Chapter Text
Fucking traffickers.
Jason had been on patrol—a shorter one, since Bruce was out of town—and an abandoned warehouse turned out to be not-so-abandoned after all, but before he could do something about it, he’d been tased.
And now he was bound and gagged in the center of the warehouse, shackles locking wrist to elbow behind his back, tight around his ankles, and forcing him to his knees. He shot a baleful glare at the closest trafficker, snarling around the gag shoved into his mouth, and pretended like his heart wasn’t racing.
It was—it was stupid. He was Robin, not Jason, and he could fight back. He had backup. He could get out of this mess.
He’d been Robin the last time too, and he remembered kneeling at Hood’s feet and begging and—
If Hood had wanted to hurt him, Jason couldn’t have stopped him. The same way he couldn’t stop these traffickers, controlling his urge to shiver as fingers danced on his shoulders and curled around the edge of his mask.
“Are we sure we wanna sell him?” one of them jeered, “I think I like the sight of him on his knees.”
How about the sight of you without kneecaps, fucker?
“Robin’s a big payday,” the leader cautioned, a smirk playing about his lips, “But so long as he’s in one piece, I don’t think anyone’s going to complain if he’s a little used.”
Jason forced himself to take a deep breath to avoid the sharp inhale. Nightwing would be looking for him. Nightwing would save him. And if—if he didn’t come quickly enough, well. Jason had plenty of practice in not breaking.
He just—for some reason, after everything, he thought he wouldn’t have to do this again. He’d listened to Bruce’s reassurances, and Damian’s, and believed them. He—
No one could truly keep him safe. That was a lesson Jason had learned a long time ago, and apparently he needed a refresher.
“Well, are we gonna play rock-paper-scissors for who gets to go first, or—”
The bang of the warehouse door startled everyone—Jason shifted in his restraints, the men lost their hungry leers, and the leader straightened, eyes narrowed at the newcomer.
“I heard there was a Bat for sale,” a mechanized voice cut through the tense silence, growing closer on silent footsteps.
Jason’s stomach twisted. His heart stuttered a beat. Hood had—Hood had killed nine people. Nine predators. But Jason couldn’t forget the heavy weight of his gaze, or the way Damian and Bruce had paled dramatically when Jason recounted his meeting with the man that looked like Tim.
Tim Drake is dead, they’d said, half-horrified, half-furious. Anyone wearing his face was up to no good.
Add to that that he could be League, and Jason watched with trepidation as the blank red helmet got closer.
“More of a bird than a bat, I see,” Hood drawled, white lenses fixed on him, “But good enough for my purposes.”
“I didn’t expect any takers so early,” the leader said, shifting in unconscious uneasiness. The men were glancing at each other, wariness growing. Hood was unsettling—he moved like a wraith even in direct light, and the effect was striking.
Like a shadow creeping across the floor.
“Early birds get the worm,” Hood said, sounding faintly amused, “Shall we negotiate particulars?”
Some of the men looked disappointed. The majority were edging away from Hood—the reputation of the red helmeted assassin had definitely gotten around town, especially after the nine dead businessmen.
“You do know that’s Robin, right?” the leader asked, crossing his arms. Clearly didn’t want to give up his prize so quickly. “Not exactly obedient and biddable. If you want, I can show you our selection—”
“Oh, even Robins will sing if you play the right tune,” Hood said, and it struck at an echo of a memory, of being on his knees as the mechanized voice laughed. The man stalked closer to Jason, and he glared as fiercely as he could through the mask. “Will you sing for me, sweetheart?”
The men laughed. Jason snarled through the gag. When he got free, he was going to show this fucking asshole exactly how little he appreciated his insinuations—Jason should’ve broken his nose at that gala.
Hood reached for the gag—Jason was going to bite his fucking fingers off—and the leader stepped forward, “He’s a mouthy one.”
“There’s more than one way to shut someone up,” Hood replied calmly, and no one dared to stop him as he pulled the gag out.
Jason readied a curse the moment his mouth was free, he wasn’t going to give these fuckers the satisfaction of knowing he was cowed—
And was met with a knife to his lips.
Jason froze. Shallow breaths sucked through his nose, not daring to move his mouth as the blade slid between his lips and scraped his teeth. It was sharp and long and Jason couldn’t read any expression off that red helmet but he could certainly feel wariness change to anticipation.
“Open up, sweetheart.” There was a hint of a threat in the tone. “I’d hate to scar up such a pretty face.”
But he—would he—he couldn’t—all he had to do was slash, and the knife would be in his throat either way.
Jason reluctantly parted his teeth.
The knife slid in easily, slipping an inch inside before Jason could even react, and it stilled as his tongue pressed up, unconsciously resisting the intrusion. His heart was beating too fast, his breaths quick and shallow, and everything in him rebelled against the sharp edge in his mouth, get it out, get it out—
“Calm down, little bird,” Hood’s free hand came up to stroke his cheek. His eyes were beginning to prickle. “I don’t want to slice you up by accident.”
Jason shuddered, and tried to stay as still as possible. He sucked in a larger breath, and forced his throat to relax, hating himself for it but strangling the panic. The knife slid forward the moment the resistance lessened, creeping further and further in, smooth edge gliding across his tongue.
He felt the panic claw higher as the knife continued inexorably forward—he couldn’t—he couldn’t take all of it, he was going to die if Hood forced it much further, the slow, steady pace was worse than if Hood just shoved it down his throat and let him bleed to death—
The knife stopped, the hilt touching Jason’s lips. He tried to breathe, in and out, through his nose, fighting the urge to cough the knife out, fighting the urge to throw himself back, fighting the urge to scream.
“Good little bird,” Hood said, the satisfaction clear in the distorted voice as he slowly pinched Jason’s lips closed over the knife, forcing his mouth shut. The hilt stuck out obscenely from his face.
Jason blinked, and tears pooled, slipping through the corners of his mask to drip down his cheeks. Hood gently brushed one of the tear tracks away before straightening out of his crouch.
Jason’s gaze flicked up, just enough to track the looks of wide-eyed hunger on the men’s face, and then his vision became blurry again and he dropped it back to the hilt.
“I think he’s perfect for what I want,” Hood said as Jason fought the urge to swallow. “Shall we discuss the price?”
The sharp edges of the knife dug into his tongue with every heaving breath and Jason had to force down the urge to vomit. Maybe if he bent forward and opened his mouth, the knife would slip free without slicing up his tongue, but he couldn’t take that risk. Not with Hood right there. Not with the weight of hungry leers on him as he fought to stay perfectly still.
No. He couldn’t fight. Not now. More and more tears slipped down his cheeks, running down his jaw to drip off his chin. The sharp taste of metal filled his mouth.
No panic. No hyperventilating. Relax his mouth. Relax his tongue. Pretend like razor sharp edges weren’t millimeters away from slicing through the inside of his mouth. Pretend like the weight of the hilt wasn’t resting on chapped lips.
The conversation was still going on over his head. He couldn’t listen to it. He didn’t want to listen to it. He breathed, in and out, slow and even, focusing his attention on his mouth even as a lump swelled in his throat.
How—how long was he supposed to hold it here? He—he couldn’t, he was crying already, if Hood planned worse than this, then he was going to break Jason easily and casually, like a thrown glass. His entire world narrowed to the knife in his mouth, his stomach tightening with every breath, and the rest of the room lost focus.
It was a dangerous thing—he was surrounded by enemies, he needed to stay alert—but he could choose panic or dissociation, and with a knife pressing against his tongue, it wasn’t a choice at all.
He heard laughter. Gunshots and screams. Then nothing.
A gloved hand cupped his cheek, and Jason dragged his gaze up to the red helmet. Waiting for whatever Hood had planned next.
“Open up, Robin,” Hood said quietly, a thumb pressing at the corner of his lips as he lightly gripped the hilt of the knife. Jason obeyed, parting his lips and opening his mouth.
“Stay still,” Hood warned, and Jason did, not moving a muscle as Hood slowly drew the knife back out. Jason snapped his mouth closed the moment the blade cleared his lips, swallowing and resisting the urge to puke as bile rose up. Hood examined the blade as Jason tried not to gag, and finally tucked it away before straightening and moving out of Jason’s sight.
Jason could still feel it. Sharp and cold. He could still taste it on his tongue and he swallowed convulsively, his throat closing up as he began to shudder.
A hand closed around his arm. The click of locks releasing, one after the other, and Jason couldn’t stop himself from falling on his newly freed wrists, shaking apart on his hands and knees.
Another click. His ankles. Jason dragged his gaze up—what game was this, what did Hood want this time, what was he playing at—and stilled.
Bodies. Those were…bodies. And blood, so much blood.
Jason couldn’t move, gaze transfixed, even as Hood’s boots reappeared in his field of view. “Robin?” the mechanized voice asked, “Robin, can you hear me?”
Dead. They were all dead. Everyone in the warehouse except Robin and the Red Hood was dead.
“Robin?”
Fourteen people had been murdered right in front of him, and Jason hadn’t even noticed.
A heavy, distorted sigh. Jason barely registered Hood crouching in front of him. He did register the gloved hand reaching out, reaching for him, but he couldn’t make his limbs move, and he just squeezed his eyes shut as it landed on his collar and skimmed across his neck.
It stopped at his shoulder, and he felt the faint click. The panic button. What was—
A soft weight draped over his shoulders, dark and warm, and Jason reached out one wavering hand to tug it closer, wrapping it around himself like a second cape. Only when it enveloped him did it occur to him to ask any questions.
It was a coat. A long, black coat. Jason sat back on his heels and raised his head, twisting to scan the warehouse. Bodies. Blood. The empty shackles. A silent warehouse.
The Red Hood was gone.
Tim waited on a nearby rooftop, watching the main entrance and counting the seconds down in his head. When a blur of black and blue showed up, he finally let out the breath.
Robin, on his knees, mask doing little to hide his terror.
Robin, mouth forced closed around a knife.
Robin, still and silent and bowed, as Tim dredged up the right words to say, the right inflections to hit, to push and push and push until wariness eased and he had the key to the electronic cuffs and he could draw his gun and kill everyone in that warehouse.
Tim swallowed. And swallowed again. He could feel the heavy weight of the blade on his tongue, the sick metallic taste, the sharp touch of iron—no, Robin hadn’t bled, it was a thin knife and he’d stayed still—the ringing laughter, the cold green eyes—“You look beautiful on your knees, my young detective.”—his lips cracking around the sword—
Tim turned away, breathing heavily behind his helmet. Nightwing was here. The kid had a protector. He would be fine.
Tim would go to bed with a mouth choked by metal and hands dripping red.
Jason startled violently at the hand on his shoulder, and only when his first punch missed did he check for his assailant.
Nightwing hovered out of easy grabbing rang, one hand raised in peace. “Wing,” Jason exhaled, and nearly crumpled, shaking harder and drawing the coat—Hood’s coat—more tightly around him.
“Robin,” Nightwing said, creeping closer. When Jason didn’t object to the hand on his shoulder, he drew him into a hug, tugging him closer and wrapping tightly around him. “What happened?”
“T—traffickers,” Jason’s voice cracked, and he buried his face against Nightwing’s collarbone. “I—they—they captured me—”
“Did they hurt you?” Nightwing asked, his voice dropping a register into a growl. Jason shook his head, still shivering.
“They—Hood—”
“Hood was here?”
“He,” Jason swallowed and tried again, “He—he put a k—knife in my m—mouth.”
Nightwing immediately went tense.
“He—I thought it was—it was—I couldn’t—”
“It’s okay,” Nightwing murmured, a hand drifting up to his hair, “It’s okay, Robin, you’re okay.”
“He killed e—everyone.” There was so much blood. “I c—couldn’t stop him—”
“Not your fault,” Nightwing said quietly, “It’s not your fault, Robin.” Quiet strokes combed through his hair. “Did he hurt you? Hood?”
“No,” Jason shivered, curling further against Nightwing, “No, the knife didn’t—didn’t cut me.” Hood hadn’t—he’d unlocked Jason’s cuffs.
He’d given him his coat.
Tim Drake was dead. Hood was an unknown. And they still had no clue what the fuck he wanted.