Archive of Our Own

The first time, they didn’t know each other yet. Stolen glances from a distance, and a suit that weighed more on Jason than he would ever admit.

The air cut through Jason’s hair with every jump. He had never known a freedom as sharp as flying over Gotham—imaginary wings at his back as he swung from one building to the next, the moon overhead, the night stretched wide across the city.

Batman had allowed him this moment. One night just for him, while Batman handled a mission more serious and dangerous.

Robin did not need help with small cases.

A robbery stopped on a corner. A woman of the night walked home safely. Rooftops watched so addicts wouldn’t slip and tumble over the edge in their highs. Simple. Quiet. Something that filled Jason from the inside. Actually helping the people of Gotham. His people.

His boots hit the rooftop when he heard it—a strangled scream, thin and high, slicing through a man's mocking voice.

His hands tightened as he ran toward the alley. With quick, controlled movements, he dropped to the ground, pulling the criminal’s attention to himself.

A man loomed over a girl—not much younger than Jason—pressed back against the wall, clutching a camera the man clearly meant to steal.

Jason stepped forward without hesitation, narrowing his eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, voice steady.

The girl looked at him first. Pure panic. Tears gathered in her eyes, refusing to fall. Too blue. Too bright.

The man turned, squinting at him with a crooked grin. He took a step toward Jason, unsteady on his feet. Jason wrinkled his nose. The alley reeked of alcohol, heavy enough to turn his stomach.

“Is this a joke? Get lost, kid,” the man slurred, followed by a rough laugh that made the girl flinch. She trembled, pulling the camera tighter against her chest.

He needed to end this fast and get her somewhere safe.

Jason lunged, catching the man off guard. He had speed and training. The drunk had neither strength nor awareness to defend himself. It wasn’t difficult. It didn’t feel heroic. Jason neutralized him quickly and cleanly, leaving him tied in a corner for the police.

He brushed the grime from his suit and turned back to the girl. Her wide eyes stayed fixed on him, stunned, with her mouth slightly open.

“Are you okay?” Jason asked.

She blinked once. Heat rushed up her neck, spreading across her face. She nodded, then shook her head too fast.

“Yes. Yes—I—I—thank you,” she said, fast and broken, her gaze dropping.

Jason pulled a handkerchief from his belt and held it out, offering a small, steady smile. She hesitated before taking it. The color in her face deepened.

“Good,” Jason said, giving her time to breathe as she wiped at her cheek.

His attention drifted to the camera she had protected the entire time.

“Let me walk you home,” he said, gesturing toward the mouth of the alley. “It’s late to be out alone.”

He wondered what a girl that young was doing alone—with a camera—in Gotham this late. Something to tell Bruce: look into the possibility that street kids were being recruited to take pictures of Batman and Robin. The media was desperate for exclusives. Desperate kids would do anything for money.

She glanced at him, red still blooming across her face, fingers tightening around the handkerchief.

“That’s not necessary…”

Jason shook his head.

“It is.” He paused when panic flickered across her eyes. “At least let me walk you somewhere brighter. Downtown.”

He held out his hand—open, still.

Her gaze dropped to it. Her face somehow flushed even deeper. After a moment, she nodded.

“Okay.”

She hesitated, then placed her hand in his.

Jason smiled, closing his grip just enough to reassure her.

“Do you want to talk about the camera?” he asked as they left the alley.

She shook her head. “No.”

“What kind of things do you take photos of?”

Her face burned. “No,” she whispered.

Jason held back a sigh. He knew better than anyone how hard it was to reach street kids.

“Can I know your name?”

“Tin,” she answered, barely audible, the sound almost swallowed by the wind.

Jason leaned in slightly, trying to catch her eyes in the dark.

“Tim?” he asked, uncertain.

She met his gaze. Something like joy—something Jason didn’t understand—flickered across her expression.

“Yes. Yes,” she repeated quickly. “Tim.”

“All right, Tim. Are you hungry? I know a place that makes the best pizza in the city.”

He smiled, keeping his tone casual, careful not to sound like there was anything else behind the offer. He wasn’t interrogating a kid over a camera and some photos. Bruce could worry about that later.

She gathered her courage, her expression staying bright as she nodded.

“I like pizza with Canadian bacon and artichoke hearts.”

Jason paused, mildly perplexed by the combination, but decided not to comment.

“Great. Then be my guest. The place makes really good pizza.”

Tim visibly relaxed, her shoulders loosening. A quiet, contained excitement lingered in her eyes.

“I’m really looking forward to trying it,” she said. “Especially if it’s a personal recommendation from Robin.”

Jason felt something warm at the way the name was spoken. Something unfamiliar, something he couldn’t quite name.

“You’ll love it, I promise,” he murmured, finding he had nothing else to add.

She hummed softly, content with the company alone. The forgotten camera swung lightly against her chest as they moved deeper into Gotham, streetlights spilling their glow across the pavement.

Jason blinked, waiting for the city lights to reflect on Tim’s face.

The sound of hurried footsteps snapped his attention back. He grabbed Tim by the waist and pulled her aside, guiding her out of the path of a man sprinting through the alley.

“Someone stop the thief!” a woman shouted, breathless as she chased after him.

Tim looked up at Jason, a knowing smile crossing her face.

“Go save the day, Robin,” she said, gesturing toward the woman. “I’ll be waiting with her when you get back.”

Jason nodded, committing to the plan, and took off after the thief.

When he returned, the woman was there.

Tim was not.

The second time. There were no introductions.

There were many things Jason hated about the high-end school Bruce had enrolled him in. Beyond the quality education and polite teachers, there were the students. The good ones lived quietly, sheltered for too long by ignorance wrapped in luxury.

The problem was the others.

Spoiled kids from wealthy neighborhoods, born into privilege, who didn’t care about anything or anyone. Teenagers without scruples or morals. The kind Jason couldn’t hit—because then he would be the villain.

So what was he supposed to do instead?

A group of assholes had someone cornered against the lockers, shoving them, trying to force them inside while throwing cruel words.

“Come on, helmet-head. If you won’t spread your legs, at least entertain us,” the tallest one said, followed by his friends’ laughter.

Jason took a slow breath, jaw tightening. He wasn’t playing the game of seeing and doing nothing. Confronting them wouldn’t be a problem—but he didn’t want to start a fight.

Bruce wouldn’t like that.

“If you keep this up, I’m calling a teacher,” Jason shouted. His voice echoed down the hallway.

Curious looks flickered from the far end, then pulled back—lingering at the edges, close enough to watch, far enough to stay uninvolved.

The group turned, revealing the smaller figure trapped between them.

Jason couldn’t see their face; their body was pressed to the lockers, gaze fixed on the floor. No visible bruises. That was all that mattered. If there had been, this wouldn’t have ended the same way.

“Oh, I see. Mr. Wayne’s charity case,” one of them sneered. “Enjoying your privileges, sewer rat?”

Jason ignored him, focusing on the—on the girl pressed against the lockers.

Were these idiots harassing a girl?

He tightened his grip on his backpack strap to keep from hitting the nearest jerk.

“If I’m a rat, then what are you?” Jason shot back. “Filthy cockroaches?”

Laughter erupted farther down the hallway, sharp and loud. The tallest one grit his teeth.

“You think you’re funny.” He stepped closer, leaning in, his voice low and contemptuous. “Your blood is street filth. And not even Bruce Wayne’s money can wash it clean.” A cruel smile crossed his face. “Once you stop being interesting, he’ll get a new accessory for the cameras. Didn’t he do that with Richard Wayne?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Jason didn’t have one. A heavy pressure formed in his throat as the teenagers’ laughter followed them down the hall.

Jason inhaled deeply, forcing the tension out of his muscles, swallowing the urge to defend himself—before turning back to the girl.

Large blue eyes stared at him, half-hidden behind her bangs.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

The girl—now recognizable as Christina Drake—lifted her gaze, hesitation written across her face.

“Yes. I’m fine,” she said, fingers worrying the ends of her hair.

Short. Really short. But a good cut.

What exactly had those idiots been targeting?

Christina smiled at him. “Thank you.”

Jason smiled back, casual. Maybe even puffing his chest a little, warmth blooming in his chest at her expression.

“It’s no problem. Someone had to put them in their place,” he said, tapping his chest. “And it’s a good thing I was here—”

Christina laughed. Soft and low. The sound went straight through him.

Was this… magic? The thought warmed his cheeks.

Jason cleared his throat, looking away as he made an awkward gesture in her direction.

“Also—short hair suits you. Those idiots don’t know what they’re talking about.”

Christina’s face lit up, a wide smile spreading across it.

“Really?”

Jason nodded quickly, emboldened by her reaction.

“I really like short hair on girls, you know?” he said, keeping his tone light. Almost playful.

To his surprise, Christina didn’t respond the same way. Her smile faltered, just enough to notice, and something dulled behind her eyes.

“I…” The word stuck. She shook her head, shoulders sinking. “Thanks.” Her voice sounded thin. “I have to go now.”

Jason stayed frozen, watching her walk away.

What did he do wrong?

Jason never had time to ask. His mind collapsed under its own doubts and conflicts.

The woman he had spent his whole life with—the one who had mourned his death—was not his mother.

No.

His mother was the woman who sold him to the Joker.

Who killed him.

And that should have been the end of it.

But Jason came back.

Fuck. Jason came back.

The third time, Jason wasn’t needed.

Jason had a plan. Something about revenge, justice, and confronting Bruce. A plan that dissolved every time something in Crime Alley pulled his attention away.

The new Robin had been active in the area. The name had spread through the streets—shielding people, protecting each block. Giving them better odds with Daddy Batman’s money.

Jason hadn’t expected the teenager to move through the area so much. An area abandoned even by Bruce. Too small for Batman to stop and help. He had bigger, more important cases to solve.

Curiosity got the better of Jason when rumors reached him. Whispers of plans to trap Robin. Strip him of his influence over Crime Alley.

Jason scoffed, adjusting the weapons on his belt. He followed the city’s murmurs with interest, slipping through crowds as he gathered information.

It wasn’t difficult. A warm smile. A threat. One or two bodies and Jason knew everything he needed.

He didn’t stop it from happening. Doing so would mean exposing himself to Batman. Unnecessarily. He wasn’t about to ruin his plans over this.

The little Robin could handle it.

Jason watched the chosen warehouse from a distance, settling onto a ledge as he tracked the thugs’ movements. And Robin himself—spying on them from afar. He had a perfect view of the fluttering cape. Of the confidence in the boy’s posture as he secured his staff.

A bit cocky. Jason let him be. Maybe if he failed, he’d learn that this job wasn’t a game. And Jason wouldn’t have to deal with him later.

He watched Robin trail the group. When the goons entered the warehouse, Robin melted into the shadows—careful, quiet, unnoticed.

Unnoticed by everyone.

Except Jason.

The information about the trap was incomplete, as if even the kidnappers didn’t quite know how to pull it off. They only wanted to stir things up. Hold Robin long enough to threaten him.

Scare him off. How hard could it be to scare a teenager?

Jason chuckled. If you worked with Batman, you learned about fear. Learned how to live with it. How not to submit.

Maybe that twisted logic was what had driven the kid to take the mantle of Robin. Jason himself had been feral once. Lying to himself while pretending everything was fine.

This boy couldn’t have been normal. Not before. Not after becoming Robin. Jason watched Robin climb onto the rooftop. The trap wasn’t well designed—but it was good enough.

Jason fitted the helmet over his head and started moving toward the building. He wasn’t staying out of the show. Not intervening directly didn’t mean not interfering at all. It meant keeping things from going too far.

These idiots were trying to hurt a vigilante. One wearing the Robin suit. And Jason had enough unresolved trauma for the idea of watching that happen to be unacceptable.

He didn’t like Robin working alone. But it bothered him more that people were trying to hurt him after he’d improved Crime Alley. Jason wanted control of the area, yes, but not at the cost of Robin disappearing in the process.

He moved through the shadows at ground level. Too many windows. Every single one fitted with locks that snapped shut the moment they were opened—and sealed again just as fast. No way out.

He hurried inside, cutting the window alarm cleanly so his presence went unnoticed. The sound of another window opening and closing echoed from above, to the left.

No reaction from Robin. No sign that he’d noticed the lock.

How had he become Robin without noticing something like that?

Jason’s jaw tightened as he picked up his weapon and swapped the ammunition for rubber bullets, irritated at the fact that he even had to think about this just to avoid hurting the boy.

He shouldn’t be here, wasting his night playing babysitter. And yet—why the fuck had Batman let him go out alone?

Talia hadn’t given him any information. She’d found it amusing to leave him in the dark, expecting him to dig it up himself.

Surprise.

Jason couldn’t focus on revenge, or on confronting Bruce, when Robin kept intruding on his thoughts. Everywhere he looked, there was evidence of the kid’s work: shelters, codes, people moving through Crime Alley with more respect for Robin than for Batman.

Jason wanted to know why—preferably before he punched him.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if this went wrong. If Robin got caught in a half-assed trap set by third-rate thugs.

The sudden drop of the warehouse windows finally triggered a reaction. A sharp sound, barely audible in the open space—just enough to give away Robin’s damn position.

Jason moved with purpose now, tension settling through his body as sounds of struggle came from above: impacts, smoke spreading across the upper floor.

On his way up, he caught a few thugs and knocked them out with relative ease. They didn’t look connected to any organized cartel—not Black Mask, not the Penguin.

They were—

“Just fucking amateurs pissed that girls won’t take their pathetic shit.”

Robin’s voice cut through the smoke. Flashes of gunfire echoed alongside stray bullets, and Jason could hear the staff striking flesh, the sickening crack of bones breaking.

Apparently, the little bird wasn’t just reckless. He had nerve. And solid training.

Jason wanted to see that up close.

He took down the last thugs still standing and finally came face to face with Robin.

The teenager was breathing hard, hands tight around the staff pointed straight at him.

“Did they hire a mercenary, or what kind of cosplay is that?” Robin mocked. Even so, he didn’t attack; his gaze flicked between Jason and the bodies on the floor.

“They’re alive, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Jason said, folding his arms. “But if you want, I can kill them.”

Robin said nothing. His fingers shifted on the staff, reinforcing his defensive stance.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, chin lifted—a cocky posture for someone so short. “Who are you? I didn’t hear any announcement about a new… figure in Gotham.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, amused, even if Robin couldn’t see it.

“Afraid to say vigilante or mercenary and get it wrong? Cute.”

Robin didn’t flinch. He held Jason’s stare, waiting for him to make the first move.

Jason tilted his head, pointing his gun at him. The kid tensed instantly, ready to counter.

“Red Hood,” Jason said simply, tapping his helmet with the weapon. “Not very creative, but it was the only name without copyright.”

Robin’s eyes tracked Jason as he holstered his weapons.

“Even though it would be interesting to fight you now, it wouldn’t be fun,” Jason went on, looking him up and down. “You’re not in condition, and it wouldn’t be fair. So we’ll do it another time. For now—”

He brought his hands together in a sharp, echoing clap.

“I’m taking over Crime Alley.”

Robin snorted, the sound turning into a short laugh—pure mockery. He adjusted the staff at his side and leaned on it, openly amused.

“Do you think it belongs to me?” he said.

 Jason nodded, then hesitated. Robin shook his head.

“No. No. Black Mask and the Penguin are the real heavyweights here. I can barely keep the chaos from starting—I don’t control it.”

Robin gestured toward the group sprawled on the ground, contempt twisting his expression.

“But they don’t hate me enough to send real muscle after me,” he added, the sneer turning squarely toward Jason. “I wouldn’t recommend trying it. The last few who were too full of themselves failed.” His smile sharpened. “They ended up dead.”

Jason scoffed and straightened to his full height.

“The warning isn’t necessary. I know what I’m doing.”

Robin lifted his hands, disengaging from the argument with visible ease.

“Do whatever you want. I’m done with this,” he said, already reaching for the cuffs at his belt. The movement was practiced, efficient. “Now you can help me with this—or get lost.”

The words came out with a self-satisfied smile.

Jason considered fighting him right there, throwing every code straight to hell. Wiping that arrogant face off with ease. The idea flared, hot and tempting, but the satisfaction wouldn’t last.

“Looks like you’ve got everything under control,” he said instead, stepping back. “Enjoy the paperwork with Batman, little bird.”

Robin didn’t answer.

Jason hadn’t expected him to.

He left with the information he needed and nothing else, ready to continue with his plan.

No distractions.

The confrontation didn’t go the way he’d expected.

He didn’t win.

He didn’t gain anything.

He dragged himself through the debris, one hand tight around his neck. A superficial wound. A warning.

One that hurt more than death.

He made it back home with the burn of gunpowder in his chest, like an old memory that refused to let him go.

The fourth time, Jason didn’t expect to cross paths with Robin. Robin didn’t expect it either—but he needed him.

Becoming an outsider had been the best decision Jason had made. He wasn’t part of the bats, but he wasn’t their enemy either. The agreement was simple: no killing.

The world accepted that. Jason did too. What else was he supposed to do?

He wanted to help his people—protect them, even if the arrangement was strange and one-sided. Robin’s system worked, even if it wasn’t perfect. Too young to control everything properly, the kid set the boundaries. Red Hood made sure they were followed.

Taking territory from Black Mask had been easy. Stealing from the Penguin, too.

Jason built a reputation. Carrying Batman’s symbol in his own way helped. Robin looking the other way helped even more.

Crime Alley felt safer under his watch—and Robin’s. The kid patrolled the area with a strange kind of ease, never getting too close. Bruce still had issues when it came to Jason, and Robin followed orders.

Unfortunately, that didn’t stop him from getting hurt.

Jason kicked the warehouse door open, drawing attention immediately. Robin was slumped on the floor, blood streaking his face, cuts lining his arms.

The League assassin turned, shifting for an attack toward Jason. Jason clicked his tongue and drew his sword.

He hadn’t found good sword opponents in Gotham. He hoped to get a bit of satisfaction while Robin regained consciousness.

Steel rang through the space. The assassin was good—solid training—but Batman taught better than Ra’s. And Jason had learned a few tricks during his time with the League.

It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t hard either. He kept the assassin occupied, fought dirty when he had to, smart when he could. Long enough.

Robin struck from behind, clean and precise, knocking the assassin out cold.

The boy lifted his head, wiping blood from his mouth. “Thanks,” he said, breathless.

Jason noticed the sway in his stance. He closed the distance just in time, catching him before he collapsed.

“I think that’s it for you tonight, little bird.”

Holding Robin against his chest, Jason activated the safety beacon on his suit.

A faint sound made him glance back at the empty space where the assassin had been. Gone. Right, Batman’s problem.

Jason weighed his options, then chose to do the decent thing. He lifted Robin under the knees, keeping him close while bracing his back with one arm.

There were no immediate threats nearby, and hauling him over a shoulder like a sack could reopen something. Jason didn’t need Bruce blaming him for that later.

“Are you going to make a habit out of this, little bird?” Jason muttered, a short breath of a laugh slipping out as he shifted his hold.

It didn’t land.

Jason frowned, studying Robin slack expression for a second too long. Something distant stirred—unformed, irritating.

“I don’t even know your name,” he added quietly, eyes forward. “Things don’t work like that. So stop trying any stupid shit.”

Probably just paranoia. Robin had no reason to throw himself into danger just to force some kind of connection with Jason. That would be stupid.

Jason shook his head, clearing the thought before it could settle.

Batman was already waiting outside. Fast. Efficient. Carrying the weight of having arrived too late once before.

Jason handed Robin over. “Lose this?”

Batman growled as he took the kid into his arms.

“Any damage isn’t my fault,” Jason said. “He was like that when I found him.”

Batman looked up, but Jason didn’t stay long enough for whatever was coming next. He was already moving away.

Something tight and heavy settled in his stomach. Uncomfortable. Persistent.

Jason huffed under his breath and picked up his pace.

He needed to leave Gotham. Staying was a problem—especially if Robin kept falling into traps, bleeding over ideas Jason didn’t understand, and didn’t need to.

The fifth time, Jason didn’t want to—but there was no other option.

Barbara’s urgent, desperate voice cut through the comms the second he connected.

“Red Robin needs help.”

Jason growled, feeling boxed in.

“Hood here. On my way.”

The fact that the first thing he had to do after returning to Gotham was save Robin again sat wrong in his chest. Heavy. Annoying in a way he had no interest in unpacking.

How was it possible that everyone else was busy and he was the only one available to help… what was his name again? Red Robin? Since when did the little bird downgrade to something so painfully unoriginal?

Even Alfred with a shotgun would’ve been a better choice than Jason right now.

He didn’t want to do this. Not when it felt heavier than it should have, when the implications hovered just beneath the surface, sharp and unavoidable. Robin couldn’t know that Jason had returned to Gotham, even if Batman surely did, and the idea of orchestrating another poorly planned rescue operation made his jaw clench.

Jason didn’t even know the boy’s name. Magic didn’t work without that detail.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t mean anything.

Freshly suited up, Red Hood moved through the city, following Oracle’s directions with practiced ease—and growing irritation. The damn sewers. As if the day hadn’t started badly enough, now he had to navigate filthy underground tunnels like a rat with better gear.

Jason moved to cover his nose, swallowing back the urge to gag as the stench seeped through his helmet. The ledge wasn’t any less slick for being above the waterline, and the echo of his steps carried too far through the silent corridor. One misstep, one mistake, and he’d announce himself to anyone listening.

What the hell was Robin—Red doing down here in the first place?

Oracle hadn’t been very forthcoming—just a rushed summary about villain meetings and foreign crime families. Dangerous. Batman-level dangerous. Had the little bird decided to bypass Bruce’s containment protocols and work the case alone?

Unhinged.

For a brief, uncharitable moment, Jason wondered if Bruce had pulled the kid straight out of Arkham and decided that reintegration into society meant giving him a vigilante suit and a death wish.

It wouldn’t even rank among the most irresponsible things Bruce had ever done. And now Jason had to clean up the mess.

Voices drifted from around a corner. Jason slowed, melting into the shadows, unimpressed. The two masked men ahead of him weren’t particularly bright, broadcasting their position with casual chatter.

He moved fast.

The crowbar cut through the air, its whistle the only warning before it connected with the first man. The second barely had time to register it—Jason struck his chin, caught him mid-fall, and slammed his head into the wall with brutal efficiency.

Easy.

The rest wasn’t.

He advanced deeper into the tunnels. More thugs. More bodies hitting the ground. His joints burned with every movement, his breathing turning uneven, his steps growing unsteady after the last encounter. The blow to his leg still throbbed—a mistake he wouldn’t stop replaying.

Jason decided, not for the first time, that he was going to demand financial compensation from Batman after this. If they were sharing custody of the bird, he wanted benefits. Hazard pay, at the very least. Especially if he had to keep saving his ass.

He wouldn’t push it, though. Doing so meant facing both of them directly, and Jason didn’t want to see Robin—Red without the mask.

He dragged his feet, scanning the area, listening for any sound that wasn’t his own breathing or the echo of his steps. Right there—in the thin, suspended space between one moment and the next—water shifted.

Jason closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and tightened his grip on the crowbar.

When the splash came and Killer Croc’s roar tore through the tunnel, Jason turned and swung in a clean, precise arc. The impact landed hard, followed immediately by the sharp crack in his wrist.

Jason screamed, stumbling back as he yanked his gun from its holster.

To hell with Batman and his rules. He wasn’t dying again in this stinking sewer.

He fired straight at the center of Croc’s skull. It didn’t do real damage, but it disoriented him long enough for Jason to land another blow. Croc growled—and Jason didn’t have time to move before a claw came down on him, shredding part of his armor.

Jason screamed again. Fire raced across his skin where he’d been hit, and half his body went numb.

He fired once more, the shot barely grazing Croc before the man lunged. The helmet shattered as Croc’s fist slammed into his face—white flared across his vision as half of it tore free and hit the ground. Jason spat blood when his blade struck the concrete, pain crawling up his back in a slow, vicious line.

“I thought…” he forced out, breath shaking, “…you didn’t team up with others.”

“That’s none of your business, kid.”

Jason spat in Croc’s direction, laughing when the other growled in response.

“It is when you kidnap Robin.”

Confusion flickered across Croc’s face—just for a second—before Jason triggered the electric charge. The current tore through Croc’s body, forcing a roar from his throat as he convulsed, staggered back, and finally collapsed, unconscious.

Jason lifted his uninjured hand in a brief, shaky gesture of triumph.

“Let’s go.”

The movement sent a dry shock through his body, ripping a harsh gasp from his chest.

“Fuck.”

He stayed there for a moment, staring into nothing, weighing his life choices—and the implications of his recent encounters with (Red) Robin.

Magic felt like it was testing the ground between them, uncertain, hesitant. Trapped by its own rules. Rules Jason knew well. Rules he had always made a point of exploiting.

The helmet, the vigilante mask, helped shield him from any attempt to form a soulmate bond. One he didn’t want. One he didn’t need.

How could anyone be bound to him like that? Something so mystical. So perfect.

No. He had let go of that possibility a long time ago. A perfect dream, belonging to a teenager who didn’t yet know better about life.

Dying hadn’t been that bad.

Coming back with the fear that fate could choose for him was worse.

He didn’t want to put anyone at risk. And now, Robin—Red Robin felt like a walking hazard to himself. Especially if Jason was nearby.

He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to consider that there might be something more at play than recklessness, or Ro—Red forcing something that wasn’t there.

Why would he even want—

“Hood!”

Nightwing’s shout cut through his thoughts. Maybe it was for the best. Silencing the voice that was unraveling into something dangerous.

“Here,” Jason answered, the word low and rough—but Dick heard him.

He heard Dick’s footsteps approaching, the sharp intake of breath when he spotted Killer Croc on the ground, and then the look on his face when his gaze settled on Jason.

“Are you okay?”

Jason let out a breath that turned into a short laugh, instantly regretting it when pain clenched tight in his chest.

“I didn’t die,” he said, gesturing weakly down the corridor. “No idea how Red’s doing.” He extended his hand, waiting for Dick to pull him up.

Dick didn’t look convinced.

“You should fall back, Hood. You don’t look good.”

The rough sound in Jason’s throat didn’t hurt this time. He shook his head insistently, pinning Dick with a hard stare—what little his cracked mask allowed to show.

“And you could end up just as bad—or worse—if you go alone. You don’t know how Ro—Red—is doing. So.” He shook his hand again.

Dick seemed to wrestle with the decision for a second, weighing how dangerous it would be to leave Jason there—injured, next to Croc—while going to rescue Red Robin, or to drag him along and risk slowing everything down.

In the end, he gave in.

“Don’t push yourself,” Dick warned as he pulled his batons from their holsters. “Agent A wouldn’t be happy.”

Jason clicked his tongue, a flicker of unease settling under his ribs at the casual manipulation.

“I’ll be careful, Dickwing.”

They moved forward together, tension coiling tight between them, both carrying the weight of what they might find ahead. Dick didn’t seem to have any more information than Jason did—this had been a separate job, something Robin had taken on alone, without telling anyone.

Was he even old enough to be doing that?

The thought caught Jason mid-step. How old was Robin?

He glanced sideways at Dick—fully alert, posture rigid, concern evident in every controlled movement. This wasn’t the moment to ask. The question slipped away, unfinished, and Jason let it go.

The silence closed in around them, making Jason’s skin prickle. Not finding anyone else after Killer Croc felt wrong. Too clean. Too empty. As if they had been led forward deliberately, following Robin straight into whatever had taken him.

A half-open door caught his attention. There were no guards posted outside. It shouldn’t have been there.

Jason and Dick exchanged a look. The same realization took hold—this wouldn’t end well, but there was no real way around it.

Jason adjusted the crowbar in his uninjured hand, fighting to keep it steady in the other. Dick rolled his batons once, then twice, settling into a familiar stance. A solid team. Dick in front, Jason covering from behind.

They crossed through the door and found no immediate threat as they moved deeper into the corridor. The lights flickered overhead, uneven and unreliable. The sound of cockroaches and rats skittering across the floor scraped at Jason’s nerves with every step.

“What are we looking for?” Jason asked. “Besides Red.” His grip tightened around the crowbar.

“There have been reports of villains forming alliances with a foreign crime syndicate,” Dick said. “Nothing confirmed. Just rumors.”

Jason scoffed, even though the motion burned his throat.

“Look where rumors got us,” he said, gesturing down the dark hallway. “You expect me to believe Red walked through this untouched and then got captured?”

Maybe his voice came out louder than necessary. The guilt in his chest refused to loosen its grip.

Dick glanced at him, then stopped and turned.

“These things happen in our line of work,” he said, even as concern tightened his expression. “We get him out, bench him for a month until Batman lets him walk to the kitchen without supervision. Same as always.”

Not always, Jason wanted to say. But this wasn’t the moment.

Dick didn’t wait for an answer. He exhaled slowly, his words dragging with restrained irritation.

“You don’t need to worry so much about whether he can take it,” he said. “Tim’s tougher than you think—”

Jason growled. Too slow to stop it. The name snapped into place in his mind—sharp, final—like the last missing piece the damn magic had been waiting for.

“What are you talking about?” he said loudly, forcing the name down, trying to shove it out of his head.

Dick hesitated. Stared at him like Jason had missed something obvious, then answered too fast.

“He doesn’t have a spleen.”

And then he turned away. Didn’t look back. Already moving ahead.

Jason stared after him, stunned.

What the hell was that?

Worse—

Why was Robin fighting at all if he was missing a vital organ?

A headache started to bloom behind Jason’s eyes. And they still hadn’t found Robin.

He cursed under his breath and pushed forward, watching Dick check the doors lining the corridor. Every single one of them was empty. Inside, almost-rotted corpses hung suspended from chains locked around their wrists.

A parade of lifeless bodies. Left there far too long. All of it happening right under Batman’s nose. The man was going to have a lot of work ahead of him—and a problem far bigger than just a mafia allied with Gotham’s villains.

Another door opened. Dick’s shout snapped Jason fully alert. “Red!”

Cold shot straight through his spine. Jason dragged his feet forward, forcing himself to move faster. To help if he was injured. To defend if there were more people nearby.

Dick was already dealing with the chains, keeping Robin lifted to prevent further strain on his arms.

Jason stopped in the doorway, a different kind of pain tightening around his chest.

Red’s face was bruised along the cheek, blood smeared at his mouth, his head completely slack in unconsciousness. His legs were bent at wrong angles, his wrists rubbed raw where the shackles had bitten into skin.

Jason moved without thinking. Stepped in, took Red’s weight to ease the load. Dick spared him a quick glance before refocusing on the restraints.

Red felt light in Jason’s arms. Too light. Fragile, breakable—nothing like the boy who could drop grown men without blinking. Nothing like the teenager Jason half-remembered. Now a wounded man, broken and battered, sustained by a force of will Jason could not ignore.

Red’s head tipped forward, coming to rest against Jason’s chest as Dick freed his arms. Jason followed the motion automatically, steadying him while Dick guided Red’s limbs down and settled them against his torso.

That was when Jason noticed the domino mask sitting loose on Red’s face. It would slip off the moment they moved. Faster if Croc regained consciousness.

“He needs a new mask,” Jason said.

Dick looked at him, then back at Red, and nodded. “I have a spare.”

It wasn’t the right size, but it was secure enough. The exchange was quick—Dick removed the black mask and replaced it with a blue one in a single, practiced motion.

Still, Jason had already seen him.

The narrow jaw. The small eyes. The soft line of his nose. Even in the low light, every feature stood out with uncomfortable clarity.

Something pulled inside Jason. Tightened. Pressed forward without moving him an inch.

Part of him almost wished it would. Just to get it over with.

Would the magic demand more each time? Push harder, dig deeper, force the bond no matter the cost?

“Hood?”

“Mmh,” Jason murmured, lifting his gaze.

Dick’s expression had shifted. A different kind of concern settled in—quiet, resigned—like he wanted to pull Jason away from Red and didn’t quite know how.

“We need to get out of here.”

Jason nodded. Adjusted his grip on Red, slower this time, more careful. He waited for Dick to move first.

The solid, undeniable weight beneath his grip. No escape.

Tim.

Why did that name feel like it belonged to an old memory?

Jason should have known he wouldn’t get far. Not with the beating, the injuries, and the pressure of the magic bearing down on his body. Maybe he should have warned Dick before his legs gave out, before he felt himself hit the floor, Red’s weight crashing hard against his chest.

The world went black after Red’s small, startled sound reached him.

The beeping of hospital machines dragged him back. Buzzing. Pressing into his ears. An irritating, constant noise.

“Someone turn that off,” he growled, even as his mouth felt dry and his body protested when he tried to cover his ears.

There was a sharp pull in his chest where Croc had torn through his suit—clean wounds, carefully bandaged—and Alfred’s low humming reached him as the lights in the Cave’s medical bay dimmed.

“I am glad you are with us again, Master Jason.”

Jason forced one eye open and fixed it on him.

“Alfred.” The name came out strained. Late. Almost apologetic.

Alfred dismissed it with a small wave of his hand as he adjusted the bed, raising Jason into a seated position. Jason clenched his teeth at the movement but said nothing, tracking the butler’s every motion.

“Thank you for coming to Master Timothy’s aid.” Jason swallowed down a grimace as the full name settled into place, as if it had always belonged there. “I understand it was an unexpected call, and—”

“It’s fine, Alfred,” Jason cut in, keeping his voice as even as he could. “I wouldn’t leave anyone who needed help to fend for themselves.”

Alfred nodded, pleased, and took a glass of water, helping him drink. Jason hadn’t realized how badly his throat burned until the cold eased it.

“I am happy to hear that.”

The second voice came from the bed beside him.

Jason didn’t spit out the water. Not in front of Alfred. He went rigid, forcing himself to finish the glass and look human while every muscle in his body locked in place.

Alfred stepped back, his attention shifting to the other bed.

“But do not let it become a habit, Master Timothy,” he scolded gently. “Perhaps three weeks off the streets will help you reconsider your priorities.”

There was the sound of guilt. Then a quiet, subdued reply.

“I’m sorry, Alfred.”

Alfred nodded, satisfied, setting the glass down on the bedside table before addressing them both.

“I shall fetch something for you to eat.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not move.”

Alfred left with that single warning, leaving the two of them in an uncomfortable silence—at least for Jason. Tim seemed to have other plans.

“Thanks for saving me,” he said, his voice soft and rough all at once. “I know it was an emergency call, and—”

“Don’t call it that,” Jason cut in.

He turned to face him and regretted it immediately. Tim was staring at him, eyes wide, barely blinking, caught off guard by the interruption.

Jason opened his mouth and found nothing there. His throat was dry, his chest heavy. His lips trembled before he forced the words out.

“No… don’t say I saved you,” he said. “You needed help. A lot of it, apparently. I just helped.”

He gestured toward the door and looked away, as if searching for an exit from Tim’s gaze. Too blue. Too bright.

“Dick was there too. We both answered the call. I shouldn’t get all the credit.”

Tim nodded, hesitation still clinging to the movement.

“Yeah, I know. I thanked him earlier,” he said. “Still, you deserve credit too. For the effort.” The smile on his face shouldn’t have felt so warm. So bright. Gentle. Earnest. “You fought Killer Croc and walked away alive. That’s impressive.”

There was so much sincerity in his voice that heat crept up Jason’s neck. He’d been praised before. By other vigilantes. By other people.

Tim shouldn’t have felt any different.

He hated that he did.

“Either way,” Jason said, his tone hardening. “You need to stop putting yourself in danger. What were you doing underground without backup?”

Tim shrugged, unfazed.

“There weren’t supposed to be that many people down there.” He frowned, his mouth twisting slightly. “It was meant to be a simple recon mission. Something went wrong halfway through. Around four a.m., I think. I don’t know why.”

Jason’s throat tightened. A sharp, mocking buzz filled his ears.

He’d arrived in Gotham around that time. Logged in his call with Barbara, barely twenty minutes after he’d set foot in the city.

“Tim,” he whispered.

The name landed heavy. Too real. Inescapable. Loaded in a way that made it feel like Tim sensed it too.

Had he noticed it from the start? The abrupt, selfish pull of the magic.

“What’s your full name?”

Tim’s face lit up, a wide smile spreading across it.

“Timothy Drake,” he said, tilting his head with clear amusement. “I thought you’d never ask, Jason Todd.”

There were countless stories about how magic formed—how it tightened and stretched until it burst into existence. Everyone had their own fairy-tale version of it. Jason didn’t experience it that way.

It felt simple. As if it had always been there.

Nothing needed adjusting. Nothing snapped into place. The threads had been stitched together slowly, long before—before he had even been aware of them.

A story written far in advance. A beginning he couldn’t recognize.

“Do I… know you?” The question came out quiet, uncertain.

There was hesitation in his gaze, something Tim seemed to have expected.

“In a way, yes. You did,” he said, a mischievous smile tugging at his mouth.

He rested his cheek against his fist, elbow propped as he tilted his head with easy familiarity.

Jason followed every movement. The looseness of it all grounded him. No rush. No pressure. Just a calm certainty, as if Tim already knew things would be fine.

“You’ll have to figure it out,” he added, conspiratorial. “Maybe over coffee? The café downtown—the one with the obnoxious pink walls and the most bitter coffee you’ll ever drink.”

Jason opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss, while Tim waited without impatience.

This was what soulmates did, right? They met. Tested the waters. Started something that might end well—or badly. Accepting the fate that wrote the beginning, but choosing what to do with the ending.

He could give whatever destiny had planned for him a chance.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen. Almost nineteen,” Tim replied. “Is it true you know how to make Alfred’s cookies?”

Jason blinked once.

“They’re decent,” he said. “Favorite color?”

“Red.” Tim held his gaze for only a second. “I don’t think I need to ask. Favorite book?”

“Anything by Jane Austen,” Jason hesitated. “Why do I get the feeling there’s math in your favorite book?”

Tim laughed, low and genuine.

“Close—but I’m more into photography. And Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, that explains a few things.”

Tim raised an eyebrow.

“It doesn’t explain even half of it, I promise.”

Jason hummed, thoughtful.

“Where did Batman find you to put you in the suit?”

Maybe it was too serious for the moment. For how little they knew each other, and for how much history they carried. But wounds were better cleaned before being bandaged.

Tim didn’t flinch. Didn’t deflect. As if he had expected it—maybe because of the way Jason handled things, or because Jason was painfully easy to read. Either way, Jason found that neither thought bothered him.

“You died,” he said. “And Gotham felt it.”

So many emotions tangled in his words that Jason couldn’t name them. Was it the bond—or just Tim, and the way he looked at him?

“I knew Bruce was Batman,” Tim continued, steady. “And that he needed help. Dick wouldn’t do it, so I did. I couldn’t let him die, knowing how important he was to you.”

There was a second of hesitation that Jason caught—the way Tim’s hands tightened, the way he fought the instinct to look away. The pain in his eyes ran deep, the kind that cut straight through Jason and left him breathless.

“If Bruce stayed strong, if he survived this…” Tim’s eyes shone as each word came out soft and unsteady. “I felt like I could survive too. Even if it hurt. Like my heart had been ripped out and left an empty space in my chest.”

Jason wanted to pull away. To run. Even if Alfred stopped him at the door, even if his injuries kept him from getting far, he didn’t know how to face this.

“I’m not a good person,” he said, his voice breaking.

Tim smiled—warm, sincere, devastating. It unraveled him, making every choice he’d ever made feel unbearably heavy.

“You’re the best person I’ve ever known,” Tim said, certainty flooding every word. “You’re the only one who doesn’t see it. Or feel it. But Jason, I believe in you. I believe you deserve something better than what life has given you.”

“Who are you?” Jason asked again, raw now. “How can you be so sure? I don’t know you. You don’t know me.”

“I already told you.” Tim wiped at his eyes, brushing away the tears at their edges. “You’ll have to figure it out. Coffee? Tuesday at six. It’s a date.”

“Why?” The word came out sharp, edged with frustration. He couldn’t understand him. Couldn’t make sense of Tim. “You don’t have to follow what magic tells you, just—”

“Oh, no. Don’t get confused,” Tim cut in, dismissive. “I would’ve asked you out with or without magic. The bond is just a nice bonus for me. Nothing more.”

“Why?”

Tim rolled his eyes and shifted on the bed, grabbing the laptop that had been left aside and settling it on his legs.

“Figure it out. Date. Tuesday at six. Yes or no?”

It felt like an ultimatum. Jason didn’t know what Tim would do if he said no—and he didn’t want to find out. Curiosity outweighed his irritation with the magic.

“Yes,” he said. “Sure. Should I pick you up?”

Tim glanced at him, unimpressed.

“Do you really think any of them would let you leave the manor so you can ‘pick me up’?”

“No. I don’t.”

Tim hummed, pleased.

“I’ll tell Dick to drive us. Then I’ll leave him wondering what happened for a few hours.”

Tim’s smile was bright and wicked, and Jason couldn’t stop himself.

He loved it.

He didn’t know what it meant. Where it came from, or where it was going.

But Tim felt like someone he could choose. With magic involved or not.

For now, Jason let it rest in the hands of magic—and whatever destiny had to say next.