Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim crying wouldn’t make Batman come. This was a fact Tim knew with confidence. Because adults never came running when children cried. No matter what people tried to tell you. This was an unspoken rule Tim knew to a high degree of accuracy.

When Tim was in fourth grade his teacher, Miss Lavoy, had said while consoling a crying Brian -the boy only had a sprained ankle, Tim didn’t think it warranted all the tears. Especially not when tears meant calling parents and they were far too busy doing more important things than fussing over a sprained ankle- that crying was a natural response to feelings. Little Susie, looking none too guilty about being the cause of Brian's sprained ankle, had asked what it meant then, when her little newborn sister cried so much all the time. Miss Lavoy had said it was what babies did when they wanted their parents' attention and crying would get that attention from them. Tim frankly thought it was poppycock. Last month the woman had claimed that hugs could heal scraped knees and that definitely wasn’t true, biology just didn’t work that way. So Tim knew, with astute confidence, that Miss Lavoy was not to be trusted with these claims.

That evening, over dinner, Tim had told his parents what Miss Lavoy had said. Tim’s mother had scoffed, that was all Tim needed to hear to know he’d been right in his disbelief. His mother had said he hadn’t cried once as a baby and that she hadn’t understood what poor parenting other people did to constantly be complaining about their child's amount of crying. His dad had told him he was right to tell them and that he’d have Tim moved to a more competent teacher, he’d even patted Tim’s head.

Unfortunately, his parents had been whisked away to another dig and forgot to get him transferred. Tim didn’t mind, the pat on the head from his dad more than made up for it, its good mood lasting him right through to their next visit home 3 months later. Besides, it just meant Tim felt less guilty about hacking into his parent's emails and sending one to the school about a leave of absence for Tim while they took him with them on their dig. Tim spent the whole time sleeping during the day, then wandering around Gotham at night with his new camera, taking photos of anything that interested him. He’d gotten a slightly blurred picture of Robin one night and the high from it pushed him back out night after night in hopes of another glimpse.

Tim had tried the crying thing once, he’d been tired from being out all night chasing vigilantes around the city, and Mrs Mac had just told him that his parents were extending their stay in Paraguay and wouldn’t be home for his birthday like previously promised. Tim hadn’t actually minded; they were important people doing important work, his birthday wasn’t all that important in the grand scheme of things. But Tim had been so tired, he’d given in to the little voice telling him he should cry, just to test it, Miss Lavoy’s theory, all it was was an experiment. So he’d cried. Mrs Mac didn’t do tears. Tim knew this, it had been one of the first things she’d informed him of when his parents introduced them. So all she’d done was tell him that that was quite enough, to blow his nose, wash his face, and come back down for breakfast when he’d properly calmed down. Tim didn’t experiment again, his hypothesis had been proven, there was really no more to the test.

The point was Tim knew with certainty that Batman wouldn’t come if he cried.

Maybe if this had been 2 years ago, before Tim became Robin, if he were a civilian on the streets. Maybe if Tim had been Jason Todd instead, like Batman clearly wanted. Maybe he’d have come, maybe he'd have placed a hand on his shoulder to console him like Tim had seen him do to the scared street kids or run a hand through his hair like he’d seen him do to one of the previous Robins that one time. But none of those things were true and so Tim knew his hypothesis from all those years ago would remain true. Adults don’t come if you cry, that means no Mrs Mac, no parents, no fake older brothers or non-existent uncles, and absolutely no Batman.

Tim could feel the fear toxin twisting in his throat as he punched in his code for Titans Tower. It felt like cold sludge slipping down his pharynx. Tendrilling needles swimming through his veins. Freezing cubes of ice forcing their way along his arteries with every pump of his heart. He gasped in tiny staccato breaths as the doors of the zeta tube pinged open. The Tower was dark, likely deserted as everyone stayed at home for the evening.

Tim stumbled through the empty hallways towards the lab, he’d managed to nab an unexploded canister of the gas from the warehouse he and Batman had been infiltrating, he could synthesise an antidote here and no one would be any the wiser. The hallways constricted and crushed in around him. Their shadowy corners twisting into creatures with long limbs and chilling sneers. Hands reaching out to grab and scrabble at his cape, to tug and squeeze at his arms, to pet and tickle his skin. Tim swatted at them, but they disintegrated and reformed like oil disturbed in water. He stumbled to the lab doors, weakly slapping a hand against the access panel, his neck prickling with the tell-tale signs of a Bat behind him. But the door wouldn’t open, his other hand trembled more violently around the canister’s cool metal.

Tim screwed his eyes up tighter. He thought he’d managed to wriggle his way out of the cave and Alfred’s medical scan without causing any suspicion, but that idea was dashed as the eared cowl loomed into view. Tim blinked. And blinked again. And again. Blink. Blink. Blink. The form didn’t stutter or change, definitely not a hallucination then.

A gauntleted hand reached forward -Tim stepped back, his knees hitting against the still closed door, tremors rocking him on his feet- and snagged around his wrist, yanking him forward to meet hard white cowled eyes.

Tim wanted to apologise, to explain himself, but no words would work themselves out around the thick sludge of fear in his throat, his mouth opening and closing around chattering teeth as Batman’s grip tightened.

“You’re a bad Robin.” Batman growled. Tim couldn’t argue or agree or apologise, all he could do was watch the canister slip from his fingers and ignore the slowly growing black spots of fear in his vision. “You’ll never live up to the real Robins.” Something black and blue danced up behind him as Batman continued. “You’ll never be enough.” The grip on Tim’s wrist twisted painfully in emphasis.

Tim knew this. He did. He really did. It was a second fact that Tim Drake knew without doubt. He’d never be a good enough Robin for Batman, or Nightwing, and certainly not Jason.

Once, when Tim was still fresh in the suit, Bruce had called him Jason. They’d been in the cave after patrol, the Batman cowl had been off, affording Tim the ability to see the distaste roll across Bruce’s face the moment he’d realised it was Tim next to him and not Jason. Bruce barely spoke to Tim for the next week. Bruce didn’t get Tim’s name right for another 3 months. Bruce didn’t continuously get Tim’s name right for a further 5 months.

That night, when Tim had blearily toddled home, he thought about the three hours the man hadn't called him by the wrong name and was surprised to find he felt rather disgusted with himself. Like this was just another way Tim was pushing himself in, another way he was stealing attention away from Bruce’s actual children, another way he was replacing Jason.

He hadn’t gone on patrol the next night.

Once, when Tim had been in the suit for 3 months over a year, he and Dick had been lying on the sparring mats after training. Dick had been grilling him over his plans for the summer break and Tim had bashfully admitted he didn’t have any. Dick had offered to take him to the zoo, Tim had been so excited by the offer it had taken him 0.8 seconds longer than usual to realise Dick had called him Jason. Tim’s plan had been to pretend he hadn’t noticed but as he’d opened his mouth to accept, Dick’s face had fallen and he’d clammed up quickly retreating from the mats saying maybe they'd go another time. Tim didn’t bother mentioning it again, it was clear that the offer had been for Jason and not Tim. Tim spent the break watching Star Trek reruns, and debating getting a haircut -to look more or less like Jason Tim never decided- ultimately he didn’t because his parents had come home and all silly ideas like that promptly vaulted from his mind, like a gold medal Olympic diver, with the prospect of a head pat from his dad. Tim’s parents died 7 months later and Tim never did get that head pat.

All this to say, Tim knew he wasn’t Jason. He knew he’d never compare to Jason, not in the eyes of the tabloids who ran slander on both his identities at any chance, not in the eyes of those in the Alley who crept and slinked back into the shadows when he came near and certainly not in the eyes of Batman or Nightwing or Bruce or Dick. It didn’t mean Tim liked hearing it from them but he still knew it.

The black and blue formed into the gymnast body of Nightwing, hovering at Batman’s side. Tim tried to twist towards him, hoping with all his might -which was quickly dwindling under the force of those blank glares- that Dick might step in and support him.

“You should give up the suit.” Nightwing said instead, his mouth frowning in disgust as Tim reached out a shaking hand to him. “You don’t deserve it.”

Tim nodded, his head wobbling back and forth stiffly, he wondered whether a particularly harsh nod would have it toppling off. He could do that. He always planned to give up the colours when Bruce no longer needed him and it had been almost a year since Batman had unnecessarily injured someone, and that had only been because the goon had caught Nightwing with a bullet. Besides, the suit was never his, it was Jason's and if Jason wanted him to give it up he would. Except Jason wasn’t here and Tim thought the original Robin quite sufficed to tell him what he could and couldn’t do as a stand in Robin. Besides, Tim had started drawing up schematics for a new suit under a different name. Now he was nearly emancipated, he could go anywhere and be a hero. He didn't need the Robin suit. He didn't.

Tim’s hand, not trapped in an iron gauntlet grip, began to scrabble uselessly at the clasps of his cape. His nails catching uselessly in the fastenings of the body armour in his haste to take it off. The grip on his wrist disappeared, stepping away. And Tim resumed his frantic tugging, now invigorated by the use of both hands. The figures of his heroes turned away, gesturing for him to follow. Tim did.

Back down the halls, all the way back to the zeta tubes, his eyes blurring in unshed tears as the shadows snapped and growled at him, in no way assisting his fight with the green boots.

Batman and Nightwing stepped into the tube Tim had used to get to the Tower, its coordinates still set for his return to Gotham. They looked at their feet. Tim hastily piled up the suit and accompaniments there. He’d hoped he’d be able to keep the utility belt for the new suit, a last comfort of what once was. But Tim should have known that was a futile dream. He dropped the belt on the top. Tears finally spilling down his now domino-free face, Tim hit the engage button to the right of the tube, watching the suit and his once dream pseudo family dematerialise away.

Tim crumpled to the floor sobbing as the shadows lurched forwards, no longer held at bay by the presence of the other vigilantes. Squishing and suffocating around him as he curled into himself. Shivering in his under armour, sobs echoing and bouncing down the halls.

Tim knew he should drag himself back to the lab and finish the synthesis on the antidote, knew he should drag himself back to his room and put on some warmer clothes, knew he should look for somewhere to stay that wasn’t right next door to the people who’d just fired him, knew he shouldn’t keep swatting at the not real hands coming to stroke at his arms. Tim knew these things, but the tears kept coming and his crumpled ball on the floor tightened. He’d worry about it later.

Chapter Text

Jason tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for the zeta tube in Bludhaven to power up. He could have used the one in Gotham but he didn’t want to risk running into Batman before the big reveal, besides it would be easier to explain away the tube from Bludhaven going to Titans Tower than one frequented by the Bat.

The blue light of the tube began to glow and hum as Jason punched in his target coordinates. Checking the programme to shut down the Towers security and controls was ready to be initiated on his phone, Jason took a deep breath to push down the anger. It wasn’t that he didn’t want that rage -in fact he wanted to keep it just in reach- he just wanted to be able to see the Replacement’s face when he realised who had come for him, and the anger made it significantly more difficult to focus on small pleasures like that. He had gotten used to the lurch of the zeta tubes a long time ago and braced himself for the short sudden oncoming bout of nausea, letting it roll off him as he began to reappear at the Tower.

The zeta tube’s door pinged open, Jason stepped out, already hitting the shut down programme. Step one was down, step two was to find the kid. Step three was, is, well he hadn’t fully decided on that one yet. He knew whatever it was he wanted Br-atman to know it was him. Not some two bit thug, not a new wannabe rogue, but the one and only Jason Todd back from the dead, the second Robin all resurrected and back to brand spanking sparkly new. Maybe he’d beat into the kid that following heroes around in leotards was not a great idea, maybe he’d do something poetic like write on the walls in blood -although Jason had no idea what would be poetic enough to live up to such an idea- maybe he’d just zip tie the kid up and post-it note a Jason woz here to his forehead like he’d find in the 100 year old textbooks back in science class.

Whatever it was, it needed to get his message across, plain and simple. He was back and pretty pissed about being replaced while his murderer roamed free and that he was absolutely not going back to the manor, no sirey. And maybe if it got the Bats to keep their noses out of his business it would be a huge plus, but he wasn’t optimistic…Maybe a post-it would be best.

Step two needed to actually happen before Jason had to actually begin worrying about this half baked idea of coming here and there not yet being a step three. He wondered where the kid would be. He’d watched the fight with Scarecrow from his perch keeping watch of Crime Alley and even from there it had looked nasty. He was surprised Batman had even let the Replacement out of his clutches, but then again the man did have a record of making stupid decisions when it came to the kids in his care. Jason had also heard from the whispers in the alleys that the new -Jason shuddered at the word- Robin seemed to act more like an employee than, well, whatever he and Batman had had, but he was pretty sure he’d seen a newspaper article yellowed with age and burning in a dumpster fire of the poor Mr and Mrs Drake’s untimely demise, and Batman did seem to like squirrelling away newly orphaned children.

The point being, he guessed the kid might be in the med bay, but then again he definitely wouldn’t have gotten out of the cave and away from Alfred if he had actual need for the med bay. So not the med bay. From his perch in the alley, he had seen one poor sod who’d somehow managed to get a bit too close to the fight stumbling down the road swatting at possibly giant flies, maybe wasps, Jason hadn’t really cared enough to find out, he’d just spritzed the guy with some antidote before grappling back up to his hideout. Later, once the night had finished and Jason had found his legs moving to the Tower instead of to the nice cushy 200 dollar a month steal of an apartment he’d found, he’d swung past that guy suspiciously still swatting at empty air. He assumed the guy was on some other prescription of drug or narcotic and the antidote hadn’t been necessary, but maybe it was a new strain of fear gas and the kid was in the labs synthesising a new cure. But then wouldn’t he be doing that at the cave and with Batman. What a nightmare, Jason really should have built himself a backdoor that kept the cameras on before shutting down the Tower.

He’d have to do this the old fashioned way and check every room, a pain but a pain that would have been made redundant with more forward planning. Stupid Pit making him jump into half formed ideas. He’d check the lab and med bay first, they were on the same floor anyway, then he could start on the bedrooms and work from there. Plan finally formed, he took a step forward and his foot, instead of meeting empty air, hit against something soft and marginally immobile. It whimpered with the contact and Jason belatedly wondered whether the Tower had gotten a dog.

He chanced a glance down and crossed all his fingers he hadn’t just kicked some poor innocent animal. He didn’t really fancy adding ‘animal abuse’ to his ever growing list of crimes -hey, Jason wasn’t about to deny that the duffle bag of heads wasn’t a crime, a pretty good one, but yeah still a crime. In fact he was more on the fence about the identity fraud, sure the poor schmuck he’d stolen the name of was dead but so was Jason so sue him.

It was, in fact, not a dog. But a very small, very skinny, black haired -and if this kid had blue eyes, Jason was going to be pissed, talk about a Replacement- kid, wearing way too few clothes for laying under the previously blasting ac’s that were meant to keep the tubes cool. Jason knelt down and the kid shivered along with another whimper, this time it was cautiously followed up by a very wet sniffle. Jason had, albeit briefly, considered some of the possible reactions from the kid, fear, anger, resignation, swearing, all of these reactions, though, depended on the kid actually seeing him first. And tears were not at all a reaction Jason had prepared for, and especially not one when he hadn’t even seen Jason yet.

There was another sniffle from the kid as he circled in tighter on himself. God if Batman really hadn’t claimed this kid like the alley’s whispered said, then Jason was going to do the leg work for the man. He snickered into his shoulder at the thought. Batman coming up to the Tower in search of the kid and finding him zip-tied up with already filled out adoption papers just waiting for his signature duct taped to the Replacements head. It wouldn’t get his message across quite as well, but he could always throw in a post-it, rub a bit of salt in the wound about replacing him.

The kid uncurled slightly and Jason wondered whether he’d heard him snickering, but instead of turning towards him the kid began tugging at his hair instead, eyes glazed and unfocused where they peered out over his knees.

With a mildly resigned sigh -because this really wasn’t going how he’d planned, maybe he should have just sent this all in an email- Jason turned the kid over. The Replacement stayed in his ball and just, sort of, flopped into the other direction. Ok, weird, but Jason had dealt with weirder, his very being here was testament to that. He thought about shaking the kid but if he’d somehow developed brain trauma from the cave to here Jason really didn’t want to exacerbate it. He instead took to peeling the Replacement’s legs away from his body to get a better look for any injuries. The kid moved easily, unnervingly malleable beneath Jason’s gloves, but shook like a loose tree leaf in the wind the whole time. Jason stopped when the kid’s legs weren’t so tightly wound to his torso, curled around Jason’s own knees where he knelt in front of him more than anything else.

Jason leant down into the Replacement’s line of sight, until he could see the red of his helmet reflected in his eyes, where his pupils were blown wide. Jason really ought to take that off, later, when he figured out what was wrong with the kid. He tapped his hand lightly on the other’s cheek, watching his eyes twitch minutely at the contact but nothing more. Weirder.

Jason sat back up and unlatched his helmet, dropping it to his side as he leant back over the kid, his hair twisting and slipping down now it was free of the helmet, he could feel it falling in that uncomfortable way that meant it was going against its partings. He blew a piece out of his eye and unconsciously hit the Replacement in his own eye with a dart of air. Oops. The kid’s face momentarily scrunched up before he returned to yanking on his hair, the action previously forgotten in all the excitement of turning over. But it was more of a reaction than he was previously getting so clearly the kid hadn’t gone completely catatonic. Maybe if Jason poked him in the eye-

He was interrupted by the kid very rudely beginning to swat an inch from Jason’s face. Jason lurched back out of the way about to start on his grumblings of never again helping snot nosed kids again, when the Replacement’s sobs became significantly more audible.

Between swats at empty air and rib wracking sobs the kid managed to hiccup his way through a few words that suspiciously sounded an awful lot like ‘stop touching me’. Weirder still. And ok, he was slightly more relieved at giving that poor John a face full of antidote, whether it worked or not, his fear gas instincts had not been dashed with a dip in the Pit.

This was definitely not going how Jason had planned.

Jason hadn’t seen or heard anything about the Replacement getting a lung of fear gas but the kid was clearly sneaky if he’d managed to get out of the cave, current predicament undetected, by Batman, Dickwing and Alfred.

Jason, peevishly, scooped the kid up into his arms, one under his knees and one under his back, careful not to jostle any unseen injuries, if he could hide a trip of Crane’s finest gas he could hide a cracked rib. His fingers twisted their way into Jason's shirt but otherwise there was no other reaction to show the kid had even registered the change.

The Replacement was supposedly the ‘smart’ Robin, whatever that meant, so Jason took the liberty of presuming he’d had the inch of sense to take an antidote, which meant that it hadn’t worked, so synthesising one that did was top priority, step one if Jason was still keeping up with the precedent of having plans.

The kid shivered, teeth clacking slightly before biting into his lip. Ok, scratch that, step one was to get the kid into something warmer, step two make antidote, step three… yet again still undetermined.

Chapter Text

Jason made his way up to the wing with the bedrooms in and stood at the end staring down the empty hallway. He had no clue which was the Replacement’s. A jaundiced part of his mind whispered he should check his old room first, a less assholish part whispered he should start with the rooms that were empty and saved for new members or guests when he was in the scaly shorts, the sensible and smart part of his brain which had previously been berating him for his lack of step three reasoned it didn’t matter which room he checked first with the Tower shut down he wouldn’t be able to get into any of them.

Jason threw his head back with a grudging drawn out groan. Just his luck playing scientist for the kid, he just hoped that reactivating the Tower wouldn’t have the Bats or worse pissed off teenagers on his back. He manoeuvred the Replacement into one arm, pulling his phone out with the now free hand, tapping in a few codes and passwords; the Tower thrummed back to life with a flicker of lights and hum of generators, it reminded Jason of the absolutely ancient computers turning on in Gotham’s Library when he’d gone before, well, before.

Jason lifts the kid a bit closer, hoping the jostle will get his attention. “Hey, kid, which one’s yours?” He makes no movement to reply, Jason sighs, he tries to make it sound as annoyed and put upon as possible just to needle at the kid. It doesn’t work.

He decides to start with the spare rooms, if he doesn’t have to he is not touching his old room with a 10 foot barge pole. He lifts the back of the kids hand with his free one, slapping its palm against the access panel. When one doesn’t work he moves on to the next. Six rooms later and he’s getting nervous. It’s the eleventh door, opposite Jason’s old room, that finally slides open. The room is decidedly depressingly sparse. There’s more case files on the desk than there is, well, stuff.

He drops the Replacement on his -and Jason is almost weirdly thankful for it- unmade bed, the kid bounces with the springs until he’s splayed out on his back, arms stretched to his sides, legs hanging over the edge and glazed eyes staring at the ceiling. Rummaging in the wardrobe feels a bit invasive, but the poorly muffled sound of clacking teeth spurs him on.

Jason finds a red and black superman shirt, bit different for a new look for the man but Jason can understand, he throws it over his shoulder landing on the kid's stomach. He rummages some more, finding a soft pair of cargo sweatpants Dickwing always used to swear by, Jason thought they were one of the worlds worst creations but they’d do for the moment. He grabs the first hoodie he sees and turns back to the kid, who has not moved to put the shirt on.

Jason rolls his eyes, pulling the kid up before shoving the shirt over the kid’s head and under armour vest. The sweats are more of a pain to get on but he wrestles the kids legs into them tying them a bit tighter than strictly necessary to account for the slip of the bicycle shorts he’s wearing. The hoodie is next and Jason is pleased to see the shivers are slowing down, as are the tears. As Jason pulls the last extremity through clothes holes, his eyes drift over the hoodie. It’s soft under his fingers but worn, it’s a deep red, a bleached splash on one of the arms and a shadow of a peeled off Wonder Woman symbol on the front. There’s objectively nothing wrong with the item, it’s worn and used like well loved clothes should be, except Jason recognises the stubborn bit of peel that hasn’t come off the corner of the symbol, he recognises the deep soft red of the cloth, he recognises the splash of bleach that stretches up the arm, he recognises them because it’s his. Because no matter what he did that peel always stayed in place, no matter how much he fell or scrubbed dirt from it, because red was Cathrine’s, his mom’s, favourite colour, because he’d scrunched his sleeve up while scrubbing bleach on the floor and it had splashed. Because it’s his. His hoodie. He feels like he should be angry, it’s just another show of how the Replacement has replaced him. Except the moment Jason releases his arm, the kid’s fingers twist into the fabric, his shoulders hunching so the bottom of his face dips into the fabric, his eyes slipping shut in contentment, in ease, in comfort.

Jason blinks a few times, stuttering through some calming breaths. It made sense that the Replacement had it -well, technically it didn’t, it was a ratty old hoodie, he didn’t know why someone so 'well to do’ like Timothy Drake would want it- clearly when his room at the manor had been cleaned out the kid had nabbed it before it had been tossed. Jason cleared his throat, pushing down the thick tightening feeling clogging his throat, and scooped the kid back up.

The kid’s face pushed itself into the crook of Jason’s neck where a few wet sniffles died on his collar. Gross.

Jason trekked up to the lab, following a map of old muscle movements. The hallways were dark, only lighting up when the two passed through them. Clinging in the corners were giggles of other child heroes, comforting hugs after missions and in some places the skids of feet in a one time water gun fight. Jason sighs out the memories, coming to a stop at the lab doors. He drops the kid on his feet to the side, peering at the access panel in hopes that the entrance code hadn’t changed. But as the kid’s feet hit the ground his arms windmilled in a surprise first reaction of the night, Jason wondered what he was doing, whether this was some new way to swat at the fear hallucinations. He only had a moment to wonder before the kid began to topple backwards. Jason’s arm snatched out at the front of the ki-his-the kids hoodie, jerking him to a rough stop, something metallic sounding clinking down the hall. The kids eyes widen, finally, finally free of their glaze, jumping around the room before landing on Jason’s grip on the red fabric. Slowly inch by inch he follows the hand up to the arm up to the shoulder and finally to Jason’s face. Impossibly, his eyes widened even more, saucers turning to dinner plates.

“Jason?”

Damn that was fast, he can see why the alley whispers he’s the smart one.

Jason’s not sure what to do, the kid’s been so dissociated he hadn’t thought what he’d do when the kid…wasn’t. He’d kind of assumed he’d be long gone before the kid was able to restring sentences. Luckily he doesn’t have to worry because the kid starts, rather hysterically, laughing, tears, once more, beading in his eyes.

“Oh my god, of course you’re here of course I’m seeing you. Are you here to guide me through what comes next or something?” The kid’s getting more and more worked up with each word, gasping breaths punctuating each syllable, tugging once more at his hair. But what was he talking about ‘what happens next’?

“What? Kid. What are you talking about?”

“The first Robin takes the suit and the second is gonna what?... Am I dying? Did Crane do something to the gas, is that why you’re here? Are you my guardian angel?”

Ok, what was going on. One thing at a time. Step one: figure out what the hell was going on. Step two: still synthesise antidote. Step three:? Still to be determined.

Step one: Substep one A: What happened to the suit??? One B: dying? The Replacement definitely isn’t going to be stealing any more of his shticks. One C: Angel? Jason’s definitely not an angel. One D: Dick took the suit??

Jason really hopes he’s talking about some fancy dinner suit and not the Robin suit, his-the kid’s-Dicks-his-The Robin suit.

“Kid.” Jason grabs the kids arms for emphasis, his hands forced to drop away from the strings of his hair. “What are you talking about? What suit? The Robin suit? WHAT is going on?” Admittedly the slightly hysterical shouting towards the end did not help because the kid suddenly began to cry again.

Jason takes a deep breath. It won’t do either of them any good to get worked up over this, Jason needed to have this conversation when the kid could think clearly and not hopped up on neurosis. He needed to get the kid clear of the fear gas. He takes another deep breath, feeling it rush down his throat and burning his lungs as they reach full capacity, it comes out in a controlled rush.

“Ok, we’ll come back to that. We need to get the fear gas out of your system. What do you know about it? Anything Crane said? Bru-Batman?”

The kid gapes like a fish for a bit, his breaths calm slightly with the distraction of a task. His head snaps to the side suddenly, his body following suit a second later, his eyes jump up and down the hallway. Whatever he’s looking for, he must find because he suddenly lurches into motion, surprising Jason enough he tries to catch the kid as he runs a few steps down the hall. He returns with a small metal canister, the type police use for tear gas.

“I managed to catch this during the fight with Crane, I was going to run some tests.” The kid says, waving the canister in front of him, Jason would almost call excitedly. The kid punches in the lab access code, which has not changed, stalling at the door frame, eyes briefly returning to their fear glaze; Jason nudges his back and it’s enough to snap him back and he’s continuing inside, the lights flickering on at the movement.

“Wait a minute,” Jason says as the kid begins pulling equipment out of stark white cupboards, “Why didn’t you tell Batman you were hit, or that you had that?” He motions to the canister, the kid’s eyes follow the movement and he seems to grow sheepish at the question.

“Well,” the kid starts and stops, chewing on his lip a moment, blinking through another swell of tears, “I wasn’t even meant to be there, he was already angry I’d disobeyed orders,” Jason’s nose crinkles at the word, “and I didn’t want him to be anymore mad than he was, he needed to focus on other things, not me causing even more problems. Besides he had his own canister, he didn’t need mine.” The way the kid said the last part made it sound like his canister was tainted, dirty because it was his. Jason didn’t like this, there was something more going on here. Jason doesn’t reply, what can he even say, and the kid goes back to his fiddling. Jason’s sure this whole thing would go quicker if he helped but every time he’d volunteered the kid had looked sceptical, his face twisting briefly into surprise every time Jason managed to actually hold and give him anything. He couldn’t be too mad, he guessed it was a reasonable reaction to someone coming back from the dead, at least the kid hadn’t outright attacked him. Although that might come later with a clearer mind.

Jason settled in to watch the kid work and finally decide on a step three, to which plan? Well he had time, best to keep his options open really.

Chapter Text

Pretty close to the top of the list of things Tim Drake knew, scrawled messily above don’t trust Miss Lavoy, was that people didn’t come back from the dead. Following only fractionally behind that was that Jason Todd’s smile pitched a whole eighth of a centimetre higher on the right side compared to the left, affording the viewer the ability to see the slight gap between his canine and the tooth behind.

One of these facts was wrong.

Tim did not, at this present moment, know which.

Either Jason Todd did not have a lopsided smile, or that was not Jason Todd and his lopsided smile but a remarkable imitation, or, the one and only Jason Todd had managed to cheat death.

Tim, decidedly, did not like being wrong about his facts.

Jason-Not Jason-the person is sat in one the computer chairs beside Tim staring up just above the lab computer clearly lost in thought, smiling to themself about whatever had them so captivated. Tim places the now empty syringe, that had held the synthesised antidote, on the side as slowly as possible, hoping not to draw the person’s attention.

They were wearing dark armour and trousers under a brown leather jacket, it was the type of jacket that shops labelled as ‘distressed’ but were in fact brand new and some poor worker had hit it a few times with a wire brush. Their feet are kicked up onto the desk just offside of Tim, combat boots barely covering the glint of red helmet behind. Tim swallows as deep and as slowly as possible, the sound impossibly loud in his ears.

Red Hood.

Duffle bag of heads Red Hood.

But… what did the Red Hood want here, with the Titans, with Tim. And…why was he disguised as a dead boy?

Tim’s mind began to whir, theories and ideas slotting themselves together as his eyes drifted off up from the helmet and back to the person’s face. Their eyes- Jason’s eyes- bore into him, the beginnings of a smirk pulling that right of his-their lip even higher.

“I can see that little mind of your’s churning kid.” They kicked their feet off the desk, shoes falling to the ground with a dulled thud, grabbing Tim’s chair and pulling him forward so his knees were trapped in by their legs on either side. “Yeah,” they nod, an edge of condescension in the movement, smirk growing, “It’s me alright.”

Tim, definitely, wasn’t taking the imposter's word. It would be a whole lot easier if Tim could run a blood analysis, but Tim wasn’t stupid enough to think the person would freely offer up their blood. He needed a different tact to figure out who they really were and what they wanted. Tim took a deep breath and plastered on the best Janet Drake patented smile he could.

“Oh? And who’s that?” Tim said pleasantly. Tim knew it was a poor attempt at grasping control of the situation, but right now he had little else to work with. Besides, Batman had drilled into Tim pretty early on, if he was ever in a situation he was ill equipped to handle, he should keep the perpetrators talking and try to find out as much about them and their motives. The stranger had already made the first move by initiating the conversation with Tim, so Tim figured they liked talking. He’d be able to hear for any slips in the faux Jason facade.

“The antidote make you lose brain cells Replacement?” The person sneered, “I think you know exactly who I am.”

Tim gulps, he hadn’t fooled himself enough to think the person would be able to call his bluff, but he’d hoped.

“Look kid,” the person continues, either not noticing Tim’s lack of answer or deciding to give it for him, “believe it’s me or don’t, I don’t care. What I want to know is why the old man is letting you,” the person’s hand lets go of its grip on the arm of Tim’s chair to jab a finger into his chest, “run around stuffed full of enough fear gas to kill a man?” Their voice tips up an octave towards the end and teeters on the edge of question into hysterics. “I mean, what? He loses one Robin and decides instead of adopting kids he’s going to watch them die?!” The incredulity in his tone kicks higher with each word.

Tim is…confused. Tim knows three things, three very true facts that would be very important in arguing with the imposter. 1. Tim isn’t dead, the fear gas definitely wouldn’t have killed him, the results on the screen next to him showed that. 2. Batman definitely wasn’t in the business of watching kids die. Tim may have been a stand in Robin, a filler, but he highly doubts Batman would just watch him die. 3. Batman doesn’t need to adopt him, whether he wanted to or not -which he clearly doesn’t- because Tim can take care of himself and he is not Batman or Bruce’s son -a fact the man has made perfectly clear.

Tim’s mouth opens as he weighs which point to argue first, he thinks maybe the fear gas does not equal death, but he’d also really like people to stop assuming he can’t take care of himself, he’s been doing it for 6 years thank you very much.

“I’m not Robin.” Comes out instead. The person’s eye twitches, a scowl forming over their face obscuring the gap tooth. Tim’s seen this look before, way back when Jason -the real Jason- was still alive.

Tim had been wrapping up his nighttime photography trip, opening his backpack to stow away his camera, when movement on the opposite building had caught his attention. Using his camera as a pair of binoculars had revealed Robin sat on a gargoyle, face tight in similar scowl and illuminated by the flickering flame of a lighter tucked against a cigarette. Tim both adored and hated that photo. He loved the way the orange glow illuminated the boy’s face and how he’d been able to see the previous, the actual Robin, talk to the gargoyle he was perched atop. But Tim detested it all the same because 2 weeks later Jason was supposedly dead -no Jason was dead. He had without a doubt died, this person, who looked like Jason was not him- and Tim always wondered whether the two events had any bearing on one another.

The imposter however, not quite as caught up in old memories as Tim, tightens his grip on the chair at the statement. The metal creaking in his hands. “What?” It’s as much an accusation as it is a hysterical question.

Tim is not sure what’s so hard to understand. “I’m not Robin.” He repeats.

“Well, who is then?” The person is getting more irritated by the second. Tim knows he should probably tell someone that there’s an imposter in the Tower, but who is there to tell. He’s not Robin anymore, Batman was just here to fire him with Nightwing, the Titans made it pretty clear what they thought of Jason’s replacement -the only ones who seemed to tolerate him were Kon, Bart and Cassie but he couldn’t bother them- Tim didn’t know who Batman was giving the suit to now he was gone, but it certainly, without a doubt, was no longer him.

Tim huffs, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? But what were you then?” The man waves his hands around, irritation gone incredulity back.

“I was just a stand in Robin for the last one. Not an actual Robin. Just until an actual one came along. Batman just took the suit to give to them, I don’t know who they are. Employers don’t tell fired employees who their replacement is, that’s just poor business management.” Tim rolls his eyes, watching as the other person mouths copies of some of Tim’s words.

“Wait.” The man holds up a hand, the other rubbing over his brow. Tim’s seen Dick do it a few times when he’s started to get exasperated with Tim, he wonders if the man learnt it from him- no this wasn’t Jason, he really needed to get that through his head, just because he wasn’t Robin, doesn’t mean he can get caught up in traps- “B just took the suit?”

“Yes...” Tim’s surprised they didn't pass each other on their way in and out, it seemed like barely any time at all between their arrivals. “Just before you came.”

Ja-The person tugs at the shock of white in the front of his hair for a few moments, grumbling under their breath what Tim thinks and ignores are a string of colourful curses. “Why’d he take the suit?” he snaps suddenly.

Tim shrugs, thinking back to Batman and Nightwing's words, “They said I didn’t deserve it and that I wouldn’t live up to the Robin name.”

“Live up to the- No one can live up to Goldie. Hell even I couldn’t. But why would he take the suit for that?”

Tim knows he shouldn’t be telling the imposter, the mob boss, all of this information, but Tim’s tired of pretending that there’s no ulterior motive behind people’s questions. Maybe for once he wants to feel like someone’s asking because they care, not because they want to check he can still be useful in a fight, or find out where his parents really are, or because his math test scores are a little too good for a nine year old. Tim sighs and the man’s eyebrows pinch together in that way Jason’s used to when he was questioning a victim.

“Look, Rep-ki-Tim I’m sorry, I’m not trying to upset you. I just don’t understand why the old man would take the suit. Why? So he can replace yo-oh… Oh, I’m sorry Tim.”

Another fact Tim knows is that he should be more concerned that the mob boss imposter knows his identity, but all Tim can think about is how nice it feels to finally hear someone say his name. He closes his eyes around a shuddering breath. And Tim really shouldn’t do this, but, but, he’s already lost everything else- Robin, his parents, evidently his identity- what’s one more thing? Dignity doesn’t mean much anymore anyway in the face of all his other losses.

So Tim takes a second shuddering breath, opens teary eyes to meet the per-Jas-Red Ho-Whoever’s face and asks “Can you say that again?”

“Wh-say what?” Whoever asks, eyes jumping over Tim’s face, mouth twitching down in the corner in sympathetic concern.

“My name.” He whispers around a sniffle.

Tim knows it’s silly, plenty of people have said his name. But for some reason, this feels different. When Bruce says it- which is rare, due to their limited contact out of the suits- although he doesn’t call Tim Jason anymore, it’s said with an air of consciousness. Like the man is all too aware Tim isn’t Jason and he shows it in his voice. Dick’s no better when he is actually ever in Gotham. Meeting up with Steph or Cass on patrol for corner store snacks is great but it’s pretty hard to hear his own name when all of his social interactions happen under Robin’s mask. So maybe it’s only different for the sole fact that Tim no longer is Robin, or maybe it’s because Tim really wants to believe it is Jason, or maybe Whoever is really good at faking the second Robin’s victim speeches.

Tim presses his mouth into a thin line, biting into his cheeks and squeezing his hands into tight fists on the sweat pants. There’s a tight fire in his throat, Tim flares his nose slightly to get more air around it and into his trembling lungs.

“Tim..?” Whoever says, his hand lifting from its iron grip on the chair to rest against Tim’s cheek. Thumb swiping from the bridge of his nose, across his cheek to the crook of his eye. There’s no tears for it to mop up yet and Tim presses his teeth deeper into his cheeks to keep it that way. “Tim. Timmy. Timbo. It’s going to be okay.”

Tim’s chest heaves and he knows he shouldn’t but he’s already decided he doesn't care about dignity. So, slowly, like a snail on dry soil, he leans forward and presses his face into Whoever’s chest. His hand moves from Tim’s cheek to the nape of his neck, thumb tracing circles under his ear. The man’s other hand slithers behind Tim to the small of his back and lofts him out of the chair and into the lap across from him. Tim shuts his eyes around the now bubbling tears, and secures his trembling fingers in Whoever’s jacket.

With a last burst of strength Tim whispers, “Please don’t kill me.” Before he lets his mind wander into the haze of carding fingers in his hair and the smell of gunpowder under his nose.

Chapter Text

Jason takes a deep breath and resolutely doesn’t bang his head against the wall.

He takes a second deep breath, feeling his chest expand and lift the figure lying against him, and finally fills in Step Three.

Step Three: Forget all previous steps and plans. Steal kid-Tim. Figure out best way to fuck with Batman’s life.

Easy peasy squeeze the lemon.

Maybe Jason could split it into substeps.

Ok.

Step Three: Substep three A: Forget previous steps and plans. -Easy done. Stricken from the record

Three B: Steal kid. -Unfortunately, surprisingly, irritatingly, easy too. Jason stands, wrapping his jacket around the kid- TIM, his name is Tim- like a wet cat and moves out into the hallway. It’s been half an hour since he disabled the tower's lockdown and if anyone was going to come, well, they’d have done it by now. So Jason decides a little dallying won’t do any harm and makes his way back up to Tim’s room.

He places Tim on his bed once again, shrugging off his jacket and placing it around the trembling kid so he won’t have to remove Tim’s grip on it. A part of Jason, which sounds eerily like him back in his Robin days, says that they’re teary trembles. Jason elects to ignore it because clearly the trembles can obviously only be because Tim is cold.

Jason figures if he’s going to steal a whole child, he should probably take some of Tim’s necessities with him. Unless he wants to sneak into Wayne Manor… No he definitely doesn’t. Does the kid even live at the manor? Because now that Jason thinks about it, he can’t remember ever seeing anything about the Drake estates being sold.

Jason rummages through Tim’s cupboards pulling out clothes and toiletries and depositing them in a backpack he found. He’s momentarily startled by the amount of Superman t-shirts, like the one he put the kid in earlier, that Tim has. Jason wrinkles his nose as he stares at the red symbol, black really isn’t Superman’s colour, this is a pretty rubbish re-design. He avoids any Bat related paraphernalia, he’s even more pissed off at the idea of Batman now than he was when he arrived, and after just being fired by the man, Jason figures Tim might be as well. Instead, spite rears its head, and Jason snickers through adding several pieces of Green Lantern and Arrow merchandise to the bag. Who knew Tim was such a fan boy?

He adds some of the notebooks and pens from the desk in, too. He contemplates the laptop but better safe than sorry, besides, the whole crime lord thing is really starting to take hold and soon enough he’ll be able to afford to get the kid a new one, not potentially being monitored by Batman.

Jason turns back to the bed, zipping up the backpack and slinging it over his shoulder so he can pick Tim back up. Tim has moved, sat further down the bed than before, hands extricated from the jacket, instead now clutching tightly at what Jason is seventy percent sure is a camera case. He wants to say no but Tim had to actually move to get it, so he clearly wants it, besides there’s probably no way Batman can track them from it… probably.

He hefts Tim back into his arms and trotts back to the zeta tubes. Jason wants to leave a screw you note to Batman but if the kid’s really been fired-replaced from Robin then he’s unlikely to actually ever see it. So instead he hits the enable button on the tube and feels it’s nauseating pull spit him back out in Bludhaven.

Leaving Bludhaven on his motorbike is decidedly more difficult with the addition of a second person. Jason decides that all future child stealing plans require a bigger vehicle. Or a motorbike with one of those sidecars, like Hagrid’s Royal Enfield. He manages to wrangle Tim into a fairly safe position and takes off towards Crime Alley. Early morning sun is just beginning to break the clouds, so Jason’s not too worried about facing down a Bat and once he reaches the seedier parts of Gotham, the locals know to ignore the flash of red helmet they see on their morning commute.

Bundling the kid up and carrying him up the stairs to Jason’s apartment is easy, getting the kid through the door and down comfortable on his lumpy sofa is easy too, not hovering over the kid to check he’s still breathing every second is not easy.

Jason flits in and out of the kitchen while he waits for the kettle to boil to check on Tim. His knees are pulled up to his chest, head resting atop, his eyes slowly slide over to Jason when he bangs his shin on the coffee table during a particularly worried check in. Tim smirks slightly, more a quiver of the corner of his lip, at Jason’s ensuing curse.

Jason’s not sure what sent the kid scurrying somewhere dark and quiet in his mind but he’s glad Tim seems to be back more settled in his skin again. He doesn’t want to push the issue in case it scares the kid off again.

The kid hasn’t said anything but his eyes begin to wander around the small room, flitting over lamps and mismatched curtains to read along book spines. Jason hears the kettle finish and deems Tim okay enough to be left temporarily.

The rhythmics of making hot chocolate for them -it’s just the cheap sachet stuff, he’d love to be making Alfred’s recipe but carting ingredients between safe houses isn’t really viable right now- eases some of Jason’s worries and nerves over Tim. Instead he formulates a sub-sub-plan for Substep three B: steal kid; One: talk to Tim and figure out exactly how and what he needs to be successfully stolen, Two: put in motion, Three: repeat until objective complete. If all goes to flimsy plan Tim will successfully officially be stolen by tomorrow.

Jason carries the steaming mugs out to the coffee table -not looking at them as he goes because Mrs Atkins, his old elderly neighbour, had told him if he didn’t look while he walked he wouldn’t spill them and Jason’s carried liquids that way ever since- placing them on the thrift shop coasters, one has a happy 50th in bright pinks and the other proclaims the user as the world’s best dad. Jason chooses the dad one, mainly because he finds it funny to give the 50th to the nearly 16 year old. From the second corner lip quiver of the early morning, apparently Tim does too.

Jason takes a deep breath. He figures the whole ‘Operation Steal Kid’ would go a lot easier if he actually had more of Tim’s stuff than what he’d taken from the Tower.

“I’m sorry about what the old man and Dickwing did, you have every right to not want to see them ever again. You can stay with me instead. But what do you need- no what do you want from the manor? I can sneak into your room there and get whatever stuff you want.” Jason says, leaning forward to catch Tim’s eye.

Tim’s head snaps around to meet his gaze, eyebrows drawing impossibly tight together. “What do you mean my room at the manor?”

Now it was Jason’s turn to be confused, what kind of question was that? “Your room, you know, where you sleep at the manor?”

“Oh.” Yeah oh. “I don’t live at Drake Manor anymore, it’s being privately sold. Well I guess it’s not Drake Manor anymore-”

“No,” Jason cuts Tim off before he can ramble himself to the top of Everest, “Your room at Wayne Manor.”

Tim’s whole face scrunches in confusion, Jason doesn’t think he’s seen a single person be as expressive as Tim is right now. “Jason. What are you talking about? I don’t live at Wayne Manor.”

What?!

WHAT?!

“What?!” Jason splutters through several questions at once before settling on, “Well, where the hell do you live then?!”

Tim’s head cocks forward like he thinks Jason’s an idiot, he can’t even muster up the energy to be offended instead it’s all being funnelled straight to flip-flopping between anger and confusion.

“Jason, I live in my own apartment. In Newtown.” Tim says, face annoyingly calm. Jason strangles and gasps his way through a few more whats and what the hells, before the full weight of the sentence kicks in.

“Newtown?!” He halves screeches, grabbing Tim’s shoulders to be sure this whole conversation hasn’t been a hallucination. “As in Newtown right next to Crime Alley. As in Newtown right next to crime central?” Jason feels dizzy at Tim’s nod.

“It’s not that bad. It’s close to the manor so I can get to patrol on time. It’s cheap because of the location too.”

This just keeps getting worse, “Bruce knows- close to the- cheap locat- Wait! How the hell do you have your own apartment.”

“Ugh, come on Jason it’s the Narrows most people there don’t care; and besides my filing to be emancipated has nearly gone through, so those who do care stop as soon as I show them proof I can be on my own.”

“E-Emancipated?”

“Yeah, it means-”

“I know what it means. Why would you need that? Why aren’t you just living at the Manor?”

“Like I said it’s only a few weeks until it’s all finished, I don’t even have to be there for it as long as the documents get signed. I don’t live at the Manor because Bruce doesn’t want me there and I am more than capable of taking care of myself, I’ve been doing it long since before my parents died.” His voice catches slightly on the last word, like it’s the first time he’s actually said it out loud.

“Bruce said that to you?” Sure Bruce had practically kicked Dick out when he was only a little older than Tim, but Jason hadn’t actually been there to see it, so it always seemed out of character for him. But well… maybe it wasn’t.

“Not in as many words, but after you died, a lot of what Bruce did or said needed to be read between the lines.” Tim says, twisting at a thread on his sweats. And wasn’t that the truth? Jason can remember many a time after a blow up fight between Dick and Bruce, that he’d have to read in between Bruce’s grunts, words and gestures to figure out what he actually meant or felt. Sure Jason had seen reports that Batman had gotten more violent after his death -never at the Joker though, he thought vehemently- but it had never occurred to Jason to think what that kind of anger might translate to in Bruce. If a fight with Dick could make him an enigma, then what could a dead child, a dead Robin do?

“Alright, from now on I don’t want you going back to that shady apartment in Newtown, you’re staying with me. No ifs or buts. You are.” Jason holds his finger up menacingly to quell the kid’s ensuing argument. With that sorted Jason leans back into the sofa cushions, mind uneasily churning over the information. A part of Jason wonders if he got off lightly by dying, he’d hate to have seen how Bruce would have acted if he’d survived running away and getting caught by the Joker. Another part wonders how Bruce will react when he finds out Jason is Red Hood, notorious killer and criminal, he shuts that part down. It won’t matter because he won’t see Bruce, only Batman.

Jason grips his knees, digging his fingers nails in to create little crescent moons through the fabric. He can't believe Bruce, it's bad enough putting another kid in the suit after he died in it, it's bad enough ripping Robin away from the kid when it no longer benefits him, it's bad enough pushing the kid away and treating him like a tool, but to leave him all alone and defenceless in one of the worst parts of Gotham.

Jason sets his jaw, working on calming breaths to release his iron grip on his legs, before launching to his feet and marching over to where he'd left his gear.

“Where are you going?” Tim asks, mug gripped between his fingers, eyes scanning feverishly over Jason as he clips his gear back into place.

“I'm going to tell Bruce exactly how much of a fuck up I think he is.”

“What? No! You can't.” Jason whirls on Tim astounded that after everything he's revealed so far, he'd still defend the man. “Please. If you confront him he'll know where I am, where you are. He'll never stop coming after us. I was only a temporary anyway, it's not like I was his Robin, his son.”

As much as Jason hates the second part he knows it's true. Evidently Bruce hasn't cared about Tim as anything more than a temporary warm body for the suit. And Tim's right, Jason hasn't revealed himself yet, if he does Bruce will hunt him to the ends of the Earth and if he doesn't Bruce will chase them both for some ridiculous self righteous reason like Red Hood corrupting Tim.

He can't risk it. He can't risk Tim.

With a sigh he removes the gear, falling back down beside the kid with a huff. Tim puts his mug back on the table crawling over to curl lightly against his side. Jason pulls the kid in, until he's squished flush against him. Hands squeezing tightly on Tim’s arm and waist, pushing his cheek into the top of his head. Angry anguished trembles occasionally stutter through Jason’s fingers. Tim rubs awkwardly, placatingly, at his bicep.

“You're right, you're right. I'm sorry. I won't go after him. As long as we're together we can keep away from him. I won't let him come near you ever again.” Jason says, easing his grip on Tim when he doesn’t try and squirm away, instead burrowing closer into Jason’s grip.

Tim nods tiredly, “Ok. We'll stay together. I'll stay here.” Jason feels the day’s worth of building tension immediately released from his muscles at the kid’s agreement. He feels instantly more relaxed and at ease now he knows Tim won’t fight him on letting Jason keep him wrapped up safe and away from any harm. Physical or emotional.

Substep three B: steal the kid. Successfully completed.

Substep three C: fuck with Batman. On pause until he has a more solid plan.