Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Jason embarked on his quest for vengeance against the Replacement, against the fucking rich kid who thought it’d be a good idea to steal a dead boy’s uniform, a dead boy’s job, a dead boy’s family, this is not what he thought he’d find. 

Titan’s Tower has gone through a couple of renovations since he’s last visited, no doubt due to a combination of the tower’s public address and the sheer number of idiots who think that ganging up on teenagers to beat the shit out of them is fun. The layout’s mostly the same, though, even if the dorms and the names on the doors have changed.

Weeks of planning ensures that Jason was able to subdue the already tired Titans without alerting them to his presence, the knock-out gas he’d tailored to each of their specific biological quirks taking them out flawlessly.

Potential interruptions taken care of for the next eight hours, Jason had had plenty of time to ensure that his lesson really sinks in for the entitled little shit who thought he could don Jason’s funeral shroud without any consequences.

He’d stalked through the halls, tracking down the Replacement, fingers itching to use his guns, his knives, anything to make Robin hurt, to make him pay for taking up something that should have been retired after a kid died in it. Obviously, the brat still thinks that Batman’s good enough to look out for both his precious rogues and his kids. Someone needs to let him know that he’s wrong.

Jason is more than willing to be that person. 

Pinning his unaware target down in the kitchen had been easy, maybe even too easy. Sure, they’d just gotten back from a rough mission – no major injuries, since Jason had taken it upon himself to act as the guardian angle for a handful of idiot children playing at being heroes to ensure that this confrontation goes perfectly, but the plethora of scrapes and bruises they’d collected was no excuse for just how distracted Timothy fucking Drake is acting.

Robin number three is currently sitting at the slightly dented metal table placed in the middle of the communal kitchen, staring at nothing. He’s been like this for the last four minutes.

Jason had burst in, threatening bodily harm and really selling his evil persona as he kept to the script he’d written for this specific moment, and the kid had just... sat there, eyes wide with panic.

He’d thought that it was weird for Robin to not stand up and face the threat, for this supposed “smarter” improvement to not be asking questions to figure out why a Gotham crime lord would show his face in San Francisco of all places, but no. Instead, he’d put his head in his hands and stared at the table, muttering to himself.

Jason had tried poking the kid, tried shoving at him, threatening and pushing the muzzle of his gun into the kid’s surprisingly greasy hair. Nothing. No reaction, except for the occasional swat when his attempts at assault annoy him too much, Jason fucking guesses.

With each failure to respond in a normal manner, the haze of anticipation that had creeped over Jason’s thoughts recedes, beaten out by sheer confusion. This has taken the wind completely out of his sails, and Jason’s lost.

Talia, where the fuck was this in your mission brief? How would one even write this into a mission brief?? Drake isn’t unresponsive, not really, but he’s sure as shit not responding to Jason .

Seeing as it would be completely useless to try and warn-slash-educate someone who doesn’t seem to even realize he’s there, Jason grabs the seat next to the Replacement and sits his ass down. He’ll... wait, then. Until Drake decides that he wants to snap out of whatever the hell he’s got going on right now.

He’ll probably be able to get back into the swing of things once the kid starts responding, the words from someone who’s replaced him no doubt capable of re-igniting the simmering rage that does more to motivate him than anything else, nowadays. 

Jason waits.

This close, he can actually hear what the kid’s muttering.

“If it’s not just hallucinations again, then I’m fucked. What the hell am I supposed to do now? I never learned martial arts as a kid. Maybe I could skateboard my way to safety? No, that’s dumb, I don’t have my board with me. I could... take pictures? That’s even worse. Play trumpet really loud until he leaves? No, I never learned how to play – mom never actually stuck around long enough to sign me up for lessons. I could... what can I do?”

Suddenly, the Replacement snaps his head to the side, staring at Jason with panicked eyes, shimmering with unshed tears.

“What am I supposed to do?!” He asks, frustration seeping from every word.

“Uh, fight back?” Jason suggests. “I was kinda banking on you standing up for yourself, to be honest.”

“But I don’t have anything to fight back with!” the Replacement responds, panic mounting as he gestures frantically to himself. “I’m in civvies! Tim Drake never learned karate, or how to play an instrument, or, or… What am I supposed to do to defend myself if an intruder breaks into my home at three AM?”

“What?” Jason’s honestly more confused now than he had been before the kid opened his mouth to ask Jason, the man attacking him, what he should do about the fact that he's getting attacked. 

“I’m failing,” Drake moans. “It’s just a fucking meme, and I’m still failing. Why the hell did I think I could do this? Why couldn’t...”

“How is me breaking into the tower and trying to beat you up a meme?” Jason asks, lost. Memes had been starting to catch in popularity when he died, but what the kid’s saying is not jiving with Jason’s understanding of the word.

Drake grabs his phone, roughly swiping at the lock screen and tapping on something before he shoves it into Jason’s arm.

Bewildered, Jason takes the offered device. It’s open to a group chat between him and the other Titans, the most recent conversation seeming to focus on one specific scenario.

Scrolling through the responses, it seems like everyone’s got an answer to what they would do if an intruder breaks in at 3AM that doesn’t include “beating them up”, except for the Replacement. It’s clear that most of their suggestions are jokes – Superboy’s assertation that he’d just “clone” at an intruder is sandwiched between suggesting that he’d lose all of his hair as an intimidation tactic and bake a pie so good they’d forget about what they came to do, Wonder Girl suggesting that she’d force them into a win-or-die contest of karaoke so painful they’d have to forfeit and leave if they wanted to keep their sanity intact, and Impulse declaring that he’d announce a speed eating contest to absolutely crush their morale. Replacement... the Replacement’s only suggestion was that he’d do what his parents had taught him, and just wouldn’t be there when they broke in.

What the hell kind of joke was that?

“It’s a meme,” Replacement reiterates, glaring at the phone in Jason’s hands. “But I never learned any cool skills. My parents aren’t really around to tell me what to do or not do, and now I’m fucked.” 

“Language,” Jason responds automatically, too used to Alfie’s disapproving stare to say anything else, now that he’s been distracted from his quest for vengeance. Anyways, aren’t the little shit’s parents dead? Wasn’t that a requirement to be Robin in the first place? “What do you mean, they aren’t really around to tell you shit?”

“I don’t live with the Bats, you can’t make me do shit when I’m not in the manor,” Drake complains. Which. What? 

He’s Robin. He’s Bruce’s kid, his latest pet project after the first one flew the coop and the second one got himself killed. What the hell does he mean he doesn’t live in the manor? 

Replacement reaches over, swiping to a different app. The calendar, this time. The entire month is highlighted, with the text “Dig – Argentina” displayed. Jason pokes at the screen, scrolling through the previous months. “Dig – Palo Alto”, “Dig – Nicaragua”, “Dig...”

“These are...” Jason trails off. He’d thought that the kid was an orphan.

“’M parent’s dig schedules. They’re archeologists, their work is important,” the Replacement mumbles, dropping his head into his arms. He sounds like he’s repeating a phrase that’s since lost all meaning, with how many times it’s been uttered.

Guess he’s not an orphan, not yet. With the way Robin luck tends to go...

It’s been nine months since the Drake parents have been in the States. They stayed for less than two days. This is not unusual for them, Jason finds as he keeps scrolling. The kid’s parents really aren't around to teach him this shit.

Normally, Jason would scoff and make a cruel joke about people being rich enough they can pay others to raise their kids for them, but... the kid’s got another regular set of reminders set up. Once every two weeks on Monday, for an hour block, “Mrs. Mac housekeeping visit – CLEAN UP BEFOREHAND” is penned in. The housekeeper. There’s no one else. 

Parent teacher conferences are marked, the excuses the Replacement had used written out neatly in the notes section. Entire emails he’d sent out pretending to be his parents, detailing why they couldn’t make it for the tenth time in a row. 

Another set of highlights clearly marks his patrol schedule as Robin – before the green itch can really set in, Jason makes the mistake of clicking on one from a month ago. It’s been marked as “cancelled – Dick noticed the broken ankle”. Earlier in the same month, he finds another cancellation, credited towards “102 degree fever, Alfred caught me after I blacked out”. Another one says, “Ribs still haven’t healed, Dick called Leslie on me ☹”.

From the extensive notes he’s taken, it looks like the Replacement regularly goes out and gets the shit beaten out of him. More than half of the crap Jason reads about should have been caught by someone keeping a watchful eye on the kid, or even just checking to make sure he’s good to go on patrol before fucking off into the pits of Gotham with a kid who’s got busted ribs and a fucking fever so high he would barely be able to see straight. What the fuck.

“Replacement. Drake. What the hell is this.” 

The Replacement grumbles, titling his head enough to see the screen Jason shoves in his face, calendar appointment detailing the shitshow that was Robin’s patrol on April 13th.

Hissing, the kid snaps out a hand and snatches the phone away. “You didn’t see that!”

“I didn’t see what, the fact that no one’s taken the time to actually check on you and make sure you aren’t going to have your neck broken whenever you go out on patrol?”

“’S not their job to look out for me,” the Replacement snaps. “Don’t look at my shit.” 

“You’re the one who showed me!” Jason exclaims, exasperated.

“Yeah, to give you context on the meme!” the Replacement argues. “Not to poke around in my schedule! You’re not supposed to know I’m Robin! I asked for help figuring out what to do as Tim – I know what I’m supposed to do as Robin.”

This time Jason puts his head in his hands. “Kid. Take a look around.” 

Warily, the kid does. After a quick glance at their surroundings, he turns back to Jason, devoid of comprehension. 

His sigh comes across his helmet’s vocal filters as a burst of static. “Replacement. Kid. We’re in Titans Tower.”

“And...?”

“And, why the hell would I track Timothy Drake down to Titans Tower?!” Jason asks, exasperated.

“I don’t know!” the kid replies, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “I don’t even know who you really are, how am I supposed to know why you’d do anything! The new Red Hood stays in Gotham, cleaning up Crime Alley! You don’t kidnap people not related to the drug or trafficking business! Why the fuck do you want me to tell you why you would do something completely out of your normal behavioral pattern!”

“I hate Bats!” Jason snaps. 

“You and B both!” Tim cries. “What does that have to do with anything?! Why are you asking me so many questions?!”

“I’m not here for Timothy Drake, I’m here for you! For Robin !” Jason snarls, standing so quickly, he knocks his chair to the ground.

The Replacement flinches, and Jason feels something inside of him go cold. No, Jason, stop getting sidetracked!

“But I’m not Robin,” he whispers. “Not right now. I’m just… me.” 

Robin’s been at Titans Tower for a week and a half, now. The day before he’d made the trip, the night’s patrol had been cancelled due to Alfred noticing that the concussion that’d cut the previous day’s patrol short was far from fixed. He’s gone on three missions since then.

“What do you mean, you’re not Robin right now?” Jason hisses, looming over the shorter boy.

The Replacement shrinks in on himself, shoulders rising defensively. The posture scratches at something in the back of Jason’s mind, even as green-tinted anger fills his thoughts. “I can’t look out for B right now, so I came here.” 

“Can’t look out – kid, he’s supposed to be the one looking out for you! Why the hell do you have to look out for him in order to be Robin?!”

The kid glares, losing some of his defensive posturing. “Because that’s my job! It’s the only reason I’m wearing these damn colors! Jason died, and Bruce went crazy! The only way to keep him from killing himself, from killing normal purse-snatchers, was for Robin to make him, and Dick said no!” Heaving for breath, tears start to well in the corner of the kid’s eyes. “I just needed a break! A week of not reminding him that he lost his son, a week where I don’t have to be confronted with the reality that I’m barely even good enough to be a placeholder until he finds someone who’s actually qualified to take over as his partner! I just wanted to be me! I wanted to be enough!”

“What...”

There’s... a lot to unpack there. Bruce went crazy? The old bastard was already crazy, Jason could’a told you that. But why the hell would the Bat try and kill common criminals when he’d left that fucker alive? On the other hand... what the hell is up with this kid?! How does B keep finding the ones with a martyr complex already ingrained into their psyche?

While Jason’s lost in his head, the kid apparently decides that he’s had enough. “If you’re not gonna help me figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do, I’m just going to go back to writing up my mission report.”

He moves to stand, one hand wiping angrily at his teary eyes, and wobbles concerningly once he lets go of the table.

Instinctually, Jason reaches out to steady him with a hand on his shoulder. 

The kid practically melts into the touch, sinking into it almost unconsciously.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, not trying to extract himself from Jason at all. “You’re not being helpful. And you,”

Jason turns his head to follow the accusing finger the kid points over his shoulder. There’s no one there.

“You can shut the hell up. I can’t believe you’re being rude right now.” 

“... who’re you talking to, kid?” Jason asks, tone even and conversational.

“Jason,” the kid huffs, making Jason jump. “He’s not usually this clear, though. Or this funny. Usually, he just tells me that I’m not supposed to be doing this.” 

Jason was gonna do a whole lot more than tell you you aren’t supposed to be doing this, Jason thinks somewhat hysterically. Is the kid seeing things?

Grabbing a pen light, he shifts his other hand to cup the kid’s head and tilt it back. Shining the light in his eyes earns Jason an offended hiss, but his pupils look like they’re the same size. Jason hadn’t seen him take any blows to the head while he watched over their most recent mission, and no mind-altering substances had come into play. That leaves...

“How long has it been since you last slept?” Jason asks, looking at the empty mug of coffee abandoned on the table in a different light. 

“’Bout three days,” the kid grumbles. “Had to make sure nothing was gonna go wrong for the mission, and the fight went long. Needed coffee.”

As though changing mental tracks, the kid’s expression clears and he locks onto the abandoned mug. “Coffee...”

Shrugging out of Jason’s hold, he reaches out, stumbling towards the table despite it being less than one step away from him.

Jason grabs him again, pulling him away. “Kid, I think you’ve had enough coffee.”

“No! Who’re you supposed to be, Alfred? You can’t tell me what to do, you don’t live here!” Drake spits, then pauses. “You don’t live here, right? I haven’t tracked down any of Red Hood’s bases yet, since you’re pretty new.”

“Why would I live in the Titans Tower?” Jason asks, marveling at the kid’s lack of common sense. Three days without sleep is when the hallucinations start to kick in, isn’t it? Is that what he thinks is happening here? “Replacement, stop trying to get the coffee. I’m here to kick your ass, not keep you from overdosing on caffeine.”

“Oh,” the kid replies, blinking up at him. “So... you don’t live here?”

“I don’t,” Jason confirms. Christ, it’s like he’s dealing with his little Alley brats all over again, with their distrustful eyes and eight million questions. He does not find it endearing, he’s supposed to beat this kid up.

“You’re here because you broke in,” Drake clarifies.

“More or less.” 

“At... three AM. You broke in at three AM.” Tim’s eyes go wide. “Shit.” 

Is this it? Will Jason finally be able to talk with a Tim Drake that understands the gravity of the situation he’s found himself in? 

Whipping his face up to look at Jason’s helmet, the kid desperately asks, “What am I supposed to do?!”

Jason sighs. Back to square one. He’s never going to be able to beat the kid up, at this rate.

“Kid, you’re Robin. What do you think you’re supposed to do?”

Shaking his head frantically, the kid grabs onto Jason’s arm. “I’m not! I’m not wearing the colors right now, and I don’t know what to do! I’m not prepared, I thought I’d have more time!”

Fuck it. He doesn’t particularly want to be stuck in this dumb logic loop, but he also doesn’t feel like beating up someone who’s so out of it they’re literally seeing things. If Drake is gonna act like one of Hood’s pre-pubescent Alley kids, Jason’s gonna treat him like one - until he pulls himself together, that is.

Putting both hands on the kid’s shoulders, Jason kneels slightly so he’s not towering over the other so much. “What do you want to do?”

The kid stalls out. “I... what?”

“Sounds to me like your friends didn’t have the most conventional upbringings either, but they all chose what their retaliation techniques would be by thinking of something they thought would be fun, or funny. What do you want to do, now? What do you think would be a fun way to deter me?”

Drake stares up at him with wide, awe-struck eyes. He glances to the left of Jason’s shoulder.

“Do you think…” Darting his eyes back to Jason’s red helmet, he pauses. Looks over again. “Really? Are you sure?”

The kid’s talking to a hallucination of Jason, while the real Jason is right in front of him. Real Jason doesn’t know whether he should be offended or charmed. 

With one last skeptical look at something only he can see, Drake turns back to Jason. Firmly, he says, “I wanna learn knife.”

That was not what he was expecting. “Knife?”

Nodding sharply, the kid adds on, “Imagine – there’s Robin, right? Or, I guess, there’s me? And then, all of a sudden, boom! I have a knife.”

“That’s...” Jason trails off. The kid’s staring up at him, fully invested in learning the way of the knife, not a single doubt in his mind that this may not be the best thing to ask for in this situation. He'd said that his parents hadn't been around to teach him shit, but did they not teach their kid basic self defense? Maybe he just meant the more showy, lethal tricks Jason's got in his repertoire. “...it would be pretty funny if Robin started coming after people with a knife,” he relents. Imagine, a tiny kid dressed in circus colors, chasing after fully grown criminals with a tiny ass knife. 

“Then I could say, ‘Knife to meet you’!” the kid mumbles. “Wait, no, at that point I’d have already met them, since I’m trying to stop them. ‘Knife to see you again’? That implies that there’s been a gap between the start of our meeting and then. Knife to, knife to... Why are puns so stupid?!”

Jason laughs under his breath. What the hell, he can’t be that mad at the new Robin if he’s already bemoaning the fact that Dick set a precedence of coming up with terrible puns. “Worry about the puns later, kid. Come on, I’ll teach you how to ‘knife’.”

His entire plan is in shambles, a perfectly good opportunity wasted. Sure, he could take the kid down now, beat him so badly it’d put him on bedrest for months, but what good would that do? Drake's already so careless with his own health that he’s benched himself countless times before. He doesn’t live with B, so his broken body wouldn’t serve as a constant reminder of the man’s failures as a guardian. The kid’s clearly got a fucked up sense of self worth already, and Jason wouldn’t feel right taking advantage of that to reiterate what his hallucinations are apparently also telling him. 

Instead, Jason finds himself leading his replacement, his... Robin. He finds himself leading Robin to the common area, pushing the coffee table off to the side as he grabs one of his many knives and hands it to the kid.

Tim takes it, holding it with both hands like it’s made of pure gold. “Knife...”

Jason laughs, reaching out to adjust the kid’s grip into something less offensive to Jason’s highly trained sensibilities.

“Alright, kid. Let’s get some lessons in, before you crash.” 

This is absolutely not what he came here to do, but... Jason can’t seem to bring that roiling tempest of hate to the forefront of his mind anymore. Not for this kid, who’s so overworked he fled Gotham to get away from B. For Robin, who’s so sleep deprived and anxious he’ll ask literally anyone for help instead of pretending that he knows what the hell he’s doing.

Dim emergency lighting illuminates their makeshift practice area, the dark sky almost sucking light out through the large windows surrounding them. The kid kind of smells, obviously not having taken the time to shower before diving head-first into whatever rabbit hole he’d been in before Jason had found him.

He’s also eager to learn, rolling with the punches and repeating the actions Jason demonstrates over and over and over, until he can do them without hesitating. He's not good at it, not yet, but he’ll get there if he keeps practicing. There's no prior training or bad habits for Jason to correct, which is just wrong, but Jason's fixing that. The occasional jokes or offended retorts Tim calls out in response to Jason or his hallucinations are somewhat concerning, but mostly just end up being entertaining. 

Despite himself, Jason kind of doesn’t hate this kid.

...

After forty-five minutes, a shuffle from the stairwell interrupts their lesson.

Snapping his head up, Jason quickly assesses their newest addition.

Bart Allen, looking as rumpled as a puppy woken up from its nap, stumbles down the last couple of steps, one hand going to push his atrocious bed-head out of his face and somehow missing. 

Damn, Jason had thought that he’d gotten the speedster’s formula down. His hesitance to go for the heavier dosage is really coming back to bite him in the ass, since this little puff ball has managed to burn through about two elephants' worth of tranquilizer in less than an hour. Ah well, he knows better now – the next batch he makes will be better calibrated.

Their interloper is so out of it, he doesn’t seem to realize there’s an extra person in the tower until he’s so close to Jason he almost bumps into him.

Bart looks up, blankly taking in the red helmet. His gaze slides to the left, where Drake’s practicing his horizontal slashes with a singular focus. Recognition sparks.

“Oh, wait, aren’t you –”

Jason points his knife at him. “Shut the fuck up.” 

“But aren’t you –” 

Fucking future kid. “I’m not anyone, right now. Zip it, kid, or else.”

The speedster pouts at him, not threatened in the slightest. What the hell, does Jason just lose all credibility sometime between now and whenever the hell the kid comes from? Shouldn’t he be intimidated, or hell, even just a little bit wary?

“Fine.” Bart makes his way over to the couch, slumping into the cushions and wrapping himself with one of the fluffy blankets thrown over the back.

Jason eyes him suspiciously, but the kid ends up falling back asleep within five minutes of sitting down. Shrugging, he turns his attention back to teaching Robin the best places to stab a motherfucker.

...

Drake endures an impressive three hours of Jason’s knife lessons before dropping, two more than Jason thought he would.

At one point, Bart had started snoring, and the kid had wobbled – Jason thought that would be the end of it, the siren song of sleep calling out to claim another victim, but his little thief had just shaken his head, slapping his cheeks with both hands before going back to practicing. To be honest, Jason had been reluctantly impressed.

The level of disregard for his own wellbeing, the single-track mind honing in on the task at hand, enough stubbornness to outlast god and the confidence that he’d win that contest... shit, the kid’s practically B, but less... asshole-ish. The only way he’s let Jason down so far is by existing in a spot he used to fill, which is leagues better than all the crap B’s done, by Jason’s math.

Still, even the most bullheaded of Robin’s hadn’t been able to beat the natural order of things, not for very long.

This time, succumbing means sleep instead of death. 

Staring down at the crumpled form in his arms, Jason sighs.

Everything would be so much easier if he could just go back to hating this little beanstalk of a kid. Instead, he’s spent three hours coaching him on how to knife an unexpected intruder because his parents were never around to teach him that vital skill.

Hefting the kid into the air, he dumps him onto the couch next to his still sleeping teammate, grabbing another blanket and draping it over him. 

That done, he returns to the center of the room, snatching up the various knives that came out during Jason’s “midnight special” class. He pushes the table back into place. He wipes the table down, getting rid of any prints or identifying marks. He treks over to the kitchen, repeating the process. 

After Jason’s retraced his steps throughout the entire tower, getting rid of any evidence left behind, he doubles back to ensure he didn’t miss anything.

Twenty minutes later, and he’s back in front of the couch holding two slumbering teenagers, and he’s run out of excuses.

Huffing in annoyance, Jason flings himself down next to his replacement, jostling him enough to get an unintelligible grumble for the offense. If he ends up with his leg close enough that the kid can use it as a pillow for his head, it’s just a coincidence. 

Unwilling to spend the rest of however long this weird mood grips him for staring at Drake and future boy, Jason piles the used knives into his lap and pulls out his maintenance kit.

May as well be productive, even if he’s going to have to completely reevaluate his whole revenge/rebirth plan.

Kon wakes up to a pounding headache and a mouth full of cotton, which is weird. Even when he gets sick, which has only happened twice, he never feels this bad. What the heck happened, again?

Squinting, he shoves himself upright.

Jeeze, thinking hurts right now. He’ll just bug Robin, their nerdy leader will probably know exactly what’s wrong with him and have three different plans on how to fix it.

Blindly, Kon pushes himself out of his room and follows the sound of Robin’s heartbeat. He’s in the common room, which is kind of weird – he usually hangs out by the computers in the ops center, or attached to a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

He’s not alone, though. Bart’s there, rapid heartbeat slowed somewhat by what has to be sleep. Good, at least he’s got company.

Not bothering to take the stairs normally, Kon flies down to the right level, internally grumbling over how the dorms and the kitchen are on different floors. Sure, most of the heros who’ve lived in the tower have been proven to be more likely to set things on fire than to actually make food, but still. It’s annoying.

Rubbing his eyes, Kon enters the main living area. “Hey, Rob –” 

“Shh!”

What the heck?

Who on earth is that?!

Kon’s eyes snap open at the unfamiliar sound of a voice being filtered through a modulator hissing at him. There’s a third heartbeat he hadn’t noticed before, slightly muffled by what has to be lead-lined clothing.

What kind of crazy person wears lead-lined clothing?!

Someone who also wears lead-lined, cherry red helmets of questionable design.

Falling into a fighting stance, Kon takes stock of his opponent. The guy’s large, his form-fitting (lead-lined! What the heck!!) clothes showing off a bulky frame partially hidden by his posture. He’s sitting on the couch, a dozen knives spread out in front of him.

“What –”

“Shh!” The intruder says again, actually bringing his finger up to where his mouth should be as he shushes Kon, like he’s a toddler who’s being too loud.

Offended, he opens his mouth again, but the dude beats him to it.

“I just got the kid to knock out. If you fucking wake him up again, clone boy, then so help me I will shoot you so full of kryptonite you’ll fucking glow.”

Kon blinks. Aside from the threat of violence, it almost sounds like... he’s trying to make sure Robin sleeps? Which, if this guy can manage that, he’s more than welcome to break into the Tower whenever he wants. The rest of the Titans have been fighting that losing battle for as long as they’ve known their boss.

Their boss, who’s currently rolled up in a blanket and sacked out on the couch right next to the guy with very questionable fashion choices, resting his head on the dude’s leg as he snores quietly. Bart’s tucked into his other side, squishing the other boy slightly.

It makes the vigilante look adorable. Kon flushes at that thought, shaking his head.

Lowering his voice, he comes closer. If Mr. Bad Fashion doesn’t want to wake up Robin, he probably won’t try to start any crap with Kon. “Holy cow, you actually got him to sleep?!”

The guy makes a sound that’s probably a sigh, but turns his attention back to the gleaming knives in his lap. With fluid movements, he wipes the rag Kon hadn’t noticed over the one he’s currently working on, rubbing until the metal glistens. “Finally. Little shit lasted for three goddamn hours.”

He’s got no idea what lasted for three hours. He’s also realizing that he doesn’t really care – he still feels like crap, and the couch is right there. Their guest probably isn’t gonna do anything, so Kon can just... float on over... and...

Flopping over Bart’s limp form, Kon sprawls so his legs dangle off of the edge of the couch. He’s out in seconds.

Cassie wishes that she didn’t know what being drugged feels like.

Unfortunately, she’s a hero, and has had the dubious privilege of experiencing that god-awful feeling too freaking many times to count, so she’s out of luck there.

Grumbling to herself, she takes stock – aside from feeling like hot garbage, she doesn’t think she has any new injuries. Opening her eyes to the bright morning sunlight pouring in through familiar windows, she notes that she’s still in her room in the tower, so she hasn’t been kidnapped.

What the heck?

If nothing happened, why did someone drug her?

... did something happen to one of the boys?!

Leaping out of bed, she slams open her door, poised to sprint down the hall and beat the tar out of whoever thought they could come onto her turf and mess with her – 

Why can she smell bacon?

Ugh, what is even happening this morning!

Allowing herself to feel grumpy rather than confrontational, Cassie starts down the hallway at a more reasonable pace. If someone broke into the Tower to try and catch them off guard, they sure as heck wouldn’t do it by making breakfast.

Maybe it’s one of the older Titans, coming by for a visit?

Once she makes her way into the kitchen (ughhh, why does it have to be on another floor? Robin had explained it, but she hadn’t been listening), she can safely say that whoever’s making breakfast is not an older Titan stopping in for a visit.

There’s a man in dark body armor at the stove, a spatula in one hand and a plate covered with paper towel in the other. He’s tall, even taller than Kon, and wearing an ugly red helmet.

“You look stupid,” she blurts out, unthinking. 

“Good morning to you too,” the dude replies flatly, voice weird through whatever modulation technology he’s got in his dumb villain-wannabe headpiece. 

Dragging out a chair at the table, Cassie plops herself down, leaning forward and examining their cook. “Who are you supposed to be?” 

The guy tilts his head over his shoulder, probably looking at her. Not that she can actually tell, seeing as he’s wearing a tacky helmet while indoors. 

“Red Hood.”

Cassie raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You look like more of a Red Helmet, to me.” 

Red Helmet flips her off, which is rude, before going back to his pan of sizzling bacon.

That reminds her – “Why are you cooking?”

The guy grunts. “Robin. The kid’s shit at taking care of himself.”

“Hey, don’t talk smack about Robin!” Cassie defends automatically, but her heart’s not really in it. Helmet Head’s not exactly wrong – their leader, as much as she loves him, is kinda really bad at taking care of himself. He also...

“Robin doesn’t eat bacon,” she says. The pork bacon’s more for her and Kon, whenever they feel daring enough to try to make some without setting anything on fire.

“Shit,” the dude says. “Is he vegetarian?”

“Nah, he’s Kosher,” Cassie replies. “We’ve got turkey bacon for him on the second shelf, but towards the back. He tends to... forget about things he puts on the stove.” Not that she’s any better.

Red Helmet grumbles out another series of very unhappy words, fishing out the bacon he’d cooked and placing them onto the waiting plate. He immediately takes the hot pan over to the sink and starts cleaning it.

“Shoulda guessed. I knew his parents were Jewish, but didn’t think... Guess that’s another thing he and B have in common.” 

This guy knows Robin’s parents? Wait, does that mean this random dude knows who Robin actually is ? Who is Red Helmet?!

Glaring at the dude, Cassie tries to intimidate him into answering her unasked questions with just her eyes. It’s... not very effective.

The dude finishes cleaning out the pan, shoving to the side to dry as he easily locates a second pan to throw onto the stove. Moving over to the fridge, he grabs the turkey bacon, some vegetables they’ve been letting sit at the back of the shelves since none of them really... know how to cook, and the carton of eggs.

As he pops the kosher bacon into the new pan, he sets the veggies up at a wooden board Cassie’s seen in the kitchen but never used. Quickly, he chops up the peppers and onions, throwing them into a different, smaller pan.

“... what are you doing?” She asks again.

“Fucking cooking. You had it right the first time you asked me.” 

Frowning at the guy, she crosses her arms. “But, why are you here, cooking? I get that you’re doing this for Robin, but he didn’t tell us he was gonna have a guest over.”

“That’s ‘cause he didn’t know I was gonna be here,” Red Helmet says, his dumb fake voice not giving anything away. “I came to do some things, he completely de-railed all of my plans, and now I’m going to make sure he makes it to age fifteen.” 

“Isn’t he already fifteen?” Cassie asks, confused.

“No shit? Kid looks like he’s twelve,” Red Head hums, the noise staticky and uncomfortable to listen to. He’s kind of off-putting, all hulking and not having a face. “Doesn’t matter – the baby bird needs someone to take care of him, since everyone else has apparently lost their damn minds.”

That’s... an answer, Cassie supposes. Whatever. She feels gross, the guy hasn’t attacked anyone yet, and she’s gonna get eggs and bacon out of meeting him. He can be a little suspicious if he wants to be. She’s not gonna judge him to his face, much.

Awareness comes back to Tim in fits and bursts. He feels warm pressure against his side, smells Bart’s overpowering deodorant. Something shifts under his head, a blanket is draped over his eyes to help block the stupid sunlight coming through the Tower windows. Food smells, bacon and eggs. Low voices, all familiar enough that he doesn’t do more than register tone instead of words.

At one point, he’s pretty sure that someone picks him up, but he’s honestly too tired to really care. It’s probably Kon, and the half-Kryptonian knows better than to drop him. He’s not worried. 

A moment later, and he’s seated at the kitchen table, head flopped forward and still wrapped in the ancient fuzzy yellow blanket no one uses because it traps heat too well, causing anyone who makes that mistake to get sweaty and flushed as they refuse to admit they messed up.

Something’s placed in front of him, and he groans. Rolling his head, Tim slits his eyes open just enough to check on what’s invading his personal space.

It’s... a plate? A plate with food on it.

The turkey bacon looks perfectly crisp, no scorch marks in sight, and there’s a no-kidding omelet next to the neat pile. No one at the tower knows how to make anything other than scrambled eggs, at best. 

It smells good. 

Did Alfred come over? 

No, that’s dumb. Why on earth would Alfred come all the way out to Titan’s Tower just to make breakfast for Tim and his team?

Well, if it’s not him, then who...?

Frowning, Tim braves the herculean task that is raising his head off of the nice, cool metal tabletop. Blinking his eyes until they focus, Tim looks around. Across from him, Kon's slumped in his chair, staring at something behind Tim vacantly. Cassie's next to Superboy, frowning slightly, but looking decently awake compared to her teammate. Rolling his head, he spots Bart sitting next to him, all but vibrating in his chair, a wide grin on his face as he switches where he’s looking quickly enough to give Tim a headache.

They all have plates in front of them, full of food. Kon and Cassie have tall glasses of juice in front of them – none of his team looks particularly concerned.

Someone walks up behind him, and an unfamiliar set of hands place down two new cups in front of him and Bart.

Tim freezes. He hadn’t gotten word of any plans to stop by from one of the older heroes, and he doesn’t recognize whoever the hell just gave them something very easily poisoned.

Cassie squints at him, waiting for his reaction. Bart vibrates faster, his smile still disconcertingly large. Does he know who this is? 

Tim snaps upright, whipping around as his hand snags the first bit of cutlery he touches.

The Red Hood stares back at him, body language unimpressed. Missing his signature leather jacket, the Gotham City crime lord has his arms crossed over that tiny “kiss the cook” apron Dick always sends sad looks at whenever he visits. He’s holding a spatula in one hand.

“What are you –”

Quicker than his tired eyes can track, the spatula flashes out, smacking the hand holding Tim’s improvised weapon.

“Fix your grip!” The crime lord chides, his mechanical voice weirdly soft.

Automatically, he re-adjusts how he’s holding... the butterknife. Said piece of silverware feels weird in his hand, like it’s something he’s starting to get used to, but not quite right.

It feels the same as when he holds batarangs, instead of birdarangs.

Last time Tim checked, he didn’t know how to fight with knives – Bruce had taught him to do defend against them, how to disarm a knife-wielding opponent, but he's never learned how to actually use them. 

How...? 

Red freaking Hood nods in approval at the new grip. “Good, you didn’t forget. Just because it’s blunt doesn’t mean you won’t be able to do a decent amount of damage, especially if you know how and where to swing. Now, eat your eggs.”

“What?!” Tim cries, not sitting back down. “Red Hood?!”

“Oh, now he recognizes me,” the rogue snarks, putting his hands on his hips in a move that reminds Tim uncomfortably of a lecturing Dick Grayson. “Your situational awareness is terrible, Baby Bird, and you make crap decisions when you’re running on fumes. Eat your damn breakfast and go back to sleep – you’re not allowed up until you get a solid twelve hours, and so far you’ve only been out for four.”

“What the hell is happening?” Tim gasps out, turning his head to try and get context clues from his team. He is rarely this lost, and he really doesn’t like the feeling.

Kon shrugs, unhelpful. “Found him on the couch with you and Bart last night. The dude got you to sleep, so I figure he can stay for as long as he wants.”

Cassie’s frowning, but she’s also halfway through her omelet, obviously not afraid of the food being tampered with. “Red Head was cooking breakfast when I came downstairs. He said he knows you?”

That’s concerning! Why is a crime lord here for Robin? How did he even track him down to San Francisco, let alone get access to the tower?! Also, Tim’s in civvies! Sure, his team doesn’t actually know his name, but Tim Drake is more than rich enough to be a known target for Gotham’s criminal element. That means that Red Hood knows who he is.

“OhmygodIcan’tbelievewegettomeetRedHood!” Bart cheers, too fast for Tim’s brain to parse. “Iknewhewouldbecomingbackaroundnowbutit’swildtoactuallyseehim –”

“Oy, eat your bacon!” the Red Hood snaps, pointing his spatula at Bart. Despite the tone, he’s not...

Tim takes a second to step back and re-evaluate the situation.

Red Hood broke into the Titan’s Tower last night. At some point, he, Bart, and Red Hood end up on the couch together in the common room attached to the kitchen (he’s guessing; the yellow sweat-maker only ever haunts one couch, after all). Kon found them, didn’t hear or see any sign of injury or distress, and also went to sleep. Cassie woke up in the morning to find Red Hood making food.

Tim... Tim can’t really remember anything from last night. Honestly, the past two, maybe three days have just been a blur of exhaustion and determination, nothing on his mind other than completing their mission with as few injuries as possible. The final battle had dragged on for what had felt like forever, they’d all made it back to the Tower, Tim had waved the others to bed as he went to put together the mission report, he’d probably had a coffee break somewhere in there...

The more he tries to remember, the faster coherent thoughts slip from between his fingers. There was stress, then worry, then overwhelming despair. Indignation, surprise, joy. He...

Looking down at his hands, Tim notices a set of fresh calluses that weren’t there the day before. Shooting a tentative glance over at the weirdly non-threatening crime lord, he asks hesitantly, “Did you... teach me something?”

The man nods. “Knife.”

Huh?

Reading Tim’s obvious confusion, the Red Hood clarifies. “I taught you knife.”

Tim scowls. “What does that even mean?”

The asshole shrugs, very nonchalant for someone on the FBI’s most wanted list who’s also in the presence of multiple heroes. “I’m just repeating what you asked for, kid. Obviously, English isn’t your best subject.”

Tim flushes. Who even needs English class anyways? God, does this mean that freaking Red Hood knows his grades?! Why would he know Tim’s grades?! 

Taking pity on him, the older man snickers, but relents. “Originally I came in to talk to you one on one, but you were pretty out of it. Y’kept asking me what you should do, since a strange man broke in at 3 AM and your method of “just don’t be there” didn’t fucking work.”

Gaping, Tim does find a vague recollection of something similar being behind the overwhelming feelings of panic and despair.

“Figured that, what with the way nothing was going how it was supposed to, I may as well help you out. Teach you knife, unleash a stabby Robin into the world and watch it shriek in confused terror. Force you to sleep and eat, make sure you live long enough to grow out of the scaley panties.” 

Tim’s asshole teammates are snickering around him, but his head is full of cotton right now. That sounds fake. Is it fake? It doesn’t feel fake, it feels embarrassingly probable as something Past Tim could have definitely done to screw over Present Tim. But...

“I wear pants?”

Dismissive, Red Hood waves the spatula again. He’s a menace with that thing, really. “And that’s probably the only smart decision you’ve made after choosing to dress up as a target and go out without having a proper support network to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

“Why do you care?” Tim snaps, irritated. He has back up, usually! “Do you really want me to believe that you, the Red Hood, cares about whether Robin lives or dies? What, are you planning on being the support network I apparently lack?!”

Red Hood twitches, and all of the thoughts Tim had about him seeming relatively harmless are now completely wrong. His shoulders are tight, arms clenched, an air of anger almost visibly dripping from his frame. “For some reason, Baby Bird, I feel like I care the most about whether or not Robin lives or dies.” 

For the life of him, Tim can’t tell if the words are a threat, or a confirmation.

The crime lord leans forward, looming over Tim menacingly. “And yes. Since B’s fucking useless, and you’re stupid enough to not tell N or Agent A whenever you’re injured, you need someone to see through your bullshit. May as well be me, since I’m already invested.”

Tim’s sweating, trying to swallow past the knot in his throat. He doesn’t really like the sound of that. 

“Now,” Red Hood growls, reaching forward to grab Tim’s shoulders, “eat your fucking food.” 

He’s pushed into his seat and spun around, fork shoved into his empty hand. Dizzy from the sudden change, Tim’s blindsided. That’s not where he thought this was going at all.

“You look like you’re twelve, kid. You need to eat more so you can actually grow.”

And now Red Hood's back to being a weird, only slightly intimidating approximation of a caring older sibling.

Taking a breath, Tim looks at his teammates again. Kon’s still half asleep, occasionally shoving a forkful of egg into his mouth as he keeps a tired eye on Red Hood, unconcerned. Cassie’s finished her food and set her head down, apparently annoyed by Tim’s early-morning (afternoon? Tim doesn’t actually know what time it  is, now that he thinks about it) theatrics. Bart’s grinning like there’s no tomorrow, still hyperactive, plowing through his third plate of food.

He glances back at Red Hood, who’s turned back to the stove, poking at something in a small pan, probably another omelet for Bart.

Oh, what the hell.

This may as well happen.

If shit goes sideways, that’s a problem for Future Tim.

He digs into his food. It’s shockingly good, and Tim’s half-tempted to let the known criminal keep coming by for that fact alone: it’s been a while since he’s last had a home cooked meal, and he doesn’t think he can remember eating something that wasn’t made by him or Mrs. Mac.

(All of his feelings of goodwill evaporate when, fifteen minutes later, the asshole of a crime lord forces Tim back into that fucking yellow blanket and marches him back to the couch, sitting on him until he falls back asleep. Rude ass motherfucker didn’t even let him have a cup of coffee first.)