Baby birds

by SingSwan_SpringSwan

Summary:

Robin goes down on patrol in Crime Alley, and unfortunately for Tim, The Red Hood finds him before anyone else can.

Chapter 1

Jason has never been great at maintaining professionalism. He can uphold an image, sure (after all the training Talia and Bruce have put him through, it’d be a shock otherwise), but in his heart, he has a number of unassuming passions. Things for which the Red Hood would by no means be renowned. For example: the collection of lavender scented bath bombs hidden underneath his bathroom sink. He was also instilled with a healthy appreciation for English teas, and he has a sizable stash in his kitchen cabinets.

And… he listens to his plant on Oracle far more often than necessary. In effect, it’s a hack into Bat comms. Very handy for the occasions in which Jason plans to actively avoid them, or when he needs to borrow some intel. But in reality, it’s not a hack. And it’s not just the field line he’s in on. It’s Oracle’s master comm.

Jason planted his connection out of bitter curiosity. He’d anticipated needing access to Bat comms. He knew, at the time, that Babs was running the show. And she let him in on a little back door secret when she was his Batgirl: when she was only just realizing her true affinity for computer work, and he tried the trick to see what would happen. Now he has access to a lot more than a simple communications array. So he listens in from time to time, but he doesn’t take advantage of the access, doesn’t do any digging—why would he? Nothing in the vast library of Oracle’s compiled databases will help him fulfill his plan. He doesn’t want to tear the Bats down. He just… wants to teach them a lesson.

No more dead birds.

Idly listening to Oracle work isn’t impeding his goals, and it doesn’t damage his reputation either. Not on a quiet feed linked to his helmet alone, where none of the criminals and thugs he encounters at night can tell at all. So Jason leaves the line open. Through the one-way channel, he listens to Babs while he goes about his business.

It’s mostly white noise. While the vigilantes are on patrol, Babs runs logistical work—occasionally taking point on big ops—tracking key players, compiling intel, organizing case files. Jason can hear a steady stream of keyboard chatter, and it’s such a neutral, consistent sound, he finds it even dulls the green a bit. When did he stop wanting to keep the green? There are circumstantial chirps, beeps, notifications from the wide array of screens he can imagine surrounding her, and the low thrum of what sounds like a clock. She mutters from time to time. He didn’t know he missed her voice this much.

Anyway, Jason turns the line on most nights, and it’s grounding on quiet ones like this, when he otherwise would watch his thoughts spiral with detached discomfort, and some mildly despicable person would end up dead by his hand. 

He never reaches out to her. Jason knows better than to give her that ammunition. She’s probably helping Batman tear into his operations. She might even be heading the investigation, if the workload is to be considered proportionately, and leaving any crumbs for the sake of his own comfort is just sloppy. Talia didn’t train a sloppy assassin. 

No, Jason’s rather proud of his ability to evade Babs so tidily up until this point. He knows better than to not take her seriously. He knows what a large threat she poses. If he slips up, and she catches on, he’s probably toast. All his hard work could crash down around him like a house of brand new cards.

But there’s no harm in listening. She won’t even know he’s listening unless she goes on regular patrols through a dated backdoor program she must have installed four years ago—and even then, Jason’s presence is practically intangible, given that he’s not actively trawling through her software. He’s content to simply listen.

It’s a nice way to feel less lonely in the midst of his work, without a direct reminder of the Bats and their superhero bullshit. It just sounds like Babs. And Babs was always good to him. (Jason swore he wouldn’t cling to useless fragments of his old life. That’s what he told Talia, anyway. Maybe she knew he was lying. Or maybe he believed himself at first, back when everything was green).

It’s not always quiet maintenance work. Oracle is, after all, the primary contact for field operations. Everyone keeps the line to her open. Everyone talks to her if they want. If they need something. If they have pertinent updates for cases ongoing. If they’re in trouble.

Jason just didn’t expect Robin to be on patrol tonight. News feed from Wayne Enterprises says Bruce is on a “business trip”, and unless the cover tactics have changed in the last four years, that means Justice League mission in space. Batman won’t be around for a few days, at least. And Nightwing is back in Blüdhaven. Judging by the severely decreased Robin sightings in the last few weeks—and what Babs said back when Crane last broke out, everyone’s been trying to ground the little bird unofficially. Jason can’t imagine that sitting well with the cuckoo, who—considering his caped lineage—is not one to respect Batman’s wishes. 

Still, Jason hasn’t been causing much fuss since Batman went offworld. From Batman’s point of view, this would inspire a great deal of suspense (an easy feat with that bastard’s paranoia problem), since he’s done so much to track the Red Hood. But for Robin , who shouldn’t even be acquainted with the case—by Jason’s calculations—the quiet and Batman’s absence is a perfect opportunity to stay in the Manor and read a good book. Possibly bake with Alfred. Have a hot cup of tea. Even take a lavender bubble bath, if he’s feeling particularly luxurious.

Not go out on patrol alone. Why would he do that? He’s not supposed to be an idiot. There’s nothing of interest for him out here anyway. No big players making a ruckus. No deviation from gang violence as usual. Just same old Gotham, with its shitty streets and dirty traffickers and freakishly inventive drug applications.

Besides, patrolling alone is always a horrible idea. Especially when no one knows he’s doing it. What the hell? Fucking Batman won’t be the only one responsible for this idiot getting wasted, at the rate he throws himself into danger. Gotham is no place to be caught without backup. Even for a vigilante with as much training as Robin. 

But maybe Oracle’s open status breeds a bit of complacency.

Jason first gets wind of Robin’s activity through his handy dandy hacked comm line. A sudden induction of static is all the warning he gets before the delinquent’s voice floods his helmet.

“This is Robin!” The kid says in a rush. He sounds so young. He’s barely more than a child. Muffled sounds of a fight pour through the line. Shouts, metal clanging, fists making contact, the subtle whistle of a staff in the air. “I’ve been tagged with an unknown substance. Requesting backup.”

Jason can feel the way Babs’ mood drops. He can feel the chill of it. Her voice grows hard. “Interestingly enough, I require your location.” She says icily. “Because your tracker feed indicates you’re back at the Cave. Where you were ordered to stay.”

Oh shit. Jason almost cracks a smile at that. Babs never really took that bossy tone with him when they were friends—and if she did, he made sure to give her shit. But she’s gone full tongue-lashing on this kid. And it works, too. Jason can hear Robin cow a bit.

“Right…” He grunts, to the sound of a blocked hit. “Um… about that—”

“Robin.” Babs snaps. “Location now. I’ll send Spoiler to assist.”

Robin doesn’t take any chances with excuses. He rattles off a quick, confident address, and a brief description of the building—the warehouse—he’s in right now.

That’s… in Crime Alley. Four blocks away. For a second, the world is a vibrant green. What a fucking interloper! Who the fuck does this kid think he is? Trespassing on Jason’s turf? Jason was fine to let him show his stupid dominoed face in far sides of the city—Jason can’t hurt him while he’s here anyway and Jason is fucking patient; he can wait for an opportunity to teach the little bitch a lesson. Besides, with Spoiler tossing bricks at every other lieutenant of his, Jason’s at his limit with Bat babies in Crime Alley.

Jason was planning on a chill night of recon. Scope out some buildings, groundwork for contingencies. That’s no longer an option. Imposter bird in his territory? That’s something he needs to see to. With prejudice.

The green forms a gentle haze across his vision as he moves, muscles wound tight, steps precise. He’s going to blow Tim Drake’s brains out.

Well. He wants to anyway. Even with Batman out of town, it’s probably too dangerous to make an attempt on his precious rich boy bird here in Gotham. That would set things in motion far ahead of schedule, and Jason isn’t prepared to handle a vengeful Bat until he takes his own damn helmet off in front of him.

At the same time, he can’t just sit back and let this play out. He needs to assert himself as Crime Alley’s ruling sovereign, or Batman will come back and hear about Robin’s little excursion sans intervention, and his view of Red Hood will weaken. He needs Batman to take him seriously. It’s what he wanted from the start.  

“Spoiler, I need you to answer a distress call from Robin. You’re the closest available operative.” 

Jason’s learned to recognize the private lines by the filtration of Babs’ voice. It’s not a particularly pertinent detail, but it gives him something tangible to grasp as he storms out into Gotham’s night. The sidewalk crunches beneath his boots.

“Got it.” A cheerful voice responds to Oracle’s mandate. Just another child soldier. Where are all the grown-ups? Jason’s only nineteen, God dammit. “ETA five minutes.”

Jason’s just one minute away. He aims his grapple at the nearest rooftop and swings skyward. Goddamn Bats. Goddamn lunatics. Who’s out here supervising the kids? They’re just kids. They’re sticking their noses into the scum of the city, and getting drugged for it, and Oracle can’t send anyone else to help? Not a single vigilante in this city who isn’t a minor?

“I’ve alerted Batwoman.” Babs says. 

Jason doesn’t know her. She might have been the future for Babs, if a clown and a bullet didn’t cut things in half. Another replacement. Another way Bruce failed.

“She’s patrolling Old Gotham tonight but I’ll send her your way in case things get messy.”

Spoiler scoffs (it makes Jason’s teeth grind. This isn’t a joke. This has never been a fucking joke). “We don’t need a babysitter, O.”

“Apparently you do. ” Babs’ is back to the public line and her tone is cold. Anger like Jason hasn’t heard before. “Or Robin wouldn’t have hacked his tracker to relay false data so he could sneak around without authorization.”

Robin has the audacity to whine. His words are a bit slurred. “Oh come on, just because Batman’s away, doesn’t mean I can’t get some work done. I was following up on a cold case. I found a huge lead!”

“You found trouble.” Babs skates over her keyboard with sharp efficiency. Jason’s almost there. “And you’ve been compromised. You know mission success means nothing if you become compromised.”

The sounds of fighting persist through Robin’s comm, but he remains silent for a beat. “Don’t… don’ tell Nightwing.”

Really? That’s his biggest concern right now? He’s fighting a warehouse of goons on half a consciousness and all he can think of is fucking hero worship? What the hell is wrong with him?

“I should!”

“No! Oracle please, there’s no need for him to know, and he’ll drive all the way out here if you tell him—”

Jason swallows a swell of bile in his throat. That doesn’t sound like Nightwing. But then… it’s been four years, and people can change. Jason’s just jealous. That’s all. (Why would he be sad? Why would he mourn something that wasn’t his in the first place?) Dick never came home just to scold him. 

Jason lands on the roof of the warehouse with a thud. He can now hear sounds of fighting with his own two ears—and when he finds a convenient skylight, he can see it too. He’s looking through a haze. A veil.

Red yellow green. The sight alive makes Jason feel all tilty and unhinged. That’s not his uniform. The style is different, the shape, the design, the moves, the staff, the boy in brilliant colors. Robin. That’s Robin and the name used to mean Jason too, and he shoves the jarring sensation down way deep before he can lose his grip on what’s real. The last time he saw a Robin that wasn’t him, he was a child. He was ten and Robin was magic. Robin was sunshine and quadruple somersaults and wonder without Goddamn pants. Robin wasn’t a martyr. Or a target. Boy Hostage was a joke , not a title. Robin was the safest thing in the wide stupid world.

But the child Jason remembers is a man now, and he didn’t care for his replacement either. It’s not exactly a condemnable offense. After all, Jason was this incompetent when he was twelve. Though Robin now is not twelve.

Robin is surrounded on the ground floor. Even from a distance, and without a close acquaintance to him, Jason can tell he’s doing sloppy work. He’s succumbing to the effects of whatever drug is in his system, though stubbornly resisting like a good little vigilante. It wouldn’t be long before the armed men swarming him land blows capable of rendering permanent damage. All before backup hits the scene. By God, he’s fifteen and they could—they might—he’d be vulnerable to their malice. They could easily take advantage of him.

At least, that’s what would happen. If Jason didn’t drop in from the skylight. Blind with Pit rage. 

All the colors are washed out. There’s only green, and green, and suddenly the green swells beyond the traction of Oracle’s voice, and Jason is falling through the air in a shower of broken glass. The green is howling in his head. He feels his body move with perfect grace, feels the shock of the ground rising to meet him, and he can’t see beyond the blur overcoming his vision but for vague shapes and shadows. This is wrong. This is bad. This is Robin alone in a warehouse with help arriving too late, in Gotham fucking city—not some desolate fucking ruin in a foreign country half a world away. This is everything Jason swore to not repeat, and he’s—he’s so… angry. He’s so mad it burns.

It boils in his throat like lava spewing up, bursting out. How did this happen? How did they let this happen? After everything Jason suffered, after the way he fucking died, are they really going to sit around complacent, and let it happen again? Didn’t he mean anything? His plan won’t work if he meant nothing. His plan won’t work if Batman well and truly doesn’t care. Which is what it looks like right now. Of course, Jason’s rage is natural. 

He should be crying right now. Screaming. Something. Killing the bastards who threatened Robin isn’t good enough. Nothing is good enough right now. Nothing will sate the green. Not when any modicum of incompetence from the fuck off Goddamn Bats could have gotten their baby killed beneath their noses. Jason only had one true purpose coming home. Batman has to see how wrong he is. Batman needs to understand what a colossal fucking failure he is.

No more dead birds.

Jason can’t stomach any more. When he comes to his senses again, Oracle’s voice has taken on a more urgent tone, and everyone around him is dead. Except for Robin. The kid’s dumbass is sprawled on the ground, bo staff clenched in both hands, pale and sweaty and definitely doped. Jason doesn’t need to see the kid’s pupils to know they’re blown to high heaven. He’s tense. Breathing hard. Maybe it bothers him to sit on the grimy floor, surrounded by pools of hot blood and broken bones.

Jason’s lungs burn but he can’t find the energy to care about it. He watches himself—in near detachment—turn towards the kid, fully aware of his looming advantage and the striking way the bodies catch the light. He knows there’s blood on his helmet. He knows it probably looks sick. But Jason won’t think about that. He doesn’t want to acknowledge any horrifying parallels.

“Well well well.” His voice echoes off the rafters. Robin isn’t moving. Robin appears uninjured, but he isn’t getting up. Goddamn fucking drugs. “What have we here?”

“What’s going on?” Spoiler demands over comms and the whistling of wind.

“Robin, report.”

Robin does not report. Robin can barely keep his eyes open. He’s staring at Jason and the blood and the guns in obvious shock. His hands are heartbeats away from shaking. He hasn’t let the bo staff go. It’s a nice staff, Jason will admit.

“A little bird too far from its nest?”

Jason’s close enough to the kid that his voice carries faintly over Robin’s comm. He can hear the way it layers in real time, even past the strangled noise Oracle makes.

“No.” She breathes. “Robin, get out of there.”

The kid doesn’t move. Is he fucking suicidal? Or is the chemical in his system just that potent? Jason takes another set of slow, looming steps. 

“A little bird, all alone.” 

“Robin—”

“Where’s your daddy?” Jason asks, knowing full well Bruce is nowhere nearby, Bruce is too far away to help, Bruce is going to be too late again. Jason ducks a vicious swing of the staff. Good little bird, fighting to the last moment but what good did that do him? What did he gain by saving his pride? He would be impressed with the technique—considering the kid is doped off his ass—but nothing trumps the seething anger coiling tight around his lungs. 

He catches the staff on the next swing (ignoring the dull explosion of pain in his hand, just like Talia taught him) and wrenches it away. Stupid stubborn baby bird almost doesn’t let go in time to avoid two broken wrists. He still yelps about it. Jason tosses the staff behind him. It clatters hollowly.

“Robin!” Oracle is now very obviously distressed. Almost panicked. Scared. 

“Where’s the big bad Bat?” Jason crouches at an insulting proximity. “Why isn’t he here to save you?”

“I’m almost there—”

“No! No, Spoiler stand down! Do not engage! I—I’m calling Nightwing—”

“That’s the Red Hood!” Spoiler shrieks. The rawness of her terror makes her sound years younger. “I have to help! I have to stop him!”

“Stand down! ”

Robin swallows visibly, but he doesn’t betray the fear Jason can see in the tight lines of his posture. He juts his chin out. Defiant. When he speaks, his voice is surprisingly level and clear. “Batman’s on his way.” He says. Lies. “He’ll be here soon.”

Bluffing didn’t save Jason’s life. The saddest part about it would be that he wasn’t bluffing—not really—because Batman did get there, just not before the countdown ran out. But it’s different this time. It’s worse this time. They’re at home and Bruce is not and the closest person who could stop him is forty minutes away. It’s maddening. It’s crushing. It’s driving him insane. Jason wants to kill the stupid lying bastard kid right now just to prove a fucking point. Batman is failing. His stupid as shit crusade is driving innocent children into the ground. Six feet under. That’s a lot of mud to crawl through.

Jason narrows his eyes, lowers his voice. He tips his head close, so Robin can get a theatrical view of the monster Batman made. The words are almost too soft for his vocoder to make a difference. 

“Then he’ll be too late.” He says. 

Before Jason can lose his nerve (or his self-control), he snaps his arm up, cracking the nose of his gun on the side of Robin’s head. There’s a burst of static in his ear. Spoiler screams.

He must have shorted the comm. Good. That can be traced.

“Robin!” Oracle barks, strained and desperate. “Robin, do you copy?”

Jason can hear the hush from Robin’s comm. The kid is limp on the dirty ground, pale and sweaty and finally unconscious. Blood trails through his hair. Jason could have been gentler.

“Robin, please respond.” Watery voice.

He could still kill the kid. It’ll take them a moment to realize what they heard wasn’t a gunshot, especially if Spoiler is close enough already. He could take advantage of the window before Spoiler and whatever Batwoman descend, put a bullet in the little bird’s brain (the green wants him to. The green howls and wails and throws a fit about the Replacement still breathing). But even if he manages to slip away before they arrive, he’ll never outrun the consequences of killing a Bat in Gotham. 

Batman doesn’t kill. Batman endorses the freak fucking torture den masquerading as an asylum (the one place Talia couldn’t train him to survive), and he’d send Jason and his Pit rage there in a heartbeat. If he didn’t ruin Jason’s plan and broadcast his identity to the world beforehand.

Besides, Batman isn’t the only hero in Gotham. He’s not the only nightmare Jason has to worry about.

So killing Batman’s son is off the table, but Jason can’t let this lie. He has to do something with this green fucking poison stretched across his eyes, simmering four-year-old bitterness and rage that no one saved him, and no one tried to do any better. He thought they cared about the Replacement. Why else would they have let him wear those colors? The colors Jason died in? But now it only seems like he’s a tool for them to toss aside, as easily replaced as his predecessor was—and fine. If they don’t care enough to keep him safe from mass murdering crime lords like Jason, he’ll gladly take him off their hands.

“Robin, please! Do you copy?”

He has two minutes before Spoiler makes contact; maybe more, depending on whether she really listened to Oracle’s order and stayed away. Plenty of time for Jason to get out of here. First, he makes a quick scan of the area. 

“Robin! Robin! ”

Aside from the dead bodies, there’s nothing connecting him to the chaos on site, but a small glass object on the ground a ways away catches his eye. He jogs over to scoop it up.

“There’s no use. His comm is down. We’ll have to find another way—”

It’s a crude dart. Looks like a syringe with fletching glued on (Jason swallows and very carefully does not let his hand shake). Robin must have knocked it off before it finished depressing, because Jason can still see a few milliliters of solution inside. He whips out a field test kit. Knowing what the kid was tagged with will be helpful.

There’s a click in his ear: another private channel opened up. Fuck, if it doesn’t ache to hear Dick sound so tired.

“What is it?”

Jason expects Babs to ask if he was really sleeping for once— at this hour, Boy Wonder? —but she doesn’t bother. For once, level-headed Barbara Gordon sounds about to cry.

“Robin’s in trouble. He’s been drugged, and the Red Hood found him, and all his trackers are offline, and his comm is out—”

“I’m on my way.” Dick says. Just like that. Without a second thought. No slow down Babs, no I’m in the middle of something Babs, no get someone else to babysit. He’s on his way. “Send me the address. I’ll be there in half an hour.” It doesn’t take half an hour to get here. The drive from Blüdhaven is at least forty minutes, depending on highway congestion. Half an hour is several broken traffic laws and reckless fucking endangerment.

That’s enough. Jason doesn’t want to listen anymore. The tactical advantage of camping on their comms won’t do him any good if it sets off another mental breakdown (it’s fine. He’s fine. It doesn’t cause an entirely different burn in his chest to hear Nightwing’s words and know they love Tim more). There’s no one left to hurt but the kid. Jason reaches up and switches the line off.

Back to Robin. He’s slumped on his side. Limbs askew. Jason scans him for outstanding injuries, and—upon preliminary inspection, poking and probing—he seems relatively unharmed. Jason probably gave him a concussion though. He’ll have one bitch of a headache when he wakes up. But that won’t be for a while, hopefully. He is an insomniac, after all.

The verdict from the field test is concentrated sedative: a common one. Judging by a few quick mental calculations—accounting for age, body weight (downright despicable, now that Jason can see his scrawny arms up close. Is Alfred even feeding this twerp?), and percent composition of caffeine in the bloodstream—Jason would round his little nap out to around three hours. Plenty of time. Jason tucks the brat into his cape (half black, not a brilliant, comforting yellow) and throws him over his shoulder. Holy shit, he’s almost as light as Beck.

Incidentally, that’s who Jason ends up taking him to. He’s not dumping the freak at Leslie’s clinic; he doesn’t want to risk breaking the fragile truce he’s formed with her by all but admitting to child assault. No way in fuck he wants the Replacement crashing at his safehouse. If he has to look at Robin’s stupid face and stupid stolen colors for too fucking long, he might actually kill him, and—Jason doesn’t want to do that. (Not yet, he tells himself. Later. Later later kill him later). 

Jason would never hand him over to the cops. Jason knows damn well the police are his enemy in this part of the city. Jason knows what happens to kids who go to the cops in Crime Alley, and he’s not letting that happen to any child. Not even Robin.

That doesn’t leave a ton of options. Jason doesn’t have many contacts in the Alley he would trust with a vulnerable drugged Robin, and Wayne Foundation sites are out of the fucking question. Beck, at least, cares about the kid. She can help him.

He takes special care to be quiet on her fire escape. It’s not as rickety and loud as some others, but Jason carries a lot of weight all suited up. His movements are also awkward with the sack of feathers on his shoulder. He doesn’t want to attract attention. 

One free arm isn’t enough to open the window without breaking it, so he raises his hand to knock. Beck’s usually still awake at this hour. It’s only around midnight. Jason shouldn’t stick around for long.

It takes a half minute for Beck to appear within the dark and move to open her window. She looks pleasant as ever, happy as ever to see him. She shoves the window wide.

“Hey!” Her voice is light and quiet and reverent. “What are you—”

Jason doesn’t wait to be invited in. He ducks his shoulder and slips past her. Staying isn’t the safest idea. He’ll just drop the Replacement and go. It’d be stupid to risk losing his cool like he did back at the warehouse; Beck is in no way capable of stopping him, and he doesn’t want to hurt the kid. ( Yet, he reminds himself). He’ll just—he’s just doing this to piss the Bats off. He wasn’t going to just leave Robin drugged and concussed in an abandoned warehouse in Crime Alley. Jason may have killed the men threatening him at the time, but Gotham isn’t a safe place to have your guard down. They won’t find the kid here. He’ll be safe here.

Jason moves to the couch and drops the unconscious lump without ceremony. Beck squeaks.

“Wait a minute, is that Robin?”

Jason definitely can’t stay if she’s going to say it like that. Just the sound of his stolen name in her voice makes the green flare. He clenches his jaw and turns away. Turns back to her. 

“He got drugged on patrol.” Jason bites out with effort. “He’s just banged up. Nothing serious. Should be awake in a few hours—maybe more, depending on how sleep deprived he is.” He’s already moving back to the window, already swinging a leg out. It burns to report on a fucking child vigilante. A stupid kid with no business being in that warehouse, getting drugged in the first place. Jason needs to get out of here. Clear his head. It’s fine. He’ll lay low until tomorrow so Nightwing doesn’t kill him.

“Wait, Hood.” Beck grabs gentle hold of his hand. Her touch is delicate and somehow a kind distraction from the spewing obscenities running a current in his subconscious. Everything is so green, and he can’t hear Babs’ voice anymore. But Beck is here. And that’s good enough for now. 

“Thank you.” She says, soft and earnest and honest. She’s not smiling. “For saving him.”

How the fuck is she going to make that assumption? Jason hurt him. Jason almost killed him. Jason isn’t sane and he’s certainly not stable, and he’s not doing this out of the goodness of his heart. He’s just trying to prove a point. That’s the only reason he’s here. Besides, her sincerity and gratitude on behalf of Robin makes something uncomfortable congeal in his chest. He doesn’t want to think about it. He should go.

“Well…” He forces himself to look her in the eye, to avoid thinking about anything else before he leaves. Beck is a neutral party. The green never knows what to do with her. “I know you like him.” Shit. That sounds like he’s giving her a pet. “Thought you’d appreciate the opportunity to help him.”

Now she smiles. Small. Barely more than a softening of the lips. Jason can see it because his helmet has night vision. She gives his hand a squeeze.

“Thank you.” She repeats.

Jason leaves before the words can sink in.

Chapter 2

When Tim wakes up, he takes note of three things. One: his head is killing him. Bad sign. It’s an uncomfortable mix of sharp ache and pounding heat, and it’s a sensation typically indicative of drugs in his system. Or a nasty concussion. Possibly both. Neither of which is good. Two: he’s lying down on something squishy. It feels nice, in spite of the pain—which only seems to occupy his head, by the way. He takes a second to catalog his injuries, and finds the rest of his body is nothing but mildly sore. A soft texture wraps around him. Like a blanket. It feels nice. Third: he can smell waffles.

Tim cracks his eyes open. His brain is taking a minute to boot up. He feels groggy. Probably a side effect from the drug. He’s warm and cozy and his mouth is dry, and his face feels super crusty. When he frees a hand from the blanket to swipe against it, he understands why. Did he fall asleep in his mask? Gross. His skin will be angry for hours.

But his senses catch up to him before he can properly be upset. Oh no. This is a couch he’s never seen before. He’s still wearing his domino mask. He doesn’t recognize this room. It’s small. There’s a TV mounted on the wall. Pictures on the mantle. A window. Blinds drawn. Where is he? There’s a coffee table to his left. It’s low. His Robin uniform is folded neatly atop it. Tim’s wearing a t-shirt three sizes too big. And where did the fuzzy blanket come from?

As far as he can tell, all his gear was removed from his person and carefully stacked in a pile—except for the boots. Those are still on the ground. He can see a decent handful of birdarangs collected beside the uniform. Is he still wearing his leggings? He’s still wearing his leggings. What on Earth is going on?

The last thing he remembers is… oh. Shit. The Red Hood. He remembers going on a standard hunt for cold case clues, and being caught off guard in a warehouse that wasn’t supposed to be occupied, and blinking at the dart sticking out of his arm for a stupid stupid two seconds longer than he should have. He remembers how mad Barbara was. He remembers Steph and Kate on their way to be backup, and Oracle said she was going to call Nightwing, but Tim can’t remember if she got around to that or not. He, admittedly, was too focused on trying to placate Red Hood and staying awake to really pay attention to the chatter in his ear. Not that it made much difference.

The Red Hood moved like a monster. It’s been a while since Tim ran into a villain with so much threat in his stance alone. And the way he killed all those people… with such raw brutality…

Tim stares down at his hands. How is he unharmed? Scratch that, how is he still alive? Sure, Hood knocked him upside the head, but Tim can recover from a concussion no sweat. He was under the impression that Hood had it out for him. It was a working theory, of course. Everyone started smothering him a few weeks after Hood began his crusade. Not an official sideline, but even Steph finds excuses to exclude Tim from field work. Their efforts are too intense for Tim to be the problem here, so the issue must have been a threat against him, and Batman won’t let him look at the file on Hood. Besides, Bruce has no qualms firing a Robin he believes to be incompetent. If Tim really was the problem, he’d be giving up the suit, not helping Alfred dust random stuff in the library (not that it’s much consolation. Tim has to prove himself).

But if Hood didn’t kill him last night—didn’t even hurt him—then where is he now? And how did he get here? Is this a Bat safehouse? Did someone manage to rescue him?

The cheerful beep of a waffle iron makes Tim swivel around, ignoring the stab of pain in his eyeballs. Behind him is a kitchen. It’s small, but there’s plenty of counter space, and an island, and stained tile floor. And old cabinets. And a person standing with their back turned his way. The walls are painted a very pleasant shade of green.

So this is a safehouse. It’s gotta be an apartment somewhere in the city. But wait—why would Tim’s mask still be on if this is Bat territory? And who—

The person shifts into a better field of view, and Tim can see that it’s a woman. Her hair is dark and bound up, and she’s picking at a nearly perfect grid of waffles on the iron with a fork. Tim squints against the headache. Those waffles look delicious. They’re super fluffy. And steamy. And a perfect light brown. They flop off the iron onto a plate in her other hand, which is already stacked with even more beautiful perfect waffles. Tim’s stomach decides to remind him that it can’t remember when it last had food, and that he has no idea how long he’s been asleep. He glares down at it.

“You shush.”

Oh. oops. He said that out loud.

The woman whirls around, surprised, and it doesn’t take her more than two seconds to smile at him brightly. “Oh!” She says, voice at a mild level, kind to the splitting rhythm above his nose. “Hey kiddo, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” The towering plate of waffles clinks softly when it comes to rest on the counter. She’s young. She can’t be any older than her early twenties, if that. Her features are round. She’s short. Her apron says “take whisks in life”.

Tim shouldn’t answer directly. He doesn’t know this woman. She may look sweet and friendly, and he may really want to try those waffles, but that definitely doesn’t mean he can trust her. He still doesn’t know what happened after Hood knocked him out. Or whether she’s in cahoots with the psychopath drug lord. Or whether this is some elaborate torture scheme. Tim doesn’t know for sure that he’s safe. That his ordeal with Hood is over. He can’t let down his guard.

“My head hurts.” He tells her, making sure to play up the young and innocent angle just like Dick taught him. It’ll be better if she underestimates his functionality; bonus points if there’s pity involved. Sure, his head is killing him, but it’s still something he can work around. Maybe even fight around, if he plays his cards right.

She falls for the bait. “Sorry kiddo.” She cringes sympathetically. “Want me to turn the lights off? I can see fine without ‘em.”

“Oh, um… if you don’t mind.”

It does feel better that way. After her trip to the wall and the light switch, she grabs a bottle of water from the island and walks it over.

“Here. Your head must hurt. Do you want some ibuprofen?”

Upon closer inspection, she seems frighteningly unassuming. For lack of a better term, she looks downright generic. Tim is immediately suspicious of a shapeshifter. Or possibly illusive magic. Not that the latter is likely in Gotham of all places, but Bruce is out of town, and no one’s done a check-up in a while. But his gut instinct takes no issue with her all the same. Tim’s learned to trust his gut.

The bottle is still sealed. That counts for something. 

“Yes.” He decides after a beat. “Thank you.”

While he busies himself chugging away a deceptively parched throat, she collects a bottle of painkillers and delivers them to the coffee table. Then it’s back to the kitchen, and she’s readying the iron for another wonderful waffle.

“Do you want to eat there or at the dining table?” She asks. “I can bring everything over.”

Huh? What is this, a bed and breakfast? Never mind he seems to have spent the night on her couch. Tim would really like to know what’s going on. 

Assess. Bruce’s voice in his head instructs. Gather information. Step one of the process involves scanning his surroundings. Tim already did that. He’s in a small apartment—that seems normal enough—and he can’t tell much else because of the blinds on the window. Not that there’s much guarantee the window view would help. Step two for loss of consciousness is: determine how much time has passed. It’s hard to tell for sure, but there’s daylight leaking through the blinds, and it must be a significant amount if she thought to draw them at all, being concerned for his photosensitivity like she seems. He searched the warehouse around midnight-ish.

“Um… what time is it?”

The girl twists her wrist to consult a simple watch. “Ten twenty-four.” Is her equally simple answer.

Tim goes cold. He’s growing increasingly certain that this is not a Bat-sanctioned hideout. Given that Oracle couldn’t find him last night without an explicit address, they probably have no idea where he is, now that he’s been moved to a secondary location. He is in sooo much trouble. Or he will be, if he manages to escape.

“I’ll bring everything over.” She decides, then follows through without much hesitation. Clearly, she’s had no experience as a waitress. The way she’s balancing the waffles and syrup and butter and cutlery and napkins is enough to make Tim lightheaded. She doesn’t seem bothered by the precariousness of it. “I have some frozen berries you can add. But something tells me you like your waffles plain.”

That’s a lot of waffles. Tim’s stomach isn’t that big. Does she seriously expect him to eat all of this? What the hell is going on?

“Wait, what—what?”

The mask clings to his skin. She didn’t remove it. He’d be in pain if she had; the dominoes aren’t designed to be removed without solvent. Whose shirt is this? It can’t be hers. It’s way too big.

“Waffles.”

“No, uh,” Tim twists to track her movement back into the kitchen. “What… happened? Where am I?”

She gives a charitable shrug. “Red Hood brought you over last night. He said you were drugged. Your arm didn’t need stitches, by the way.”

Tim glances down. Oh yeah, he forgot about that cut. There’s a neat bandage taped over it now.

“This is my apartment. We’re in Crime Alley.”

Double oh no. Tim didn’t want to stay in the Alley; he was hesitant enough to sneak in on case business, because he was sure the Red Hood definitely had it out for him—but…

“Hood brought me here?”

“Yep.” She says it so casually. Like the scourge of Gotham’s underworld popping over to her place of residence is a common occurrence.

“The Red Hood.” Tim just needs to confirm that. “Crime boss extraordinaire? Violent psychopath drug lord? Guns and helmet Red Hood? The guy who debuted with eight heads in a duffle bag?”

She makes an affirming noise. “The one with the sexy thighs. And his hands are—” 

Tim would like to jump out the window please.

“Oops, I’ve said too much.” Her face is swiftly turning red.

Is she… Red Hood’s booty call? Tim did not anticipate this. Tim didn’t think Hood would have any interest in keeping someone around for that purpose—but then, crime lords tend to follow a certain template. It doesn’t add up perfectly, of course. If he really does use this woman for an intimate agenda, wouldn’t he keep her somewhere a little nicer? Tim doesn’t know much about the man, but he knows Hood has dizzying control over most crime in the Alley, and even some affiliated boroughs of the city. That means he’s raking in the big bucks. He could totally afford some kind of penthouse or other to keep his girlfriend on hand. Why would she have her own apartment? And why would Hood give Tim to her?

“You… like him.” Tim has to say that out loud. To make sure he’s not going crazy.

Somehow, her flush deepens. “No no! It’s—we’re not—it’s not what you think!”

Is she a mind reader? He’ll have to investigate that theory.

“Um—I just admire him. I think he’s really cool.” The heat in her face looks uncomfortable. Tim’s no expert, but he’s pretty sure she’s down bad for a supervillain.

“He murders people.”

“Only the bad guys! Besides, he helps kids. How’s he going to be a terrible person if he goes out of his way to help kids?”

“Allegedly.”

“He helped you. ”

Well—that would depend on the definition of help. Because Hood made Tim almost crap his pants and then gave him a concussion. And kidnapped him. That wasn’t very helpful. Even if Tim is pretty sure Steph wasn’t going to make it in time. He’s also pretty sure Hood killed everyone in that warehouse. And yeah, they were low-life smugglers, but they probably didn’t deserve to die so painfully.

“...sure.”

“Look kid,” She turns away to hide her persistent blush. “Your family’s probably worried about you. I’m not kicking you out, but my landlord will kill me if your dad comes crashing through the wall because you took too long to make contact.”

“My what?”

“Go on, eat your waffles. You must be starving after a long night.” The waffle iron beeps. “And if you’re planning to take a shower, let me know and I’ll lay some clothes out for you.”

Clothes? She has more shirts like this? And pants? These are definitely not hers. But they’re probably not Hood’s either. Tim really can’t imagine the Red Hood wearing Wonder Woman merch. 

“I’m okay.” He’d really rather not eat the waffles. Unlike the water, there’s no telling if they’ve been spiked. Drugs, poison, it could be anything. But the girl is really insistent. And the waffles do look delicious. They smell delicious. If Steph was here, she wouldn’t be hesitating. Tim picks up the fork and digs in. “Oh wow.”

“By the way, my phone’s there on the table. Feel free to call someone and let them know you’re okay.”

Right. Hood would have taken his comm last night. Otherwise Oracle would have found him by now. Tim reaches for the phone around another bite of waffle. Nondescript case. Dark, unassuming color. Minimal hairline cracks on the screen. She rattles off the password without a care in the world.

She’s not at all suspicious that Tim will root through her stuff for information on her connection to Hood—or maybe she doesn’t mind. Maybe she’s not as hostile to the Bats as Hood is. After all, here she is making Tim waffles. Though to be fair, Hood was the one who dropped him off. This is confusing.

Whatever the reason for her complacency, Tim doesn’t miss the opportunity to take advantage. Unfortunately, his efforts bear no fruit. There’s nothing on her phone that would indicate her relationship with Gotham’s newest crime lord is anything beyond her professed admiration for him. Even her text messages are mild and ordinary. She does seem to text one person with more frequency than others—generically named “Bae” with an obscene number of heart emojis—but there’s nothing of note about their running conversation other than the fact that her “bae” is a serious Shakespear nut. 

After five minutes of defeat, Tim gives up and navigates to the dialpad. Barbara’s going to let him have it. Tim’s only consolation is that Bruce won’t be home for three more days, so at least he can space out the disappointed lectures over a span of time he can live with.

The dial tone doesn’t even clear a second ring. Babs sounds like she hasn’t slept since Tim got kidnapped. He fortifies himself with more waffles. They’re really good waffles.

“Hello?”

“...Heyyy Oracle.”

“ Robin! ”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

Chapter 3

Steph is reassured that she’s at the right place when she spies the generic photos under the TV. Tim said the apartment looked really stupid normal. It’s not too late. Steph just suited up for patrol. Hopefully the nice lady that lives here is still awake. She slips a knife between the window frames and wiggles the latch open.

There’s a welcome mat under the window. That’s mildly disconcerting.

Steph is even further caught off guard when the woman rounds the corner at the sound of Steph flopping in. She balks. She has paint smudged on her face. The brush is in her hand.

“Hey! What—oh.” She looks startled. “You’re—hi. What?”

Steph does her best to play it cool. She props her hands on her hips. This is… this is the woman who warned Bruce about Hood in the first place. This is the random civilian who claimed Hood wanted to kill Robin. 

“I heard you make good waffles.”

The woman—girl, really; she’s young—blinks in surprise. The brush in her hand twitches. This is the girl who made Tim waffles and let him use her phone to call Babs and let him sleep on her couch overnight. She claimed that Hood brought him over. After what must have been a kidnapping at the warehouse. Strictly speaking, Steph should focus more on those details, but Tim’s fine now. There are waffles to be had. And Steph could use a pre-patrol snack.

“Uh… they’re decent.” She looks confused now. She can’t be older than Babs. Can’t be older than Dick. “You want me to whip some up?”

Decent is being modest, judging by the way Tim described them. Tim was close to waxing poetic about those waffles, in as much a way as Tim can—he’s not a hugely poetic guy. Not that anyone in that family is. Anyway, Steph is always on the hunt for waffle connoisseurs, such as herself. Regardless of personal relationships to a crime lord villain, Steph is determined to make this work.

“Yes!”

The girl gives a bemused snort and turns back to where her painting must be. “Alright. Come on in. You get the waffle iron out while I put my stuff away. It’s under the sink on the far left.”

Steph ends up helping her, just to avoid imposing, if nothing else. They make a great team. Steph is on stirring duty while the girl—Beck, she said to call her—measures out the ingredients. They chat. Steph manages to learn that she’s an artist. She’s trying to teach herself embroidery. There’s no mention of Hood, or Tim, or anything vigilante-related, and Beck doesn’t probe for any of her own curiosities, despite the fact that Steph totally knows she’s tight with Hood.

Maybe it’s complicated. Maybe she’s just trying to live her life, and maybe she couldn’t avoid running into at least one costumed freak, being here in Gotham. There are so many. Steph’s just glad that Red Hood hasn’t monopolized the hearts of the Alley. Before he showed up, this was Steph’s turf, and the people here used to smile at her. It’s nice knowing now that even someone like Beck, who knows Hood so well, isn’t showing Steph the same hostility that Hood shows to other Bats.

Though maybe that assessment will have to be revisited. Babs isn’t ready to admit as much yet, but Hood did help Tim out. And Tim managed to get away with only a concussion. But like. The waffles were worth the concussion. That’s what Tim said. Maybe Beck was wrong about the crime lord after all.

Steph doesn’t take the waffles to go. She grabs a plate and the syrup and the butter and a fork and knife, and there’s no need to sprinkle chocolate chips on top because they put those in the batter.

Beck looks startled when Steph tugs her mask down. “You’re—eating here?” 

Her eyes skitter across Steph’s face, likely taking stock of her features, but Steph isn’t concerned. Steph isn’t a celebrity, unlike some dumb rich farts she knows, and she’s never done anything as her normal self that would so much as make the news. She’s not worried about one random civilian knowing what another random civilian looks like. Gotham is a big city. Steph snorts.

“You don’t know who I am.”

Beck’s expression softens slowly as she accepts the statement. Eventually she shrugs. “I guess not. Want a glass of milk?”

“Hell yeah!”

The waffles are seriously fucking good.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 13 of Stowaway