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The first thing Jason noticed were the shackles around his wrists. Second were the ones around his ankles, and by the time he discovered they were bolted to the ground, Jason was already panicking. His head felt fuzzy—drugs, experience told him, a fact that did not lessen the panic, though it calmed slightly when he realized he was in his Robin uniform.
Robin meant backup. Meant gear. Meant he could fight back. The chains had enough give for him to sit up, and if he bent his head slightly, he could press a hand to his ear and the still-intact comm. "This is Robin," he said quietly, gaze flicking around the empty room. Another abandoned building, completely cleared out. The only thing in it was the ring bolted to the ground in the center—the ring through which his chains were fed. "I've been captured. Come in, Batman."
He waited for Batman's customary growl, his stomach twisting at the thought of Batman having to come save him, but—but partners were supposed to have each other's backs.
The comm was dead silent.
"Come in, Batman." Come on, Jason begged inside his head—Bruce would never ignore a Robin in trouble, even if he was tied up in one of the Riddler's traps. He would at least respond, or direct someone else to his location, or, or something.
"B?" Batman, Nightwing, someone—
"They can't hear you."
Jason whirled around in the direction of the voice—the chains went taut and held, forcing him to his knees as he watched a figure detach from the shadows. Red helmet. Sleek body armor. A long black coat. Jason could see the handles of the knives sheathed at their belt.
The Red Hood was a rumor. An assassin of unparalleled skill, tall and sleek and one with the shadows. Almost a ghost story.
Jason swallowed. The man stalking towards him didn't look incorporeal enough to be a ghost. "Who are you?" Jason asked, twisting his head as the man moved to circle him, footsteps silent even through the boots.
"You know better than that, Robin," the eerie distorted voice chuckled, pausing when he finished a full circle. He crouched in front of Jason, just out of his reach. "We can play the theatricality game if you'd like, but I've never been a big fan of it."
"Theatricality game?" Jason asked. Keep him talking. The shackles were simple ones, and if Jason could just reach his lockpicks—
"You know, the whole 'Batman must suffer, I want to rule the world, I have you, my pretty'," Hood waved a hand, "I don't really care about Batman's suffering, I've had enough of megalomaniacs, and—" he lunged out suddenly, startling Jason, and before he could counter, Hood was gripping his jaw. "And I already have you, little bird."
Jason went cold.
"I wonder," Hood said softly, "Did they tell you about what happened to the last little bird that got their wings clipped?" The grip moved down, until Hood had a hand wrapped half around Jason's throat. He didn't squeeze, and somehow that was more terrifying.
"What do you want?" Jason forced out, trying to keep his voice from trembling. He had lockpicks in his boots—the boots he was no longer wearing, and the last vestiges of the drugged fog cleared as Jason realized just how much of his gear had been stripped. He was still in the Robin suit, but his belt was gone, as was his staff, his cape shredded nearly to pieces, and Jason had to stop himself from hunching under that intense gaze.
He couldn't tell where exactly Hood was looking, but he didn't like the feel of it.
"Answer my question first."
"Fuck you," Jason snarled in response, throwing himself to the side to tear himself out of Hood's grip. Hood let him go easily, and Jason watched as he straightened, his movements unhurried and relaxed.
"You certainly have a mouth on you." It wasn't anything Jason hadn't heard from a hundred random thugs and Rogues, but in Hood's mechanized voice, it sent a prickle down his spine. There was a click-and-snap and Hood twirled a newly extended bo staff in his hand. Jason's bo staff. "Robins are always chatty birds." The staff swung hypnotically in his hand. "But caged songbirds never sing as sweet. Do they, Robin?"
Jason kept his attention on the staff. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he asked hoarsely, stiffening as Hood stalked closer.
"Theatricality," Hood said, low and level. "It is rather amusing. But I think we'll return to more practical matters now." He snapped the staff in two. And then in two again.
Jason watched the pieces hit the ground with growing fear. This guy wasn't their normal kind of crazy. He wasn't calling Batman. He didn't want to talk about his plans. There were no henchmen to rile up and distract. Just a lunatic crouching in front of Jason and—and reaching for his mask.
Jason jerked back, scrambling away as far as the chains allowed—no Rogue had ever tried to get his mask off before, they tended to treat the whole thing as a game, and Hood wasn't—if Jason was revealed, then he compromised the identities of Cass, Damian, Steph, and Bruce himself, bringing their whole fight crashing down, and—and he couldn't—he couldn't fail, not on that magnitude, Tim Drake had died rather than let their identities be known and Jason couldn't be the one to—
"Calm down, Jason," Hood said, amused, "I already know who you are."
Jason felt like a butterfly pinned behind glass. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't even lift his hands to stop Hood from grabbing the edge of the mask and none-too-gently peeling it off. "There we are," Hood said, sounding viciously satisfied when he grabbed Jason's face and forced him to meet that white-eyed gaze. "Black hair and blue eyes—well, he certainly has a type."
Fuck. Fuck. How—how much did this guy know? How had he—who could—why was he—
"You look frightened," Hood hummed, "Not a fan of an identity reveal?"
"Don't," Jason whispered, "Please don't." He couldn't see a camera anywhere nearby, but for all he knew, this was already broadcasting on every news station in Gotham. Jason's face was not unknown, not as the third child of Bruce Wayne, and their identities might already be compromised. Maybe Bruce was on his way to the Watchtower right now, with Cass and Damian and Alfred and Steph. And everyone else he put in danger, because if Damian was Nightwing, people would surely figure out that his fiancé was Flamebird, and that meant that Clark and his family would be revealed, and one after another the dominoes would fall.
And all because of Jason.
"Why not?" Hood asked, "This is a secret people would kill for. This is a secret people have died for."
"Please."
Hood laughed—the sound echoed, chilly and broken. "Maybe if you make it worth my while," the crackling voice said.
A chance. A glimmer of hope. "What—what do you want?"
"What will you give me?" Hood turned it right back to him.
Jason swallowed. "I—I have money—"
"I can get more selling this information to the highest bidder."
"I—we have access to tech—"
Hood chuckled again, a knife dancing between his fingers. "Do I look like I need tech?"
"I—" what else did Jason have to bargain with? "I can get you access to Arkham—" but practically anyone could get access to Arkham— "A—a meeting with the Justice League—" if Hood wanted a meeting with the Justice League, he could've just asked— "I—a favor—just—what do you—"
Jason broke off, feeling his eyes begin to prickle. Hood watched him, arms leaning against his knees, still and silent. One card left to play.
I already have you, little bird.
You certainly have a mouth on you.
Maybe if you make it worth my while.
"I'll—you can—I'll make it worth your while," Jason said softly, slowly straightening until he was on his knees. When Hood didn't stop, him, he crawled forward, until he was right in front of the man, and looked up at him, remaining on his knees. "Just please don't tell anyone."
"Bold claims from a Robin," Hood said slowly, but it wasn't a rejection. Jason dared to inch a little closer. "What makes you think it'll be worth it?"
Jason blinked, trying to ignore the rising lump in his throat. He had to do this. Had to—had to stop Hood. Had to earn his goodwill. And Jason drew up the slightly breathless tone he'd once carefully cultivated, and looked up at Hood through his eyelashes. "I've had a lot of practice in making people feel good," he murmured.
"Do you?"
"I grew up on the streets," Jason explained, slowly reaching out. Give them a taste, and then reel them in. "I know all the tricks. I'll be good for you, I swear."
Hood caught his hand before it could make contact, and Jason couldn't help the shiver as the gloved fingers closed around his wrist. "It's been three years since you were on the streets. You'll be out of practice."
"No," Jason whispered, "No, I'm not out of practice." He leaned forward—Hood caught his other hand too, and Jason froze. "I've had lots of practice, I promise," he forced out, trying to keep his voice breathy.
"Really?" Hood asked, skeptical, "You get on your knees for Batman, Boy Wonder?"
"No!" Jason almost jerked back, horrified, but Hood wasn't letting go of his hands and Jason slumped in place. "No—no, not him."
"Then who?"
Fuck, what kind of lunatic wanted a fucking character reference before using a whore?
"People at parties," Jason said, trying to keep his eyes wide and enticing as he looked up at Hood. Please, please let him just get this over with. Jason couldn't—Jason didn't—when he got back to Bruce, he could tell him that they had an identity leak and he could take a boiling hot shower and forget this ever happened but it had to start first. "They're never unsatisfied, I swear."
"You're going to have to be more specific than that, sweetheart."
"I—you—what, you want names?"
Hood laughed, dark and grating. "How else am I supposed to double-check your skills? Just go around the wealthy and ask them if they've used a black-haired, blue-eyed whore?"
The words stung, and Jason tried to draw the floaty veil back up, the one he used whenever he got cornered at a gala. If Hood wanted names, Jason could give him names.
"Charles Benedict. Vincent La Rue. Julian Acker," they felt thick and poisonous on his tongue, "Thaddeus Cain. Leonard Strong. Martin Werkil."
"Is that it?" Hood asked, sounding almost bored.
"James Marchand," Jason continued quietly—with every name, a sneering smile flashed up, and the memory of the last thing Jason had done with them, and hands on him and kneeling in an expensive suit, and cleaning up his face because Bruce could never know. "Edward—Edward something. Wayland...Quinn, I think." Other faces popped up, ones Jason didn't quite remember—there had been one time when Bruce had gotten tugged away to a private meeting and so had Jason, and the faces had blurred together in his head.
"Is that it?"
Jason bowed his head, losing the fight against tears. They slid soundlessly down his face, and Jason suppressed the hitched gasps. "I—I don't r—remember," he admitted softly, waiting for the derision, the condescension—or maybe that was enough for Hood, maybe he'd just get started, maybe it was enough humiliation before they got to the physical stuff.
Hood let go of his hands, and Jason barely caught himself before he hit the ground, trembling on hands and knees, waiting for the gloved hands to come back—to run down his side and—and—
"Well, I suppose that's good enough for a first round."
What—what was that supposed to mean? Jason lifted his head—Hood was walking away—
"W—wait! You—you can't—please don't—"
"I told you I had to double-check," Hood waved back at him, "Don't worry, Robin, your secret's safe with me."
What the everloving fuck. Was he seriously going to go to everyone Jason had mentioned and ask them if he was a good fuck? What the—why wasn't he just—was he seriously going to leave Jason here? Alone?
He'd removed all of Jason's gear, but did he really think that was going to stop him? Jason waited until he heard the door close behind Hood before he started scrabbling at the chains again.
The lock was simple enough, if only Jason had something to pick it with—the wiring in the mask might do in a pinch, except his mask had been thrown a good four feet from him, and the chains didn't have that much reach. Jason shuffled closer anyway, tugging at the shackles as the chain went taut. Come on—come on—his eyes were prickling again and—
The door banged open, and Jason startled violently. That sounded angry, and if Hood was back already...
The shadow that moved into the room was broader than Hood, and there was no trace of gleaming red metal. "B," Jason exhaled in relief, slumping in his bonds, and he leaned forward as soon as Batman was close enough to touch.
"Robin," Batman said, his voice wavering instead of his usual growl—the chains rattled as he unlocked the shackles and—and drew Jason into a hug. "My son. I am so, so sorry."
Jason froze. "B?" he asked, his voice small.
Bruce took a deep breath. "Your comm's receiver was disabled. But the transmitter is working properly."
Jason went cold. That—that meant—he had—no—
"Jay-lad," Bruce said, his voice breaking, "I am so sorry for not noticing." He drew Jason tighter against him, tucking his head under his chin and wrapping him into a tight hug. "I'm sorry you had to go through that." Jason wanted to scramble out, wanted to apologize—it was his fault, why was Bruce—but Bruce wasn't holding him like he was diseased or—or tainted, and Jason melted into the hug. "It will never happen again," Bruce vowed, and Jason could almost believe him.
Jason woke up alone.
In his bed. In his bedroom. In the ultra-secure Wayne Manor, so there should be no reason for Jason's heart to be pounding like he was running a marathon. No reason for him to avoid looking into the dark corners to check for a gleam of red metal. No reason for Jason to not feel safe.
There was absolutely no reason to be tiptoeing out of his room and heading for Bruce's, but Bruce had been...attentively smothering, and while it was sometimes too much, right now Jason needed a hug from the staunchest protector in Gotham.
Bruce's room was empty. Bed cold. Jason switched tracks to head downstairs—into the study, through the clock face, and down the stone stairs, emerging into the Cave.
He hadn't been here for the last few days. Bruce had—well, Bruce hadn't actually said that he'd benched him, but with Hood still unaccounted-for, it wasn't safe for any of them, and they'd spent the weekend watching movies. And having awkward conversations that Jason never wanted to have again, but at least he knew Bruce wasn't kicking him out.
He heard Bruce's voice, and then a smooth, low voice in response, and Jason picked up his pace. Damian noticed him first, breaking off the conversation immediately, and Bruce turned in the chair to follow his gaze.
"You know, if you don't want people to know that you've been talking about them, maybe try not acting so suspicious," Jason crossed his arms.
"Jason," Damian's mouth did that twitching thing that Jon had helpfully interpreted was a smile. He stretched out a hand, and Jason didn't wait for a second invitation—he almost tackled his older brother, and let out a shaky breath when Damian wrapped him in a hug. "I'm sorry for not being there for you," Damian murmured quietly, and Jason squeezed tighter—people had to stop apologizing, Jason knew he was very good at hiding things, even from Bruce and Damian and Alfred.
"Did you just get back to Gotham?" Jason asked once he eased back a bit, "I thought you were investigating something on the other side of the world."
He could practically feel Damian and Bruce exchanging glances, and fought the urge to growl.
"Yes. The League of Assassins. There have been....unsettling rumors. But I came back when Father told me what had happened so we could go after the men who hurt you." Jason turned enough to see Bruce's face—his expression was a calm mask, but he looked slightly displeased. Probably hadn't wanted Jason to know.
"As Father was just explaining, though, it seems that that is a moot point."
"What?"
"The men you named," Damian said slowly, "They're all dead."
"What?" Jason stepped back, staring at Damian in shock, "What—who?"
Damian and Bruce exchanged another look.
"You think—you think it was Hood."
"Unless he sold the information to a third party, yes."
"Who would buy that kind of information?" Jason asked, hunching his shoulders—he could still feel Hood's steely grip on his wrists, but if the man had killed everyone Jason had named—
"Where there is a service, there is always someone willing to pay money for it," Damian said, though his expression conveyed that he, too, found it unlikely.
"And the League of Assassins?" Bruce asked, "What did you find with them? Is Hood a member?"
"Possibly," Damian responded. Expressions were flitting across his face too quickly to track. "It is...difficult to get any information on the roster."
"What happened?"
"They've been destroyed."
Jason stared at him. Bruce stared at him. Damian met both their gazes levelly.
"When you say destroyed—"
"Ra's al Ghul is dead. His core followers are dead. Every base I found is either a pile of rubble or a pile of ash. Anyone still living has scattered to all corners of the world."
"Dead," Jason said, disbelieving, "Ra's al Ghul, dead? Are you sure?"
"His head was on a pike. The Lazarus Pits can do much, but even they can't heal someone from that," Damian spread his hands, "And every Pit I stumbled upon has been poisoned."
Bruce looked pale. "And Talia—"
"Mother is fine," Damian reassured, "Her splinter group hasn't been called the League of Assassins in some years. She has no idea what caused this destruction, but she said that it had to have come from within."
"Someone actually destroyed the League of Assassins?" Jason repeated, still stuck on the point. The League had been an oppressive weight over their family ever since Jason had learned about it—how Ra's still wanted Damian's body to use as a shell, how he'd pursued Tim with fanatical possessiveness, every one of Cass's scars...
And now they were gone.
"I don't know if anyone can confirm if Hood was a member. But the timing—the fact that he killed nine people in two days—it's more likely than not."
"That would explain how he knows our identities," Bruce exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose, "But doesn't explain what he wants."
"He could've killed me," Jason said quietly, running through the whole encounter in his head, "He—he could've hurt me but he just—he just left."
"Complicated intentions," Damian exhaled, "Truly one of Gotham's Rogues." He beckoned Jason back into a side hug, and Bruce exhaled slowly before he turned back to the computer to update the new information.
A hand landed on his shoulder before he could wriggle free. "I'm just going to the snack table," Jason hissed, ducking the hand as well. Bruce looked down at him, eyes sharp. "It's right over there," Jason pointed, "I'll get the snacks and come back, I promise."
Bruce finally gave a slow nod before turning back to the conversation he'd been having with Miss Wealthy-Jewel-Heiress-Or-Something. Jason wished that Selina had come, so at least he could watch Bruce attempt to stop her from stealing everything while simultaneously feigning a polite conversation.
The debate over whether or not Jason was allowed to come to the gala had stretched over a full week, and had only been concluded with Bruce asking Steph to join them—Damian was out patrolling as Nightwing—and refusing to let Jason leave his side. It had been nice—for all of five minutes, before it had quickly become smothering.
Besides, every name Jason had given was dead. Sure, there were the people Jason didn't fully remember, but he remembered the ones that had been the worst, and he didn't think the others would dare to approach him, especially not with hushed rumors flying about the mysterious serial killer targeting the wealthy and powerful.
Bruce's gaze was itching at his shoulder, he could feel another weight on the other side—he glanced in that direction and saw Steph sitting at a table, half her attention on him while having her own conversation—but he couldn't shake the feeling of an intense gaze pinning him. It followed him no matter where he went, and Jason resisted the urge to hunch his shoulders as he reached the snack table.
It could be Damian, lurking somewhere in the rafters and stalking him instead of actually patrolling, and Jason was going to throw a cream puff at his brother if that was the case. He casually leaned against the table and flicked his gaze up, to the balcony full of alcoves where people were enjoying more private discussions. Some of them clearly didn't think anyone was going to look up, and Jason scanned the alcoves quickly, watching for a too-interested expression—either a gleam of blue-and-black, or a heavy leer, Jason wasn't quite sure which—
There. East side. Alcove with a single occupant—male, dark hair pulled back into a bun with a streak of white, angular features that tugged at something in Jason's mind. Younger than Jason had been expecting. He didn't stop staring, even when Jason narrowed his eyes.
Jason took the snacks and walked back to Bruce's side. The weight of the gaze followed him the whole way back.
Bruce's tension eased as Jason rejoined his side, and Jason mentally rolled his eyes at the boring conversation about jewel mines. He pressed his plate into Bruce's hands and whispered, "I'm going to the bathroom."
Bruce's gaze instantly sharpened.
"I can go there by myself," Jason hissed, stepping back and ignoring Bruce's glower, "I'll be right back, I swear."
Bruce's mouth firmed into a thin line, but he had to pretend like he was still listening to the woman's prattling, and Jason was able to extricate himself without incident.
Once he was out of the ballroom, he took the stairs up to the balcony instead of the hallway to the bathroom. His heart was stuck somewhere in his throat—but this was his problem, and Bruce and Damian had already taken on too much responsibility. Jason could handle this by himself.
He found the right alcove, and ripped the curtains open. The young man was sitting next to the balcony, still staring down at the ballroom floor. "Can I help you with something?" he asked, not turning towards Jason. Clean, smooth Bristol accent.
"You're staring at me."
"Am I?"
Jason narrowed his eyes. "You were staring at me," he clarified, stalking into the alcove.
"Was I?" the young man said, still not turning his way.
"Yeah," Jason snapped, "You were. It's creepy. And rude. What do you want?"
The young man laughed. "You keep asking that question like I'm obligated to give you an answer," he said softly.
Jason went stock still. The man didn't turn towards him, didn't move to get up, didn't even twitch as Jason stumbled back a step, his heart racing.
Fuck. Fuck. Jason had to—Bruce had to know—they had to—
"Flutter back to your nest," Hood said lightly, and Jason could see the crook of a smile on what was visible of the man's face. Jason stumbled back another step, but then stopped himself.
"Why did you do it?" Jason whispered, because not knowing was driving him mad. "Why did you kill them?"
The smile faded. "Consider it a belated adoption gift," Hood said.
"What?" Jason blinked at him.
Hood finally turned towards him. Sharp cheekbones, a braided streak of white in his hair, features that were slowly clicking into familiarity. Almost glowing green eyes. The dead boy smiled.
"Welcome to the family, Jaybird."