Chapter Text
Jason was tired.
Adulting was hard work—and by adulting he meant taking over the gangs of Crime Alley, burnishing the Red Hood’s reputation with blood, and laying the groundwork for his confrontation with his dad Batman.
It was hard work, but someone had to do it. Or, well, they didn’t, but Jason did. He had a Plan.
A Plan that was murdered in cold blood one fine Saturday morning.
In fact the Plan was murdered so thoroughly that you might think it had been beaten by a crowbar and locked in an exploding warehouse by the Joker. And while Jason might be able to revive some of the Plan, it wouldn’t be the same. Just like how the Jason who crawled out of the grave wasn’t the same boy who died.
And the villain who murdered the Plan before it could truly begin to live? The Joker of the situation?
Timothy Jackson Drake.
“Hey, it’s rude to compare people to the Joker, Jason.”
Jason scowled at the replacement, who was, tragically, still sitting on his couch. “It’s ruder to break into other people’s safehouses.”
“You didn’t need to shoot me about it, though.”
“I’m a murderous crime lord! You woke me up!” What did he think was going to happen, surprising a person who’s just spent a year training with assassins? Not that Drake knew about the assassins, but still. He was lucky Jason had enough trigger discipline to turn the fatal shot into a graze when he realized his intruder was a kid.
The pretender was staring at his face now. Maybe Jason should check for a concussion, because he had been staring a lot. It was unnerving.
“I still can’t believe it’s really you.”
Seriously? What was wrong with the replacement Robin? If Jason didn’t know any better he’d have thought the little birdie sounded happy that his screw-up predecessor was no longer six feet under.
Wait. “How did you figure out I’m back?”
“Library card. Todd Peters checked out a few too many books from the public library branch in the Bowery. It was pretty easy to figure out from there.”
“...Oh.” God fucking damnit.
Jason decided to obsess over his failures later, when he had food in his stomach. “D’you want French toast?”
“Heck yeah.”
Jason had been planning to have an energy bar, but after thirty minutes spent cleaning, stitching, and bandaging the graze wound he'd unfortunately inflicted on the replacement’s upper arm, Jason felt entitled to a more gourmet breakfast.
And the kid was clearly overdue for a growth spurt. It couldn’t hurt to feed him.
As it turned out, accidental gun violence could make for a great icebreaker under the right circumstances. An hour ago, Jason would have been much more inclined to punch the replacement Robin in the face than offer him toast.
Not that he’d actually interacted with Drake before this morning, but it was the principle of the matter. Timothy Drake was the shiny Crest Hill-bred prodigy who’d taken his place so seamlessly it was as if Jason Todd were a mistake the universe corrected to make way for Timothy Drake. As if Jason had never even lived or died at all.
Fortunately for the cuckoo birdie, all that baggage went out the window in the wake of ‘oh fuck shit sorry are you okay lemme grab the first aid kit’, and it was hard to hate someone you'd just stitched up. Plus, Drake wasn’t even Robin right now; he was wearing scruffy jeans and a baggy Nirvana tee.
There was no way this was a setup, either, because if Dad Bruce Batman had any clue what was going on the big Bat would have popped out of the shadows the second his Robin got shot.
Which begged the question…
“What are you doing in my living room?”
According to the Plan, Batman wasn’t supposed to be interested in the Red Hood yet, let alone know he was Jason. “How long has B known it’s me?” he asked.
“Um.” Jason looked over at Drake sharply. “B doesn’t know. No one does, actually.”
“You’re telling me you figured me out. Not the so-called world’s greatest detective. And you, what, decided not to tell him?”
“Pretty much, yeah.” Drake looked sheepish.
Jason put the first two pieces of French toast into the pan. “So are you just here to jumpscare me and confirm your theory, or…”
“Oh, no. I’m also here to blackmail you.”
Fleetingly, Jason regretted that the pretender’s gunshot wound had been nonfatal.
Because this was bad. The replacement Robin knew his identity and the location of at least one safehouse, and was absolutely in a very good position to blackmail Jason. And Jason was an up-and-coming crime lord with a vengeance quest and hence not in a very good position to get blackmailed.
“Aren’t you rich? The fuck do you want to blackmail me for?”
“It’s nothing like that!” Drake’s voice came out pitchy at the end like he was embarrassed. He cleared his throat. “I don’t want money. I want you to come home.”
What.
“What.”
“To the Manor,” the replacement clarified, like that made any fucking sense.
“...No?” What even?? “Fuck no,” Jason added, more forcefully.
“I don’t think that’s how blackmail works."
In one smooth movement Jason drew the handgun from under the kitchen sink and pointed it at the pretender’s chest. “I don’t think blackmail works when the blackmailer’s dead, either.”
The replacement Robin tensed, but only slightly. His face didn’t change. “Yeah, like you’re gonna shoot me after you spent half an hour patching me up.”
Jason clicked the safety off.
“I have a dead drop set up.” The pretender’s voice was steady and his tone casual, but Jason could see him blanching. “If I don’t get home safe, it all goes to the Batcomputer: the locations of your boltholes, your caches, your contacts, your base of operations.”
Fuck. He had that much on Jason?
But, wait– “Not my identity?”
The replacement snorted. “No. B and Dick would have an emotional breakdown and it’d give you time to go to ground.”
“You’re bluffing.” Also, emotional breakdown? Huh? “You wouldn’t have come here if you thought I’d kill you.”
“Course not,” Drake said easily. He was such an infuriating snot. Did he think he was invincible or something? That Jason wasn’t a real threat? “But it didn’t hurt to have incentive for you not to kidnap me or something.”
Jason growled, but clicked the safety back on. After a few beats he lowered the gun and transferred it to his left hand so he could grab a spatula with his right. The French toast needed flipping.
“...So you’ll come home?”
“I am home, replacement."
Drake looked around at the safehouse judgmentally. Rude.
“My home is Gotham,” Jason clarified. “Crime Alley. And you might think I’m dumb, but I’m not falling for your little trap. You can’t blackmail me into Blackgate.”
The pretender had the nerve to fake confusion at that. “I did say the Manor, right?”
“Or would Batman prefer Arkham?”
Drake looked at him like he was crazy.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“No. No! Jason– ugh. B isn’t gonna care that you’re the Red Hood. You’ve barely even done anything yet, and even if you do it’s not gonna– you’re his dead son.”
“I’m not his son.” I’m not your father, Jason. I don’t need your teenaged rebellion.
Jason. Did not want to explain this. To his replacement. At ten in the goddamn morning.
Drake buried his face in his hands and groaned. “Why is this so hard,” he whined, voice muffled.
Jason rolled his eyes. “Hey. Replacement. First batch of French toast is done. You want syrup?”
“Um. No thanks?”
“Good, ‘cause I don’t have any.”
Jason flipped the French toast onto a plate. For a fleeting moment, he considered poisoning it. He kept League poison in the otherwise-bare spice drawers of all his safehouses just in case he needed to go all Lucretia Borgia. It wouldn’t be hard.
But he didn’t want to, so he didn’t. Instead he walked over and handed Drake the French toast.
“I don’t have any utensils.”
Jason did, in fact, have utensils, but people who broke into his house to blackmail him didn’t deserve to eat with a fork.
“That’s fine.” Drake took the plate and smiled. It looked like a genuine smile. “This looks great, thank you.”
“Uh. You’re welcome.” Guess the silver-spoon brat had manners, after all. Weird.
Jason went back to the stove to start the next batch of French toast. He glanced over at the replacement, who was devouring the first piece of toast. “You know, I poisoned that.”
Drake looked up at him with chipmunk cheeks. “No, you didn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” He happily started on the second piece of toast. “This is really good. Seriously, thanks, man.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Jason turned back to the stove with a scowl. What was the matter with this kid?
TEN MINUTES LATER…
The French toast would have been better with strawberries, but there’s only so much adulting one zombie can do, and this week Jason had prioritized military-grade rocket launchers over fresh fruit on the shopping list.
After a few minutes of eating in silence, Jason cleared his throat.
“It might be a little late for this, but, uh.” He set his plate on the counter and stuck out a hand. “Jason Todd. I’d say it’s nice to meet you but it really, really isn’t.”
Drake looked at him, bemused, before returning the handshake. It was a very firm and proper handshake and reminded Jason of pre-death galas. He suppressed a shudder.
“Tim Drake. We’ve met before, actually. Not that you would remember, I mean, just… Never mind. I don’t know why I said that.”
Why the hell did the replacement—Tim—look so embarrassed all of a sudden?
“We meet at a rich-person party back before I died, or something?”
“Yeah,” he agreed quickly. Suspiciously quickly.
Jason narrowed his eyes. “Which event?”
“Um. The Christmas Charity Ball. The one where ‘Brucie’ fell into the chocolate fountain.”
Jason snorted. “I forgot about that. But I’m pretty sure I met you somewhere else.” He racked his brain for a scrawny kid with pale eyes and spiky dark hair.
Wait a minute… Talia had said something about the replacement Robin getting his start as Batman's personal paparazzi...
Was Drake—
“You were the camera kid?!”
Tim jolted in surprise. “You remember that?”
Fucking hell. “Yeah, but I kinda assumed you were working for a gang or information broker or something.”
“Nah. It was… a hobby.” Tim resumed eating his French toast. His expression was wistful. “I used to sneak into the city and take photos of the nightlife. Not often. Just if I was home on break from boarding school and my parents were out of town.”
Jason rubbed his forehead. “You stalked Batman. As a hobby.” What the fuck even was Timothy Drake? “I am starting to see how a non-orphaned rich kid ended up in the traffic light suit.”
“Uh, thanks?”
“No. That was an insult. There has to be something seriously wrong with you to do that.”
Tim squinted at him for a moment, then returned to his food. “Well, I am an orphan. Now.”
He said it matter-of-factly, like Jack Drake hadn’t bit the dust barely over a week ago. Jason wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Sorry for your loss? Sucks to be you? I know how it feels to lose a parent but at least you got to go to the funeral and you’re not homeless now?
Instead he said, “I’m sure ol’ Brucie’s thrilled about that.” Jason almost winced at the bitter resentment in his voice.
The replacement was giving Jason a weird look. “Thrilled my dad’s dead?”
“Of course he is,” Jason scoffed. “Now he can finally add you to his collection of identical traumatized orphans.” He tapped his chin in mocking consideration. “I wonder how long you’ll last before he gets tired of you. Or, who knows? Maybe you’ll die before he decides to kick you out.” Jason poked at his French toast, suddenly not very hungry anymore. “The job has a 50% mortality rate, after all.”
Instead of getting defensive, the little cuckoo just blinked at him. “But Bruce isn’t going to adopt me?”
That’s the part he chose to focus on?
“Like hell he’s not. Your parents are dead and you’re Robin.” Why would the pretender lie about this, of all things? Was this some sort of mind game?
“No, I’m serious, Jason. B isn’t adopting me.”
“So, what, you’re going into the foster system?” Jason snorted. “Sure.”
The replacement was distinctly annoyed now. “I have an uncle. Edward Drake.”
Gee, good for him. Jason didn’t see how that was relevant. “And?”
“And I’m going to live with him. Not B.”
Jason blinked. Oh.
“Don’t you want to keep living with B, though?”
The pretender smiled faintly and shook his head. “I’m really lucky to have Uncle Eddie. He’s the best. Dropped everything to come back to Gotham for me when he got the news.”
Jason scowled and stabbed his French toast with his fork. He imagined blood welling up around the tines, as if from puncture wounds. The mental image was kind of gross, but satisfying.
Drake had a perfect guardian lined up and ready. Blood related, even. Figured that he was still a spoiled little prick, even as an orphan. Jason would’ve probably died on the streets if it hadn’t been for happenstance and the savior complex of a judgemental billionaire—and here the replacement Robin was with a living relative eager to take care of him.
Jason shoved the last of his French toast in his mouth and stood. His chair made an unpleasant scraping noise against the cheap linoleum floor.
“Do I look like I care?”
The little cuckoo gave him a reproachful look. “You asked.”
“No I fucking didn’t.” Jason rinsed off his plate in the sink. Great. He’d forgotten to buy dish soap again. Wonderful.
Drake followed him a moment later, holding out his plate.
“Do I look like a maid to you? Clean your own damn dish.”
“Jeez. Sorry.”
Drake waited until Jason was done cleaning his own dish (somewhat ineffectually, with a bar of hand soap from the bathroom) to move over to the sink.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Jason commented. The kid twisted around to glare at him. He grabbed out one of his guns to clean and leaned against the cabinet. “You shouldn’t use that much water. It’s wasteful.”
“I’m literally doing it the exact same way you did.”
“No, you’re not. I used way less water.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Instead of dignifying that with a response, Jason bared his teeth and continued to polish the barrel of his semiautomatic.
“You can’t intimidate me just by holding a gun, you know. It isn’t even assembled.”
Jason assembled the rifle. It took less than seven seconds. Tim’s eyes widened slightly, which was very gratifying.
“Well, it isn’t loaded.”
Without breaking eye contact, Jason reached into the cupboard where he kept the ammunition and loaded the gun.
“Um, why do you keep rifle cartridges in a cereal box?”
“Why don’t you?” It was a pretty weak retort, but Jason made up for it by glaring extra-homicidally.
Tim rolled his eyes and turned back to the sink. How long does it take to wash one singular plate? Fucking rich kids.
“Just give it to me,” he snapped. Tim probably shouldn’t be using his left arm this soon after Jason shot it. He might pull his stitches.
He took the plate from the kid and handed him the loaded rifle in exchange, just to see what he’d do. The kid looked down like he was holding a venomous snake. It was hilarious.
“Daddybats never let you touch a gun before?” he mocked. “It won’t bite.”
The replacement tore his eyes off the weapon to look up at Jason. “Please never call B ‘daddybats’ ever again. And, I mean, I’ve held a gun before. Alfred taught me to shoot as part of Robin training.”
Huh. Alfred never bothered to do that for Jason. “And how did daddybats feel about that?”
The replacement made a face at the repeated nickname. “He pretended not to know, but, uh. Honestly I don’t think he minded.”
Jason put both plates back in the cupboard. There were only three plates total, and two mismatched glasses, so it looked kind of depressing, but whatever. At least they were clean.
“Oh?”
Drake looked slightly uncomfortable. “I think he was just hoping it would, uh, be helpful to keep me safe as Robin.”
“Increase your survival odds, you mean.” Jason grinned like a shark. “After the last one went and got himself beaten to death and exploded.”
The replacement looked pained. Good. He should be.
He should know what he was risking, dressing up as a traffic light and poking his nose into the business of murderers and psychos.
Case in point: right now.
“Don’t you have anywhere better to be?”
Drake shrugged. “I mean. Not really.”
“Well, I don’t want you here, so,” Jason made a shooing motion, “get lost.” As soon as he got the pretender to scram he could figure out what to do about this clusterfuck of a blackmail situation.
Drake crossed his arms. “I won’t leave until you agree to my terms.”
“Yeah, nice try, but you’re twelve and I’m a crime lord. You can’t just blackmail me.”
“I’m fifteen!”
“Yeah, but I’m still a crime lord.” Or he would be, as soon as he finished Phase 1 of the Plan.
“You’re Robin.”
Something unpleasant twisted in Jason’s gut. He snatched the rifle back from the pretender and pointed it at his heart, finger on the trigger.
“I’m not. You’re Robin and I’m a criminal and a murderer. Now get the fuck out before I change my mind about letting you leave.”
The pretender narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth. Jason cut him off.
“You want a deal? Here’s a deal for you, birdie. You won’t sabotage me--won’t spill my identity to the Bat or anyone else--and I won’t hunt you down and make you beg me for a quick death.”
Please, please let the threat work. At least let it buy Jason some time to go to ground and rework the Plan.
Drake now looked slightly like he wanted to punch Jason in the throat. Well, great. The feeling was mutual.
“Fine,” he acquiesced after a long moment, voice flat. "Deal." Jason kept the gun trained on his back as Drake crossed the room to the window where he’d entered and began undoing the security.
The kid climbed up on the sill and looked back over his shoulder at Jason. Then he smiled suddenly, a bright flash.
“Thanks for the breakfast. I’m glad you’re alive, Jason.”
And then he was gone.
Jason remained standing in the kitchen like that for a few minutes, gun pointed at the opened window, rooted in place.
What the fuck just happened?
If Drake was smart—and he was supposed to be, but Talia had also said the new Robin was well-behaved and listened to Batman, and those little factoids were evidently lies—then this was a trap. Maybe the kid thought he could impress Batman if he caught a dangerous criminal like the Red Hood singlehandedly?
“Come home to the Manor”—yeah, right. More like the pretender thought he could play into Jason’s deepest darkest wish nonexistent desire to go back to his pre-death life, and get him to walk into an ambush.
If Drake was stupid—which was looking more and more probable, to be honest—then maybe the kid actually thought he could force Jason back into the boy he’d once been—the obedient, toothless little pawn in Batman’s twisted game of chess against the criminals and Rogues of Gotham.
Well, that wasn’t happening. Jason wasn't a pawn anymore. He was a queen.
He was the Red Hood. A trained assassin, a zombie, a murderer. None of that was reversible, much less negotiable. The Jason who had been Robin was dead. A ghost.
Jason was back, not for a second life, but for vengeance.
O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth!
Jason was not going to let Timothy Drake ruin the Plan.
Sadly, he couldn’t just kill Drake and be done with it. Killing Robin would irrevocably fuck up the Plan, and also, Jason didn’t actually want to hurt the kid, no matter how annoying he was. This left him only one option, apart from capitulation, for dealing with blackmail.
He needed to Uno Reverse this shit.
Jason pulled up his mental to-do list and added INVESTIGATE THE REPLACEMENT right up at the top in big, bold letters.
Time to find out if Timmy had any secrets.