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Tim has never really wanted to be on a missing poster, but with the way this night is going, his face might be stapled all over Gotham by next week.
Selina is off in Bludhaven this week for a heist that Tim wasn't allowed to participate in, despite insisting he's trained enough for it, and that means he's been left unsupervised. Tim knows unsupervised like he knows the message history between the mayor and his mistress—very well—though this wasn't the same type he's familiar with. This was different. It wasn't as if she was leaving for the entire summer like his parents were fond of doing. She's only going to be gone for a week, a single week. Tim is sure she'll be back. He disregards the small voice in the back of his mind that whispers mean things about her abandoning him.
He tries to, at least. When his parents would leave him for months at a time, he felt upset, sure, but never like he had to prove something to them. Truthfully, Tim is afraid Selina will one day think of him as not useful anymore and send him back to a cold and barren house, so he's been a bit desperate to show her he's a worthy sidekick. He knows he's no Robin, but give him some credit! Selina gave him a purpose when she took him under her wing—paw?—despite their activities not being all that legal most of the time. Excluding him from the heist was warranted, given his age and limited experience with physical transgressions (he usually sticks to the type where skeletons in the closet give him the upper hand), but it only exacerbated the fears that lay deep inside him—a dormant kind that often resurfaced to get him into trouble.
And Tim's in deep trouble. He's totally benched—if he even makes it back to Selina's apartment.
Tim loves Selina's apartment. It's much smaller than the Drake estate and doesn't come close in terms of market value, but that doesn't matter when it's the coziest place he's ever stepped foot in. It's a place he feels welcome in, a place where there are home-cooked meals and hugs whenever he asks. A place where it feels like no one else exists but them—and the many cats Selina has rescued over the years. As much as Tim loves the apartment, he felt trapped tonight, like a bird in a birdcage (a cat in a catcage?), lounging around like a sitting duck. He's smart, he's capable, and he needs to show Selina just how much better he is now compared to when she first took him in. If he doesn't, she'll leave him, as everyone else does. He's starting to think that might be the reason behind his parents' constant absence: his failure to brand himself as useful at a young age. Well, six-year-old Tim Drake was an idiot. Fourteen-year-old Tim Drake, however, has learned from his past mistakes. Going directly against Selina's firm orders not to, he decides to sneak out.
Shimmying the window open, decked out in his infamous Stray attire, Tim latches his whip to the nearest fire escape and pounces, deadset on a mission. He's been keeping something secret from Selina, despite it killing him to do so, for this specific moment. Through many nights of spying and surveillance, something he's esteemed for, Tim has come to learn of a find that a certain new face has gotten their hands on. It's a necklace, adorned with fine-cut diamonds, the chain made of pure gold, worth thirty thousand dollars. Tim is sure Selina will find a buyer who'll pay more for it, right after she congratulates him with a warm hug—maybe even a kiss on the forehead. Tim can't remember the last time he got one of those.
He doesn't quite know why the up-and-coming crime lord Red Hood had the need to own such a special piece, but Tim wasn't going to miss out on the opportunity to score big. Besides, Red Hood wasn't known to personally frequent where his trades took place, usually leaving that to his more trusted henchmen, but they were often as dumb as rocks. Then again, Tim thinks most people are as dumb as rocks when compared to him. Who else can figure out Batman's identity at age nine? He let out an elated laugh as he scaled Gotham rooftops with finesse, the sound reverberating throughout the night sky. This is going to be an easy nab.
It was going so well—keyword, was. Guards had, unquestionably, swarmed the warehouse in droves, but Tim wasn't scared of them. He wasn't even nervous as he crawled across the ceiling with the grace of his mentor. He stayed calm and collected as he stealthily dropped down to the crate holding his prize, extracting it from its confines with practiced ease. He thought of the compliments and praise Selina's going to give him as he made his way out through an opening on the east side, necklace in hand, and cheeky grin on his face. In hindsight, he might've been too cocky.
"Where's your leash, Stray?"
Tim chastises himself for being stupid enough to overlook the guards posted in the alley, as he suddenly found himself cornered by two men larger than him. Much larger than him. Tim would've thrown out a quip about their size had he not been immediately thrown against the wall with a force that knocked out any wittiness he had in him tonight.
Tim fights back, of course, he's been trained by Catwoman herself, but it's just not enough. Every slash of his claws does nothing to deter the men as they come closer. Every kick and punch he attacks with gets countered—or worse, ignored. That really hurt his ego. His whip had been ripped out of his grasp and tossed to the side, and each attempt he makes to retrieve it only leads to yet another blow. He tries to use the wall as leverage to deliver a hard kick at one of them, but his leg is caught and twisted. He moves with it so it doesn't break, causing him to fall down and bruise his knees instead. One man holds him by the hair, forcing him to look up, as the other socks him in the face for the umpteenth time. His goggles shatter from the force, leaving only the mask underneath to cover his face. He's lost count of how many hits he's taken, but it's somewhere between a black eye and a broken nose—though it's still bleeding. Blood drips down to his lips like a faucet, depositing itself in his mouth, the metallic taste only adding to the many unpleasant sensations he's currently feeling.
He claws at the hand holding his hair, and it works, allowing him to push himself backwards and away, closer and closer to his whip. If he just had his whip, he could take these losers down easily. His adolescent body hasn't retained enough muscle from the liminal training Selina has had him do, so he doesn't exactly excel at hand-to-hand combat right now, especially against the brick walls he's fighting. She always emphasized basics and self-defense rather than what she had called the makings of a child soldier. The whip is what he's trained the most with, something light and long-ranged. It's a familiar weight in his hands; it's what makes him Stray, protege of Catwoman, and he'd be damned to let her down. Not right now, not when he's so close to proving himself as someone fit to fight by her side.
Tim crawls and reaches, upping his speed with each move he makes and stretching his arm nearly past its limit. His whip is a fingertip's touch away. It's almost in his hands. He can go home, lick his wounds, and forget his failed attempt at a solo heist.
A heavy boot comes crashing down on his arm, fracturing his ulna, and snuffing out any hope he had of making it out of this alley relatively unscathed. Tim screams as he's turned onto his back. His arm, now burning with pain, thrashes with the shift.
"We just caught ourselves a little kitty," one man chuckles. His voice is rough, like the concrete on which Tim is currently being held down. It grates against his back, ripping the fabric of his suit and making large, deep scratches in his skin.
"Do we bring him back to the boss?" The second man asks the first in a thick East Coast accent. He doesn't aid in holding their catch down—because there's no need to. Tim is utterly defenseless, weak to their will, and he wants to cry. Weak cats cry. He's supposed to be a strong cat. A strong, capable cat who goes home to Mama Cat with all the treasures he found and gets a hug as a reward. What he would do for a hug from Selina right now.
The tears that pool in the corner of his eyes are a result of his pitiful incompetence, but they don't deter him from continuing his fight, though; a fire of vigor burns behind them. He scratches at the one holding him down. It hits once, twice, three times until the man becomes irritated and opts to grab his hand before it strikes down a fourth time, crushing the fragile bones in his fingers. The scream Tim lets out isn't one he's proud of, but he's not in a position to be worried about that right now. It leads into a shout, and he lashes out with a kick, but Goon Number Two decides to finally come to Goon Number One's assistance, pinning his legs back onto the ground. With one arm evidently injured, the opposite hand being gripped with strength that surpasses his, Tim's legs being held down leaves him truly captive.
"He's got spunk," Number One whistles lowly. It sends a shiver down Tim's body.
"I'll—I'll give it back, I promise," he pleads. Everything hurts, and he really wants to go home now. This mission wasn't worth it. He wishes Selina were here. Just an hour ago, he was safe and warm in her apartment. He should've just listened to Selina and stayed there—stayed safe—but Tim Drake is an idiot. He was one as a child, and nothing's changed since then. Only an idiot could get caught like this.
Number Two chuckles, "Yeah, you will! Boss would'a had our heads if we let you run off with that thing."
For a moment, a spark of hope lights in Tim's chest, and his pathetic sniffles halt in anticipation of something going right tonight. "You'll let me go?"
The two men stare at each other, just a couple of seconds, maybe five, but it feels like a year's worth of Tim holding his breath. They smile at each other, a slimy gesture that only fills Tim with dread, and that breath releases itself in shuddering waves. They weren't letting him go. Perhaps they never intended to, or maybe it was a spur-of-the-moment decision; he doesn't know. What he does know, almost definitely, is that their intentions are nothing but pure.
Selina is a city away, his parents are in Nepal on an excursion, and Batman hasn't frequented Crime Alley ever since the violent debut of Red Hood. Tim is in a random, dark alleyway, and no one who knows he exists is near. No Catwoman, no parents, no Batman.
No one is coming to save him.
Tim is terrified.
"Don't touch me!" he writhes.
Number One laughs, "Who said we'll touch. We just want a little look, that's all." The tone he uses tells Tim that's not all. He uses one hand to grab hold of Tim's wrists and presses them hard against the ground. Tim grits his teeth and seethes at how easily he does so—he's so weak, so stupidly weak! "You walk around in this skin-tight, leather get-up like some damn minx! Only reason no one's done this already is the Cat's always by your side, but she ain't here now, is she?" His hand reaches for the zipper at the front of Tim's neck, and he bites at the sleazy fingers. The man's voice turns dark, "You bite, I hit. We were going easy on ya' earlier."
Tim can't do anything but cry out in pain, in fear—pure, debilitating fear. He's too small to fight, he'll be in a world of (more) hurt if he even tries, the creep's found his way to the zipper that undoes his suit, and no one is coming to save him.
"And you can't blame us for touching if you're all pretty under there," Number Two jeers, "We knew you were a little nymph ever since you stepped out on the scene."
All Tim can do is sit there as they unzip his suit and hope they'll be gentle because he's so small and it's going to hurt, but he really doesn't want this. He doesn't want this at all, he's never wanted anything less, but no one is coming.
"No, please—" he sobs, "Please, don't do this." The zipper goes lower and lower, revealing the skin of Tim's midline. He gets goosebumps from the cold, Gotham-night air that suddenly seeps under his suit. "Let go!" he cries. It only earns him a strike across the face, his head pivoting with the force.
"Shut it, kid," Number One spits, "Wouldn't want someone hearing what we'll do to ya'." Tim prays for anyone—to anyone—to show up. He'll take getting fired by Selina if it just means they stop touching him. Hell, he'll even spend the night in jail if Batman wants to put him there, just as long as he comes to save him.
"You're the star of our jailbait dreams, but there ain't no one around to jail us! No Cat, and no Bat either." Two laughs. They both laugh. They're laughing in his face, and the zipper is only getting lower—at his belly button now. Soon he'll be entirely exposed and defiled in a dirty alley that he'll never forget, no matter how badly he'll want to. He'll never forget the musty smell of wet concrete and garbage past its pick-up day, or the flickering street light right outside of it that periodically taunts him with an empty, hero-less sidewalk, or the black cat near the dumpster who looks like a perfect addition to Selina's collection, or the strange metal that glints dangerously from the shadows—
A loud crack echoes through the alley. It snaps Tim out of his fugue state and rings in his ears like a memory. A second one comes quickly after. A gunshot, he distantly notes, from the gun that lurked in the darkness. Had Tim been shot? Is he dying? Shouldn't it hurt more than this? All he feels is the constant wrack of nearly silent sobs that pass down his body and the stinging ache from the latest hit to his face.
No, Tim's not dead. He hadn't been the one shot. That realization dawns on him as Number One's wide body comes into view, crashing down on him. He braces for not only the impact but the bile that rises in his throat at the sordid touch, but the body never reaches him. A figure grabs the back of the man's shirt and hefts him to the side with ease. He grabs the second man by his collar, dragging both of them like they weigh nothing and setting them up against the furthest wall in the alley. Their bodies gurgle their last laughs as they bleed profusely from the neck, sporting matching bullet wounds.
"Please," one of them chokes out, the words warbled, likely mixed with the blood they're swallowing.
"Swine like you don't get to beg," the figure says, contempt clear in his distorted voice. They're the last words the two men hear before they still. Tim shuts his eyes harshly, not wanting to look at their corpses any longer. They go wide when he hears the sound of slow footsteps getting nearer.
Stepping out into the edge of the flickering streetlight is Red Hood, the man he just attempted to steal from.
Tim's breathing quickens as Red Hood gets closer and closer, but he cannot will himself to move. His sobs have died down to hiccups, yet he's still paralyzed with fear, body shaking like a leaf in autumn wind. Despite the fear, he intently watches each slow movement the Red Hood makes, looking for any sign that might indicate he's simply here to finish the job his goons started, then kill him afterward. Tim's seen what he does to his own men—what will he do to those who have wronged him? He's probably only upset that they kept their prey a secret from him. However, Red Hood's steady motions don't seem to be a tactic of intimidation, not something that forces Tim to anticipate the worst. Instead, they seem cautious. Reassuring, if anything. His gun is holstered, and both of his hands are raised so Tim can keep an eye on them.
That doesn't stop Tim from flinching when Red Hood gets too close, body jolting at the expectation of yet another unwelcome touch that never comes, yet he still can't move. What would putting distance between them even achieve? The crime lord has a gun that he's not hesitant to use, and about two feet worth of an advantage over Tim. Not to mention the clear disparity between their strength. Tim might be agile, more than the average person, but agility is no help when he's got a bullet in his calf. So he stills, tensing his whole self up, and shuts his eyes again. Whatever Red Hood is going to do to him, Tim can only hope he'll make it quick. Perhaps he'll minimize the pain if he's anything like the nice persona he's presenting. He readies himself for the first touch.
The touch comes, but it's strange. It's gentle. He's careful as he picks up the zipper of Tim's suit and drags it upwards, not downwards, as Tim had thought. He stops once he reaches close to full-zip, not wanting to choke him, then grabs Tim's cracked goggles off his head. He eyes the green glass, parts having splintered loose and fallen on Tim's hair. He uses a gloved hand to thoroughly brush the shards away. It makes Tim scrunch his face. He looks up at Red Hood through a domino mask, his wide blue eyes revealing nothing but confusion.
A silent question is asked. "Are you going to hurt me?"
Red Hood answers it indirectly. "You okay?"
Tim is stunned for a moment. He nods.
The man scoffs—at least, Tim assumes it's a scoff. The voice modulation makes it a bit hard to tell. "Clearly not, kid." He offers a hand, and Tim chides himself internally as he takes it. "I told those scumbags to guard the necklace, not hurt defenseless little cats in the alleyway," he mutters. It sounds as if it was meant more for himself than for Tim to hear. "I'll get you somewhere safe. You got a place to stay?"
Tim's confusion hasn't been cleared whatsoever, so he stares, still stunned. Red Hood looks expectant, as expectant as someone can look when wearing a helmet that covers their entire face, but doesn't press him for a faster answer, just tilts his head in waiting. "Why?" He dumbly asks.
"I don't like it when people hurt kids, even if it's my people. Especially if it's my people."
"But I stole from you!" Tim accidentally blurts. He slaps a hand over his mouth as if it'll take back what he'd said. So stupid! Stupid, little Timmy, who only ever gets himself in trouble. If Red Hood had only been nice because he didn't know Tim got his paws on his necklace, then there's no telling what he'll do to him now. Order him back onto his back or onto his knees. Force him to do filthy things that'll stain Tim's psyche for as long as he lives. At least with the goons, Tim had fought back. He doesn't think he'll even get a chance this time. Red Hood is scarier than any two-bit thug—Tim will simply listen and submit, even if everything inside of him screams not to.
The best thing he can hope for is a swift and painless death. The realization almost makes him burst into tears. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to be hurt, and he doesn't want anyone to touch him anymore. Timmy wants to go home. Whether it's Selina's small and homely apartment or the Drakes' expansive and bare estate, he'll take either. He'll even take sleeping outside in a cardboard box in the rain like a real stray would. Anything but this.
Red Hood stays quiet for a while, and Tim gets closer to sobbing again with every passing second of silence.
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen," Tim lies. Maybe Hood will like him less the older he is.
"How old are you, really?" He persists.
Tim doesn't risk lying to him a second time, "Fourteen."
Red Hood sighs, and it makes Tim's nerves jump to a peak. Instead of hurting him, though, Hood looks around the alley, searching for something. He finds it—the necklace—somewhere near his feet, and pockets it. "If it's in my hand, I don't think it's stolen."
"But I tried to!" When will Tim learn to shut up?
"You're a baby. I wouldn't care if you took money straight out of my hands, as long as you needed it."
Tim doesn't reply. What can he say in this moment? An apology? A show of gratitude?
"Just give me an address, and I'll make sure no one lays a hand on you the way there. Do you stay with the Cat?"
He bristles at the mention, "No way am I giving you Catwoman's address!" Perhaps the unexpected kindness has made him feel a bit too safe in this situation, but Red Hood doesn't shoot him for raising his voice. Tim honestly thought he would.
"Do you live anywhere else?" Hood asks. It's clear that he's growing increasingly annoyed with this conversation.
Tim nods yes, then pauses, thinks, and stubbornly shakes his head no.
"You're making it really hard to be the good guy here, Stray," he grits out. Hood's body goes from relaxed to stiff when the words make Tim step back, fear returning to his face. "Listen," he tries to amend, "I'll take you to one of my apartments. Safest place in Crime Alley."
Tim's hesitance is overt. He winces at the thought of staying at a strange man's place. He's injured, shaken, and fully at Red Hood's mercy. Whether they're having a stand-off in a dirty alleyway or in the same room with each other, that fact doesn't change. What if he declined? What if he ran off limping and tended to himself at Selina's place? Will Red Hood follow without Tim knowing? Would he put a hit on Tim's head for not accepting his generosity when it was offered? Is Tim's career as Catwoman's sidekick over before he can prove that he's worthy of keeping?
"I'll drop you off, then leave, I promise."
It's stupid to trust anyone in Gotham. It's stupider to trust a crime lord whose men just tried to assault him. It would be stupid of Tim to accept this deal, but at the same time, it seems stupider to bite the hand that's attempting to feed him. A hand that's strong and knows its way around a gun. A hand that can find Tim and punish him for his disrespect, find Selina and show her Tim's not worth a cent, find his parents and tell them of what their darling son's nightly escapades have done to the Drake name.
Tim can't chance that.
He thinks that maybe, just maybe, Red Hood won't tell anyone about his screw ups if he lets him do what he wants—if he just goes along with what he's asking of him. A bitter taste is still swirling inside his mouth, but it tastes better going down when the thought of his parents and Selina staying safe. This was his own mistake; he needs to make up for it. It was stupid of him to think he could pull this heist off alone. It was stupid of him to go out tonight. It was stupid of him to get caught. Tim cannot scold himself enough for his screwups, but decides to make one smart choice tonight.
So he agrees.
Jason didn't expect a stray cat to come into his possession tonight, shaking as if he had been left out the day prior inside a wet cardboard box that said "Adopt Me!" in black marker. Jason had also not expected the little thing to be so petulant.
He's heard some things about Catwoman's newest addition to her litter, but had never had the displeasure of meeting the kid. A part of him seethed at the idea of yet another young soldier in Gotham, another sidekick treated like an accessory rather than a lost child searching for love anywhere they can find it, yet ultimately decided it was none of his business. All Jason's thankful for is the Robin title being buried alongside him. Another kid in his burnt and tattered suit would've only worsened his self-grieving state—it was bad enough the Joker was still alive. If Catwoman wants to follow in Batman's footsteps, he thought, then she had better be there when something eventually comes for her little Stray.
She wasn't, as evidenced by Jason needing to intervene. He truthfully can't get that angry—any ill will he has towards her ends at the whole sidekick thing—because it had partially been his fault. He's not kept the most updated tabs on the two cats, but he remembers hearing something about Selina leaving town for a while. He also knows that the big cat rarely lets the little cat do heists on his own, leaving him to his devices as a finder and keeper of dirty, high-class secrets that they eventually abuse for riches. The original warehouse setup was meant for a certain drug pusher who's been encroaching on Jason's territory, one who sells dirty product to kids who don't know better and has a weird fascination with jewelry. It was never meant to catch a runaway kitten. Certainly not like that.
Jason had heard the struggle as he was on his way to check if everything was in place with his generals, though now he supposes a thorough background check is in order for any rank in his company. He recognized the two as some low-level thugs who were working for a smaller kingpin he'd dealt with, pleading with him to take them into his group, as they had already given up their lives to crime and had no intention of turning around, but he doesn't even remember their names. It doesn't matter now; they've also been taken care of—sharing the same fate as their old boss.
Not a drop of regret nor sympathy ran through him after he fired those two bullets. They knew his rules, they knew the consequences he dishes out to those who don't comply, and they broke the most important one in every way possible: Don't touch kids. What happened to them was their own fault. What happened to Stray, however, is most definitely not, and Jason feels as if someone's going to need to spend a while ingraining that into the kid's head before he'll actually believe it. He hopes it won't be him. There's no doubt he feels sorry for tonight, but Jason isn't sure he's the best option for victim consolation, not anymore. Though, if the situation calls for it—and this one is looking to, considering the kid is very adamant about not giving Jason anything to work with—he supposes he can attempt it.
That is, once Stray stops being so deathly afraid of him. How can someone be so stubborn yet so scared? Jason ignores the voice in the back of his head that reminds him of his younger self.
"Let me see your arm."
"My arm is fine," Stray says, holding a limp arm in his bruised hand.
"I can tell it's not. I need to know if it's broken so I can set it before it heals wrong."
"Cat will do it."
"Cat won't be too keen on me giving you back to her like this."
They're currently sitting on the carpeted floor of one of Jason's more shabby safehouses, a lightly furnished apartment meant for short and temporary stays, a place that he won't miss. While he doesn't have much in here, he does have a couch, yet Stray refused to lie down on it for a checkup. It's understandable, though it's left them cross-legged in front of said couch at a standstill. He didn't mean to go back on his promise of leaving as soon as the kid had a roof over his head for the night, but he couldn't just leave him like this until someone came to collect him. The antiseptic wipes he left for Stray in the bathroom and Gotham's tap water don't fix potentially broken bones—all they did was help Stray clean up his face as best as he could.
Jason had noticed him gingerly holding his injured arm all throughout the drive, not to mention the labored, just-short-of-heavy breathing he could hear from behind him. He'd slowed down after, not wanting to jostle the kid anymore, and because Stray did not want to sit in front of Jason on the motorcycle, leaving him to awkwardly clutch the back of Jason's jacket with a grip that's too loose for comfort.
Jason wasn't just being curt; Selina would have his head if he dropped her kitten off all banged up, and he'd rather not make an enemy of yet another notorious Gotham rogue. At least, not Selina. He never had a problem with Selina. Jason sighs, the distorted sound causing Stray to look up at him with wide, amusingly feline-like eyes, watching for any sudden movements. Did Selina train this into him, or does the kid naturally act like this? Jason tries not to audibly laugh at the image of Stray jumping up in the air, shackles raised like an actual cat, if he were to startle him right now. He needs to find a way to calm Stray down, or else they're going to be stuck in a back-and-forth game of cat and mouse for the rest of the night. Jason has better things to do than play rodent.
Stray's shoulders, tense and almost up to his ears, visibly settle once he hears the hiss of Jason removing his helmet. After only a domino mask greets him, Stray is nearly relaxed, yet an emotion Jason can't quite place quickly flashes across his face. He's seemingly confused after he takes in the whole of Jason's hidden countenance.
"Better?" Jason asks. Stray blinks owlishly as an answer. Jason takes it. It's not exactly a buddy-buddy, Can I be Red Hood's sidekick instead? solution, but it's enough for Stray to give his hurt arm over when Jason reaches out for it. Throughout the brief inspection, the kid doesn't take his eyes off of him, not once looking down while Jason pokes and prods around the arm that feels alarming thing in his hands. Instead, Stray stares at him, that odd look still on his face. Jason chalks it up to the effect of a crime lord helping him out—wariness and bafflement. The former, he doesn't take offense to. The latter, however, makes him want to scoff. He's not evil, he just kills people sometimes.
"It's not completely broken, just fractured." Jason lets go of Stray's arm. It stays there for a second, not directly in his lap yet hovering above it, before Stray slowly retracts it. "I'll put it in a splint for you. I'm no doctor, though, so have Cat take you to someone who can give you a better diagnosis." Jason considers telling the kid to go to his parents instead, but decides against it. No kid would intern as a villain this young if they had present parents—all he can hope is that they're just that, absent, and nothing more.
Jason goes to the bathroom in search of the split. He grabs the first-aid kit as well, figuring he'll use the gauze to bandage the almost equally injured opposite hand, and maybe cheer the kid up with Hello Kitty band-aids. Do fourteen-year-olds like Hello Kitty? Jason spent that year being dead, so he wouldn't know. When he returns to the living room, Stray is in the same spot as before, sitting leisurely now. No longer crossing his legs, Stray has one leg bent and splayed out, almost like a half-butterfly pose, while the other leg is brought to rest his head on the knee. It's, once again, absurdly cat-like. Jason doesn't comment on it. He sits down with his items, maintaining the same distance he had earlier.
"Did you get hurt anywhere else? Any bruised ribs or—"
"You're so young!" Stray blurts.
"What?"
"You're, like, my age." Bewilderment must be clear on Jason's face, because he can feel it in his parted open mouth and furrowed brows, but Stray seems not to notice it. Stray probably hadn't even realized he cut Jason off. The kid's been staring at him as if he were a spectacle —a young one, apparently—ever since he took off his helmet.
He composes himself enough for a rebuttal. "First of all, I'm nineteen, not ten," he ignores Stray, who snapped out of his dazed state to correct his own age, "And second of all, what's it to you?" he spits out.
"I just didn't think a crime lord could be so young. You should be in your mid-twenties, at least." Stray isn't trying to back-track on his words, or even defend his claims behind splutters and rushed apologies, as most people who piss off Jason do. He doesn't know whether to commend himself for creating such a comforting space for Stray to voice his thoughts or worry that the kid is a bit dense.
"Crime lord-ing doesn't have an age requirement," he argues, sounding the most immature he has in a while. He feels like he's fourteen again, fighting with Dick over breakfast—in other words, he feels like the child he is accusing Stray of being. Jason can't remember the last time he's acted like this, but if he tried to, it would most definitely be a memory of himself prior to his death. He doesn't like revisiting those memories often. They only shine a light on the longing he's never let go of ever since returning—a desire to grow up as other kids did. Jason was never a normal kid, though, and that's something he won't fail to admit. Neither of them were—are—he supposes. "Aren't you a villain's apprentice?" he counters, putting his palm up to ask for his arm again.
Stray easily gives it. "Yeah, but I don't kill people." If Jason were a gambling man, he would bet that there was sass in Stray's voice right there. Again, he's surprised at how quickly Stray went from trembling in fear to being content enough to sass him. Maybe he's a victim consolation expert after all, maybe the skill never left after he died.
"I don't kill any people, just the ones who deserve it."
"Shouldn't you be in college?" Less sass, more genuine imploration. Still, Jason thinks he liked this kid more when he was scared of him. Stray appears to have realized he was being quite insensitive to someone who could kill him right here and now, and dons an apologetic expression. "Sorry, that was rude."
Jason nods an acknowledgment to the apology, but doesn't reply. Instead, he finishes applying the splint and moves on to the open first-aid kit. He never got to go to college. He never even had a high school graduation. The thought keeps him up at night when he remembers what ifs and what nows, but he would never admit it to anyone.
"If it's anything, I think you're one of the better crime lords."
He tries not to take it to heart—what was he supposed to do, walk past a teenager getting held down by two creepy men in an alley?—but he may slightly fail at containing its effectiveness. Stray looks up at him with a newfound sureness, not quite trust, but miles away from where they stood twenty minutes ago, and this is the first normal conversation he's had with anyone in months.
"Thanks, kid," he replies, as soft as Stray's attitude has grown towards him. He silently asks for the other hand. Stray gives it just as easily as he did his left one, albeit slightly confused. Jason suppresses an eyeroll at the thought of the kid not thinking his right hand, colored black and blue, required just as much attention as his fractured arm.
"You can't call me that," Stray says with a know-it-all cadence, "We're practically the same age."
"We are not the same age at all."
"In four years, I'll be eighteen, and then we'll be the same age."
"I'm nineteen. That's not how it works, and I know you know that."
"It's close enough. Happy birthday."
"Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are?"
"It's come up a couple of times, but people usually just call me incredibly smart and handsome."
Jason scoffs, tries not to make it sound like the laugh it was supposed to be, and shakes his head in disbelief. "You'd make a great Robin," he means to think to himself, yet by the look of awe on Stray's face, Jason thinks he's accidentally said it aloud. He gives Stray his right hand back, "A fan, are you?" The conversation seems like it's heading down a path he doesn't want to take.
Stray doesn't answer, but the way he sheepishly averts his gaze is answer enough. "Every kid wants to be Robin."
"Well, don't go knocking on the door of the Batcave. You saw what happened to the last one," he says tersely.
"I almost did! Then Cat found me and took me on instead. I love being Stray, but sometimes I call in some tips to Batman if he's stuck on a case. It makes me feel like I'm his Robin," Stray smiles to himself.
Jason furrows his brows, "He's not the type to pay people for information. What did he give you in return?"
Stray stays quiet, hands fiddling with the edges of his sleeve.
"You asked for payment, right?"
"…Catwoman doesn't know about it." Jason lets himself laugh at this—at the ridiculousness of an information broker working under an ill-reputed thief giving Batman help for free—but only a small huff through the nose. He can't have Stray thinking he's actually funny. The kid jumps to his own defense, "Either way, everyone knows Batman isn't getting a new Robin!"
"I wonder why," Jason quips. Stray shuts up. It must be a sensitive subject for him, seeing a childhood hero's death in the news. He doesn't know that one of the two of them had suffered more. "Why don't we discuss which Robin was better on the way back to Cat's place?" As much as he's not particularly disliking Stray's company, there is some dangerous weaponry hidden in this safe house that he'd rather a sneaky little kitten not get his sticky paws on. He figures the kid wouldn't think twice about nabbing a couple of guns to sell later. Stray doesn't take the bait, though, and is still apprehensive towards the idea of letting Jason take him home. Jason doesn't blame him, but he really needs to get this kid somewhere he can feel most comfortable and recuperate after tonight's events. He'd rather not take on the role of babysitter until Selina comes to pick up her ward. "What if I told you I knew who she was?"
"I don't believe you."
"You can think what you want, but Selina and I used to be close." Jason doesn't remember some things from his past life, it all seems so far away from where he is now, but he wouldn't forget Selina. He wonders if she misses him—if she remembers him at all. What were monumental and significant parts of his youth could've been nugatory to Selina. It's nothing to cry or fret over. She has Stray now. Jason was simply a trial, and that's fine. It's not like he was her Robin.
Stray doesn't seem surprised at the reveal, just in thought, like he's working something out in his head. Perhaps he thinks that Jason is joking—that Crime Alley's most dangerous crime lord had used his connections to figure it out, and the alleged past he had with Catwoman was fabricated. "It's a little hard to explain. You'll just have to take my word for it."
"You're the second Robin."
It's not a question, it's a statement. A newfound conclusion that Stray seems very sure of. This is the second time this kid has taken Jason by surprise tonight, and it brings a question of just how smart Stray is—or how many secrets he hoards. It's probably both. Jason makes a note not to underestimate him in the future, but currently, he sits stunned on the floor of his dimly lit safe house, pondering how to continue from this point on. Does he deny the accusation and call Stray crazy for thinking such a thing? He feels as if Stray would see past that, as he already seems pretty damn convinced. Will Stray believe him if he confesses how he's been reanimated back to life—how he had died a boy and came back a man? Is it wrong to say he doesn't feel like one? Jason has lost five years off of his life, but sometimes it feels like more. Sometimes, he still thinks of himself as the kid who he used to be.
"I recognized you," Stray briefly explains, not that it's nearly enough, seeing as Jason's face is covered by a mask and he's legally deceased. "I thought you died. That's what the news said. That's what Selina told me."
"She's right, I did. Which makes it all the more jarring that you figured me out that easily." The last time Jason was seen as Robin—as Jason—he was fourteen. "Don't tell me I look the same," he tries for a joke, but it lacks humor. The mirror no longer shows him his past self, despite his expectation that it would, it always reflects a stranger.
"I'm good with faces," Stray supplies awkwardly. Scarily good, apparently. "Selina likes—liked—the Robins. She talked about you sometimes, but it's always been a touchy subject. I never asked for more than what she gave." A hint of something long lost grows in Jason's chest. It's not the fear and anger he's familiarized himself with, and it's not the hope and heart that he left behind in his grave. It's something more. "And she made it clear to never mention any Robin when around Batman. She doesn't like seeing him sad."
"Sad, how?"
"I wouldn't know. I never tested it. Selina would've benched me for months if I tried."
It's knowing that you've been in someone's thoughts.
"They always did have some weird thing going on, didn't they? I guess they connect us in a way."
Stray nods resolutely, "Like step-brothers."
It's learning that you're wanted.
Jason pauses, wanting to deny it, but his next suggestion of step-sidekicks not only sounds stupid but also puts a bad taste in his mouth. He's not anyone's sidekick, and he hasn't been for a long time. Besides, denying Catwoman's fosterage of Stray might break the poor kid's heart.
"Sure, like step-brothers."
Jason lets himself revel in these feelings—overwhelming and swelling feelings. He lets himself feel wanted. By Stray, by Selina, by Bruce. He would've never thought that saving a cat tonight would lead to him uncovering these idle emotions, but he can't sense any animosity in him. It's been a while since he's run on anything but bitterness. It's been even longer since he's been able to think of his father without feeling like he's going to cry.
"I have to go feed the cats at home," Stray declares suddenly. Hiding his surprise at the sudden switch-up, Jason simply gets up off the floor and grabs his keys. He supposes that claiming someone as a stepbrother is a cause for trust, undeterred by the fact that they don't even know each other's names. Besides, there was a pressure building up behind Jason's eyes that he did not want to confront whatsoever, so he's thankful for the interruption. "Wait," Stray calls from the floor, "Can I have some clothes, maybe?" He's embarrassed to ask, but Jason doesn't find anything wrong with it.
"They'll be big on you. I can wait if you wanna change into them."
Stray nods in response.
As Jason scours the apartment's closets for a change of clothes he's sure he must have left here at some point, he hears the kid come up behind him, standing in the doorway of Jason's small bedroom. "It's not that I don't like the suit. I like looking like I'm with Selina, like I work with her, but wearing something so skin-tight right now is…" he trails off.
"Don't worry about it, kid. I don't think anyone can mistake that cowl and whip for anyone else." Jason hands him a set of plain extras, a black hoodie that'll drape off his frame and gray sweatpants he'll likely have to roll up, before leaving the room. He catches a glimpse of gratefulness on Stray's face as he leaves the room. He wonders who brought this kid up for him to find such a simple act of kindness so meaningful. Blatantly shuts the door, he makes sure to call out, "There's a lock."
Stray had opted to sit on the back of the motorcycle once again, yet this time, held on tighter than before. In fact, he refused to let go for a short moment once they came to a stop—short enough for anyone else not to notice, but long enough for Jason to. Jason found himself walking the kid to the front door, both of them knowing he didn't need to, yet allowing it anyway.
"Keep the clothes," Jason says. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper he'd decided to bring along while Stray was changing, "Call if you find trouble again. I'd rather you not find any at all, but I have zero faith in that happening."
Stray takes the ripped note with both hands, holding it as if he's been given something precious—maybe he has. "You've only known me for an hour," he pouts.
"I know. Really says something about you, doesn't it?" Stray sticks his tongue out in childish response, and it's amusing to watch. Jason hasn't been this carefree in ages, hasn't acted so frivolously for a while. His snides aren't done with malice, nor are they preceding a violent take-down in a fight; they're simply playful. Jason wants to be playful again—he knows he used to be. Tonight, surprisingly, gave him a chance to.
He's about to bid a quick farewell before there's a sudden impact at his midsection. "Thank you," Stray hugs him tightly, albeit stiffly, like someone who is learning how to, "For being a good crime lord." Jason pays no mind to the clumsiness. He himself had forgotten what a hug feels like.
It takes a second before he reciprocates, and it takes even longer for them to let go, both savoring the moment like they know it might not happen again—both boys yearning for something they've been deprived of. Boys, that's what they are. Young and childish and admittedly naive. They only let go when they're sure the other has gotten his fill. "No problem, Stray."
He turns to leave, expecting to hear a door open and close behind him. Instead, he hears a last, final parting word.
"You were my second-favorite Robin, Jason!"
There's a quick slam as Jason turns around in alarm. He stares at the closed door, knowing it would be fruitless to knock, even if he banged his fist on it til morning comes. Jason laughs. A real laugh, not one he held back nor one he half-assed, a short burst of laughter at the events of tonight. He can't find it in himself to be upset at Stray—despite him being a real piece of work, he's come to learn. Annoyed, sure, and immensely baffled at how the kid knew his real name, but not angry. He had spent so long being angry that he had forgotten how good it felt not to be.
As Jason gets back on his bike, he finds two Hello Kitty band-aids stamped across the backs of his hands and doesn't wonder how they got there. He goes to bed in a cramped, barely furnished safe house and hopes for a call to come soon.