Chapter Text
In Jason's defense, he really did think that the first package had been misdelivered. OK, yeah, it was addressed to him, but the cover name he was using was pretty damn generic--that was the whole point, after all--so it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that someone had just fucked up somewhere along the way.
It definitely wasn't meant for him, he would remember ordering something. Sure, he ran it through a whole shit load of checks before opening it, he wasn't stupid. But it didn't give off any electronic signals, there were no traces of explosives, no traces of poisons. The x-ray didn't reveal anything suspicious. It really did seem like someone just got the wrong address.
Of course he opened the package and then opened the box inside of the package. If he wasn't a too-nosey motherfucker, what the fuck was he doing in this line of business? And once he did, well. Any slight lingering thought that maybe it was meant for him, that it has just slipped his mind amongst the, uh, upheaval of the last few weeks was instantly obliterated.
He would remember ordering something like this. His bank account would remember ordering something like this, if nothing else. No matter how out of his mind he was, this wasn't the type of thing that didn't leave any evidence behind--he would have noticed something. He didn't risk taking it out of the box it was in, just stared at it.
A fine golden chain, one he was pretty sure was made for omegas, damningly glittered back up at him.
Fuck, he was pretty damn sure that breathing on the damned thing would cause it irreparable damage, let alone actually touching the damned thing, but he couldn't bring himself to risk closing the box. It wasn't the type of thing that ought to be touched by the likes of him--far, far too delicate, so delicate that the chain was almost translucent in places.
It was a body chain, one that was designed to wrap around the neck and then drape down between the breasts, at which point it branched into two strands again, to allow space for a pregnant belly, and then ended in two loops he was pretty certain were supposed to go around the thighs. It wasn't sturdy and that was the point, the whole thing practically screamed indulgence, that the omega wearing it didn't have to move much, that they had a whole pack they could rely on to do stuff for them.
Definitely not something Jason would have ever brought. Even now, his finances weren't in a place where he could afford impulsive purchases like this--and what would even be the point? A shut box filled with jewellery that he couldn't even wear? It wasn't exactly like he had an omega that he could gift it to, either, what with being packless and not courting anyone.
So he just shrugged, shut the box and taped the package back up, and resolved to find a quiet moment to return it to sender when he could. Some other James Brown was probably waiting on it.
--
The second package got him suspicious. It was smaller but still filled with jewellery that there was no way he would have brought himself. He's damned sure he would remember buying gold nipple piercings, especially seeing as they had delicate, tiny golden bells on them. Ha fucking ha, barbells, get it? Hilarious joke made by the real James Brown, you're a real class act whoever you are.
They're also clearly made by the same company, not only do they have a distinct look like they're meant to be part of a set, but the return address on the package is familiar. Surely the company would have reached out to the real customer and told them that their package was returned and they had to confirm the address? Or maybe they were all bought at once and just shipped separately. Or maybe his address autofilled?
Yeah, too many possibilities for Jason to be comfortable with the situation. Looks like he's got to dump this apartment, which is a pity. It had good sightlines and supremely disinterested neighbours. But all the benefits in the world aren't worth getting his cover blown.
What cover there is to be blown, of course. The only people who know who Red Hood is are the Bats, Roy and Kori. Everyone else since he got back either met him fully kitted up or met him in civvies as whatever identity he was using at the time. The name Jason Todd might not mean much, since it belongs to a long dead kid, but privacy is a valuable commodity. He doesn't want to have to don a disguise just to go grab groceries.
He scrubs the apartment from top to bottom just in case he's left some DNA evidence lingering around somewhere, gathers the essentials (uniforms, weapons, cash) and splits to one of his other safehouses during the dubious safety of 3am. All he does there is dump everything and immediately go out on patrol. It's essential that he alters his established pattern as little as possible to hopefully help minimise the chances that someone will connect James Brown to Red Hood.
On the off chance that someone has already connected his identities... well. He can at least try to not give them more evidence. All he can really do is have that identity completely vanish without a trace and have Red Hood just be as normal as possible. Nothing to see here, folks, just your regular, run of the mill, crime lord/vigilante going about his business.
Nothing to worry about.
--
The third package makes it a little hard to pretend it's not for him. Or... he hasn't been pretending. He genuinely thought that the other two were accidents. Maybe.
This, though...
For one thing, it's not addressed to the identity that owns this apartment. It's addressed to him.
Jason Todd.
It's golden and beautiful, just like the other two packages that he now, with a chill that isn't half as much revulsion as it ought to be, realises were definitely meant for him. Two garters, obscenely delicate, and perfectly sized for his stupidly oversized hams. Sure, male omegas tend towards an hourglass bodyshape--wider shoulders than female omegas tend towards and wider hips than male alphas tend towards--but his lifestyle of running and jumping and lots of fucking kicking means that he's got the type of muscle that's the damned opposite of typical. This isn't off the shelf shit, this is custom, and worse, it means that someone knows his measurements. So either someone's got their hand on Red Hood's dirty laundry (literally, in this case), or someone's been observing him close enough to note the width of his fucking thighs of all things, and there's precious few times that he isn't wearing layers of body armour and holsters.
There's precious few ways to take this that aren't outright threatening. Here, someone is saying, I know you better than you know yourself, I know you soft, I know you vulnerable.
Well, fuck them. Jason won't have it.
He might not be the computer whiz that Babs or Tim are, but he's good at what he does. He purges his network, goes over every connection, makes sure they're watertight. No traffic goes in or out within him monitoring it. He doesn't just ghost that safehouse, he burns it down, garters and all packaging inside, only just barely resisting the impulse to pop a couple of explosives in there. Few things get the point across like C4, he feels like he's uniquely qualified to say. He runs additional background checks on everyone in his employ. He checked people as he brought them into the fold, but maybe someone slipped past them, it's not out of the realm of possibility. He trawls through every merc forum he can find to see if anyone's put a new bounty on the Red Hood.
There's nothing new to find, which only ratchets his paranoia up further. Sure, he finds stuff, but it's all stuff he already knew about. Black Mask has had a hit out on him ever since Jason took out a massive chunk of his empire (some men just can't take a rocket to the face gracefully) and will up the offer every time Jason pisses him off, but Jason's built enough of a reputation as being a bitch to deal with that it's still too low for anyone to bother with. His people are good, loyal for as long as he'll be good to them, which is exactly how it should be. His network seems fine, it's hard to tell when you're within spitting distance of Oracle, but Jason's fairly certain that anyone else would find it damned hard to break into without alerting him, and even Oracle might trip over something.
Hope springs eternal.
The weakest point is definitely the safehouses. If someone already knows who he is and has been following him, which isn't out of the realm of possibility, then Jason really has to go to ground. Maybe fuck off to space for a bit? If it is a stalker, than all he can really do is either try to lure them out (which, it's Gotham, the last thing he needs is the type of stalker Gotham would spawn) or remove himself from the scenario entirely. His people should be able to handle themselves for a month or so, and Roy and Kori would probably be up for running around out there, it's been a while since they've had a vacation.
He's in the middle of trying to remember if Roy has Lian this month or not, when there's a knock on the door.
Jason freezes for a split second before he grabs the nearest gun and its accompanying magazine and swings around, retreating to a better defensible position automatically. He doesn't quite aim his gun directly at the door, not when he doesn't know for sure what's going on, but he does load a round. No one knows he's here, none of his allies, none of his subordinates, which means it's either someone really goddamned lost or it must be--
The door splinters and despairing denied RUTTING ALPHAS flood inwards, like a gas grenade going off. He snarls, deep and menacing, deeply pissed off that his territory has been invaded. There's something about the scents that itches at his hindbrain, but--
"You have three seconds to explain yourselves before I start shooting," he announces, his voice catching around the growl in his throat, allowing his aim to drift slightly upwards.
Dick Grayson and Tim Drake stagger through his doorway. They both look objectively terrible, pallid skin, bruises under their eyes, clothes askew like they got dressed in the dark.
Jason's finding it damned hard to give a fuck, what with the way their scents are making his instincts want to alternatively flee and fawn.
Personally though, he's always been more of a fight kind of guy.
Neither of them are in costume, so he ever so fucking graciously only aims at something that will heal with a relative minimum of physio. "What. The fuck. Are you two shitheels. Doing here?"
"Y'didn't." Tim pauses. Screws his face up and shakes his head. "Say 'nything?"
"What?" Jason's confused and that's just making him more pissed off.
Dick nuzzles against the top of Tim's head, visibly inhaling, and when he lifts his head, his expression is slightly more clear. "We offered gifts and you didn't respond. So we decided to come. In person?" He trails off towards the end, probably when he can see that there is no fucking recognition dawning on Jason's face.
"Gifts," Tim gets out.
Jason rapidly recallibrates--and if he thought he was fucking pissed off before. All that work, all that time and all those resources burnt because of them. "You mean those creepy ass stalker gifts were from you two assholes? Of course, I shouldn't expect anything better from you," he spits at Tim as he stalks back over to where he'd grabbed his gun, emptying the magazine with sure hands even as the rest of him nearly boils over with rage. He tucks the gun back away and swings around to face the asshole, folds his arms across his chest. "I don't know if this was a joke or if Bruce-"
Twin growls ring out and Jason's jaw snaps shut.
"Jason," Tim tries, his voice choked with the remnants of his snarl. He stumbles forward, out of Dick's grasp, reaches for Jason. "No, don't, you can't." He growls and shakes his head. He seems to run out of words, his mouth moves soundlessly, and he looks back over his shoulder at Dick, like he thinks that will help his case at all.
Dick's hands curl and uncurl at his side, flexing. "Little wing, please, don't mention another alpha right now," he says, tight and pained.
Jason scoffs, rolling his eyes and looks up at his ceiling like the answers can be found there. "You have got to be fucking kidding me," he mutters and immediately wants to bring up Bruce again, because they've all but confirmed that they're doing this on Bruce's orders, why else would they set things up like this, the manipulative freaks, but that scent. It's fucking everywhere and it's fucking pungent. Of course they had to wait until they were this deep into rut to confront him, when has this family ever given up an advantage?
"What do you want?" he eventually settles on. There. Nice and neutral, no one can have any problems with that, even if they both go crying to Bruce and Batman comes and fucks with Red Hood, at least Jason will know he's in the right.
"An answer," Tim immediately answers, stepping closer.
Jason eyes him and does not like what he sees, does his best to subtly edge towards the window--that just so happens to open onto his fire escape. "The fuck does that mean?"
"We made an offer, but you didn't answer it. Not really. You just fled," Dick says, repeats, whatever, which clarifies exactly precisely jack fucking shit. "It's enough to give an alpha ideas." He dares to wink.
He dares to goddamned wink.
He looks like three day old roadkill and he's in Jason's emergency safehouse reeking of rut winking at him.
If they were the ones sending Jason that jewellery, if it was on purpose and it wasn't an accident or a threat. If it was meant to be an offer. If they're here, now, in rut.
No, no, no, fuck this.
Jason scoffs, spins on his heel and dives for the window.
There's twin cries of shock behind him, but the move is unexpected enough that he's got time to grab the grappling hook he keeps by the window and jump out. He runs two flights down and then grapples to the ground. Sure, he could probably go via the rooftops, but it'll be a lot easier to lose the assholes if he can make it to a crowd--plus, he's got a motorbike stashed not too far from here, he just needs to get there.
Two howls sound behind him, and goosebumps break out along his arms. Whatever, it doesn't mean anything, he just has to outrun two rut-addled alphas. Easy as.
Considering how late at night it is, it's weirdly hot. Even for Gotham, even with its smog layer, it's usually pretty chilly by this time at night. He wipes sweat out of his eyes, puts his head down and runs.