Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Zeta tube flashed, and Tim shoved the door open, landing on his hands and knees on the floor in front of the device. He needed to calm down. Regroup. Make a plan. 

Tim couldn’t hear anything over his own harsh panting. His back and thighs stung terribly, and his feet ached from running the mile between his house and the cave barefoot. 

Was his face bleeding? His cheeks were wet. 

He hadn’t run that far. A mile was nothing. He was Robin. Why couldn’t he catch his breath?

Get it together, Robin. Tim Drake. Titans Tower. 8:42pm. Not in uniform. Most pressing matter at hand: Compromised identity. A wave of nausea rolled over him at the thought and he shook his head, trying to get above it. No, no, not right now, I can't deal with that right now. Compartmentalize, Robin. Fix it. Most pressing...injury? His face and neck ached horribly, and his back burned. But...his feet. The gravel had sliced up the soles of his feet. He needed his feet to walk. Ergo: a problem that needs solving. There you go. Now fix it.

Crawling through the tower, sore and sniffling, was absolutely miserable. Chest heaving, he lay on his side on the floor of the elevator as it slowly took him up. Don't think about Dad. Don’t think about Bruce. Get to the infirmary. Fix your feet. That’s step one. Thank god the tower was empty.

Through careful, undignified maneuvering, Tim managed to scrape the gravel off of his bloodied soles, disinfect them, and wrap them in thick bandages. Carefully, carefully, he rolled to a standing position, hissing, wincing, but remaining upright. 

He took a few teetering steps. It wasn’t graceful, and it didn’t feel good, per se, but at least he wasn’t on his hands and knees. 

Tim tottered unsteadily out of the infirmary, trying not to think about anything. 

There, in the hallway between the infirmary and the living quarters, no alarms went off. No alert sounded. But every light in the hallway cut out, and the automatic door behind Tim slid shut with an ominous click. The emergency lights flickered on, casting everything in a sickly greenish glow. Somewhere in the Tower, a single gunshot rang out. 

Tim’s heart leapt to his throat. He could feel his heartbeat in the bruises on his face, in the wounds on his back, in the bottoms of his feet. 

It wasn’t possible. There was no way he had been followed here. The tower was secure against civilian access. The zeta codes had specific locks so unauthorized personnel couldn’t get through.

His father had said he was going to get his gun.

Footsteps. In the stairwell. Someone was coming up.

His dad had come for him.

Tim didn’t have a plan for this.

But he wasn’t Robin for nothing.

An investigation of the wall access tablet revealed the computers were down. Comms too. Fantastic. He checked the furniture in the recreation hall, rooting through drawers for something, anything, he could use.

Tim would kill for a taser right about now. He made a mental note to start stocking concealable weapons in the halls, and resolutely did not think about how very, very numbered his days as Robin probably were. How unlikely it was that he’d be a Teen Titan at all this time tomorrow. He wasn’t thinking about it.

The footsteps were louder now. Closer.

He was out of time.

Tim took off down the hall, limping as fast as he could. He didn't bother watching his— his pursuer (don’t think of him as your dad. It won’t help right now. Don't think about it DON'T—) crest the stairs. Better not risk losing his nerve.  Instead, he kept his eyes peeled for...there.

Adjusting his momentum on a dime, he collided with a seemingly unremarkable section of paneling and only barely kept his balance. He ran his fingers along the edges, pressing, seeking the manual release latch. The false wall gave, he had just enough space to slip into the secret room. It slid back into place just as a heavy body impacted the other side.

The room was as unremarkable as the panel concealing it. Barely more than a broom closet. But it would suit his needs well enough.

Fists slammed against the panel, and then a shoulder, to no avail. It would take more than that to—

A gun cocked behind the door. 

Tim took a deep breath and started moving. He had all the time he needed. Scrambling up the shelves awkwardly, he reached his goal: A vent with a loose grate. He worked the screws out of the ceiling with his fingernails (ow) and carefully, quietly raised himself up. The deafening assault of gunfire on the hidden door ended with a destructive clatter as the hinges were blown in. 

The intruder saw his feet disappear into the vent. Tim knew because he made sure of it.

With no way to pinpoint his location beyond physically combing the vents, in which his—the intruder—could not fit, they'd have no choice but to use the internal security cameras. 

Which would of course require turning the power back on. 

Which would also, coincidentally, give power back to the emergency exit that would take him directly to the garage.

And his motorcycle.

And out of this building.

Tim just had to get there without making any sound. Before the systems came back online and he got cooked (or frozen) inside the vents. Or murdered by his dad.

Easy-peasy.

The building began to hum around him as he crawled, and Tim trembled with relief. It was working. He was going to get out of here.

Tiny cameras began to blink on and turn toward his direction. Tim didn’t let it bother him; whatever security breach had let his (furious, violent, trying-to-kill-him) dad into the tower, he wouldn’t know about the hatch. Titans, and only Titans, even knew what to look for.

He reached the small hatch and after a moment of hesitation, input his code and tugged on the handle.

It didn’t budge. 

Tim tried again. Nothing.

In the distance, he heard footsteps.

Panicked, Tim tried to crawl back the way he’d come, but in his rush, he wasn’t as quiet. He bit back a shout when a bullet blew through the ceiling and vent. It missed him by less than a foot. He scrambled away noisily, deafened by the blast.

So Tim didn’t hear the musty scraping of chunks of ceiling being knocked loose, and Tim didn’t hear the clang of metal impacting the vent he was sitting in.

But he saw the crowbar hook into the sheet of metal he was sprawled across just before he fell through the ceiling.

Jason jogged a little ways away and hurled the crowbar down the opposite hall with a little more force than necessary. He didn’t need it anymore. He didn’t want to hold it anymore. Whatever. 

Little Timothy Drake knelt on the floor, wincing amidst a cloud of debris. He wore a grimy tank top and shorts, and looked like he’d rolled out of bed and then kept rolling and rolled right off a cliff.

To his credit, Replacement seemed to be getting his bearings pretty quickly. He rose from his little nest of ceiling material, staggered over to the wall, and leaned on it for support. Very intimidating.

The kid turned a steely expression towards Jason’s approach. There was tension in every line of his body.

Jason strolled casually back to the scene of the crime, spinning a pistol on his left hand like a gunslinger. Nothing wrong with a little flourish. After all, it’s not like he was in any hurry. The kid’s gaze immediately trained on the gun for several moments before sliding to methodically catalogue the rest of him. Looking from the gun to the helmet to the armor and again, and again, before slumping against the wall.

“Oh, thank god.” Tim gave a gaspy little laugh, his voice hoarse. “Was it you, firing off shots down there?” He put his hands on his knees, dropping completely out of any sort of defensible position and then snickered. At Jason. “Great show. You really had me going. God, I can’t believe...I think I’m losing it. Sorry. It’s been a hell of a day.” 

Jason stopped spinning his gun. What the hell?

“Okay, so, I’m,”—The kid blanched, fingers brushing his face where his mask wasn't before soldiering on—,“nobody important. How can I...help you?” The little bastard squinted at him. “Wait. Who even are you?” 

Not exactly the reaction Jason was going for. Whatever, he could salvage this. “More interesting, I think, is who you are. Having fun playing Robin, Timothy Drake?”

The kid blinked in surprise. Not fear, mind you. Not even shock. Just mild curiosity, like he'd gotten an unexpected package in the mail. He had to be doing this on purpose. “What? How’d you...Wait. You’re the Red Hood, from Gotham, right? What are you doing here? Aren’t you some kind of crime lord?” He paused, taking in Jason’s appearance again. His armory. He sighed. “Is this some big...thing you’re doing?” 

The kid pushed off the wall into a loose not-quite-fighting stance, visibly exhausted but keeping Jason in his line of sight. Smart. 

“Listen. Mr. Hood. I appreciate what you’re doing here, I do. But is there any way I could convince you to reschedule this…” He gestured vaguely. “Whatever this is?” Not smart.

Jason closed the distance between the two of them in less than a second, hauling the kid upright and slamming him back against the wall. Replacement let out a strangled scream. Jason pressed a forearm against his throat. “Why don’t you take a guess, smartass? What the fuck do you think this is?” He bore down on the kid's windpipe.

Fucking rich kid. No sense of danger. No understanding of the stakes. Just some fucking punk rich kid making a joke out of the position Jason Todd had died for. 

“Well, I think I can rule out wanting to audition for the Titans,” Tim coughed weakly, both hands clutching at Jason’s arm. More fucking jokes.

Jason’s vision flared a vicious green, and he reared back a fist, something screaming in his mind. “Smart-mouthed little—” No. Not yet. 

He changed track at the last second, disengaged the latch on his helmet and rips it off in a single, fluid, furious motion, grinning with too many teeth as he crowded the little brat against the wall.

Finally, finally, Tim paled and jerked back. “J-Jason?” he gasped. “You’re...you’re alive? How?” Replacement’s breath hitched, and he...sounded kind of choked up? “Oh my god, are you okay?” 

Jason was thrown off. He felt himself rapidly losing control of the situation. He tightens his grip on the brat's wrists until he hears a few pops and the kid shuts up, his expression wavering uncertainly.

"You wanna know how I am?" Jason sneered. "I died in Daddy's precious little war, beaten to death by a maniac who got away scott-free. I was cursed back to life, only to find that Dear Old Bruce had already prettied up a new lamb to slaughter. Another goddamn preteen, dressed like a traffic light, just waiting to be sacrificed for a worthy cause."

Tim was frozen absolutely still. Jason couldn't even feel him breathing. Good.

"So, you know what, Tim? I've honestly been better." He slammed the kid against the wall again, just to hear him squeal. "Maybe he didn't learn his lesson the first time. Or maybe he just didn't give a shit, about you or me." He caught the kid's skinny wrists with one hand and used the other to pull out a wicked-looking switchblade. Tim's eyes tracked it desperately. Jason smiled.

"Either way, I intend to make it painfully clear to him that Robin," Jason flicked the blade free, "Will no longer be an option."

An audible mechanical hum sang through the grim silence that followed Jason's words.  Beyond that, you could have heard a pin drop.

Jason lifted his knife to the kids face, tracing idly over the skin. Would it be appropriate, he thought, to cut him a new smile? Remind Bruce every day what kind of threat he was throwing children up against? He pressed the blade down, just barely breaking skin—

The lights flickered sharply overhead, then glowed bright, caught by the reboot Jason had half-completed before realizing what the little shit was up to.

Jason actually lowered his knife in surprise.

Replacement’s face was thrown into sharp relief, and any attempt to hide was easily aborted by Jason’s iron grip on the kid. 

Hand shaped bruises. All over his neck, painted on his arms and face.

Oh, that was rich. “That looks a little too heavy-handed to be from a tussle. Isn't Robin supposed to be quick? How’d you get caught, Replacement?”

Tim jerked in his grip, averting his eyes, “It was a fight, I just got in a fight.” The kid raised his chin, adjusting his tone. “You really killed your momentum. I was pretty intimidated there for a second. Are you this distractible with all the children you mutilate, or are you having an off night?” 

Lying, obviously. And trying his damndest to change the subject. Not so friendly now. 

Jason got in his face, real close, before continuing. His tone dripped with false sympathy. “Don’t be like that, little bird. What happened? The old man smack you around?” 

Replacement flinched. He actually flinched.

Jason was just trying to antagonize the brat, but he seems to have accidentally hit a nerve. 

Good. Get to him. Make him cry. Make him pay. Make him suffer.

“Daddy-Bats taking a rough hand with the new brood?” Jason barked out an unkind laugh and ignored the curdling sensation in his stomach. “Makes sense. If he keeps running through them so fast, there won’t be any orphans left in Gotham. Better use a firm hand to keep his little soldiers in line.” Ignored how sick the words coming out of his mouth made him feel. “You’re not a person to him, you know. You’re a tool, designed to keep your mouth shut and follow orders and be discarded the moment you’re not useful anymore.” 

Tim fought against him, trying to squirm out of Jason's grip. “—Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up—”

Jason leans in closer, whispering now. A parody of empathy. “I mean, you're a smart kid.” Debatable.  “Do you really think he’d hit you like that if you mattered to him at all?” 

Whatever the brat's response would have been was interrupted by the cheery tones of an incoming call. Tim immediately froze, protests forgotten.

“Give me the phone.” Jason said. Tim hesitated. “Give me the phone or I’ll take it, Replacement. C’mon, this one’s easy.” Tim’s hands shook as he passed it over.

He planned to just smash the thing until he saw the Caller ID.

“Dad”. Well, he’d wanted to send Bruce a message.

Jason turned the screen so that Tim could see, enjoying the way the kid immediately paled. “Let’s see what the old man has to say for himself, 'ey Robin?” Jason winked and answered the call on speakerphone.

“J-Jason, don’t, please—”Tim gasped, “It’s not—”

"Lesson didn’t stick, you ungrateful little brat?”

That. That was not Bruce. Jason...might have miscalculated.

"You’re really not as clever as you think you are. Do you think I’m gonna let you get away with this? That I'm going to allow this level of disrespect to go unpunished?” 

Tim choked out a hesitant, watery, “Dad, I—”

"Keep your mouth shut while I’m speaking to you. And quit with the waterworks. We both know you're just doing it for attention.  You think this little tantrum of yours is cute, huh?” 

Jason stared at Tim. Tim avoided looking at either Jason or the phone.

“Well?”

Tim cleared his throat. “No, sir.”

“No, sir, what?"

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, his cheeks red with humiliation. “No, my tantrum isn’t cute. Sir.”

“Stop sniveling. You’re not a child. You have no clue what real suffering is. I should have dealt with you a long time ago. Then maybe you would have been smart enough to do as you’re told. We’ll be making up for that, Tim.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve fed and clothed you your entire damn life. You’ve never wanted for a damn thing. Do you have any idea how much money I’ve wasted on you? And this is how you repay me? I’ll fix you up good, boy. You’ll thank me for it later.”

“Yes, sir.”

"I didn't hear that."

“Thank you, sir,” Tim whispered stonily.

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen: you’re going to come home right now. You're going to get what’s coming to you. And then you’re going to behave like the Drake heir, and stop acting like a little retard—”

Jason crushed the phone to pieces in his armored fist, ending the call. Tim was frozen, tears running down his cheeks.

Before Jason can think, he's shoved the kid away and stumbled back several steps. Get some distance. Get his bearings.

 Tim, off-balance, landed on his hands and knees facing away from Jason and didn’t move after that. And continued to not move.

And Jason gets a good look at Tim for the first time since he broke into the tower.

There were dark red stains spotting Replacement’s clothing, sprinkled from his lower back down to his thighs. His feet were covered in thick bandages, likely the reason he hadn’t tried to run after Jason pulled him out of the vents. His stupid, flimsy shirt stuck to his skin in some places and folded wetly in others, with striped bruising visible even through the fabric. The kid winced and shuddered. Didn’t make any sort of move to get up. His teeth were gritted and his eyes were squeezed shut.  He was trembling. It didn't look like he was breathing. 

And this. 

This should have been it. Exactly what Jason came here for. The kid, defeated. Kneeling before him, crying like a child and sorry he’d ever heard of Batman. And Jason had barely had to lift a finger. It should have felt good.

Jason just felt nauseous.

This...This feels wrong. I shouldn't be here.

And with that singular thought, Jason was swamped in a sickening wave of clarity.

What was going on here? He became the Red Hood to help people that other capes refused to care about. 

Wailing on a fourteen year old who was crying because his dad was mean wasn’t the kind of thing the Red Hood did. It wasn’t something Jason Todd particularly wanted to do either.

What the fuck was he doing here?

Jason was monumentally, spectacularly in over his head.

 Jason. Stop. Compartmentalize. 

Think: What was the most pressing matter at hand?

Kid. Not breathing. Okay.

Jason approached Tim slowly, walking around to kneel in front of him.

“Hey, uh, kid? Kiddo?” Tim didn’t so much as flinch. God, this was awkward.

Kid was totally out of it. Probably having some sort of panic attack, and try as he might, Jason couldn't get him to snap out of it.

Slapping had proven ineffective and yelling just made the kid tremble like a wet chihuahua.

Sighing, Jason lifted the new Robin into the air by his armpits and gave him a hearty shake. “Listen," he implored. "You gotta start breathing, kid." 

Nothing.

Jason shook him again. “Hey, I’m sorry about being a dick before, okay? I was just, uh…” Really mad at you for no reason? Consumed by supernatural bloodlust? No good way to end that sentence.

Time to change tracks. "If you don't get it together, I'm gonna tell Batman you let slip your identity to the Penguin."

Low blow, to be sure, but Tim twitched in his arms and let out a sharp gasp that quickly turned to hyperventilating.

“Yes!" Jason cheered, lowering Tim to the floor and bracing him. "That's it, deep breaths now, in and out, c’mon…”

Once Tim had regained some control, he glared weakly at Jason and hissed, “You’re such an asshole.”

Jason deserved that.

And, okay. Kid was alive and breathing, and clearly embroiled in some mess that was none of Jason’s business, covered in injuries Jason hadn’t even given him. Jason could technically leave right now and not be guilty of anything beyond some light bullying. 

This didn’t have to be his problem.

It didn't. 

Jason sighed and started hauling the limp, wheezing kid towards the infirmary. He keyed in the code for the medbay door and tossed the kid on the closest cot, moving to dig through the supplies for ice packs and antiseptics.

There was a whistling sound, and Jason only barely dodged the projectile launched at his head from behind.

He didn’t dodge the second; a 2lb hand-weight clips his ear painfully. “Ow!” He whirled around to see Tim scrambling for any throwable item within reach to hurl in Jason’s direction; thanks to Bruce’s training, his aim was impeccable. Juggling medical supplies, Jason swore as he ducked a maneki-neko paperweight that smashed to bits against the wall behind him. “What the fuck, I’m trying to help you!” 

“Oh, like you were helping me before, stalking me through the tower, and threatening to kill me, and answering a call from my fucking dad?” the kid shrieked, apparently having caught his breath on the hike to the infirmary. Joy. “And now you want to, what, play nursemaid? What the hell is the matter with you?”

“Wait, wait! I can explain.” He threw his hands up, ice pack be damned, and box of plastic gloves nailed him right in the nose. “Ow. Shit. I’m sick, or something. I don’t know. It’s like a fugue state. Side effect of the mumbo-jumbo that brought me back, I think. It’s over now.”

Tim considered him for a long moment, and asked, “Is it going to happen again tonight?”

Jason answered as truthfully as he could. “Probably not with you.” 

“Good enough. I’m holding you to that.”Tim slumped over, exhausted, and mumbled, “You’re still an asshole.”

Well, he wasn't wrong. Jason shrugged, gathered his supplies, and began checking out Tim’s injuries.

“So...not an orphan, huh?”

Silence. 

He tugged up the back of the kid’s shirt and let out a low whistle.

“Christ, kid, what happened?”

Tim gritted his teeth. Shivered. Picked at the sheets. Jason didn’t say anything, choosing to wait him out while applying first aid in the meantime.

“My dad found out about Robin tonight.” Tim swallowed. “He was rooting through my room while I was in the shower. He found the suit. He wasn’t happy. Dragged me to my bedroom and...you know.”

“Okay." Jason kept his tone even. "Can you tell me about the bruises on your face and back?”

Tim still wasn't looking at him. “He smacked me around a little, but I guess that wasn’t...enough, so he held me down. By the back of my neck. Took off his belt and, um. You can see it.” 

Jason could see it. Dark, ugly welts covered the Tim from lower back to mid thigh. Several spots were bleeding sluggishly. The coverage was horrific; it looked like the bastard had taken his time. It looked like it hurt to move.

Tim's voice had sounded strange, when he’d first spoken to Jason. Hoarse from screaming.

Christ.

Tim kept talking. “By the time he quit, it was dark outside. He locked me in my room and said he was going to get his gun.” He took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to stick around. So I grabbed some clothes and went out the window. I ran for the Cave. I didn’t have shoes, and I kept away from the road, so my feet got kind of messed up. From the Cave I came here.”

“Why here?” Jason asked, mouth suddenly dry.

“I came to the tower because I thought it was safe.” Tim met his gaze evenly. “And you knew that. You were betting on it.”

Jason didn’t answer. It hadn’t been a question.

"Has anything like this ever happened before?" Jason asked.

“Well, he's never uncovered my secret identity before, Jason, so no.”

"Okay,” He said easily. “How often do you feel unsafe around your dad?"

“Fuck off, Jason. I’m not doing the victim checklist with you."

Jason finished cleaning Tim's injuries and began applying bandages. "You're not going back, you know."

"What?" Tim's voice cracked.

"Your old man on the phone told you to come back and face the consequences. And I'm telling you that's not happening. I'm not letting it happen, and when Bruce finds out he sure as hell isn't either."

Tim was looking away again.

They were both quiet for a while after that, Jason fingerpainting medicinal cream on the kids mottled back and Tim cycling through breathing exercises.

When Jason took the kid to his bedroom, intending to drop him off for the night, he was met with resistance. Of course.

“You can’t even make it down the stairs.” Fucking elevator was still offline.

Tim scowled and shot back, “If you go without me, I’ll just follow you. And If I fall down the stairs and break my neck because you didn’t feel like helping me out, it'd probably put a damper on whatever weird—self-righteous? avenging?—bullshit you’re running on right now.”

This fucking kid. “Fine. Fucking fine.” Tim changed into some warm, clean sweats, but they couldn’t fit sneakers over the bandages on his feet, so they settled for a pair of thick socks.

Once the kid was situated sturdily on Jason's back, ready to go, Jason said, "Okay. Just so you know the score: I'm probably gonna kill your dad."

Tim's arms around his neck tightened for a moment before going slack. He sighed. "Please don't do that. Please don't kill Bruce or my dad."

"Why the fuck not?"

Tim shrugged. "That's what I'm supposed to say, I guess." He paused, "And be careful. I think he’s got a gun."

Jason stopped walking and craned his head around to look at Tim. 

Tim yawned. "No, yeah, I heard it as soon as it came out of my mouth." He tugged himself so he was talking in Jason's ear. "Can you, just, wait to kill anyone about this until I feel well enough to present my argument?"

"Sure, kid. Whatever you say."

"I feel like you're not taking me seriously."

"Oh no, really?"

“Where are we going, you miserable douchebag?” Tim asked snidely.

Jason ignored the jibe. “We’re gonna go to the Batcave.”

Miracle of miracles, the kid actually shut up for a few seconds before responding.

"You, uh...you sure you’re good to do that?” Tim sounded careful. Like he was actually trying to consider Jason’s feelings.

“Probably won’t kill me,” Jason said flippantly. 

Tim flinched a little. 

Not Jason’s problem. If you can’t take a little gallows humor, don't hang out with zombies.

“Bruce is probably gonna freak out.”

“I think I’d be disappointed if he didn’t.”

“He really misses you, Jason. When you died—”

Jason was starting to feel sick again. “Shut up. Talk about something else.”

Instead, Tim gave up on talking all together, and leaned against Jason’s back for the trip down to the Zeta Tubes.

Jason keyed in the code for the Bat Cave, and steeled himself.

This wasn’t how he’d pictured coming back.

The world swirled around him and just like that, Jason was there. Standing in the Cave.

Like he’d never left.

The computer chimed out ::Designation Robin-02:: as Jason stepped out of the tube with Tim on his back, blinking in the bright light.

Suddenly, Tim yelped and clutched at Jason so tightly it would have bruised if he hadn't been wearing body armor.

In the middle of the cave stood Bruce, staring at him with undisguised shock.

Oops. Forgot the helmet.

Beside him stood a man who was pointing a gun directly at Bruce’s head.

Jason unholstered his pistol. “Good Evening, Mr. Drake. I got your call.”

Chapter Text

Tim was officially having the worst day of his life, which only compounded as Jason hefted his gun and said his stupid little cowboy line.

The momentary clenching and unclenching of his jaw was the only giveaway that Jason had noticed the change in weight. The gun was lighter, of course, because Tim had filched all of Jason’s ammo back at the tower. 

“Okay, boy genius,” Jason muttered under his breath. “Any other brilliant tricks you wanna tell me about?”

“I wasn’t about to let you walk in here and shoot Batman,” Tim hissed back. 

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” Jack Drake barked, irritated at the unexpected arrival.

Tim closed his eyes. This genuinely couldn't get worse.

“...Jason?" whispered Bruce. From here, it looked like his hands were shaking. God fucking dammit.

“Wait a minute. Is that Tim?” Jack squinted at where Jason and Tim were still situated by the shadowy transportation docks and recoiled with feigned dismay. “Is that you, boy? My god, what’ve you done to yourself?” 

Tim swallowed against a wave of nausea and didn’t respond. His dad wasn’t just going to pretend he didn’t know, was he? He couldn’t. That was too far. Even for him.

Bruce kept stealing disbelieving glances at Jason.

Jack waved a hand as if to dismiss the topic, peering at Tim with familiar, judgemental scrutiny and scowled. “Get off that man, boy. You’re not an idiot or a child; you can stand on your own.”

Tim twitched as if to obey before the hand supporting his knee tightened painfully.

“Don’t even think about it.” Jason bit out. Tim let out a shuddering breath and tightened his grip on Jason’s shoulders in reply. 

He wasn’t alone in this. He had an ally. 

An ally he barely trusted and had actively sabotaged in order to prevent the guy from murdering Batman in a random fit of insanity, maybe. But an ally nonetheless.

"Listen, Tim, just...don't try any fancy shit. Just stay put. You'll be fine." Jason seemed...tense, Tim realized. Almost like he was scared.

There was a gun pressing into Bruce’s neck. Tim had been preoccupied by his own father, but Jason hadn't looked away since they'd arrived.  If Jason was scared, right now, it was because he didn’t want Bruce to die.

Tim turned his eyes on the scene, taking in as much detail as he could.

There were moments, here and there, where Jack’s attention would drift, and the gun would follow. Tim tracked the movements carefully, thinking maybe—but Jason didn't even twitch, even though Tim knew for a fact Jason was watching just as closely.

"Dad has no idea what he's doing," Tim murmured in Jason's ear, trying not to draw attention to himself. “He doesn't even have the safety off. With the right timing...maybe you could—"

“No.”

"But Jason—"

"I don't care. However long it takes me to get to him and possibly take him down leaves you unprotected in the same room as the man who beat you half to death"—a bit of an exaggeration, Tim thought—"and leaves him with a clear shot. You can't run. You don't have any armor." Jason adjusted his grip on Tim's leg, hoisting him a little more securely. "I can. I do. So I'm not going anywhere."

Tim had disarmed Jason against his knowledge and left him offenseless in the face of a threat. Right now, Tim was worse than dead weight.

But Jason wasn't going to abandon him, even if it was the tactically correct choice. Jason was all but offering to take a bullet for him.

Protect victims first. Basic Robin protocol.

How many times as a kid had he dreamed of Batman and Robin magically appearing when his parents were angry and whisking Tim away to safety? 

Tim wasn't a kid anymore, and he knew better than anyone that heroes were just people.

Still. Tim took a moment to press his cheek to the back of Jason's shoulder, quietly overwhelmed to find himself, against all odds, under the protection of his childhood Robin.

Watching Jack and Bruce chat was oddly dull, for a hostage situation.

Sure, Tim was scared, but that was personal. He wasn't especially worried for Bruce.

Jack wasn't getting any better at the whole villain thing. Even from here, Tim could tell from his grip that his dad had never fired a gun before.

 Bruce seemed about as impressed with the hostage situation as Tim was, and Jack seemed to be struggling to maintain his bravado in the face of Bruce obviously humoring him.

“Okay, Wayne. Okay. How about this?” Jack was smiling through gritted teeth. Tim couldn’t see his face, but he knew the tone. “My primary concern is for the safety of my son. Let me take the boy home. I’ll keep your...nightly transgressions to myself, as long as you leave him out of it. Sounds fair, yes?” 

Bruce sighed. "Jack…"

Jack turned to face Jason and Tim impatiently, with the air of a man used to getting what he wanted. “Come on, boy. We haven’t got all night.”

Tim’s breath caught. This couldn’t—he couldn't take Robin, Tim was nothing without Robin, his dad was going to hurt him again lock him in his room again and he didn’t have anywhere to go—

“Absolutely not,” Jason answered before Bruce could. Which was pretty rich, considering his position at the beginning of the night. “And cut the ‘boy’ crap,will you? Don’t talk to him like he’s a fucking dog, he’s fourteen.”

“He’s thirteen,” Jack said.

“Actually, I’m fifteen,” Tim volunteered.

“Don’t lie, Tim,” Jack immediately snapped.

“But I’m not—”

“Based on the events of tonight, Tim,” Jack snarled, “You have been lying to me so much that I would be justified in never believing another word that comes out of your mouth. What would Dana think? What would your mother think, Tim? Do you think she’d be proud of your behavior?”

Tim didn’t answer. Anything he said right now would just make his dad angrier.

“That is completely uncalled for.” Bruce stepped in front of Jack, blocking him from Tim’s view. His tone was tight with anger. “I do not make bargains with children as leverage, Jack, and you will not speak to Tim that way as long as you are in this cave.”

 “You can’t tell me how to speak to my son! You have no authority here!” Jack spat. “I know your identity. I have full custody of Tim. I have a gun! Now,”—he bared his teeth—“I want to speak to my son. Alone. Away from your influence. You do not have any right to keep him from me!”

Jason’s hands were trembling, but Tim didn’t realize why until Jason spoke.  “Bruce. Don’t listen to him. Don’t trust him. Don’t let him anywhere near the kid.” Because of course. Those were Jason’s first words to his father in six years. 

Bruce looked at Jason for a long moment, less like he was questioning him and more like he was drinking in the sight of him. He met his son's eyes with his own and nodded firmly.

Squaring his shoulders, Bruce turned on Jack. “This private conversation will not be happening. Anything you want to say to Tim, you can say in front of me.” His eyes narrowed. "If you can't control yourself, you can leave."

The sound of footsteps thumping down the grand staircase made them all jump. Dick's voice rang out through the cave. “Bruce, I got your message. What's this about Tim being missing? His subdermal tracker says he's—"

Dick came into view as he reached the first landing. He'd clearly just come from the community center, still sweaty and wearing his civvie workout gear. He froze when he saw them.

"Mr. Drake? What—?" Dick's eyes scanned the room, trying to take in the scene. "Tim—JASON?" Dick swung himself over the railing to land on a lower balcony, clearly intending to flip himself down to the cave floor as quickly as possible. "Bruce, what's going on?"

"Dick—" Bruce ran closer to the staircase, either to meet him or stop him. Tim didn't know which. 

"DON'T MOVE!" Jack Drake bellowed, leveling the gun at Bruce's chest, now several yards away, unwittingly gaining the upper hand.

Dick immediately stilled, throwing his hands up and backing away from the rails. His eyes were trained, worried, on Bruce. 

Bruce nodded acquiescently, and took a step back towards Jack.

"STAY OVER THERE!" Jack shouted, waving the firearm in front of him like a child. 

This was bad. Tim knew it, and he bet Bruce knew it too. Before, the gun had been within grabbing distance, and Bruce honestly could have subdued Jack at any point. Now Bruce was out of reach, and Jack seemed set on keeping him there. 

And the number of armor-less potential victims had just gone up by one.

Jack, sensing the change in the room but clearly not understanding it, seemed revel in the hold he wielded over his finally captive audience.

“You want to hear what I have to say to my son, Bruce? Fine.” Jack spat, and thought of anything else fled Tim's mind in a sickening rush. “My son has been moody and difficult for months now; he’s constantly picking fights, disrespecting Dana and myself, lying and keeping secrets—although I clearly underestimated to what degree.” 

Tim’s eyes prickled. This wasn’t fair. Batman was hearing this. Bruce was hearing this.

“His grades, in particular, have suffered a great deal. He’s such a bright boy; I don’t think it’s appropriate for him to squander his time and energy at the expense of his academics.”

That was a lie. Even if they weren’t great, his grades were better than they had been in middle school. School was just—hard for him, if he couldn’t engage with the material. His father was lying. This was a trap. This was a trap.

But Bruce was listening. Dick was listening. He couldn’t let them think—

“That’s not—” Tim croaked, and his father rounded on him, a victorious expression of carefully set scorn pinning Tim in place. Tim had taken the bait and contradicted his father, in front of other people, and Jack was already furious with him—

“Then what, Tim?” Jack said sharply, clearly enough for everyone to hear. “You always say you’re so smart, you always whine about wanting to be taken seriously,” That wasn’t true, Tim didn’t do that, that wasn’t true, “So why don’t you explain to me, and our good friend Batman, since you’re so keen on him being here for this conversation,” that wasn’t fair, Tim hadn’t—it was Bruce who— “Why you’re failing three classes? Why you don’t have any friends? Why you wear the same filthy clothes week after week? Are you stupid, or do you just not care what people think about you?”

Tim swallowed thickly and pressed his face against Jason’s back. He felt numb, running on the most basic commands. Don't cry. Don’t look at Bruce. Jason was saying something, but Tim couldn't hear him over the roaring in his ears.

Instead, Tim heard his own hoarse voice, responding automatically. “I’m sorry—”

“I don’t want an apology, Tim. I want an explanation.”

Tim’s throat was closed up with the effort of not crying.  His eyes blurred. This wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to say it in front of Batman, he didn’t want to—

“You will not speak to Tim that way.” Bruce sounded angry.

“Oh, I can’t even ask the boy about his grades now?” Jack let out a mocking laugh. “Is this what you wanted, Tim? You wanted to throw away the last living member of your family because Batman doesn’t make you do your homework or wash your clothes?”

Tim buried his face in the back of Jason’s jacket.

“Do you think if you hang around underfoot enough, he’ll play house with you, and you can wash your hands of the father who raised you?” Jack was shouting now. “After the grief you’ve put me through, you really think anyone would deal with you by choice?”

Tim was going to be sick. Bruce was going to hate him. It wasn’t true— or was it? Jason had said—

"It's not true. Don't listen, Tim." Jason murmured. "Robin is something Bruce only gives to people he loves. You know that." Jason's voice sounded strange. If Tim had the wherewithal to wonder, it might have sounded like Jason was crying.

“Get out of my house,” Batman growled in a tone that every Robin in the room recognized from particularly harrowing patrols.

Jack swore at Bruce, either ignorant of the danger or just not caring. “Don't tell me what to do. I am his father. And I think whether my son spends his time playing house with strangers and prancing around the streets at night dressed like some kind of faggot is something I should have a say in.” The silence in the Batcave was suffocating. 

Tim could barely think. His dad had—

Had called him—

In front of Bruce—

Batman stalked into Jack’s space and hauled him up by the collar of his shirt, bleeding fury and ignoring the firearm completely. “I seem to have not made myself clear. You will leave and you will not be taking Tim with you. If you walk out of this cave under your own power tonight, know that it is an act of mercy.”  Now that was a tone Tim had never heard before. “This is my mercy. Take it, Jack. Before I do something you, and only you, will deeply regret.”

Jack Drake was not a brave man. Adults who hit children rarely are. But Jack Drake was a prideful man, and Tim had no idea how his father was going to respond.

It's a split-second decision.

The shot rang out.

Bruce lurched back with a shout, clutching his arm.

Jack had shot Batman. Even this close, his aim was horrible, but it gave Jack the distraction he needed to—

To—

To come after Tim. Of course.

Jack ran towards Tim, snarling profanities and—

And Jason went up on the balls of his feet, preparing to, what, outrun a bullet? Tim had no idea what Jason was planning, only the sharp terror that it wouldn’t be enough and—

And Tim, caught between the terror of a child who’d never been protected from anything and the unerring instincts of a Robin (be quick, be clever, move first, DON’T LET JASON GET SHOT IN THE FACE PROTECTING YOU) used his hands and knees to fling himself from Jason’s back, leaping almost 10 yards away and into a roll that began smooth but ended shudderingly. 

Tim tried to flip into a standing position, twisting to keep his eyes on Jack, but his feet screamed and refused to support him. His back slammed unforgivingly into the ground. It was like being dipped in acid. Tim swallowed a scream, his vision whiting out for a second. 

Jason had been thrown to the ground by Tim’s wild leap; he lurched to his feet with a snarl, tossing the useless gun aside as he charged. Bruce recovered quickly and raced to intercept Jack, hand clamped over a bleeding wound. Nightwing vaulted the balcony with a furious shout. 

No one would reach Jack before Jack reached Tim.

But the batarang that cleanly stole the gun out of Jack's right hand did. 

Jack was almost upon him, hand reaching to grasp Tim’s collar (or wrap around his neck), hissing that his son was a liar and a traitor, his face twisted in an enraged snarl; Tim, sick with fear and still panting from pain, wrestled the taser from the pocket of his sweatpants and pumped 10 million volts of electricity into his father’s chest.

When Bruce saw Tim take down his father (brilliant, clever boy), he stopped in his tracks. Jason, casting nervous glances around the cave, skidded to a halt as well. (Jason was alive).

Dick did not stop. Dick kept going, following the projectile he'd used to disarm the man, and tackled Tim’s now-motionless father with enough force to send them both skidding across the floor of the cave, the still-attached taser thunking along behind them. Dick was yelling.

“—You’ll stay the fuck away from him, you’ll never look at him again, do you hear me? If you go anywhere near Tim, I’ll make you regret it. I'll make it hurt—”

Tim had pulled his knees up to curl into a tiny ball and was breathing in thick, rattling gasps. His hands were clamped tightly over his ears, and blood was starting to seep through the thick socks on his feet. He was watching Dick and his father with a stiff, unreadable expression.

Jason was visibly losing his nerve. Whatever bravado had powered him here in the first place was quickly leaving him. His face was pale and his shoulders hunched as he edged back towards the Zeta tubes. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and his cheeks were hollow.

Dick pummeled Tim’s father with his bare fists, weapons discarded, screaming threats and dealing strikes that echoed off the walls of the cavern and made Tim cringe further into himself the longer it went on. 

Bruce needed to—

He needed to save Jason, help Tim, stop Dick, ignore how much he wanted to hurt the man himself, Jason was alive, Tim's father has been abusing him who knows how long and Bruce hadn’t seen it, Jason wasn’t dead, Dick was sobbing, Dick was going to beat a man to death, Jason was alive—They needed him, they needed him to—

His shoe clicked against the discarded gun, stopping him in his tracks. 

Bruce needed to get Tim away from his father as soon as possible.

Bruce needed help.

He took a deep breath and spoke in a loud, clear voice, angling his chin upward. "If you're listening—" He swallowed. "If you're listening. This is me, asking. I’m asking." Bruce closed his eyes. "Please." His voice didn’t shake.

There was a rush of warm wind and a sturdy hand on his shoulder. Bruce soaked it in for the barest moment before opening his eyes to greet his oldest and most dependable friend. 

Alien blue eyes darted around the room before meeting Bruce’s, positively swimming with questions, but Clark said nothing beyond a firm, gentle, “What do you need me to do?” 

Deferring to Bruce, because this was Bruce’s home and family. Not using names or titles because Bruce was out of costume in the Cave with a civilian present and Clark didn’t want to put them in jeopardy. Not asking questions because Bruce honestly couldn’t have handled it right then. Coming when he called. Helping him just because he asked.

Bruce looked away. Bruce had a family to take care of.

“That,” Bruce pointed to the bloody heap that was currently crumpled beneath an enraged, hysterical Nightwing, “is Jack Drake.  He’s been hurting Tim. He knows our identities. Get him as far away from here as possible.” Bruce’s voice was hollow.

Clark wrapped a firm, affectionate arm around Bruce’s shoulders and squeezed once.

A blur of red and blue circled the room in a grand arc, and Jack Drake was gone. Dick Grayson, in tears, knelt where the man had been, splattered with his blood.

Bruce got to work.

Dick, kneeling on the floor, crying, furious, overwhelmed, was the closest.

Bruce pulled one of Dick’s arms around his neck, wrapped an arm around his waist, and hauled the young man to his feet. 

Dick’s head snapped up, frantic. “Bruce. Bruce, you got shot. You got shot. Are you okay?”

Honestly? Bruce had all but forgotten about it. "I can barely feel it."

Dick was breathing too fast, obsessively checking Bruce over, searching for the fatal gunshot wound being craftily concealed from him.

 “You didn’t have any armor—You were just in your pajamas—”Dick’s voice shook.

It was a scary thing, watching your dad get shot.

“I’m fine, Dick.” Bruce smiled. “That sniveling coward was a lousy shot. Point-blank and it barely grazed me." He squeezed his son's shoulder. "Deep breaths, now. Nice job with the batarang."

Dick smiled back, just a little. "I didn't think I'd make it if I pursued directly, so I went for the tool station first. It was closer."

Bruce ruffled his hair fondly. "Good instincts." Dick's smile grew as he played it cool and batted Bruce's hands away.

Dick wasn’t hurt, but Bruce stayed close. Physical touch was always the most effective way to soothe and comfort his oldest partner. Dick’s breathing grew steadier and he supported his own weight more while simultaneously curling closer to Bruce.

Together, leaning on each other, they approached Jason. Jason looked exhausted. Jason looked terrified. Bruce couldn’t tear his eyes away, scared that if he blinked, Jason would disappear. Jason was older, grimmer. He had new scars, some Bruce recognized from his battered corpse. Several of them, Bruce couldn’t place. Jason’s hair was streaked with white and his eyes were bloodshot. He was taller than Bruce now. Jason was alive and breathing and looking at him.

Slowly, Bruce reached out and touched his son's face. He felt warm. He felt real. “Jason—” Was all Bruce got out. Jason's face crumpled, and Bruce pulled his boy into his arms and beheld him, strong and solid and so different than before but undeniably real.

“Bruce, listen. I’m not what I was before, I’m,” Jason was shaking slightly. “I’m different. I’m...there’s something wrong with me.” He looked Bruce in the eye. “And more than that: I’ve broken the code, Bruce. I’ve been killing people. I’m the Red Hood.”

“I don’t care, Jason.” Bruce held his son tighter. “You’re here, you’re alive, we can handle anything else. I don’t care.” 

Dick was reaching between them to hold Jason’s face between his hands. “It’s you.” He sounded like he was crying. “It’s really you. Jason, I’m so sorry—”

“Please stay for dinner,” Bruce whispered. “I don’t have any right to ask you to come back. I can’t tell you what to do. I’ve let you down too much for that. But please. Stay for dinner. Give us your number. Let us know you're safe.”

“Yeah,” Jason whispered back. “Yeah, okay.” And his arms came up to wrap around Bruce, and then Dick’s arm’s enclosed them both, and they stood there for a moment, just holding each other. A team and family broken half a decade ago, impossibly reunited.

But not whole.

With Dick steady beside him and Jason safe between them, Bruce turned towards his youngest. Tim had raised his head and was watching them with wide, careful eyes. His arms were curled around his knees and he was shivering. Bruce took off his housecoat and settled the warm, soft garment around Tim’s shoulders. Tim immediately curled his fingers into the fabric.

Bruce knelt in front of him to make eye contact, placing his hands on Tim’s knees.

Jason and Dick hung back, leaning on each other, intentionally giving Tim and Bruce space.

 It's easy to overwhelm a traumatized kid, so interactions should be one-on-one to keep them from feeling outnumbered.

Robin Protocol.

 “Hey, partner.” Tim hates to be treated like a child, Bruce knew. Tim hates being told what he’s supposed to be feeling. “Report?”

Tim relaxed slightly. “Not gonna mince words, Bruce. It’s been a pretty rotten day.” 

Bruce smiled at him. “You know, I believe you.”

Tim blinked at that, looking oddly emotional for a second, before smiling back. “Thanks.” He fidgeted with the robe. “Hey, Bruce?”

“Yes, Tim?” 

“That stuff my dad was saying,” Tim started, voice wavering, “I’m not—I became Robin to help, I swear. I wasn't trying to, to invade your family or something—"

Bruce gripped Tim carefully by the shoulders and shushed him.

"Tim, no. Tim...as far as I’m concerned, you're already family. I love you and I trust you with my life. You know that." Bruce needed Tim to understand. "Listen to me, Tim. Y our father said those things because he was trying to hurt yo u. Y ou did nothing to deserve any of that." Bruce closed his eyes for a moment. "Tim, you have to believe me when I say that I didn't know. I would never knowingly send you back to a house where you weren't safe, and I'm sorry I failed to protect you. " The open, aching expression on Tim's face made Bruce's chest hurt, and he pulled him into a hug. The embrace was cut short when Tim let out a sharp scream.

Jason swore. "Shit—Be careful. Tim's hurt. Are you okay?" he waved him off with a pained wheeze.

Batman and Robin considered each other, Tim nervous and Bruce knowing.

“Robin didn’t patrol tonight,” Bruce said so, so gently. “Tim…did—?”

“Yes. Yes he did, and Jason patched me up. He can fill you in on what happened," Tim said miserably. "I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want anyone else to see it. At least not tonight.” Tim curled in on himself. “I don’t want to take off my clothes around anybody right now.”

A cold, sick terror flooded Bruce’s chest, stealing the air from his lungs. “Tim, he...he didn’t—”

“No!” Tim said hurriedly. “No. Not that. Nothing like that.” Tim took a breath. “He just. He got me when I was in the shower. Dragged me out by my hair. That was the worst part, I think. Being...you know. And I just want to keep my clothes on right now,” Tim repeated, tugging Bruce’s robe more tightly around himself.

Bruce settled his emotions forcefully. “Not a problem. Anything we can do to make this easier for you.” Bruce considered him seriously. “What’s the next step here, Tim? What do you need from me?”

Tim was quiet for a second, visibly stealing himself. “Bruce, you can’t kill my dad,” Tim said in a rush. “I’m really sorry this happened, but Batman is too important, the work you’ve done is too important to throw it away over this. There’s work-arounds to him knowing about us, I’ll, I’ll figure something out. He won’t go to the press right away. Even if you have to...to send me—”

“Tim.” Bruce gave him a firm, gentle shake. “Listen to me. Robin.” Bruce rubbed the boy's arms, trying to warm him up where he was shaking. “I could not care less about Batman right now. I’m worried about you. You don’t need to apologize. I will take care of everything. You are not a bargaining chip. You are my son. ” Bruce paused. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll even promise I won’t kill your dad. But, Tim,” Bruce looked into his eyes, “What can I do to help you? What do you need?”

The two of them looked at each other for a long, long moment before Tim spoke.

“Um. Don’t leave me?” Tim’s voice cracked. “I mean...my feet hurt. It hurts to walk. So I can’t follow you right now. So, please don’t go. I don’t want to be alone, and I feel, um. Safer. When you’re around. I’ve—” Tim choked a little, “I’ve had a bad day.” 

Bruce looked at his kid and nodded to himself.  He bundled  Tim more securely into his robe and scooped him up into his arms, careful of both their injuries. “Ten-four, Robin.” He said. “Not leaving you. I’ll bring you with me.” 

Tim burst into tears.

Meanwhile, locked in a cell on the Watchtower, Jack Drake was bloody and fuming. 

The computer beeped. "Visitor for Drake, Jack. Authorized." A simulated voice announced.

A woman entered, looking professional and sharp. She held out her hand to shake. Her grip hurt a little. 

"Mr. Drake, I am an investigative journalist looking into the unlawful incarceration of an American citizen by the Justice League. I've successfully negotiated your release. And I want to get your statement as to what, exactly, is going on."

This would show Bruce Wayne and that disrespectful brat: Jack Drake was an important man. You can't just make important men disappear.  Jack might even be able to take down the Justice League with him. It would serve them right, holding upstanding American citizens captive with no charges.

He'd have his son back by next week. 

"You'll get the word out there? About the, ahem, corruption inside the Justice League? And how I came to be here?"

"And anything else you have to tell me, Mr. Drake. I want to know everything."

Jack rubbed his palms together. "You have no idea what you've stumbled upon, lady."

The woman smiled like a shark. "I can't imagine. By tomorrow, Mr. Drake, the whole world will know your story."

Jack Drake smiled back. His cell pinged and she held the door open for him as he stepped out. 

"Ah, thank you, Miss...?"

"Lane." She pulled a small audio recorder from her pocket and switched it on. She gave him that shark-smile again, the one with too many teeth. "Lois Lane. I'm with the Daily Planet."

Excerpt from:

Millionaire Brutalizes 13-year-old Son, Claims Boy is “Batman in Disguise”

     by LOIS LANE on NOVEMBER 4th, 20XX

“….When questioned how a thirteen year old had performed such a role when there have been recorded “Bat” sightings for over a decade and a half, Mr. Drake had this to say: “He’s got a supply of them. One after the other.” When pressed as to the identity of this he, Drake only identified this mysterious individual as yet another Batman.

Mr. Drake’s list of confirmed “Batmen” include, but is purportedly not limited to: one of his most prominent business competitors, a retired stage actor, a paraplegic woman, a child who died five years ago, and several of his neighbors.

After brutalizing his son, Drake also admitted to opening fire on his unsuspecting neighbors, injuring one.

A word from Detective Harvey Bullock on this inexplicable case: "The only connecting line here is proximity. Best I figure, this nutcase started walking from his house and accused every person he came across of being Batman." The detective promised to give updates as the case progresses.

Family friend Selina Kyle had this to say: "If you ask me, Jack always went hard on the drink, but came down harder on that poor boy of his. A thirteen year old vigilante? Absolutely ridiculous." Kyle later confided, "Honestly, I don't think Batman is real. I think the whole mess is a publicity stunt from the tourism board, and now an innocent child has been hurt because of it. You really have to be careful what you put out there. You can never predict what the consequences will be."

Jack Drake has been taken into custody and his trial is tentatively set for early December."