Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tim had kind of figured galas were going to be like balls in movies: ballgowns, dancing, excitement…literally anything happening…

How had his parents liked these things? Tim had spent the first half of the gala doing his best to mingle till he got so absolutely sick of so sorry for your loss, and how is your dad?, and let me know if we can do anything to help.

He was counting down the hours till he could leave. Bruce needed to stay because he was the guest of honor, but Bruce had told Tim he could probably leave by nine. Everyone would understand a child having a bedtime.

Bruce had been teasing—Tim felt very included, now that he got to be teased too—but Tim wasn’t really a kid. He was fourteen, and he was also Robin.

Well, most nights, he was Robin. Tonight, Drake Industries had appointed Tim as the face of the company for this charity gala. What that really meant was that Tim got to bring a check from the company, put it in a box, and then wait around for hours till polite society was done with him.

Being a grownup must suck, really. Was this all it was, soft music, no dancing, and inane chatter? Gee, if people wanted to talk, they could just have dinner parties and not invite Tim. It would be more cost productive that way.

At least Bruce was there. Tim couldn’t really talk to him or interact with him, obviously, because Tim Drake had no reason to know Bruce Wayne. Technically, Tim could be “officially” introduced, but Tim figured it was best if no one knew he was hanging around Bruce.

It was part of why he wouldn’t let Bruce take him in. Bruce seemed all cold and calculating to most people, but he was actually really emotional sometimes and wouldn’t understand what a big clue it would be to Batman’s identity if Bruce Wayne, someone rich enough and built enough to be Batman, had a third black-haired boy under his care.

Tim had figured out who Bruce was because of Dick, and his suspicions had been completely confirmed when Jason was adopted six months before Batman had a new Robin. Gotham was a big city, and a lot of people were smarter than a nine-year-old.

So, Tim couldn’t say hi, but it was nice to know that even if he was attending the gala by himself, he wasn’t actually alone.

Hands down the weirdest thing about the gala was watching Bruce in his full Brucie Wayne, Gotham’s Darling persona. Dick had warned him about this and how weird it was, insisting that Bruce actually hated galas, but Bruce seemed to be having just a bit too much fun regaling the lovely ladies flocked around him with another story for Tim to believe he fully hated galas.

Tim doubted he’d ever be able to prove that Bruce likes social events, but he could suspect for the rest of his days. 

Tim sipped his sparkling apple juice and looked away. He shouldn’t be staring at Bruce, that was just as weird. The juice tasted funny, not alcoholic, but not as good as regular juice. He was pretty sure it was more for recovering alcoholics who wanted to look like they were also drinking champagne without actually falling off the wagon. Unfortunately for Tim, the waiters were all too fast keeping him from the champagne.

From his vantage point at one of the back tables, Tim watched the party and tucked into his heaping plate of hors d'oeuvres. Really, he’d mingled to an unreasonable degree. It wasn’t nine yet, but surely he could leave soon, right? No one would notice. If they did, he’d just pretend to cry.

In the center of the room and attention, Bruce was illustrating a story with broad gestures—Tim was pretty sure that was the surfing board story Bruce had come up with as his latest excuse for his notable injuries.

Tim took another sip of his juice. He’d also been injured on patrol, but no one had noticed the black eye, so he hadn’t had to give his spiel about walking into a cabinet. Tim hadn’t expected makeup to be such an important part of being a bat, but he’d gotten pretty good with concealing bruises.

As Tim was eating, someone dropped into the chair right next to him. Tim side eyed the guy—a man probably about Bruce’s age with sandy blond hair and a well-cut cheap suit—because not only were there were empty chairs at literally every other table, every other chair at Tim’s table was empty except for the one he was actively sitting in.

That probably meant this guy thought he knew Tim and was about to give him the script: he was so sorry for Tim’s loss, his parents have been so missed, and please won’t Tim let him know if Tim needed anything. Either that, or he was going to start suggesting they go into business together like Tim was in charge of that.

“Timothy Drake,” the man greeted familiarly, leaning in to be just a little too far into Tim’s personal space.

Tim tried not to grimace. “Uh, hi. Mr….”

“Marchand, Julius Marchand,” the man said with a shark-like smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met in person.”

Tim chuckled awkwardly. If they hadn’t met in person, did that mean they’d met some other way? Not that Tim remembered, but maybe this guy, like, had heard stories about him from his parents.

Okay, not likely. Maybe Marchand had just been reading the newspapers.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Tim said as politely as he could.

The vibes coming off Marchand were weird, but it was hard to put his finger on why till Tim realized that Marchand wasn’t looking Tim in the eye, he was looking at Tim’s face. It was a subtle but really disconcerting difference.

Tim found himself shifting uncomfortably and evaluating his escape options. They guy hadn’t done anything, but Tim got the distinct impression that something was wrong.

He glanced at Bruce, who was now miming his epic wipeout. Tim couldn’t talk to Bruce, but he could stand nearby for protection. Or maybe he could go formally introduce himself just so long as that was as much interaction as they had so no one would put the pieces together.

Tim looked back to Marchand, opening his mouth to excuse himself, when he noticed that Marchand had followed his gaze and was looking straight at Bruce. A dangerous smirk cracked his lips.

“I notice you keep looking at Mr. Wayne. Why don’t you just go talk to him?” Marchand’s tone had a note of teasing, but not pleasant like Bruce.

Whatever the wrong thing was, Tim couldn’t place it, but he could feel his pulse quickening and his fingers twitch longingly for his bo staff.

“I guess you do already see enough of Bruce,” Marchand laughed. “And after all, absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Tim’s blood ran cold. No. Tim had been careful to make sure no one knew he had any kind of connection to Bruce Wayne. Who was this guy? How did he know? And what did he know?

“I don’t—” Tim forced a chuckle. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know what you’re—”

“You know, makeup doesn’t cover swelling.”

He knows.

Tim tried to cast around for an easy answer to divert suspicion, but he couldn’t even figure out what Marchand was accusing him of. He hadn’t said Robin, but that had to be what he meant, right? What else could he mean?

Just play dumb, just play dumb.

“I—yeah, pretty silly.” Tim shrugged with a self-deprecating smile. “I walked into a cabinet. Thought no one would notice.”

He laughed awkwardly, hoping Marchand would laugh along, but Marchand just smiled.

“Really? Is that what happened?” Marchand was all but purring, slowly reaching his spindly fingers up to trace along the edge of the bruise. Tim wanted to shrug him off, but he froze. What was he supposed to do? What would Tim Drake, ordinary civilian, do?

Tim glanced back at Bruce, desperately hoping Bruce’s Batman sense would kick in, and he’d notice Tim’s distress. Bruce had given Tim all kinds of training in lying and concealing the truth, but he’d never told Tim what to do if someone already knew the truth.

“It is sweet, young love,” Marchand said offhandedly.

Tim frowned, actually confused by that, but Marchand just laughed and leaned back in his chair.

“You think you’re being subtle, don’t you?” Marchand pulled a yellow envelope from his coat pocket. “But I know exactly what you and Mr. Wayne are doing together.”

Marchand set the envelope on the table between them. Tim hesitantly opened the envelope and looked inside.

The envelope was filled with pictures, at least two dozen from different days and different times. His throat tightened with anxiety as he flipped through them.

Somehow, Marchand had managed to photograph Tim arriving at Wayne Manor around sunset several times without Tim or Bruce noticing, and other photographs caught Bruce or Alfred driving him home late at night.

Tim bit his lip. On their own, the photos didn’t prove that he was Robin. If the pictures went to the press, though, what then? Bruce’s enemies didn’t need to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, if Marchand had done even the slightest bit of research to compare the Robin vs. Wayne kid timelines, he’d be able to make a strong circumstantial case for the public.

This is a shakedown, isn’t it?  Tim couldn’t access most of his family’s funds with his dad in a coma, but Bruce could pay Marchand handsomely and get him to sign an NDA to incentivize Marchand not to tell, right?

Tim glared over the top of the envelope. “What do you want?”

Marchand leaned closer, bracing one hand against Tim’s chair. Tim recoiled and almost fell out of his chair, thinking Marchand was about to grab him or attack, but Marchand just reached past Tim with his other hand.

Marchand lingered for a second, his face so close to Tim’s that Tim could feel Marchand’s breath hot on his cheek. When Marchand leaned back, he was holding Tim’s flute of sparkling apple juice.

“Why don’t we talk outside,” Marchand suggested, swirling the juice before taking a sip and leaning back. “I’m sure you don’t want anyone else hearing about your little…secret.”

Tim glanced at Bruce one more time, but Bruce’s back was to him.

Tim could handle this himself. After all, Marchand had no incentive to hurt Tim or spill their secrets in the next twenty minutes. If Marchand was going to kill him, he would’ve just killed Tim when Tim was on his own instead of approaching him in the middle of a party and telling Tim that he knew all Tim’s secrets.

Tim rose from his seat without breaking eye contact. “Fine. Let’s talk.”

Marchand just laughed loud enough that a couple people glanced their way. Tim’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment and stress. Was this Marchand’s first time blackmailing someone? It was Tim’s first time being blackmailed, but he was pretty sure Marchand was supposed to be trying to be at least a little subtle. It was like Marchand wanted everyone looking at them.

Marchand pushed back from his chair so fast it would’ve fallen and drawn more attention if Tim hadn’t snagged it in time.

Marchand raised an eyebrow, looking almost impressed. “Fast reflexes.”

“Comes with the territory,” Tim said icily, shoving the chair back into place.

Marchand huffed a laugh and brushed past Tim, snaking an arm around Tim’s waist and pulling him toward the door in an overly familiar gesture that made Tim’s skin crawl. Before Tim could tell Marchand to get his hands off, Marchand had already walked away.

Tim waited a few seconds to make it less obvious he was following Marchand out before he slipped from the gala room and into the hall. Glancing to the left, he saw Marchand leaning on the corner, waiting.

Marchand smirked and gave a small wave before ducking around the corner. Tim swore under his breath and gave chase.

Marchand was gone again when Tim rounded the corner, but there were bathrooms halfway down this corridor. Tim took a deep breath, straightened his posture, and marched into the bathroom.

Marchand was waiting just inside the door, as Tim expected. Leaning in again too close for comfort, Marchand flipped the lock to make sure no one else would barge in on their conversation.

“Alone at last.” Marchand reached out and patted Tim’s cheek.

Tim scowled, his skin prickling where Marchand had touched him. “Just tell me how much you want so we can get this over with.”

Marchand laughed at that—did he ever stop laughing?—and didn’t step back this time, crowding Tim against the wall till the light switches were digging into his back.

“You think I want money?” Marchand raised a hand to brush his fingers along Tim’s cheekbone to his throat, feathering his thumb over Tim’s jugular.

Tim glared, but he couldn’t raise a hand against Marchand without the risk of pissing him off, and that could only end badly. The power plays would end when Marchand finally got to the point, so—

Fast as a snake, Marchand grabbed the back of Tim’s neck and pulled him into a kiss.

Tim yelped out in alarm, his cry muffled as Marchand licked into his mouth. Tim braced his hands against Marchand’s shoulders and tried to push him off in a panic, but Marchand grabbed Tim’s wrists and pinned his arms against the wall.

Tim strained to pull himself free—he was Robin for gods sake, he should be able to fight off one guy, but Marchand was much stronger than Tim had given him credit for, and he used every bit of that strength to keep Tim pinned to the wall, pushing his body against Tim’s to keep him from being able escape. Tim whimpered when Marchand rubbed his hard length against Tim’s thigh.

Marchand finally broke the kiss and whispered, “What’s wrong, Timmy? Does Bruce never kiss you before he fucks you?”

Tim gasped and panted, his eyes wide with shock. “I—what are you talking about?” He tried to demand it, but his voice came out small and scared.

Marchand leaned in to kiss him again, but Tim turned his face to block him. Marchand just chuckled and licked along the back of Tim’s ear before planting a chaste kiss on his forehead.

His lips still lingering against Tim’s skin, Marchand whispered, “You asked what I want, Tim. This is it. I want exactly what you’re giving Bruce Wayne.” Tim could feel Marchand’s smile as he added, “We might be here for a while.”

Tim didn’t exactly wake up as much as he became conscious. He was already on his feet. What had he been doing?

His body ached inside and out, but it wasn’t as bad as the dead feeling in his chest. It was like Marchand had reached into the very core of Tim’s being, tore something good out, and filled in the bleeding hole with something rotten and gross.

I have patrol tonight.

Tim drifted till he found the bathroom. He almost didn’t want to look, but he had to know.

I look dead.

Tim’s eyes were dull, his expression blank. His black eye was uncovered. Had he washed away the makeup or cried it off? He didn’t remember.

He didn’t realize how bruised his lips would be. Tim’s hand reached on instinct for his makeup kit, but Marchand’s voice echoed in his ears: makeup doesn’t hide swelling.

Bruce would see, and he’d know what had happened. There was no way Tim was going to be able to convince Bruce this was all the product of a consensual encounter with someone his own age.

Tim drew in a deep, wet breath. He couldn’t—

Tim threw up in the sink. When he thought it was over, he threw up again.

When there was nothing left in his stomach, Tim crumpled to the floor.

He could’ve just texted Bruce to tell him that Tim couldn’t make it to patrol, but…

Tim stifled a sob in his hands. He needed to talk to Bruce, even if he couldn’t ever tell him what had really happened.

Tim didn’t have his phone on him. The stress, thinking Marchand might have taken it and that Tim would have to go to Wayne Manor to explain himself or have Alfred or Bruce show up looking for him, got his mind and body back together.

He found his phone on the floor by the bathtub in his parents’ bathroom. He had a fleeting memory of turning the water up as hot as it would go and slipping in without taking off his clothes. He must have either dropped his phone or had the wherewithal to take it out before he got in the water, but he could remember which.

Tim fumbled dumbly with his phone for a second before he finally managed to get it unlocked.

His phone timed out as he just stared at screen. It took him a while—he didn’t know how long—to open the phone again. Tim needed one more attempt after that to navigate all the way to Bruce’s contact.

Tim drew in a deep breath, running a finger on his free hand along the cold, rough grout to try to ground himself. Bruce would know if something was wrong.

I want him to know, I want him to come here, I want him to save me.

Tim clenched his eyes and bit his lip to hold back a sob. The cry came out as a strangled whimper. He wanted to be saved, but Tim couldn’t let Bruce save him.

Tim was Robin. He was stronger than this. Tim was supposed to save Bruce, not the other way around.

When Tim finally collected himself, he unlocked his phone one more time—it had timed out and locked itself again—and he quickly pressed call.

Tim set the phone to speaker and set it to the side. The ringback tone echoed off the walls in the small room, once, twice, and then Bruce picked up.

“Tim,” Bruce greeted. “Is something wrong?”

Tim curled his finger as he drew it over the grout, letting the rough surface tear at his fingernail. “I’m sick.”

Bruce paused. “Do you need to go to the hospital? I can be there in ten minutes.”

Tim did. He didn’t. He couldn’t either way.

Tim shook his head even though Bruce couldn’t see. “It’s just a stomach bug. I’ll be fine in—” Tim stood on his knees to glance over the counter into the mirror, evaluating his bruises. This wouldn’t be better by tomorrow. “—probably a few days.”

“Alright. Keep us updated,” Bruce said easily. “And Tim?”

Tim’s breath stuttered as he irrationally thought Bruce knows. He wanted Bruce to know, he didn’t want Bruce to ever find out, he didn’t know what he wanted.

“Yeah?” Tim whispered.

He could hear a soft smile in Bruce’s voice even through the phone speaker. “I don’t mean radio silence till you’re better. If you need anything: a ride to the doctor, medicine, chicken soup. Anything you need, let us know. Okay?”

Tim sniffled and scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. “Y—yeah. Thanks, B.”

“Are you sure you’re okay, Tim? I’m at work, but Alfred can be there in fifteen minutes,” Bruce assured him, and Tim had to fight hard not to burst into tears again.

Bruce had this thing, sometimes, where he sounded like he was Tim’s dad. Not talking like Jack, but like Bruce thought of Tim as his kid and wanted to treat him like he was Bruce’s kid even though Tim was such a nuisance so much of the time.

Yesterday, Tim would’ve melted inside at the thought of Bruce and Alfred taking care of him while he was sick for no other reason than to help him feel better.

Today, just the thought of a man touching him made him want to throw up again.

“Thanks, but uh, Mrs. Mac is here,” Tim explained.

“And your uncle?” Bruce asked, a slight bit of suspicion in his tone.

Shit, my fake uncle. Tim had done his level best to keep the broader public, the legal system, and most importantly Bruce under the impression that Tim was currently living under the care of his mysterious, camera shy, socially anxious uncle.

“He’s at work,” Tim lied lamely. “He’ll be back later. Um, I have to go now.”

Bruce’s sigh crackled over the line. Tim knew Bruce didn’t believe him, but Bruce couldn’t prove anything yet, and he apparently wasn’t going to push while Tim was sick.

“I’ll see you soon, Tim. Rest up, feel better.”

Tim didn’t think he would ever feel better again. Better wasn’t a category that existed anymore.

“Thanks, Bruce.” And he hung up.

Tim spent the next two days at home, sitting in silence. Sometimes, he tried to turn something on, but he mostly just sat in his bed and stared at the wall. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but the bruising had barely faded, and Tim still felt like some key component of himself was rotting slowly from the inside.

His silent stupor was broken by the ringing of a doorbell—twice in a row, then silence.

Tim inhaled deeply, and it was almost like he breathed his soul back into his body. It was Bruce! It had to be! He would see what Marchand had done to him, and it wouldn’t be Tim’s fault that Bruce had found out because Bruce had come here on his own, so whatever happened next would be in Bruce’s hands!

Relief thick in his chest and burning in his eyes, Tim sprinted down the hall and flew down the stairs, not even checking who was at the door before unlocking it and throwing it open.

His excitement turned to horror that melted into resignation as Marchand’s grin widened.

“Hello, Timmy.” Marchand reached out and pinched Tim’s cheek, then leaned down and captured Tim’s bruised mouth in a kiss. “So happy to see me, aren’t you? Can I come in?”

Marchand emphasized the double entendre with a taunting bounce to his eyebrows as he leaned in to deepen the kiss.

Of course, it wasn’t over. After all, why would it be? Marchand knew he could do whatever he wanted to Tim, and Tim wouldn’t fight him or report him to anyone.

Tim clenched his eyes to keep from crying and turned his face to break the kiss.  “No—no more bruises.”

Marchand only laughed and pushed Tim into the house.

“Tim?”

Bruce’s hand on his shoulder made Tim want to scream and cry and tear his skin off. He wanted to bite Bruce till he never touched him again, and he wanted to throw himself into Bruce’s arms and cry his eyes out.

More than anything, he hated Marchand. The man had finally left him alone to go back to whatever it was he did for work, and the bruises were finally healed enough for Tim to crawl back to Bruce.

Everything should be okay again, but it wasn’t. It was like he’d though that first day after: nothing would ever be okay again. The touch he used to crave just made the rotten feeling in him worse.

Tim did nothing to move Bruce’s hand from his shoulder the same way he’d done nothing to stop Marchand from doing anything he wanted with Tim’s body. It didn’t matter what Tim wanted.

“Tim, are you okay?” Bruce knelt beside Tim as Tim tried very hard to focus on the case file on the computer screen.

It was hard to pay attention when his whole world was falling apart around him, but Tim wasn’t Robin for nothing. He could handle this. Marchand was the worst, but he was gone, so Tim needed to calm down.

He’s going to come back.

Tim drew in a shaky breath. That was probably true, but Marchand wasn’t there right then. It was just him and Bruce.

Alone.

In the Batcave.

No one was there to stop Bruce from doing whatever he wanted with Tim and his body.

But no, that was the proof that Bruce was good. Bruce had had Tim at his mercy, even though Tim hadn’t realized he’d been in any danger, for over a year. If Bruce wanted what Marchand thought Bruce was already taking, he would have made his move by now.

Bruce had taught him that when he first started detective work. If you don’t know what someone wants, look at what they got.

Marchand had gotten free access to a teenage victim. Tim wasn’t so stupid as to not realize he was a victim. He could list all the felony charges Marchand should be charged with for what he was doing to Tim. Marchand’s results showed that what he wanted was to sexually exploit a teenager.

Bruce had taken care of Tim, never hurt him, and taught Tim how to defend himself. Even though Tim wasn’t defending himself when he totally could, Bruce was clearly trying to keep Tim safe and help him become more capable. At worst, Bruce was molding Tim to be a good employee.

At best, Bruce actually cared about Tim.

Tim’s eyes stung with tears, but he didn’t let them fall. Bruce had asked him a question, but he couldn’t just tell Bruce he’d spent the last several days in a haze of sexual abuse and dissociation. Bruce would try to save Tim, and if Bruce saved Tim, Marchand would release the pictures he had.

Best case scenario, Bruce was publicly accused of statutory rape, but this time with evidence. Tim had been so stupid, letting himself get seen, and now it was Bruce’s problem. With the evidence Marchand had, Bruce could even actually be charged or even convicted.

But when people saw that Tim Drake was coming and going from Wayne Manor at all hours of the night, sometimes injured…Tim would be the third black-haired, blue-eyed boy associated with Bruce. That was one of the reasons Tim had chosen not to live with Bruce: if people realized Batman had a third Robin and Bruce Wayne got a third kid at the same time, someone was going to figure it out. Everyone knew Batman had a rich sponsor, and Bruce was a billionaire built like an ox. Tim had figured it all out when he was nine with way less information. The Rogues? The mobs? They were evil, but they weren’t stupid.

Bruce was good, but Tim couldn’t let Bruce try to save him because saving Tim would doom Bruce.

He’d been quiet too long, he was going to need an excuse now for why he was an emotional wreck, or Bruce was going to push, and Tim would break.

Talking attempt #1 failed—Tim choked up and couldn’t force a word out because if he did, he was going to tell Bruce what happened. Tim sniffed and dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve, shrugging one shoulder and tried talking attempt #2.

“I just miss my—” Talking attempt #2 faltered halfway through, but the effect got through.

Bruce made a sympathetic sound and rubbed his hand up and down Tim’s back in a comforting gesture Tim loved because it was almost like a dad thing to do, but now all he could think of every time Bruce’s hand was moving down was he’s going to move his hand all the way down and feel me up or take my pants, and when Bruce moved his hand up, Tim’s mind was shrieking he’s going to slip his hand in my shirt or take my shirt off or grab my hair and make me kiss him, or—

Tim couldn’t fight it anymore—he burst into tears. How could Marchand do this? How had he somehow ruined everything for Tim? Now even things he liked were awful because—because—

Bruce pulled Tim off the chair and into a hug, and Tim went limp in his arms, his chest heaving with sobs. He wanted this to feel safe like it always had before, but his skin crawled at Bruce’s touch even though he knew Bruce was good and he knew he could trust Bruce.

“Shh, Tim,” Bruce assured him. “I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through. You’re such a brave kid.”

Tim cried harder. Bruce didn’t even know what he was saying, but he was wrong. Tim wasn’t brave, and he wasn’t good like Bruce, not anymore.

Tim was a coward. A ruined, filthy coward, and Bruce didn’t even know.

Bruce could never know.

Tim was fishing for his keys after a long night Robining a few days later when he realized the door was ajar. He knew what was waiting for him inside, but he didn’t have a choice.

Tim pushed the door open and locked it behind him, sealing himself in a cage with a monster.

Tim’s eyes opened before he was really awake—or maybe he’d never fallen asleep, just become aware that he was awake as the sun filtered in through the sheer curtains and cast soft light on the ceiling above the bed.

Tim rolled to his left so he wouldn’t have to see the man to his right. Tears slid down his temple and the bridge of his nose, quickly dampening his mom’s pillow.

Marchand had been eager a few weeks ago when Tim had asked to have—to go to his parents’ room instead. For Marchand, it was probably some sick glee about fucking Tim in the bed he may have been conceived in, but Tim just—

Tim didn’t associate anything with this room. Not safety, not happiness, not even really his parents. He associated them with the smell of coffee in the kitchen and their offices, but Tim had rarely actually seen them in this room.

Tim just didn’t want Marchand in his room again.

He fought a bitter sob at that. His room? He didn’t want Marchand in his house again, he didn’t want Marchand in his life again, he didn’t want Marchand in him again.

It didn’t matter what Tim wanted, though. It never had. Keeping his bedroom from any further desecration was the best Tim was going to get.

When Tim cried, he cried silently so he wouldn’t wake Marchand. Marchand liked it when Tim cried.

Chapter Text

Tim’s mind wasn’t on the movie. He didn’t even really know what they were watching, but every now and then, Marchand would pinch him hard and make Tim explain what was happening on screen. Tim’s mind would be forced to drift back and think about the present: the movie, the hands running over his body, the hard length under his leg.

Marchand didn’t want Tim to get any relief, no matter how small, from the torment, after all.

Of all the people in the whole world, Tim thought he hated Marchand the most. Marchand was mean. He wasn’t just bad, he knew he was evil and he liked it.

“Good job, Timmy,” Marchand would say when Tim did as he was told.

Tim didn’t respond. Maybe if he did, then Marchand wouldn’t push him more just to prove Tim couldn’t ignore him, but Marchand would probably just do whatever he was going to.

Like the other times, after a beat of silence, Marchand turned Tim’s head and kissed him. It started gentle, then he wormed his tongue between Tim’s teeth at the same time as his hand slid inside Tim’s shirt and—

Ding-dong.

Tim inhaled sharply and turned his head away, the first resistance he’d actually put up in days.

Marchand growled and tried to pull him back into the kiss. “It’s just a package.”

Tim turned his head again and panted for breath, trying to pull his mind back to his body. He was shaking his head before he could get words and thoughts into a coherent order.

“I didn’t order anything,” Tim told him.

“Then your parents—” Marchand stopped because Tim’s parents were a) dead, and b) in a coma. They weren’t ordering anything.

“They’ll go away,” Marchand amended, licking up the side of Tim’s throat.

As if to prove Marchand wrong, the doorbell rang again. Marchand huffed and glared at Tim before his eyes narrowed and the dark look turned thoughtful.

A dark smirk spread across Marchand’s flushed lips. “Who would be calling on you except your other daddy, hm?”

Tim wanted to puke. He wanted to actually throw up right in Marchand’s face at just the implication that Bruce would ever touch him like Marchand did. Bruce would never even want to because Bruce wasn’t a disgusting evil monster.

Marchand laughed at the naked hatred in Tim’s glare.

“I guess I know who your favorite is,” Marchand teased, pinching Tim’s ass through his jeans. “Get him to go away.”

Tim scowled and pushed off Marchand’s lap. They both had their clothes on, some part of Marchand’s game, so all Tim had to do to pretend he hadn’t spent the last day in the constant company of a pedophile was smooth his hair and wipe his mouth and neck to make sure the wetness was gone.

I could run. Bruce would take me with him, he’d get me away from here. Away from him.

As if reading Tim’s mind, Marchand called softly, “Don’t forget to keep our little secret, Timmy. It would be an awful shame if the police hauled Mr. Wayne away in disgrace just because your pretty mouth couldn’t keep a secret.”

Tim looked over his shoulder guiltily. “I’m not going to tell him.”

“It would also be such a shame if everyone in your school got to see…” Marchand hummed thoughtfully as he cast around for the perfect word. “…a whole new side of you.”

Cold sweat ran down his neck; the doorbell rang again, but Tim ignored it. “What do you mean?”

Marchand grinned and shrugged. “You had such a nice camera. It would’ve been a shame not to put it to use.”

Tim’s stomach twisted in disgust and dread. If his school found out, he was ruined socially. He’d never live the scandal down, even if the law technically—hopefully—fell on his side, and the kind of work Bruce could do, hobnobbing and getting into any place he wanted…that relied on social capital, not just financial capital. All the money in the world wouldn’t untarnish his reputation.

“I won’t say anything,” Tim whispered. He hated letting Marchand know he’d gotten to Tim, but what the hell was he supposed to do?

He should have told Bruce from the beginning, but he hadn’t known what Marchand was going to do when he pulled Tim away from the party, and by the time things were happening, it was just touching over the clothes, and then it was just touching under the clothes, then it was kissing and then he’d been pulling Tim to his knees, and Tim just froze.

Now, if Bruce found out he’d frozen, that he’d let all these things happen to him because he was so pathetic, that he’d been cornered and blackmailed into the most degrading, humiliating things…

Tim could fight back. At any moment, Tim could beat Julius Marchand in a fist fight, and then Marchand would leak the pictures to the press that would all but prove Tim was Robin. Bruce, Dick, Alfred, they’d all be arrested and sent to prison. Maybe Dick would get out of serious charges, but he wasn’t a kid anymore.

Even if they didn’t face charges, it would be a free-for-all on the Wayne family, and it would be all Tim’s fault.

On the off chance that no one lined up the photos with Robin’s injuries and put together that he was the third black-haired, blue-eyed boy hanging around Bruce Wayne—a man whose physique and fortune would perfectly explain Batman’s—then Bruce would be socially ruined. He’d be labeled a pedophile, maybe get arrested for that, and all the lives he was able to save with his investigations and espionage would be lost.

Tim’s throat tightened with dread. Maybe Robin was just cursed now. First Jason, now Tim: trapped, with no way out. Tim wasn’t dead yet, but the thought of years more of this made him want to be.

Tim’s phone rang, and Tim answered without breaking eye contact with Marchand.

“Hello?” he answered. He hadn’t actually looked at the contact, but he knew who it was.

“Tim. I need to talk to you. Are you at your house?” Bruce asked.

Tim didn’t say Bruce’s name, but Marchand must have been able to hear Bruce’s voice. A wicked grin split his lips. Tim wanted to punch Marchand’s teeth down his throat, see how Marchand liked having something in his mouth for once.

“I’m coming to the door. I was just watching a movie,” Tim said. Lied? Mislead.

Tim hung up and put his phone back in his pocket, marching out of the room before Marchand could add any more threats.

The walk to the front door was short, and Tim hated himself for how easy it was to collect himself and plaster on a casual expression. He had been raped, hadn’t he? He should be on the ground sobbing or hiding, not easily unlocking the door he could have walked out of at any second.

Bruce looked so normal that Tim wanted to actually start crying. Why was Bruce looking unchanged what almost broke him? Of course Bruce looked normal, he hadn’t been sleeping with someone old enough to be his dad for the past three days. Hell, Tim probably looked pretty normal since Marchand had actually listened about not leaving bruises, at least not where people would see.

“Hi, B. Is something wrong?” Tim asked casually.

Say there’s been a fight or an Arkham breakout. You need me right now, and I have to go with you and stay at Wayne Manor for days.

Bruce tilted his head. “How are you feeling, Tim? You sounded tired on the phone.”

Tim shrugged. “I was almost asleep.”

Lying to Bruce shouldn’t come so naturally. Why was he even lying? He could tell Bruce, and Bruce would go right in there and beat the living shit out of Marchand…

But then Bruce would be arrested. Marchand would make Tim drop the charges or not cooperate, and even if Marchand did time, it wouldn’t be very long. Tim knew that there was coercion here, but he’d be implicating Bruce if he admitted that, so all Marchand would be charged with would be statutory rape. With how Gotham worked, Marchand might not even have to register on the sex offender registry.

Then he’d be back, and he’d be bolder than ever. He’d know that the law wasn’t going to do anything to protect Tim and that it was going to punish anyone who tried to help him.  

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bruce said.

Tim’s heart sank as it seemed like Bruce actually believed him, but it was for the best.

“I was just watching a movie with my uncle,” Tim said. “I wasn’t taking a nap or anything.”

Bruce frowned at that, and Tim’s heart fluttered with hope, only to sink again when Bruce said, “Tim…what uncle? I looked into it, and both your parents are only children.”

Great, so Bruce figured out he was lying about his fake uncle instead of the guy who was inside gearing up to rape Tim again the second Bruce left.

Marchand would probably be thrilled, actually, that Bruce was here. Marchand liked winning, and that was what he’d see this as.

Tim looked at his feet and sighed, trying to come up with the most plausible lie as quickly as possible. Shit, why was this the part that was hard?

“Okay, so technically, he’s not my uncle, he’s just my dad’s friend, but he’s taken care of me before,” Tim came up with, feeling bile rising up in the back of his throat. “I’m fine, really, and he hasn’t noticed me sneaking out to be Robin.”

 Bruce frowned. “Do you wonder why I don’t feel like I can trust you’re telling me the truth?”

Tim shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Bruce made to walk into the door, but Tim tightened his grip on the door and the doorframe, a clear indication that he was not moving.

Tim couldn’t let Bruce and Marchand be near each other. Marchand would say something for sure, or Tim’s resolve would break, and everything would fall apart.

“Tim, is there anyone else actually in the house?” Bruce asked seriously, but he didn’t push Tim out of the way.

Tim gnawed on his lip and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Tim—”

“UNCLE JULIUS!” Tim shouted.

For a brief second, Tim thought Marchand would ignore him, but then Marchand shouted back, “WHAT?”

Tim looked to Bruce and shrugged. “See? Guardian. Adult supervision. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Tim…I want you to live with me,” Bruce said.

Tim knew that, he’d known it for a while, and he wished so badly that he’d just taken Bruce up on the offer then. Marchand would have had to confront Bruce if he wanted access to Tim, then, and Bruce would have known what to do.

“Pretending a friend is your uncle is going to backfire, Tim,” Bruce warned. “He could face serious legal trouble when the fraud is uncovered, and you could be taken directly to a foster home. Let me get my lawyers working on this. We can arrange things so you come to live with me legally, and we’ll keep the heat off Julius.”

Tim bit his lip. He wanted that. He could even just forget about Marchand if he could just be safe, but he wouldn’t be safe. Marchand would still be after them.

Nodding minutely, Tim whispered, “No.”

“Tim—”

“I don’t want to live with you, Bruce,” Tim said more firmly. “I live here. I want to stay here.”

Bruce sighed heavily, and Tim felt a twitch of annoyance. Why couldn’t Bruce tell that something was wrong? He was supposed to be the world greatest detective, but he couldn’t tell a hostage situation when he saw one?

“Tim—”

“I said NO!” Tim jumped at his own outburst.

His cheeks flushed with instant embarrassment that worsened at the surprised look on Bruce’s face.

“I just want you to be safe,” Bruce said softly, almost apologetically.

Then save me.

“I…I’ll think about it. I’m sorry,” Tim muttered. “Can we talk later?”

Bruce nodded. “Do you want to come to the manor tonight? Alfred will make whatever you want.”

Tim inhaled deeply through his nose and forced himself to nod. That was an excuse, right? Marchand would have to let him go. It wasn’t like he could keep Tim cooped up forever, especially when it was pretty clear Tim wasn’t “sick” anymore.

“Okay. I’ll see you later. Four?” Tim suggested.

It was really early for dinner, but Tim couldn’t bear the thought of waiting any longer than he had to. He’d go right now if he thought he could get away with it.

Bruce raised an eyebrow but shrugged his shoulder. “Of course. Do you want Alfred to pick you up?”

Alfred noticed everything always. He’d just look at Tim and know. Tim could probably survive dinner, but one car ride, and he was going to crack.

“I’ll get a cab,” Tim said. “Alfred’s probably busy.”

Bruce smiled, but it was thin. “We’re never to busy for you, Tim. You can come to us whenever for anything.”

Tim’s eyes watered, and he blinked quickly. Bruce definitely noticed, but he probably thought Tim was crying about his parents and not about Marchand. Bruce was leaving now, and it was only ten o’clock. Tim was going to have to go back in to the monster waiting.

Six hours. Six more hours of hell.

Bruce made his goodbye and walked down the porch steps to his car, got in, and drove away. Tim stood in the door as long as possible till he was suddenly grabbed by the shirt and yanked back inside.

Marchand pushed Tim against the door, grinding against him and mouthing at Tim’s neck.

“What a good little liar,” Marchand chuckled, his breath hot against Tim’s skin.

Tim braced his hands against Marchand’s shoulders and fought his hardest not to push Marchand off him.

“N—no—” Tim whimpered as Marchand started nibbling on his collarbone.

“You don’t get to tell me no,” Marchand reminded him with a soft kiss to the shell of Tim’s ear.

Tim inhaled sharply. “No marks.”

Marchand chuckled. “Well. I’ll try.”

Marchand didn’t let him take a cab. He was almost an hour late to Wayne Manor because Marchand wouldn’t get in the car, and once he was in the car, he pulled over twice: once to molest Tim just a little more like he hadn’t already done enough, and a second time with Wayne Manor in view to make Tim suck him off.

Tim considered running for Wayne Manor, but Marchand said he’d start slow with the photo distribution, just give the pictures to one of Tim’s teachers he knew would like them.

On its own, it wasn’t as much of a threat, but all the other threats came with it and reminded Tim he didn’t have a choice. The position was awkward, and he was shocked no one caught them, but he did as he was told.

Alfred didn’t comment on him being late, just gave Tim and Bruce their dinner as per usual.

By the time they were on patrol, the frostiness had started to thaw. The wild relief of not being touched by anyone at all made him giddy as he swung through the city.

Despite the joy of freedom, Tim couldn’t stop looking at Bruce and feeling…weird. Sometimes Bruce got too close or Tim didn’t have eyes on him, and his heart would start beating super fast till Tim had fixed things and gotten Bruce back where Tim needed him to be. 

Other times, Bruce would talk to him, tell him things he’d missed. There was this new guy in the Rogues gallery, apparently: Red Hood. Tim was only half-able to track what Bruce was saying because he kept wanting to cut in with, can I stay at hour house tonight so I don’t get raped again?  Or oh, Bruce, I’m really sore right now because this guy raped me.

But he didn’t say anything because he couldn’t. The only thing he could do was focus on patrol. He had to keep his eyes on the good things. Maybe Robin was cursed, but Robin was still magic, and for the moment, Tim was free.

Jason watched Robin flipping through the air as he swung down the street. He chuckled, raising his pistol. How easy would it be to shoot him right now? His stupid replacement was so slow, swinging in almost a straight line with little flourishes he remembered Dick trying to teach him.

Jason had never learned acrobatics as well as his replacement apparently had, but extra training was probably a side effect of being loved.

Jason grinned, but he lowered his gun. It would be a funny joke, but Jason wasn’t really a fan of jokers.

He was more of a…poet.

Green flared in the corners of his vision, the familiar violent hum thrumming in his ear. He was going to kill his replacement in Drake’s own bed in his own room.

It really would be poetry, wouldn’t it, to get Timothy Drake where he felt the safest? Right where Bruce had wanted Jason to stay. Killing Drake in his own house would just prove that nowhere was safe for Robins: not home, not abroad.

Jason would let Bruce find Drake’s body, and he’d make the scene bloody. He’d make it clear how much the replacement had suffered. Would suffer.

Then, once he was done with Drake, he’d track down Dick, and once he’d dealt with Dick, then and only then, would he reveal himself to Bruce. Bruce would have to decide whether he was going to avenge his sons and kill Jason, or let another person get away with murdering his kid.

He might actually kill you, Jason thought to himself as he watched Robin’s fluttering cape in the distance. After all, he really loves this one.

Well. One way to find out.

Chapter Text

Jason had been raring for a challenge, a test where he could prove himself better than the Replacement.

Now he was just pissed. He wasn’t proving he was great at breaking and entering, he was just proving that Drake had shitty security. Jason’s cheeks were still flushed with rage and exertion—not embarrassment—from the twenty minutes he’d taken to get past the cameras and motion sensors, only to realize that they were all powered off. He could’ve walked free and clear to the front door the whole fucking time.

The lock didn’t want to budge, and at a certain point, it was just getting ridiculous. Jason had trained with the most dangerous killers in the world, the most accomplished thieves, the smartest—

Jason tested the doorknob, and it wasn’t fucking locked.

Jason swore a blue streak under his breath as he stormed into the mansion, barely stopping himself from slamming the door. He wasn’t letting Drake get away with having no security only to tip him off by being loud right before Jason could catch him.

Speaking of, the alarm…

Off.

Of course.

Why did he even bother looking? Not like knowing how to dismantle every kind of security system commercially available in the U.S. had taken him months and months of practice to learn, naaah, it was all entirely pointless because Timothy Drake didn’t even turn his state-of-the-art security system on.

Had someone beat him to the punch and offed the Replacement? That would explain all the security measures being powered down or disengaged. How did Drake work for literally Batman and get away with this dogshit? Jason had more security than this on his person going to middle school.

And look where that got me.

Jason growled under his breath. Of course the universe smiled down on Drake of all people, let him skate by with the bare minimum effort and no consequences.

Jason had fought tooth and nail to keep his life, and Drake wasn’t even trying.

The green hum of the Lazarus Pit soothed him like a lullaby, reminding him that Drake’s luck had run out. Maybe it wasn’t Drake with the universe’s favor, but Jason’s. After all, this was all so easy.

Maybe Drake was off kilter or something, but he’d been easy to follow the last couple days, and the routine was clear: he’d go to school, go home for a few hours, then head over to Wayne Manor. From there, Batman and Robin would head off on patrol, and Jason would pick up Drake’s trail once Batman and Robin split up. After several hours, Batman and Robin would return to Wayne Manor, and Drake would go back to his own house.

Oh, the restraint, Jason thought sarcastically as he made his way silently up the stairs. Sure, Drake had stolen Jason’s costume, his family, his life, but at least Drake drew the line at Jason’s bedroom. If Drake had touched his books…Jason muttered every curse he knew under his breath.

Jason twirled his knife absently in one hand as he reached the stop of the stairs, braced for a fight, but the hallway was empty. Good, everything was going according to plan.

Well, plan was a strong word. Jason didn’t have a plan, Jason had vibes. Vibes, a goal, and a little information.

The lights were always on in one particular room long after all the other lights went out, so Jason assumed that was Drake’s bedroom. Jason was just going to go in there, fuck Drake up, and leave his bloody mangled corpse for Bruce to find in a few hours to days, depending on how much Bruce cared about this Robin. If Bruce really cared about Drake, he might actually let the costume get cold before cramming the next kid into the tights.

Jason stuck close to the wall to keep his footsteps from creaking as he approached the door. It wasn’t Drake he was worried about—he could beat the everloving shit out of Drake without breaking a sweat, but he didn’t want Drake to tip off Bruce before Jason could get any work done. He’d have to just shoot Drake, and where was the fun in that?

Jason hadn’t watched Drake get dropped off like he had the last couple days—he’d been putting the finishing touches on his helmet, sharpening his knives, polishing his guns to make sure everything worked perfectly. Still, Drake had behaved the exact same every day, no reason for this day to not be the same.

Assuming he followed the same routine as the other days, Drake would’ve gone straight up to his bedroom on the left side of the house. All Jason had to do was find the interior door for that room, and he could easily corner Drake.

Jason sheathed his knife, knowing he’d get too excited and rush things if he didn’t force himself to slow down and enjoy it. He’d start with his fists, then once he’d proven he didn’t need weapons to overpower Drake, Jason could start really having fun.

The door at the end of the hall was ajar, swinging open easily and silently with a light push. Drake was such a rich boy, letting his guard down like this. Even when Jason had thought he was safe at the manor, he’d always made sure his door was shut and locked. Bristol might be fancy, but it was still Gotham at heart.

Drake’s room was fancy drab, the way most rich people decorated their guestrooms. Strange choice for a teenager’s bedroom, but Jason wasn’t there to judge Drake’s interior decorating choices.

Nah, he was there to kill Drake.

Drake was curled up on the bed, lying in a mess of rumpled blankets with his back to the door. For a second, Jason wondered if someone really had beaten him to the hit. Then Drake’s chest rose slightly, proving he was alive for now.

Jason leaned against the doorframe, curious what Drake’s play was supposed to be. Even though Drake hadn’t turned around, he didn’t seem to be making any effort to keep his breathing even and feign sleep.

What was he doing, then? Jason would’ve thought he was texting Bruce if he couldn’t see Drake’s phone on the nightstand closer to Jason.

Maybe Drake kept a knife under his pillow. Cute. Was he planning to throw it, or just wait for Jason to get close enough to stab?

Or he could think Jason was Bruce, there to chew him out for how damn sloppy he’d been on patrol the last few days. Jason would’ve gotten the mother of all lectures for that, but he wouldn’t’ve been dumb enough to think ignoring Bruce would get him to go away.

Drake broke first, his voice thick with frustration and—tears? Was Drake crying already?—as he snapped, “Just get it over with already.”

Jason whistled. “Gotta say, I was expecting Batman’s newest bird would have a bit more fight in him, but I guess a copy of a copy of a copy can only be so good.”

Drake gasped and shot up in the bed, his eyes wide in panic as they landed on Jason. Not who Drake was expecting, then.

“Who—” Drake’s breath sped up…then slowed. The spark in his eyes dulled, like all the fight drained out of him at once, and Drake just let himself fall back onto the rumple duvet.

Jason blinked in surprise, then scowled. What the hell? Drake was just staring up at the ceiling like Jason wasn’t there. Sure, Red Hood was new to town, but he was openly carrying multiple weapons and just addressed him as Robin.

“What do you want?” Drake asked hollowly. Jason had been more lively when he was dead.

Did Drake just think Jason wasn’t going to kill him? Was the nonchalant act gearing up to a surprise attack? Or maybe he thought Bruce would get there in time to save him.

Well, if Drake wasn’t smart enough to respect Jason the easy way, he could learn to respect Red Hood the hard way. Jason stormed across the room—Drake didn’t even twitch—and grabbed Drake by the arm.

Drake looked up at Jason miserably in the split second before Jason flung him to the floor.

Drake landed with a choked cry but made no move to resist. Once on the ground, he lolled his head just enough to look Jason in the eye—or the white out lenses of the Red Hood helmet, in this case—and went limp again.

Jason’s blood boiled. Drake laid there on the carpet like a fresh-made corpse. After all Jason had done to live only to have his life snatched away, to be replaced with this useless shit who wouldn’t even try to protect himself?

Drake breathed out through his nose and closed his eyes. “What do you want? Just take it.”

Jason growled. Take it? Jason could never take back the life he’d had, take back Robin, take back anything. The only thing Jason could take was revenge.

Jason slammed his foot hard onto Drake’s stomach, making Drake gasp, but the Replacement didn’t even fucking curl up to protect himself from the next blow Jason aimed at his ribs.

This shit was pissing him off. Jason grabbed a fistful of Drake’s hair and heaved him back on the bed. Asshole, still thought he was better than Jason, huh? Drake was acting like he had a suicide wish.

Maybe he did. Jason didn’t fucking care.

“You know what I want?” Jason hissed, leaning in till his face was inches from Drake’s.

Drake’s eyes were dead already; the only emotion Jason could see was resignation.

“I’m going to kill you,” Jason told him. “I’m going to carve you into little pieces and leave you here for Batman to find because you piss me off.”

Mild surprise flitted across Drake’s face before settling back into resignation. Shit, maybe Drake did have a suicide wish.

I finally get to kill him, and he fucking wants to die. What a fucking joke.

Killed by one Joker, replaced by another joker.

Jason growled and seized Drake by the throat, squeezing enough to hurt and weaken him, but not enough to kill the kid. Jason wanted him alive for a long time.

“So disappointing,” Jason tutted, trailing his finger along Drake’s carotid artery. “Does Batman know you’re this pathetic? One hint of danger, and you just lie down and take it?”

Aww, and there was a reaction. It was just a little bit, but Drake’s brow knit in a pained expression and tears ran faster down his temples into his ears. Not much, but it was a start. Jason could work with that.

“Batman would be so angry,” Jason went on. What was worse to the kid, the shame of being so helpless, or the idea that Bruce would disapprove? Jason would claw at both wounds just to be thorough. “Just his rotten luck to replace one fucked up Robin with another.”

Drake’s nose wrinkled, and his gaze sharpened just enough to track Jason’s face.

“Don’t—” Drake choked.

“Don’t what, baby bird?” Jason teased, but he eased up his grip.

Yes, this was more like it. Some pre-fight banter to get Drake’s head in the game. He wanted an actual fight, and he wasn’t going to stop till Drake gave it to him.

“Don’t talk about him that way,” Drake spat, summoning enough vitriol for a proper glare.

Jason chuckled. “Bruce?”

“Jason,” Drake snapped.

Jason startled, his hand reflexively squeezing Drake’s throat. For a solid five seconds as the Replacement choked under his hand, Jason thought Drake had just called Jason by name. No, but that wasn’t—that wasn’t what had happened. Was Drake—

Was Drake defending his honor?

Green rage flared in his chest, and he seized a fistful of Drake’s hair and wrenched it till the Replacement whimpered involuntarily.

“If you know who Jason Todd was,” Jason said lowly, “then you know what happened to him. You know—”

“Timmy!” a man’s voice called in a sing-song voice. “Timmy~boy!”

“Fuck,” Jason breathed again.

Interrupted, and it wasn’t even Bruce! Jason had watched Drake for days and never noticed anyone else coming and going. Who could it even be? Drake’s dad?

No, his dad was in a coma or jail or some shit. It wasn’t any hero Jason knew, which left some random civilian.

Drake’s breathing picked up, his expression turning from frustration to fear as the interrupter approached. Much as he hated Drake, Jason wasn’t dragging innocent bystanders into their fight.

Jason scowled and grabbed Drake by the chin, forcing him to look Jason in the eye.

“You get that asshole to go away, or I’ll kill you both,” Jason hissed, his face an inch from Drake’s ear. “You tell him I’m here, and I’ll shoot him in the head.”

Jason pushed off Drake and quickly retreated through the closet door, leaving just enough of a gap that he’d be able to watch in case Drake got smart and tried to signal the intruder.

To his surprise, the closet was sparsely filled with what must’ve been his parents’ formalwear. Was the kid sleeping in his dead parents’ room? That was so pathetic, what was he, a baby?

The helmet narrowed his field of vision too much for him to see well through the narrow gap, and when he leaned in, the bulk of the helmet pushed the door slightly. Jason muttered a curse and took the helmet off, setting it to the side on a stack of neatly folded cashmere sweaters.

View now unencumbered, Jason leaned in and watched as Drake pushed himself up on his elbows. Drake’s eyes were wide with fright and flitting from Jason’s hiding place to the bedroom door.

The stranger arrived with a knock on the doorframe and boisterous laugh. “Hiya, Timmy.”

“Marchand.”

Chapter Text

“Marchand.”

This is who he thought I was, Jason realized. Given Drake’s less-than enthusiastic reaction when he’d thought Jason was this guy, the intruder probably wasn’t someone Drake was happy to see. An annoying relative staying babysitting while Drake’s dad was wherever.

Jason couldn’t think of a better fuck you from the universe than forcing Drake to spend his final moments dealing with someone he didn’t like. Even if Drake did find the man annoying, knowing that Red Hood was only a dozen feet away, watching for any wrong move…

“Did you think I wasn’t coming back?” Marchand teased, something in his tone seeming delighted by the thought as he stepped into view.

Marchand was probably in his late thirties with a decent but unremarkable face and sandy blond hair, just taller than average with a subtly athletic build. A cursory glance-over showed no weapons on him but a black plastic shopping bag in his hand. All in all, Jason was sure he could wipe the floor with him.

Marchand sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in close to Drake. Despite the tension and his clear discomfort, Drake made no effort to push Marchand away or move himself out of Marchand’s reach.

“Hiya, Timmy,” the man cooed, leaning in so close his lips hovered in front of Drake’s.

For a second, Jason thought Marchand was about to kiss Drake, but Marchand just held up the bag and shook it.

Jason slowly released the grip on his gun he hadn’t realized he’d grabbed. He’d misread the situation. No reason to ruin all his plans now, he just needed to wait for this asshole to rattle Drake and then get the hell out so Jason could finish his plan.

“I got you some presents, Timmy,” Marchand said, so soft that Jason almost missed it. “Do you want to play with your new toys?”

Drake’s eyes widened, and his face paling. Jason was sure he was just…imagining the tension and the intent when Marchand put his hand on Drake’s leg and squeezed his knee. There was nothing sexual about knees, it was just…weird. Just weird.

“I—” Drake’s breathing sped up, just the right side of hyperventilating. “You need to leave.”

A dark frown flitted across Marchand’s face for a split second before being replaced with a sharp grin, his hand coming up to tuck of piece of Drake’s hair behind his ear. “What are you talking about, Tim?”

Drake flinched almost imperceptibly from the touch, then stilled himself and took a deep breath. “You need to leave. Please. Just for a little while, okay?”

Marchand’s frown returned, deeper and darker than before. Jason’s skin crawled, but Marchand hadn’t done anything truly unsavory. He was just skirting very close to that line.

Marchand slid closer so he didn’t have to lean far to ask, “Are you telling me no?”

 “No—I mean—I’m not saying no, I just feel sick, and—”

“I don’t care,” Marchand said coldly. “You don’t get to tell me no.”

“I’m just saying later,” Drake protested. “I promise, I’ll—” Drake shot a panicked glance to the closet, unsubtle as all fuck.

Marchand started to turn his head toward Jason’s hiding place too, and Jason tensed, readying for a fight—

Drake shot forward and pressed his lips to Marchand’s before Marchand could see the door was ajar. Drake, fifteen year old Timothy Drake, was kissing a grown adult man.

Marchand groaned and aggressively deepened the kiss, his tongue in Drake’s mouth. One hand came up to wrap around the back of Drake’s neck and pull him in closer when Drake tried to lean away.

Once Tim stopped resisting the kiss, Marchand released his neck and slid his hands down Drake’s torso to the hem of his shirt. Drake whimpered into Marchand’s mouth as Marchand slid his spindly fingers up under Drake’s shirt to caress his chest.

“You don’t tell me no again,” Marchand breathed as he finally broke the kiss and licked down Drake’s throat.

After a moment, Marchand leaned his body onto Drake’s, pushing him to lie on the mattress before he pulled the collar of Drake’s shirt to the side and began to suck a mark on the pale skin over Drake’s collarbone. Skin Jason could now see was already marked with similar bruises.

Drake glanced fearfully over Marchand’s head to Jason’s hiding place, making deliberate eye contact and giving Jason a pleading expression. Pleading for rescue? For Jason to sneak out? For Jason to just stand there and watch Drake get raped?

 The stunned stupor over Jason broke, and green fury erupted in his chest. What the fucking hell was going on here?

Jason kicked the door open and flew out of the closet like a bat out of hell, throwing his arm around Marchand’s neck before the fucker could even turn. Jason growled and spun, hurling Marchand to the ground.

Marchand hit the floor with a startled cry, Jason following him down before he could recover. He dropped onto Marchand, straddled the man’s torso and pinning Marchand’s arms to the ground with his knees. Marchand had just enough time to lock his eyes on Jason before Jason brought down his steel-reinforced fist down straight into Marchand’s nose.

Bones crunched under his knuckles, once, twice, three times into Marchand’s face.

Yes, yes! the Pit hissed, gleeful at the gurgling sound of Marchand choking on his own blood and teeth. More!

Marchand turned his face to cough a molar onto the floor, gasping for breath and leaving himself so fucking vulnerable. If Marchand could take advantage of vulnerability, then so could Jason.

With Marchand’s face turned at just the perfect angle, Jason drove his fist directly onto the hinge of Marchand’s jaw. He could feel the shift of bone, and—

Bone ground on bone as he limped himself away, heart racing in terror. How was he going to defend himself with a broken wrist when he couldn’t even stop the john from breaking it in the first place? How was he going to make money to survive without going back for more?

Years later, he dragged his shattered body across the concrete floor as he tried to reach the warehouse door. Bruce was going to save him if he could just get there in—

“S—stop—no—” Marchand gasped, his eyes wide with fear.

He had the nerve to expect mercy? After what he did? No, men like Marchand were never fixed, they never changed. Some people deserved death, and some people deserved to suffer.

Jason leaned in till his lips were right next to Marchand’s ear and whispered, “You don’t get to tell me no.”

With that, Jason seized Marchand’s ear in his teeth and bit till it came loose in his mouth.

Marchand screamed as Jason righted himself. The taste of blood was invigorating, every one of his senses exhilarated. He spat the chunk of ear at Marchand’s face, a little disappointed that he missed Marchand’s open, screaming mouth. Oh well, Marchand had two ears.

Rustling on the bed drew Jason’s attention, but it was just Tim. Miserable Tim who’d been waiting for a man old enough to be his father to come back and fuck him.

“What the hell does he have on you?” Jason snapped.

Marchand gurgled in confusion, but Jason wasn’t talking to him.

If Tim had been groomed into thinking this Marchand guy was his boyfriend or something, he’d be trying to stop Jason. Sure, Jason would shut that shit down, but facing impossible odds with a cheeky grin and a well-timed quip was just the Robin way.

No, Tim had recoiled and flinched at every touch, looked physically ill, and tried to break the kiss he’d initiated to distract Marchand from Jason.

He kissed this fuck because of me.

That wouldn’t do at all.

Tim’s face was pale, his eyes not moving from Marchand’s beaten, bloodied face. Jason could practically see the calculations running through Tim’s mind: Marchand was hurt as hell, but hurt wasn’t dead. Hurt could get arrested, spend six months in jail for statutory, and get out to terrorize Tim again. Hurt was not safe.

“N—nothing,” Tim whispered, shaking his head slightly, but there was something in his tone Jason recognized.

That was how Jason had sounded when his foster dad glared over his social worker’s shoulder. That was how Jason had sounded when he told the social worker that no, he’d been lying when he told his teacher that his foster dad beat him and snuck into his room at night.

That was how Jason had sounded when he’d wanted more than anything to not be believed.

Jason snapped his fingers till Tim’s shocked gaze shifted to him instead. Then, and only then, did Jason say, “You’re going to tell me what he’s holding over your head, or I’m going to gut him like a fish. Capiche?”

Tim looked from Jason to Marchand and back, seemingly seeing the excuse Jason had made for him: Marchand couldn’t accuse Tim of breaking whatever deal they had if Tim was doing it to save Marchand’s life.

The fifty-three seconds Marchand had left, but it was probably going to be easier to get Drake to talk before the next part rather than after it.

Tim curled in on himself and gave Jason a meaningful look as he whispered, “He—Marchand knows I—I was sleeping with—sleeping with Bruce Wayne. Because I go to his house at night.”

Jason scoffed and slapped Marchand’s face a couple times to get his attention. Whiny little bitch was still screaming, not paying any attention. Rude fucker. Jason slapped his bad ear—what was left of it—for good measure.

“They’re not sleeping together, you idiot,” Jason sighed, unsheathing his knife. “That’s Robin. Bruce Wayne is Batman.”

Jason could see the confusion on Marchand’s face brighten to understanding and dawn into mortal terror. Marchand’s lips parted with a horrified gasp, and something about that just rubbed Jason the wrong way.

Less than two minutes ago, Marchand had been using those same lips to mouth-rape a scared kid. Tim was a fucking bastard, but he was still a fucking kid.

Jason rested the knife just inside the corner of Marchand’s lip as the man gasped in pain. Marchand went stock still with a incoherent whimper Jason assumed was a plea for mercy.

Jason pushed the knife a little deeper and rocked it idly, the razor-sharp edge of the blade biting into the skin as the tip ground against one of Marchand’s few remaining teeth.

Jason didn’t have a quip for this one, but he grinned just to brag that he had both his lips, and with one swift slice of the knife, Marchand did not.

Marchand’s screams reaching a new level of terror and panic as Jason thew Marchand’s own lower lip straight into his screaming mouth. Great! Jason had redeemed himself for missing with the ear.

His work wasn’t done though, and the Pit wasn’t—

“Stop.”

For a second, Jason thought it was Marchand speaking, but the rapist asshole was trying to hack up his own lip he was choking on. That meant it was Drake telling Jason to stop even though Jason was doing the ungrateful brat a fucking favor. The Pit seethed, hissing at him to grab Tim now and slit his throat, let him bleed out, but Jason still had plans for Marchand.

Plans that would have to accelerate, since Marchand seemed close to passing out. Damn, Jason had wanted to draw this out more. Oh, well. Shock was a bitch.

Jason pivoted and stabbed Marchand in the balls.

Marchand screamed as Jason laughed and stabbed him again and again, inefficiently castrating the fucker.

“That’s the thing about these big houses,” Jason teased, easily resisting Marchand’s writhing hands trying to push Jason off him. “No one to hear you scream.”

That was how Marchand had gotten away with whatever the hell he’d been doing to Tim, wasn’t it? The distance and the security that came with the mansion lifestyle also meant no watchful neighbors and no one else close by to protect a kid in danger.

“Stop,” Tim croaked weakly. “No.”

“You don’t get to tell me no either,” Jason snapped, unsheathing his knife from Marchand’s body.

“Stop,” Tim said more insistently, pushing himself up. “You’ll—you’ll kill him.”

“That’s why I’m stabbing him,” Jason said incredulously. How stupid was the Replacement that he couldn’t pick up on the whole fucking point? He growled in frustration. Tim should be on his knees thanking Jason—probably a touchy subject, actually, Tim could sit and thank Jason from a reasonable distance for saving him.  

Fuck Bruce. It was all Bruce’s fault that the Joker wasn’t dead and that Tim wouldn’t sit back quietly and let Jason kill the fucking pedophile.

It fell to Jason to pick up the slack and actually protect Gotham, and he was going to do it his way. When word got out what had happened here, fuckers like Marchand would think twice before targeting kids.

Jason raised the knife for another vindictive blow, only to get thrown to the floor.

For a split second, Jason thought Marchand had summoned the strength to throw him off, but when they landed, it was Tim on top of him, grappling for the knife.

“What the hell?” Jason snapped, trying to free his arm without slashing the kid to ribbons.  

“You can’t kill him,” Tim insisted. “We don’t kill!”

We, not me, not, I don’t kill. More accurately, Bruce doesn’t kill. The kid was just as much of a devoted lackey as Dick had been when he was younger, wasn’t he? That same golden standard that Jason would never be able to live up to.

Except Tim wasn’t golden, he was stark-white with fear and smeared with blood as he tried to wrestle Jason’s hand to the ground. No way in hell Tim wanted Marchand to live, but Bruce didn’t kill ever. If Tim let Red Hood kill Marchand, that was practically be the same thing as having killed Marchand himself.

Fuck.

The green rage of the Pit wavered. Jason shouldn’t care if Tim got to keep Jason’s family. Tim only had Bruce and Alfred in the first place because he was a dirty rotten thief.

I only had them because I was a dirty rotten thief. Emphasis on dirty…emphasis on rotten. There’d always been something wrong with Jason, from the very beginning. Sheila had probably sensed it, that was why she’d run away. The Pit had made the rot even worse.

Jason had been rotten right from the start, but—god, Tim was just a kid. I was going to kill him. The thought made him sick.

Marchand groaned, reminding Jason that he needed to address the child molester in the room. The child molester who also knew who Batman and Robin were. Jason was still fucking furious with Bruce, but it wasn’t just Bruce’s secret.

Tim was still trying to pry the knife from Jason’s fingers, but Jason was bigger and stronger. Shifting his weight suddenly, Jason knocked Tim onto his back, using the arm Tim was still gripping to pin him in place. Tim cried out, but he sounded scared, not hurt.

“Get off me!” Tim fought and thrashed, his heart beating so hard Jason could feel it through his jacket as he pulled Tim up against his chest.

Tim could be scared a little longer if he needed to be, it wouldn’t hurt him. In light of recent events, neither would Jason.

“Not yet,” Jason said simply. “You don’t want to watch.”

If there needed to be a scapegoat, then fine. Jason could do that, but he wasn’t going to be blamed for murders he hadn’t committed ever again.

He was just going to commit them.  

“What—what are you going to—”

Jason used his free hand to unholster his pistol and shoot Marchand in the head.

And just like that, it was over.

Tim stilled, then slumped in Jason’s grasp like he’d been the one shot. For a second, Jason thought he’d fainted.

“He—he’s—” Tim squeezed Jason’s hand tighter, but he wasn’t trying to get the knife anymore. Tim didn’t have to see Marchand’s body to know he was dead. If Tim doubted Jason’s aim, the simple absence of Marchand’s gurgly breathing would be enough to clue him in.

“Dead,” Jason finished. “Yeah.”

Trembles spread through Tim’s body, starting with his fingers before spreading to his arms, his chest, then his whole body. Tim unclenched his fingers from around Jason’s hand and—

Shit. Hug. Hug from child, and the child was crying.

Jason wanted to say he wasn’t trained for this, but the truth was…Jason had trained in helping victims feel safe. It had just been a long, long time.

Jason moved slowly, wrapping his arms loosely around Tim’s back. The hold would be easy to break, unlike the vise grip Tim had around Jason’s ribs.

“You’re safe now,” Jason promised stiffly.

 “Aren’t you going to kill me?” Tim sobbed.

“Do you have the self-preservation skills of a—no, why would you even remind me about that?” Jason huffed. “You’re getting a one week headstart, okay? One week.”

Once the week was up, Jason didn’t know. He’d probably shoot at Tim a couple times a month to save face, but the all-consuming rage had evaporated.

The position they were in was damned uncomfortable after a minute, but Tim was still sobbing. Jason sighed and dragged Tim back against the wall, putting some distance between Tim and the corpse while Tim cried it out.

As Jason awkwardly patted Tim’s shoulder, it occurred to him that this was his first hug since coming back from the dead. The thought startled him, and he tried to remember any other, but…yeah, the League of Assassins wasn’t really a huggy place.

Bruce wasn’t huggy either, neither was Alfred, but they had their moments.

Bruce…

Jason glanced down at the teenager under his arm. Yeah…he should probably extend the one week grace period to Bruce too. Not because he deserved it, but just because the kid deserved to catch a break.

They sat there for a long time, till Tim’s sobs turned to sniffles and small hitches in his breath as he tried to collect himself.

Finally, Tim shifted from being basically in Jason’s lap to sit on the floor next to him, keeping Jason’s arm around his shoulders. Tim buried his face against his knees for another minute before looking up at the battered, bloody mess that had been Marchand a few minutes before.

Technically speaking, it was probably bad for a fifteen year old to be looking intently at a corpse, but hey, the kid was Robin. He’d probably seen worse on the…

Actually, Jason had been really thorough. He had certainly never seen a body worse than this when he was Robin.

It was good, even if it was horrific, for Tim to see this. Marchand wasn’t a monster, just a man. Now, he was a dead man who could never hurt Tim again.

Jason paused. Well, Marchand would probably not come back, and if he did, well. Jason wasn’t going anywhere.

“Thank you,” Tim whispered.

Jason coughed and glanced away. “Yeah, uh. Anytime.”

The matter remained of what to do with the rest of Marchand. Jason could take the body away and dispose of it, leaving Tim to handle the blood cleanup himself or with Bruce if Tim wanted to explain what had happened.

If Jason got caught and Marchand’s body was traced back to Tim, though…

Jason was almost positive that he could get rid of Marchand’s body permanently, but there was always the chance that he got caught and the murder was linked back to Tim. It was a small risk, but if it backfired, Tim could do time as an accessory to the murder of the guy who’d raped him.

Tim might want to put the whole matter behind him once and for all, though. Bruce would find out, but…loathe as he was to admit it, maybe Bruce should find out. Kid needed therapy or something, or at least someone watching him a little closer.

Jason sighed and nudged Tim. Tim sniffed and swiped his face with his sleeve before glancing up. The kid’s face was all blotchy, his baby blue eyes wide and watery, and damn if Jason didn’t suddenly understand why everyone liked this kid more than him. Tim was a damn puppy.

“I’m going to call the police,” Jason told him. “I’ll tell them what I did, then—”

“You’re leaving?” Tim shifted uncomfortably, which Jason took as a cue to get his arm off. To his surprise, Tim jolted and looked panicked, leaning into Jason till Jason got the message and laid his arm back over Tim’s shoulders.

“I need to leave before the cops get here, yeah,” Jason told him, holding Tim a little closer.

“I—” Tim took several deep, deliberate breaths in a pattern that Jason recognized from his Robin days, something Bruce taught him to settle him down. “Do we have to call the police?”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Jason told him. Tim’s face screwed up like he disagreed, but Jason shushed him and continued, “You’re the victim here. I can spin it so your involvement is totally random, okay? The cops will get rid of him, and you…you can go home with Bruce.”

Tim bit his lip, his eyes watering. “I don’t want anyone to know.”

“I know,” Jason said softly, and he understood exactly what Tim meant. He’d never told anyone anything, it just felt too…raw. Unfortunately for Tim, the difference was that Jason had met Bruce years after he’d been assaulted, while Tim had a dead man in his house. “You know Bruce is going to fight for custody of you. You’ll be safe once you’re there, you know that.”

Tim’s brow knit even as his eyes flooded with fresh tears. “How do you know that?”

“I’m cool like that.” Jason used his free hand to snag his burner phone before Tim could ask any more questions.

911 would probably be busy, and it wasn’t like this was a real emergency. Marchand wasn’t a danger to anyone, and Tim was…well, he wasn’t bleeding out, so Jason punched in the number of the non-emergency line.

The line rang twice before a woman answered, “GCPD Non-Emergency Line. If this is an emergency, hang up now and call 911.”

“Yeah, no emergency here. This is Red Hood—”

“Who?”

Jason bristled. He’d had more notoriety when he wore scaly panties and pixie boots, now he had to go build a whole new reputation.

“New guy in town,” Jason said icily.

“If you’re wanting to become Batman’s nemesis, you’re more than welcome to come down to the station to fill out an application. I can make you an appointment for later today.”

Jason scowled at the idea that he needed to make an appointment to be Bruce’s nemesis. Bruce chose Jason, that was how adopting worked.

“I’m a vigilante, not a rogue. Anyway, I was trailing this guy when he broke into a house. He tried to sexually assault—” Tim flinched and clung tighter. “—a teenager. He brought equipment, if you know what I mean. Real freaky guy.”

There was a pause, then a slow draw of breath. “This sounds like an emergency. Let me—”

“Nah, not an emergency. I mean, it was, but I was here, doing your job,” Jason said. “Address is…one sec. Kid, what’s your address?”

Tim rattled it off mechanically into the microphone.

“Yeah, so I killed him,” Jason said.

“The child?” the woman said tensely.

“What? No, the pedo, duh. Kid’s pretty rattled though, so you should probably get out here. On that note—” Jason hung up. He’d have to ditch the phone so it couldn’t be traced or called, but that was fine. He had several burners.

“I’m heading out,” Jason told Tim, clapping him on the shoulder before walking around the bed and snagging the phone on the nightstand he’d noticed when he’d walked in. “You should…you should call Bruce.”

He extended the phone to Tim and waited for him to take it. The kid shouldn’t be alone, and whatever else could be said about him…Bruce would make sure the kid was looked out for. 

Tim took the phone, tilting his head in confusion. “How do you know who we are?”

Shit. “Telepath.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” Jason ruffled his Tim’s hair and stepped back. “I’ll see you around, Robin. Remember, one week.”

With that, Jason turned his back and left the room, picking his way past the body on the floor. He needed to get out of there before the cops arrived; it would just be embarrassing to get caught so early in his fledgling—no bird pun intended—vigilante career.

In the driveway, Jason reached for his helmet, only to find…huh, where was that? He must’ve dropped it somewhere, but he didn’t have time to go looking for it.

Jason fired up the motorcycle and shot down the driveway, pulling out onto the street just as a car shrieked around the corner behind him. Jason glanced over his shoulder and instantly recognized the blue Bugatti barreling around the corner.

That was Bruce’s fastest car. Bruce had said Jason could drive that one someday.

There was no way Bruce didn’t see Jason. Shit. Jason pinned the throttle and shot down the street. If he could get onto the side streets, he might be able to lose Bruce, and—

The Bugatti came to a screeching halt in the Drakes’ driveway. Jason slowed, looking back in shock as Bruce flew out of the car and rushed through the open door of Tim’s house.

A sense of bitter jealousy and hurt mingled with his shame as Jason turned back to the road before he could crash. Tim deserved to be saved, Jason didn’t.

He never really had.

Chapter Text

The kid was a lot stealthier now that he wasn’t living in constant terror, but it was hard to really sneak when your clothes looked like a traffic light threw up.

Damn stupid to sneak up on a vigilante with guns, but Jason’s shadow probably figured they were friends since Jason had killed that freak.

Robin wasn’t seen for two weeks after that day, up until three days ago when he’d started following Jason around.

Bruce had gotten custody, damn him. Or not, because even if Bruce fucking sucked, the kid deserved to have someone looking out for him who wasn’t a rapist. However mad he still was at Bruce, Jason knew Bruce would never do anything to hurt the kid.

Jason would hold his damnation of Bruce till Tim had graduated and gone off to college or wherever the hell little birdies go when they don’t die. Dick had gone to New York, maybe Tim would go there too.

Jason had been planning this whole thing with a duffle bag full of heads, but that was going to be hard to pull off with the boy wonder following in his footsteps. Jason had already given it a couple days so Tim could either approach or get bored and fly off to do something actually useful, but the kid was relentless. The world at large was lucky Tim had become a vigilante instead of a stalker.

At the end of day three of being trailed from a distance, Jason had had enough.

He grappled onto a roof and ran like he was going to jump to the next one but ducked behind the brick bulkhead instead. Sure enough, about a minute later, Tim ran right past him and stopped at the edge of the roof, scanning the nearby buildings for Jason.

“Boo,” Jason said mildly.

Maybe he shouldn’t have jump-scared a recent trauma victim right at the edge of a roof, but Tim didn’t startle. After all, he was Robin.

Tim turned, hesitated a second, then stepped closer to Jason, stopping a respectable distance away. Far enough from the edge of the roof that he couldn’t be shot from street level, close enough to talk without being overheard, but not too close.

For a minute, they just stared at each other.

Finally, Jason cracked his neck and the silence. “Heard you’ve been living with Bruce. How has that been?”

Tim stared at him, then bit his lip. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

Jason almost snarked a response before he realized what the question meant. How the hell does he know? But there was no way Tim really knew. Jason’s guilty conscience was misinterpreting what he’d said to mean I know you’re Jason Todd, when it really meant…

Jason couldn’t come up with a single fucking thing that could mean.

Seeing his confusion, Tim shrugged. “You left your helmet at my house. I ran a DNA test once B let me back in the cave.”

Jason scowled, his expression clearly visible to Tim because yeah, that was where he’d left the hood. He’d been left with just a regular domino till he could find the old one or build a new one.

Fuck no, he wasn’t ready for this conversation.

“What do you mean let you back in the cave? He benched you for being—” Jason cut off before he could say something mean. “—hurt?” He finished lamely. It sounded dumb saying hurt because obviously being benched for injuries was normal, but Jason didn’t know what else to call it.

“Batman said I needed some time to…process, I guess. And move.” Tim toed the gravel, pushing it into a little heap under his foot. Tim inhaled deeply through his nose and breathed out sharply. “Batman didn’t go out either except for that hostage situation. Your turn.”

“My turn?” Jason scoffed.

“You dodged the question,” Tim pressed, giving Jason a look that was pure Alfred.

Jason shrugged belligerently. “I am pretty famous for being bad at dodging things. Crowbars, explosions, collapsing buildings…you know what it’s like to have all your bones broken? To drown in your own blood? To get rebar through your spleen? You ever think about what getting stabbed in your spleen feels like? Fucking sucks.”

The whole dying thing hadn’t even been as bad as coming back. Sure, he’d been in excruciating pain, but it had been pretty obvious it wouldn’t be long, and he’d gotten to die in his dad’s arms all poetically.

Then he came back, found out that his dad hadn’t avenged his death, and he’d replaced Jason almost immediately with a newer, cuter model who would quite literally do anything for him.

Tim’s hand went to his spleen protectively, his brow knit like he was trying to picture it. “But you…you came back, but you didn’t come home. Why?”

Tinges of green flickered at the edge of his vision, but Jason pushed the Lazarus Pit’s away. “My spot was taken.”

Yeah, he was still pissed at Bruce, but he wasn’t going to let the Pit work him into a frothing rage at Tim again. Tim was just a lonely kid who needed a hug and probably a taser. Bruce sucked and was not Jason’s dad anymore. He never really had been, that was just Jason falling for the Little Orphan Annie crap he’d sworn wasn’t him.

“No, it’s not,” Tim argued immediately, aghast.

“But yeah it is,” Jason argued back, aghost.

It just wasn’t happening. Wayne Manor, Bruce and Alfred—those brief years where everything seemed like it could actually work out good for him—it all haunted him. Maybe that was the thing about dying, the reason the dead could never come back: the living haunted the dead just as much.

“Is it because you’re Red Hood now?” Tim asked. “Nightwing hasn’t been Robin for years, but he still is part of the family.”

Was he now? What was more likely, had Dick gotten over his daddy issues with Bruce, or did he just like Tim better and decided to hang around?

Cutting through the bitter thoughts were memories of train surfing and chili dogs with Dick, toward the end when things were starting to get better between them. Maybe they could’ve been family someday, but Tim got all Jason’s somedays.

“I’ll stop being Robin,” Tim stepped forward, pushing into Jason’s five-foot comfort bubble. “I’ll stop being Robin if that’s what you need to come back.”

“Haha, fuck no,” Jason scoffed, pushing off the wall so he could pivot and back away from Tim and the conversation. “Like hell would I go crawling back to him.”

“But he’s your dad!”

“He’s your dad,” Jason snapped. What was he even doing here? His fingers twitched, anxious to grab his grappling gun. “He hasn’t been mine for a long, long time.”

Tim looked genuinely surprised and confused, about fifteen different emotions flitting across his face in the time it took to say unresolved daddy issues. Maybe Dick hadn’t gotten over them, he’d just passed them down the family tree to Tim.

“Br—Batman isn’t my dad,” Tim joked, because it had to be a joke, because the kid was supposed to be smart, and that was the dumbest thing Jason had ever heard.

“Don’t be stupid. You’re his kid, whether you like it or not,” Jason snorted. “Even if your dad wakes up, Bruce is definitely going to get weekends and every other Christmas.”

Tim looked ready to argue, but he also looked like he’d been slapped with a fish, so it took him a second to come up with a response.

“Damn, no snappy comeback? Wasn’t that part of your training?” Jason scoffed.  

“Why don’t you want to go home?” Tim’s brow was knit in confusion, his voice soft. “Why wouldn’t you…”

Jason set his jaw. He had a dirty laundry list of reasons, but there was one that stood above the rest.

It wasn’t even about Tim, not anymore. The longer he spent around Tim, the more he understood Bruce snatching him up as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He’d even forgive Bruce for it if it wasn’t for the principle of the thing.

“Do you feel better now that Marchand is dead?” Jason asked. Seeing Tim’s confused frown, he clarified, “Obviously you’re still going through a fucking lot right now, but do you feel better with him dead than you would if he was just in jail?”

Tim took a ragged breath that sounded suspiciously like the buildup to a sob. Jason didn’t push as Tim took a moment to collect himself.

Tim’s eyes glistened as he looked up with a sharp glare. “Don’t bring him up to dodge the question.”

Jason raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not dodging. I’m answering the long way ‘round. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but you are going to ruin my analogy if you leave me hanging.”

Tim balled his fists and glanced around, like he was expecting someone to be watching them. Not all that paranoid, but Jason had been keeping watch. They were alone.

“Batman isn’t around,” Jason told him, “and I wouldn’t tell him what you say.”

Tim flinched at Jason calling him out, but he drew in a deep breath and finally gave a very tiny nod.

“You feel better because if he was in jail, he’d still have that shit on you, still have that power,” Jason went on. “Then someday he’d get out, maybe come for you or just fuck up someone else’s life.”

“What’s your point?” Tim sounded like he was trying to be tough, but his voice was all thick like he was trying harder not to cry.

“I came back from the fucking dead, and the Joker is still alive,” Jason said simply. “He beat me within an inch of my life—” Now Jason sounded like he was trying to be tough, choking down the emotion in his voice. “—and locked me in that warehouse with the bomb. I knew I was going to die, and then I did, painfully, and—”

Jason inhaled sharply and couldn’t go farther. His eyes burned and his heart ached with betrayal. Bruce could break every rule about lying, about surveillance, about vigilantism, but he couldn’t break that one rule one time. He wasn’t a hero, and he wasn’t Jason’s dad.

“I can’t go home,” Jason whispered hoarsely, not even sure if Tim could hear. “Not till Joker’s dead.”

Jason could see the dots connecting in Tim’s head, but he—Jason was not at all prepared for this amount of vulnerability. When he’d stopped Tim, he’d figured he was gearing up to play the role of a crotchety old man yelling at the young whippersnapper to get off his lawn. He wasn’t ready for…for this.

Jason turned his back and walked to the edge of the roof, but Tim didn’t stop him. Good, Jason wasn’t in the mood.

Jason fired his grappling gun at the building across the street and swung away into the dark night.

The Joker was dead.

Fuck.

The Joker was dead, killed by an assassin in his cell in Arkham. The police were still trying to track her down, but Jason recognized Lady Shiva when he saw the surveillance footage on the evening news.

Jason should be overjoyed, bouncing off the walls, shooting off fireworks, something, but his mind spiraled. The Joker had been a part of Gotham for as long as Jason could remember. The cemetery was peppered with his victims, the city had entire procedures just for this one man, and Shiva had cut off his head and left it on the steps of the GCPD.

She stole my plan, Jason thought distantly. He couldn’t do the duffle bag of heads now, it would just look like he was copying.

Copying Shiva.

Who had killed the fucking Joker.

Why?

What did Shiva have to do with the Joker?

Someone must’ve paid her, but who in Gotham would hire Shiva of all people? If someone wanted Joker dead, why not pay a guard to bump him off? Or arrange an escape attempt and have a cop shoot him!

Forking over the cash for a world class assassin like Shiva meant that whoever wanted the Joker dead must’ve really wanted him dead, no room for error. How hard would it be to figure out who had both the money to afford her and the ability to contact Shiva?

Jason’s mind was flailing for something, anything. Why did it matter if he knew who put out the hit? He knew it wasn’t Bruce, so why—

Knock, knock.

Jason jumped and reached for his gun. The timing couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? The Joker’s death is announced, and immediately someone was at his door?

It could be Shiva, looking for an ally to protect her from Batman. They knew each other from the League of Assassins, so she could reasonably expect him to help even if she didn’t know everything.

Or she could be here to kill him.

Gun drawn just to be on the safe side, Jason approached the door and glanced through the peephole.

The pieces connected.

Oh.

Jason holstered the gun and fumbled with the locks, his fingers clumsy and his heart in his throat. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton as he opened the door.

Tim looked up at him, looking just as dazed as Jason felt.

Jason stepped to the side, and Tim shuffled into the apartment.

They sat on the couch. Jason wasn’t sure if they’d said something about it or if they both just ended up there, but they sat on the couch and silently watched the news.

“Thank you,” Jason finally whispered.

Tim said nothing, but Jason knew Tim knew he meant it.

Tim migrated slowly across the couch, shuffling closer a little at a time as the news anchors switched to more important news, like possible tax cuts for sorghum farmers upstate. When Tim got all the way across, he tucked himself against Jason’s side and sniffled.

Without thinking about it till after he’d done it, Jason wrapped his arm around Tim’s shoulders and pulled him in closer.

Tim’s sniffles turned to tears soaking into Jason’s shirt, then to sobs. Jason just held him and let Tim cry himself to sleep.

He should be scared of me, Jason thought, but Tim wasn’t, and he didn’t need to be.

After all, Jason was his brothers, and big brothers protect the little ones.