Chapter Text
Only select individuals have wings. Jason Peter Todd, Bruce Wayne's late son, was known for his stunning osprey wings.
When Tim grows in wings at the ripe old age of eight and a half, he's overjoyed. When a Robin with actual wings takes to the sky, he's even happier; he spends hours comparing their feathers, the colouration, the length, the bird species they come from—yes, the second Robin is an osprey and he's a a peregrine falcon; no, he doesn't mind. All that matters is that he gets to share his wings with someone else, even if they'll never talk. Even if his parents bind his wings to his back before every gala and charity event. Even if he feels like a mockery of Robin when Jason dies.
He doesn't tell anyone. Not when he takes up the mantle of Robin, not when his school friends ask about why his back always seems to be in pain, not when anyone mentions the strange noises he makes as he sleeps. But it's okay, because as long as he's doing a good job as Robin, he's fine. As long as he does what he set out to do, no one needs to worry about him. Really.
(It hurts so, so much. His feathers are in constant disarray, his head hates him, his back is always aching—he wants it to stop. He just wants to be able to rest, to finally stop pretending he's a regular human. He's heard being an avian is something to be proud of, a blessing from god; why does no one in his life act like it? Why does he have to be punished for something he has no control over? It's not fair. It's not!)
Admittedly, he is a little glad he's being sent away for a while. Well, not really, but being away from other people means letting his wings free. Even if he is a little upset at being benched (very upset. He's fine; he can take care of himself. Why can't anyone see that?), he relishes in the thought of a full week, bare minimum, where he doesn't have to worry about binding his wings. A full week of letting his instincts do as they please and taking the backseat to his life. It sounds like a pretty great tradeoff, in all honesty.
So as soon as Tim gets to Titan's Tower, he wastes no time in darting to his room, throwing off his shirt, and undoing his wing bindings, letting everything fall haphazardly to the floor. A small, muted chirp leaves him as soon as his wings are free, stretching out instinctively on either side of him. He lets them; he doesn't have to hurry or rush, nor does he have to worry about someone wandering in. For once in his life, he has time to let his instincts do whatever they want.
He spends the next half hour constructing a nest out of his pillows, spare blankets, and even a few stolen pieces of clothing from the rest of the team. No one else is in the Tower; it's not like he has to worry about them finding out, and, besides, he'll return it. It's not stealing if he gives it back, right? Just borrowing. He's happy to curl up with his head between one of Kon's shirts and a pillow so worn it's probably from Dick's time as Robin once the nest is done, wings splaying out just enough to rest on the edges of the nest. It's smaller than he would like, but he reminds himself that it's not like he'll have anyone else in the nest. This is just for him.
(He wants his flock. Their belongings aren't good enough; he wants Dick to run a hand through his hair, he wants to sit by Barbara and hear her talk about her latest projects, he wants Bruce to fix his messy feathers, he wants—)
He lets himself by lulled to sleep by the instinctual safety of his nest, of finally giving into the clamouring of his instincts. His mind is already in a haze; sleep is so close, right at the edge of his consciousness, and for once, Tim lets himself rest.
Tim jolts awake in the middle of the night to the sound of the Tower's alarm. Immediately, he knows something is wrong—no shit, there's an alarm going off—and he scrambles out of his nest, tripping and dislodging things—an alarmed kak-kak-kak leaves him before he can tamp it down—as he finds his bindings, running through the process of pulling his wings back despite how much it hurts, and then pull on the shirt he left on the ground. He flounders, for a moment, as he tries to find one of the spare dominos he keeps in his room, before securing it on, grabbing one of his spare bo staffs from the nightstand, and dashing out the door.
He doesn't have to. Because standing right outside his room, right there, is Red Hood. Gotham's newest crime lord, and the exact reason why Tim was sent away. There are plenty of thoughts surging through Tim's head as he registers this, like how Red Hood got to San Francisco so quickly or how he broke into the tower, but the most prominent one is: I'm so fucked.
Tim tries to move, but it's like his feet are stuck to the floor; as soon as he's able to spur his body into action, he's knocked back against the wall, and there's the cold metal of a gun pressing against his forehead, because of course his luck is that bad.
"Speechless, huh?" Red Hood taunts, and Tim's never really had a better time to appreciate how the modulation of Hood's voice makes him more imposing. "Do you even know who I am?"
"You're the Red Hood," Tim answers automatically, and tries to give it a bit of energy. He shouldn't taunt Hood, not with a gun to his head and no chance of immediate backup, but he keeps talking anyway, "you've been cleaning up Gotham the easy way."
It was a bad decision to talk. Hood presses the muzzle of the gun even more forcefully against Tim's forehead as he starts speaking, and Tim swears there's hatred in his voice despite knowing, logically, Hood's voice doesn't have much of an intonation.
"Easy? What do you know about easy, Tim?" Hood snarls, kneeing Tim in the stomach, and the impact from the hit, alongside the way it makes Tim's bound wings push harder against the wall, has him doubling over in pain, sinking weakly to the floor. It's pathetic. "You had a father that looked after you...you went to a private school, right? You slept in a bed."
Hood's foot comes down on Tim's ankle, with enough force that Tim is pretty sure it shatters. His vision whites out at the edges, and he bites his lip to keep from yelling; the last thing he needs to do right now is lose control. He knows that Hood knows his civilian identity; that's bad, obviously, but there's not much that can be done about it. What matters more is the current situation, with one ankle presumably shattered and a gun to his temple.
"I slept on the streets," Hood continues, "I lived in the alleyways of Gotham. Trying to survive. Until Bruce took me in."
Until Bruce took me in. That—that means something. That means—
Hood's boot grinds into Tim's shattered ankle, and despite his best attempts, a muted whimper leaves him at the pain. He pushes past the haze; he can see Hood taking his helmet off, and—and he's right. It's Jason.
(Protect?)
"I trained as hard as I could...I did whatever I was asked, at least at first. But it didn't matter. They said I wasn't tough enough to be Robin. But today," Jason lowers the gun, "they say you are."
Tim realises a fraction too late that Jason isn't lowering the gun; he's aiming it. It doesn't matter, in the end, because Tim is pretty sure that knowing that doesn't make it any better when the gun goes off, and a bullet tears through the side of his thigh, leaving his brain dazed and panicked, instincts screaming nothing but danger-danger-danger.
"Show me, Tim," Jason says, stepping back. "Show me what you have that I didn't!"
Tim tries to parse the meaning of Jason's words through the hazy mix of pain and instincts; after what feels like an eternity, he staggers to his feet, putting his weight on his left side, ignoring the bullet wound. He's pretty sure he's panting, but he can't really focus on that. Instead, he tries to focus on the taste of blood dripping into his mouth, meaning he probably bit too hard. It gives him something to focus on, and he ignores the trembling of his hands as he extends his bo staff, shifting into a fighting stance. Please, he silently prays, let me have just a little more strength. Don't let me die here.
He's not insolent to Hood's—Jason's—methods. He's seen the case files. And despite knowing the Jason doesn't hurt kids, he has a feeling he might be an exception, if the vitriol in his tone is anything to go by. Part of him wishes Jason had kept the mask on, just so he couldn't hear it. It hurts, just a little, knowing his Robin hates him. But right now—right now, he just needs to survive.
He feigns to his right and tries to lunge left; there's the sharp crack of a gun and the overwhelming warmth of a new bullet wound on his right shin, blood gushing out as he stumbles to land without falling, moving his momentum into a roll in order to spring back up, putting the entire force of his turn into his swing. He feels his bo staff connect with Jason's back, feels the second Robin stumble a little, but he's still nearly a hundred pounds up on Tim and completely uninjured. It isn't enough.
Instead, Tim can barely do anything but watch as Jason smiles, ripping the bo staff right out of his hands. It leaves him with exactly two options: one, take the beating that is surely going to come for him, or make a run for it. Tim tends to want to live, so he settles on the second one, and as soon as the bo staff is out of his hands, he's running, his pulse pounding in his ears like a drum, wings twitching insistently beneath their bindings. He makes it maybe eight, maybe nine, feet before gunfire rings out again, and he stumbles.
"Fuck!" Tim can't help but yelp, knees burning as he falls to the floor, trying to get back up without pausing. He can't even make it onto his feet before the gun's muzzle is being pressed against the side of his head, and Jason's hand grabs the collar of his shirt, throwing him against the wall. A weak alarm call is forced out of his throat by the impact, and for a second, Jason pauses, before creeping closer, kneeling down in front of Tim.
"Aw, poor little cuckoo," he coos, free hand coming up to cup Tim's jaw, pushing his head back to leave his throat exposed. The gun clatters to the floor, and Tim can only watch, mind racing in horror, as Jason reaches into one of the holsters on his belt, pulling out a sleek dagger—knife? Tim isn't sure he can remember the difference, at the moment. "Did you learn to mimic me? That's cute."
Jason presses the knife against Tim's throat, and he has to resist the urge to swallow. Maybe if Jason were an amateur, it would trick him into pulling the knife away, even just a little, but Jason is no amateur.
"Can't say I'm a fan, though," Jason continues, dragging the blade over Tim's throat—enough to scratch, but not enough to cut. Tim holds in another alarmed call. "I think we're gonna have to fix that, yeah, Timmy?"
Jason presses the knife into Tim's throat, and this time he really can't help the alarmed squawk that leaves him, wings thrashing in their bindings. The blade is already halfway across his neck, blood spilling onto his shirt collar, when he feels something snap, his wings puffing up, and—fuck, is it his bindings? It is. It is, isn't it?
Tim starts to thrash, his call rising in volume and pitch as he desperately tries to push the knife away from his throat, desperately tries to push Jason away. He isn't sure what he's trying to do, only that he knows Jason can't see his wings. Something like that, anyway. His head's still fuzzy, and the blood loss isn't really helping—
"Woah, woah—hey, birdie, that's—" Is that Jason's voice? It sounds like Jason's voice. For some reason, it sounds concerned. Hysteria, a hallucination, he deems, even though he doesn't think he's that injured. His vision is starting to go fuzzy, though, so maybe he is injured enough to be having auditory hallucination. "Timbo, hey—!"
The adrenaline is already fading. His limps feel heavy, his vision spotted with black as he slumps back against the wall, a soft whine leaving him at the feeling of his wings scrunching up underneath him.
"No, no, no, no, that's not—hey, Timbers, stay with me—come on, eyes open, look up here—" Someone's hands are on his shoulders. Jason's? No, that can't be right. There's no one else in the Tower, but Jason is still slitting his throat. Right? Right, probably. Tim can't really tell. He feels like he's floating. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Tim barely even catches the muttered curses from...whoever as his vision keeps fading. The last thing he sees is Jason's eyes, that familiar sky blue, before his eyes flutter shut and his head goes quiet.