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Tim didn’t know what he’d done to earn the Red Hood’s ire, but that didn’t save him from being tied to a chair. Infuriatingly well-tied, in fact–not so many ropes he couldn’t move an inch, but very good quality knots. Tim hated it when goons knew what they were doing; it was downright inconsiderate. At least give him a chance.
How did this happen, the voice in Tim’s head might ask. Tim would also like to know that. He’d been doing his usual rounds, looking forward to a long weekend to focus on Robin-pursuits and pass out for twelve hours, and then he’d woken up in a warehouse. Classy.
They really needed to start tearing these places down. Tim heard Wayne Industries was trying to turn them into homeless shelters. Better than drug syndicates.
And no one was here! Okay, there was a near comically short goon in the corner, arguing with a man who was visibly cowering from them, but they weren’t important. He’d heard ‘Boss’ and ‘Hood’ several times, and the goons were marked with a splash of red. Blood red, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t actual blood.
Probably. After the decapitations, one could never be too sure. It was Gotham. They bred them like no one else–Tim included.
He hadn’t been gagged, which allowed him to say, “When is Hood showing up? I’m bored.”
“He’s a teenager,” the little one hissed. They still didn’t look at him. It really was rude.
“He’s also Robin,” the other one said.
The argument didn’t continue; the door opened. Both of them straightened, but one was glaring something fierce at Hood.
Who chose to make his entrance silently. Kudos for not laughing or anything. That was always annoying coming from villains, since it was clearly Robin’s thing, even if he didn’t capture the gremlin spirit quite like Dick. He also wasn’t ten, so that dampened the creepy child vibe.
“Would you look at that.” Hood managed to get a drawl through whatever was filtering his voice, turning it near robotic, which was impressive. “The Replacement Robin.”
What was this all about? Tim shrugged. “The one and only, I guess. Robin, anyway.”
Hood stepped forward abruptly, and a chill ran down Tim’s spine. He couldn’t explain it. Hood wasn’t–he was big, heavily armed, and deadly, sure, but Tim didn’t know why it scared him. “You’re not.”
Tim laughed. “Not Robin? You sure you can see through that helmet of yours, Hood? Or maybe you need glasses. I’m Robin. Red, green, and yellow.” Classic colors, unrelated to traffic lights. And he came with tights, which were not quite tights, since they were armored, but they gave the impression of tights. Better than giving the impression of booty shorts.
“Not the one and only.” Hood was in front of him now, and Tim leaned back. Hood grabbed him by the chin anyway, pulling him up to stare into that expressionless helmet.
This wasn’t good. Tim was trying to free himself, but the knots were tight and, again, infuriatingly well done. Tim forced a smirk on his face. “What, you get the exclusive tabloids? You’re really off your rocker, Joker-style.” He winced, biting back a yelp; Hood’s hand tightened hard, making Tim’s jaw creak with the force of it. Ow.
“You know,” Hood said, and Tim realized abruptly that their audience was gone, “I was gonna fight you. Really make it sink in that you’re not up to par. Another birdie destined to die. But this is better. More to the point. You were always going to lose.”
“What does that mean–” Tim cut off with a hiss when Hood’s fist hit his face. Shocking. At least they were back in familiar territory–but what was Hood talking about? Another birdie destined to die? Tim swallowed. He couldn’t–he couldn’t know. No one knew, not for sure, and Tim was here, silencing the rest of the rumors.
“You won’t have those wings for much longer, Replacement,” Hood said. Tim couldn’t see his face. But somehow, he could picture the grin, already bloody, courtesy of Tim.
“What wings? Seriously, I may be bird-themed, but I don’t have actual–” That was a knife, and it was–in Tim's shoulder. He choked back a yelp, because he might have a pain tolerance, but he’d been stabbed, and it–probably wasn’t bleeding enough to have hit that artery. Hopefully.
Hood laughed, and it was actually a horrifying sound, thanks, and Tim didn’t know what this was about. He’d barely given a villain monologue, and he just started hitting and stabbing.
Hood pulled the knife back out like it was nothing, and Tim’s fingers shook as they tugged fruitlessly at the knots that wouldn’t come undone.
“What is your problem? You just–kidnap me and start stabbing? Don’t you have demands, or claims of vengeance, or plans to destroy/rule Gotham and/or the world? Something?” Tim was panting a little, but he was together enough to glare, jerking against his bounds.
Hood observed him for a moment, head tilted to the side. “It is vengeance. You took something from me.”
“I’m not a thief.”
Hood moved quickly and smoothly, dragging the knife along the front of Tim’s suit, cutting through armor and fabric with pressure and patience, and then straight into Tim’s skin. He hissed, but Hood didn’t stop, didn’t stop until Tim was soaked in his own blood.
Down the ridges of his ribs, counting as he went, until he paused between the third and forth, tip pressed between them and angled perfectly. Tim’s breath caught. He couldn’t do anything, couldn’t stop it, and it had happened so fast–”Gonna kill me?” Tim said, with far more bravado than he really had.
It was hard to be brave with a knife to your heart.
No one moved for a long second. Tim’s heart pounded, inches away from sharp metal.
“No,” Hood said quietly. “Not yet.”
Tim squeezed his eyes shut and really feared.
And screamed. Hood threw the chair to the floor, knocking Tim around with it–his head hit the ground hard, and the world spinned. He wanted to throw up.
Snap.
It wasn’t clean, wasn’t a neat sound, but it was the best Tim had when Hood braced his hands on Tim’s forearm and snapped it. The rope chafed, holding it in place regardless, making it worse, making it–
“This is what Robin gets, Replacement,” Hood snarled, flipping him over so his face was in view. Tim stared up at him, teeth gritted to keep any sound from escaping. “Broken bones and blood and fire.”
Fire?”
There was a lighter in Hood’s hand. Tim’s eyes widened.
He kept quiet, more or less, as Hood put the lighter on the side of Tim’s neck. He leaned away, trying to escape the heat, but Hood followed him as his skin blistered and burned. It hurt, but it couldn’t have been more than a milder second degree burn. No nerve damage to dampen the pain.
Hood pressed it to the soft inside of his forearm this time after cutting away the gauntlets without nicking his skin. Tim shuddered, barely stifling a whine as it burned his skin, flickering pain that spread, heat that only faded when Hood pulled back.
Tim bared his teeth; he was out of banter, but he could still get angry. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you get off on this or some shit?” No, Tim didn’t say that because one time he heard Jason say it.
It was just a good line.
Hood scoffed. “What a question, Replacement. No. That’s not what this is about.”
“You still haven’t told me.”
And suddenly Hood was in his face, shoving him hard into the ground with a hand on his fucking stab wound. Tim choked on a scream as his broken arm was ground between the back of the chair and the floor. “You replaced me,” Hood snarled, and reached for his helmet.
Tim squeezed his eyes shut, taking deep breaths, willing himself to overcome the–everything–what?
Tim stared at an all too familiar face. That was–”You’re not Jason,” he said, jerking up like he could hurt Hood. “You’re not Jason, so–fuck you for taking his face. You’re–he was braver than you’ll ever be, and I–you–he was–you can’t.”
“Aw, the Replacement’s emotional. Thought you got rid of me, didn’t ya? That you could take the shiny prize, cuckoo.” Hood–Jason?–spat the last word, getting right up in Tim’s face. A hand on his chest jostled the cracked and broken ribs, and Tim groaned.
Pain didn’t stifle the–he was hallucinating. It was so obvious. Hood had hit him over the head and maybe drugged him while he was disoriented, and Tim’s insomnia had been working him over the past few days, and now he was hallucinating his hero beating the shit out of him instead of Hood. At least it was Jason. Jason could hurt him if he wanted to, as long as he was alive.
He wasn’t, and Tim knew that, but he could pretend.
“Oh,” Tim breathed, smiling dopily. “I’m glad you’re here, Jason. Sorry you died.”
Jason scoffed. Tim didn’t know why his eyes were green–he didn’t know why he was so much bigger, either, visibly older, but who was he to question his subconscious? Everything hurt anyway. “Sure ya are. Still took my place.”
Tim shrugged. It really hurt. “Didn’t mean to. Accidents happen–weren’t you beating me or something?” He just wanted to get it over with, and then maybe he’d get out of here once he could think straight. And take a nap. And reset various broken bones.
“What the fuck? How hard did you hit your head?”
“I’m hallucinating, which is an indicator of hard.” Even if the hallucination was better than what fear toxin drew out of his subconscious.
“You’re hallucinating,” Hood/Jason said flatly. “What are you hallucinating?”
“Ja–Robin.” Even if he was dead, Tim wouldn’t–expose his identity like that. It was the least he could do. “The better one, anyway.” Tim knew he shouldn’t be saying that to what was probably Hood, but Jason had been better, and he didn’t–need to hide that.
“Oh, finally. So you know what happens to Robins, then? They fucking die.” Jason snarled, and Tim’s eyes widened. “But you know what? Not a hallucination, Replacement. Jason Todd, in the flesh. No longer rotting.”
Tim stared at him. It–”Stop
|ying,” Tim hissed, baring his teeth. “Jason would never hurt a kid. Not like this. He was a hero.” And Tim was too. He tried to be, anyway. “You’re supposed to not hurt kids too. Guess you’re another hypocrite.”
Tim spat at him. It was tinted red. It was also all he could do when Hood’s hand tightened around Tim’s throat, cutting off his breath. Tim went limp, but he didn’t stop glaring, even as his vision spotted and started to fade, lungs burning.
“Fuck.” Like a light flickering, the green in fake-Jason’s eyes stuttered and started to fade. “You–you little shit. This was all planned, and I was gonna–gonna–and you ruined it.”
Tim wheezed, breathing with effort and pain as–Tim didn’t know–as Hood pulled his hand back, straightening and leaving Tim on the floor. Slumping back hurt, and Tim couldn’t stifle the whine. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t move anyway–the ropes hadn’t given even a little, and now Tim was beaten and battered.
He was too busy catching his breath to ask what Hood even meant, but he whirled to face Tim, scowling, but not–the bone-deep anger that had terrified Tim on some instinctive level was gone. It felt superficial now. Wordlessly, Hood dropped down into a crouch and started–untying him.
“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” Hood said, and he–he sounded like Jason. He did, and maybe it was stupid, but his head hurt and so did everything and Tim let himself believe. “Come on. I’m–I shouldn’t’ve done that. Can you stand?”
Tim stared at his twisted ankle and mangled thigh and shook his head. Not well, anyway.
Jason sighed, but he didn’t look angry anymore. He finished untying Tim, and Tim watched dumbly as he slid an arm over Tim’s back and lifted him.
Tim felt like he was being torn apart. It hurt, and he wanted it to stop, and his whole body hung limply, bones grinding, and he–faded.
Tim opened his eyes. And immediately closed them. The lights were too bright, and Tim grumbled wordlessly, squeezing his eyes shut against the spike of pain in his forehead.
“Shh, it’s okay,” a low, rough voice said, and cool fingers brushed over his forehead. That was nice, because Tim was a little hot, hair plastered to his forehead. He hummed, leaning up into it a little.
There was a dull pain in his chest, but he ignored it. He ignored several things, but he couldn’t ignore the voice. “You awake?”
Tim hummed again. Theoretically. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to–sleep felt soft and warm, but he also inexplicably knew that something was wrong. Not wrong, maybe, but not normal.
Tim yawned and cracked one eye open. The lights had been dimmed, so he opened both eyes all the way, blinking drowsily–Jason? That was insane, except suddenly reality snapped into place, and Tim knew what had happened. He stiffened–wow, that hurt–and tried to push himself up. One of his arms was clunky, in a cast. The pain of putting weight on it was muted.
“Easy there, kid,” the voice–Jason–said. He looked tired. There were bags under his eyes, and his hair was rumpled and greasy. “Don’t mess yourself up even more. You were pretty fucked, so I called in the guy that fixes me up. Watched him the whole time, don’t worry.”
Tim blinked at him, feeling like he was an idiot. And also like he was drowning. Not necessarily in that order. “You have a guy?”
“He used to be a doctor,” Jason said, shrugging. “Lost his license, but it was only a bit of malpractice, and I kept an eye on him while he fixed you up. Think of it as apologetic medical care. An apology in the form of providing only minorly sketchy medical care.”
Tim stared at him for another few seconds. Okay, maybe thirty seconds. “You–you’re Jason. You’re alive.”
Jason stared back for a solid fifteen seconds. “I think I gave you too many pain meds. It’s hard to adjust it to your size–the dosages are all for me.”
“You’re alive,” Tim said again. Jason was dead, but now he was standing–hovering, really–by Tim’s bed. Well, the bed Tim was laying in and maybe bleeding/drooling on. He definitely was medicated, though, considering what he remembered and how little it hurt currently. “Why–”
“First, you need to eat something,” Jason said sternly. Was Tim hallucinating again? “Then you can ask questions.”
Tim really didn’t have anything to say to that. He went without protest as Jason ushered him up, carefully propping him on pillows, and then there was–soup. In a bowl, held in front of him. “Can you drink this on your own?” Jason asked, offering a spoon. Tim glanced at his working arm and nodded.
And he was only a little shaky. The soup was warm, but not hot, and the second he smelled it, his stomach rumbled loudly. At the point Hood–Jason was Hood–had gotten him, it had been a few hours since he’d eaten, nothing unreasonable, but he had no idea how long it had been since then, and he’d also been under a lot of strain. And healing.
Needless to say, Tim finished his soup very quickly. It was a simple broth with chunks of soft meat, maybe chicken. Jason handed him a water bottle next, which he might’ve done first, but soup was a liquid, it was fine. Tim downed half of it before he paused, stomach rolling, and decided that was enough for now. Jason seemed to agree.
Tim got it in his head to look around the room. It looked–normal. He was in a queen-sized bed, clearly meant for sleep, and the room was painted blue. There was a dresser with a couple of books on it, and a nightstand with a lamp. A classic safehouse. Jason had taken him to a safehouse.
“You’re Hood?”
It was the first question. Not why or how, but Hood. Because Hood–he did good things. A lot of the civilians in Crime Alley, the ones who hadn’t done much but survive and pick pockets, liked him. They’d tried to get information out of the prostitutes–Tim had handled that, since Bruce was…himself–but all of them refused. But he was so violent, and Jason had never been so much. Not like that.
But he had died, hadn’t he?
Jason grunted. “Yeah. Came back nasty, got angry. Took over. You know how it happened.”
He didn’t, but Tim also could find out, and he didn’t know how many questions Jason would humor. “How did you…” Tim couldn’t make himself finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. It hung in the air.
Jason shrugged. “Dunno. Just woke up in a coffin. I don’t remember much except for in my nightmares. Ended up in the League of Assassins, took a swim in the Lazarus Pit. Got some anger issues. Moved back to Gotham.”
“Eight heads in a duffle bag.”
“Yup. And then–you. Robin died, Tim, and you just–Bruce–he took another kid and put them in the suit like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.” Jason's eyes were starting to glow, and the green had to be from the Lazarus Pit. Might be why he was so angry. But the Pit didn’t make anger from nothing.
Tim’s eyes were wide. “Bruce didn’t. He didn’t. I made him let me. He didn’t–he never wanted another Robin, Jason. I forced my way in. It’s not–” Tim broke off to yawn, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s not like that,” he finished lamely.
Tim wasn’t good with words. He wasn’t like Dick; he didn’t know the right things to say, or how to talk to people, or how to make people like him. He especially wasn’t good at it when he was a little bit high on painkillers and exhausted.
Jason looked at him for a long moment with a stony expression. “Go back to sleep, kid. We can talk when you wake up.”
Tim frowned at him, shifting, but Jason eased him back down, shifting the pillows. And fussing over them for what seemed unnecessarily long. Tim huffed, but now that he was horizontal, he really couldn’t stop his eyes from shutting.
There was a hand in his hair–Jason’s hand–carding through it, slow and soft. Tim let out a little sigh, going limp onto the bed. No one had done this before, but Tim couldn’t say it didn’t feel wonderful. The tension drained from his body, along with it, his wakefulness.
The last thing he heard was humming.