Work Text:
Someone trips his window alarm at 4:08 in the morning and Jason twitches awake. He grabs his sword as he rolls out of bed. His current safe house is located in one of the better neighborhoods in the Fashion District, and he doesn’t want to shoot a gun here if he can help it.
In the living room, he sees a shadowy figure straighten out of a crouch.
“Don’t shoot,” the intruder says.
Jason’s body recognizes the voice before his brain does. A spike of irritation surges through him. “Not a gun, dumbass.” He flicks the nearest lamp on. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Tim shuts the window behind him and pulls the curtains closed. “You were my best option,” he says, turning around.
Jason freezes. The front of Tim’s Robin suit is filthy with deep, rust-red streaks. There are red flecks all over his arms and neck. His gloves are a sodden, muddy brown color.
“Best option for what?” Jason snarls, sliding his sword back into its sheathe. “I am not running a hotel here. Fuck off to your own little nest.”
Annoyingly, Tim isn’t even listening to him. Instead, he’s begun to pace in tightly-conscripted circles around the living room while muttering furiously to himself. Water drips off his torn cape, splattering the pristine hardwood floor. Jason grinds his teeth together.
This is his good safehouse — the place he retreats to when he’s clocked off from being Red Hood. This is where he goes when he wants to kick back and relax with a hot, home-cooked meal and a good book. He’s gone to some lengths to actually make it cozy. And now the fucking Replacement has broken into his sanctuary and tracked mud and rain and blood and gore all over it.
Jason has half a mind to break the kid’s face. And then he hears the words coming out of Tim’s mouth.
“…It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Nobody followed me…. no trackers — B doesn’t know I’m here. Only two hours… police can’t have gotten there yet—”
Jason throws down his sword with a clatter. He can’t fucking deal with this at four in the morning. “Speak in full sentences, kid. I’m a crime lord, not your babysitter.”
“Exactly,” says Tim, like he’s agreeing with him. “You’re a crime lord, and I just committed a crime.”
It comes out smooth. Rehearsed. Except when Tim goes to take off his domino, Jason can see his fingers trembling. And when Tim looks up, there’s something wild and unfocused in his eyes.
“Holy shit.” Jason isn’t sure if he’s annoyed or impressed. “Are you confessing your crimes to me? What did you do, kill someone?”
It’s meant to be a joke. A throwaway one-liner. So he’s not expecting the quiet, “Yeah,” that comes out of Tim’s mouth.
It doesn’t sound like a lie. Jason leans back against the kitchen counter and crosses his arms. “Is this a joke?”
Tim heaves a ragged sigh. “I fucking wish.” Gingerly, he leans back against the wall and slides down until he’s sitting on the ground. “I’ll – I’ll have to burn this suit, probably.” He laughs, high-pitched and breathless. “If Dick finds out, he’s going to kill me for bloodying the Robin mantle. And that’s if B doesn’t kill me first.”
“You, uh… you wanna elaborate on that?”
Jason’s still stuck somewhere between skeptical and baffled. He can’t quite wrap his head around what’s going on. There is just no way in hell Tim actually killed someone. He’s Robin, for crying out loud. He’s either hallucinating or delusional. If Jason doesn’t get a straight answer in the next two minutes, he’s going to throw the kid out on his ass.
“I, um. I need your advice,” says Tim. He’s looking at his knees. “You’re the only one who has the, uh. The experience, I guess.”
This is getting weirder and weirder. Is the kid concussed? Pollen-mad? Fear-gassed? Because the thing is, they don’t do this, him and the Replacement. They don’t trade advice. At best, they’re reluctant allies who occasionally collaborate on the same case if shit hits the fan. At worst, they are on opposing sides, actively working towards opposing goals. Jason might have lost his taste for killing Tim outright, but that doesn’t mean they’re friends. He would barely call them acquaintances at this point.
“So you came to me because you think I’ll give you tips on what – hiding a body? Disposing of the evidence? Running from the law? You gotta be more specific here.” Jason cannot believe he’s even having this conversation.
“Oh, I already disposed of the evidence, I’m not a complete idiot,” Tim mumbles, talking more to himself than to Jason. He’s peeling off his gauntlets. “I’ve seen the TV shows and everything. I know how detectives think. I made sure to cover my tracks.”
“You are, right now, at this very moment, dripping DNA evidence all over my floor.” Jason narrows his eyes. Tim isn’t acting like he’s under the effects of fear gas or pollen. “Who was it, anyway?”
“What?”
“Who did you kill?”
“Oh.” Tim looks away. “Um. The Joker.”
Jason just stares at him.
Tim tosses the bloody gauntlets aside and starts on his boots. His eyebrows are pinched in concentration. “I mean. He had it coming, so. I don’t even feel that bad about it, you know? Does that make me evil?”
Jason tries to say, “What,” but all that actually comes out of his mouth is a garbled, unidentifiable sound. There’s a rushing sound in his ears.
Tim doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy working at the clasps of his uniform. “B’s going to be —” he takes a shaky breath, “— so disappointed in me. But, well. I guess it’s kinda too late to do anything about it now.”
Jason stares at him some more. Tim’s stripping gingerly out of his Robin uniform, his movements slow and careful as he makes a pile of sad, soggy, blood-stained armor on the floor next to him. He’s still chattering away inanely, but all Jason can hear is a string of meaningless words. His eyes fix upon the pink-tinged puddle spreading around Tim’s discarded uniform. A wave of dizziness sweeps over him. Is that fucking Joker blood on his hardwood floor?
“Stop. Where — where is the bastard now?” His voice comes out strangled. Mangled. When Tim gives him an uncomprehending look, Jason explodes. “You said you killed him, right? So where’s the fucking body, Replacement. Where is it.”
He needs to know. He can’t not know. His very sanity hinges on him knowing where that madman is at all times. It’s the only way he can sleep at night. Even now, the knowledge that they live in a world where people can come back to life (exhibit A: Jason himself) is pressing in on him, choking the rationality out of him. Even if Tim were telling the truth, even if he really were dead — that freak could still pop back up, good as new, the insidious voice inside him whispers. First, Jason has to make sure it’s true with his own two eyes. Then he has to incinerate his remains, curse him to the lowest level of hell to make sure he can never ever come back, and piss on his grave —
Jason doesn’t realize he’s grabbed the front of Tim’s shirt and dragged him up into the air until Tim makes a choked sound.
“Jason — let go,” he gasps, flailing in midair.
“Talk, kid.”
Tim grunts. “Trust me, you don’t need to worry about it.”
“Do not yank my chain, Replacement, or I swear I’ll make what I did to you in Titans Tower look like a—”
“Nobody’s going to find him, okay?” There’s a weird smile on his face.
“My patience,” Jason growls, “is paper thin right now.”
The weird smile on Tim’s face grows impossibly weirder. “I meant, there’s not enough left of him to show you. Otherwise I would.”
And that’s – well. That’s so jarringly not what he expected that Jason’s brain does a record-scratch and judders to a screeching halt. He feels like an old radio, trying to tune into the right station and getting nothing but static crackle. Something about Tim’s expression is throwing him for a loop.
He lets go, and Tim jerks away from him on unsteady feet.
“What… what the fuck does that mean?” Jason demands.
“It means I’ve disposed of the evidence. I’ve run the simulations and I know all the angles. I have like twenty contingency plans. I’m not an idiot, okay?”
“You planned for this.”
“Obviously, I didn’t plan for this,” says Tim, gesturing at the space between them. Like the part of his plan that went wrong was him having to come here.
Jason’s thoughts stall out. He feels like he’s clawing at the walls but not finding purchase. A million possibilities blur together in his head; nothing feels solid enough for him to stand on. He concentrates on Tim.
“So you’re not running from the law,” he says slowly. “You’re just running from B.”
“Well. Yeah. Basically.” Tim nods absently, like a bobblehead. His eyes are darting, but they’re out of focus, like his thoughts are a million miles away. “The law’s not going to catch me. I just don’t think I can — well — go home? After this?”
Tim’s down to his black under-suit now. Without the Robin armor, he looks surprisingly small. Fragile. There’s nothing about him that would suggest he’s just killed a man. Jason squints at Tim’s suit and scans him for clues. What the fuck happened to him anyway?
Now that he’s paying attention, he can see that Tim’s under-suit is ripped in places. There are marks on his arms and legs. Scratches and still-bleeding cuts. Something about his wrist seems off, too. Either twisted or broken. And there are swollen discolorations on Tim’s face that look like they will darken to bruises in a few more hours.
Jason’s about to ask how it happened, because he needs facts and details — how did he do it, what were the exact circumstances, did he have photographic proof, how many hours ago did this take place — when Tim starts laughing. Jason abruptly loses his train of thought.
“Uh. Kid?” Jason takes a step backwards reflexively but Tim just laughs harder. The volume of it kicks up into a shrill cackle. The ha-ha-ha’s shred through every fiber of Jason’s self-control. Something is buzzing at the back of his head — a swarm of flies that gets louder with every second. “Hey. Look at me. Hey!”
Tim obeys, but there’s nothing behind his eyes. He might as well be looking right through Jason. The laughing doesn’t stop.
“All right, snap the fuck out of it,” Jason orders. “I cannot deal with this right now.”
Tim sinks back down and curls up against the wall, his entire body shaking with nervous, high-pitched giggles. He pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his face against them. This only muffles the sound somewhat.
Fuck.
So it’s not pollen or fear gas. It’s Joker venom. Technically the least life-threatening toxin they’re likely to encounter on patrol, but for Jason it’s triggering for a whole bunch of other reasons that have nothing to do with its superficial side-effects.
His throat swells and tightens. It’s suddenly hard to breathe. His own face stings with the sudden memory of being hit — the whistle of metal through the air — the burst of agony — the terror of not knowing where the blow will land next — the blood obscuring his vision —
He staggers backwards.
Ten minutes ago, he was fine and dandy. Ready to dump Tim out the window, even. Now, the roaring noise in his head is drowning out every other thought. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Why can’t he think? The swell of panic inside him feels like water rushing up to drown him. Green water. Poison. It’s hard to breathe.
His killer is dead. Possibly.
And now his killer’s killer is sitting inside his house. Possibly.
The voice in his head that sounds a whole lot like Talia hisses, Not a confirmed kill. Nothing’s confirmed until you can verify it with your own eyes. He could still be out there, right now, waiting to make his move —
Jason feels the floor tilt beneath him. Wheeling around, he stumbles into the kitchen and begins pulling things out of the fridge on autopilot. Gingerbread cookies, made by one of his goons who has some kind of baking addiction. Pastries, from the grocery store. And a small container of milk, for all the hot tea he’s about to make. He’s going to need, like. Two gallons of tea to get through this.
Jason’s chest heaves. His fingers shake. His thoughts scatter and coalesce in a jumble. Shut up, he thinks at Tim ferociously. At some point, he hears the scream of a kettle, cutting through the quicksand of his panic. It also drowns out the infernal racket Tim is making.
Still moving on autopilot, he pulls out two ceramic tankards he got from last year’s Beer Fest. Tops off both mugs with boiling water. Throws two tea bags in each. Adds a splash of milk.
The pastries come out of the oven and Jason loads them onto a plate. The warm smell of butter and burnt sugar wafts through the apartment. People who don’t understand the vigilante lifestyle think their lives hinge on how fast a grapple can deploy or how good their aim is, but none of them will ever truly appreciate how often Jason’s life has been saved by a good plate of pastries and a hot cup of tea.
Tim is still giggling intermittently — little bursts of sounds that spear through Jason’s head like a needle. Every stab of it fries his nerves.
Jason suddenly realizes he’s holding a knife. It’s one of his fancier chef’s knives — eight inches of folded steel.
Go for the throat. Make it stick this time. Cut his fucking vocal chords. See if he can laugh after that.
Jason drops the knife and hears it clatter against the granite. He flattens his palms against the countertop and presses his forehead into the space between his thumbs.
It’d be so easy. Puncture his lung with one stab. No breath, no noise. That’ll shut him up.
If Tim weren’t sitting on the other side of the apartment, Jason might have — he might’ve done something he’d regret. This, this — is why he stays away from the fucking Replacement. Why he doesn’t go near Tim even on his best day. Why most of their conversations take place over comms. It would’ve been too easy to just —
“Okay,” says Jason out loud, before he can spiral down that hole. “Okay. Fuck this. Replacement? I need you to shut the hell up before I do something stupid and irreversible.”
It takes a long time for Tim to lift his head. He’s laughed himself hoarse, so when he actually speaks, it comes out as a rasp. “‘m trying, I swear.”
Jason flips on some emergency music — he’s got a Nature Noises playlist for when he’s feeling like a rubber band about to snap. The rainforest one usually helps. For several minutes, he lets the sound of pounding rain, rustling leaves, and the call of tropical birds blank his mind. The calming scent of sweet chai fills his nose. Jason closes his eyes and takes a long, scalding gulp. The poison in him swirls back down his throat with nowhere to go.
When he looks up, Tim is standing at the edge of the kitchen.
Jason backs up in a hurry, bumping into the stove with a clatter.
“Jason? …Are you all right?”
Under the bright lights of the kitchen, Tim looks positively ghastly. His eyes are red-rimmed. His nose is pink. The tear tracks are stark on his blood-flecked face and his hair is clinging damply to his pale neck. For the first time, Jason realizes that Tim is shivering from more than just shock. He’s probably also cold. From the rain. That he was just in.
Blankets, his brain supplies. That’s what Tim needs. Or failing that, a hot shower, but he doesn’t actually trust the Replacement not to slip and smack his head on the shower tiles right now.
“I’m…” Jason backs himself out of the kitchen. “I’m going to go to my room. You sit down, stay put, and eat something.”
Moving like a skittish horse ready to bolt at any second, Tim approaches the kitchen island and climbs onto one of the stools.
Jason goes over to his linen closet and starts digging. At some point, this place crossed over from ‘safe house’ to just ‘house’, though he’s not sure when that happened. Maybe it was when he started greeting his neighbours by name. Maybe it was when he started stocking the kitchen with more than just the basic appliances. Or maybe it was when he bought two new bookcases for the living room and started putting together his own library.
Safe, he tells himself sternly. This place is safe. Nobody is going to hurt me here.
Eventually, he finds a fluffy, oversized throw, which he tosses haphazardly in Tim’s direction. Then he turns and walks away before the temptation to kill someone gets the better of him.
The master bedroom is at very back of the apartment, where the walls are thickest. Once he’s inside, Jason shuts the door tight. Another advantage to owning a house in the good part of town: mostly-soundproof walls and doors.
Jason crawls into the bed and stares at the darkened ceiling. He’s not sure how long he lies there, feeling like he’s underwater. Under green water.
Somewhere, a phone rings. It’s the ring tone for Phone #4, which he uses to contact select people within the caped community. Ten people max.
Jason digs the correct phone out of his nightstand drawer. “What.”
“Hood, you got a minute?” says Dick, which isn’t a fantastic start to a conversation.
“What,” Jason repeats.
“There’s something you should know.” Dick is out of breath, like he’s talking on the go. Jason can hear wind whipping past in the background. “Around six hours ago, the guards at Arkham discovered the Joker gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“He escaped yesterday. They didn’t find out until today.”
Jason gets up and starts pacing around the bed. The poison inside him is rising fast — a tide he’s helpless to stop. “So why hasn’t the public been notified?”
There are three Gotham rogues who get their own PSA when they hit the streets: Ivy, Scarecrow, and Joker.
“You, uh. You seem to be taking the news well.” Dick’s tone is carefully neutral.
“How the hell am I supposed to be taking it?” Jason snarls. “You expect me to shoot up a warehouse? Go on a rampage?” Already, the poison is swirling upwards, sloshing up his windpipe, rising up past his nose, making it hard to breathe.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Talk fast, Wing. You’re already on thin ice.”
Dick sighs. “Look. The Commissioner was about to put out the usual PSA, but then we found the Joker’s yacht.”
“What? Where?” In another second, the green’s gonna reach his eyes.
“Not important. It’s been burnt to a crisp, but there are signs that he was on board when it happened.”
Jason grips the phone tighter. He goes into the ensuite bathroom and closes that door, too. Then he puts his back against the tiled wall and presses as hard as he can, until it hurts. Dick, he can tell, is trying his very best not to let any emotion color his voice. He’s waiting for Jason to — to — lose it. Probably. And maybe if this were a year ago, back when Jason was freshly back in town, he would’ve. His temper had been more precarious back then. He’d had fewer ties. Less ballast. No anchors.
He used to think that if he bottled up the green, the rage would eat him alive from the inside. So in the past, he’d simply let it all out, with no thought to the consequences. Now, though. Now he knows it’s possible to rein it in — to build his walls higher, so that the green won’t overflow its banks. Now, he’s more afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t control it, than if he does.
Case in point: the Replacement.
Jason drags a hand over his face. “And the Joker?”
“We found his skull. Well. We think it’s his. Well. We’ve only got like. Half of it, at the moment.”
Jason tries to picture that, but his imagination fails him utterly. The strength goes out of his legs. He slides down against the door until he’s sitting on the floor. And he used to think the expression ‘weak-kneed with relief’ was a literary exaggeration.
“So it’s really him? Is he… really dead?”
“Nothing conclusive yet, but B’s investigating. More info should come out over the next twenty-four hours. But I thought I’d call you first.”
Why? To warn him? That doesn’t seem likely. If they’d wanted to warn him, they would’ve called him hours ago. To comfort him? That doesn’t seem likely, either. They’re Bats. They don’t offer comfort until the matter is settled and the case is 100% solved. No, the only reason why Dick would call while they’re still actively investigating the case is —
“You asking me if I did it?”
The silence on the other end is telling. Jason starts laughing, low and bitter.
“Hey. That’s not what I’m not saying.”
Jason snorts. “I know that fucking tone of voice, Dickhead. Have you already reserved a room at Arkham for me? Maybe they can renovate Joker’s old cell for me. It would make things easier, wouldn’t it, if I turned out to be the culprit?”
“If I really thought you did it, I’d be paying you a visit. In person,” says Dick calmly, in reasonable tones.
“So why are you calling?”
“We wanted your opinion, since you probably have a personal stake in the outcome.” Dick is talking slowly, picking his words with the same care he would use to pick shrapnel out of a bullet wound. “As the Red Hood, you have connections that we don’t. You have access to a different side of Gotham. We wanted to see if you have any insights.”
Jason kind of hates the way Dick uses we when he actually just means B. Dick’s tendency to say we this, we that — to align himself with Bruce even when he doesn’t agree with everything the man says — fucking grates on his nerves. He would demand to know why Dick is always taking Bruce’s side against him, but the idea of sinking to that level of pathetic neediness makes him want to curl up and die.
“Send me the case files, then. I’ll take a look.”
Dick sighs. “The thing is, B is keeping this close to the chest. If you want to see the files, you’ll have to come to the Cave.”
“Nice try, but no.”
“This is not some high-level manipulation, Hood. I am not lighting you up.”
“Does he think I did it, too?”
“You know him. If he can’t prove it with evidence, he isn’t going to make a move.”
No, but he would silently stew in his own suspicions until mushrooms grew out of his ears. And he might show up to enact one of his famous interrogations, which is guaranteed to ruin everybody’s night. Jason knows exactly what Bruce is like when he’s caught up in a complicated case.
There are several things he can say at this juncture. He wants to ask about Robin. He wants to verify if they even know where he is, or where they think he is supposed to be. How could the Joker have gotten to him without Batman or Nightwing knowing? But bringing him up would implicate him, so in the end, Jason elects to say nothing.
“I’m not coming to the Cave,” he says.
“Hood—”
“B can call if he wants my input. Otherwise, you can both fuck right off.” With that, he cuts the call.
For long minutes after that, he sits in the bathroom, regulating his breathing until he feels like he can face the world again. His thoughts are spinning a mile a minute.
If the Joker is dead — really dead — then Jason wants corroboration. Irrefutable proof. Tangible proof. If there’s one thing he can depend on Bruce for, it’s that Batman will stop at nothing until he has all the answers. And if Batman can prove that the Joker is really, 100% dead, then Jason might actually let himself believe it.
He splashes water on his face and goes back out into the kitchen, where he discovers that Tim has decimated the pastry plate. Most of the tea is gone, as well.
Jason busies himself putting on a new pot of water to boil.
“Good news for you, kid.” His own voice sounds over-loud in the quiet apartment. “They think it was me.”
Tim gives him a blank look. “Huh?”
His face looks pink and raw, like he scrubbed it a little too hard when he was washing it in the sink. He’s also somehow found Jason’s third-best medicine kit (hidden between the orzo and the rigatoni in the pantry) and he’s currently cleaning and wrapping a laceration on his leg between bites of pastry. Every few moments, a spasm will run through him — like a laugh is trying to get out of his chest. But with his mouth otherwise occupied with eating, the urge seems to have tapered off.
Jason feels the poison inside him draining away. The green sloshes down past his nose (so he can breathe again), past his mouth (so he won’t spit vitriol when he opens it), swirling down his neck and then dipping under his collarbone. In another minute, it’ll recede until finally it leaves through the soles of his feet.
Jason crosses his arms and exhales. “You’re welcome, by the way. If I’m frontrunner for culprit, that should take the heat off you.”
Tim laughs nervously, then slaps a hand over his own mouth. “No. That’s — I can’t let them think you’re involved.” He tries to stand, but one of his legs catches on the chair leg and he clumsily over-corrects. Jason lunges forward to grab him before he brains himself on the floor.
Shit.
Tim is trembling as Jason hauls him upright, drags him into the living room, and deposits him on the sofa.
“I’m sorry,” Tim stammers. “I wasn’t trying to frame you or anything, I promise. I really didn’t think they would — I just assumed they’d. I mean. I should tell Dick that it was me.”
Jason goes and fetches him his second-best med kit (hidden inside a hollow book in the murder mystery section of his bookcase). Then he parks himself on the coffee table and tucks his hands under his thighs to minimize the likelihood that he’ll grab a weapon by accident. He assiduously avoids looking at the pile of bloody Robin armor still sitting by the window. That would plunge him right back into a Very Bad Place.
“For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.
Tim frowns as he resumes bandaging his leg. “The right thing,” he repeats. “You don’t even know what happened.”
“You wanna tell me?”
Tim is methodically wrapping his wrist now — the one that looks broken. His voice is flat when he replies. “I didn’t know there could be that much blood in a human body. I mean. I knew, but I didn’t know.” He clears his throat. “I’ve never, um. I just. I just thought, if the world never had to deal with him again. If I could make that happen. It would be a net positive. Right?”
He looks to Jason, like he’s waiting for something. Approval? Affirmation? Tim’s clearly not built for this sort of thing. He probably needs — something, someone more qualified to take care of him. He needs Alfred.
“I should take you to the Manor,” Jason mutters.
Immediately, Tim shakes his head.
“Why not? Alfred can —”
“No. Bruce won’t…he won’t want me there. It’s better if I save him the trouble of kicking me out.”
“You’re still his kid.”
Tim looks down at his hands.“He doesn’t want a killer for a kid.”
“Guess we’ve got that in common, then,” says Jason.
After a moment’s hesitation, he reaches out to put a hand on Tim’s shoulder. It’s meant to be a brief gesture of solidarity. He’s not expecting Tim to sniff and make a choked, inarticulate sound. It’s even more alarming when a tear drips down his face.
Jason has beaten the kid to within an inch of his life before — damn near killed him when he slit his throat — but this is the first time he’s ever seen Tim this cracked open and vulnerable. Jason is used to thinking that his Replacement is better, smarter, more competent than he was at the same age. He’s not used to this version of Tim — the one with glassy eyes and an utterly lost expression.
For a few moments, Tim simply shudders with quiet, controlled sobs.
Despite his misgivings, Jason shifts from the coffee table to the sofa. Tim tilts towards him like a piece of falling timber. Stupefied, Jason just sits and stares at nothing as Tim collapses in slow motion against his shoulder.
When was the last time someone had touched him without the intent to harm? He actually can’t remember. For the past year, nobody’s dared to come near the Red Hood — he’s made damn sure of that.
Gingerly, he moves his arm around Tim’s shoulder and pats him on the arm — timing it to match his own heartbeat. It’s an easy way to calm someone down, to bring their heart rates into sync. Gradually, he feels the tension in Tim’s body unspool.
It’s kind of funny that it took murder to get them past the awkward stage of being mere acquaintances — two people who trained at different times under the same mentor — to whatever they are now. Colleagues? Friends? At this rate, they might even be brothers one day. Brothers-in-failure. Hilarious.
“Listen,” says Jason. It takes him several tries to find the right words. “I didn’t know you had it in you, but as far as I’m concerned, you did the world a favor. For the rest of my life, I’ll never have to look over my shoulder again. I’ll never have to watch him hurt anyone else. I, for one, am thrilled that he’s dead.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows as soon as he says it because Tim seems to shrink in place.
“Swear you won’t tell,” Tim whispers, and the quality of his voice is ragged again, like he’s on the edge of a precipice.
“If I could, I’d throw you a fucking party—”
“Jason.”
“Fine. Fine! I won’t.”
Tim pulls his blanket tighter around him. “Good. Because Bruce will. He’ll think I’ve snapped, and — what am I supposed to do now?”
The only thing Bruce should be doing, in Jason’s opinion, is giving the kid a fucking medal. He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. First things first. “He’s going to find out eventually, though. He’s a fucking detective.”
“I know. I just don’t want it to happen yet. Cause when he does, he’ll take Robin away and.” His voice seems to get smaller and smaller. “Robin is all I have, Jason. Once he takes that from me, I’ll have nothing left.”
Jason opens his mouth to reply, only for it to suddenly hit him.
Goddammit.
If the Joker’s gone, then his entire purpose in coming back to Gotham is gone, too. The thing he’d begged Bruce to do — the thing he failed in making Bruce do — the love he knew his dad could never give him again — and the anguish he felt every single day over that — it’s finally over. All of it. There’s nothing left to fight for anymore. He’d wanted Joker’s death as proof that he’d meant something to Bruce, once upon a time. But Bruce’s refusal had told him that he didn’t love him enough. Every day that the Joker continued to live had hammered that message home a little more.
You’re not enough.
He doesn’t love you enough.
He’d never sacrifice his precious moral code for you.
Who do you think you are?
It never stopped him hoping, of course. That’s why he’d left the Joker alive, in the end. He’d hoped that someday — someday — Bruce might find him worthy again, that he’d finally show him that love with actions, not with words.
Now that possibility is gone. The thought leaves him strangely bereft. He’d hung all his hate and all his hopes on Joker, and now that the monster is gone, all he’s left with is —
“If I’m not Robin, I’m nothing to him,” says Tim.
If he won’t kill the Joker for me, I’m nothing to him, thinks Jason.
And then he’s caught by the perfect symmetry there. The unintentional irony of it. Despite himself, he chuckles. Tim shoots him a startled look as Jason puts his hands over his face and presses his fingertips against his eyes.
“You’re his kid,” says Jason. “That’s enough.”
“But I’m not you,” says Tim immediately. “I’m just the — the neighbor kid. He doesn’t owe me anything. He had one rule, and I couldn’t even — couldn’t even follow it. One. Simple. Rule.”
Jason exhales. He needs to nip this in the bud. If the Joker’s really dead — (he’s still not sure if it’s true, but he wants it to be) — then this brilliant, ruthless kid just did what no one else had the guts to do. Jason’s going to owe him forever after this. Tim shouldn’t have to stew in a pit of his own guilt for it.
He doesn’t know how to do assurances anymore — Red Hood is too steeped in blood to offer a thing as gentle as comfort — but for the kid, he tries.
“He let you be Robin, so you’re not just some kid to him. And if there’s one thing I know about Bruce, it’s that he never stops believing that people can change for the better. He’s always giving people second chances — a fucking infinite number of them, even when they don’t deserve it. Do you think you’d somehow be the exception to that, huh?”
Tim drops his gaze. “But what if he never trusts me again?”
“Well, check me out. I lost his trust ages ago, and I’m still here. It’s not a death sentence.”
That gets a weird look from Tim.
“Besides,” Jason continues, “killing one person does not make you a killer. That’s what the old man never understood.”
“You’re splitting hairs.”
“Take it from a real murderer, kid. Your transgressions have nothing on mine.”
He’s jarred from his thoughts when his phone rings. It’s yet another burner — this one used by only two people.
Jason grabs it and scowls when he sees the caller. “What?” he snarls.
“Jay — Jason?” Bruce sounds out of breath, the same way Dick had when he called earlier. The only difference is that he’s using Jason’s name. Jason’s hackles go up. “Have you heard from Tim.”
“Why do you ask?” Jason makes his voice a drawl. “I thought you kept a close eye on the Replacement.”
“He was supposed to be with his, uh, friends. But I just got a call from one of them. Cassandra. Said Tim missed his check-in twelve hours ago.”
Jason whistled. “Twelve hours, huh? A lot can happen to a kid in that time. Death, dismemberment —”
“Jason, stop it.”
“Well I don’t know why you’re calling me, unless you’re accusing me of killing the kid, too.”
A repressive sigh. “Be serious. If you know where he is—”
Jason cuts him off. “What, not going to start off with the Joker, first? Dickhead told me you’re investigating his escape from Arkham. How’s that going for you, huh?”
“I don’t know what Dick told you—”
“Is the bastard really dead?”
Silence on the other end.
Jason huffs. Typical. “So when does the grilling start? I mean, you’re probably investigating me as we speak.”
“You know I have to consider every option. Investigate every lead. Make every inquiry.”
“How high up am I on your list of suspects?”
“You’re… not in the top five right n…” He trails off oddly.
Jason meanders back around to the sofa and flops down on it. Can you believe this guy? he mouths at Tim while pointing to the phone in his hand. Someone on the other end — even odds whether it’s Dick or Alfred — must be trying to corral Bruce into taking a different tact, because there’s a long, awkward silence after that. Jason rolls his eyes internally. Sometimes, the level of third-party mediation required just for them to have one civil conversation is pretty damn depressing.
Tim bites his lip. His face is pale and bleak. He looks like he’s hearing someone reading his death sentence. A new idea occurs to Jason.
“You know what? I’m gonna save you some work, B. Let’s say I did kill the Joker.” Tim shoots him a wide-eyed look as Jason props his feet upon the coffee table. “You gonna put me away for good this time, old man?”
Bruce clears his throat. Someone must have switched him to a teleprompter, because his next words come back a shade more robotic than before. “Preliminary evidence suggests that whoever killed the Joker did it in self-defense. That, as you know, is not a crime that would land anyone in Arkham. Or Blackgate.”
“Self-defense, huh?”
Jason makes eye-contact with Tim, who looks seconds away from doing something desperate. Tim makes an abortive movement, but Jason shoots him a glare so forbidding that Tim freezes in place.
Before Bruce has a chance to speak, Jason grabs the front of Tim’s shirt to make sure the kid can’t make a dash for it. “And what if I didn’t kill him in self-defense? What if I totally did it on purpose?”
Bruce sighs. “Jason, what is going on? Is this a hypothetical? What aren’t you telling me.”
“Answer the question, B.”
“Can we.” A breath. “Can we discuss this at the Manor? Please. Just come back and we can have a long talk about it.”
He’s definitely using a teleprompter. There’s just enough of a lilt (not quite Brucie-level, but close enough) to tip Jason off. Not that he’s complaining. If this is what it takes to keep their encounters civil, then fine. It’s a marked improvement from just six months ago, when 80% of their conversations would end with them coming to blows.
“Just to be clear,” says Jason, enunciating slowly for Tim’s benefit, “you’re inviting me, a murderer, to the Manor. For afternoon tea.”
A background voice on Bruce’s end says, “—And lasagne! Tell him Alfred’s making his favourite, B!”
“You know you’re always welcome at the Manor,” says Bruce tightly.
Jason drags Tim towards him so that he can put the phone up against Tim’s ear. Then he leans in, close enough that Bruce wouldn’t notice the switch. “Repeat that, B. Those exact words.”
“You’re…always…welcome at the Manor?”
“Why. Why am I always welcome.”
A sigh. A pause. “Because you’re my son.” And then, in words so soft and hesitant that Jason almost misses them, “You’ll always be my son. You know that, right?”
Tim’s lower lip wobbles. His face has gone blotchy.
Jason blinks rapidly and looks away with a scowl because now he’s getting misty, too. There’s a lump growing in his throat. “No matter what?”
“No matter what. I don’t care what you actually did — or how the situation went down, I just. I just want to know what happened. I want to know you’re okay.” Bruce pauses just long enough for him to collect himself, and then says, “Now will you please tell me where Tim is.”
Tim’s got a hand over his mouth to muffle whatever sounds he’s trying not to make. His forehead falls forward against Jason’s shoulder. This time, it feels almost natural when Jason curls a soothing hand around his back.
He brings the phone back to his own ear. “He’ll be back at the Manor within the next eight hours.” Then he signs off without further explanation.
For now, this house should be safe from prying eyes. He can count on Oracle not to relay the location to Bruce. He’s not even sure how Tim had found it in the first place, since he’d been careful to keep it a secret from the Bats, but for the next eight hours, they should have the privacy they need to get their stories straight.
“There. You heard the man,” he says once Tim has gotten himself back under control. “Do you believe me now?”
“He was talking to you, Jason. I’m not delusional.”
Jason rolls his eyes. “Everything he said applies to you too, dumbass.”
“It’s not the same —”
“If B can forgive me for everyone I’ve killed,” Jason interrupts, giving Tim a light shove, “then he can forgive you for killing the Joker.” What part of that doesn’t Tim get? Jason screwed up first, and worst. He’s already set the fucking precedent. If Bruce can see past his sins, then there’s no barrier for Tim at all.
Tim huffs and scrubs his face with a corner of the blanket.
“Plus there’s always Plan B,” says Jason, “where we tell him I did it.”
“No.” Tim takes a shaky breath, but his voice firms. “I’m not letting them pin this on you.”
“Timmybird, I am willing to pay for the privilege of claiming I killed the Joker. Do you know how much money I can collect just on the black market for his bounty?” Jason raises his eyebrows.
Tim’s face does something complicated, like he’s actually calculating the amount in his head. Inch by inch, though, he relaxes against the sofa. Something in him finally seems to settle. His eyes droop and go half-lidded.
“Fine. But if I’m going back to the Manor in eight hours, then you’re coming with me.”
“This is not,” Jason splutters, “a negotiation.”
“I’m not confessing to murder to B alone, are you kidding me?” He yawns and burrows deeper into the wool cushions. He pulls his legs up so that he can tuck them under the blanket.
“You want me there for what — moral support?” Jason pauses. “Immoral support?”
“You’re a tripwire for him. He’s less likely to blow up when you’re there.” His words are slowing down, the edges burred with exhaustion. “Besides, he wants to see you too. He just said so.”
Jason scoffs. This feels like a ploy — like Tim is trying to pull a fast one over him. The kid’s been trying to get Jason to visit the Manor for months now. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s not going to work.”
“If I have to believe him, so do you.”
Jason rolls his eyes and gives him another shove. This time, Tim lets the momentum tip him over onto his side so that his head is pillowed on the armrest of the sofa. But for the first time all night, the kid looks peaceful instead of petrified. His eyes flutter close and he hums to himself.
“Maybe he’ll even give me enough time to pack up my shit before he kicks me out.”
“For the last time, he’s not going to kick you out. And even if he does, I don’t give a rat’s ass about his ‘no killing’ rule. No matter what happens, I’m still here, okay?” One day, he’ll work up the courage to apologize for all the things he’s done. One day, he’ll dredge up the wherewithal to say thank you. But for now, all he can do is make a promise. “You’ve still got me, kid. If you ever need a place to go. Or a job to do. Or a name that isn’t Robin.”
“Y’know,” Tim murmurs, “‘m glad I came t’ you.”
Jason shoots him a startled look. But Tim’s already halfway asleep, his breaths evening out.
