Chapter Text
Robin should have died with Jason, but now it was going to die with Timothy Drake.
Jason had been planning for months, decided how, decided when, but it had taken him weeks to decide where.
A vicious part of him wanted to drag the Replacement to an abandoned warehouse with a crowbar and let Bruce find one Robin exactly how he’d found the other, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle a warehouse without a panic attack.
The Titans Tower had a vindictive allure to it. A part of Jason seethed and wanted to pick the Tower just to spite the Titans who had shunned him for daring to wear Goldie’s costume after he’d abandoned it, but who’d embraced his replacement with open arms. He wanted to turn their beacon, their fortress, into a house of horror they’d never forget. Still, there was too much risk of being interrupted. Jason didn’t intend on making it quick.
Wayne Manor? He’d considered it, considered dragging the Replacement up to his old bedroom, gagging him, and torturing him until he died of shock or blood loss. Bruce would be gone most the day with business, Dickwad would be out with friends, and Alfred wouldn’t be near the bedrooms most of the day, so he would be able to be a bit loud. Pliers to the fingernails, cattle prod to the eyes, crowbar to the ribs… He was rather fond of the idea of snagging the boy from his bed and teaching him what happened to people who took things that weren’t theirs. It would be a lesson that Drake would learn briefly, but Bruce would never be able to forget. He could even pick up his old copy of Pride and Prejudice while he was at it. Maybe Replacement would even like to hear him read between sessions. The thought of them not even thinking to check Jason’s room until the Replacement’s corpse had started to rot and stink was nearly enough to override his better judgement.
Wayne Manor had beautiful potential, but if he ran into Alfred somehow, he knew he’d lose his resolve.
The Batcave had appeal. A lot of appeal, since the Replacement would frequently train by himself in the cave while Bruce was at work. Jason nearly did it, but he wasn't sure how the security may have changed, and using his own codes to get into the cave would have given him away. The poetry of beating the bird in the Batcave, proving that Batman was completely and utterly incapable of protecting his Robins, though, was enough that he was sorely tempted to push back his timeline just so he could clip Replacement’s wings in the shadow of the bat.
But no. He’d been planning things to long, too thoroughly, to jeopardize his revenge for the sake of poetic—extremely poetic, giving fucking Frost a run for his money—justice.
So Jason decided to go with the next best option: the Replacement’s own house.
Green pulsed in his vision, bringing a vicious grin to his face. It still proved just how pathetic the new Robin was, but with the personal touch proving that nowhere was safe from the Robin he’d replaced.
Though, seriously, Replacement’s house wasn’t safe from anyone. The security was shit. Working girls wore clothes more secure than Timothy Drake’s fucking mansion. All Jason had to do was pull a wire, and presto, no alarms. No police. Most the windows weren’t even locked, probably courtesy of Tim’s night job.
Jason went straight for the Replacement’s room, climbing up the tree outside to be able to push open the window with a nearly silent hiss.
The place was an absolute wreck—that little part of Jason trained by Alfred screamed—of abandoned clothes, papers, books, everything. The flickers of green that had been pulling at him all day coalesced until he couldn’t even see the mess anymore. Not only was the Replacement a pretender who stole Jason’s place before his body was even cold, he was also so incompetent that he could even keep his room clean. Still, he seemed to be oh so obedient to Batman, and wasn’t the man just drooling. He’d finally gotten his perfect little Robin. So much better than Jason ever could have been, probably even better than Goldie.
Not for long, though.
Jason chuckled, the green fog clearing with intent but still tinging his vision. Jason was going to make him suffer, and before the end of his revenge, Bruce Wayne would regret giving away Jason’s costume—his fucking death shroud—and his place in the family. He would regret lying to Jason and acting for years like he actually gave a damn what happened to Jason. Would regret that he wasn’t the one who was shot, and the Replacement would regret ever being born.
The bedroom and attached bathroom were empty and dark, despite the fact that Jason’s cameras had caught Drake’s return, so he slipped soundlessly into the deserted hallway. His gloved fingers trailed over the textured hilt of his favorite knife as he imagined plunging it through Drake’s hands. Maybe cut off a finger or two. Or all of them. He could keep them and send them in the mail over the course of months, maybe years. Drive home the point when the whim struck him. Yes, that was definitely going on his to do list, the green hummed to him.
The hallway light was off, and all the doors were dark. It was late, though, Jack Drake would most likely be sleeping unaware as his nocturnal son stalked the halls, also unaware as Jason stalked him. Did Jack know about his son being Robin? Probably not. No sane parent would let his kid run around the city with a strange man to fight crime, even if the costume wasn’t panties anymore. Jason grinned at the idea of telling him, but not yet. Maybe later, but that would also disrupt his plans, and he wouldn’t let that happen.
There was light bleeding up a staircase, and the distant hum of voices, so Jason quickly followed it.
The lower floor was just as pitch as the upstairs except for a single room with an open doorframe. He wouldn’t be able to get close enough to see inside without risking being seen, but he could hear fine.
Though he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
There was clearly a fight going on, and not just an argument. Both the Drakes were awake, then, and Jack Drake sound furious even before Jason could make out the words. There was a repetitive snap-slap followed by small whimpers that Jason would have found immensely more enjoyable if they were being caused by him.
“YOU FUCKING BITCH!” Jack screamed suddenly, and there was an even louder snap!
Tim cried out in pain, and to hell with not being seen. Clearly, the Drakes were occupied with something, and Jason was going to find out. Even if he was seen, it wouldn’t take much effort to tie Drake to the pipes in the kitchen and take Tim upstairs for their fun time. Jason stepped to the side, enough that he could see into the room without drawing obvious attention to himself.
Jason looked in just as the blow fell right between Tim’s shoulder blades.
Jack Drake stood above his son in the living room, his face red and the belt fisted in his hand already rising for the next blow. Tim was on his hands and knees, stripped to his boxers, his profile to Jason at an angle that let Jason see the panic in his face as he stared at the ground, tears streaming down his face as he panted in pain, and his back, raw and bleeding from welts, black and blue with old bruises. As Jason was watching, Jack whipped the belt against Tim’s neck, causing the boy to choke a scream of pain.
“Shut up!” Jack snarled. “Shut up, you fucking whore.”
“I—I’m sor—” Tim tried to gasp, but Jack lurched forward and seized a fistful of his hair to yank his head back savagely.
Jason was frozen.
“I said shut up!” Jack slammed Tim’s face sideways into the sharp edge of the coffee table.
Replacement went limp, and for a second, Jason thought he was dead. Killed by his own father, right there in the living room, in front of the man who’d come to torture and kill him but could only watch with a dropped jaw in frozen horror.
Tim groaned and struggled weakly, but his father slammed his head down again. Tim went still, but this time Jack had turned enough for Jason to see Tim’s dazed eyes as they tried to look up at his father.
Not dead yet.
Another blow like that, and maybe.
Jack pulled Tim up to his knees by his hair.
“Who were you with, Timmy,” Jack demanded, giving his hair a sharp yank that made Tim hiss. “Why were you sneaking back in?”
Tim’s face crumpled from pain to utter devastation. “N-no one, Dad. I—Please, I promise, I was just on a walk—”
“At four in the morning?!” Jack screamed directly into Tim’s ear, making the boy wince hard at the sound, then again at the way the first wince had pulled his hair. “You were out fucking, weren’t you? And you’re going to have some bitch turn up on my doorstep with a fucking bastard and who’s going to raise your kid then? Well?”
Tim’s face screwed up with such hurt and anger that Jason thought he was going to attack, put some of that training to work, but then his brow loosened and his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Or maybe you’ve been out fucking boys, eh?” Jack shook Tim’s head. “Gonna get AIDS and die like a fucking bitch before you’re fourteen. And how will that look to the shareholders, my own son dying like a fucking whore.”
Timothy Drake was nearly fifteen.
Jason only knew that from his murder research, and he still knew Tim better than his father did.
Jason was there to murder the Replacement. His world had glowed green for days with the thought of torturing that little body that trembled uncontrollably just feet away, of seeing that face all drawn up and devastated just like it was, with those baby blue eyes overflowing with pain and betrayal and that little lip quivering in terror. Jason had no right to be mad at someone for doing exactly what he’d planned, unless he was going to be mad that Jack had already started, but that wasn’t why the Lazarus Pit roared in his ears.
“You couldn’t even get a damn pack of cigarettes?!” Willis hurled his empty beer bottle at Jason’s head.
Jason dodged, but not fast enough, and the bottle clipped his ear as it sailed past him and hit the wall with a loud crash. It took everything the seven-year-old had not to back away, but he couldn’t take his eyes off his dad, and he couldn’t walk backwards in his bare feet without knowing where the glass was.
“Th-they stole the money, Daddy,” Jason stammered, still clutching a hand around the long gash on his arm the muggers had given him when he’d tried to fight them for the ten dollar bill. “I—I couldn’t—”
Willis surged to his feet, and hell, Jason was stumbling back without even thinking. He stepped on a large piece of glass the sliced another gash along the heel of his foot, but it was better than getting a dozen tiny pieces embedded in his skin. His back hit the wall, and then there was nowhere to go.
Willis’s eyes glittered darkly as he stalked forward. He smelled of beer. He smelled of a lot of beer, and he always hit worse when he was drunk. Jason swallowed hard and tried not to cry.
He failed.
Willis smacked him so hard he flew sideways. He laned on his hands and knees, thrown so far the glass wasn’t even near him in a small mercy.
Willis seized a fistful of Jason’s hair and shook him. “I bet you stole it. I bet you used that money to buy yourself a candy bar, didn’t you? Didn’t you?!”
Jason choked on a sob and shook his head. “N-no, Daddy, no! I didn’t steal it! They took it from me!”
Daddy was going to kill him. Jason’s dad was going to kill him the same way he bragged about killing that store clerk. No one was going to catch him, and he was going to brag about killing Jason too.
Willis slowly pulled Jason to his feet by his hair. Jason stood as soon as he could get his feet underneath him, hoping that he hadn’t done something bad his dad would hit him more for.
Willis took Jason by the shoulders and turned him around to face him. Calloused fingers took Jason’s chin in their grip and squeezed painfully. His eyes were dark pits of hatred and alcohol.
“You go get those cigarettes, boy, and don’t come back until you have them,” Willis warned, then shoved Jason at the door.
Jason’s back hit the doorknob hard, and he was sure it would bruise. It did. “Wh—How?”
Willis shrugged dramatically and dropped back onto the sofa. “Hell if I care. Steal ‘em. Steal the money. Whore yourself out like the useless bitch you are. Just get me those cigarettes.”
Jason barely had the presence of mind to grab his shoes before he ran out the door.
He got the cigarettes.
Jack kicked his prone son’s ribs hard, hard enough to bruise, maybe even break, and Jason was jolted back to the present. To the hallway outside a living room in a Bristol mansion where his Replacement was being abused as bad as Jason ever was in a shitty apartment in Crime Alley. There, nearly naked and humbled on the floor, Timothy Drake wasn’t Robin, he wasn’t the Replacement. He was just a hurt kid Jason had been planning to hurt more. Why? He could barely even remember around the pulsing green in his mind that screamed for Jack’s blood.
“Maybe,” Jack started, a cruel lilt to his voice and tip to his lips as he lifted his foot and dug it into Tim’s neck, “we can put that libido to good use, don’t you think?”
Tim’s whimper was muffled by the floor his face was being ground into.
“I know a few other fags like you,” Jack said, so low Jason almost couldn’t hear, “who would pay quite a bit for a fuck like you.”
Jason didn’t even hear the end of the sentence before the green rage had engulfed him. He felt pressure on his fist, heard screaming, but it wasn’t until his vision cleared that he realized that he was on top of Jack, plowing his fist repeatedly into the bloody mess that had been a face.
“NO!” Tim screamed again, grabbing Jason in a blood choke from behind and trying to pull Jason off his abusive asshole of a deadbeat father. “Get off my dad!”
Jason grabbed Tim by his scrawny little neck and suddenly rocked forward, flipping the smaller boy over his shoulder.
Tim landed with a sharp cry of pain that brought Jason back to his senses. Jack made a wet gurgling sound that was so satisfying, but Tim whimpered and was trying to roll onto his stomach. Jason had flipped him without thinking, meaning that the kid had just landed hard on all of his whip lashes and gaping wounds.
“Dammit,” Jason swore, grabbing Tim by the arm as he stood.
Tim yelped in fear as Jason dragged him out of the room and up the stairs to his bedroom where the window Jason had crawled in through was still open. Jason threw the switch on as he went.
“Let me go!” Tim screamed, pulling as hard as he could against Jason, but Tim was an injured little kid, and Jason was thrumming with adrenaline and magical rage.
“What, so you can go get your ass handed to you some more?” Jason snapped, turning on Tim suddenly and staring him down. “You’re fucking Robin, and you let him treat you like that?”
Tim gasped and stumbled back. That time, Jason let him.
“How do you know who I am?” Tim demanded, his voice strong but his eyes wide and terrified and his almost bare body shaking and covered in goosebumps.
Jason walked over and closed the window to block out the draft, then turned to look Tim dead in the eye. Blood was seeping from a cut on his temple where his dad had hit him against the coffee table, leaving one half of his face a bloody, sticky mess. He wondered, did Drake know anything about him? Or had Bruce just swept his existence under the rug as soon as he was out of the way?
Tim’s reaction gave the truth away.
Spindly fingers covered a shocked mouth. “J-Jason? But you’re dead!”
Jason spread his arms in a here I am gesture that Tim did not interpret correctly.
Tim surged forward so fast that Jason didn’t even have time to block him before he slammed into Jason’s chest.
“Jason!” Tim bawled, tightening his grip, leaving Jason blinking.
The hell was going on?
“Replacement?” he asked tentatively.
“You came for me!” Tim sobbed in relief. That was a lot of relief, leaving Jason feeling wrong-footed, what with the whole ‘only having shown up to brutally murder the kid’ thing. He felt kind of bad about that now, and figured he could at least kind of make up for it.
“Yes?” he said weekly. What was he supposed to do with his hands? He awkwardly clapped one on the back of Tim’s head, which was pretty much the only thing he could reach that he was pretty sure wasn’t injured. It wasn’t much for comfort, but the Replacement sobbed harder and leaned farther into Jason’s chest, so Jason ran his fingers over that silky black hair again and again until the sobbing petered out to hitched breaths and lots of sniffling.
Tim shuddered and clenched his trembling fingers into the stiff leather of Jason’s jacket. “Is my mom here?”
Jason looked around the room, like she might pop up from anywhere, but he was pretty sure he’d read that the kid’s mom was dead. “No?”
Tim sniffed hard and nodded against Jason. “Th-that’s good. I didn’t want to go to hell.”
Jason choked and pushed the kid back by his shoulders. “What did you say?”
Tim looked up—god, the kid was short—at Jason with the slightest frown. “I’m glad I’m here. I thought…I was never as good as you, so I never thought I’d go to heaven, but then you came for me, and—”
Something in Jason’s heart twitched. God, the kid had wanted to be good like Jason? Had he not heard anything about Jason? …Had he not heard anything bad about Jason?
“You’re not dead, stupid.”
Tim’s brows drew together in confusion, then his entire expression shattered into grief. “You’re not here?”
Jason flicked his forehead. “I’m not dead either…anymore. Trust me, not as fun as the punk bands make it out to be.”
That didn’t help anything. Tim’s eyes welled with more tears, but he stepped past Jason to his bed, where he promptly collapsed face first into the pillows for another round of sobs.
Jason hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed.
The wounds on Tim’s back were bad. There were at least twelve gaping wounds, about half semi-congealed and yellowish like they’d been closed over and reopened just with the latest beating, and several scars and bruises. His stomach twisted at that. Not only had Jack managed to beat his kid without Batman finding out—because for all his faults, Bruce would have smashed Jack’s face in himself—he’d done it frequently.
The older wounds also looked like they were starting to get infected. Understandable. It was hard to treat wounds on your own back, and Tim clearly hadn’t wanted anyone to know about this. Jason understood that too. Hiding any weakness to keep Bruce from seeing it, in case it would mean losing that intoxicatingly fulfilling love. Meant losing Robin.
Jason stood wordlessly and went to the bathroom to find the first aid kit. He returned a minute later, poured some rubbing alcohol to a cotton ball, then hesitated.
“This is going to hurt a lot, Tim, but you’ve got to let me do it, got it?” Jason said.
Tim’s shoulders shook with another sob. Jason took that as a yes, please save me from a slow and feverish death by infection because my dad is an asshole.
Tim’s body flinched hard from the alcohol at the first brush, but Jason heard a deep breath against the pillow. The second touch, Tim only winced slightly.
Jason moved as quickly and gently as he could while still being thorough over each wound. Tim didn’t react beyond hissing and flinching, but Jason found himself mumbling meaningless reassurances anyway until he’d finished.
Jason dropped the cotton ball in his hand onto the floor with the rest of the blood and pus stained cotton balls he’d already used. Not like it could make the room any worse, and Replacement wasn’t coming back anyway except maybe to pack.
“Are you still awake?” Jason poked the side of Tim’s head.
Tim didn’t move, so Jason poked him harder and prodded his head to the side. Tim stared forward with unfocused eyes, looking utterly defeated. Hell. How had thinking about that expression been so exciting earlier? He’d give anything to be anywhere else. Emotions were the devil.
“Hey…kid. Little wi—baby bird, what’s wrong?” He’d liked the hair touching thing, so Jason started petting him again, only barely drawing back from scratching behind his ear. That was for dogs, he remembered, not for small teenagers.
Tim’s face screwed up like he was going to cry again. His eyes were glistening. If he did start crying, one of the two of them was getting tossed out the window, and Jason didn’t even know which.
“You’re not real,” Tim sniffled.
Jason frowned, then flicked Tim’s forehead. “Pretty sure I am, baby bird.”
And Tim was crying. If it weren’t for the hand that came to rest on his, Jason would have defenestrated himself then and there, but Tim’s hand was so small and cold, digging into his like a corpse desperate for life. Jason knew a thing or two about that.
“You died,” Tim mumbled.
Jason nodded and rolled his hand over so he could give Tim’s a brief squeeze. “And I came back. Surprise.”
Tim shook his head in denial and buried his face again. Jason sighed and put his hands under Tim, pulling him up until he was sitting. He didn’t have time for an emotional breakdown. Jack, if he wasn’t dead, was eventually going to wake up and call the police, and Jason needed to have Tim wrapped, dressed, packed, and gone before the cops arrived. If Tim was in denial, then he’d just have to stay there.
“This is a dream. You’re dreaming, and you have to let me take care of you, okay?” Jason said, grabbing the gauze from the first aid kid and waving it where Tim could see.
Tim frowned, then nodded slowly. He looked tired enough to believe it—a long patrol, a long beating, and a lot of crying must have wrung him out.
Despite how carefully Jason worked, Tim still hissed and flinched in pain every time new gauze touched a wound.
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, kid, that hurts like a bitch. You’ll be safe soon, though, okay? We’re going…” Where? Jason tugged at his lip with his teeth for a moment. Not Wayne Manor. He wasn’t…he wasn’t going over there. “To my apartment. Would you like that? We can hang out for a while before you wake up.” Or go to sleep. The kid had dark bags under his eyes and exhaustion etched into every line of his frown.
“There we go,” Jason said as he tucked the gauze in and started to lean back. “Nice and snug. It’ll last for a bit, till I can get you in some real bandages.”
Tim tracked his movement with his eyes, his expression hope and glum reluctance in equal parts. Jason thought he was about to say something, but Tim just silently raised a hand and laid it against Jason’s cheek. Jason inhaled sharply at the touch—the gentlest he’d received since even before he’d died. It wasn’t…bad. And it was helping baby bird, so…Jason leaned into it just a bit.
“I wish you were alive,” Tim whispered, and wasn’t he going to be thrilled once the shock wore off. “Bruce would be so happy if you were alive.”
…Maybe not thrilled, because there was no way that was true.
Jason scoffed. “Bruce doesn’t want to see me.”
Tim swiped at his nose and sniffled pathetically. “Bruce nearly killed himself because you died, Jason.”
Water cold like death ran down his spine. “…what?”
Tim stopped talking after dropping a helluva bombshell and started looking around. “I’m cold.”
Jason stood, his mind racing, and his mouth said without him really paying attention, “I’ll get it for you. Stay put.”
Jason hunted around for a minute before finding a pair of sweatpants, and loose shirt, and a hoodie to throw over it that would hopefully cushion the wounds a bit in case they got bumped. He dumped the clothes by Tim’s side, but Tim just stared at them blankly until Jason grabbed the shirt and forced it over his head, then the hoodie, and then pulled him up to stand with his hands braced against Jason’s shoulders so Jason could put the sweatpants on him, one leg at a time.
Packing was going to be impossible with Drake as useless as he was. They could come back for stuff later, but Tim was fading fast, from shock or sleep deprivation, it was unclear.
“I’m going to pick you up, alright?” Jason asked, still on his knees.
Tim paused a moment, like he was buffering, then nodded once. Jason put an arm under his knees and an arm under his back and lifted him into the air. He weighed almost nothing, despite the muscles Jason had seen. He was so small, even smaller than Jason had been at his age.
Tim lolled his head against Jason’s shoulders as Jason started walking. It was more trust than he deserved, being Tim’s pillow, but he still found himself leaning his head against Tim’s in reciprocation.
It occurred to him that the kid might want shoes later, but Jason mentally shrugged. He’d give Tim a pair of socks later and hope the kid was smart enough to not try to run in Crime Alley once he’d come back to himself.
Oh, well. Jason would just have to hold onto him to make sure he wouldn’t do something that stupid. What a pain.
Despite himself, Jason smiled as he carried Tim down the stairs. Jason took a bit to check on things—Jack Drake was still breathing, unfortunately, but passed out, more fortunately. No police yet, then. After that, it was a few more minutes to track down a set of car keys, and a couple more to find the garage. There was a cherry red sports car in there, but when Jason clicked the fob on the set of keys he’d snagged, the lights flickered on a nondescript black car. It was still nice, nicer than anything anyone in his neighbor had if they weren’t selling drugs, but not as eye catching. Not as fun either, but at least they’d be less likely to get caught.
Jason put Tim in the backseat. Tim mumbled blearily, then rolled over and went back to sleep. Jason smiled and went back into the house to find a blanket. There was one he’d seen in the living room that looked perfect to offer comfort and conceal the technically kidnapped child in the back of the car. And if Jason got to kick Jack one more time, well…he’d deserved it.
Jason deserved it too, but he was making up for it in other ways.
Jason returned to Tim, covered him up, then climbed into the driver’s seat, turned on the car, opened the garage door, and pulled out, taking his ill-gotten baby bird with him.
Batman would worry eventually, maybe. Maybe he’d even worried for Jason…
He nearly killed himself, Tim had said.
Well.
They’d be talking about that.
And maybe his revenge could wait a bit.