, and he’d love them with his whole heart and mind and soul.

And he knew all about what it might look and feel like if things went wrong. He’d needed to know, to be prepared. Like hacking into his parent’s flight and hotel bookings, so he could be prepared for another birthday or holiday alone.  

And so he was prepared by records of first-hand accounts to understand the burning in his leg.

Rejection. Complete, utter, soul-condemning rejection.

His soulmate was Robin, and his soulmate didn’t want anything to do with him.

It hurt.

It hurt.

Useless and worthless, Tim laid there, and braced through the pain, and he waited.

***

Jason came back to awareness thirty blocks away, tears fucking with the adhesive of his mask, with Batman holding his shoulders and trying to count breaths with him.

He couldn’t—he couldn’t tell him. Never.

He needed to go back and find the kid and—

Batman might take the kid then, and do what?

Jason didn’t even know. Batman didn’t trust his own son, or whatever Jason was now. He’d never trust some random stranger kid.

The kid was probably long gone by now, so it was a waiting game. How long before the news reports? How long before the breaking news, the exclusive interview, the close-up photos of Jason’s mark on a different person’s body?

How long before the end?

He’d have to be careful not to let Batman observe his soulmark when they showered; it must be a different color now, though Jason wasn’t sure what color it would be. It was supposed to slowly change and settle according to how your mate truly felt about you. He hoped his would be white, signaling that his soulmate didn’t want to know him any more than Jason wanted to know his soulmate.

Honestly, it would keep the kid safe.

“Breathe, Robin, please,” Batman was saying. Jason tried to obey.

For what it was worth, anyway.

“In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four, five. Out, two, three, four, five, six. Good.”

“No,” Jason wheezed, “no.”

Batman’s voice came out so carefully controlled that it filled Jason with rage. “Robin. What happened?”

He finally managed a real, deep breath.

Waiting game. That was it. He had nothing keeping him here anymore.

Not too many people knew his soulmark, at least not well enough to match it exactly with the mark the kid would say belonged to Robin. Jason still had a chance.

Maybe no one would believe the kid, anyway.

He wondered if it was a boy or a girl. He hadn’t been able to tell, just in those couple of seconds.

(Don’t think about it, don’t think about them.)

“Fuck off,” Jason said. “You probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

He pushed against Batman’s breastplate, like that would do anything. Batman moved away of his own accord, staring.

“You were benched. You had a panic attack. What happened.”

“Maybe if you asked it like a question instead of an order you’d get something besides ‘fuck off’, so fuck off.”

Then Jason got to his feet.

“We’re going back to the cave,” Batman said.

“Fine.”

Jason had flights to book, anyway.

(His soulmark was dark green, with bits of orange at the edges. Mostly grief, and unconditional love. Fuck.

Jason would find the kid in a few years and apologize, maybe.

Maybe.)

***

The clock on Tim’s phone informed him that he’d laid there for around forty minutes before he was cognizant enough to sit up. No one had come for him.

His arm was very broken.

If he could get to the ground one-armed, he could walk to Leslie Thompson’s free clinic and lean against the door until someone came to open it up at 6am. They’d give him a cast, he was sure; if he refused to give a name, they would help a pathetic twelve-year-old without giving him too much trouble. Then he’d just need to escape before child services showed up.

He could handle this.

He could love Jason Todd from afar, and never bother him, and still love him every way he could think of. Yes. He could help out the bats and send in photos to the police and just be there, unnoticed, in the background. And he would never pester Jason or talk to him at all, except for doing polite small-talk at galas, and that would be okay. Tim could make this work.

His parents didn’t particularly love him, either. Shouldn’t be a surprise (oh god, oh god it hurt) that his soulmate didn’t want him, either.

He could be a one-sided soulmate. Rejected, still in love.

Honestly, he should have been prepared for this outcome.

So Tim Drake shuffled down the creaky metal stairs, fumbled down a ladder to the ground, and went to get himself a cast.

He should be healed by the time his parents returned from Cambodia, and he already knew how to remove his own casts anyway.

One foot in front of the other.

Limping, because of the screeching, gasping, soul-wrenching pain in his calf.

Onward.

***

Two weeks later, Tim’s soulmark turned from rejected white to grey.

Jason Todd was dead.

Tim screamed into his pillow in his family’s manor, alone.

Chapter Text

The next time they saw each other, unbelievably, hurt even more.

Mostly because the Red Hood was beating the ever-loving shit out of Robin, and Tim’s calf hurt too much to focus on fighting back. Even the gunshot wound in his side from the start of the fight wasn’t registering on his personal pain scale right now.

This was bad, this was really bad, Tim thought as the bo staff was wrenched from his hands and snapped in half. This guy had sixty pounds on him, and none of Tim’s strikes seemed to hurt as much as they should have.

“Weak,” the Red Hood laughed.

“You need to work on your banter,” Robin panted. “I’m barely intimidated.”

Hood pinned him to a wall. “How about I gut you and tie you a noose with your intestines? Hmm?”

“Better,” Robin gurgled. “At least you’re painting me a picture.”

He tried to knee the rogue in the groin, cup or not, but his entire leg seized up on him and all he could do was cry out.

His fucking leg! Why was it giving him so much trouble?! He hadn’t even tried to look at the mark for months, knowing it would be the same dull, hopeless grey that it always was. He kept it covered, not even showing Bruce or Alfred, because this was something raw and small and hidden, just for Tim.

It was for Tim to know, to hold softly and gently in the core of his heart, that he was trying to honor Jason by saving his dad and continuing the legacy of Robin. That his soulmark hurt almost constantly, these days, for no imaginable reason.

They only knew that his soulmate was dead. He had their vague sympathies.

Damn it, Tim was supposed to be beyond the issue of soulmarks! Jason, the love of his life, the perfect match for his soul, who hated him and rejected him, was dead. Jason was dead.

Jason was dead, and Tim’s calf felt like it was collapsing in on itself.

“Poor baby birdy’s all hurt, huh?” Red Hood mused. He kept Tim pinned with one gloved hand, strength beyond human, and drew out a knife. “You don’t even know what the word pain means.”

“Sounds like you’re quoting an anime villain,” Tim croaked against the weight on his chest.

The knife settled against his neck.

“Flippant little Robin, always crackin’ jokes.”

The Red Hood tilted his head. Tim couldn’t tell where he was looking with that helmet in the way, but every inch of him was up for inspection right now. He was in uniform except for his belt, which meant he didn’t have the smoke bombs or flashbangs that might have helped right now.

Note to self: hide some useful things in his gloves, next time.

The knife slid across his skin, and Tim paused, frozen, hyper-focused on the zipper opening of his neck. Carotid artery slice, death in about a minute…

“Not yet, birdie,” Red Hood murmured.

Tim was dropped on the ground, then, landing on his back with a gloved hand covering the wound on his neck.

Now that Tim was sure that the cut was shallow, the black hole of pain in his calf overtook his senses once again.

“You don’t get to die that easily, Robin,” Hood said, looming over him. Tim watched as the man reached up and clicked something, then wrenched off his helmet.

“The last Robin didn’t get to die easily, either.”

And Tim saw the Red Hood’s face, and he knew.

Oh, god.

“Jason,” he rasped. Jason, Jason, Jason.

Jason, not dead. Jason, a villain. Jason, killing him.

It was appropriate, perhaps, that if Tim Drake was the target of the worst, most painful experience he could imagine—soulmate rejection—that life would invent new ways to make him suffer.

His parents still hadn’t noticed that he barely attended school; they only noticed if his grades dropped before he could doctor them up. They didn’t even know that his soulmark had turned grey; they probably wouldn’t care if they did. He only needed to stay presentable, smile, and be smarter than everyone around him. He wasn’t important to them.

Batman barely considered Tim’s existence outside the cape. It was better than at the start of their partnership, when Batman tried to train him past the point of injury and exhaustion to get him to quit, but their quiet, distant new normal was nowhere near caring. Tim wasn’t important to Bruce Wayne.

Alfred liked to feed him and ask after his interests, but that was just an old man trying to access the feeling he must have had when Jason was around. Tim wasn’t actually important to Alfred; not really.

Dick Grayson hadn’t liked him any more than Bruce had in the beginning, and Dick had a shorter temper when irritated. At least the man didn’t openly hate Tim now, but it wasn’t like they were brothers. Dick could smile and chat and charm his way through life without actually connecting, personally, at all. He had never truly opened up to Tim, or tried to get Tim to open up to him. Tim wasn’t important to Dick.

Young Justice was a good team, but they were new to each other and Tim spent most of his time managing their stupid conflicts and personality clashes—he was a team leader, not a friend. Superboy needed support and the occasional reality check, and Robin gave it. Impulse needed routines and help focusing, and Robin was there. Wonder Girl needed respect and grounding, and Robin provided.

Robin was extremely important to Young Justice. They didn’t even know Tim Drake’s name.

But Jason.

Jason Todd was alive.

Tim let his hand fall away from his neck. His entire body relaxed, boneless, into the floor.

If his soulmate wanted him to die, there was nothing stopping it.

Tim would do it.

For Jason.

“Giving up, Replacement?” Jason asked. Then he laughed. “I didn’t give up for one fucking second, not until the very end. What made you think you could wear my colors?”

He crouched down. Tim couldn’t think words.

“You’re pathetic. An embarrassment.”

The knife came back. Tim couldn’t even spare it a glance.

Jason’s face was older, his frame larger and so imposing, so strong—he demanded every shred of focus Tim could muster.

White streak in his hair. The same strong brow, still so expressive, so determined. Long, thick lashes. The shadow of a beard covered his jaw, his face was scarred now, and his eyes glowed green.

Glowing green.

He was the most beautiful thing Tim had ever seen.

“Pathetic,” Jason said. Then he flipped the knife in his hand and brought it down into Tim’s shoulder. The blade was long enough to ping into the floor beneath him. Tim gurgled in pain.

“You’re not worth shit, Replacement, but you’ll send a message for me. Bruce needs to know.”

“Know… what?” Tim asked. Tried to be responsible, learn the message he was supposed to relay.

Jason had looked away in thought, but his gaze snapped back to Tim at the sound of his words. He sneered, then punched Tim in the face, twice.

Tim heard, “Shut the fuck up,” as consciousness began to escape him.

He sensed more than saw Jason stand. Gloved fingers rooted around the blood on his neck.

Then, nothing.

***

Two days earlier, Bruce had been noticeably agitated, and expressed himself by not expressing himself in any way. Tim observed his mentor’s lack of facial expressions, vocal affect, and offhand conversation, and concluded that Batman had a bee up his butt about something.

The nature of that something was a mystery to Tim, since Batman wouldn’t tell him shit.

Par for the course.

This would require some snooping, so Tim had snuck into the cave to do some clandestine research under the guise of unrelated clandestine research. With Batman, you had to hide one deception under another. And then you had to lie about it to Batman’s face.

Tim had a lot of experience lying to Batman.

Why are you limping, Robin?

I saw a squirrel eating a chicken wing like a human while I was skateboarding and totally crapped out, Batman. Want to see the video I was taking? No?

(He’d actually been spying on a fishy meeting over by the docks and had to run for it, tripping when the gunfire started up, but that was Tim Drake business, not bat business. And the limping definitely had nothing to do with his calf hurting. Again. For no conceivable reason, unless Jason Todd was arguing with God and things had turned violent.)

The cave chilled him to the bone at 5am, but this was soft batty, sleepy batty, little ball of fur time, so. Tim and Batcomputer bonding session.

His cover, should he be caught this time, was a search for leads in a string of deaths that might be serial murders of prominent Gotham artists. One of the victims had recently been featured in a dramatic article about the travesty of her work being stolen by a certain cat, and now after a second, similar incident, there might be a pattern of theft and then murder which would be enough of a hook to distract Batman from the fact that this investigation was just a cover.

Tim’s parents had five items in a gallery where one of the murders occurred, hence the justification for his personal interest.

Tim also truly didn’t want Selina to get mixed up with a potential serial killer, on the off chance that the two ever crossed paths, so if he made progress then that would be a bonus.

(He was pretty sure that Selina was Bruce’s soulmate, but the man hadn’t revealed his soulmark to anyone, including Dick, to “protect them.” Alfred knew because he was Alfred, but no one else on planet earth knew what Bruce Wayne’s mark looked like.) (Besides Selina, maybe?)

But Tim’s real focus this morning was Batman’s activity over the last two weeks.

Tim rubbed his achy calf distractedly, scrolling and noting keywords. Gang chatter. Goon movements.

A new player in crime. Old aliases—an old Joker alias.

The Red Hood.

Ah.

Tim started a download for later review as he opened a video. Cowl footage.

The Red Hood was a big dude, probably as big as Batman. That wasn’t scary; Batman wiped his nose with big dudes every day.

But this guy could match him, meet him, beat him, move for move. How the fuck did that happen? Did some other human being, independent of Bruce Wayne, also decide to go train with the same series of masters (including Mr. Creepy himself, Ra’s al Ghul), just to become a blossoming crime lord instead of a justice-obsessed furry?
What were the odds?

Nonexistent.

Maybe this was an alternative universe Bruce? An evil Bruce?

Tim shuddered; the current Bruce gave him enough trouble, even though they’d moved past the Tim-is-benched-for-malnutrition-and-exhaustion stage of training.

(Bruce didn’t even care about the malnutrition part, expect for the muscle-building he was supposed to be doing! For every three protein bars the man eye-contacted Alfred into giving Tim, another meal ended up being removed from Tim’s home food calendar. His parents had set up an automatic caloric schedule, which adjusted based on his required monthly weigh-ins.

See, Janet Drake had heard from Marcy Wentworth-Pierce that apparently the kids at school thought Tim was looking thicker, which was just a shame, since Marcy’s dear boy Whitby was following the custom diet developed for his frame and athletic goals.

The resulting conversation had been akin to the explosion of Mount Vesuvius.

Tim couldn’t exactly tell Bruce, “I’m supposed to be exactly this slender and no thicker, even if it’s muscle, Bruce. My mom will kill me if I don’t fit into my Tom Ford!”

The Dark Knight got his Tom Ford custom-fitted.)

So. Possible Evil Bruce in a red hat. Great.

Then the Red Hood threatened Robin, and Tim gained a whole new level of exhaustion. Now he might have to personally fight Evil Bruce? No wonder Good Bruce was being insufferable.

“Master Tim, what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

Tim hit the appropriate key on the first audible syllable and spun in his chair. “Alfred! I’m not here working!”

The butler raised one demure eyebrow.

“No, you are not. You are upstairs in bed, young man, or else you are explaining yourself to Bruce this afternoon.”

“Yep! Yep yep yep!” Tim closed his way out of layers of tabs and windows, stealthily running a code to erase his tracks, and extracted his flashdrive. “I’m in bed right at this very moment!”

“Sleep well,” he heard spoken softly as he bolted up the stairs, favoring his right leg.

Gosh, he really loved Alfred.

Tim headed home instead of into the guest room bed, however, R.I.P. Alfred’s expectations.

He had scary, threatening footage to review.

Then Batman sent him to Titan’s Tower, and Robin was more than happy to go.

Chapter Text

Sometime during the methodical bloody finger-painting process, the green haze in Jason’s mind cleared enough for him to start… noticing things.

Jason didn’t want to notice things; Jason wanted to write ‘JASON TODD WAS HERE’ on the wall in the Replacement’s blood. And yet.

A faint stinging pain shot through Jason’s chest. What was wrong with this picture?

He paused, crouched next to Timothy Drake’s still form, and observed.

Then Jason scoffed.

Well, obviously, he was going to react to the sight of a Robin bloodied and broken on the floor, no help in sight. What was he, an idiot? He went and triggered himself.

He stood brusquely, finishing the ‘HERE’ and adding some final touches. A little artistic flair. Serifs.

He would just ignore these feelings about the pretender, who wasn’t a true Robin, anyway. Fancy-ass silver spoon kid was nothing like Jason.

And yet.

He looked pretty small down there, and something pinged in Jason’s mind beyond the Lazarus Pit rage that had gotten him this far. Black hair, blue eyes under that mask, very pale skin… skinny.

Too skinny.

Why was the kid so skinny?

Something wasn’t adding up here, since Jason knew that Drake had started training to be Robin just a few months after Jason’s death. Bruce should have this kid pounding calories, right? He was fourteen, about to be fifteen, at this point. Training as Robin, for god’s sake. Kid shouldn’t look like he’s starving.

It was weird.

Jason studied the boy’s cheeks—too thin—and lingered on the nose and mouth. Something about this face…

He reached down and grabbed the kid’s chin with his bloody glove and tilted his head up to face Jason straight on. That round, slightly upturned nose. Those full, pale pink lips, more feminine that masculine.

Jason couldn’t see the kid’s eyes, but he felt like those might be familiar, too.

Something was going on here.

Somebody should put pressure on his gunshot wound, actually, and bring him to the medbay so the knife in his shoulder could be removed safely…

Jason reeled backward. What the fuck was that thinking?! He couldn’t help the kid! He was the one who hurt him! Everything seemed so much easier when the world was tinted green.

His own mind wasn’t making any damn sense. Jason rubbed at his left pec uncomfortably, checking and assuring himself that the gunshot wound wasn’t bleeding enough to kill the kid, anyway. Neither was his neck; that one was mostly just to scare him.

Whatever. Jason still hated him down to the very core.

Message: sent.

Batman would take the flightless Robin out of the equation, and then Red Hood would force Batman to do his own little villain math problem. Kill Joker, or kill his own son.

Jason turned and left. He had things to do.

***

“Hey, Dick,” Tim mustered the courage to ask, a bowl of Alfred’s soup cradled against his chest. He’d recently been moved from the Batcave medical bay to a guest room upstairs, and Dick had come to visit him again.

The guy was being extra touchy-feely now, and it just made Tim feel even more guilty. All of this must be really triggering for Dick.

He might as well try to distract him and get some insight at the same time, right?

“What’s up, baby bird?” Dick replied, looking up from where he was messing around with Tim’s camera (without asking), taking close-up photos of unremarkable things around the room.

“If you know your soulmate is Wally, why aren’t you two together?”

Dick smiled softly, then came and sat down next to Tim.

“I guess you’re old enough to talk through this stuff, huh?” Tim glared flatly at him, and he laughed. “Wally and I are still pretty young. We both have a lot going on, and we both really care about other people. We both want to… date other people. It doesn’t make our soul bond any less important; it just means we know who we’ll end up with when it feels like the time is really right for it. I still want to get to know all sorts of people, have all sorts of experiences, you know?”

“You mean you want to have all sorts of sex,” Tim teased. He was secretly relieved that Dick didn't think having other relationships was a betrayal of his soulmate; Tim had gone on a very brief, very awkward kissing adventure with Steph, and he wasn't sure if he should hate himself for it or not.

“Gross!” Dick cried, burying his face under a pillow. “I don’t want to hear the word sex come out of my little brother’s mouth!”

The smile dropped off of Tim’s face. “Don’t call me that. I’m not your little brother. You know that.”

Dick lifted up and looked at him in concern. “Oh. Well… you’re kind of a little brother figure to me, you know? I know you have your family and you love them. I get that. I just—”

“You’re being disrespectful. To. To Jason.” Tim put down the soup and curled his legs up against his chest. Subtly grabbed his calf and rubbed at his soulmark over layers of pajamas and blankets.

The mark had changed, again. It wasn’t grey anymore, but a sickly whitish green, and since Titan’s Tower a few days ago it felt sunken in, collapsing. He could dip his fingers down into the soulmark at this point, which was something he’d never heard about happening before. His lower leg felt like it was shriveling up.

They all knew that Jason was back, now, and that he hated them all. Alfred moved like a ghost through the manor, hardly talking, and Bruce had withdrawn completely. Dick was the only one trying to put on a brave face.

His brave face was looking pissed, now.

“Jason’s full of shit,” he said lowly. “He shouldn’t have attacked you and I don’t know what he’s even thinking, out there, killing people. Fighting us. Something is seriously wrong with him.”

“So help him!” Tim cried. “Bruce knew right away that glowing green eyes could mean he was brought back with a Lazarus pit, which means he was probably brainwashed by Ra’s al Ghul or something! He needs help, not violence!”

Dick stood up and started to pace; not a good sign. Pacing preceded screaming matches, when it was Dick and Bruce arguing. Tim didn’t want to get screamed at right now.

“We never initiate violence with Jason, it’s always him. We react. And if you’re this hurt because you refused to fight him, Tim—”

“No!” Tim protested. “I did the best I could! He’s bigger than me, and he didn’t feel pain like he should have when I made contact! Something is wrong with him, Dick. He needs help!”

“We are TRYING,” Dick shouted.

Tim winced. Drew back.

Dick growled a ran a hand through his hair. “Enough. You’re still recovering. We’re not talking about this. You didn’t even know Jason; you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He retreated to the door, then looked over his shoulder.

“I’ll be back to hang out after I… calm down. Okay?”

“Whatever.”

Dick grimaced, but left, shutting the door behind him.

Tim sighed.

Dick was more right that he even knew; Tim didn’t have a right to an opinion at all. Jason had taken one look at all that was Tim, and replied with a resounding ‘fuck, no!’. Tim was worse than worthless when it came to Jason Todd; Tim was a problem.

He traced his fingers over the pattern in the guest room duvet.

If he wasn’t here… would Jason be able to come home?

Oh.

Tim wasn’t just a problem; he was the problem.

***

Downstairs, and then down another set of stairs, the head of the household was investigating.

“Talia,” Bruce bit out. “Just tell me the truth.”

“You’ve observed the truth for yourself, Beloved,” she answered. The high quality of the video call allowed Bruce to read every minute twitch and glance as she listened, thought, and spoke. He could see her detached amusement covering smug satisfaction covering hungry anticipation and a tiny bit of fear.

She knew exactly what had happened to Jason, and she wasn’t sharing. The fear, though… did she care about Jason, based on some time they spent together? Was Jason a pawn in a game she was worried about losing? Was this a plot by Ra’s, of which she disapproved but chose to manipulate to her own ends?

Bruce wished, not for the first time, that Talia was his soulmate. It was a fleeting, selfish desire to be able to trust this gorgeous, brilliant, terrifying woman, to know she would come back to him, love him, through anything.

But Talia al Ghul was not Bruce’s soulmate, and he probably wouldn’t have trusted her if she were. He wasn’t stupid.

“He went into a Lazarus pit. I need to know how to cure him.”

Talia smirked. “He cannot be cured. He can only be managed… perhaps contained. Aimed in a direction you choose, when violence is needed. Your son is a weapon, now, Beloved. Accept him as such.”

“I won’t,” Bruce growled. “If there’s no cure, I’ll create one.”

Then Talia’s eyes softened, and she was the woman he once deeply loved again. Surprised. Inspired. Admiring.

“I would not underestimate you,” she murmured.

Bruce only nodded grimly. “Good.”

Then he ended the call and went to start finding leads.

Chapter Text

Five days of healing, and Tim was ready to go back to his own house. He was fairly certain Alfred would send food home with him, and the empty halls of Drake Manor lacked the ragged tension and snippy conversation of the Wayne household these days.

Being alone all the time was just easier.

Plus, there was the issue of Tim’s leg: he couldn’t exactly walk anymore. In order for a foot and ankle to absorb the impact of a step, then push off the ground to move a human forward, the calf muscles needed to function.

Tim’s were out of commission. From what he could see, his right leg was literally caving in on itself. He could hold his lower leg stiff and hobble along by the grace of his thigh muscles, and he could wiggle his toes, but that was about it. The gunshot wound, stab wound, and throat slit couldn’t hold a candle to the pain in his soulmark.

Jason must want Tim dead so, so much.

Tim needed to go home and… not be at Wayne Manor. He’d managed to beg meals in bed or just sleep through them, but as far as Alfred knew, Tim was perfectly capable of walking to the dinner table and this subterfuge was not going to fly much longer.

Ideally, he’d escape while everyone else was focused on patrol one evening, or while they were sleeping. He’d text his apologies.

Tim’s plans were all for naught, however, because this sunny afternoon Dick Grayson decided to jump and crash onto the lower half of Tim’s bed to invite him to play video games, and he landed on Tim’s right leg.

Tim’s scream of pain brought Bruce and Alfred running.

Three hours and a thorough examination from Dr. Thompkins later, and Bruce and Leslie were conversing urgently in the hallway outside Tim’s guest room door.

Dick was sat in a chair next to him, trying not to stare at the leg currently bared by a pushed up pant leg and cradled on the softest pillow in the house.

“This is the kind of thing you tell us, Tim,” he was saying. For the third time.

“It’s my problem, and it’s none of your business,” Tim replied. Again. “It’ll probably be healed by the time my other wounds are, so it shouldn’t matter to you.”

“We don’t even know what’s causing it, baby bird, you can’t guess when it’ll heal! Plus, it’s your soulmark. It’s hurting you and we don’t know why!”

 “I still think doctor-patient confidentiality should have applied,” Tim grumbled.

“You’re a vigilante, healing from a fight with a rogue. There is no doctor-patient confidentiality!” Dick wrung his hands, stood up, and sat back down. “Are you sure the Red Hood didn’t inject you, or splash you, with something? Was he using magic? Zatanna’s coming tomorrow and she’ll be able to check for spells and curses.”

“His name is Jason, and no. I told you about all of my injuries from the fight. My leg has been hurting for a while and it’s fine.”

(It was not fine, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.)

Tim was saved from Dick’s reply by the return of Bruce and Dr. Thompkins. Her face was ashen and Bruce looked like—well, he looked like the world was crashing down around him and he was calculating the moves needed to catch every single piece.

“Tim. Honey. I…” Dr. Thompkins covered her mouth with her hand for a moment.

Great. Tim’s existence left her speechless with despair. Cool.

She finally pushed out the words. “I believe I’ve discovered an account of something like what is happening to you. It’s not published or peer reviewed, but I was able to speak through a translator with the doctor who identified the case and interviewed those involved.”

“Awesome,” Tim said flatly. “Lay it on me.”

Bruce’s eyes were drilling holes in Tim’s leg. He almost grabbed a blanket to cut off his gaze, it was so intense.

“A doctor in Sarajevo cared for a young woman, early twenties, with a soulmark that appeared to begin to eat through the tissue underneath it, and then began to rot. According to the woman and her family, the woman’s soulmate rejected her and then… decided to kill her. The murder attempt was unsuccessful, but the damage to the soulmark was devastating.”

Tim felt strangely floaty; he’d already figured out the basics. He was living it.

His soulmate wanted him dead, and then almost killed him. So he just nodded agreeably.

Dick had gone white. “How did they treat it?”

Dr. Thompkins glanced at Bruce, who didn’t move or speak. Still, with the staring.

“The rot spread over the course of several weeks, consuming her arm and then her shoulder,” Dr. Thompkins explained. “When it reached her torso it continued to spread, until the woman ultimately passed away from organ failure. They were not able to find an effective treatment.”

“We’re going to treat it,” Dick declared. “Zatanna’s coming tomorrow. I bet she’ll fix it in five minutes.”

“The Sarajevo case attempted treatment with magic; the nature of the soulbond repelled any effect.”

“Fuck!”

Now Bruce spoke. Unfortunately.

“Jason is your soulmate.”

Dick gasped, not having made the connection just yet. He would have, no doubt; he was just distracted and emotional right now.

“Congratulations, you figured it out,” Tim spat, but the flash of anger quickly faded and left him in the same state of exhausted pain. He refused to look away from the teal and white floral fabric underneath him. “I didn’t want you to know.”

All Bruce said was, “Tim. Tim.”

What would Bruce be thinking? What could he possibly be thinking? Surely he had a plan! He must have made a plan in the hallway.

Why wasn’t he explaining the plan?

“Oh my GOD, baby bird, your soulmate was dead! That’s what you told us! And it was Jason all along, oh my god, I can’t imagine the pain you must have felt—and—he—he came back and—I’m gonna kill him.” Dick burst into tears, seething like the rage and sadness couldn’t be kept in the bounds of his skin.

This was all getting out of hand.

“No, you’re not,” Tim said, and he started up the process of standing and gathering his things. He didn’t have much; just a small overnight bag for the recuperation stay. He could get his clothes and spare pair of shoes later.

Or whatever.

“You should not be walking, Timothy,” Dr. Thompkins exclaimed, but Tim slid out of her grasp.

“I’m going home. You can’t stop me.”

Tim heard Bruce’s jaw click shut, then grind.

“Tim. Jason wants you dead because you’re Robin.”

To his credit, Tim only faltered for a second.

Of course. Of course Bruce would logically conclude the same thing Tim, noted genius, did: Tim was the problem. His presence here, his very existence.

The one thing that gave him joy over the last three years just couldn’t be his.

Maybe he never should have tried.

“No shit, Bruce,” Tim muttered. If he gripped his backpack tightly enough, no one could see his hands shaking.

“What? No, NO—” Dick began, but Bruce talked right over him.

“You are removed from Robin. This will be made clear to Jason. He will no longer want to kill you, and you will recover.”

Tim was absolutely cold and empty, and for a moment, he couldn’t feel his leg.

Laptop, phone, charger. Fuck the toothbrush; he could buy a new one. Tim needed to go. “Sure. Yep. Of course. I’ll go recover at home, with my parents, my real family, since I don’t belong here and I never will!”

Tim might have left with more dignity if he’d been able to keep from screeching at the end, there, but he was just so tired and he had so little left to give. They’d already taken his time, and his patience, and his hope for something better.

“Bruce, this is bullshit!” Dick shouted, at the same time Dr. Thompkins demanded, “Come lay back down this instant, young man!”

Bruce shot back a logical argument at Dick—it might make Jason feel less angry if Tim isn’t in the manor—Tim ignored the doctor, and Alfred appeared to help Tim wobble his way out the front door.

At least the wonderful old man gave him a ride home along with the two tins of cookies, container of soup, and a promise to check on him every single day.

Walking would have sucked.

***

It had been five days since the beatdown at the tower, and Jason just couldn’t get his head right again. He was trying to listen to his top two lieutenants run down a list of locations to hit in the next day, but his mind just wasn’t right.

Right, meaning full of certainty, full of purpose and focus, full of green.

He was losing his grip on the only thing pushing him forward—the only thing keeping him alive.

Because if he didn’t have the revenge plan, the hatred, the clown to pin down and watch die… what was the point of him? He was supposed to be dead. He wasn’t supposed to be fuckin’ toiling through life, what the fuck?

He’d been on a rampage to cut down vital parts of Black Mask’s operation, rooting out the untrustworthy new recruits in his crime empire, and holding meeting after meeting to set up a drug supply that wasn’t laced with bullshit that would kill addicts. He hadn’t taken a single break—only the occasional hazy shower to reset blood splatter levels and a couple hours here and there of comatose sleep on his work desk.

The good thugs were beginning to worry.

This wasn’t sustainable, and Jason knew it. He needed to actually stop and look at himself in a mirror. The pain in his chest hadn’t gone away, but he didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to think.

The mark had come through death and resurrection unchanged, which was such metaphysical bullshit. Death was supposed to change a person, even down to their soul! He should be ruined, now, for anyone and anything trying to love him! It wasn’t supposed to be the exact same soulmark, in the exact same colors—dark and heavy forest green grief, with tiny splotches of orange at the edges.

Still that deep dark orange. Unconditional love.

Hood couldn’t catch his breath for a second, and Christie paused and said, “…Boss?”

He blinked and realized his hand was clutching at his chest. They probably thought he was a forty-year-old on the edge of a heart attack. Fuck.

He almost broke down and asked if someone could remind him what the fuckin’ point of any of this was, but the very thing that stopped him was his answer: he couldn’t ask them, because then the ranks would start muttering about the boss’s loss of faith in his own vision and goals.

And the Red Hood’s vision and goals were what brought these people to work for him in the first place: don’t touch kids, don’t sell ‘em drugs; don’t hurt sex workers, don’t abuse ‘em; don’t lace drugs with shady shit, and give addicts other options so they can actually choose another life. No human trafficking. No dog fighting rings. No. Joker.

(And fuck the police.)

Jason was here to make real change in Crime Alley. That was it. He was here to do what Batman wouldn’t, what Rich Boy Robin couldn’t.

Speaking of… Jason should probably check if the kid was still alive. What if he was sick, and that was the reason he was so skinny and wan? Jason’s lesson might have hit harder than he intended it to.

It was worth checking out, just for a better understanding of all the players on the board.

“I got business tonight,” he told Christie instead. She and Toby squared up, ready for orders. “Figure out what’s in those crates that shouldn’t be in that warehouse on Garland and Johnson, and let me know when I get back. Oh, and do the rounds of the bodegas, eh? Make sure no one’s getting shaken down for protection. And if they are, find out who’s pulling that shit.”

Affirmations from his lieutenants secured, and Jason gathered up his shit to go poke around Bristol Bat territory.

Just so he’d know the lay of the land.

*

Halfway there, he got a call from Toby. The helmet let him hear just fine under the wind whipping past his motorcycle.

“Go.”

“A bat tracked down one of our guys, Hood. Wanted to get a message to you.”

“Which one?”

“Blue and black, bendy, kinda hot?”

“Nightwing. Okay. What’d he say?”

“He said to tell you: there’s no more Robin. And come find him if you want to talk.”

Jason damn near crashed his bike.

Fuck! He was right! The kid was sick or something!

He slowed to a stop before he actually crashed, because: he might have killed a kid. Jason might have killed a kid.

Jason might have killed a kid.

When he collected his senses and shoved ‘em back into his head, and felt sure he wasn’t gonna throw up, he started up again. Going much faster than before.

Chapter Text

“He DOES belong here, you piece of shit! Didn’t you hear him? He thinks he doesn’t belong here!”

Bruce glared at his phone, re-reading files surrounding the Sarajevo case sent by Leslie. She’d left with some severe words and a promise to research further.

“Historically, my sons tend to react in… hyperbole when benched from being Robin. He didn’t mean it. When he begins to recover, we will discuss the process of including Tim in our family, as he should be.”

Dick nearly broke something, he was so angry. “But you never tell us we’re your sons, do you!?! Tim doesn’t know!”

He squared up with Bruce, very ready to start with shoving and move on to punching. “You tried to control me and then you drove me away. Jason ran away when you benched him, and he died! You’re going to let Tim die, too, without ever knowing you actually care about him!”

“I don’t ‘care about him’, I LOVE HIM,” Bruce roared.

“Master Bruce!”

Alfred cut through the heat of the screaming and prevented the violence about to occur, glaring sharply with supreme poise. Dick stormed off, hearing Alfred’s wisdom chastise Bruce behind him.

“Such sentiments are best conveyed sincerely, to the boy himself. You must gather yourself. And apologize, to more than just Master Tim…”

“Tim loves his parents,” Bruce said quietly. He sounded defeated. “He never asked for a father figure.”

Dick slowed down, hoping…

“Sometimes the truth of love surpasses any initial intentions. And you, above most, should know that a child can have more than two parents.”

Oh. Right. Dick knew that Alfred was one of the special, lucky people with two soulmates. He, Martha, and Thomas Wayne had found each other and delighted in each other, at every stage of their lives. Dick remembered being jealous as a child when he realized that Bruce hadn’t lost every parent when he’d lost Thomas and Martha.

It sounded like Alfred was hugging Bruce, and one of them might be crying.

Shit. Dick scrubbed his face with his hands. He needed a hug, too.

He retreated to his room, pulled out his phone, and called Wally.

“Wassup, love of my life?” Wally answered, mid-laugh.

“I need a hug,” Dick wailed. “Tim is dying and Bruce fired him from Robin and Jason came back to life but he’s, like, evil or crazy or something. And he tried to kill Tim. And they’re soulmates, which means murder is toxic, so now Tim is dying, he’s dying, Wally—”

By the seventh word spoken, Dick was in Wally’s arms and sobbing.

“Oh, babe,” the speedster sighed. “You don’t get a week without bat drama, do you?”

“This is serious, asshole! Everything is happening too fast, and I was too fucking immature and selfish to realize I want Tim as a little brother and now it might be too late because he left and it didn’t sound like he wants to come back and Bruce fired him so Jason would stop wanting him dead, which apparently can infect your soulmark with rot that kills you! And we didn’t even know that Jason and Tim were soulmates! DID YOU KNOW THAT SOULMATES CAN KILL EACH OTHER THROUGH THEIR MARKS??”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Wally said. “Let’s sit, at least.”

Dick’s stupidly expensive tufted leather sofa welcomed them with open arms.

“No, I did not know that. I don’t think anyone knows that. I have a hard time believing it’s true, actually. Lots of soulmates don’t end up liking each other; you’d think we would hear of more deaths.”

“Hmm.” Dick buried his face in Wally’s chest.

“And you said Jason came back to life?! And he’s crazy?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Have you talked to him?”

Dick shrugged, trying to focus on the incredible smell of the man wrapped around him. Wally smelled so good, it should be a crime. “Not really. We mostly yelled at him and fought a bunch in costume.”

Judgment rolled off of Dick’s soulmate. “That. Might be part of the issue. Have you found him outside the masks and just tried to tell him you still love him?”

Dick leaned back to glare at Wally’s gorgeous face. “He almost killed Tim!”

“Because…?”

“Well… we think he was dipped in a Lazarus pit. It makes you go crazy and murderous.”

“There you go! That’s a reasonable enough explanation. Try to talk to him. Maybe he tries to murder you, too. Maybe you capture him and we figure out a solution, and he gets better.”

“That’s what Bruce was thinking,” Dick said. He sat back just enough to make ongoing eye contact without losing the snuggles. “But I don’t want Tim to be out there alone!”

“Tim’s, uh, not an orphan, right?”

“Yeah,” Dick grumbled. “He said he was going home to his parents, so I guess he has support there. They probably know about his soulmark. He probably told them more than he told us, because they’re his ‘real’ family.”

“Eh, don’t get too jealous,” Wally said gently. “We’re family by soulbond, and now so is Tim.”

Dick sat straight up. “You’re right! He’s family by bond, even if his way-too-hands-off parents never die mysteriously so Bruce can adopt him!”

“That’s the spirit!” Wally laughed. “So. If Tim’s family, how are you going to let him know?”

Dick frowned as he played with the strands of hair at the nape of Wally’s neck.

“My first thought is cookies. Obviously. But I think I have an even better idea…”

***

Alfred took the time to put away his gifts, then escorted Tim up to his bedroom. His parents were “returning tomorrow for Tim’s upcoming birthday”, so Alfred promised to delay their next check-in for exactly two days, in order to let them settle in and reconnect. The plan was still to hide his injuries from Red Hood’s attack, so hiding his soulmark problem shouldn’t be any more difficult.

Alfred trusted Tim to make the proper excuses.

Then he kissed Tim on the forehead (a kiss that Jason should’ve received, not him), patted his shoulder, and left.

Jack and Janet Drake would be in Malaysia for another six weeks.

And Tim was alone.

Devoid.

A waste of space where a person should be.

He took his camera out of his backpack and brought it with him as he crawled into bed. Tim didn’t have any stuffed animals, but the camera gave him comfort as he drew his legs up through the dirty sheets and laid on his left side to avoid pressure on his calf.

For the first time in his life, he had… nothing.

Without Robin (or a functioning leg), he couldn’t lead Young Justice. He’d be as useful dead as alive to his parents. His soulmate—Tim shrank into a fetal position under his bedcovers and shook—his soulmate wanted him dead.

Life itself hurt, and it would hurt until the soulmark killed him.

God, he was going to miss being Robin.

Robin really was magic, like Jason said on patrol once. A lifetime ago.

Using his body to push through a situation and reach a goal the same way he’d always used his brain to do the same was just incredible. Tim had learned so much, gained so much by training and patrolling and actually saving real, human lives! And even some animals, here and there!

Very few people got to experience anything like it.

For all his bad luck, Tim knew he’d been incredibly blessed.

And maybe Bruce was right—maybe Jason would stop hating Tim now that he was entirely out of the picture. Maybe rejection would be enough for Jason.

Tim switched the camera on and began flipping through the images still saved on it. Past Dick’s nonsense photos of Tim’s guest room, there were a few photos of Tim’s backyard at sunset. Worth editing, just for himself.

Some snaps of Bruce’s coolest cars, when Alfred was washing one and Tim pleaded his way into a photo shoot.

Then there were those photos at the dock, from when he was off investigating on his own. He’d wanted to check and make sure a mob meeting that intersected with a shipment of artifacts sent home by his parents wasn’t actually related to the shipment or his parents… just in case. He wasn’t naïve enough to think they’d never make any shady deals, considering the value of the things they often handled. But he didn’t want Batman swooping down to arrest them out of nowhere, if he could just convince them to stop first.

He hadn’t found anything concrete. Needed more investigation.

Tim bit his lip, thinking.

If Bruce’s plan worked and Tim’s leg started healing, maybe he could go back to his original plan. The one made by a heartbroken twelve-year-old with a broken arm.

He could stay back and help, quietly, from the sidelines. He could just keep loving Jason (and Bruce, and Dick, and Alfred, and Barbara) without bothering them.

Maybe Barbara would even be willing to mentor him—he could be her back-up Oracle. She already had her hands more than full, but he wouldn’t ask much. He already knew a lot about hacking, and she wouldn’t have to drill him into the ground like Bruce did. He’d be more careful, this time around, not to get in the way.

He wouldn’t have what he used to have, but he could still define his life by love.

Aching and bereft of appetite, he decided to close his eyes and sleep for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

Jason had both standard and League-level tracking on all of the bats’ phones, plus a tracker Batman hadn’t noticed on the Batmobile and Nightwing’s motorcycle. If Robin was benched, and injured, he should have been at Wayne Manor.

His phone, however, was at the Drake’s house.

Nope, Jason corrected as he pulled up and hid his bike in the woods to the south of the main road. Drake Manor. Kid’s family was rich—not billionaire rich, but definitely millionaires. The thought made Jason sick. He hadn’t bothered casing the place yet (his focus had been on Crime Alley, building his empire, and Batman) but it had to have at least ten, maybe fifteen rooms. How many kids could be off the street and warm, if the world were just?

(Was this kid easier for Batman to train? No rough edges to sand down?)

Only one upper floor window glowed in the darkness, and Jason guessed that would be the location of the Replacement. Who was definitely alive and benched, not dead.

And fuck talking to the bats. He needed Black Mask to break Joker out of Arkham before that little conversation could occur.

Jason’s wrist computer let him loop the footage and silence the alarms from the garden-variety security system serving every house in the neighborhood (except Batman’s), then he moved along the back wall of the main building and climbed a tree.

This was, no doubt, the sneaking out tree; no sneaking out trees in Crime Alley, but that’s what fire escapes were for. Jason put his boots and gloves on every foot and handhold the kid probably used, then settled silently on a thick branch.

Past midnight. Injured birds should be sleeping, but sometimes they were up staring at a screen all night, so Jason moved carefully to get a line of sight into the room.

The light source was a dim bulb in a bathroom, and it illuminated a still body in the bed against the wall to the left of the windowsill. Jason couldn’t make out much more than a messy head of black hair, but thirty seconds of sharp focus confirmed that at least the kid was breathing.

Slow, even breaths.

Jason gave it five minutes before he tried the window.

Unlocked.

One inch open, and he froze for another minute to see if the kid twitched or stilled.

Nothing.

Jason slid the window fully open and then carefully slipped inside without leaving a footprint on the sill.

Nothing. No sign the kid was faking sleep. Jason couldn’t see even an inch of his skin, but this had to be the Replacement. His room was cluttered and messy and probably smelled, though the helmet cut out most scents before they got to him.

All Jason had to do was kick the shit out of him a little bit, and Batman takes Robin away. It was almost enough to make a man’s heart bleed, if he wanted to look at it from the kid’s perspective.

Which he did not.

But it had to suck, right? Losing your super-secret vigilante gig AND getting booted out the door at the earliest possible convenience? Cold, Batman. Cold.

(How did Alfred allow this? What the fuck was happening?)

Jason got the sudden urge to put a hand on the kid’s head, maybe smooth out some of that mess. If he took his gloves off, maybe the kid wouldn’t feel the pull of fingers in his hair…

Jason nearly slapped himself.

The kid was alive; question answered. What was Jason still doing here?

Food. He needed to check out the food situation around here.

So he slinked out into the hallway and checked each room, one by one, then methodically through the rest of the house for the kid’s parents, or anyone else who might be hanging around, sleeping over… fourteen was old enough to stay home alone for short periods of time without cops or bats breathing down your neck.

Kid was alone in the house.

Kitchen time.

Jason checked the panty, cupboards, and freezer, anger welling up as he progressed. This place was like a inpatient rehab center, but for weight loss. The cupboard were bare except for the one with an electronic padlock, which sounded less than empty when he tapped on underside surface.

A fuckin’ padlock on a cupboard?

Alcohol, maybe?

Jason flipped open his wrist computer and ran a decoder on the thing, and it popped right open after a minute.

Crackers. Popcorn. Brownie mix. All covered in a fine layer of dust.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

So the only food in the house was the individually portioned pre-made meals in the fridge, plus a container of Alfie-coded soup, and two tins of cookies.

One of those cookies went into Jason’s snack pocket. He would’ve take a whole tin, but… this shit was too much.

Too little.

The Drakes had one of those fancy electronic family calendars up on the kitchen wall, so Jason scrolled through days and weeks to see what he might learn.

The Replacement’s parents had been gone for six months already, and they wouldn’t be flying back in until September. They were going to miss the kid’s fifteenth birthday.

And one color-coded calendar category was meals. Meals for the only person living here. Exactly 350 calories for breakfast and 450 calories for dinner, up until the red flag marking when he gained five pounds.

Then, 300 and 400 calories. Then, two fewer dinners a week.

What was this kid eating for lunch, to make up for this deprivation shit? School lunch?! On the training regimen Batman would’ve created, the kid needed at least three times this much food just to keep up!

How was he supposed to get taller?!

Jason took a couple deep breaths, and slowly put the cookie back.

Okay. So Robin would no longer be part of the revenge plot. The kid needed to heal, and then he needed some actual home cooking. If the kid was benched and home, he might not get enough from Alfred.

And fuck Batman, right? Maybe Red Hood needed his own Robin.

Yeah. That was certainly a thought.

But Jason couldn’t just wake the kid up in his own house in the middle of the night—he’d give him a heart attack. And he seemed so tired.

Jason had time to do a little baking, then he could figure out a plan to tame a little bird.

Chapter Text

Exactly two days and three texts from Bruce later, Tim allowed Alfred to come and check on his soulmark.

The texts from Bruce were standard check-ins, plus an added request to come back to the manor when he could find time away from his parents, which Tim politely deflected.

Dick had been more persistent, actually calling Tim twice. He chattered cheerfully about vague plans for the future, just ignoring the reality of the situation entirely. He even said he loved Tim, like he didn’t love every other person he came across. It made Tim nauseated to listen to him.

He ate soup and cookies and let himself melt into the couch most of each day, because it hurt too much to walk up and down the stairs.

Alfred set up shop to remove Tim’s stitches first, which barely registered any feeling at all in Tim’s body. Just the presence of another person—one he trusted to be kind to him—overwhelmed Tim with warmth. He was going to miss this so much. (The small conversations and gentle touches, not the gunshot and stab wounds.)

 Next, Alfred examined his leg as he lay on his stomach the couch, and Tim didn’t need to crane his head backward and observe the process to know the conclusion: his soulmark was not getting better.

It was getting worse.

He did force himself to look, just for a moment, at the visual representation of the incredible, alarming, burning, sickening pain that had only increased, day by day.

The soulmark itself was so deep and shrunken that the forms were barely recognizable, and the white color had been overtaken by a sickly bile green at the center, while the skin surrounding the mark was turning a veiny black. The surface of the mark almost looked wet, and it made him hesitant to touch it.

Jason still hated him and wanted him dead, even though he’d been fired from Robin.

Oh, god.

Oh, well.

Alfred was quiet for a long while after a few gentle touches and measurements. Then he signaled a transition with a soft exhale and a pat of his hands on his thighs. Tim decided to just lay there for another few seconds, resting his head on his crossed arms.

“Well, Master Tim. Our hopes have not borne fruit, but we still have time. We are a persistent and resourceful lot,” Alfred laid a hand on his shoulder, “you included.”

Tim mustered a smile and eye contact. “Thanks, Alfred.”

“When will your parents be back today, may I ask?”

Tim shrugged. “Sometimes they run into friends and go out to dinner. Since they think I’m sick, they’ll expect me to stay in bed.”

“Then back to bed is where you shall go. You have a slight fever, so I would like to switch your antibiotics to a stronger option. It may help on multiple fronts.”

Tim raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You think antibiotics can cure soulmark rot?”

Alfred’s eyebrows parried, and won. “With only two known cases in existence, I believe more treatments might be discovered, yes.”

Tim sighed dramatically, finally sitting upright. “I’m just so rare and special.”

“You are,” Alfred replied, and his voice sounded so soft and meaningful, Tim felt himself turn bright red.

“Alfred…” he whined.

“We would all like to see you back at Wayne Manor as soon as you are able. Call, or text, or message any one of us, and we will be here to collect you in minutes.”

“Okay, Alfred. Thanks.”

It almost seemed like Alfred was going to lean in for a hug, but then the man’s phone trilled. He checked it and pursed his lips. “I would prefer to share this update with Master Bruce in person, so I’ll take my leave. Please let me know if you need more food, or company, my dear boy.”

“Sure, Alfred. Go on, deliver the bad news. Try to stop Bruce from going off a cliff trying to solve the problem, okay?”

“Ah, my ever-constant struggle.”

Tim laughed, taking Alfred’s arm and relocating to his bedroom. After the butler left, Tim ate two more cookies and poked absent-mindedly at his fresh scars.

He decided that yeah, he wanted to know how Bruce was going to react to the news. He didn’t want to be there, but he wanted to see and hear how Bruce reacted. Would he care? Would he already have a solution ready to go? Would he be distracted by some other world-ending case?

Would Jason already be there, in the cave, reconciling?

Luckily, Tim already had a back door into the Batcave on his laptop, which included cameras and audio.

He nestled down into his pillows and set himself up to watch.

***

Bruce was methodically reaching out to every scientific, magical, metaphysical, alien, and superhero group across the planet and outside the planet with a deidentified outline of the situation and pointed requests for insight or assistance. Dick had the entire Titans team brainstorming solutions.

He wouldn’t reveal a potential vulnerability to villains, but if a villain had the answer, Bruce wanted to know. So he also reached out to some of his more questionable contacts, asking them to ask around. Constantine was annoying, but he knew some very weird and very powerful people. Khoa would give him shit, but he’d help if he could. Slade would just want money.

He might owe a few favors after this. He might not like the consequences.

But it would be worth it, to help Tim.

Just as Bruce was composing yet another message to Talia, Alfred returned. Bruce spun his focus to his second father, scrutinizing the man’s posture and micro expressions. As reserved as Alfred could be, Bruce knew how to read him when he was feeling strong emotions.

Fuck.

Bad news.

“The wounds are healing well, at least,” Alfred began. “No infection. Slight fever, likely from the soulmark. The rot has progressed.”

“It’s not healing,” Bruce said blankly.

“No, sir.”

Bruce stood, pacing as the notes and photos from Alfred’s phone transferred and putting them up on a monitor. Tim’s soulmark looked awful. Painful. Bruce couldn’t help but grasp his inner elbow, which bore the small mark he shared with Selina. He couldn’t imagine the pain from a papercut over a soulmark, let alone—this.

He let himself think about Jason, just for a moment. His son hadn’t ever wanted attention on his soulmark as a child; Bruce had understood that his first parents were soulmates, and Jason didn’t come away from that situation with a positive impression. He’d been hurt by it, and watched his mother be hurt by it.

Jason and Tim hadn’t met before Jason’s death, so in all likelihood Jason didn’t know that Tim was his match. Tim probably figured it out by the timing of his mark turning grey, plus a review of Jason’s medical records which documented his soulmark. It would’ve been simple for Tim. The boy was so smart.

Tim would have been such an incredible complement to Jason. He was such a bright light, so brilliant, with that dry humor. So persistent, and so kind. Exactly what Jason needed.

And yet, this.

Bruce felt moisture welling in his eyes, but now was not the time. They were going to solve this.

Right at that moment, there was an incoming call from Leslie Thompkins. Because it was a video call, Bruce put it up on a monitor so Alfred could participate as needed.

The doctor appeared visibly tense and tired. She’d promised to do further research, and the time difference must have meant many late night calls to experts across the planet.

“Bruce. I’ve found another case like Tim’s. Thirty years ago in Colombia. The person lived… but you’re not going to like hearing how.”

As always, the worst-case scenario immediately presented itself in Bruce’s mind.

“Did they have to kill their soulmate before their soulmate could kill them?”

Bruce could not comprehend a world where his youngest child would need to murder his recently-resurrected middle child in order to survive. This, he refused.

“No!” Leslie said, aghast. “No. And even if they had, I wouldn’t be calling you to present it as an option.”

Bruce coughed. His voice still came out rough. “Thank you for that.”

Leslie nodded. Collected herself. “This case. They. Well, in this situation… they amputated the limb with the soulmark.”

Those words in that order caused Bruce to freeze, lest he vomit. Leslie, ever kind, gave him a few moments to beat down the wild beast roaring inside of him.

“The person survived. But they lost their soul bond along with the mark. It had severe psychological effects, though those are impossible to detangle from the psychological damage of the soulmate even wanting to kill them in the first place.”

She paused.

“He wouldn’t come out of it the same. And we have no idea—no idea what it would do to Jason.”

Bruce lived inside an ever-focusing film camera now, watching himself from a distance, zooming in but never drawing nearer.

“But he would live.”

“He would live,” Leslie affirmed.

Everyone remained silent for far too long.

Leslie finally spoke: “I have another scheduled call with a hospitalist from the Sarajevo case. I will let you know if I learn any more information.”

Bruce nodded. Then he swallowed, and asked, “How long do we have to decide?”

Leslie frowned. “I don’t have enough data to understand if the spread of the rot is accelerating or steady. If it is steady, then I would be comfortable waiting no more than three days in order to save the knee. If it’s accelerating… a day. If Tim wants to keep his knee, he has a day.”

“My observations,” Alfred cut in, “include visual estimates of the size and severity over several hours two days ago, and today. In my opinion, the spread is accelerating.”

“God,” Bruce breathed.

Leslie just nodded.

“I have performed several amputations,” Alfred said quietly. “However, we may want to utilize the Justice League medical team, considering the soul implications.”

When Bruce didn’t speak, Leslie nodded, then bade them farewell and the screen turned black.

Bruce stared into nowhere for a beat.

“Alfred, please call Dick and ask him to come. Do we know if Tim’s parents are home? I need to see him. I need to see him now.”

“His parents were away when I left. I’ll call Dick immediately.”

Bruce felt a hand on his arm.

“Master Bruce… we still have a day. Do not despair.”

Bruce looked into the old man’s eyes. “I can’t do that to him, Alfred. I can’t let it happen. We have to find another solution.”

Alfred squeezed. His reply was steadfast. “Then we will.”

***

In his room, Tim was standing, clutching a wall, panting, panicking.

He’d slammed the laptop shut the moment Bruce said he needed to see Tim. He was coming now.

This wasn’t going to be Tim’s decision. Bruce controlled everything and Batman’s decisions were final. And Batman wasn’t going to let Tim die, so that meant—

They were coming for him.

They were going to take his soulmark.

Cut it off of him.

Cut.

His leg off.

His connection to Jason, whom he loved, no matter what—the one perfect person for him, no matter how Jason felt about him—Tim wouldn’t do it, he wouldn’t do it, he wouldn’t do it—

He had nothing left now. Nothing keeping him here.

Everything got a blurry, for a while.

.

.

.

When Tim came back to his senses, he was staring at the Kane Memorial Bridge. His feet were bare and leaving little streaks of blood on the concrete. He looked behind him; his dad’s car was sitting in the overlook parking lot with the driver’s side door open.

He was wearing a hoodie and flannel pants even though it was a warm summer evening, but that was fine.

They’d help him sink faster.

Chapter Text

The Red Hood glared out the fifth-story window of his second favorite warehouse, waiting. It only took a second for the answers to start flowing.

“Really, really good. What the fuck?”

“The salted caramel toffee has too much salt.”

“Shut the fuck up, Remy, it’s the perfect amount!”

“Fuck off, some of us have low sodium requirements!”

“Then keep it to yourself, these ain’t for you!”

“The baguettes are top-tier, boss. I feel like I’m in Paris.”

“Kiss-ass!”

“Whaddya call the peanut butter things?”

“I think they’re bars.”

“Protein bars, right? Taste good, good for ya? You could make a killing off of selling these things.”

“If you ever get bored of real killing, heh.”

Hood spun around. “Okay, shut up! Are they good enough, though? Do they say ‘I’m sorry, please forgive me’, or do I need to switch something up?”

Toby and Christie glanced at each other. The other three thugs were too busy eating.

“I mean, you could just give a stack of cash?” Christie said.

“He’s already rich,” Hood muttered, pushing through the group to the foldout card table holding two days’ worth of recipe research and baking. “Okay back off, these aren’t all for you grunts. Take another one and I chop off that hand, Antonio.”

“Back to work, guys,” Toby declared, hustling the taste testers away. “And Hood? I think the best way to say ‘I’m sorry’ is to… actually say you’re sorry. Just an idea.”

Hood pointed a threatening finger at him, and he hurried off.

He made the mistake of not sending Christie off to knock a few heads together or something, because apparently she saw the moment as an invitation to ask questions.

“So whadja do that needs apologizing for?”

He whipped his scary blank helmet face in her direction and growled, “Don’t bond with me.”

“Too late,” she snorted. “We know your rules, boss. We’re with ya. I wanna help if you fuck up.”

“It’s personal.”

“Yeah no shit. Ya think it maybe has something to do with whatever’s makin’ you rub at your chest all the time?” She raised her eyebrows knowingly.

Hood looked down and realized, shit—he HAD been rubbing at his soulmark. When did it start hurting?

“When did I start doing that?” he demanded.

“I dunno, been doing it since I came in. It’s how I get when my wife’s mad at me. Soulmark hurts.”

“No,” he said flatly. “The apology isn’t related to this. It can’t be."

Christie shrugged. “Okay.”

Except.

Except the nose. The lips. The tiny face.

Except the weird way the pit haze disappeared every time he was around the Repla—

Holy shit. Holy shit.

Jason staggered backward and into a folding chair that barely held his weight.

“No,” he croaked. “No! I—I can’t—”

“Ah, fuck—you’re okay, boss. It’s okay. Your apology’s gonna work!”

Jason tore off his helmet and tried to breathe. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know it was him!”

He wasn’t sure if he was begging Christie or the universe or Timothy Drake to understand—

Somebody, Christie, slapped him across the face. Jason grasped onto the sting and crammed himself back into his body.

“Pull yourself together, Hood. You’re gonna apologize. So get it. Together.”

For a moment it was like he was staring at Barbara Gordon as she said those same words during a scary moment a lifetime ago.

Get it together.

Now that he was back in his body and paying attention, Jason noticed the moment that the ache in his soulmark went from dull and persistent to acidic and nauseating. The change was alarming enough to send him to his feet. He fumbled with his wrist computer and pulled up the security cameras at Drake Manor.

Deserted. No signs of life.

He switched to the tracker on Tim’s phone.

It was just slowing to a stop next to the Kane Memorial Bridge. After a pause, it began to move at a walking pace toward the bridge itself.

Whatever the fuck was happening, Jason had to be there, do something, do something—

Because something was very wrong with his soulmate.

And Jason had to get to him.

He ran for his bike like a man about to lose everything he didn’t even know he had.

***

Tim loved heights.

He’d be able to see a good portion of downtown Gotham from the top of one of the suspension bridge pillars, and if he waited long enough, he might even get to watch the sunset.

That would be nice. A nice ending to all of this.

He managed the maintenance ladder easily enough, even with one leg useless and bare feet, and went quick enough to avoid catching the eyes of any passersby. At least, he hoped. He wanted some peace and quiet before he jumped.

Luckily, his phone had been in his hoodie pocket, so he was able to text Bruce that his parents came to pick him up and they were all out of the house, so hopefully no bats would come bother him. He couldn’t think of a reason that good, attentive parents would have made their sick kid leave the house at 6pm, so he didn’t give one. He couldn’t say they were taking him to urgent care; Bruce would freak. Dinner or a movie would be callous of them; Bruce would freak.

There were no good excuses.

It wasn’t cold, but Tim still shivered up there on the weathered concrete pilaster topping the central southern pillar of the bridge. It was a small square of space, maybe ten by ten feet. He sat with his legs hanging off the edge just for a moment, and then it hurt too much, so he curled up and hugged his legs instead.

He’d hoped for more than this.

He was a fucking idiot.

(And he was lying to himself if he thought that Batman wouldn’t track him down pretty quickly, so. Better get on with it.)

He started by stretching an arm out and dropping his phone down, down, down into the Gotham River. Then he leaned forward, wobbling a little, to see where it hit the water.

Oh. He’d need to jump out a bit if he didn’t want to splat on the concrete foundation touching the water below.

Good to know.

He scooted back, then took one long final look at the loud, messy, dangerous, smelly, scary, fucking awesome city he called home. Tomorrow was his birthday. Rounding up, at least he’d made it to fifteen years here.

Then, as he worked on summoning the strength to stand up on one leg, there was a whoosh and a thud behind him.

Ah, crap.

Tim tried carefully not to think about what might happen next. He was liminal, here. Almost, not yet.

Not yet, not yet—

A mechanized voice whispered, “Tim. Oh, god, Tim.”

He turned and looked and saw the Red Hood taking off his helmet. Then a crack broke the relative silence as Hood’s armored knee pads hit the concrete, and the man sat back on his heels. He dropped the retracting grapple gun beside him and put his hands, palms loose, on his thighs.

“Oh. Hi, Jason,” Tim said. “I guess you’d rather be the one to do it, huh?”

Tim was okay with that. He could disconnect, watch it happen from a distance. He wouldn’t have to push through the fear and jump. He could just… go with it.

Maybe Jason would appreciate it.

“Tim, no, please. Please listen to me for a second.” Jason’s voice was raw and raspy and tight with emotion. “I didn’t know, little bird. I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t figure it out, didn’t realize, and I was gonna find you later and apologize for such a dick move when we met, I’m so sorry. What a fuck-up, what an ass I was—I shoulda stayed with you and at least told you what was goin’ on in my brain,  how I couldn’t handle it—but I had a panic attack and I ran and I’m so, so fucking sorry.”

Tim blinked slowly. “I’m imagining this.”

Jason shuffled a few inches closer to him. They were almost within reach of each other.

“No, you’re not. Tim, sweetheart, please, please don’t do this. Please let me take you somewhere safe. Fuck Bruce, oh my god, of course he fires you and this happens, he shoulda known! He shoulda taken care of you! God, does nothing change with that man?! Please, please—”

“St-stop,” Tim finally managed to say. “I don’t. I don’t understand.”

Thankfully, Jason stopped. He was breathing heavily. Logic would indicate fear, or haste. Tim did not understand.

He curled inward and spoke into his knees. “You hate me. You hurt me. You want me dead. And. It’s working. I’m dying.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it, you’re not,” Jason growled, and something tingled up Tim’s spine.

“But I am. It’s my soulmark. It’s killing me.”

Jason made an aborted attempt to reach out. “What? What do you mean?”

“It’s… rotting. I guess it’s a thing that happens when your soulmate tries to kill you. Your soulmark rots. Then you die. It’s rare but it happens. Mine’s getting pretty bad.”

Jason scrubbed a hand through his hair and then pulled at it. “Fuck! You serious? No. We gotta—we gotta—no. Can I… see it?”

Tim tensed up. Hugged his knees more tightly. “I just want it to be over.”

“Okay. Okay. Tim. Please let me take you somewhere safe, and we can talk. Please. We’ll go to my place. I have to at least try. Please let me try.”

Tim peeked over his shoulder. Jason didn’t look on the edge of murder this time.

And his eyes weren’t glowing green.

Who was Tim even kidding? If Jason Todd spit in his face he’d probably say thank you, he was so pathetic.

At the first sign of acquiescence, Jason added: “I have food. A lot of food.”

Finally, Tim pushed some words out: “Okay. I can’t really walk, though.”

Jason stood, slipping on his helmet and sweeping up his grapple gun, and then crouched next to Tim. “That’s okay, baby, I got you.”

His bulk blocked the wind, and suddenly Tim felt warm. Then gloved hands and strong arms carefully encased Tim, one behind his back and one over and around his thighs, and Tim was lifted up.

Jason’s voice was in his ear, mechanized again but still gentle. “Can you hold onto me?”

Tim swallowed. “Yeah.”

So Tim clutched onto his soulmate, and found himself whisked away.

Chapter Text

“The answer’s NO, Batty!” Constantine was saying through a video call. Behind him in the darkness, a giant red-eyed dog was chewing on an iron fence.

“Just confirm you’ve actually looked into it, and you’re not just—"

“I ran a spiritual google search, mate, checked every keyword! Soulbonds are more powerful, deep-as-fuck magic than anything in this dimension could fuck around with. Can’t help ya.”

Batman growled at the screen.

“What about other dimensions.”

Constantine flipped him off and the video cut out.

Batman opened up the next message in his Bat-inbox and connected to Nightwing over comms at the same time.

“Nightwing. Have the Titans made any progress.”

“Not much, Batman. Raven’s trapped in a ritual right now, but it shouldn’t take too long to solve and as soon as she escapes she can visit and hopefully figure something out. She can’t break or form soulbonds, but she can usually gather information from them. At this point, Kid Flash and I are trying to work out a stable speedforce matrix to slow down or stop the progression of the rot in Baby Bird’s leg. It’s not working yet, but I think we’ll get it figured out.”

Batman paused, then made himself say the words out loud: “Good. That will be helpful. Thank you.”

The silence over the channel ended with Nightwing’s shocked voice. “You’re welcome… um. Any progress on your end?”

“All dead ends so far. I believe Raven’s insight may be our best option at this point. Still waiting to hear from several people.”

“Do you need me to patrol tonight?” Dick asked.

“…Possibly. I’m waiting until his parents are asleep to visit him tonight. He may want you to be there during that conversation.”

Dick’s words from earlier echoed in his mind: you never tell us!

So Batman went on, haltingly, “I want you to be there. You are better than I am at navigating emotional conversations.”

“Aww, Batman… of course I’ll be there. You’re gonna tell him, right? That you love him? I know you’ve never said it before.”

Batman sighed. “I will be telling him several things. Things he needs to hear, and I need to say.”

Nightwing whooped. “Let’s goooo! Okay, I’ll see you in two hours. Let me know if you hear from our boy.”

Batman grunted.

At that moment, calls came in from Leslie and Talia simultaneously.

Bruce wanted to hear from Leslie more urgently, but Talia might not answer if he made her wait…

He answered Leslie as he typed out a message to Talia.

“Leslie.”

(B: Free in 5 min. Urgent?)

“Bruce. I dug further into the Sarajevo case and I found something.”

(Talia: Only if the query you sent involves a person other than Jason Todd.)

Leslie went on, “I received photos from the crime scene of the murder attempt, including photos of the weapon used. I’m sending now.”

(B: It does. ?)

Bruce opened the photos on another monitor as he typed.

(Talia: […])

Leslie said, “I recognized the dagger because I remember pulling one out of you. I doubt it’s an exact match, but this must be from a group you’ve fought personally. With cases this rare, there are no coincidences. I’m certain you’ll recognize it.”

The photos showed a simple leather-wrapped grip, deadly sharp pommel and cross guard, and a gracefully curved multi-peak blade with a double edge hollow grind and serpentine spine.

Batman had six of these daggers in a storage locker in the Batcave.

He received two as a gift in the League of Assassins, and collected the other four from his own body.

(Talia: You’ve never asked me what happened to my soulmate.)

Batman stood up, leaning his gauntlets on the desk edge in front of him.

(B: Tell me.)

He said to Leslie: “The attempted murderer of the Sarajevo case was associated with the League of Assassins.”

She nodded at the confirmation of his knowledge. “I don’t know what this means, but I assume you’ll figure it out.”

“Yes.” He hung up and called Talia.

Batman didn’t speak, so Talia waited a moment, and then began.

 “You are aware that the majority of league assassins have no soulmarks. This allows us to prioritize loyalty to the league above all others. Every so often, worthwhile recruits are inducted even with soulmarks, though the majority of those have grey marks. Very few people with active soulmates are able to offer proper fealty to our cause.”

“I know all of this, Talia.”

“And you know my soulmate died long before I ever met you.”

“Yes.”

“I was born with a soulmark, but never did I meet my mate. Within a few months of my first immersion in a Lazarus pit, my mark turned grey.”

“Are you saying that the Lazarus pit kills the immersed person’s soulmate. Through their soulmark?”

“If the resurrected does not kill them first, then yes. That is what we have observed. The pit cannot break the bond, but it can cross the bond. The soulmate is poisoned and dies. Every time.”

“Fuck.”

“You have found Jason Todd’s soulmate, I presume?”

“Yes. He’s dying.”

Talia’s face spasmed. “Well. A vulnerability removed.”

Batman barely refrained from an expletive-laced explosion. “Do you have information that can help remedy this, or not.”

“I do not. There has never been a soulbound pair who both experienced the Lazarus pit. I do not know if it would help this person, or kill them more quickly. If this pains you… I offer my condolences.”

Batman cut off the call in disgust and rage.

Jason went into a Lazarus pit. The pit poisons healthy people. It healed Jason and made him rage, and it was poisoning Tim. This was why amputation worked: it cut off the poison. It wasn’t the murderous intent that killed a soulmate through the soulmark; it was the Lazarus pit.

If they could put Tim in stasis and stop the progression… if they could heal Jason, somehow…

They would have to. Batman couldn’t accept losing any more children.

He sat back down. And contacted Nightwing.

Chapter Text

Jason’s place occupied the entire top floor of an apartment building that was being run by a shitty pimp as a brothel before Jason got his hands on him. Now the place was secure, safe, free of rats and cockroaches, and a tax-exempt nonprofit.

The Red Hood wasn’t gonna go down for tax evasion.

Mrs. Ling sold egg rolls out of her home kitchen on the first floor, the Kelley twins ran a daycare on the second floor, and a co-op of sex workers sold their services out of the rooms on the third floor. Most of the other tenants just lived there, watching each other’s backs and shutting down trouble when it came sniffing around.

Jason coordinated four men on the ground floor, Toby on the roof, and Christie in the next building over as a perimeter of safety while he steered carefully through the shadowed streets of Gotham and into the parking garage. A series of tunnels with no cameras but his would allow him to bring Tim up without the bats being able to track them.

Those fuckers didn’t get to mess with his little bird anymore. Not his Robin. Not his soulmate.

Tim stayed quiet, holding as much of his weight as he was able, forehead resting on his own shoulder like he wasn’t sure Jason’s was allowed.

Oh, how Jason wished for once in his life that his costume bared more skin. He hadn’t gotten to touch his soulmate skin-to-skin more than once in this goddamn mockery of an existence and he wanted to know if it could be different, the second time. Would it hurt again?

Would he only hurt Tim again? Was he fated to hurt the one he was supposed to love the most?

(Deep orange mixed into that dark green.)

He had to try.

They reached his apartment without incident or interruption, and then Jason laid the kid down on the worn brown couch in the middle of his living room. Kneeled beside him. Took the helmet and the mask off.

“There we go. Okay. You okay? Stupid question, don’t answer that. You feelin’ more like sweet or savory? Ice cream? Pasta? Bet you need dinner, but we can have ice cream for dinner, fuck the rules.”

Tim smiled vacantly; he looked a little out of it. Probably still dissociating a bit.

“I would die for some ice cream,” he said. Then he snickered.

Jason bit back a grin. “That is not funny. Holy shit. Who are you?”

“I dunno,” Tim said. His shoulders slumped.  “Not Robin. I got fired. But I’m here, so…”

Jason forced himself to get moving so he wouldn’t hug the kid before he had real permission.

Suicide attempt protocol: safe place, company, comfort food, relief from immediate burdens. Talk when ready. Don’t force it.

He broke down his costume and armor swiftly, went down to a t-shirt and switched to sweatpants. He stored all the weapons in a cabinet he could put a padlock on later, and shoved his boots away. A ten-second timer in his brain forced him to check in on Tim obsessively from his too-small kitchen; the kid just nestled into the couch and dragged Jason’s red chenille blanket over himself.

Jason wished he had art up on the walls, or a bookshelf set up outside of his room. The place was new and still barren. Not fit for silver spoon society.

But it was safe.

Two bowls of Neapolitan ice cream with homemade whipped cream traveled over to Tim in due haste. Jason wanted to be on the same couch so badly, but he hadn’t earned it yet.

He sat in the recliner next to it.

Tim hadn’t touched his ice cream after a moment, so Jason took a bite of his own, kept his spoon, and switched bowls with Tim.

“You’re safe here,” he stated. “I ain’t ever gonna hurt you again, if I can help it.”

Tim seemed surprised, then touched, and he gave Jason a more real smile this time.

And with those big doe eyes, blue like a cloudy sky, and his refined and proper cheekbones dusting a little pink, crooked upturn to his lips—Jason had to remind himself to breathe.

Getting shot had hit him less hard than that sight.

His soulmate was fuckin’ stunning. How had he missed it, before?

Keep it together, Hood, he thought. Lotta steps to go before we cross that threshold.

Jason finished his food in about twenty seconds, so he had time while Tim was carefully eating each and every bite to start talking.

“I was thinking—it wasn’t fair to ask to see your soulmark. That was shitty of me. I can go first, if you want?”

Tim’s eyes got really big, and he nodded hesitantly. He looked like he might cry.

Jason whipped off his t-shirt without fanfare and leaned forward, looking down so he didn’t make Tim self-conscious about being watched.

“See, it’s always been these two birdies. What an idiot I am, shoulda figured it out sooner. The color didn’t—oh. It’s different now than the last time I really looked.” Jason frowned down at his own skin. “It used to be even all over, mostly dark green with some orange in there.” He went quiet. “I didn’t deserve the orange.”

Pushed on.

“But now this bird’s mostly orange and that one’s mostly green. I… didn’t notice it change.”

Jason braved a glance up. Tears were slipping down Tim’s face. “Sweetheart? Is it too much?”

Tim’s head shook urgently. “No, no. I just. Never thought I’d get to see it. Ever. My mark on someone else. On you.”

He put down his half-eaten ice cream and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders started shaking, but he didn’t make a sound. It was awful.

“I’m so sorry,” Jason whispered. “I thought you’d put Robin’s soulmark on blast to the whole world, just some little kid who got exciting news, and I though Batman and Robin would be finished. I thought I ruined everything just by being out there that night. I was scared and I was wrong. I’m so, so sorry for everything I caused.”

Tim rubbed his face and sniffled. “It’s okay. You couldn’t have known that I already knew your identities, and I was already keeping your secret.”

“Excuse me?” Jason sat back, rocking the recliner. “What the fuck?”

Tim let himself show a little pride in that smile of his, tentatively meeting Jason’s eyes.

(Kid looks beautiful when he cries. FOCUS, Jason.)

“I figured out Dick Grayson was Robin when I was nine. I saw him do as quad flip at the circus, and then I saw Robin do it years later, and only a few people could do it, and I just knew. So that led to Bruce Wayne as Batman, and I poked around and did some research and it made sense.”

Tim shrugged, like he wasn’t a mind-blowing genius as a fuckin’ toddler.

“So. Okay. Okay, holy shit, that’s incredible. How did Bruce catch you? ‘Poking around’ with that camera of yours?”

“Bruce didn’t catch me,” Tim said, looking offended. He shifted in his seat and tried to cross his legs, then his face twisted up in pain and he hissed. Jason shot to his feet, hands out.

“I should have asked—you need painkillers? An ice pack? Anything? What can I do?”

Tim had already stretched out his right leg under the blanket, bending it slightly at the knee.

“We could try an ice pack, I guess?”

Jason was away and back in seconds. He grabbed a throw pillow for Tim to prop his knee up and then backed away to let Tim place things how he needed them.

“Thank you. Now sit down, Jason, I’m okay,” Tim said. “Bruce didn’t catch me. You’re the one who caught me, and you’re the only one. My soulmark turned white, so I figured that was that, I’d just keep watching from afar and taking photos to help out, but… you died soon after that, and Bruce… he was. Well. Scary. He was depressed and hopeless, and he stopped pulling his punches. He was going to kill some petty criminal and he didn’t seem to care. And he wasn’t being careful or planning ahead like he used to—he was going to get himself killed. He wanted to, I think. At least sometimes.”

Jason felt like throwing up, equally enraged and overwhelmed. This was not the story Talia told him after he regained his senses out of the pit.

Tim went on. “Dick was in Bludhaven and they weren’t working together or talking at all, as far as I could tell. But Batman needed someone else there, so he wasn’t alone in his grief. I went to Dick and told him I knew your secret and I begged him to come back and be Robin again. But of course he said no—Bruce was horrible to him, too, and it hurt Dick so much. It was plain to see. So.”

Tim swallowed.

“So I went directly to Bruce. I told him he needed a Robin, and since no one else knew the secret it would have to be me. I thought—I thought it would honor you. I guess that was stupid, but I still loved you, okay? I didn’t want Batman, or Robin, to end this way. I thought you would want it. Stupid.”

He was looking down at his hands now, looking so small in that big hoodie.

Jason eased forward, chair creaking under him. “Oh, Tim. No. That wasn’t stupid at all. Can I—can I please hold your hand?”

Tim dared eye contact. “Will it. Um. Hurt this time? Do you think?”

Jason winced. “I don’t know. I hope not.”

Tim opened his mouth and hesitated. Glanced to the side. “I don’t know. Can I wait until I’m ready?”

“Of course!” Jason gave him back another two feet of personal space. “I said I don’t want to hurt you again. Take your time, little bird.”

“Anyway,” Tim pressed on awkwardly, “Bruce said hell no, of course. He never wanted another Robin. So I, um, I lied, and said I’d reveal your identities if he didn’t train me as Robin.”

“You blackmailed Batman? At age, what? Thirteen?”

“Twelve.” Another flash of pride. Incredible little bird. Top tier Robin, no contest.

“And let me guess, Bruce didn’t take it well.”

Tim laughed, this time bitterly. Not a good sound. “He hated me. He thought I’d quit if it was too hard, so he made it too hard. It was so hard, Jason. I barely got any sleep and I got injured a lot at the beginning because I kinda sucked, and he said not to come back if I couldn’t cut it, so I had to train injured. I had to skip so much school, so I had to fake my attendance and grades, and even the teachers who used to leave me alone started being all ‘concerned’ and ‘we called your parents, but we couldn’t reach them, please give them this note and tell them to call the school’, hah.”

By this point, Jason’s hands were fisted in front of his mouth so he wouldn’t start a rant that would shake the walls. He was going to throttle Bruce.

“Dick was mad at me, too, for taking his name and your spot. He wasn’t very nice, at first, but it was because he missed you. Things got better, though! I wore them down when I got better and started being useful. I’m pretty smart, so I can notice patterns and figure things out. I’m good at the detective part. It was the physical stuff that was hard, but eventually I got stronger and faster.”

“You’re not eating enough,” Jason muttered before he could stop himself.

Tim’s gaze sharpened a bit. “I’m doing what I can. I don’t get a grocery allowance, so I eat what our housekeeper brings me, and school lunches when I actually go, and I eat protein bars from Alfred. I’m not starving.”

Jason closed his eyes. He didn’t want to talk about Tim’s parents right now, so he let it go. For the moment.

He put his t-shirt back on for one measly layer of fortification, and the rallied his courage.

“Okay. Can I say a few things?”

Tim seemed wary now that Jason had mentioned food, but he nodded.

“Okay. So. When I woke up I was out of it; basically, walking comatose. Talia ah Ghul found me, and eventually threw me in a Lazarus pit to fix me. I came out mean, and mad, and deadly. She told me Bruce and Dick didn’t much care about or mourn my death. She said they just went and found another kid the right age and looks, but this time he was a purebred. Not like me. This kid was perfect in every way I wasn’t. And she said the clown was still alive and Bruce wasn’t going to stop him. Not permanently. Not like he needs.”

“Oh, no, Jason.” Tim sat a little straighter. “That’s not true. You were an incredible Robin, and Bruce almost died mourning you, and I’m nothing, I swear, compared to you. But—did you know that Bruce tried to kill Joker but Superman stopped him? And Dick actually, literally killed him, but he was resuscitated?”

Jasons hands clapped against the armrests of the recliner. “Dickie killed the clown? …On accident?”

“No, he straight-up beat the guy to death. To avenge you.”

“WHAT?” Jason shot to his feet and stalked around the room, coffee table to the window and back. “Dick killed him? Dick killed him? And—and they brought him back?!”

Coffee table, window, back. Jason put his hands over his face and counted steps. “I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe it! Fuck!”

He was crying now.

“Jason—”

“I was so angry, the pit made me angry and focused and violent and I didn’t know—I didn’t know this! It would have changed everything! Fuck her! Fuck her!!”

“Jason!” Tim was up and trying to put weight on his bad leg, so Jason was there, instantly, hands wavering. Very little skin there to touch, what with the hoodie, but he was still hesitant to make contact.

But Tim opened up his arms, and Jason was weak.

He shoved past the coffee table and wrapped his arms around Tim. The kid’s head reached just above his chin and Jason clutched it on one side, Tim’s ear over Jason’s soulmark, and made sure to keep the hood of the sweatshirt between Jason’s hand and Tim’s head as he hugged him closer. Tim’s arms went around his waist and squeezed tight.

The setting sun cast an orangish-pint glow that reflected off of the taller Gotham buildings and through the windows of Jason’s apartment. Muffled sounds of normal city life reaffirmed that all was well, for the moment.

It felt warm and new and different. No skin-to-skin, not yet, but still monumental. Jason’s heart rate began to slow as they swayed there, and eventually their breathing patterns matched. Tim didn’t speak, and he didn’t need to.

Jason, outside of the intense momentary emotions, recognized that he hadn’t had this breadth and depth of an emotional response to anything since he woke up from the pit. Emotions had been monochrome—rage, hatred, bullheaded drive—and they were different from this. He could see, now, how those feelings were a presence put into his head, not from his own head. They weren’t genuine.

Or—no, they were rooted in genuine reactions—his own real pain and despair at the information Talia fed him, amplified and twisted. It was artificial, what the Lazarus pit did to him.

The realization hit him with stunning clarity: he didn’t actually want to destroy Bruce. He’d never, not even at his worst, ever wanted to kill Tim. He was hurt and angry, truly, but Jason Todd was not an unstoppable killing machine.

Jason did kill people. Some people had to be stopped. It wasn’t because of anger or revenge, but because innocent suffering was wrong and the only way to stop certain people was to stop them permanently.

Now, Jason could access the joy and pride that grew from seeing his neighbors cooperate and unionize, no more pimps to force vile clients onto them and take their earnings. He could acknowledge how much he appreciated his lieutenants and his trustworthy guys. He could feel pleasure in baking and making the people around him happy and well-fed.

How could life be so colorful, now? How had he survived without all of this ebbing and flowing and swelling and fading within him?

No wonder the Lazarus pit killed healthy people. The cost of it was monstrous.

He took a deep, deep breath, reveling in the warmth and comfort from the smaller body in his arms. Then he snorted.

“You stink, birdy. Ain’t been takin’ care of yourself, have ya?”

Tim buried his face in Jason’s chest. “Didn’t see a point,” he mumbled.

Jason gently pushed them apart. “Wanna shower? It’ll make you feel better, I bet. I’m gonna make a giant pot of pasta. You like carbonara? No allergies I need to know about?”

Tim smiled blearily. “No shrimp, that’s all. Thank you, Jason.”

“Hey, that’s my line. Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Nightwing pulled into the Batcave around seven pm; Wally had run him from Titans Tower back to Bludhaven to switch out some gear and get his Nightcycle.

Batman had brought him up to speed on the details learned from their research so far (ten points for his handsome, intelligent, flexible soulmate Wally, who’d immediately realized that the soulmark rot wasn’t as simple as a murder attempt), and Nightwing had returned the favor.

Stasis could be ready in as little as six hours. Raven might be free tomorrow sometime. Slade had even sent Dick a reply to Bruce’s inquiry, only saying: I think your angle’s wrong.

Somehow right and absolutely unhelpful, that asshole.

Batman was writing out a script for himself to try to explain to Tim that he loved and cherished him (unbelievable, pigs-fly-in-the-Batcave situation). Nightwing was cleaning his equipment and pondering if maybe they could use magic or tech to regrow Tim’s leg after amputation—just sort of reset the whole limb, and maybe the soulmark would reset, too? It was a long shot, but no suggestions were off the table at this point—when the green glow of Oracle’s presence filled a Batcave monitor.

The voice, however, was 100% pissed off Barbara Gordon.

“You piece of shit,” she snarled. “If Tim’s even alive tomorrow, I’m making sure you’re nowhere near a position of authority in his life, you monstrously stupid man.”

“Oracle. What?” Batman growled.

“Get your asses moving out of the cave now while I explain.”

They obeyed without question; Nightwing had only heard Barbara sound so angry one other time in his life, and it was when Jason ran away.

A package of files appeared on the Batcomputer for review while they drove… wherever they were going.

“Kane Memorial Bridge,” Barbara spat, ever ahead of them. “Did you ever once look into Tim’s parents’ schedule? Their flights? Hotel reservations? Did you never wonder how Tim could handle being Robin and being a kid in school without his parents noticing?”

“They travel,” Batman stated stiffly.

Nightwing was already flipping through files in the passenger seat of the Batmobile as it roared out of the Batcave. “This can’t be right,” he said. A deep, shrieking anxiety was beginning to crawl through his body.

“They’re never here. He’s been alone but for a few days or weeks here and there for years. He has been lying to you and you fell for it. World’s greatest fucking detective! They’re not here NOW, BATMAN.”

They exited Bristol, free to move much faster on wider roads.

“Bad things happen when Robins get fired, so since you two are so busy focusing on the problem and no one is focusing on the person I checked to see if he was using his parents as an excuse to avoid you idiots, and guess what? They’re in Malaysia, and Tim’s phone is in the fucking Gotham River!” By the final words, it sounded like she was crying.

Nightwing’s throat began to feel thick, waves of nausea rising up. “Why is his phone in the river? Why would his phone be in the river? Cameras, did cameras see—”

“He climbed up the south side central pillar at 6:26pm. I haven’t seen an angle with him falling. Couple cameras were already out, and two went out after he climbed up. I’m scanning.”

Nearly an hour, it had been nearly an hour—Nightwing felt the Batmobile increase speed. This was early for them to be out; rare. Still daylight. They’d draw attention.

He could still be there.

He could still be up there, on the edge.

Nightwing didn’t need to tell Batman to go faster.

All he could think was: my little brother. It’s happening again.

And it’s our fault.

***

Batman was not holding the body of his dead son in his arms right now.

(But he could be soon.)

Tim was not confirmed to have jumped.

(The horror inside of him thrashed, worse and more intense for having admitted to himself out loud that he loved Tim, because he did, he did love that boy, his third Robin, his third son.)

This wasn’t over yet. Batman had to act.

From the empty top of the bridge pillar, he said, “Superman. I need you. Please.”

***

Barbara Gordon now knew significantly more than she was telling Batman and Nightwing, and she held back because she was incandescently angry at them—and herself.

She’d been processing her own trauma and developing her new identity as Oracle during the later part of Tim’s Robin career, and she hadn’t taken enough responsibility during the early days. She’d seen how hurt Dick was to lose Jason and watch his heroic namesake taken by yet another kid… and she missed Jason, too.

Tim had been like a little adult, and it was easy to treat him as such. He didn’t say or do childish things, except for when performing as snarky Robin in front of thugs and rogues. His grades were perfect and his family was wealthy, influential, and perfectly composed. And Batman had been going down a very dark path—not one that Barbara wanted to follow him down.

It wasn’t her responsibility to save Bruce Wayne from himself.

It wasn’t Tim Drake’s, either, but Tim took it anyway.

Barbara had known that Tim’s soulmark was grey when he started; the implications of connecting with your soulmate while masked were too important to leave anyone’s status unclear. Barbara, born without a soulmark, could pair up with anyone (if ‘anyone’ was Dick Grayson, over and over again) or she might be destined for someone from a group that didn’t have soulmarks; she wasn’t sure.

Her mind often lingered on Kryptonians, Martians, and the occasional Amazon, whose soulmarks worked differently and would still activate when they touched their mate... but the freedom of loving whomever she wanted, whenever it worked, fit her perfectly.

She’d hoped Tim would be able to find freedom, eventually, too; bereaved soulmates still found love in life, and as he grew up she wanted to be ready to give big sister advice to the boy. She hadn’t saved him from awkward heartbreak when it came to Steph, but those two eventually figured it out for themselves. She’d been quietly proud of them both.

But all was not well with Tim Drake, not for a moment. Now they were scrambling to save Tim’s leg, and Tim’s soulmate was Jason, and Jason had hurt Tim so badly… but she’d finally (at 7:44pm) found a bird’s nest camera streaming on a building along the riverwalk next to the Kane Memorial Bridge. She saw footage of the Red Hood on his knees, hands open, helmet off. Anguish on his face. And she saw Tim nod, and put his arms around Jason’s neck.

According to Dick, they were 90% of the way to solving the soulmark rot, anyway.

Tim was brilliant, and sweet, and patient, and kind. Most of all, he was persistent. He simply did not give up. Of course he wouldn’t ever give up on his soulmate, even after the murder attempt.

So those two boys would get uninterrupted time together, and Batman and Nightwing could choke on their own neglect and ignorance for another hour or two.

And Barbara would stew in her own regret, while she systematically analyzed every element of Jack and Janet Drake’s lives and choices until she compiled enough information to absolutely destroy them.

If Bruce wasn’t fit to adopt Tim after this, Barbara might become a foster parent herself.

Chapter Text

Water splashed over Tim as he leaned against the wall of Jason’s shitty Crime Alley shower. It soothed his tensed muscles and swirled down in rivers of soap to slough off the past few days of pain and despair. His soulmark still hurt.

Tim didn’t want to let himself start thinking that the pain was beginning to reduce—the warmth and cleanliness were deceiving him. He couldn’t be healing just from being around Jason.

(Unless…?)

No. No, when he braved a quick glance at his calf, the cave of rotting flesh surrounded by black veins was still there. It was difficult to see the colors of the mark itself, through the steam and red flush of his skin.

Jason wouldn’t let Bruce chop off his leg, no matter what. That wouldn’t be happening. Tim and Jason could run to Young Justice and Tim and his team would figure it out themselves, or Tim could cash in a favor with Constantine and arrange a deal with a demon… there were lots of options. Tim felt hope.

Also, uh, shirtless Jason… that was certainly a sight his eyes encountered. Tim hadn’t been able to process every reaction in an orderly fashion earlier, so certain thoughts were demanding attention now.

The quiet pattering of the water droplets drowned out sounds outside of Tim’s head, and the steam narrowed the focus of his sight. Pain faded into the background.

Jason Todd, older. Bigger. Taller. Stronger. Earnest and heartfelt and so broad, so muscled, so exquisitely capable of carrying Tim without breaking a sweat. Jason’s skin was darker than Tim’s, and scarred, and their soulmark sat under the skin of his chest like a declaration. Like Tim truly belonged with someone, for once.

Tim may die from this, if not the other thing.

And what a way to go, he thought, thunking his forehead on the wall with a laugh.

Tim would need to do a lot of work before Jason would even consider him physically, he knew. Tim was aware of himself. He wasn’t impressive like Dick or Jason were, as Robin. He’d probably never be as tall or as strong as either of them. But the soulmark meant they were fated, so Jason would probably eventually come to accept Tim.

And Tim could do his best to help that along!

He was sure he had time, anyway. They hadn’t even touched skin again.

That hug was incredible, though. He wanted more of those, please.

Tim finished up, dried off, and dressed in Jason’s t-shit, hoodie, and sweatpants. His other clothes seemed to have disappeared, probably into the laundry. It soothed something deep inside him to be covered in the clothes of his soulmate, like maybe he’d already been accepted a little bit.

Jason was sorry. Jason knew he’d been a jerk when they met. It needed to be enough right now; Tim couldn’t ask for acceptance of their soulbond so soon. That would be crazy.

The entire apartment smelled incredible when Tim emerged, using the wall to brace as he walked, and he found the countertop bar set with two places for dinner. Jason was just now dragging another barstool over for Tim to prop his leg up on as they ate; he looked up with a smile.

Then his face went a little slack and his mouth fell open, and Tim wavered.

“What?”

Jason clamped his mouth closed and looked at other things, the stool, a pillow, then back at Tim. “You look… comfy. I’m glad.”

“I am,” Tim said, sitting down. “Thanks.”

“Ain’t nothing, pretty bird,” Jason said, and he went to fill up two bowls.

Tim was not used to terms of endearment from anyone but Dick Grayson, and he had to fight his kneejerk rejection of it. Jason could call him whatever mindless thing he wanted. Eventually Tim would feel worthy of them.

The carbonara was beyond Tim’s understanding of the word delicious, and they ate in pleasant silence for a while. (Tim was on break from his parent’s expectations right now, though he knew he’d regret it later.)

He didn’t think he’d be alive to enjoy food right now, so whatever. Every bite was filled with calories and nutrients and substance—the unctuous cream and fat, the depth of salt and pepper, meaty umami from the bacon and grilled chicken, and pops of sweet and contrasting texture from the peas. The noodles themselves were excellent, too; so satisfying between his teeth.

Tim was clean, and warm, and he was allowed to eat.

“Can I ask,” Jason said through a mouth of food, “what the deal is with your mark, from what you know?”

Tim nodded gamely. “Leslie Thompkins found two documented cases so far; Soulmate A tries to kill Soulmate B, and then within a few months, Soulmate B dies from their soulmark rotting.”

Jason grimaced, thinking. “Are you sure that’s happening to you, though? I just don’t get it—I was never planning on actually killing you. Not even during the worst of it. It shouldn’t be happening.”

“Maybe I’m not as sick as the people who died, then?” Tim theorized. “Maybe this is how bad it gets when your soulmate just hurts you really badly but doesn’t kill you.”

Jason sighed, then he looked up into Tim’s eyes. “I need you to know, the clarity I’m experiencing right now is fucking mind-blowing. I shouldn’t have hurt you, and I’m so sorry. I will never hurt you again.”

Tim smiled. “Eh, just do your best. I’ll forgive you again if you do.”

The sad, pained look on Jason’s face meant Tim’s words didn’t quite hit their mark, but he was speaking the truth. Tim could see the moment when Jason decided to let it go, and ask—

“Tim.”

“Jason.”

“Can I see your mark now?”

And Tim might never feel as full and warm and safe as this, he thought. It was a moment for bravery.

So he said, “Okay.”

He got up and hobbled over to the couch, choosing to lay on his stomach hugging a pillow like he did with Alfred. It would let him hide his face if Jason was disgusted or upset.

Jason followed, sitting awkwardly on the coffee table and then just waiting, so Tim kicked his foot in the air. “It’s my right leg. Go ahead.”

Hands extended, tentative. “Can I—I might touch your skin, if I have to pull down the pant leg.”

Tim settled his cheek on his hands and peered over his shoulder at Jason. The soft evening lighting on his rugged face made him look ethereal, like a rough-hewn marble sculpture. “That’s okay. I’m ready.”

So Jason closed the distance between them and grasped Tim’s ankle delicately with one hand.

This time wasn’t like the first time, no. It was honey-sweet herbal tea flooding through Tim’s whole body, calming and reassuring and just the kind of painful that soothed a sore soul. Tears sprung in Tim’s eyes, and he gasped.

“Holy shit,” Jason murmured. “You really do love me.”

“Ha, uh, yeah,” Tim said, throat thick. “Always.”

Jason left the hand on his ankle and covered his own eyes with the other hand. It must be overwhelming for him, too, Tim realized, so he snaked a hand out and grabbed Jason’s wrist in an attempt to comfort. Jason flipped his hand and grasped Tim’s, shuddering and dropping his chin to his chest.

It only took a minute for the hand on Tim’s ankle to squeeze, moving on from the moment of incomprehensible emotion. Jason let go of Tim’s hand and carefully peeled down the pant leg of his sweatpants, making sure the ankle band didn’t scrape over the skin at all.

He only stared, at first, his face grim when Tim glanced at him. He rested Tim’s shin in one hand and touched the back of the knee with the other.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

Tim considered. “Not really, right now. The shower helped, and the touch is… overriding anything else, I think.” He tried to keep his cool and not to smile too much.

A frown crept onto Jason’s brow. His thumb moved in broad sweeps across Tim’s skin as he leaned in closer.

“It looks like… can you see it? Does it look different?”

Tim craned around, utilizing that Dick Grayson-trained flexibility.

And… yeah.

The skin of Tim’s mark on the back of his calf had changed.

The bile green color at the center of the mark was completely gone, and the black veins of rot seemed to be dispersing, slowly, like ink in water.

“It used to be green,” Tim said.

Jason caught his eye. “Grief green?”

“No. A sick green. Brighter than grief. Like vomit.”

Jason stared at him intensely. “Green like my eyes, sometimes?”

Tim nodded, breathless.

“You. It was you—” Jason’s grip tightened. “As soon as I was in the same room as you, the green started to clear out of my head. The Lazarus pit madness is like this haze, this rage, that makes nothing matter but the violence you’re trying to carry out. The hatred and the revenge. And when I was attacking you in the Tower it started to clear.”

“But… you left.”

“Yeah. It took a while. I checked in on you again, and it happened again… you cleared it out of my head. You’ve been clearing the pit out of my head.”

Tim smiled. “Good. Screw the pit.”

“Your soulmark didn’t clear up when my head did…” Jason’s fingers drew a soft, soothing rhythm on Tim’s calf. “It kept getting worse, didn’t it? Or else you wouldn’t have climbed that bridge. But look at it now.”

The black color had almost disappeared at this point. More than that, though, the surface of Tim’s skin was changing. The well of contracted flesh was slowly relaxing. Filling. Tim would have thought he was imagining it, but they waited and watched and it was really happening.

 Jason’s eyed suddenly focused on Tim with absolute clarity.

“The pit has no grip on me anymore. I can feel it in my head but—fuck it, it can’t get me. It can’t influence me anymore.”

“Holy shit.”

The wonder that bloomed on Jason’s face was ethereal.   

“So,” Tim found himself saying out loud, to that face, against all odds, “my mark is going to heal now that the pit is gone?”

“I dunno,” Jason said. He spread his hand around Tim’s calf and lightly, lightly brushed up and down the length of it. Tim shivered. “I hope so. The black shit is gone, anyway. Don’t try and tell me you’re dying now, baby bird. Imma hold on too tight. Won’t let you go.”

 Jason’s voice pitched lower, the hand on Tim’s ankle tightening with his words, and Tim couldn’t handle it so he buried his face in his arms.

He was weak, okay?

And he’d just found out he wasn’t going to die!

Before either of them could come up with something to more to say, and before either of them could decide on their next move, Jason’s phone buzzed.

Tim already knew from the way Jason stilled that he’d have to answer it.

“I’m sorry, I need to—”

“Go ahead.” Tim sat up and settled himself back into the corner of the couch. Jason tapped the call on and then went about spreading a blanket over Tim.

“Babs,” he said evenly into the phone. “Long time.”

Chapter Text

“Oh my god, Jason,” is how Barbara chose to begin their first conversation in two and a half years, and Jason allowed it.

He wasn’t suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune alone now, and he wasn’t taking arms against a sea of troubles and dying by opposing them, either. He and Tim were solid ground. He could hold a conversation with a judgy bat.

And Barbara had been… she’d been fantastic. Funny, quick, an incredible fighter, and always respectful to the wide-eyed kid that Jason used to be. She never talked down to him, and she answered questions that Bruce and Dick wouldn’t.

She wouldn’t scorn him or hate him, would she? But he’d done so much harm…

He held his tongue and waited.

“Jason,” she repeated shakily. “You scared the hell out of me. Are you okay? How is Tim?”

Jason blinked. He’d put her on speakerphone, so Tim was peering up at him with open interest and a little fear.

“Got eyes on me, Babs?”

“Not right now; I have no idea where you are. Well done, and also stop destroying all the cameras. I use those, you know.”

“Worth it for security,” he replied. “I don’t need bats breathing down my neck. Timmy is fine and dandy, thanks for asking.”

“That’s why I’m calling, actually—I was going to leave you alone after you got to Tim, which, thank you, holy shit, but Batman called for Superman when they realized Tim might be. Well.”

Tim’s eyes went very wide and his cheeks turned red, and Jason didn’t have time to react before Barbara went on.

“But Superman’s handling a volcano that might have a black hole at the center of it, we’re not sure, so Superboy is in Gotham. He might be busting through your wall in the next ten seconds, so…”

“Shit,” Tim whispered, but Jason settled down next to him and wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

“Nah, I got it covered. Lead paneling and noise disrupters. Supers can’t find us here.”

Tim relaxed against him. “Thank god. Kon would’ve killed you.”

Jason slouched further, scooching his baby bird in closer and holding the phone between them. “He could try.”

“Tim?” Barbara said, voice choking.

“Hi Barbara,” Tim said softly. Head on Jason’s shoulder, as it should be.

“Tim, please don’t do anything like that again. I’m so damn sorry Bruce is such an oblivious moron. He shouldn’t have left you alone, and he should’ve kept you in the loop as he learned new information. It’s your life. He and Dick were wrong. They were wrong a lot, kiddo.”

“I know,” Tim said, “but it’s okay. I probably set off his PTSD by almost dying. It was about Jason, for Bruce, not me.”

“That’s a load of bullshit,” Jason growled, but Tim went on like he hadn’t spoken.

“But my life is about me, for me, and I wasn’t going to let him— I wasn’t going to let him.”

“Doesn’t matter now, baby bird,” Jason said. He leaned his forehead into Tim’s, barely resisting the urge to kiss him. “You’re mine.”

Tim snuggled in with a little shudder. “No complaints here.”

“Oh my god,” Barbara cut in, laughing. “Does that mean Tim’s okay? You’re okay?”

Tim matched the relief in her voice. “I’m okay, my leg is okay, my soulmate doesn’t hate me.”

“Holy shit, it’s a miracle. Is this a literal miracle? Should we call Constantine back and tease him about it?”

“Couldn’t care less, Babs. I’m busy for the next few days, getting to know my soulmate,” Jason said. Tim looked up, shy and hopeful, and Jason realized he would need a lot more time to properly analyze and describe the color of those eyes.

He eased his feet up on the coffee table and reached his thumb for the end call button.

“Jason,” Barbara cut in, “wait… I’m so glad you’re alive. Can I see you, sometime?”

Jason felt a thrill of comforting affection—yet another feeling he didn’t think he’d ever get to have again.

“I’ll stop by sometime. Maybe bring my little bird along?”

“Can’t wait,” she said. “I’ll keep the others away as long as I can.” Then she hung up.

Jason tossed the phone on the cushion beside him and curled around his tiny baby bird.

***

Tim felt giddy, cuddling (cuddling? actually cuddling?!) with his very own soulmate on a squishy old couch somewhere in Crime Alley.

Nothing about it felt wrong; it didn’t matter how tall or strong Tim was right now, and it didn’t matter that Jason was older or more impressive or better in every way. It didn’t matter that Tim had three new scars on his body thanks to this man.

Nothing hurt, right now.

They’d been through something horrible. Multiple horrible things. And now, they were together and they would move forward.

But that thought did bring up the question: what did together actually mean, to Jason?

All signs pointed in a very promising direction, but Tim didn’t know how to let himself believe it.

So Tim laced his fingers with Jason’s and studied the differences in size and skin tone as he selected his words.

“Hey Jason?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“What do you think about… us? I mean, do you want to… what do you, um, want?”

Jason let his hands be turned and flipped, fingers splayed and then curled by Tim’s ministrations.

“I think… that we’re young,” he began, and cold washed over Tim. Then Jason continued.

“I mean, I’m only seventeen, and I was a walking zombie for my sixteenth birthday so I don’t know if it counts. You’re fifteen tomorrow. I haven’t even gone on a date, let alone kissed someone. I wanna take it slow. I wanna be careful with you, and take care of you. Figure out how to be friends with you. See how it is when we fight. Sort out all the shit in both our lives that is gonna make it hard for us to be the people we wanna be.”

Tim settled their hands, tangled together. That didn’t sound too ominous, actually. A little unclear, but promising. Maybe?

(Jason’s never been kissed?)

He shouldn’t get his hopes up…

Jason’s voice was deep and rough and extremely sexy as he went on, “But you gotta know, baby, that you got me. I’m yours. This is real and I’m going all in. Even if you decide you don’t want nothin’ but a friend, I’ll be here. I’ll always be here, from now on. I’m yours.”

Tim felt tingly and giddy inside, but he still had to say: “You didn’t want me before, though… so…”

“So I grew and I changed,” Jason replied. “I don’t see my dad in you, for one thing. And me? I’m gonna be the kind of man I woulda felt safe with as a kid. Imma keep you safe and make you happy. Treat you real nice. Feed you up. Listen to ya, ‘cause you’re one smart cookie. Tell you when you’re wrong.”

“What about when you’re wrong?” Tim said through a helpless smile.

“Then you gotta kick my ass, baby. Don’t let it slide. High standards or nothin’.”

Tim bit his lip. Jason smelled so good, and he hadn’t even showered since the bridge.

“I’ve been known to kick ass,” he said. He tilted his chin up, smirking, and glanced at Jason’s lips.

“Hell yeah,” Jason breathed.

They both eased closer, closer…

And then the phone buzzed. Again.

Jason snarled and looked at it grumpily—it was the same tone that demanded his attention before.

But Jason said, “Fuck! Why the fuck is SHE calling me?” and Tim knew it wasn’t Barbara.

Moment over, Tim let himself be slid back into the couch cushions as Jason jumped up to pace.

Then he answered the phone by spitting out, “Talia.”

Chapter Text

Talia al Ghul reclined against a purple silk pillow with her mobile workstation hovering over her lap. As it was just passing 4 am, Damian lay fast asleep in the bed across the room. He would be roused and run through morning training at 5 am, but she would keep quiet for her little prince in the meantime.

The night had been… intriguing. Her Beloved’s message connected logically to the actions of her pit-mad attack dog, and their conversation allowed another conclusion: Jason Todd’s soulmate was the boy she’d sent him to kill.

The new Robin.

Timothy Drake.

An unremarkable child, besides the intelligence demonstrated by his discovery of Batman’s identity and his intrusion into the role of Robin. An annoyance to be removed.

Talia was fairly certain Jason would eliminate Timothy, and possibly even Dick Grayson, during his confrontation of Batman. Her Beloved would then incapacitate or eliminate Jason himself, and no one else would stand between Damian and his birthright.

And she wouldn’t have had to raise a finger against any of them.

But Jason did not kill the new Robin, and then Batman’s messages came…

This presented an opportunity. Talia could frame it for her father as an opportunity for him, but she knew she could leverage the results regardless of the outcome for her own gain.

So she contacted her dog.

“Jason.”

“Talia.” He sounded angry; normal. Not out of breath, not afraid. A worthwhile moment to talk.

“Your replacement is still alive, correct?”

“Yeah.”

Jason did not elaborate. Talia pursed her lips and watched Damian’s quiet breaths.

“Batman has cast out inquiries to gather information on the progression of a particular condition; it will be of interest to you. It is a rot that occurs in the soulmate of one immersed in a Lazarus pit. It is always fatal.”

She knew that Jason had hold of the boy from her informant in his gang, and she knew the boy was alive. Jason’s heart was his greatest weakness; he may truly not want the younger one to die. She listened for indications of relief in his tone—relief that Timothy Drake would die on his own.

“Figured it out, huh? Replacement’s my soulmate.”

No relief. Only that deep, endless anger.

Just as well; he would be more likely to go along with her plan.

“We have observed this rot in soulmates of league assassins, Jason, but we have never, in all of our history, seen the result of immersing the dying soulmate in a Lazarus pit. We have that chance now.”

A pause.

“You want to put Tim Drake. In a Lazarus pit. And see what happens.”

“He may live. He may die. Either way, he will no longer hold his role in Batman’s mission.” Talia couldn’t help but lean forward, eager. “It may amplify the Lazarus pit effects between you—you both might grow in strength, and resolve, and determination. You might both become invaluable forces in our efforts to change the world. Imagine, Jason.”

“Nah,” Jason said snidely. “You think I want him pissed and super-strong and in my face? How will that help me?”

“You needn’t ever see him again,” Talia assured. “Your soulmark may give you indications of his state, but, as always, we can burn the mark off of you to free you from his existence.”

Talia couldn’t help but make a case for the alternative, though. “The opportunity to learn further information about the effects of the Lazarus pit on a soulbond is significant. It is… worthwhile... and I would offer you resources in return. Further powerful resources.”

“Listen up, Talia,” Jason snarled at her through the phone. “That ain’t happening. I’m not doing whatever the fuck this is. Your experiment or whatever. You experiment on him, you’re experimenting on me. Fuck no. I’m saying no.”

Talia pressed a series of keys.

“I hoped to work with you, but just as well. Goodbye, Jason.”

She ended the call.

Timothy Drake would be at her feet in twelve hours.

***

“Shit. Shit!” Jason stared at Tim in horror, then fumbled with his phone.

“She wants to throw me in a Lazarus pit,” Tim said blankly.

The call connected.

“Barbara! I need anything you have on League assassins in Gotham, or approaching Gotham, now.”

Barbara, goddess, didn’t hesitate. “Are you safe?”

“I’ll let you know; stay on the line.” Jason grabbed his wrist computer from his gear and tossed Tim his duffle bag of back-up equipment at the same time, then clipped on his shoulder and leg holsters. No alarms were sounding at the moment, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

His guns did, though.

Barbara said, “I’m catching shadows in Crime Alley. Rooftops along 7^th and… Jefferson Ave. And Walker.”

“Shit!” Jason put in a comm and added Christie and Toby first; Tim was on his feet, armed with a belt of pouches and a broomstick. “Christie, we got incoming up top. Eyes on?”

“Nothing, Hood. It's dark. You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure. Snipe ‘em if you can.”

“I’m not a sniper, what the—”

Jason plowed on: “Toby, you see ‘em?”

A choking, gurgling sound was the only response.

“Fuck! Shit!” The guys on the ground floor didn’t have comms in; they communicated via text or call only. “Christie, get to the ground and round up everyone we have. I just need a path out of here. Tunnel.”

“Got it, boss,” Christie barked.

“Call Superboy!” Tim said. “Turn off your noise disruptors, let me call him!”

Jason nodded, typing.

“Go.”

“Kon!” Tim shouted. “Kon-el! Superboy!”

Four breathtaking seconds passed, and then one wall of Jason’s apartment exploded inward.

Superboy stood on the rubble for a beat, taking in Tim in civilian clothes with a broomstick and Jason strapped with guns.

Then he snarled, “You piece of shit!” and plowed Jason right through the other wall and into the open air.

Chapter Text

This is why I’m not allowed to be happy, Tim seethed as he sprinted toward the exit hole Superboy and Jason left in the apartment.

He almost leaped directly out after them, banking on the idea that Superboy would hear him scream and leave Jason alone to catch Tim instead—but then he realized that Superboy might drop Jason in order to do so. Might drop him eight stories.

So he skidded to a stop and leaned frantically out, looking for the two of them, but they’d crashed between two buildings across the street and he couldn’t see them anymore.

He’d been duped! Lulled into a false sense of security by Jason Todd’s big, comfy muscles, and his deep, rumbling voice, and his stupid soft-looking lips!

Five minutes of happiness, and Tim turned into a total dumbass! Of course Superboy went directly for Jason—Jason’s helmet was right there on a table and Kon hated Red Hood after the attack at the Tower and Kon still hadn’t taken the idea of ‘victim safety first, villain takedown second’ to heart.

Tim was an idiot!

Oracle said the ninjas were approaching via roof. Tim should hit the stairs going down, but he could move so much more quickly through open air with a grapple—

He dashed to Jason’s equipment cabinet and found a grapple gun. No grappling in civvies, so he also grabbed a blood red domino and slapped it on.

“Red Hood Junior?” he muttered.

No spare comms anywhere? Jason, you ass. Tim had no phone and Jason’s was surely smashed somewhere below, along with his wrist computer. The supply belt Tim was already wearing might have a tracker in it.

Tim was still barefoot, small cuts and scrapes open to the air and trying to heal on their own, but there was no time to find shoes.

 He ran to the gaping hole, threw himself out, and fired the grapple gun.

Tim’s general goal was to follow the structural damage until he got in sight of Superboy and then shout at an opportune time. He locked in as his body went from freefall to a sweeping arc, one hand still clutching the broomstick, and kicked to change his trajectory.

Then something slammed into his side like a truck running a red light.

***

Jason’s body healed quick, but not this quick.

Superboy smashed him through the wall, then Jason’s shoulder clipped the corner of an alley, then they went through a window and tumbled across the floor of a crowded storage room.

Jason had not been wearing his helmet. His back took the brunt of the impacts, but his head was not spared. He could barely see through the flashing lights for a few seconds, and the pain drowned out sound and specific feelings.

He groaned. Tried to identify which firm surface around him was the floor. He’d need a floor to stand.

He needed to stand and… something urgent and terrifying was happening and he needed to just—

Jason’s vision cleared and Tim—

Someone grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt and lifted him (like he weighed nothing) to punch him in the face.

Light!

He fell as a rag doll to the ground, insensate.

The puncher was talking.

“—did to him, you think I’m not gonna tear every limb off your body?!”

Jason tried to breathe while his brain unscrambled. Something urgent screamed untethered in his mind.

“You’re lucky he looked okay just now, or you would be a smear on a long stretch of pavement!”

“No,” Jason managed. “Go—”

“Yeah, yeah, tell it to the Gotham cops. Rob knows a couple that aren’t corrupt, I think, so HA!”

“Please,” Jason said, fumbling up onto his hands and knees, “go back. Please.”

“Home? No way, Mr. Red Hood Whose Face I Totally Know Now. Your little whatever this is is over!”

“Please save Robin,” Jason begged, letting his very real fear come out in his voice. He couldn’t lift his head enough to look the guy in the eyes, but he tried. “The League of Assassins is trying to kidnap him.”

Superboy shifted from one foot to another.

“What? He’s gonna be there. He’s totally gonna be there.”

Then the super disappeared in a swirl of wind.

***

Tim was not there.

Tim was nowhere.

And Jason was dragged, kicking and screaming, to the Batcave.