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Jason can hear his heartbeat growing somehow louder in what (admittedly little) hearing his ears have left past the now constant ringing from the explosion. Honestly the ringing takes up most of his hearing, a frustrating hum that reminds him exactly what happened, but there’s a weird rhythm to the beat hidden underneath the buzz. Or rather, there’s no rhythm. A pause in something constant. Like realizing you’ve been holding your breath for too long, or suddenly feeling the need to blink when your eyes are too dry.
His heart’s not beating right.
Jason can feel his heart struggling to even just stutter let alone pump enough blood through him to keep him awake and alive. His chest is pounding in pain and desperation; lungs trying to catch air and failing to release enough to get more in. A sick wheeze escaping his slack jaw and pulling at the brand new cut through his throat. His heart is stuttering, begging, pleading for help and for safety that is miles away with his murderer in the arms of his newest killer.
It’s familiar.
There’s that, at least.
Jason supposes that there should be some comfort in dying in such a familiar way. Two boys— a teen and a slightly older one. Do the dead grow old in their coffins? Do ghosts age? Not that he’ll ever need to count birthday candles or fill out paperwork again. No use in filling out an epitaph that no one will read— in a pool of blood in a warehouse filled with debris. Both growing cold, trying and failing to cough up smoke and ashes from lungs trying their best not to collapse, watching hope drip away drop by drop with every bead of blood that slips out. Both alone.
He knows what will be killing him this time. Last time it was a fun gamble, a toss-up to see just what vulture would pick the songbird clean. Lungs finally failing? The gaping wounds and internal bleeding? The caved-in chunk of his skull? No, this time there were no guessing games. Just Jason, an empty warehouse, and a bloody batarang besides his slit throat.
There’s a comforting weight to the heaviness behind his eyes. Warmth when he’s freezing, a kind touch when he’s survived on bruises for so long, water in a desert. Freedom from that awful pain. A promise.
Jason doesn’t need to worry anymore. Doesn’t need to gasp down desperate sobs, scream at blank-faced fathers, beg for the safety he’ll never get to see or be granted.
Bruce made his choice.
Jason was not it.
There’s a slight clinking noise in the rubble, something almost like a grapple gun. He should recognize it, considering he spent so many years jumping over rooftops with the help of one, but with the growing heat beneath his head and cold in his limbs he doesn’t have the energy to figure it out. It’s unlikely, anyways, considering the only bat in Gotham at the moment is busy with Arkham and pointedly ignoring the living, albeit not for long, body instead of the empty casket in a far away grave. There’s a shuffling sound too. Like rocks being pushed out of the way, scaffolding stabilized, a faint curse and faster footsteps.
Jason doesn’t need to worry about it.
Doesn’t need to worry about anything anymore.
There’s too much blood.
Tim can barely focus on anything but that. Normally, he’s good at separating his head and heart when examining crime scenes. You can’t have a weak stomach if vigilantism is the career for you, or well, hobby. It’s not a paid gig. Regardless, Tim is not squeamish. You could blame free internet access at way too young an age, a curiosity that refused to be squashed just by viscera, or his own blatant stubbornness. Dick and Steph tended to believe in that last one, but what did they know?
Something about this particular scene, though, is wrong. It doesn’t line up; it doesn’t make sense. Not in the least because of the goddamn face of the body laying in a pool of rubble and blood.
Jason Todd.
Has to be.
Tim’s supposedly dead predecessor is now trying his hardest to go back to his grave. Something that will be very quickly successful if he doesn’t act because if Tim isn’t mistaken, and his scores on the Batcomputer’s medical simulations indicate he’s not, the Red Hood (which wow, credit to Tim because he called it), has lost a concerning amount already.
It’s a solid fact. The sky is blue, don’t drink Gotham’s water, and there is entirety too much blood pooled around Jason Todd’s head.
The cause isn’t exactly hard to find either. What the hell Bruce? Because there’s a batarang next to the Red Hood’s still pulsing and sliced open neck, God he needs to stitch that up fast, with a dark liquid covering the sharp metal edge.
“Fuck,” Tim says. Because what the hell else can he say? That’s his predecessor right there, dying out again because Bruce Wayne can’t handle it? Can’t handle the grief that nearly drowned Gotham? The grief that convinced a tiny child that he needed to down the cape and mask and take the hits and too tough training from an assassin of all people to-
Focus, Robin!
“Okay, okay,” Robin darts around the scene. He’s not cataloging evidence anymore, okay he is, but not anymore than his mask automatically records, but searching for a way out. A way out that preferably includes finding a way to pull the entirely too big body out along with him.
Thankfully, there’s not much rubble obstructing Jason. Once he pulls it off and frees him, Tim’s barely cobbled together make-shift entrance will serve as a way to get the man? Teen? Whatever there was time to debate ages later when he wasn’t literally bleeding out in front of him. The point is that he can get them both out without the wall crashing down again. He thinks. But before he can even try to tackle that frighteningly naive option he still needs to keep Jason’s neck together long enough to pull him out.
“Sorry, just saving your life” Tim whispers and pushes his gloves, kevlar’s sterile, yeah? Better sepsis later than a grave here, he supposes. Off to pull the frayed skin together. Quick, far too quick considering how bad the wound looks already, sutures here and there, and he’s confident that the Red Hood would not be dying from losing any more blood (than he already did).
“Leslie?” He clicks his comm on and directs it to a private line with the doctor. Small mercies, Oracle wasn’t online to ask why he was contacting her instead of the cave. “Coming in real hot with a patient requiring immediate attention. Laceration to neck, suspecting hypovolemic shock, and likely smoke inhalation. Do not contact B.”
Sensation comes back to Jason in stages.
He’s first aware that someone’s moving his eyelids, a deeply unpleasant sensation that he’s a little too familiar with for comfort. Bright light shining in them, concussion check? Would make sense with the explosion. Although thankfully he can still see, so it didn’t take his visions.
Although it may have spared his sight, the explosion clearly did not like his chest or ribs. They’re wrapped, but he can still feel all his muscles protesting his labored breathing and wheezing inhales. The room smells sterile, from what he can tell behind the oxygen mask over his face. A clinic then? Becuase no way in hell did Bruce take him back to the cave. He wou-
Bruce!
Jason’s shaky and pained breathing becomes caught as he forces a trembling hand up to his throat before a hand grabs it.
“Jason,” Someone starts, but he can’t hear over his panic.
He thrashes against the weak restraints, and the machines around him go haywire. His heartrate is skyrocketing, lungs failing to keep up, and he can feel the oxygen mask trying to compensate for his struggling.
“Jason!” The voice barks, and holds his wrists against the cot.
It’s familiar, though not someone he’s heard in a long time.
Blinking his eyes enough to clear his sight, sure enough, Dr. Leslie Thompkins stands over him, still holding his wrists with a concerned yet stern look on her face.
“You back with me?” She asks.
Jason just nods, dazed.
“I’m going to let go of you, can you stay where you are? I need to get a mirror and a few things before you start poking and prodding at yourself,” She says.
That doesn’t quite make sense. Jason’s been cataloging wounds and injuries before he had a Batman to teach him to. His mom was in no state to keep track of him, dad was gone more often than not, and it wasn’t like he had a guardian out on the streets. Leslie knows that. She knows Jason wants to know exactly what’s wrong and how long it’ll take to fix. So what could be so bad that she needs to ensure he listens?
It doesn’t take long for him to get an answer. A trend these days, apparently.
When Leslie returns, she has as promised a mirror in her hands, but also a handful of pamphlets that she carefully has gripped so Jason can’t read them behind her fingers.
She stays quiet while she props up the mirror then Jason’s cot to a sitting position. Silently unwraps the bandages around his neck and grabs his hand to again stop him from touching.
“A few fractures in your legs, I imagine from breaking a fall, but nothing too out of the ordinary for you. Multiple internal bruises, especially around the chest,” She fixes a weary eye on him. “You’re frankly, lucky. Your lungs were spared most of the smoke inhalation and didn’t collapse from the pressure either.”
Fractures were practically nothing, KT tape and ice, or just rubbing some dirt on it, and he’d be back out in no time. Although if his lungs were fine, what was the need for the oxygen? He shouldn’t still be at risk for second hand crushing.
The doctor continues, “The real damage, I’m afraid, is with your neck. You arrived with a laceration through your larynx. That, as you know, contains the upper part of your airway which explains any residual breathing issues or chest pain you may feel. It also contains part of your vocal cords.”
Jason’s already poor breath pauses.
“I’m sorry, Jason.” Leslie says, and she truly looks apologetic. There’s nothing there that suggests she thinks he deserves this, and judging from the box of personals beneath the cot, it’s not because she doesn’t know. It almost aches that someone thinks this isn’t a fitting punishment.
“It is unlikely that you will ever regain full control of your voice. Now there are treatments and therapies that may help with partial control or techniques to utilize alternative muscles, but at least for now, there’s no treatment that will give you your voice back.”
Her pager goes off, and she sighs. “I’ll leave the pamphlets here for you, group therapy, vocal coaches and doctors. If you’re interested, I think they could be a real help.”
As she turns to leave, she pauses. “And Jason?” He sits up slightly taller. “I am very glad to see you again.”
Fuck.
Because what does he do with that? He’s not only alive, which he hadn’t expected or planned for, but he’s now mute. Even when his fractures heal, where does he go from here? Get chased down by Batman again? Sure he can avoid Bruce, he knows Gotham’s street better than a manor kid ever could, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.
Does he don the hood again and become a silent assassin type? Fit the league training he got? Could he even call Talia? She hadn’t wanted him to take revenge against Bruce in the first place, would she care? Or see this as a fitting punishment for his failures?
Does-
There’s a commotion in the hallway. The old clinic door rattles as someone stumbles through it with profoundly poor coordination. The sound of footsteps and what sounds like dragging?
Jason jumps up and slinks over to the noise where he stops in his tracks to see-
“Shit,” Robin whispers at the sight of him.
His replacement is standing there at the door, not looking too worse for wear other than what looks like ash? On his costume. Even the broken bones Jason left him had clearly healed properly and faster than he anticipated. The man in his arms, however…
Jason stalks forward and rolls his eyes when Robin backs up. There’s nowhere to go, though, he just hits the door he entered through. The teen, can he call him that when he’s also-, realizes this and tries to shift the man’s weight so he can stand and fight. A very quickly lost effort, as Jason continues forward and takes the remaining weight off the hero’s shoulders.
He shoves the man into a plastic chair and gives him a quick onceover. Pupils small, breath wavering, limbs spasming, and sure enough when he pulls up his sleeve, fresh trackmarks. Overdose likely then.
Tim exclaims when Jason shoves past him again, but he makes it back into his little room and pulls open his box of stuff recovered from the explosion. Looks like his suit made it, at least, which means his jacket…There!
Another few steps towards a confused and weary Robin later, the man has a fresh injection of naloxone in his system. Jason turns and gestures to Tim who stares at him blankly.
He rolls his eyes and points at the reception desk, empty as usual. Despite Leslie’s incredible charity and pretty good pay, nightshift in Gotham wasn’t exactly the safest job in the world. They’re alone in here, aside from the man they’re trying to help, and so no one’s there to protest when Jason bodily drags a protesting Tim over to the desk and hits the call button.
With Robin distracted and the man likely not about to overdose anymore, Jason’s free to grab his stuff and ditch. A failed task when his path is blocked by a pesky teen in a vigilante suit.
“Ja-” Tim starts and cuts off when Jason glares at him. Names? Really? Even if he isn’t in his Red Hood gear, at least give him the dignity of pretending. “Hood, are you-”
This time Robin freezes completely of his own will. He reaches up a hand to gesture at his throat. Jason doesn’t blink.
“I stitched it the best I could, but it looked pretty deep. And the angle? I mean I think I recognize a larynx cut when I see one, at least I do in training, but maybe I’m wrong. It bled so much that I was sure it was, well I guess- Could have just hit an artery, not that that’s better, of course! It’s just that-” He finally realizes Jason still hasn’t spoken.
“Oh, um.”
There’s silence. Deadened. Awkward. Jason wishes he could scoff, could shove past and ignore the vigilante that he now knows saved his life. What’s the point? Even if he got past, Tim will just follow. It’s classic sidekick 101: follow, taunt, get a response. Jason’s willing to bet that’s why they’re all so annoying. And don’t get him wrong, he knows he fits into that category to a tee. Can’t get out of Robin training (or into, he supposes, looking at Tim Drake in front of him) without being a nosy and annoying bitch.
So Jason just stares and watches as Robin looks around and pulls him out of the clinic. They dart into an alleyway, dark, shadowed, perfect for any vigilantes seeking medical aid without wanting to get swarmed. Jason’s pretty sure the streetlamps here haven’t worked since before Dick’s time.
“It’s bad then,” Tim guesses. “Isn’t it?”
Jason doesn’t bother to nod. He knows it already, the questions just delay the inevitable. Tim was apparently there, afterall. At least he saw the aftermath. He knows where the cut came from. He knows who did it. Jason’s silence is confirmation enough.
“Fuck.”
Yeah, that about summarizes it.
What he doesn’t expect is Tim reaching up to pull off his own mask. Jason darts a look around the alley to see even more lights off, and the lone security camera suddenly pointed at a blank wall and frozen in place. Apparently, this conversation is going to be a lot more serious than Jason hoped for.
“You can’t speak at all, can you?” He asks.
There’s only one answer to that: Jason sticks up his middle finger.
“Verbally,” Tim stresses and rolls his eyes. “What are you planning on doing then?”
Jason taps his head and pulls the hand down to a fist, leaving out his pinky and thumb, signing “Why?”
“Why, what?”
Another huff, though this time more careful to not push the air too strong past his stressed and cut cords. “Why,” Jason repeats, “Do you want to know?”
Tim stares at him, blank face. Not the one all the bats and birds learn to mimic, but a truly neutral stare. No judgement other than what might be offense? Pity? “Do you really think I’d still help him after this?”
And that-
That, Jason has no clue how to respond to.
“He nearly killed you,” Tim shakes his head in disbelief. “If I hadn’t, if he had-” His breath is shaky. “I became Robin because Batman needed one. I know you don’t like that reasoning, but it’s true.”
Jason raises his hands to speak, but Tim’s on a roll with his eyes following his hands, gesturing and glancing all over the place.
“Batman was hurting people, Jason. Not just people who deserved it, though I don’t know if I trust him to make that call anymore either. He- I want to say he’s not the man I thought he was, but… I joined him when he was tearing the city apart because he couldn’t handle losing you. I thought I could make it better. I thought-I don’t know. I thought I could be better. That I was a better Robin if I could keep him stable. I know that blaming a dead kid for their death is stupid and bad, but I wanted to help and it helped me get through-”
Jason snaps in front of Tim’s face. One-sided conversations were not something Jason likes to sit through, okay that was a complete lie. He loves a one-sided conversation, especially if he can just zone out, turn off his brain, and listen to someone rant, or be the one ranting. However, they apparently get a bit frustrating when you can’t cut someone off like normal. Go figure.
“T-I-M,” Jason fingerspells. Tim, or at the very least robin definitely has a namesign, but at the moment the thought of puzzling one out feels like far too much effort considering the slightly more pressing conversation at hand.
He places one hand underneath his neck and the other slightly beneath, pushing both out and heaving a breath at the same time, “Breathe.”
Tim takes a shuddering breath, then another, and another until he finally blinks heavily and looks back up at Jason. “Sorry.”
“Save the panic for when you’re in civies, yeah?” Jason smirks, and then drops it as he continues. “I’m not saying you’re going to stay working with Batman. I’m saying that I’m not planning on stopping how I do things any time soon.”
Tim nods, “I figured.” He sighs. “I’m not saying I agree with all of your methods, but…”
Jason waits, but it only takes a minute for Tim to steady his shoulders.
“I think you’re right that we need to fix things, and that Batman’s methods clearly aren’t working. Crime rates have gone down in the alley, thanks to you. He shouldn’t get to dictate how you run your territory, and his way isn’t the only one that works. If anything you’ve proven that your’s does…and his doesn’t.”
Jason raises a brow. “You’re saying…what? You want to help? Be my Robin?”
Tim gives a small smile, soft but real. “I think Red Hood and Red Robin sound like a good pair.”
“You are such a nerd.”
“Hey!”
Tim admittedly wasn’t expecting to move in with Jason after their talk behind the clinic. And technically he didn’t! He was just kidnapped after Jason saw the poor state of his room in the Drake manor and heard his other room was in Wayne Manor.
And so he now is the unwilling (not in the slightest, but it’s the principle of the thing!) roommate of the Red Hood. The Red Hood who is a very good cook.
“Get your hand out of my dough!” Jason shouts, and slaps his hand with the spatula. Tim just snickers and pulls a chunk off the improvised weapon.
“You already cooked the flour! I’m not gonna get sick!”
“You better not! I have to share a bathroom with you!” Jason glares. “The cookie dough is for the community center. Kids learnin’ to bake means half of this won’t even make it to the oven, so edible when raw is kinda required.”
“That’s what my ex used to say,” Tim smirks and laughs at the capital “L” Look Jason aims at him.
“Gross,” he signs, turning back to his baking.
“Oh, please! I’ve heard you say worse.”
“Before I learned you were a literal baby!”
“I’m eighteen,” Tim huffs. “We are almost the same age! Actually, you know what? I’m pretty sure you’re not even two years older than me.”
Jason waves his hands around, trying to form a response. “How the hell did you come up with that?”
“You weren’t exactly growing in your coffin!”
“You haven’t grown since middle school!” Jason shoots back, and Tim tackles him, keeping one arm free from the pin so they can keep arguing.
Going back to work as Red Hood was both more and less difficult than Jason anticipated.
Nothing was technically different, other than his new-found disability and having to find accommodations for crime lord-ing. But there was definitely something that felt weird.
Maybe it was because part of his planning was done. There were no Bat-related plans, other than the usual alert if you spotted him. Medical bills Jason is more than happy to pay off for his workers, but better if he could cut the cost and the injury out entirely. Plus it meant no one got too hurt.
That was something else Jaosn put a lot more thought into. His workers.
They were a mix of people from all different backgrounds, places, and all they really had in common was that they followed his orders. Sugar, his accountant who also worked the block, was saving up to go to college. Lee, his head of community work, mainly wanted money for his kids. Marco, head of training the newbees, didn’t tell him, and it was none of his business.
He thought about them before, tried to keep them safe, listened, but now without any other big things coming up he had more time to really decide what his operations meant. Who was the Red Hood?
Still in charge of the drug trade, that’s for sure. So Jason stares down at one of his gang members, someone that never would have crossed his path if he hadn’t requested a meeting. Hell, he felt like an actual boss.
“You want what?” His modulator’s new. Tim fiddled with it and together they mixed the helmet’s distortion with a new electrolarynx. If he moved his lips and clicked a small hidden button that pinged his helmet, it almost sounded the same. Still distorted and mechanical, keeping up the Red Hood persona no problem, but it wasn’t something Jason likes to use at home.
Which was definitely a shock. Home. Not a shitty hideaway or just barely kept up safehouse, but a real apartment he comes back to each day. Jason cooks there, eats there, feeds a way too hungry roommate there. Tim just recently put up pictures of the Gotham skyline, Jason finally bought new curtains so they didn’t wake up from the sunlight an hour after falling asleep.
And Tim. He’s there. Jason wasn’t about to let him stay in Wayne manor or the ghost story waiting to happen that was Drake manor. So the kid— he needs to get better about that. Tim will shoot him with a nerf gun if he hears it again— is staying with him.
Tim’s nice to have around, begrudgingly. He wants to groan every time he thinks about his past distaste for him because they get along pretty well considering the last time they shared a living space, okay not shared but were in, it ended with broken bones and blood on the walls. But Tim gets him.
They both struggle to remember basic things like getting water or using the bathroom. Tim gets it when he jumps up to shake out energy or swings over the couch to get a different angle of a casefile. Jason in return slides a plate of food over in front of Tim’s computer and tosses a fidget when he gets quiet.
Conversation flows around him. Tim’s funny and very willing to argue over dumb things, something that Jason can appreciate. Most weeks end with both of them curled up on a couch watching something simple, easy. Crime shows with easy to guess criminals, childhood shows neither of them had seen before, comfort movies. It was nice, quiet, and easy.
“I want-” Jason snaps his attention back to his worker. “I want to ask you about the heroin shipment.”
Jason just tilts his head.
“I know your rules,” He rushes to add, “I don’t wanna sell to kids! I’m just worried-”
“Worried?” Jason asks.
“Worried for the previous buyers,” He explains. “I’ve got a sibling. They’re a good kid, but they’ve been using. Their supply is up, and no one will sell to them, which is good! But going cold turkey, boss, it might, they might-”
Jason stills. That admittedly was not something they had accounted for. His rules kept drugs away from new users, but for returning kids? That was a whole lot of medical problems he hadn’t considered.
“There are programs for that, yes?” Jason thinks out loud. “Just not in the alley. If we were to get— I know Metropolis has a clean needle program, do you-”
And so, the Red Hood’s control over the drug trade quickly starts to also extend to new medical programs and facilities. New jobs for his workers to not just keep supply clean but to give them safe, trusted, and protected places and ways to use it. Naloxone available for free and placed all over the alley, the Bowery, and anywhere Jason or Tim patrolled.
“You need anythin’?” Jason asks one of the local working girls, Ruby one day and she levels him with a searching look.
“Sure, long as you aren’t lookin’ to play hero,” She replies. “We’re not damsels in distress. “We don’t need to be saved from our “dangerous job”, we need places to work and guarantees you keep. You get us condoms, lube, and reliable pay, That’s it.”
So Jason starts to set up brothels, not publically labeled that as Bruce continues to push back against legal sex work, but still brothels none the less.
When his worker Markus frets over his kid graduating high school, Jason looks into new projects. He helps out at a new Drake-funded, to ensure no one looked too closely at where the money came from, kid center. Places where children could live safely, learn, and play. He donates boxes of books and school supplies and it quickly became the new normal for the Red Hood to be dragged onto bean bags and dogpiled with kids scrambling to ramble to him, ask for a story, or play.
He sets up places to learn English, places to find work, easy ways for people to get their GED or a degree without costing them an arm and a leg or their life. He guarantees sickness pay, paid time off, pregnancy leave, and dozens of other programs within his own operations. Working for the Red Hood didn’t just mean tracking drugs, or shipping weapons, it could mean teaching children, providing medical help, volunteering at shelters, and promised pay almost no matter the situation.
The alley rallies around him. Soon it’s the bowery, and then the rest of Gotham. People wear Red Hood pins, kids wave as he passes them in the street, strangers know they can ask him for almost anything.
Tim smiles at him almost as often as the kids in the centers.
He’s backed almost all the new projects, the ones that need “safer” money than Red Hood operations can provide. Drake industries researches harm reduction, Tim puts out stories that push against Bruce’s narratives in the press.
“Control freak,” Jason mutters as he reads another one of Bruce’s comments on the new clean needle exchange program. Tim plops down on top of him and wiggles his way into his side, closing the laptop.
“He’s not the only one,” Tim pokes at him until he turns. “You haven’t approved my suit designs yet.”
“Forgive me for wantin’ you to wear more armor than a tunic.”
Jason cares. Tim knew that from the very beginning. He wouldn’t have been so mad about a new Robin not being good enough if he wanted him dead. He wanted to know Tim was safe. Wanted him strong enough to survive.
So it wasn’t a surprise when Jason starts to set up new programs that not only protect the alley, but help it too.
He almost burns with his care. It’s hard to face how strong Jason loves. He doesn’t say it in words, but in food, in actions, little comments. He knows what Tim’s go to coffee order is, just like he knows that he prefers energy drinks but drinks coffee to keep up an image. He layers blankets on him when Tim doesn’t want to be touched, and will happily drop his entire body weight on him when he needs to feel squished.
“I wish he cared,” Tim says once, body tired and brain too exhausted to hide.
Jason runs his fingers through Tim’s hair, the way he does in a semblance of a hum from someone else.
“He doesn’t care that I left, y’know? Never tried to contact me, no email, no ping on my communicator, silence. I don’t want to see him again, not after-” He cuts himself off, but they both take a breath and ignore the mark on Jason’s neck. Skin healed but vocal cords still severed behind. Jason hugs him tighter.
“But it would’ve been nice to get a goodbye.”
Jason shifts over so Tim can see his face and starts, “He hurt you.”
“Not really, he-”
“He didn’t care. That hurt,” Jason says. Not cruel, but as a fact. Something Tim needs to hear that will still ache. Like setting a broken bone or cleaning out a wound. “Let it hurt.”
“I did so much for him. Kept him alive. Kept him out of jail. And he just lets me walk away.”
“Parentifcation of Robin?” Jason raises an eyebrow. “I’m shocked.”
“Okay, Daddy Issues of the Year,” Tim shoots back and smiles at Jason’s silent laugh.
It doesn’t take long for Bruce to finally find him face to face. Or rather cowl to helmet, this conversation isn’t between Jason and Bruce, should be but that he already learned that Batman is the only one he can talk to.
“You’re stopping these people from getting real help,” Bruce growls out once he finally can’t take Jason’s silence. They’re a ways away from the alley and his people, in case this turns into a physical fight rather than just a verbal.
The Wayne Corporation was a big opponent to Drake Industries' new research and backing of new laws and programs that Red Hood pushed for. It stung that his dad is accusing him of encouraging trafficking and addiction, lobbying for new bills to make life worse for anyone in those trades or who used them. But what hurt worse was the justification often used in the articles, mentioning that Wayne wanted to provide “real help” for kids like his own. Like Jason, he doesn’t say by name, but he knows how to read between the lines. When has Bruce ever understood him to know what would really help him?
“Real help?” the heavily modulated voice mocked. “What does that mean?”
“Not providing addicts with drugs, getting prostitutes safe jobs, encouraging real jobs,” Bruce glares.
Jason just laughs. “Yeah? Where’s your research for any of that? Talked to anyone outside of Bristol recently? Where’s your money going, old man? A new batmobile instead of actual programs to help people?”
“Batman brings down the crime rate,” Bruce growls back.
“Does he? Or does he keep a system in place that leaves people without opportunities outside of crime? Does he provide medical aid for the people he beats up?”
“What about the people whose throats he splits?” They both turned to see Robin on the roof with them.
Damn, the kid, ”I will waterlog your guns if you call me that again. We’re the same age.”, is far too good at sneaking up on people.
“Robin,” Bruce huffs, in what might be relief, what might be disbelief.
Tim stays silent. He’s in his new suit. The one Jason finally approved because Tim finally bothered to add more protection than a bullet proof cape. It weighs you down is not! A good enough excuse for Jason, thank you.
It’s red, there’s still the yellow and black of the Robin costume, but primarily? Red. It’s a clear sign combined with the name Red Robin where Tim stands.
“Robin,” Batman repeats, eyes flicking over to Jason. “Step away from Hood.”
Tim just continues to stare at him in response. Arms crossed, domino mask not covering the furrowed eyebrows, and the frown.
“That’s it?” Jason can’t help but ask. “You don’t talk to him for months and your first move is to command him?”
“To get him away from a criminal,” Bruce glares, fists clenching.
“Do you even know what you did?” Tim asks, moving slightly to block Jason from the other man’s line of sight. Not that it would do much if Batman decides he’s a threat, but it was the thought that mattered to Jason.
Bruce makes no noise or visible sign to indicate he knows what Tim was asking, but his gaze never leaves Jason. So he at least has a clue..
“You nearly killed him that day!” Tim shouted. “He’s your son! And you slit his throat and just walked away!”
“The Joker-” Tim cuts him off. “I don’t care what your excuse is. You nearly killed him, and you refuse to acknowledge that. What? Did you think he’d just survive a direct hit to his throat? Or does Batman kill now?”
“He lived,” was the brilliant response.
“Because I kept him alive ‘til he got help!” Tim shoots back.
“You helped him?” Bruce turns to him.
“I saved his life. Something you clearly don’t care about!”
“He’s a killer, he’s selling drugs, encouraging sex trafficking, and-”
“Oh, you know that’s bullshit, B,” Jason growls, and the air he had to force through his throat to make the sound was clearly noted. “Your way doesn’t work. Even ignoring the pieces of shit I’ve put down, what have you accomplished? Your ways put sex workers in jail, keep addicts from safe places to recover, and shame people for needing help or choosing a different profession.”
“Leave,” Red Robin demands. Batman turns to him in stunned betrayal. “Crime Alley doesn’t need you. You’ve never been there for them, or even tried to talk to the people you’re supposedly helping. You nearly killed your son, and don’t care that you disabled him.”
Bruce said nothing. Jason can’t tell if he already knew or if that’s a surprise. It’s not like there’ll be an apology either way.
“Leave before I make you,” Tim threatens. With a swish of his cape, Batman disappears and the adrenaline leaves Jason in a fast rush of air.
He hits the rooftop with a coarse groan, the sound coming through the electrolarynx. Tim rushes towards him and pulls off his helmet to help with airflow. Breathing is much harder with only one side of working vocal folds, after all.
“He’s gone, Jay,” Tim promises. “Breathe.”
They head back to their apartment. The whiteboard on the fridge reminds them they still haven’t picked up more butter, and they point tired fingers at the other in accusation.
“We’re okay,” Tim says, more of a affirmation than something he truly believes, but Jason can tell he wants to believe it. He does too.
He smiles and lifts his fist and bobs it in a nod, “Yeah. We’re okay.”