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Not removing Jason’s biometric data, and thus allowing him to enter Titan’s Tower undetected, is the sentimental bullshit that caused the entire situation.
The situation being Jason hunting Tim through the Tower halls like a shitty serial killer in a horror chick flick.
Jason had chosen his timing very carefully: past sundown on a Sunday, when most of the other Titans had fled back to their mentors or home cities in order to prepare themselves for the week ahead—mostly for school.
Jason snorts as he slams another door open. Imagine having to go to school, when you’re a person with superpowers and a hero secret identity.
(Jason, very stubbornly, ignores the soft cries and whimpers of the fifteen year old boy that still lives buried in his head. That Jason is no longer who he is, no matter how hard he tries to dig his way out to power his body. Jason doesn’t care about education like that anymore. Afterall, he’s dead.)
There were a few of the Titans left when Jason had first snuck into the Tower, but they’d left the place soon enough, or Jason had neutralised them (he thinks about Raven, asleep and not knowing that she’s needed, and feels the most miniscule amount of guilt about putting her in the position to begin with). Tim had waved them off when they offered to stay (stupid fucking decision) and had locked the doors behind him.
When Jason had shown himself, Tim had run off and presumably set off the alarm systems that Jason had very quickly shut down. The Tower was still locked, though, so Jason guesses he didn’t do the greatest job of actually turning off the alarm system.
No one had managed to get in either, though. Jason wonders if the alarm hadn’t actually gone through to the other Titans or Batman or if it had gone through but they somehow couldn’t get to the Tower.
Or if they had seen the alarm and didn’t care.
Jason, selfishly and cruelly, despite knowing there is no way it can be true, wishes it was the last option.
He shakes the thoughts. Right now, that didn’t matter. What mattered was finding the Replacement and getting it into his head that Robin shouldn't exist anymore. Jason was going to ground that little birdie forever, if he had to, simply to get it into Batman’s head to stop his crusade.
Or at least to stop him involving children with it.
“You can hide but you can’t run,” Jason calls. He would’ve cringed at the butchering of the phrase if it were anyone else, but he had meant what he’d said. Jason had at the very least caused a hairline fracture when he’d hit the kid with his own bo staff earlier, if not outright broken the bone. Tim had gotten him back with a few punches and kicks, but nothing truly worth noting. The kid was Batman trained, sure, but Jason was that as well as League trained. Tim’s nothing compared to him.
Jason hears the stuffing of feet and whips his head around to look at it. The tail end of a bright yellow cape flutters around the corner and disappears. Jason always knew dressing like a traffic light would be the end of Robin.
He grins, and follows the sound of stuttered limping. The kid was injured worse than Jason thought, if he was letting himself be heard sneaking around when he’d trained with Batman.
His steps are slow and relaxed, as if he were out on a stroll through the gardens. He hears the kid’s breathing quicken, hears the way he tries to flee, and nothing stops Jason from stalking closer and closer to his target. He drags the kid’s bo staff behind him, letting the screeching of it against the floor fill the almost silent halls. Oh, how he wishes he could cause the same pain to this kid as he was caused.
Almost to sweet victory. Because that’s what this was, to Jason. It may be some horrid crime and gross attack to Bruce, some sick twisted revenge to Tim, something unthinkable to the other Titans. But to Jason, him getting to do this, to hurt this kid and clip his wings, is victory.
Showing Batman that he’s in the wrong.
They end up in the kitchen of all places. Tim’s standing behind a counter—as if the barrier is enough to protect him—with a knife in his hands, pointing it towards Jason and shaking as he glares and breathes heavier than Jason’s ever heard anyone breathe.
“Stay back,” Tim hisses, and Jason snorts.
“Or what? You’ll cut me?” Jason says, and walks closer. “I’ve handled worse, Pretender. I’ve done so much worse.”
Tim’s eyes narrow a fraction.
“Why are you so obsessed with me?” he asks, and though he shakes the knife in his hands lower, doesn’t even point away from Jason. “What did I ever do to you?”
“What didn’t you do?” Jason asks, because being cryptid is funny, and he honestly doesn’t care if he’s pissing off the kid or scaring him. He deserves it, taking a dead boy’s uniform before the boy’s body even gets cold.
“Is it because I’m Batman’s? You don’t like the way he handles Gotham so you take it out on someone weaker than him?”
Jason barks out a laugh. The kid’s brave, that’s for sure. Jason rolls his shoulders as he considers his answer. Finally, he decides, “Yes. I want to teach the Batman a lesson. He’s lazy and a coward.” Jason grins, and he knows he looks manic. “Someone needs to teach him to take responsibility. So why not hurt his kid like no one’s hurt one of them before?”
Jason raises the bo staff above his head using both hands, and then brings it down lighting quick against his knee, snapping it in half. He takes great pleasure in the way Tim’s eyes widen in shock behind his domino, and then the way his eyes become so stormy and angry.
“There. I’ve evened the playing field, birdie. Is that good enough for you?” Jason says, letting the two bow staff pieces clatter uselessly to the floor, and watches as confusion flashes across Tim’s face.
In the aftermath, where Tim’s not quite alert enough, Jason jumps over the counter and kicks the knife out of Tim’s hands, letting it fall to the floor out of arm’s reach for Tim. In the same motion, he pins Tim down by sitting on his hips and thighs and using one of his hands to pin both of the kid’s hands.
“There we go,” Jason says, laughing, as he leans closer to the boy. He’s face to face with Tim, and he grins as he sees the rising panic in his eyes. This was going to be so fun. “Got you. Now I can do what I want.”
Jason begins reaching for a knife—he needed to leave a message, and what better way to do it but in blood?—in his pocket, and the panic in the kid’s eye becomes even clearer. Tim blinks, and suddenly his eyes are glossy.
Does he know what he’s about to do, Jason wonders, or is he simply scared of all the possibilities? Jason hopes it’s the latter. It’s so much more fun when it’s fear and apprehension, rather than just being scared of injuries.
“Please don’t,” the kid whispers, eyes tearing up.
Jason’s hand pauses, and the glee is indescribable and boundless. Begging so soon? Jason hadn’t even bought out the knife. This was not what he was expecting from a Robin, being so weak and such a scared thing. It only makes the glee stronger.
“Why shouldn’t I, Pretender? Didn’t I already tell you what you were to me?” Jason leans closer, and whispers into the kid’s ear. “A means to an end. Nothing—” He hisses the word like it’s poison, “—more.”
The kid begins to cry. Jason grins, and reaches for the knife in his pocket.
“Please don’t,” Tim begs again, and Jason ignores it. He rummages in his pocket. “Please. Please don’t—please don’t touch me. Please, I’ll do anything, please don’t—”
Jason stops. What does—what does Tim mean? The kid’s not even looking at him anymore, instead he’s staring at the ceiling and biting down on his lips to keep sobs from escaping, as tears roll down from his eyes and down his temples and into his hair, dripping slowly to the floor. He’s crying so much it looks like a waterfall.
Jason sits back. He must be misinterpreting this. His own upbringing, his background, the shit he had to do to survive —that must be changing the interpretation of the words. Tim can’t possibly mean.
“Please don’t touch me there, at least,” Tim begs again, shuffling his legs and stomach, when Jason doesn’t move off his hips, doesn’t let go of his hands. “Please. I—I can give you my mouth or hands—please don’t—don’t—” And he’s sobbing so hard his words are coming out in fragments uttered between coughs and hiccups and disgustingly wet sounding sniffles. His head is raised as he stares straight at Jason.
Fuck. Jason’s about to move, about to run out of the Tower and never come back, when Tim seems to take his silence as disagreement, and says something that Jason thinks is going to haunt him for the rest of his life.
Tim’s voice is scarily even, his face somehow already becoming blank as his eyes dim, his tone so detached and out of care that Jason feels like he’s talking to a recently reanimated corpse. He says, “If—if you’re going to do it, can you please try and not make it hurt too much? That’s always the worst part.”
And then he lets his head rest back on the cold tiles of the Tower, and stares into the ceiling, his eyes lidded and empty even as tears continue to fall. He even stops struggling.
He didn’t even wait for a confirmation from Jason.
He didn’t even wait to see if it’ll hurt or not.
That’s the last thought Jason has before he’s jumping off him and clicking the buttons on his helmet to unlatch it and throw it across the room. He kneels not even a foot away from Tim’s unconscious body, hand above him and braced on the countertop. Jason’s ignoring the way Tim still hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor, his hands still held up above his head, as Jason throws up.
He’s always hated throwing up. It’s gross, it burns his throat and tongue, it leaves a terrible taste in his mouth, and it leaves him vulnerable to attack from the back. It’s an overall unpleasant experience, and Jason has always thought it couldn’t get worse.
Throwing up because a little kid thought that Jason was going to rape him?
That makes it so much worse.
When he’s done—having no idea how long he’d been kneeling there throwing up—he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stares at the puddle of throw up. It smells gross, and looks even worse, but—but looking back and seeing the kid might be worse, Jason thinks.
When the time he’d given himself to collect himself runs out, Jason turns his head, just peeking from the corner of his eye.
The kid’s still lying there, staring uselessly up at the ceiling with blank eyes. He hadn’t even moved his hands from above his head, where Jason had originally been pinning them.
Fuck. Jason realises with horror that what he was doing—pinning the kid down, sitting on his hips, holding him down and reaching for his pockets—would’ve caused him to have the exact same reaction in the kid’s place.
He can’t just leave the kid there. Especially not next to all the throw up Jason had just let out of his body.
He sniffs, and stands up on shaky legs. He takes the two steps towards Tim that he needs to, and kneels next to the kid. “Tim?” He asks, and hesitates as he reaches towards the kid’s face. He doesn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t want anyone else to touch him, after an episode like that, but—but Tim’s different. He reaches forward, and tucks some of Tim’s hair behind his ear. “Hey, kid. I’m not—not gonna hurt you,” which is ridiculous to say, Jason knows, but he doesn’t want to hurt the kid anymore, so it’s true. “You’re okay. Can you sit up?”
Tim stares blankly at the ceiling. Jason hisses out a string of curses that would’ve cost him if he still used Alfred’s swear jar. “Tim. Kid. Robin. Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
Fuck’s sake, Jason thinks, and resigns himself to the lesser of two evils. He reaches one arm under Tim’s neck and one under his knees, and picks him up. He still remembers the layout of the tower—of course he does—so he’s efficient and undistracted as he makes his way to the medbay. He hadn’t even gotten to beating up the kid that much, but Tim’s face was still red and bloody and beginning to bruise.
The yellow of the Robin cape flutters under Tim as he stares at the ceiling, mouth slightly open and eyes still pointed firmly to the ceiling. He hadn’t even made a singular sound.
Jason lays him down on one of the medbay cots and begins carefully peeling away the Robin domino mask. Behind it, Tim’s left eye is bruised purple and blue, so Jason’s not sure if that was his doing or someone else’s.
He brings out the first aid kit and begins carefully and slowly tending to all the wounds he can see. The bruise, the cuts, the scrapes on his cheek from when Jason had slammed Tim’s face into the wall. He doesn’t attempt to remove the shirt or stupid green leggings to treat any of the other injuries he knows he’s caused Tim (nor does he even attempt to tackle the most likely broken bone, because he’s not nearly qualified enough for that), because he knows that if Tim wakes up from his episode in the middle of that he’ll immediately drift off into heavy dissociation again.
Jason knows exactly how it goes. Tim, unfortunately, seems to know exactly how it goes, too.
Jason is brushing Tim’s hair out of his face when the boy blinks and his eyes drift from the ceiling down to the wall, then his head moves and he tilts it to stare at Jason. Tim blinks, brings a hand to his face, and looks confused. He looks at his body, still fully dressed, and looks even more confused.
“You redressed me?” Tim asks, all airy and out there. Seems like he’s not fully back, yet, if he’s asking these questions and acting so vulnerable.
“I never undressed you,” Jason replies, and clenches and unclenches his fist, the green anger creeping in from the edges, blurry and not quite taking hold like it had before. He needed to find out who the fuck had touched this kid enough for him to dissociate this hard, and he needs to leave them dead ten times over.
Tim tilts his head as he sits up. He stares at his hands—cleaned by Jason and untouched otherwise—and his confusion only grows. If the situation wasn’t as it was, Jason’s pretty sure he’d be laughing. The kid’s confused face looks so adorably dorky.
Then, Tim shoves two fingers to the back of his own throat and scrapes, gags as he does so, and pulls them out. The humour that might’ve been there vanishes instantly. His spit is clear as he pulls his fingers away from each other, and he seems to be tasting his own mouth as he runs his tongue across his teeth and the rest of his mouth.
“Not my mouth either?” Tim asks, almost casual, and Jason wants names. How many times had the kid gone through this? How many people? How many murders will Jason have to commit to make the green leave his vision?
Jason takes a deep breath, evening his tone, as he replies, “Nothing. I didn’t—didn’t touch you. Not like that.”
Tim looks struck. “Really?”
Jason wants to cry. “Really. I promise.”
And only then does Tim begin to cry.
Jason’s unprepared for that reaction—especially considering what had been happening—so he jumps back in shock as Tim rolls up into a ball and sobs. Jason thinks he should leave, flee and never show his face again. But Tim looks so cold so he hesitantly reaches forward, like Dick used to do sometimes, and Tim clings onto him like he’s a life force instead of the guy who tried to maim him not even an hour ago.
Jason sighs as he pulls himself up onto the bed next to Tim, and brings the kid into his lap. Tim’s mumbling something to himself—Jason’s pretty sure it’s French—as Jason readjusts their seating,so they’re both sitting somewhat comfortably, Jason’s back against the wall as he tucks Tim’s head beneath his chin.
“Thank you, thank you,” Tim’s mumbling as he buries his face into the crook of Jason’s neck. “Thank you for—for—” And he’s crying so hard he can’t even get the next couple of words out, though Jason’s sure he knows what the kid was going to say.
Fucking—fucking Gotham. Fucking humanity. Maybe Ra’s was right after all, Jason bitterly muses, as he shakes his head. “No thanks needed, kid,” he says, and presses a kiss to the top of Tim’s hair. “Please don’t thank me for—for—” He swallows, and lets the silence linger.
They stay like that for a while, before a beeping ceases, and—
And Jason realises that the Tower zeta tubes were down when he’d broken in (it wasn’t even his doing, he’s pretty sure it was an attack from a villain or something). That’s why Batman wasn’t there sooner. That’s why it’s been so quiet and empty. The realisation is accompanied by the door of the medbay being kicked in, and Batman and Nightwing rushing in like men possessed.
“Robin,” Nightwing breathes, and the boy in Jason’s arms freezes. He looks from Jason's face, to Nightwing and Batman and back again. Nightwing’s face hardens. “Let him go, Hood.” He reaches back to unlatch the escrima from his back, and stops only because Batman holds a hand up as he continues to stare at Jason and Tim.
His eyes looked narrowed behind his cowl.
Jason realises he never took off the domino under his mask. He was meant to do a whole big reveal to Tim, pulling off the helmet and then ripping off the domino, but Tim was dissociated to high heaven when Jason had thrown his helmet across the room, and hasn’t really been present enough to look at Jason since.
“Hey, Tim?” Jason asks, and everyone freezes at the use of Tim’s real name, even though Jason had been using it for the entire time. “Can you move back a bit? I need to—need to show you all something.”
Tim untangles himself from Jason’s arms and steps back, and Nightwing immediately grabs him and pulls him back so he’s flush against his chest. They all stare at Jason—Tim with a calm almost-understanding, Nightwing with hostility, and Batman—
Batman with curiosity.
Jason slowly reaches up, head tilted towards the floor, and peels the domino off his face. He looks up, and the gasps everyone lets out are sure to be echoing through the entirety of the Tower.
“Hey, Dickie,” Jason says, grinning, and the man’s face falls as he pushes Tim to the side and reaches forward for Jason. He collides with Jason hard, and Jason barely has time to breathe before he’s being squished like he remembers. He wraps his arms around Dick, and doesn’t mention the crying.
When he glances up, he sees Bruce—Bruce! Not Batman!—with the cowl pulled back, and his eyes watery as he stares at them. Dick lets go of Jason, and stares at Bruce as the man stands there awkwardly.
“Jaylad,” he says, quiet as a mouse. “Jaylad.”
“Come here,” Jason says, and whilst Bruce walks slower he is in no way softer when he holds Jason, squeezing just as hard if not harder. Dick, not wanting to be left out, grabs Jason and holds him from the back, his arms also around Bruce.
“You two are going to kill me again,” Jason mutters, and laughs when both of them freeze. “Relax,” he mumbles. “I’m back now.” They squeeze harder, and Jason lets out an annoyed breath as they still don’t let go. He looks up, and sees Tim standing there as they hug.
He sighs. All of them are inept. Every single one. “Tim,” he calls. “Come here.”
Tim shuffles over, and is basically snatched into the middle of the hug lightning fast. Jason muffles a laugh as he watches the kid’s face contort into an array of annoyed emotions all in one expression. He leans closer so his mouth is right beside Tim’s ear.
“Do they know?” he mumbles. “About—you know?”
Tim shakes his head.
“Okay,” Jason says. “Will you tell them?”
Tim swallows, and shrugs, hitting Bruce in his chin as he does so. The man doesn’t look to be too affected by it. “Don’t know. Maybe.”
“Okay,” Jason says. Then, smiling, he asks. “Can you give me the names?”
Tim’s eyes flicker up and down again. “Maybe,” he says. “Later, though.”
Jason grins. “Course, kid. You’re gonna be fine. You’ll never have to see them again.”
“What are you two muttering about?” Dick asks, leaning his head so it’s right next to them.
Jason snorts as Tim gently bats his head away. “Nothing, Dickhead,” Jason says. “Mind your business.”
“Yeah, Dickie,” Tim says, and Jason resists an urge to snort.
Bruce smiles as he rubs a thumb against Jason’s back. “Stop being mean to your brothers, both of you,” he orders. “Just enjoy this.”
Jason smiles, and for once it’s not sarcastic or evil or whatever. It’s soft. “Yeah, okay. Sorry, dad.”
His family continues to hold him close.
Jason thinks he’ll be fine.