Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s someone in Jason’s safehouse.

Window’s unlocked. Lock’s not broken, so unlocked with at least a little skill.

If this is Talia again, Jason’s just gonna kill whoever she’s sent. She should know better than to put anyone she wants to keep alive in his path. He’s taught her that lesson half a dozen times already, and he’s got no issue if she wants to keep the streak going.

If it’s Bruce, he’s not necessarily gonna be in any less danger from Jason. Fucker’s keeping his distance from Red Hood, even though he knows it’s Jason, and that’s—

That’s whatever. Fine. He can have all the fucking distance he wants. Jason’s a real good shot these days.

It’s still too early for the dawn light to contribute to what he can see, and the helmet’s low-light filter kicks in when Jason kicks the front door in and steps into the darkness of his own safehouse.

Could be anyone in here. Jason acts reckless in a lotta ways, but leaving the address of his primary safehouse lying around? Ain’t one of ‘em. He doesn’t write any of the damn addresses down, and he’s pretty sure there’s at least one he’s forgotten already.

He moves further in, both pistols out in front of him. There’s a figure at the back of the apartment, in the darkness of the kitchen. Neither the infrared or the low-light filters can pick out specific details.

They’re facing Jason, not moving. He keeps the left pistol trained on them, and steps over to jam the butt of the right one into the light switch on the wall.

Timothy Jackson Drake blinks rapidly in the sudden light, and Jason’s jaw tightens til his teeth creak.

This fucking kid. This fucking kid.

Jason’s probably gonna shoot this fucking kid if he doesn’t start running in the next thirty seconds.

A long fucking time ago, back when Jason was a different person with a different life entirely, Timothy Jackson Drake’s disappearance was one of Batman’s many unsolved cases. Just another kid the Bat could never save.

Jason remembers his own voice, like a shrill echo—C’mon, Bruce, he’s rich. Won’t the cops find him?

He’s not really been in the mood to appreciate the irony.

Because as it turns out, Black Mask got to Tim. Funny, that. B was never very fucking good at figuring out when his Rogues were dragging kids into it, unless the kid was named Dick Grayson.

Anyway. Jason shot Black Mask in the head for kidnapping and child imprisonment, opened his goddamn doors to Timothy Drake the traumatized orphan, and got snitched on to Batman by Timothy Drake the teenage mastermind—not that he’s figured out how Tim did that, anyway. Since then, Jason’s been a little busy juggling mutually avoiding Bruce, holding his shit together through the implosion of gang in-fighting in the wake of Black Mask’s death, and trying to deal with the unexpected oversaturation of Gotham’s drug market.

Not to mention trying to figure out how to salvage his make-Batman-kill-the-Joker plan. He was planning on revealing his identity then, use the emotional upheaval of his resurrection to pressure Bruce. Instead he’s spending his spare time shuffling his safehouses around the city like a dealer trying to make cards disappear.

So he’s been a little busy. But somewhere on his list, dealing with Timothy Drake is a bullet point.

It’s not just because Jason can’t figure him out. Kid looked at Black Mask’s body like he crossed something off a to-do list, then turned around and became a seventeen-year-old CEO at his parents’ company with a lot of positive press and a pretty much spotless record.

Not to mention an absolute fucking lie of where the hell he’s been the last five years, but criminal mastermind doesn’t sound as sellable as scared little kid, so Jason’s thinking it was his PR team’s decision.

So Jason’s not curious about Tim just because he’s pretty sure the kid had an actual panic attack on Jason’s motorcycle. Jason doesn’t have time for looking after rich kids. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t.

Red Hood’s meant to protect the underdog. The damned, the defeated. He’s protecting Crime Alley’s kids so they don’t turn into him. Tim doesn’t need his fucking help for that. Tim can afford a penthouse suite, a personal chauffeur, and the best therapist in Gotham City.

In his kitchen, leaning with his back against the fridge, Tim’s voice is overly casual in a way that Jason hears immediately.

“Sorry to drop in unexpectedly,” Tim says. “It didn’t seem like the best idea to meet up in public, with your reputation and mine.”

Rich kid CEO with his damn PR. At least Bruce is nice enough not to say that he doesn’t want Red Hood’s grubby bloodstains all over his vigilante business.

He can feel the leather of his glove shift against the grip of the pistol in his hand. Could pull the trigger. Easy as fucking anything. Another body. Jason’s dealt with enough of them.

His teeth clench so hard he feels the ache of it in his temples. ‘Cause the kid looks—he’s a fucking kid, right? He looks small. And that stupid note in his voice. Like he knows exactly what a bad fucking idea it is to come to Red Hood, and he’s here anyway.

Gotta be pretty damn desperate, to come to him. No better choices.

“The hell do you want?” Jason snaps.

“I want your help,” Tim answers. Just a little too quick.

He needs Jason’s help, it sounds more like.

Too fucking bad. Tim’s the kinda person who’s real low on Jason’s priority list these days.

The left pistol he’s kept trained on the kid drops down, and Jason shoves it into the holster on his thigh. Maybe he underestimated a thing or two about Tim, but there’s no chance in hell he could beat Jason in a fight. He doesn’t have the muscle for it, no matter how quick he might be.

“Get lost.”

Tim swallows, pulls his weight away from the fridge. Stands with his weight on the balls of his feet like he’s ready to run.

“I wasn’t under the misconception you were running a charity here, Red Hood,” he says.

Jason has a general policy to not shoot kids, but it wouldn’t be the first time Tim’s been shot, so maybe he shouldn’t count it. Maybe pulling the trigger would be the last straw that finally makes his nagging conscience shut up.

“You’re sure under some misconceptions about who the fuck I am, though,” Jason says. His voice is dangerous in the way that sends mob bosses running for cover. “Ain’t you heard stories about people trying to bribe the Red Hood?”

Something in Tim’s body changes. Too subtle to tell exactly what, but his voice is more level. “Johnathan Parkes, Eliot Leno, and Lee Warison. You carved the word liar into their tongues.”

Tim’s done his fucking homework.

Tim’s done his homework and he still showed up on Red Hood’s doorstep. Something’s off to Jason, something keeps nagging him, and he doesn’t know what to do to make it shut up.

Except that he does, of course, and it’s just that he really fucking wishes he didn’t.

“I didn’t mean a bribe, anyway,” Tim says. He’s tapping his left ring finger against the thigh of his nice dress pants, in the black gloves that probably cost about as much as Jason’s Kevlar. "I meant a favor."

Well. He’s tapping the stump of his left ring finger. The rest of it’s missing beyond the middle knuckle.

Didn’t notice that last time. And that’s—Sionis shot the kid—it can’t—

It won’t be the only scar. Jason needs to—not think about that. Needs to separate out the part of him broadcasting protect and listen to the part that’s hissing dangerous.

“How much did you figure out about me?” Tim asks. The nervousness isn’t gone, Jason’s pretty sure this kid’s still freaked, but aside from that tap of his finger-stump, there isn’t a single tell of it anymore. It’s been replaced with a disconcerting intensity—the kinda thing Jason remembers from Bruce and Dick, their abrupt switch into an unnerving stillness, like standing in a lake and seeing the ground drop away suddenly in front of him.

There’s something here Jason’s not seeing, but the flickers of it behind Tim’s eyes are enough to put him on edge.

“Your name’s Tim Drake.” Jason’s voice is guarded to his own ears—here’s hoping the helmet’s modulation hides it. “Went missing six years ago. Black Mask had you running his operations better than he could. Now you’re—I dunno, running a company and pretending you’re not horribly traumatized.”

“That’s about right,” Tim says, still intensely mild in the most disconcerting way. “Except I happen to keep tabs on some of Gotham’s underground. Advance warning, you know.”

Jason does know. But he also fucking knows that rich people who keep tabs on Gotham’s criminal life are pretty much always involved in it themselves somehow.

“So why are you here?” Jason says. Red Hood’s probably one of the things Tim keeps tabs on.

“I need your help,” Tim says. Different word, Jason can’t help noticing, from the first time. Need, not want.

“Tough titties,” Jason snaps. Tim’s eyes track the motion of his hand curling back around the grip of his pistol, in its holster.

Jason might not shoot kids, but he’ll at least do warning shots for Gotham’s white-collar criminals. Seventeen years old or not. Red Hood’s not for hire, and he’s no one’s pawn.

“Scarecrow has made a new variant of fear toxin,” Tim says.

Jason goes still.

Tim continues, slightly hurried, “I’m pretty sure he’s using leftovers from one of Drake Industries’ test products. Something that’s meant to affect the development of drug-resistant mutations.”

If Scarecrow can make a drug-resistant fear toxin—Batman’s existing antidotes aren’t going to cut it.

“You want me to go hunt down what he stole from you?” Jason says, still suspicious. White-collar criminals don’t do goodwill.

“I want you to find his lab,” Tim says, “and I want you to deal with it.”

The flatness in his voice makes the words carry a weird weight. Deal with it. Like Jason’s some minion intended to do dirty work.

“He’ll make more,” Jason says.

“I can figure out how he’s getting his hands on our supplies,” Tim says. “I can put a stop to that.”

“Then what the fuck do you need me for?” Because if Tim can stop the supply—sure, Crane’s dangerous with any amount of fear toxin, but someone can lock his stock away and it’ll never be seen again.

Tim’s answer is clearly pre-prepared. “Most of the GCPD is corrupt, and if it lands up in the hands of any of Gotham’s Rogues—they’ll probably use it for worse ends than Scarecrow.” He swallows thickly, and his voice is quieter when he says, “I know I’ve done things that hurt Gotham in the past. But I want to keep her safe, now.”

Something in the way Tim calls Gotham her puts Jason just a little further on edge. The back of his neck prickles uneasily, like Jason’s subconscious has noticed something he hasn’t.

How the hell is a seventeen-year-old kid, here to do something genuinely good, sending all the wrong fucking signals?

Jason wants to trust his gut. Jason wants to snarl fuck no and abandon this safehouse.

Tim’s a kid asking for his help.

“Fine,” Jason grits out. Regrets it almost immediately, and continues anyway: “But I’m not going to be blowing it up. Depending on what he’s made, it might be explosive. I can develop a counteragent.”

Tim looks caught off guard. “You—can?”

Yeah, sure, nobody expects the crime boss to know chemistry. Fuck it. Jason’s not exactly advertised his intelligence, ‘cause it does pay to be underestimated, in a city like Gotham.

“Sure,” Jason says. “I need a sample of the components he’s using, and a lab.”

“This should be a sample of the toxin,” Tim says, and takes a small metal tube from his pants pocket.

And Jason—Jason’s gotten a lot of bad signals, right? He’s not been ignoring all of them. But that’s—

“How the fuck do you have that,” Jason says.

“I reverse-engineered it,” Tim says. He tosses the tube across the room, and Jason has to let go of his grip on the pistol to catch it. “I knew all the components, after all. Figured you could find out if it was explosive, but it’ll be helpful if you need it to make a counteragent, too.”

And that’s—

That’s a smart fucking seventeen-year-old.

Like, sure, Jason knew Tim was some kinda criminal mastermind. That’s what Black Mask had him for, after all. But criminal mastermind and competent chemist are two very different subject areas. Crane’s only good at one of ‘em.

Tim shifts slightly. Jason’s gotta be staring, but Tim can’t know he’s staring, he’s wearing a helmet.

Jason needs to figure out what the fuck is up with this kid, fast. Jason needs to—

“Are you going to use Batman’s lab?”

Jason’s hand tightens around the metal tube in his grip. He’s real glad it ain’t glass.

“Am I gonna what,” Jason repeats.

“Well, I’m pretty sure you don’t have the equipment,” Tim says, apparently not hearing the threat in Jason’s voice. “And I know even the universities in Gotham don’t have anything that specialized. They don’t want to be responsible for a second Scarecrow. Batman’s going to have the best equipment for analyzing a fear toxin and creating a neutralizer.”

“Why the fuck would I have access to Batman’s lab?”

Jason’s—on the defensive here. Which he doesn’t like. How the fuck—where the fuck did Tim learn any of this?

“No one else knows,” Tim says, hurriedly, like he’s worried about Red Hood getting the wrong idea. “Just, you know, I keep an eye on patterns. Batman’s left you alone. You’ve got some kind of stalemate, right?”

There is now one thing, and one thing only, that Jason knows for a fact about Timothy Drake:

Jason cannot let this kid vanish into the night when they’re done here.

“We… do,” Jason says. Because he is going to use Batman’s lab – not with permission, but like, what’s Bruce gonna do about it? – and apparently, Tim already knows that.

“Good,” Tim says. He nods at the tube in Jason’s hand. “Best of luck with that, then.”

And he walks past Jason, headed for the door. Not an inch of fear in his body language as he passes Red Hood.

“Wait,” Jason says, before he can think better of it.

Tim stops. Mildly confused, when he turns to look back at Red Hood. Jason flails for what the fuck to say next, how to stop Tim from vanishing entirely.

“I’ll drop you a communicator,” he blurts. First thing he can think of. “You can be back-up. While I’m doing the labwork.”

The surprise on Tim’s face is maybe the first emotion of the night that Jason’s positive is genuine.

He recovers quickly. Tim says, a little unsure, “Only if you don’t tell Batman who I am.”

That’s—Jason doesn’t like that request. But he needs Tim to stick around. Hell, if Tim sticks around long enough, Batman’ll find out all on his own.

“Alright,” Jason says. “No snitching.”

“Then I can find you Scarecrow’s location,” Tim says. “While you’re in the lab, I can probably find some footage of where he’s holed up.”

“Sure.” Jason hadn’t even considered that. But—yeah, fuck it, he’ll take the help. Anything that means Tim doesn’t just disappear.

Tim nods, and leaves.

Jason leans back against the wall until the helmet connects with a thunk. Breathes out, low and steady.

Fuck. He’s not sure if he’s going to shoot Tim, report his undoubted white-collar crime to the cops, or sell the genius out to Batman.

He’s got time to think about it. That’s all he had to do. Buy himself a little more time. Stop the most unnerving teenager he’s ever met from just walking away.

Jason’s too curious for his own good. Jason’s too fucking weak for his own good.

Jason knows there’s no hope of making it into the Batcave undetected. Like, c’mon—Batman constructed the fucking thing. If there was a way in or out, he’d have found it already. Or, well, Dick would’ve found it while he was trying to sneak out as a teenager, and B woulda patched it up.

Doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying to avoid running into any of them. Batman or Nightwing or Batman’s assassin kid who’s way too deadly to debut as a Bat-related vigilante right now. Deadly enough that Alfred’s gonna be on full-time babysitting duty.

There are a few other Bats in Gotham now, too—Barbara’s girls are the news ones Jason doesn’t know. Spoiler and the new Batgirl in her full-face mask. Jason’s heard nothing from Babs so far, and the new girls have never been more than a glimpse in the distance.

He knows they don’t operate out of the Cave, have about as much to do with Batman as Jason does. So they’re not a problem.

Three in the morning seems like the safest bet. Late enough the kid’s probably gone to bed, early enough still that the other two shouldn’t be coming back to the nest just yet.

Not running into them is also Tim’s preference, for this mission. He’s not actually here, obviously, but there’s an earbud in Jason’s right ear, hard-wired into the security of his helmet so Batman won’t be able to get to it faster than Tim can cut the connection. The kid’s own insistence.

The physical wire to cut is also useful for if something goes sideways and Jason needs to stop the connection himself. Bruce is—he’s a lot of things, most of them not great, but if Jason’s goal was to expose his identity, this’d be the least satisfying way of doing it.

The Batcave’s automated systems don’t recognize Red Hood’s motorcycle, as he twists through the underground tunnels that connect to the Batcave. The easy memory of the turns despite all the time it’s been leave a bitter taste at the back of his mouth.

Jason has to stop the bike and dismount so he can get to the control panel hidden in the wall of the abandoned service tunnel. The tech’s a little outdated, a closed circuit system, since this entrance doesn’t get used as often, and—

Jason enters in the code he’d once memorized like a favorite poem.

The control panel beeps once, and the hidden door hisses open.

Jason shuts his eyes. It’s not—it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a security oversight. Something Bruce never remembered to fix, because why the fuck would he?

Batman isn’t the sentimental type, not when it comes to his mission. Wouldn’t leave something like this as a memento. Jason knows it doesn’t mean anything to Bruce—more than that, if he knew, it’d just be a mistake. Something that needs fixing.

That’s all this security code is. Something that needs fixing.

Because it can’t be—because Bruce can’t—

“Couldn’t have done this in a less secure lab?” Tim asks.

Jason can’t stop the sharp inhale as Tim’s voice reattaches him to reality. He’s gotta stay focused.

Connection’s fuzzy with static, this deep underground, but Jason can still make out the performance of casualness in Tim’s voice. The kid’s a lot of things, but he’s not a damned vigilante. Gonna need Jason to do his part properly.

“You want Scarecrow’s gas gone before he gets to use it, this is the only lab in Gotham for it,” Jason says, giving Tim the answer he already knows. Confirmation that he’s back on track. That he can do this.

He gets back on the bike. Curls his hands over the handlebars until the leather of his gloves chafes against the inside of his wrists. Needs to stay focused.

He keeps driving. Slower, since this part is less familiar—a route Batman only took him on once, a lifetime ago, when Jason was still trying to figure out the sprawl of Gotham’s tunnel system.

The full transmission is broken up by the fluctuations in signal, in these tunnels, but Jason catches enough to hear Tim asking, “Why di—you —t me on a wire, anyway?”

Jason could give a lotta answers to that. Why the fuck did he even involve the kid? Sure, he might be a criminal mastermind or orchestrator or whatever the hell, but the offer he made—the only thing Jason had to do was deal with the new gas that Scarecrow’s come up with. Tim didn’t even care how, just left it vague in a way that Jason’s heard a mob boss or eight use to imply someone oughta die.

Makes him wonder what parts of the supervillain act Tim’s trying out for the first time, and what parts are lessons Black Mask taught him.

Makes him wonder if that severed finger is a lesson Black Mask taught him, too.

Jason doesn’t have the first clue about how to handle a traumatized kid. Certainly wasn’t something Talia al Ghul was ever going to teach him. But he’s pretty sure telling Tim the real reason he’s on Jason’s comm won’t cut it—I don’t know when the last time you asked someone for help was, and I’m really trying not to fuck this up isn’t gonna make Tim less of a flight risk.

He keeps his mouth shut until he’s almost at the Cave. The internal systems will boost his comms link whether or not they can tell what they’re transmitting.

His voice carries clearly to Tim. “You’re the genius, aren’t you? You’ve still gotta find Scarecrow. Once I’ve got the counteragent going, tell me what you need from Batman’s system, and I can read it to you.”

He remembers enough of the Batcave to know that the silence on the line isn’t just dead air.

“Yeah, okay,” Tim manages, voice unnaturally level.

They’re saved from trying to continue anything resembling a functional conversation on that front, ‘cause Jason rounds the last corner, and the rush of air as he exits the tunnel into the body of the Cave is—

It’s not like coming home, that’d be a stupid fucking analogy, but it’s something a younger Jason learned to associate with a job well done, with being safe again, with getting to watch Batman melt back into Bruce. It’s familiar, that’s all, and Jason just doesn’t get an awful lot of that these days.

“I’m here,” he says, for Tim’s benefit, though he can probably hear Jason turn the motorcycle off.

“Based on the time it took you to arrive, the bleakest guess for Batman’s ETA is twenty-three minutes, assuming you tripped an alarm on the way in,” Tim informs him. His voice has slipped back into this odd overly-neutral, like he’s reciting a message Jason might not want to hear. “The police scanner I’m monitoring hasn’t mentioned Nightwing in a while, so I really can’t guess him for you.”

“I’ll be honest, kid, twenty-three minutes better be a real bad outlook, ‘cause this is gonna take a couple hours.”

And that’s if Jason remembers enough of how to work the equipment. His chemistry’s better than it was last time he was in the Cave, but the setup’s definitely changed in that time too.

“Well, if you didn’t trip any alarms, you’ve got a good three hours,” Tim says. “Focus on the counteragent. Whatever information Batman has on Scarecrow would be useful for locating him, but I can get by on my own.”

“Course you can,” Jason says, finally bold enough to start moving away from his parked bike, into the vast, echoing, still fucking familiar Batcave. “After all, the big bad Bat didn’t even notice what Crane was up to, yeah?”

Not like reminding the kid he’s a genius is gonna make him trust Jason less, right?

“Right.” Tim’s voice is clipped.

Jason needs a guide book for dealing with traumatized kids. Hell, if he had one, he’d drop Bruce off a spare copy right now.

No. Fuck. He’s gotta stay focused. That’s the best way forward—make sure Tim doesn’t feel the need to just send Batman Red Hood’s location and run. Again. Prove to the kid that Jason’s reliable, trustworthy.

When the fuck did that become the priority for this mission?

Whatever. If Scarecrow does gas half of Gotham, Batman’d fix it eventually. He always seems to.

Doesn’t mean Jason’s gonna let him get all the credit.

The lab’s more modern than he remembers, but it’s in the same place. Now he just needs to figure out where the fuck to start.

“He’s got an automated system for breaking down the structure of new airborne toxins, doesn’t he?” Tim says. “You should be able to get that started and then help me work out Scarecrow’s location.”

Tim knows an awful fucking lot more than Jason was expecting him to. He’s not gonna let the suspicion show, though, cause that’s definitely something that will make the kid bolt.

Easier to keep his head down, focus on the mission. Deal with everything else after.

One of the cyber-tech looking machines near the entrance of the lab has labels on it—handwritten notes on pieces of painter’s tape that’ve been stuck next to the buttons. It’s Dick’s handwriting.

Right. There’s the new kid in the Manor. He might not be a sidekick yet, but if Batman and Nightwing need an extra pair of hands in a pinch, helps if he knows what the hell he’s supposed to do.

Dick would be the one to remember how to label stuff. He’d done it for Jason, too.

It only takes Jason a couple minutes to figure out how to set up the hulking machine, and the two next to it, to run analysis on the composition of Scarecrow’s newest toxin.

Well. Tim’s recreation of Scarecrow’s toxin, by looking at the main ingredient and Crane’s existing formulas and fuck if that isn’t terrifying. Seventeen year old reverse-engineering a potent airborne hallucinogen made from a specific kind of medical waste with nothing but a fear toxin blueprint and some spare time.

Jason’s gotta not think about that. He treats Tim like he’s at risk of spontaneously becoming a supervillain, and even if Tim asks Red Hood for something again, further down the road, Jason’ll have obliterated any chance he stood of being trusted.

“Headed to the computer now,” Jason says.

“Sure,” Tim responds, but his voice is tight, and Jason’s—he hasn’t said anything, surely he can’t have fucked anything up in the last couple minutes?

This kid’s got so many red flags going off Jason can’t even tell which one’s supposed to match what: his trauma, his secrets, or the actual real threat he could pose.

The computer in the Cave has grown like a parasite since Jason was a kid. In Dick’s day – he’d said – it was old and clunky enough tech that it dominated the Cave, but in Jason’s time, the technology slimmed down and the computer left a void of space around it, a vacuum.

It’s big as hell now. Jason counts at least eight disparate monitors, though it’s hard to tell if some of them are actually more than one, and the bulk of the processing power and memory banks are probably located somewhere else in the Cave.

There’s a mouse, but there’s also a massive touchpad, and Jason skims the leather tips of his glove across it. The monitors flare into life, almost doubling the amount of light in the Cave, and Red Hood’s helmet automatically tints to compensate.

The systems running in the lab have opened a program that’s displaying the expected wait time for results in half of one monitor. A couple tabs are open around the corners already; Jason gives them a disinterested glance, ‘cause it’s probably the cases Bruce refuses to close.

He’s looking for information on Scarecrow. Jason hasn’t used the setup Batman’s on now, but it’s going to be designed to be highly efficient, meaning it shouldn’t be hard to locate any files he needs.

“Red Hood,” Tim says, voice tight and urgent in that same way. “Listen.”

Jason’s wearing a wire in one ear, but as soon as he starts paying attention, he realizes what Tim’s listening to.

That’s the sound of an incoming vehicle.

He didn’t notice because it’s just the noise of tires on the ground in the tunnel—no engine, and Nightwing’s bike is electric, but the Batmobile definitely isn’t.

“It’s Nightwing,” Jason says aloud, for Tim’s benefit. Though he probably doesn’t need to.

Silent for half a heartbeat, but Tim thinks faster than Jason could dream to, cause he’s already suggesting, “Either stall really well, or tell him why you’re here. We can hope he’s got enough goodwill to let you stop Scarecrow, yeah?”

Nightwing’s early arrival does have some fun complications. There’s a good chance Dick goes straight for real names, maybe even straight for a comment about Jason in the Cave again. It’s not off the table that he says Bruce’s name before Jason can figure out how to tip him off about Tim without tipping Tim off.

There’s also the complication that Jason isn’t exactly on speaking terms with anyone in the Wayne household. Not explicitly, at least.

Jason tugs off one glove so he can stick a finger into the gap between the helmet and his neck, and pull down the wire of the earbud. Won’t come down very far, not without pulling it out of his ear, but it’s at least visible. The best cue he can give Nightwing, right now.

Fuck. There’s definitely a right way or a wrong way to start this conversation, and Jason’s got no idea which is which.

He puts his glove back on and curls his hand over the grip of the pistol in his thigh holster. He’s armed and he knows a variety of different exits. If Jason makes himself a threat, Dick’ll let him leave when he has to.

The sound of movement in the tunnel gets louder, and with a rush of air, goes abruptly quiet.

Jason hates electric motorcycles. It’s eerie as all hell, the way the bike’s nearly silent as Nightwing rounds a corner sharply and comes into view. He jerks upright in his seat in surprise at the sight of Red Hood, and electric or not, the bike’s tires screech in protest at how hard he brakes.

“Nightwing,” Jason calls. Nobody ever pretended subtlety was his strong suit, and he almost winces at how overly-casual he sounds, has to hope the helmet covers the worst of it.

He draws the pistol curled in his grip from its holster, shifts his posture as casually as he can until the barrel of it is propped against his shoulder. A gleaming metal line that draws Nightwing’s eye to the wire visible under his helmet.

Nightwing pulls off the motorcycle helmet. He’s still wearing a mask underneath—it doesn’t really matter, Tim’s only got audio, but it makes it easier for Jason to divide in his head, to think Nightwing with Red Hood’s surliness and none of Robin’s admiration.

“Red Hood,” Nightwing says cautiously. Jason doesn’t need to see his eyes behind the white mask lenses to cotton on that Dick’s definitely only looking at the gun and not the wire.

Bruce’s prodigal son, the Boy Wonder, so well trained to look for the threat in the room that he’s missing the most fucking important parts. So well trained for dealing with threats that he’s seeing Red Hood, not Jason.

Jason can be a fucking threat if that’s the role Dick’s given him to play.

There’s a heavy line of aggression in his voice, a taunt. “Just came to borrow some equipment from your boss,” Jason says, and it’s sort of relieving that he doesn’t have to fake the anger in his tone. “It’s for Gotham. Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Nightwing’s body language twists. Trying to figure out Jason’s game here. If he needs to be stopped.

“I thought you were avoiding us,” Dick says, his voice cautiously neutral in the way Bruce taught him.

“Hood,” Tim says, in Jason’s ear, hushed but self-assured. “You can tell him I’m here.”

The anger drops away in a second. Jason huffs out a sigh. He’s gonna eat his fucking gloves if Tim doesn’t know more about Hood’s stalemate with Batman than he’s letting on.

Jason tilts the gun away from his ear, shifting his grip so he can hook his pinky through the length of wire sticking out from under the helmet.

“I’m wearing a wire, Nightwing,” Jason says. “Got a tip about something Scarecrow’s working on. Safest way to disable his plan is develop a counteragent.”

The change in Dick’s body language is immediate: he relaxes, shoulders back, and the confusion smooths itself from his face. The tension of preparing for a fight vanishes into thin air like a bad dream.

Jason’s still holding a gun.

He doesn’t know what to do with that. What to think. So he doesn’t, just jams the pistol into its holster.

“Moving away from just exploding his storehouses?” Dick asks. It’s such a close match to a tone of voice that he’s used before that Jason freezes, holds himself still.

He doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know what he would do, if he didn’t hold still. Except he’s here for a reason, not to see Dick, who wasn’t ever really—wasn’t ever his brother, let alone his friend, even.

Stay fucking focused.

“He seemed surprised I wasn’t going for an explosion, too,” Jason says, and taps a finger against the side of the helmet. He forces himself to turn away from Dick, even if there’s nothing he can do for the tension in his own shoulders, and shifts half his attention back to the Batcomputer.

Bringing Tim up was a bad call. If there was one thing that made Dick a pain to deal with in Jason’s fourteen-year-old life, it was his stupid curiosity.

Maybe curiosity’s what killed the cat, but it sure ain’t what killed the Robin.

“Who is sitting on the other end of that wire?” Nightwing asks, as he moves closer. “One of your competitors? Or one of Scarecrow’s?”

Dick stops near Jason, but not quite in his personal space. Close enough it’s clear he’s not thinking about it. Close enough it’s clear that Jason isn’t a threat anymore. The thought prickles under his skin and he shoves it aside.

“Nobody’s competition, far as I know,” Jason says brusquely. “Let’s just say a little birdie told me.”

There’s the folder for a Dr. Johnathan Crane, alias Scarecrow.

Jason wonders what his own alias is, in the system. Shuts down that line of thought about as fast as it can occur.

He doesn’t need to know what Batman categorizes him as. What Bruce thinks of him. Jason’s got his own life, his own name, his own priorities. His own little—

And, fuck, he did say that, didn’t he. Jason’s little crisis distracted him from paying attention to his damn surroundings. To what he was saying.

Dick’s gone still and unmoving next to his shoulder in that freaky way B trained him into. The way that means there’s an awful lot of thinking Jason’s probably not gonna like going on inside his head.

Little bird. The name Dick and Bruce used for him, half-code, half-pet name, something he only ever overheard when he wasn’t in the room. The name they used to mean Robin.

Tim’s a lot of things, but he’s never going to be a Robin.

“Not like that, you asshole,” Jason snaps, his voice coming out harsher than he means it to. Thought it would. Harsh like he needs it to be, though he’s a little surprised he can manage it. “He’s just some good Samaritan. Needed a set of hands to blow up Crane’s storehouse.”

Nightwing doesn’t say anything for several seconds. Tim’s the first one to speak, his voice quiet even in Jason’s ear, with just a hint of dry humor, “I wouldn’t exactly bet on ‘good,’ if I were you.”

Jason barks out a laugh that feels grating in his throat. Not good enough to fool anyone but painful enough to jerk his body back under his command, fingers in motion across the touchpad.

This is why he hates being around Dick and Bruce. Why he kind of wishes there was somewhere in Gotham that was safe, somewhere that eased the fucking crawling under his skin. Dick stands a little too close and Jason doesn’t pay enough attention and he forgets that these are people who hear the leftovers in his speech. People who were there for the trainwreck of his learning to fight and threaten and taunt.

People who look at him and see Jason, not Red Hood. No matter how hard he tries.

Jason doesn’t wanna know what damn alias Bruce wrote down for him.

He’s only just got to the files for current data, Scarecrow’s most relevant details, when a tab flashes up atop everything he’s been trying to look at.

It takes a few seconds for Jason to re-orient his brain, to even comprehend the list of scientific gibberish as English. “Hey, Samaritan, the scan’s done.”

“Call me anything but that,” Tim says dryly. Then, briskly business-like, “I’ve never gotten a sample of any of Batman’s antidotes to reverse-engineer, so I’m in the dark there for the moment. You said you’d do the counteragent, so it’s your work from here on out.” He pauses, and he’s tentative when he says, “If Nightwing will help, ask him to keep digging on Scarecrow. Batman’s got more resources than I do, so it shouldn’t take a genius to do.” Another pause, and a flustered late addition, “Not that Nightwing isn’t a genius.”

It's the first time Tim’s sounded anything close to a seventeen-year-old talking about a superhero, and it tugs the corner of Jason’s mouth into a curled smile.

“Little birdie says you should find where Scarecrow’s holed up, while I get started on the counteragent,” Jason says, not looking away from the screen with its long results.

“Huh.” Dick sounds surprised, but whether it’s about the request of help from Jason’s friend, the fact that Jason’s the one developing the counteragent, or the fact that Jason voiced a request for help—well, Jason’s never been great at body language, and right now he’s trying not to look at Dick.

He’s headed to the lab. That’s the priority—fuck Dick, fuck everything else, Jason’ll deal with it later or preferably never at all.

The lab to develop the counteragent, and then he’s gotta make enough of it that it’ll ruin this batch of Crane’s invention and prove there’s no point in making any more. A long-term solution.

It’s hard to settle into a focused state of mind, as Jason makes his feet head for the humming machines in the lab. He can hear Nightwing typing in the distance, the occasional static buzz of Tim’s mic over the comm.

There’s not exactly a blueprint for what he’s trying to do, here. Batman develops antitoxins, not counteragents—Jason’s only mostly sure he’s gonna be able to do this, since this is a different kind of fear toxin, but well. If he’s gotta go blow up some of Scarecrow’s shit after all, Jason’s having the kinda night that means he really wants to.

He manages to tune out the background noise, the crawling feeling at the back of his neck, well enough. There’s a task in front of him, something he can do with his hands.

It works well enough until Jason sets up the last three machines to finish production of the neutralizer, and realizes the typing sound’s stopped.

Nightwing’s hovering not quite in his periphery. Unobtrusive, blended into the background in a way he really shouldn’t be able to do, with the bright blue emblem.

Jason wishes he still had something to do with his hands. A way to pretend he hasn’t seen Dick.

“If you found Scarecrow, tell me already,” he says, stretching his shoulders as he takes a step away from the lab equipment.

Dick’s quiet. Jason still can’t see his eyes, but he can tell Dick’s looking at him, intensely focused, probably with some guilt and regret thrown in.

He doesn’t get to do this. Jason knows what he wants to say, and he doesn’t get to. Doesn’t deserve the right to.

“Don’t you dare,” Jason says, voice dangerously quiet.

“Hood,” Dick says anyway, and Jason can hear how much he wants to say Jason’s name, and how much he knows he really shouldn’t. “We just—”

“Don’t,” Jason repeats, because they’re not doing this, they’re fucking not, why the hell can’t Dick just focus on the mission, shove aside the emotions like Bruce trained them to.

The rage presses into Jason like a river against a dam, insistent and inescapable. It’s so loud he almost doesn’t hear what Dick says next.

“Why’d you tell us where you were, if you ran away?”

Jason—Jason didn’t tell them shit. Tim sold him out somehow. Tim, who ruined all Red Hood’s fucking plans. Who—

Who’s just a kid, Jason reminds himself harshly. Tim, who’s probably more fucked up than Jason is and better at hiding it than he could ever hope to be.

Tim, who isn’t keen on being outed to Batman for reasons Jason ain’t sure of.

The machine behind him beeps. The toxin neutralizer is done.

Jason grabs his anger and shoves it down until it’s lodged like a stone in his chest. His movements are jerky, too close to violence, as he grabs an empty canister and slots it into place to fill it.

The crawling feeling, the need to run, builds in Jason’s throat while he waits. The Cave is silent except for the slow hiss of the machine, and Jason can’t think past the need to leave, to get out, to run to the other side of Gotham and corner himself in a safehouse where he’ll be able to see Batman coming.

It’s not exactly a smart move. It’s still real fucking tempting.

The canister clicks shut. Jason curls his hand through the strap and pulls it onto his shoulder. The heavy weight settles against his back, grounding. Something to help hold him together.

He stalks out of the lab past Nightwing, who stands still and unmoving as he goes. Jason beelines for the computer. If Nightwing won’t tell him where the fuck Scarecrow is, he’ll just have Tim figure it out.

Jason doesn’t hear the footsteps, but he’s confident Nightwing’s following him. Fucker never could take a hint.

The dark monitors blink to life as Jason taps at the touchpad with his glove.

The first thing he notices is that Batman and Nightwing’s location software is open. Nightwing’s tracker is off, but Batman’s isn’t.

And he’s on his fucking way.

Dick starts, “Ja—”

Jason whirls towards him before he can even finish that, snarling, “You motherfuck—”

And freezes.

Dick was going to call him Jason. And that’s not—it’s not anything special, except for Tim’s listening in, but it’s just—

Where the fuck did they learn to call him Jason?

Because. Because they showed up to his safehouse calling him Jason. Looking for him. Where he’d left the kid. They didn’t know it was Red Hood’s safehouse. And that was—Jason had taken off the helmet before he’d noticed them, so it wasn’t exactly shocking, that they’d called him by name.

But, thinking about it—about how they’d been waiting, not setting a trap, not there to stop Red Hood, but to find—

Batman hadn’t been sent for Red Hood. Batman had been sent for Jason Todd.

Tim’s the one who—

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

Dick’s frozen, too, with the tension that says he clearly doesn’t understand what’s going through Jason’s head.

Jason whips back around to the computer, but he doesn’t look at any of the information Dick’s pulled up on Scarecrow. He scans back, several months. That one night, he remembers the fucking date, of course he does. What files did the computer process on the date Tim Drake got free?

There. Word document. Unknown author. Title: JASON TODD.

Timothy Drake knows who the Red Hood is. Was. Fuck.

Tim knew Jason Todd was Robin. Knew Jason Todd died. Knew Batman would come running for him.

Batman’s coming running for him. Right the fuck now.

Jason stares at the file’s title.

“Hood?” Nightwing asks, hesitant.

Jason looks at the tracker. He’s only got maybe a minute or so. Dick didn’t call him immediately, but he did call him.

“Where’s Scarecrow’s stock?” he asks, turning his head enough to look at Dick.

He doesn’t need to be able to see Dick’s eyes to read the conflict clear on his face. He wants something from Jason, but he wants Jason to trust him, and Jason isn’t gonna let him have both those things.

Jason can hear the growl of the engine from down the tunnels. Distant, still. But Bruce drives that thing with the confidence of someone who hasn’t crashed a hundred and one top-of-the-line sports cars.

“Nightwing,” Jason says. The anger loses to the crawling of his skin, and he says, “Please.”

“He’s using the abandoned Dixon Underground station,” Dick says. He adds, hopelessly, “You could stay. We could help.”

Jason had nearly forgotten about the voice in his ear.

“You could stay,” Tim says, soft and undemanding. “I’ll disconnect and monitor Scarecrow’s current activity.”

Tim knows who Jason Todd is to Batman.

Trusting a traumatized seventeen-year-old is not a bet Jason’s gonna make. Not when Bruce’s identity is on the line.

And that’s—Jason didn’t think he would—Jason doesn’t know what to do with that, that he’s willing to defend Bruce. Can’t think about it, right now. Needs something else to do.

“No,” Jason says, partly for Tim and mostly for himself. Needs to commit to leaving to be able to move.

He wants to see Bruce and he can’t stand the thought of being seen. Can’t think, not with his skin crawling, his hands itching for a weapon to hold and a wall to press his back to.

Jason barely thinks about going for his bike. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even glance at Nightwing, just swings his leg over and lets the vibration of the engine settle in his bones like counterpoint to the panic.

He whips out of the Cave, catching a glimpse of the Batmobile’s front tires before he twists into a tunnel too narrow for a car to follow.

The drive through the tunnels barely happens. Jason’s—he’s somewhere else, mostly, urging his bike faster and faster through the turns until he finally feels the crawling start to settle.

He isn’t entirely sure if Tim talked to him at any point. But he’d surely remember something, if he had, so probably not.

If Tim stays on the line—if Tim doesn’t figure out what Jason knows, he’s less likely to cut and run.

Jason doesn’t want to scare him. But if Tim knows one Robin’s identity—

Tim knew how long it would take Batman to get to the Cave.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Jason forces his pounding heart to slow again. Tim’s known at least since Black Mask died. Months, now. And he hasn’t done shit.

Tim’s not a threat. Tim came to Jason to ask for help.

Scarecrow first. Scarecrow tonight, so Batman and Nightwing don’t set up a watch and ambush him or something. Scarecrow, then Tim.

Who the fuck knows how he’s gonna deal with Tim if he’s still trying not to spook the kid into running. It’s a problem for a future Jason.

Fuck it all to hell. What’s it say that dealing with Scarecrow is the easy part of tonight?

Jason feels like he’s come more back into his body as soon as he gets to the streets of Gotham itself. He can get a sense of distance, of actually leaving, not just endless tunnels.

“Still on the line, birdie?” Jason says.

“We’re not done yet,” Tim responds. “From what I can tell of nearby cameras and his recent deals, Scarecrow’s got a few men incognito near the subway station entrance, and he’s probably got another half dozen underground, including two research grad students from Gotham U who are hostages.”

Jason can’t help wondering if he avoids the word prisoner on purpose. He shoves the thought aside. Focus on the relevant details.

“Guards won’t be a problem,” Jason says. “Man of the hour isn’t here?”

“No,” Tim says. “There was some trouble getting the latest delivery out of Drake Industries, so Crane’s gone to investigate that.”

Jason can’t tell if he wants to smile or scowl at that. The easy confidence in Tim’s voice, the self-assuredness, the fact that he’s already got other plans in motion to make Jason’s job easier.

“Convenient,” is all he says.

Tim goes quiet again. In the Cave, it was beneficial—but now, now that Jason knows the exact danger Tim could be, he really wishes either of them were chatty people. If Tim’s talking, that’s less brainpower he can use for orchestrating Bruce’s downfall.

Not that Jason cares about Bruce’s downfall. Not that Tim’s likely to cause it anyway, if he’s already known for a while. But paranoia’s never really steered him wrong before, and Tim—Tim is a series of red flags all the way down, and Jason’s struggling to figure out where Black Mask’s heir ends and the actual human being underneath begins.

“D’you mind ‘little birdie’?” Jason asks. It’s the only thing he can think of, as distraction.

There’s silence on the line for a few seconds. Tim eventually says, “I’m no one’s sidekick. I don’t care what you call me.”

Jason lets the flash of a smile into his voice. “Don’t let Nightwing hear you say that. I can promise you his name suggestions will all be awful.”

Tim hums acknowledgement, and goes quiet again.

Fuck. Jason can’t do small talk. Fuck it. He’ll do the job and just confront Tim in a few hours.

Not confront. Fuck. Just talk. Where’s that stupid guide to traumatized kids who happen to know secrets dangerous enough to bring Gotham to its knees?

Fuck it. Jason’ll just write his own.

Chapter one: Don’t introduce them to your family.

Chapter Text

Driving his motorcycle through Gotham is an easy familiarity, for Jason—the wind, harsh against the slivers of exposed skin, the glare of traffic lights and neon signs catching on the painted lines on the road, the buildings that reach up around him as if making the streets a valley, a nest.

It’s been a long time since Jason went somewhere with the intent of catching Scarecrow. Crane’s not drug trade, not organized crime, not anyone who targets the vulnerable in particular—he’s not Jason’s problem, basically, so Jason just leaves him for someone else to deal with.

Right up until some kid says I need your help, at which point—

At which point Jason should’ve realized the motherfucker who was kidnapped by a crime lord at eleven years old had to know a little more than he let on, to come within a thousand feet of Red Hood at all.

The silence on the comm line echoes around the inside of Jason’s head.

Timothy Drake – the kid who knows Jason’s identity and God knows what the fuck else – is saying absolutely fucking nothing about anything, and that’s one of the things keeping Jason’s hand curled tight around the acceleration of his motorcycle.

Get to Dixon Underground station. Neutralize the current batch of Scarecrow’s toxin. Get the fuck back to Tim before he has time to bolt.

Jason’ll figure out the rest after that.

Being able to focus on driving is the only thing that keeps Jason from saying anything and fucking it all up as he whips through the streets of Gotham. Being so focused on the silence of the comm is the only thing distracting him from driving.

He’s only a block away from the entrance to the Dixon station when Tim says abruptly, “Homeless man on the left is Scarecrow’s hire. Not sure what he’s armed with.”

Jason takes the corner without slowing down, scanning for the threat.

The guy Tim’s pointed out does look homeless. Three oversized coats, unshaved, a bundle of possessions behind him—the exact kinda guy Red Hood spends his evenings trying to find somewhere indoors for them to go.

Jason hesitates, the bike slowing as he approaches. He’s not just gonna shoot a homeless dude because Tim tells him to. He wants the kid’s trust, but not that badly.

Which is his line of thinking right up until the homeless guy pulls out a semi-automatic.

Jason slams the acceleration and spins the bike into a hard sideways brake, planting a foot in the seat and leaping clear of it. The back tire whips around and slams with the brunt of the bike’s weight into the guy, who goes flying before he even gets a chance to pull the trigger.

Jason tumbles into a roll. Harder to do with the amount of Kevlar he wears these days – as terrible as Robin’s outfit was, Dick did pick it for acrobatics – but it distributes his momentum and he rolls back up onto his feet.

He’s got a pistol in either hand already. Jason’s a marksman—he isn’t gonna waste the bullets of a faster gun on half a dozen guys.

“I don’t have any sight below ground,” Tim says. “And you’re definitely going to lose comm signal.”

“Trust me to get it done?” Jason asks.

It slips out before he really means it to—it’s too telling, and Jason holds his breath, because he can’t take it back. Because he wants Tim to trust him and he’s pretty sure that as soon as Tim knows that, he won’t.

There’s silence on the comm line, several suspended seconds where Jason’s sure he’s ruined everything. He wants to duck into the subway already and pretend he doesn’t hear Tim not respond.

Then Tim says, “Yeah. I do.”

It’s not—Jason can’t pick out what kind of voice that is, the messy tone under Tim’s careful neutrality. But it’s more than he thought he’d get, and he lets his breath out, mixed surprise and relief.

“See you on the other side,” he says, and heads down the stairs.

It’s almost laughably easy, from there. Scarecrow’s guards are less than a dozen, and Jason doesn’t even need to resort to excessive force to deal with them.

Sure, some of them lost a lot of blood, but he’s fairly confident in his ability to not hit anything important. Better to get this done quick, too, because Batman and Nightwing know exactly where the fuck he was headed, and it won’t have taken Dick long to spill all Jason’s fucking secrets.

The neutralizer is easily to deploy—it’s aerosol, like the toxin is. Jason turns on the filters in his helmet, cracks open the containers of fear toxin Crane’s already produced, and empties his counteragent into the same room. A few of the guards might get some mild effects, but they’re working for Scarecrow, so they basically already signed up for it.

The imprisoned grad students – looks like a woman in her forties and a man a little younger than that – can’t decide if they want to be more scared or grateful towards him. That’s fine—Red Hood does nothing to change their minds one way or another, just growls at them to follow him and stalks his way back out of the subway.

He’s only just close enough to the entrance for the comm to regain signal when Tim says, “Welcome back. I’ve got the police on the line right now. Can you hang onto the hostages for a few minutes?”

If Tim’s got police on the line already—Jason’s still not above ground, still not possibly within range of any camera Tim has access to.

Tim guessed how long it’d take Red Hood to disable the guards, neutralize the toxin, and round up the grad students. On top of guessing how deep into an abandoned subway station Crane would even keep the toxin.

And he guessed right.

The longer Jason thinks about what Tim’s capable of, the more urgent getting back to him feels. This kid is—well, one, he’s a fucking genius, and two, he’s fucking dangerous.

And God, does Jason not want to make an enemy of him. For a lot of reasons.

“I can hold out for a few minutes before I head back to the safehouse,” Jason says. “We still need to do mission wrap-up.”

Which is the vaguest lie he’s told in a long time—Jason doesn’t have any sort of wrap-up he needs to do. Batman’s the one with mission reports and bookkeeping and equipment to be repaired. Jason just needs Tim to sit still for another twenty minutes.

“Sure,” Tim agrees, mild.

Red Hood’s helmet grinds Jason’s voice into a flat command when he points at the low concrete wall on either side of the subway entrance and tells the grad students, “Sit there and don’t make a fuss.”

The woman must be Gotham-native, because she’s watching Red Hood warily, even as she does as she’s told. The man’s visibly shaking, and he’s leaning on her for support. Probably a mild fear toxin response for both of them, and her reaction makes more sense if she’s been exposed before.

Jason’s not positive they won’t be charged for helping Crane develop a new fear toxin, but if need be, Tim’ll probably pull a few strings.

Well. Tim will have strings to pull. Jason knows Bruce would, if he needed to—but he isn’t exactly gonna bet that Tim will pay as much attention to each individual victim as Batman does.

Maybe it would be a safe bet. But Jason doesn’t know, and that’s the trouble here.

His hands itch for something to do, a purpose, as he waits. The comm’s silent, dead air, and Jason has to resist the urge to tap his foot. He’s Red Hood, exposed and visible on the corner: needs to project the persona here, needs to make sure these grad students know they’re not exactly safe with him either.

“What’s the ETA, birdie?” Jason asks.

Silence on the line. Jason swallows, feels the tension in his jaw.

He flicks his gaze over to the grad students, both shaking now. Clear signs of exposure setting in.

Tim might’ve called the police. But at the amount of time that’s passed—

Nightwing and Batman are going to be on their way. Jason knew that; knew he needed to deal with the fear toxin fast, so he doesn’t get caught when they arrive.

Jason doesn’t have any antidote on him—and even if he did, he doesn’t know how good Crane’s drug-resistant batch is, if Bruce’s old antidotes will still work.

Tim did call the police in. But he could’ve given Jason forewarning about the amount of time it was going to take them to get here, could’ve said a single damn thing, especially because Jason hasn’t exactly been keeping it a secret that he wants fuck all to do with Batman.

At least he doesn’t have to wait more than a couple minutes. Does his best to ignore the silence on the line, and the harsh, uneven breathing of the grad students. Standing guard even though he’s sure his physical presence, the threat of him, is probably only going to make the hallucinations worse.

Even though Jason’s looking for it, waiting for it, he can’t stop the tense set of his shoulders when Nightwing’s bike finally turns the corner down the block, and comes to a stop a hesitant thirty feet from Red Hood.

Jason has never been so fucking relieved that Nightwing’s bike is faster than the Batmobile, and can take more shortcuts.

He stalks towards his own motorcycle, left sideways in the alley next to one of Crane’s unconscious hired guns. Another problem to leave for Batman and Nightwing.

He pulls the bike upright, hyper-aware of Nightwing dismounting and drawing closer in his peripheral vision.

“How did it go?” Nightwing asks.

Jason doesn’t remember that much of Dick and Bruce fighting, from all that time before. But this twenty-odds minutes, between his arrival here, and Nightwing’s—

Well, he knows they could fit a lot of an argument into twenty minutes. Heard them go for at least that long over his presence in the Cave, though the central point of the argument was certainly different back then.

Probably needed to get through enough of the argument that Bruce would agree to come after Red Hood.

“Those two got a dose of drug-resistant fear toxin,” he says, instead of thinking about it too hard. Jerks his head towards the two grad students, and uses the seconds Nightwing looks away to pull himself onto the bike.

By the time Nightwing’s realized Jason’s about to leave, the only thing he manages to say is, “You keep running.”

Jason’s got no fucking idea if that’s meant to be an observation, or a challenge, or a question. Curls his gloves harder around the handles of his bike.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low, which makes it scratch and grate through the modulator. Sounds flat, angry. “Wonder how many times it’s going to take for you to get the memo.”

Harsher than he necessarily means it to be, but the way Nightwing draws back is exactly the response Jason needs. Needs him to move the extra step away so Jason can slam the acceleration and tear out of the alley before Dick gets the chance to move back into his space and block him there.

He doesn't have time to waste on feeling bad about it.

The Batmobile is going to be coming from a north-east section of the city; Jason curls a wide route around any possible paths of overlap, just to be on the safe side. The comm’s silent, and Jason has a feeling he knows why.

Jason stashes the bike in the alley below his safehouse window, and hauls his way up the fire escape to climb in.

The safehouse is dark and silent. And—Tim’s smart, but he’s not anywhere close to Batman’s level of sneaky. Jason flicks the lights on.

The apartment’s empty.

The laptop and Tim’s comm earpiece are sitting on the coffee table with the broken edge. There’s no note with them, no nothing—the laptop’s still on, still showing the connection, and when Jason swears, he hears his own voice filter tinnily from the earpiece.

He doesn’t know why Tim’s booked it. Maybe his reaction at the Cave was enough to tip him off; maybe he changed his mind about Red Hood’s benevolence; maybe he was never planning to stick around in the first place.

Maybe he was expecting that shoving Nightwing and Batman at him was going to go badly, and he wanted as big a head start as he could get.

If Jason’s only need was for Tim to trust him, he would just let him go. Maybe stick a friendly thank-you note to the outside of one of his penthouse windows or something. Give him space, give him time, make it clear Jason doesn’t need anything from him, has no desire to hurt him. Wants him to stop meddling, mostly.

Unfortunately, the kid knows at least his identity, and almost certainly Bruce’s. Jason could just call Bruce, make it Batman’s problem, but—

But he can’t help thinking about the stillness behind Tim’s eyes. The casual intensity, even when he’s trying to hide it. The ways in which Black Mask has clearly—he didn’t break Tim, but he changed him, irreversibly, the way Jason’s head still aches with ringing laughter sometimes.

Maybe it’s just the paranoia. Maybe it’s Jason’s own mistrust. But Tim needs someone to help him, someone he can trust, and Batman…

No. It won’t be Batman.

Not tonight though. Because it’s not really tonight anymore, it’s past five in the morning, and light is starting to creep into the sky, even if the sun’s not visible yet.

Not right now. Let Tim take a break. Don’t ambush him when he’s exhausted and on edge, when he’s probably expecting Red Hood’s retribution. Don’t scare him off.

This would be so much easier if Jason didn’t have a conscience. If he didn’t want to help Tim.

Fuck this whole moral compass thing. It sucks.

The confrontation would probably go down a whole lot better if Jason was willing to give it more time. Let Tim get back into his usual schedule—let him stop looking over his shoulder for Batman, probably, expecting Red Hood to sell him out or whatever.

Except. Except that Tim knows Red Hood is, was, Robin, and that’s—

Jason doesn’t know how exactly Tim accounts for that, assumes what Jason will do because of that information, but he’s absolutely confident Tim does account for it somehow.

It’s only been seventeen hours since Tim booked it out of Jason’s safehouse, and Jason’s scaling down the outside of his apartment building in the clinging shadows of Gotham’s nighttime.

Jason has to angle himself awkwardly over a weird lip at the top of the roof – probably designed to make this specific thing difficult – in order to climb around the side of the building and reach the balcony attached to Tim’s apartment.

It’s been a minute since he’s done this shit. Kept up on his practice while he was with the League, but Red Hood’s usual business week doesn’t include scaling rich people’s fancy-ass minimalist apartment buildings, and it’s harder than he remembers.

He’s probably noisier than he should be, getting over the lip of the roof, but he makes sure he’s nearly completely silent as he drops onto Tim’s balcony.

There are lights on. Jason can see the open floor plan through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the massive dining table near him and a living room and a kitchen. All sleek and modern, color-coordinated.

Tim’s traumatized, but he’s also rich.

There are just enough possessions around for it to look like someone actually lives here. There’s a few mugs on the coffee table, a sweater on the back of the couch, vacation photos of two adults Jason doesn’t recognize and a kid he definitely does.

He tries the glass door. It’s unlocked.

Jason should go look for Tim, call out and announce himself, but—

He moves towards the photos, on the wall near the dining table. They look like they’re from two different trips, or one long one—the background in all of the photos is either rolling green hills or tropical forest. There are various combinations of the three of them, but each photo features at least one of Jack, Janet, or Timothy Drake.

Jason’s pretty sure he’s seen these photos before. He’s pretty sure they were part of the case file for Timothy Drake, the missing eleven-year-old. He was only a couple years older then than he’d been in these photos.

There’s a coldness behind Tim’s eyes now, but there’s no trace of it in this kid’s.

What the hell did Roman Sionis do to him?

“Oh, good,” says a voice behind him, flat and unamused. “You’ve already invited yourself in.”

Jason spins around, grappling with the flood of guilt. It’s not—he broke in, he’s not going to feel bad about looking at a few photos. Especially ones he’s already seen.

Tim’s standing over by the kitchen area, near the long island counter with its sleek metal stools. He’s—he’s not dressed at all like he was when Red Hood’s seen him previously, the nice shirts and pressed slacks. He’s in oversized sweatpants that bunch around his ankles, and a slightly-too-big T-shirt.

“I was just finishing loading the dishwasher,” Tim says.

“You’re expecting me,” Jason says, not quite a question.

“It was either going to be tonight or sometime next week,” Tim says. He turns his back to Jason, to move back into the kitchen. “Depending on how much you figured out about me.”

There’s no sign of a seventeen-year-old boy in him. There’s just a cool, unmoved voice, and a neutral expression. Jason’s not sure what to make of Tim like this.

Either this is a front, or Tim’s previous display of emotion and nervousness was. Jason’s got a bad feeling about which one of those is more realistic.

He follows Tim towards the kitchen. It’s only then that he actually thinks about what the fuck he just said—how much you figured out about me.

Tim was only expecting Jason to show up this week if Jason had figured out what Tim knows.

“You know who Batman is,” Jason says. The helmet’s modulator makes his voice flat.

Tim’s filling the electric kettle at the sink as Jason comes to stand next to the kitchen island.

“I do,” he says. “You’re welcome to take the helmet off, Jason.”

The tone of his voice prickles underneath Jason’s skin. Condescending. He’s had the upper hand this entire time and Jason never even knew.

Jason ought to take the helmet off. Should display that trust.

He curls his gloved fingers around the metal back of the stool. “You know who I am,” he says, and there’s—he doesn’t know what he means by that, Red Hood or Jason Todd or Robin. Doesn’t know who Tim thinks he is.

“Since the first time I saw you,” Tim says. Confident that he knows, even if Jason doesn’t. He puts the kettle on.

“You never told anyone?”

Tim turns to face Jason, leaning back against the counter. “When I first figured it out, I was a little kid. It was my secret. Like Batman and Robin were my imaginary friends.” He shrugs. “And after that, well. The only person I’d have been able to tell was Roman Sionis. And Batman wasn’t coming to save me, but exposing him wouldn’t have changed that.”

He says it so casually. Jason doesn’t know what to think.

He never told anyone because a crime lord was the only person he had the option to tell.

Batman wasn’t coming to save me.

Tim says it so matter-of-factly. Jason just thinks of the warehouse—the pain and the terror and the desperate hope. Believing that Batman would come.

He can’t help but wonder if Tim felt that, too. If Tim’s world went dark one night and Batman was a sure thing, and he woke up the next morning and Batman had never saved him at all. Or if the hope left slowly, like a wound, bleeding and bleeding until there was nothing left. Only that cold determination, that level neutrality that Tim seems so good at.

Jason doesn’t say anything, just stares. He’s quiet long enough that the kettle finishes boiling, and Tim turns around to pull two mugs from a cupboard and two teabags, and pour the boiling water.

He crosses the kitchen to place one mug on the island in front of Jason. He shows absolutely no fear, not a shiver or a nervous glance, at approaching Red Hood.

“What did he do to you?” It’s the only thing Jason can think to ask. It’s the only thought he’s got left.

“Sionis?” Tim looks briefly surprised—but so politely surprised, so neutrally surprised, that he’s almost not surprised at all. “He kidnapped me, then he tortured me, then he taught me to run a criminal empire. More or less in that order. And then I killed him.”

Jason hears the words without really processing them. Tim’s delivery is so flat, so unbothered, that it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Something’s wrong here, every part of Jason’s brain is telling him. Tim doesn’t seem like a supervillain but his demeanor is so disconcerting it’s hard to remember he’s a good guy.

It’s hard to remember he’s a kid.

But part of what he said, Jason hears loud and clear. “You didn’t kill him. I did.” He remembers that well enough: the gun, the kid. The anger. And the blood that came after.

Tim considers his next words for a few seconds. “You were the weapon I chose to kill him,” he says, after a pause. “I’m not going to let you take credit for all three of us being there at the right time, when he was mad enough that shooting him was your best option.”

Wait. Wait, hold on a damn second. “You were the one that set up everything that night?”

Tim just says, “Oh, didn’t you already know that?” He adjusts the string of the tea bag in his mug, and continues, “Well, I’d spent so long setting Black Mask up, that it wasn’t really a decision about whether or not to leave his organization intact. You were easy to get into the right place at the right time. And when you revealed yourself to me afterwards—well, I knew I could use you to distract Batman and Nightwing for a while.”

Jason—Jason feels his jaw tighten. Jason served a purpose for Tim. It was—the guy who told Jason where to find Tim, who told him Tim would be in danger. Tim—

He set Jason up. He—it was a trick, all of it, even the fucking fear in Tim’s eyes. Jason remembers the crawling discomfort when he watched Tim’s eyes go dark, go cold, once Black Mask was just a body.

That's why he came to Jason to ask for help with Scarecrow. Because he knew playing the part of the nervous kid asking for help would work.

Jason doesn’t—he isn’t a piece for people to use. Not some fucking weapon, a gun to be aimed. Jason does things his goddamn way, no League, no fucking Batman.

Jason wants to prove it. Wants to prove that people don’t just get to use him. To trick him. Wants to make Tim regret it more than he’s ever fucking regretted anything. He could do it—a knife, a few precise motions, and a slow, slow death.

He can’t. He can’t. Tim’s a—Tim’s a fucking kid. Jason’s hands tighten around the back of the metal stool until the leather of his gloves creaks.

“When you took off the helmet,” Tim continues, casual as anything, oblivious to Jason’s turmoil, “I thought that Robin had saved me after all.”

He smiles, a small, private thing. Jason feels anger tie his stomach in knots and catch in his throat.

He can’t get away from Bruce. Tim looks at him and he sees either a useful tool, or a Robin. Like Bruce does, Jason thinks, his skin crawling. Like Bruce did. He’s—Jason’s—he needs to hold it together. Needs to not chase Tim off.

“I’m not Robin,” is all he can say. All he trusts himself to say.

Tim’s brow raises, polite confusion. “No? You’re a vigilante in Gotham, using the same fear tactic as Batman.”

Jason’s—Jason’s not, it’s just—it’s practical, to keep Crime Alley scared of him, to expect to see him in more places than humanly possible. It’s a smart idea, to make himself into a bogeyman.

“And making use of the Cave,” Tim says. “That’s part of why I asked you to help me with Crane. You work with Batman.”

He still sounds so casual. Like he’s not—like this isn’t a threat, an assumption, like he’s not saying everything Jason’s been trying so hard not to be. Not to think about.

Tim turns away, pulling the tea bag from his mug. His trashcan opens with a foot pedal, and the metallic clank of it grates against Jason’s threadbare control.

“I’m not,” Jason repeats. “I’m Red Hood. Not Robin. I’m not.”

The helmet must flatten the emotion of out his voice. It has to. Because Tim’s expression is still flatline level, perfectly unchanged.

“I even gave Batman the chance to kill the Joker, you know,” Tim says, so fucking casually, like he hasn’t just changed everything about Jason’s—about Jason’s death, his revenge. “I thought he could use the closure. But he refused.” He gives a little half-wry smile. “Because of you, of course. You’re still his Robin. He was beating Gotham black and blue, and it was your memory that stopped him.”

Jason needs Tim to shut the hell up. Jason needs to think. Needs to run. Needs to find somewhere nobody knows what the fuck happened to him.

But Tim doesn’t stop, of course. Can’t even see the expression building on Jason’s face. Just keeps going, so fucking casual.

“That’s what Robin does, Jason. You protect Gotham. Even if you’re calling yourself something different, you’re still protecting her.”

He’s—Gotham’s not a living thing, Jason’s here for Gotham’s fucking people, not for—

Jason’s only ever heard a select few people refer to Gotham as her like that.

Jason’s not had a lot of conversations with Roman Sionis, but a couple of the speech patterns he had, Jason remembers.

The realization feels like plunging into freezing water. Jason’s not talking to Tim. Jason’s talking to Black Mask’s successor. The unmoved voice. The cold eyes.

The anger solidifies, cold and hard as ice.

He needs to break something. Needs to break something, fast, so he doesn’t start breaking Tim.

There’s a mug on the counter in front of him. Jason hardly feels it in his grip, hardly feels the twist of his arm as he hurls it at the wall behind Tim.

The mug smashes into the kitchen wall and explodes into a spray of boiling water and porcelain shards. Tim flinches back, and Jason doesn’t care, can’t be bothered to care, even though he finally looks something other than completely emotionless.

“You still do that,” Jason snarls, his voice cold and sharp, the edge of a blade. “Call Gotham her. Like Black Mask used to.”

The shock on Tim’s face is deeply satisfying. Like a wound carved so deep Jason can feel the tip of his knife scrape against bone. Like he’s finally hit something that will hurt.

Jason’s pretty sure Tim has no idea how much of him is really Black Mask. Jason’s pretty sure that Tim’s lying to himself through his fucking teeth every second of every day.

He hopes the ugly truth hurts.

“You’d better stop saying it,” Jason snarls, voice low, a warning growl, and he whips around and stalks away.

Negotiating with a seventeen-year-old kid is one thing. Negotiating with Black Mask’s pet project isn’t fucking worth his time.

Isn’t worth his fucking sanity.

Jason climbs onto the edge of Tim’s balcony and jumps off into the night.

Chapter Text

The anger’s at buzz at the back of Jason's skull, a kicked wasp’s nest, in the days that follow. He ignores it, shoves it down, doesn’t look directly at it because he’s a busy fucking person with a lot of other shit to do, and Timothy Drake is just one more kid who’s had his life ruined by this city’s bullshit.

Jason needs a lot more fucking distance between him and Tim before he’s even gonna feel comfortable thinking about anything Tim said.

Jason tilts his head towards Max, one of his long-standing right hands, and asks, “How are negotiations going with the drug suppliers in the Park street condemned building?”

Max is one of Red Hood’s men that handles a lot of information and no hands-on work, so he can bat his eyelashes and tell a pretty lie when the police come asking. He’s invaluable in planning meetings like this, Red Hood’s territory and resources laid out on the table before them.

Max says, “Had better negotiations, had worse. Our guy says the manufacturers are insisting they’re gonna need regular shipments of whatever we want them to replace their silicate cutter with.”

It shouldn’t be a big ask to get drug manufacturers to use nonlethal, nonaddictive compounds to cut the strength of cocaine. Doubly so when Jason’s going to pay them more than enough to make up for it. Not wanting to bother with finding supplies is why none of his guys manufacture themselves.

“I’ll stop by in a couple days,” Jason says. The helmet flattens the exhausted anger into nothing, just a monotone sentence with the buzz of static. “I’ve got the time to see the negotiations through.”

Max quirks a little half-smile. “Aren’t you the one that says we can’t racket anyone into our business?”

He’s not wrong; Jason always avoids using fear or threats to get people to work for him, even when his men suggest it. It won’t work for him, not for his purposes.

Jason’s just not sure why Max brought it up now, specifically. “I didn’t mean intimidation,” he says. “Just that depending on what they’re looking for, I’ve probably got a guy or three who can find it.”

Max’s smile fades. He glances at a few of Jason’s other guys – other right-hands, the planners and delegators – and says, “You go visit ‘em right now, it’s gonna be intimidation, Hood.”

There’s no point in getting angry at Max. Max is doing the job Jason pays him to do.

Jason’d just really like to be able to get something right, these days.

“Why’s that?” he asks. His voice comes out flat, hard. Partly the helmet’s modulation, but only partly.

Max shifts his weight. He sounds a fraction more hesitant when he says, “Well, it’s no secret you’ve got a rep for being—uh, temperamental. Figured it’s why you usually have a go-between. Most people don’t know how well you control it, but last couple of days, you’ve been real angry.”

Jason has not once in his life been good at hiding his anger.

Which, sure, means that Red Hood does have a reputation for being angry. Violently angry, even. Jason’s not, not really. Oh, he’s pissed most of the time, but he’d make a shitty crime boss if he let his anger make his decisions for him.

But it does make sense that most of Gotham would think he acts on impulse. That someone makes him angry enough, winds him up, and Red Hood just—sees red. Stops thinking. That he’s all bullets and blood and rage loud enough to fill his ears like static, like white-water rapids. That’s definitely the impression all the witness accounts and police reports give of him.

…huh.

There happens to be someone who makes a lot of assumptions off of secondhand accounts of what’s happening in Gotham.

If Tim’s making assumptions based on reputation, he probably thinks Jason’s a lot angrier than he really is. Probably thinks that when he brought up Robin, Jason just saw red. Started yelling and forgot to keep listening.

‘Cause that was Jason’s problem, yeah? He just kept listening. Listened to Tim list off every single thing that Jason’s shown any hint of a negative reaction to. Every possible trigger Tim might guess about a Robin who died and came back a crime boss and has a lot of issues with Batman.

It was perfect, Jason realizes. Tim hit every single trigger.

Tim did it on purpose.

“Hood?” Max asks. Tone of voice like he’s asked more than once.

“Sorry,” Jason says, the word thick in his mouth. Realization like cobwebs in his head, cottony and clinging. “Just remembered some other business I’m gonna have to deal with.”

Tim’s too smart for his own good. Too deliberate about everything. So good at what he does that the perfection is its own kind of tell.

So he made Jason mad. Why? What’re the motivations that make a seventeen-year-old criminal mastermind make a crime boss mad? Jason’s—he’s got no desire to hurt Tim, and he’s pretty sure Tim knows it, what with his absolute fearlessness around Red Hood. Pretty sure Tim wouldn’t have been in his apartment at all, when Jason went looking, if he’d been scared of getting hurt.

Tim made it clear he wasn’t a threat to Batman’s identity, and then he made Jason angry enough he needed to leave, to stop himself from hurting Tim. From breaking something other than a fucking mug.

Tim—did Tim predict that? That Jason would leave? Jason would control himself? That Tim could press his fingers into every weak spot, peel back Jason’s armor, the showy, blustering bullshit, to expose the raw nerve underneath, and Jason would just leave?

Jesus Christ.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Okay, that’s—Tim’s a fucking genius. He's—that might actually be possible. For him. So if he did do that, why?

Tim wanted Jason to leave, and not come back. Which Jason did.

Black Mask’s heir doesn’t want anyone sticking their nose in his business. Doesn’t want anyone keeping an eye on him.

Tim’s gotta be real fucking sick of people monitoring what he does. Jason’s probably getting points taken off for the whole crime lord thing, too. On top of the points he lost when he first kidnapped Tim.

But Tim still owes Jason a favor. For what Jason did for Scarecrow. Red Hood isn’t a goddamn charity, and Tim knows it. When he was offering something in exchange for help, Tim never meant a bribe.

Black Mask was never the type of guy to stick to a deal. He would’ve loved to have the reputation of a crime boss with an honor code, but couldn’t be bothered to deal with the inconvenience of one. There’s absolutely nothing to prove that Tim’s not the exact same way; that he’s got any intention to keep the promise he made.

Except Tim came to Red Hood. Tim sought out a vigilante to solve his problem. Tim was the one who suggested the deal in the first place. A favor owed.

Jason doesn’t want to monitor Tim. But he’s also about one hundred per-fucking-cent sure that Red Hood is the sole person who knows the reality about Tim, the truth of him, and that’s—

And this dumb fucking kid looked at Jason, once, and said Help me, and that’s what it fucking boils down to, doesn’t it.

He doesn’t even know if he can. If Tim will let him. If he knows how to help in the first place.

Jason likes to give himself a challenge, once in a while.

“Okay,” he tells Max. “You figure out who’s handling negotiations. I’ve got a side project I gotta work on.”

Jason’s pistol is half-reassembled when Tim’s front door unlocks.

Kid’s an actually busy CEO. The public image of a hard-working teenager with a lot of dedication to Drake Industries might not entirely be a front. It’s nearly dark, and Tim’s only just wedging his door open with a shoulder.

His striding steps into the unlit apartment stutter when he catches sight of Jason, illuminated only by the fading sunlight through the windows. The pieces of a gun arranged neatly across the kitchen counter. The helmet, gleaming red, next to them.

Jason’s still wearing a mask over part of his face, of course. He didn’t notice any surveillance equipment in the apartment, but that doesn’t mean it’s not just well-hidden. No point in showing off a dead kid’s face in a CEO’s apartment.

He doesn’t miss the way Tim’s entire body language changes, when he catches sight of Jason. He isn’t sure exactly what it means, but it shifts from—it goes from real movements, movements a normal person makes, to deliberate decisions.

Jason snaps another piece of the pistol into place, and says, “Long time no see.”

Tim checks the watch face on the inside of his wrist. “Six days,” he says, and continues on his way in.

Now that Jason’s looking for it—now that he’s seen the difference between Tim relaxed, entering his apartment, and the slight stiffness in his motions, it’s obvious the way Tim’s not quite sure of him. He approaches Jason like he doesn’t even notice the closing distance, but every single movement is hyper-aware. Totally self-conscious.

“You still owe me a favor,” Jason says, eyes still focused on his gun reassembly. Best not to let Tim talk too much. Jason knows he’s probably capable of making Jason storm off again, even if Jason knows what he’s doing.

The crawling sensation isn’t nearly as present, when Tim looks at him. Jason’s still got no clue who the fuck he thinks he’s seeing—but he does know that it’s at least half of Roman Sionis looking at him, and that’s easier to think about. Easier to treat Tim like a teenager with the bruises of a brutal adolescence.

“I do,” Tim says levelly. “I’m no Sionis. I don’t go back on my word.”

I’m no Sionis. Yeah, right. Jason must’ve actually gotten under his skin, with his parting jab. Tim is nearly head-to-toe what Roman Sionis made of him.

Hell, he’s even wearing the gloves. Black instead of Sionis’ white. The left ring finger tailored perfectly to the length of his remaining stump.

Jason can’t help wondering whose decision that was.

“Cool, whatever,” Jason says. “I want you to make me a Batman-proof safehouse.”

He clicks the last piece of the pistol into place.

“That’s impossible,” is Tim’s automatic response. He frowns at Jason, the slightest crease between his eyebrows.

“Too bad,” Jason says. He holsters the pistol. Can’t miss the way Tim’s eyes track the motion. “It’s what I’m asking for.”

“I appreciate your belief in my intelligence,” Tim says, face dropping back into neutrality, and turns his back on Jason to head for the fridge, “but I don’t have a complete knowledge of Batman’s skills. You’re functionally asking me to make an impenetrable safehouse.”

Bingo.

“Y’know,” Jason says, not quite able to squash the grin, “I happen to have a real good idea of Batman’s skillset.”

Tim turns, face half-lit by the bulb in the open fridge. “You want me to make you a safehouse that you can’t get into?”

“That’d be a good start,” Jason says. “We can tweak it for Bruce a little after, if we need to.”

“I can tweak it,” Tim corrects him, but Jason can already see gears turning, the intense focus of his gaze on something Jason can’t see. “It won’t be fast,” he says. “Or cheap.”

“That’s alright,” Jason says. “Create a few blueprints, I’ll throw something together, we’ll see how long it takes me to get inside. Rinse, repeat.”

Tim’s eyes refocus on Jason. After several long seconds of silence, he says, “I’m not making any promises.”

“Sure,” Jason says. He’s still grinning. Tim looks unnerved by it, which is kinda funny.

Tim closes the fridge without taking anything out of it. “Was there anything else?” he asks.

“Nah,” Jason says. Digs in his pocket for a scrap of paper. “My burner number. Lemme know when you need me.”

“It’ll be a few weeks,” Tim says, not even glancing down to where Jason puts the paper on the counter. “I’m going to need to do a lot of research on security systems.”

Before he can think better of it, Jason says, “I kinda assumed you’d already memorized basically any security design on the surface of the planet.” Tim narrows his eyes, and Jason’s grin dies as he adds, “Y’know. Black Mask.”

Tim’s entire expression shutters like a dark storefront.

He says coldly, “Breaking in and breaking out are two different skillsets.”

And all of a sudden, Tim’s body language is—it’s a blank. Again. Any trace of a real human being just vanished. All that’s left is that—that deliberateness, the way every inch of Tim’s body is fully in his control.

Not control in a way that indicates combat training. The kinda control of a kid making himself look small on purpose.

The realization is a sinking weight in Jason’s chest.

He’s fucked this one up, too. He’d thought it was going—well, not fucking great, for sure, but at least acceptably. Y’know. A kind-of-maybe normal conversation.

But Jason said the wrong thing, and Timothy Drake just vanished. It’s a—a survival tactic, a trained response. As soon as he thinks he’s in danger, Tim walks out, and Black Mask’s heir walks in.

That’s not something Jason can fix. Not right now.

Tim’s still in front of him, but he’s not here at all. There’s no point in Jason talking to him. Tim’s not gonna hear a damn word.

Tim’s eyes are cold as a concrete floor. They hold some indecipherable threat. A clock counting down.

“Right,” Jason says. “Uh. My bad.” He scoops up his helmet and pulls it on. Wants kinda really badly for Tim to not be able to see his face. “I’m headed out, then. Call me when you need me.”

“Sure,” Tim says, tonelessly.

Jason books it about as fast as he can without giving Tim the wrong idea. Though it’s probably a little late for that.

By the time Tim does call him, Jason’d basically resigned himself to the fact that Tim probably gave up.

When his phone – the phone that only one person has the number for – rings on the coffee table, Jason has to tumble out of the shower, snag a towel, and stagger to the living room dripping wet. He scrubs a hand dry and grabs it, mashing buttons in his haste to pick up.

There’s silence on the line for a few long seconds.

“Uh. Hi?” Jason tries, desperately hoping he didn’t decline the call on accident.

“I’ve finished the first version,” Tim says in response. “Mostly designed to measure your skillset against existing security measures.”

“Cool,” Jason says.

“I’ll be at your safehouse at Robinson St in three hours,” Tim tells him. “Can you meet me?”

Why the fuck do you know I have a safehouse on Robinson St, Jason bites down. “Yeah,” he says instead. “I’ll be there.”

Tim hangs up, and Jason stares dumbly at his phone screen, flashing with the twenty-second call duration, until it goes dark.

He really thought he’d never hear from Tim again. Huh.

Maybe the kid does actually keep his word.

The Robinson safehouse is one of the few Jason’s positive Batman doesn’t know about. Asking Tim how exactly he found it feels like it oughta be pretty high on his priorities, except for the fact that Jason’s whole motivation for this thing is that he’s trying to get Tim to trust him. And a safehouse—sure, Jason can give up one or six if Tim finds out about ‘em.

When he arrives, the light is on the kitchen, and Tim’s got several massive sheets of paper spread out across the dining table. He glances up as Jason approaches—probably didn’t hear his entrance through the window in the next room, but something tense in him relaxes when he sees Jason.

No. He relaxes when he looks at the empty space behind Jason. When he realizes Jason came alone.

“Still expecting me to sell you out?” Jason asks.

“Of course I am,” Tim says.

Jason opens his mouth to reply, but Tim looks back down to the blueprints.

There’s no point in telling him. Tim’s heard an awful fucking lot of lies. Tim’s not trusted a single living person since he was eleven. Jason wants him to believe something, he’s gotta prove it. Money where his mouth is.

Jason pulls off the helmet. “So what’ve you cooked up?”

Tim doesn’t move a muscle as Jason steps up next to the table. Only once Jason’s gone still does he say, “A test, more or less. I’ve designed countermeasures to most of the straightforward bypasses to the security systems I chose. Tell me how easy each would be to circumvent, and what mechanisms you’d use to do it.”

He steps back, moves casually out of Jason’s space in that self-conscious way. Jason takes that as his cue to edge in closer, getting a better look at what Tim’s come up with.

These blueprints are complicated as fuck.

That’s at least part of his motivation when Jason says, “Okay, you’re gonna have to walk me through this.”

There’s a flash of something on Tim’s face – irritation? confusion? – that’s gone too fast for Jason to pinpoint it. He pulls up a chair and sits.

When Tim starts explaining the layout, the basic structure of the safehouse as it appears from the exterior – two windows and one door is apparently the design he’s gone for – his voice is level and unbothered.

It reminds Jason a little of—well, it’s a stupid fucking comparison, but back when he was—

In that other lifetime, when he was a different person, Bruce used to do these sorts of verbal puzzle-solving things. Part of his training, probably, but in retrospect—maybe it was to gauge his ability, or maybe it was even just meant for fun.

Your communicator’s not working and there are six armed assailants in the alley with you, Batman would say, usually while Jason was half-trying to do other things, hit targets or watch footage or disassemble parts of the Batmobile. And Jason’d say, Can I get to a rooftop?

This is a little more involved than that, and a little slower—Bruce had an endless catalogue of crime-related scenarios in his head, basically at all times. Tim’s got to pause and think through his own design as Jason asks about it.

“What’s stopping me from breaking the glass of the windows?” Jason asks.

Tim says, “You’d be able to see the mechanism for a powered metal shutter on the inside, set to trigger if the glass is tampered with in any way.”

And it’s—it’s not bad, actually. His design, or the way they go through it.

Jason finds thirteen different avenues for getting into the safehouse, only two of which don’t involve use of the windows or door. Tim notes them on the blueprints meticulously, and also indicates the points where features benefit from being either visible or hidden.

“Eight minutes to get inside, I reckon,” Jason says. “Definitely under ten.”

Tim makes note of that too. Probably. Or maybe he just continues writing. Jason isn’t positive he can hear him.

Except then Jason says, “You know, it’d be easier if you didn’t include windows in the design.”

Tim’s spine stiffens, and the writing stops.

“I’m aware,” he says, and it’s—his voice isn’t the same harsh cold as it was last time Jason fucked up, but it’s withdrawn, guarded. “You said safehouse, not bunker. I can remove them if you’d prefer.”

There’s something there he’s sure not telling Jason. There’s more than something, probably, the way he’s just closed himself off, but. Well. Pressing isn’t going to help Jason, here.

“Nah,” Jason says. “Fuck it. Leave the windows. Give yourself a challenge.”

He’s not looking at Tim anyway – not that the kid can tell, with Jason’s mask – but out of the corner of his eye, he watches his spine relax some. Like tension taken out of a bowstring.

Tim goes back to writing.

It takes just about every ounce of Jason’s concentration to shut up and stay still. He wishes—wishes he had something to do with his hands, really, make it clear that he’s not scrutinizing Tim. Doesn’t want to make Tim feel watched.

But Tim genuinely does seem like he nearly forgets Jason’s there. He just bends his head and writes, ignoring Jason completely, though Jason’s big and armored and armed and should, by all accounts, be identified as the most important threat in the room.

Jason can’t fucking tell if it’s trust or just hubris. If Tim trusts Jason enough to turn his back, or he’s so damn confident that he understands Jason that he doesn’t worry about being attacked.

“Alright,” Tim says, after almost a full fifteen minutes of complete silence. “I think I’ve got all the notes I need for the second version.”

“Y’want to do that as an actual safehouse?” Jason asks.

Tim turns to look at him, an eyebrow raised. This little tilt to his head that asks for an explanation.

And yeah, sure, whatever, remodeling one of his existing safehouses as a testing ground for this would be kinda pricey. But money’s not really an obstacle, for Jason – or for Tim, but in a different way entirely – and Jason likes the idea of having a side hobby to spend some time on. Hell, that’s probably one of the reasons he’s got as many safehouses around Gotham as he does.

“It’ll be fun,” he says, instead of any of that, grinning at Tim.

The dumber and more impulsive Red Hood seems, the better, probably. Wouldn’t want Tim to catch on too early. Jason hates to ruin a surprise.

“You’re the one doing it,” Tim says, with a dismissive half-shrug. “Your time, your money. Your choice.”

“Take your time on the next design,” Jason says. “Have some fun with it.”

Tim lines up the sheets of paper on the table and rolls them into one large tube. “Sure,” he says. “See you then.”

And Jason—Jason’s itching to not just leave it there. He wants to try and talk to Tim, wants to—befriend him, maybe. Make some tangible progress on that front.

It’s a slow game, though. No rushing it. Jason’s never been the patient kind, but—well, for some things, it might be worth learning.

Tim leaves a blueprint at the Robinson safehouse two weeks later. This one is incredibly detailed, written with even better explanation of the features than the first, as well as an organized inventory list of all of the materials Jason’d need to build it.

And Jason does. He orders the parts, clears out a new safehouse in a low-crime area of Gotham, somewhere Batman isn’t likely to wander. A nicer neighborhood. Takes his time putting it together, trying his best not to think about how to disable the alarm systems while he’s installing them.

It takes him a while, but he calls Tim. Tells him it’s done.

Two days later, Tim calls back while Red Hood’s organizing a team to hunt down whoever’s started selling a new kind of heroin laced with something of Poison Ivy’s; she’s probably not involved, but whatever mutated plant she left behind is better off burned to ash than used like this. Jason pauses the meeting to take the call.

“I’m at the new safehouse,” Tim says. “See how long it takes you to get in.”

Jason grins, under the helmet, where no one’s going to see. “Wrap up the meeting and be with you in thirty,” he says.

And he’s—he’s actually kind of excited. Because yeah, the safehouse is work, kind of, and it’s a scheme, though Tim might not know that part. But it’s fun, too. And not much about Red Hood is supposed to be fun.

When he reaches the outside of the safehouse, all of the systems are active and the metal shutters over the windows have been lowered.

It takes him forty-seven minutes to get in.

On the inside of the safehouse, when Jason finally reaches him, Tim offers just the corner of a smile.

The kid’s still on edge, still waiting for it to go wrong, his body tense and deliberately centered in the room. But when Jason pulls off the helmet to grin back, the hint of a smile at the edge of Tim’s mouth curls just a little bit bigger.

The next drafts of the safehouse are quicker than the first two. Tim’s got a pretty good base, now, so it’s just adjustment and addition from there. Jason tries to get in, maybe a couple times in a single night, figuring out as many different avenues as he can.

On his fifth try, he gets inside, and Tim’s not even there, even though Jason saw him go in. It takes Jason an hour of scouring the apartment to even find the concealed exit Tim must have built himself, into the room below the safehouse.

He calls Tim to ask about it, and Tim says, “You never said escape exits were off-limits,” and hangs up on him.

Maybe it’s not a game a normal seventeen-year-old would play. Or enjoy. But Tim’s—he’s a long fucking way from normal, and so’s Jason, really, so this suits them fine.

Jason tries the concealed exit to get inside on the sixth try. After two hours, he concludes he’d have an easier time blasting in the front door. Figures why the hell not, might as well give it a go.

It’s the seventh try, and when Jason gets inside the safehouse, Tim’s not wearing his gloves.

They’re set to the side, stacked neatly, next to Tim’s thigh. He’s sitting in the hallway, his back against the doorway into the safehouse’s kitchen. Laptop wedged between his knees and his stomach, his right foot tapping idly against the ground.

“Was it another structural window frame issue, or did you figure out how to disassemble the door?” Tim asks. Tone mild, distant, polite. Body language deliberately unconcerned as he looks up at Jason from the floor, hands coming to rest unmoving over the laptop keyboard.

The domino mask Jason’s wearing is a fucking blessing, ‘cause there isn’t a damn thing he can do to stop himself from staring at Tim’s left hand.

The severed finger.

Tim just asked him a question. And that’s—and Jason should answer it, because he needs Tim to trust him, except he doesn’t remember what it was, and—

And Jason had assumed the missing finger was a torture thing. Because—because Tim has said fuck all about Roman Sionis, but the motherfucker had a reputation for torture, and Jason knows it.

The stump of Tim’s left ring finger, missing from the middle knuckle up, is a clean cut. Slightly rounded on top, from where it’s healed. No scarring. Cut along the joint, where it would be easiest to force a blade through without it slipping.

A clean cut.

Jason knows enough about torture to make the knowledge of it twist like a knot in his stomach. None of that teaching ever involved removing body parts quickly.

His mind scans through possibilities. The thing that he winds up saying is, “Black Mask didn’t cut off your finger.”

Jason could never get deep enough in thought to miss the way Tim—he doesn’t stiffen, this kid never goes still when he’s caught off guard, but his breathing goes level, the twitch of his right foot becomes so well-timed it could keep tempo. He switches from one person to another.

His voice isn’t cold, just deliberate, careful. “No,” Tim says. “Sionis didn’t cut it off. I did.”

And, God, doesn’t Jason need to ask about that. The question’s on the tip of his tongue, his lips moving for the shape of it before he even thinks.

Except this is the closest thing Jason’s gotten to genuine information about the five-years-and-four-months of his life that Tim doesn’t talk about. A secret, shared. And Tim’s head is tipped back, gaze measured. Waiting.

It’s a challenge, whether or not he intends it to be. Exposing the tiniest gap in his armor and waiting to see if Jason tries to pry it wider.

Jason swallows down the question. He makes it wait.

He’s never been good at that, but it could be worth it, just this once.

“Okay,” he says, and his voice isn’t quite steady, maybe a little too harsh, because he might not know a lot but he knows he would like to put another four bullets in Black Mask’s skull right now. Takes a breath and says, “What was your question again?”

Tim looks at him, several moments longer, in silence. Running the numbers, maybe. Didn’t think the conversation would go in this direction.

He looks back down to the laptop. Resumes typing, his left pinkie finger covering the keys his ring finger ought to press.

“Did you get in through the door or the window?” he asks.

“Door,” Jason says. Watches the coldness thaw just a fraction from Tim’s eyes, replaced with the ease of habit, familiarity. Doesn’t let a single bit of his relief show in his voice.

On the eighth try, Tim isn’t paying attention when Jason finally gets in. It took him five hours and the kid doesn’t even bother to look up from his tablet when Jason wedges his way in through the window and pulls off his helmet.

“Probably worth putting a reinforcing layer between the shutter mechanism’s casing and the exterior wall,” Jason says.

He’s gonna have to put those bricks back in later—two of the five hours were painstakingly pulling out the wall at the corner of one window, and then Jason had to pry back the metal sheet casing the shutter mechanism, then disable the alarm in it so he could actually get the window shutter open.

Five hours of that, and at some point, Tim got bored and started sending emails, probably.

Except that Tim doesn’t react whatsoever to what Jason said. To Jason’s figure in the room. Just keeps staring fixedly at his tablet. Taps it occasionally, to close one file and move to another.

“Tim,” Jason says.

No response. Not a turn of his head, a blink of his eyes.

Jason takes a few steps closer, well within Tim’s peripheral vision. Still far enough away that Tim wouldn’t have to start pretending to be casual about the lack of distance.

“Tim,” he tries again.

Nope.

Jason whistles, sharp and shrill.

Tim jerks up sharply, tablet pressed against his chest in an instant. His eyes don’t dart around, don’t search the room—just fix on Jason and stay.

Jason takes a step back.

Tim’s shoulders loosen, just a half a centimeter. He stares at Jason, and Jason lets him, stares back in equal measure.

He does an awful fucking lot of waiting Tim out.

Tim swallows, and with the slight motion, the shock is replaced by nothing at all, absolute neutrality in his expression.

He says, “Did you know the gang from St. Bernard’s Church is trying to move in on the Red Hood?”

Jason pauses, keeps himself still and unmoving. Doesn’t want to risk Tim reading a negative reaction to it.

Because the answer is: no, Jason had no fucking clue.

Which isn’t right. Isn’t how it should be. Jason’s probably got more informants tucked in more pockets in this city than Batman does, ‘cause Jason doesn’t have several million dollars or an Oracle on his staff, and ‘cause Red Hood actually talks to people.

And if Jason’s memory is to be trusted, the only St. Bernard’s in Gotham is in the East End, and the gang that operates from underneath it used to work for Black Mask.

So he really should have informants keeping an eye on it.

Tim’s gaze is still fixed on him.

Jason has to work his jaw for a second too long, a second that gives him away, to make the blunt command in his mouth come out as a question. “Care to elaborate?”

No commands. Tim doesn’t work for him. Tim doesn’t need to do this work at all, anymore. Jason doesn’t need him to.

Something hard glitters in Tim’s eyes.

“No,” Tim says.

There’s a spike of anger in Jason. Motherfucker brought it up just to say absolutely nothing. He could save Jason the hours of fucking work and reconnaissance, the paranoia and the overthinking, and he won’t.

He forces the tension out of his shoulders. Consciously loosens the curl of his hands. Leans back a little.

“Okay,” he says, and, “thanks for the heads-up.”

Tim doesn’t say anything at all, just watches him, focus unwavering.

It’s a test as blatant as fucking anything. Jason doesn’t know if he’s passing it. Doesn’t know if he needs to pass it.

“We should reinforce the gap between the shutter mechanism and the exterior wall,” Jason repeats, because—well, it’s a safehouse-testing night, and here they both are, in the safehouse.

Tim’s silent for so long it stretches into something unnerving.

“Sure,” he says.

The St. Bernard’s gang took on a lot of drug operations left stranded after Black Mask’s crash. It would’ve been a great move, if not for the simultaneous oversaturation of the market that Jason still can’t figure out the cause of, but would bet his nicest guns was Tim’s doing.

Even when he’s looking, Jason can’t figure out whatever tells Tim was looking for. So he investigates it slowly: ditches the helmet and the mask, dyes the stubborn shock of white out of his hair, introduces himself as a chemist and lets himself get shuffled into the rotation.

It takes him two and a half weeks to locate the plant St. Bernard’s somehow got their hands on. This is how they've been holding onto the drug market: they're the bastards who have been mixing Poison Ivy's loose experiment with heroin. Addictive as shit, since it boosts the euphoria of heroin. Morphine, too; plant's not picky.

He'd had a team assigned to this. Why's it taken them so fucking long to figure out, when Tim probably needed two hours and an internet connection?

Well. That's not fucking fair to his team. Tim only gets more unnerving the more about him Jason learns.

All Jason really thinks about is how much withdrawal’s gonna suck for all the mob guys who’ve gotten addicted during their trial runs, when Jason burns the goddamn building down.

The last night of his investigation, the night he actually sets the fire, just so happens to be the night Batman and Nightwing come bursting in for a drug bust. Jason’s just relieved he’s spent so much time figuring out escape routes—the rest of the St. Bernard’s guys get dragged out of the burning building already mostly unconscious, and Jason ducks in through the back door of a food kitchen two blocks away to hunker down for the rest of the night.

It's a coincidence. Jason tries to convince himself of it, tries to calm himself down, because he’s got no mask and no helmet and Tim had no fucking way of telling which night Jason was going to make his final move.

As persuasive attempts go, it’s one of Jason’s weakest.

Tim’s been at his designs for the safehouse for almost three months now, since Jason first asked him to come up with the perfect blueprint, and the change in Tim makes Jason optimistic.

Though make no fucking mistake—Tim still spends most of the time being a little too intense, a little too focused. He’s on edge and unfaltering and he predicts way too much of where Jason is or what Jason’s currently doing for him to really be comfortable with.

But Jason sees him smile six times, smiles that are even probably genuine. And it’s—he only ever grins about the challenge of the impenetrable safehouse, only ever seems to have any emotion when it’s that, but that’s something, at least. Something Jason can work with. Something that proves he has some genuine emotion, buried under his controlled distance.

Tim’s eating peanuts straight out of his sweatpants pocket – Jason’s trying not to think about it – when Jason finally brings up the thing that’s been hovering at the edge of his thoughts for the last few weeks.

“You reckon we’re ready for the final test?” he says, trying to aim for conversational.

Tim’s looking over the blueprints spread across the table, on the inside of the safehouse. He looks up sharply, though Jason would’ve guessed ten seconds earlier he might be too focused to hear anything at all.

Tonight is the first night Jason just straight up gave in. He spent six hours on the outside of this safehouse – the thing he’d built most of with his own damn hands – and couldn’t figure out how to get inside. Causing a large amount of structural damage was probably the only way he could’ve done it, and there’s enough discreet surveillance around the outside of the apartment that Tim would’ve just booked it from another exit while Jason spent the time blasting a wall in.

Besides. Tim’s got a Drake Industries meeting in three hours, and Jason’s just gonna kinda hope that he slept while Jason was spending his entire night trying to get inside. He knows there are enough alarms for it.

“What’s the final test?” Tim asks.

By the tone of voice, he already knows what it is.

Tim does a lot of that. Asking questions he seems to already know the answer to. Jason thinks it’s a survival thing. Downplaying his intelligence.

“Batman,” Jason says.

Tim’s silent for twenty-three seconds.

The downside of the final test is, of course, abandoning this safehouse. Jason’s going to have to basically strip it down and reassemble it—he knows what Bruce is like, and once he’s found something like this, he won’t rest until he’s gotten inside. If they want to test it, they’ll have to move it as soon as Bruce’s back is turned.

“Okay,” Tim says. “If we do it Wednesday night, he and Nightwing have obligations with the Justice League they won’t be able to get out of on Thursday. We can set a cap for the amount of time they can dedicate.”

“Ten hours,” Jason says. Which is ambitious—giving them longer than Jason got. Especially if both of them do show up. And Nightwing will eventually, if Batman spends the entire night on it.

“How are we going to keep their attention the entire night?” Tim asks. He’s in his brainstorming mode—looking at Jason without quite seeing him.

Jason’s sure he’s already got ideas, and could come up with another eight in the next minute. But Jason’s got an idea, too.

“We tell them I’m inside,” he says.

Tim’s focus abruptly returns to him.

“We tell them,” he repeats. Doesn’t think Jason actually will.

Jason—oughta bite his tongue. Shouldn’t just come out and say this.

“I know you’ve been trying to get me back to them,” he says. Watches the way Tim’s face changes. The shuttering of emotion, the look in his eyes. “You’re not bad, but there’s a lot of coincidences, and.” Jason swallows. Can’t tell if he’s just fucking up more or actually explaining himself. “I’m. I need that to happen on my terms. But we know that Bruce will come. If I’m in there.”

Tim’s eyes have that depth in them again, the one Jason recognizes from Bruce and Dick. The unnerving drop into darkness Jason can’t see the bottom of.

Jason still can’t tell if that look in his eyes means he’s only talking to Black Mask’s heir, or if that part is Tim’s too. If there’s any chance Tim will ever learn to turn it off.

But this is how Jason best knows to show trust. To earn trust.

If Jason’s in that safehouse, Batman circling around it—Tim could just let him in. It’s impenetrable, but Jason’s confident Tim has left himself at least one shortcut.

Tim could stab him in the back. And that’s the only way Jason can think of, to show trust. Turn his back anyway.

He’s almost confident Tim doesn’t think he deserves it. Thinks Jason’s an idiot for trusting him. Jason gets that about Tim, now—he doesn’t trust himself that much more than he ever really trusted Black Mask. Knows there’s too many similarities to think himself safe.

Tim doesn’t say anything one way or another. Just watches him in a way that makes Jason feel like a mouse under the eye of a bird of prey. A way that makes Jason want to turn and run, makes him fight every instinct in order to keep himself perfectly still.

“Wednesday night,” is all Tim says.

“Sure,” Jason says. Not sure if his life is derailed or perfectly on track, and going full steam ahead anyway.

Wednesday night sees Jason standing in the center of the empty space on the inside of the safehouse. He never really bothered to furnish it—a table for Tim’s blueprints and a couple of stools. A single working electrical outlet. That’s about it.

He brought a brown paper bag of Thai takeout, a laptop for monitoring the surveillance around the exterior of the safehouse, and only two pistols.

He’d thought about bringing a lot more guns, or something heavy he can swing. Thought about what he’d want to have with him when he’s facing down Batman. What he could use for a diversion, to distract Bruce and throw him off-kilter long enough to make an escape.

Jason didn’t bring any of it. The whole point is that he’s committing to Tim not stabbing him in the back, no matter how much he might regret it.

Didn’t even bring the helmet. He’s masked, but it’s—the helmet is another part of Red Hood’s defense, just as much as his firearms, and that’s not the point of tonight.

The sun’s just gone down. By Tim’s estimate, Batman’s going to be leaving the Cave in the next ten minutes.

Jason’s staring at the number on the screen of the burner phone.

Ages and ages ago, Bruce left this little scrap of fabric in one of Red Hood’s safehouses. Jason only found it because he dropped in to pack the whole safehouse up, after he’d stopped using it.

It’s a really, really durable fabric. A heavy, black fabric. The kinda fabric you’d think Batman’s cape might be made of.

Beyond insane, to leave this shit lying around.

Especially since Batman wrote a phone number on it in silver sharpie.

And for the longest time, Jason’d stuck it at the bottom of his kitchen drawer full of grenades and forgotten about it. Until he would run out of grenades, catch a glimpse of it, and think, shit, need more grenades again.

Anyway. The number stares up at him from the screen of the burner phone now, and Jason hits dial.

It rings twice, before there’s the distinct click of the line being connected.

Jason sucks in a breath and listens to the silence.

He isn’t sure how long it lasts. Just that there’s silence, not even the sound of someone breathing.

Then a voice. A low voice, a voice that makes him abruptly dizzy, light-headed, out of place.

Just his name. “Jason?”

Jason reminds himself to breathe. Jason reminds himself he’s got something here he’s gotta fucking do.

Tim, Jason reminds himself. Trust Tim.

“I’m at 32C Clamor Avenue,” Jason says. And, because he at least has the presence of mind to know he doesn’t want to give anyone a heart attack, doesn’t want to make them think it’s an emergency, adds, “Uninjured. See if you can come get me.”

He thinks the voice maybe says his name again—he doesn’t listen long enough to find out, just jerks the phone away from his ear like it could bite and hangs up.

Jason drops the phone on the ground and crushes it under his boot. Makes himself listen to the sound of it—the creak and snap of the plastic, the scrape of the metal. Makes himself pay attention to his surroundings, instead of thinking about the voice. The sound of his own name, hoarse and—

He’s not thinking about it.

Batman arrives in eleven minutes. Jason almost misses it entirely—Batman’s so used to avoiding surveillance that it must be second nature. Jason sees only the brief curl, the flicker of an edge of the cape, in one of the cameras.

Jason starts the timer. Ten hours.

It’s almost the slowest time has ever passed for Jason. Would probably be in the top spot if number one wasn’t permanently taken by the time he spent broken and bleeding in a warehouse.

Batman paces outside of the safehouse. He becomes increasingly visible on the cameras as the hours creep by—never all of him at once, and never stationary, like he knows where he can and can’t sit without being seen.

Nightwing shows up, a couple hours in. He’s a lot more visible on the cameras, doesn’t bother with shadows and secrecy as much as Batman does.

The mask’s a hell of a lot better at showing his confusion than a cowl is. Jason thinks he sees the curl of a smile, here and there—thinks that Dick’s starting to understand this is meant to be a game.

It’s a little funny, Jason thinks, from his position lying on the floor, watching the camera feeds from the laptop. Watching Dick and Bruce pace around the outside of the safehouse like they’re staring at a really hard puzzle box.

It’s easier to think about than how unnerving it is to never catch sight of Bruce, not really. Just edges and the occasional shift of shadows. Easier to think about than how Jason’s pretty sure he’s seen documentaries of predator animals acting like this, trying to figure out how to break open something’s shell.

Jason isn’t sure if he sleeps, on the safehouse floor. Isn’t sure if he dreams of someone knocking on the metal-shuttered windows. Thinks it might be real, because distantly, he’s glad he remembered to say he was uninjured. To try and make it sound like a game or an offer, rather than a call for help.

He isn’t sure what expression Bruce had, last time Jason was on the other side of a locked door and Batman was trying to rush to his rescue. Is pretty sure he never wants to find out.

He’s half-asleep when the timer goes off. His head jerks off the wooden floor and then clunks back down, hard enough to jolt him properly awake.

He hasn’t been watching the cameras. The morning sun’s come up, and Jason—Jason has no idea if Batman’s sitting just off-camera. Doesn’t know if Bruce and Dick are yards or miles away.

Tim calls him on Jason’s other burner phone, the one he hasn’t smashed.

“Batman and Nightwing are both present at the Justice League news event,” Tim says. “On camera. Manhunter’s accounted for, so unless they’ve picked up more shapeshifters or magic-users, we’re in the clear. I’m outside.”

Jason rolls up off the floor and beelines for the safehouse door.

He kind of expects Batman and Nightwing to be right outside. Because—well, he chose to trust Tim, but he doesn’t exactly think Tim won’t betray him. Won’t use the opportunity to set up an ambush somewhere Jason can’t really run away.

He’d expect Tim to predict and take advantage of the way Jason feels, now, ten hours later. Like a raw nerve, all the protections stripped away. Unsteady. Red Hood, finally forced to sit still, and off-kilter from the loss of momentum. Not exactly someone capable of fending off Batman, let alone Bruce.

Every single thing he knows about Tim Drake says he should not be trusting this kid.

Jason opens the apartment door, and Tim’s standing there, typing away on his smartphone. Dressed for the day at Drake Industries he’s still got to go do.

Tim looks up. “No issues?” he asks.

Jason swallows around the feeling on his tongue. Isn’t sure what it is. Relief, or affection. Hope, maybe.

“No issues,” he says.

Jason’s an idiot who never quits while he’s ahead, so it doesn’t quite finish up there. Tim’s completed his favor, realistically, and there should be nothing else Jason needs him for. Jason strips down the safehouse that day, leaving only a few of the permanently-installed structural supports he can’t remove before the sun goes down.

Jason sees the confusion-that-isn’t on Tim’s face when Red Hood appears the night after, once again uninvited but not exactly unexpected, in Tim’s penthouse apartment.

Because of course Tim’s smart enough to figure that Jason’s maybe trying to actually build a relationship, not just—not just get a favor out of him. Tim’s smart enough to expect Jason to show up again, but he’s nice to at least pretend to be confused.

Jason gets immense satisfaction out of dropping a keyring with several keys and two USB drives onto the dining table, and looking at the fake confusion on Tim’s face bloom into real, genuine bewilderment.

“I set up a safehouse for you,” Jason says. “On Robinson St. Only copy of the keys and passcodes are on here. Change ‘em to whatever the fuck you want, and nobody but you is ever getting into it. Nobody other than me even knows it’s there.”

Jason likes side projects. Things to do with his hands. He didn’t just build a Batman-proof safehouse.

He built two.

This is what shooting yourself in the foot looks like. And this—this is what Batman could never do for Tim, that Jason can. Offering up a weapon against you to someone who knows exactly how to use it. Someone who might find absolutely no issue in using it.

Jason had almost forgotten how easy it is to be a bleeding heart. Raw and exposed and so very easy to hurt. He’d forgotten how natural it was, that trust fall.

Tim’s stunned silent. Jason cocks a hip and waits, patient as fucking anything.

“Why?” is what Tim finally manages to ask. Is what Jason was expecting him to ask.

“Because I trust you,” Jason says, unhesitating.

And Tim’s face—that doesn’t look like a concept Tim really gets. Isn’t something he can comprehend. But that’s okay. Jason can teach him.

“I don’t understand,” Tim says.

The fact that he admits it at all makes the hope swell into relief in Jason’s chest.

The admission is showing a weakness. Tim’s not shutting down because he doesn’t understand: he’s asking for clarification.

Tim’s willing to say he doesn’t understand, and the fact that this is even a victory is bleak as hell, but Jason’s going to take what he can fucking get.

“That’s okay,” Jason says. “You don’t have to.”

He turns and heads for the balcony. He knows Tim’s watching him—can feel the weight of his gaze on Jason’s back like a tangible force.

For once—for once, the feeling doesn’t make Jason need to run and hide. For once, Tim’s looking at Jason, at the person under the hood and the mask and the armor.

Jason isn’t really sure who Tim would call him, if he had to—Robin or Red Hood or just Jason Todd.

But he knows with absolute confidence that whatever Tim’s seeing now, whoever the hell Tim thinks he is, he is absolutely right.

Jason leaps off the balcony, grinning.