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Jason's setup is flawless.
The clown is unconscious the next room over, and while his mere presence is enough to make Jason's skin crawl, the knowledge that he'll never hurt anyone again after tonight fills him with a sense of calm. This is what the past three years have been leading up to, the culmination of all his blood, sweat, and tears. He'd whittled himself down to nothing for a single moment of peace—
Because tonight, the Joker is going to die.
He'll die by Bruce's hands or by Jason's, but he'll be gone once and for all. Jason doesn't have much faith in Bruce, though, is the thing. The man who'd adopted him, who had promised to keep him safe, who was supposed to put his son first—Jason's father had failed him time and again, and he doesn't expect that to change now. But Jason… deep in his heart he wants to believe that, for once, Bruce will choose him over the mission.
(Jason wants to believe he's still worthy of love.)
He's lost in his thoughts when he shouldn't be. Jason shakes himself free of the strange mood before it can overcome him any further, needing to focus. But suddenly:
"You don't want to do this," someone says from behind him. Jason whirls around, his gun trained on the man in an instant. The man raises his hands in some semblance of surrender, but it's too casual; it seems almost like a mockery, like he's only humoring Jason, like he doesn't think Jason will actually shoot.
So just to be petty, Jason fires a warning shot that glances the man's shoulder.
The man—doesn't flinch.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" Jason says, voice cold even through the modulator. The unknown vigilante—and there's no mistaking that's what he is—tilts his head to the side, almost birdlike; with that and the yellow emblem on his suit, it's impossible not to make the connection to Robin. Jason feels an indescribable anger start to simmer inside him at the gall. "You're not one of the Bat's brood."
The man smiles like Jason's just said something funny. "No, I'm not," he says, sounding almost rueful. Jason growls at the obvious deflection, but all the man does is bite his lip. "It's complicated."
The answer is neither here nor there. The Bats mean something to this man, but whether or not the same can be said of the reverse is yet to be seen. Jason's mind goes through the possibilities: a copycat, perhaps, although the quality of his gear speaks otherwise; that he's a member of Bruce's family Jason hasn't heard about in all this time is even more unlikely. Jason hones in on that face, studying the curve of the man's nose and his sharp cheekbones, those features not quite familiar but somehow pinging something in his brain, anyway…
That's when Jason realizes that the man is trying to hide a smile.
"And that's supposed to mean—what, exactly?" Jason drawls. He itches to pull the trigger but remains perfectly still. He's too well trained to be careless, but there's something about this man that inspires a deep dislike in him, and it takes considerable effort not to give in to the anger.
The man's eyes are hidden behind a domino, so Jason can't tell if his smile is sincere. But that would be insane, wouldn't it, to be smiling at a killer? The man is the same kind of crazy as any Gothamite, at least.
"Take it to mean whatever you want. You can call me Red," the man says.
Jason narrows his eyes. "The name's taken."
"Oh?" Red says with a lilt to his voice. "And here I thought you went by Hood."
"It's Red Hood. Surely the bright red helmet clued you in," Jason says airily. He lifts a shoulder in a mock shrug, but it's really to shake off some of the tension that's creeped into his stance. It works, just a little bit, and he takes stock of everything that could possibly work against him if Red were to suddenly lash out.
"A little on the nose, don't you think?" Red replies without missing a beat. Jason gives his entire ensemble a slow once over; Red chuckles, a nice sound, low and syrupy sweet. "Touché."
"Give it up. You're not as good with the banter as you think you are, Red."
"Why does everyone say that?" There's a light exasperation to that voice. "I know Wing does a much better job, but in my defense, he's been doing the whole quippy-flippy Robin thing since before he hit double digits."
It's entirely the wrong thing to say. Jason's entire body locks up at the sudden mention of Dick, all the breath punched out of him, and Red seems to notice immediately. Red's mask shifts in a way that suggests he's frowning, and his mouth parts, like he's about to—
"Sorry," Red apologizes.
"I don't need a fucking apology," Jason says, frigid, all the warmth having left him in a single second. Not that he'd thought he'd have any to spare. "I don't care."
"Hood…" Red makes to move, but before he can step any closer, Jason fires off another shot; this time, it nicks his cheek. But Red still doesn't react beyond pressing his lips together.
"Whatever reason you have for trying to stop me—I. Don't. Care. That fucking clown is going to die tonight—"
"Jay, breathe," Red says, sounding alarmed. No, he's worried. He has no right to be, and yet he is.
But Jason's shaking for some godforsaken reason, close to hyperventilating, because Red knows who he is even though he's kept it from everyone but Bruce, and where the fuck is Bruce, Bruce can't do one single thing right by Jason, and Jason can't do this on his own—
"I don't know who you think you are or why you think you know me." Jason tries to steady his voice and succeeds, mostly. He just wants this to be over. "You're not going to stop me from killing him."
"I'm not trying to. I don't… I'm not saying it doesn't matter to me if you kill the Joker or not. But I care more about you than I do about you killing anyone. Just—breathe, Jason!"
Red closes the gap between them far too quickly for Jason to react with more than a flinch; Jason expects to be disarmed, but all Red does is wrap his fingers around his wrist. Then Red presses the barrel of Jason's gun against his own chest.
"What are you doing?" Jason says hoarsely.
"It's okay. It'll be okay," Red says, not answering the question. It should be infuriating, but instead it feels like a balm—something that soothes the hurt in him. What is wrong with Jason? "Jay… Bruce isn't coming."
Jason jerks violently in Red's grip.
"What…?" he whispers, almost too softly for the mic in his helmet to pick up. Red must hear it anyway, shaking his head sadly.
"He's not coming."
Jason feels detached from his body as he tries to pull away; Red lets him go easily. He doesn't understand what the hell is happening—but more than that, he doesn't care. He… doesn't care. He cares. He cares so damn much.
"I'm sorry, Jason," Red murmurs into the dead silence.
"Who are you," Jason asks hollowly.
That's what makes Red hesitate, of all things. Red's hand's twitch by his sides, before he raises them to his face slowly. He peels off his mask, and it must sting but he does it anyway.
Because Jason had asked.
When Red reveals himself to be Tim Drake, all Jason can do is stare.
Then his instincts kick in.
"Who the fuck are you?" Jason snarls, taking a step back, and then another. Tim doesn't follow. "Why are you here!"
Tim doesn't have a chance to answer, and Jason doesn't have a moment to press, because suddenly there's a muffled, high-pitched laugh from the other room.
Jason's blood runs cold. Tim's eyes dart to the door behind him, the one hiding the Joker's useless, crumpled form, both legs broken and strapped to a chair.
Tim licks his lips, and it's like he has to drag his attention away from that wretched sound to look back at Jason. There's something in his expression that Jason can't read, but a second later, Tim seems to have made a decision. He presses his mouth into a thin line.
"We need to get out of here," Tim says, voice firm, gaze open and earnest and stubborn. For a moment, Jason thinks he might just understand what everyone sees in Tim Drake.
Jason doesn't know what possesses him to stay still when Tim moves towards him once more. He doesn't know why he feels so helpless when Tim reaches up and behind his head, using deft fingers to undo the latch of his helmet. He's paralyzed.
None of this was supposed to happen. Bruce was supposed to come. Jason was supposed to be free of this hell by now.
Jason's eyes are wide and stinging when he meets Tim's. He has nothing to hide behind anymore—and he has nothing standing in the way of actually seeing Tim now.
This Tim is older than the kid he'd been planning on making an example of in Titans Tower. There's something weary about his gaze, more tired and jaded than what Jason sees when he looks at himself in the mirror.
"I need you to trust me," Tim says, sounding desperate.
Jason's expression twists. "How could I possibly," he replies. Why entertain this at all? Why does this stranger make Jason want to trust in him? "I don't even know you."
Tim searches Jason's face, looking for something, but Jason has no idea what. His eyes are a cool, steel blue and yet manage to fill Jason with warmth anyway—his limbs, his chest, his cheeks.
"You know me," is what Jason finally settles on.
Tim—smiles.
"I know you better than anyone else in the universe, darling," Tim murmurs, voice low and sweet.
And Jason's left stricken.
"Don't think about him," Tim pleads, and Jason isn't sure whether he means the Joker or— "Either of them," he says firmly, like he can read Jason's thoughts. "Think of me and only me, okay?"
Jason exhales slowly, for an eternity, and finds himself nodding.
"Close your eyes."
He does. The gun hangs limply by his side, nearly forgotten; then the air shifts around him as Tim moves quickly away, and Jason can't help but tense once more. But he forces himself to relax, because he thinks he knows why he's going along with this so easily.
It's been so long since anyone's chosen him.
He wants to choose Tim, too.
The door's hinges creak loudly as it opens behind him—and Jason squeezes his eyes shut hard enough to hurt, tight enough that splotches form behind his eyelids. That clown hasn't stopped laughing. Tim says something cold and vicious but it goes in one ear and out the other. A whistle in the air and the loud, jarring impact of something hitting a surface hard. Another bang of the door slamming shut like the lid of a coffin, forever and absolute.
Jason's eyes snap open when Tim grabs his hand and rushes towards the windows, pulling him along.
Bruce isn't coming and the Joker is in the other room. Jason doesn't know what to do, but—Tim crossed time and space for him.
As the building begins to shake, Tim calls out, "I need you to trust me—"
"I do," Jason yells back breathlessly, and runs.
"I need you to trust me," Tim murmurs against Jason's lips, cradling his face. "Do you?"
"I do, baby," Jason says in between kisses, rubbing circles into Tim's hipbones. Soothing the bruises he'd left there before. "You're the only one I trust with this."
Tim's mouth parts in a gasp as the hips under him buck up, Jason's cock filling him again in one slow, delicious slide. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head hang, panting into the air between them as Jason grinds into him.
"You're so good to me, Jay, you always fuck me so good—" He sobs when Jason wraps his fingers around him, stroking his weeping cock. It's so, so sweet. Tim needs more. "God—"
Jason moans his name, whispering gorgeous praise and filthy, obscene promises into his ear.
"Right there," he gasps, and Jason pulls him down to meet his thrusts. Tim squeezes around him, milking Jason as his thighs shake with exertion. "I want—inside—"
Tim spills himself over Jason's fingers just as he feels Jason come inside him.
It might be the last time they make love in this time and place, but they will never, ever stop loving each other.