Chapter Text
Jason has killed a lot of people.
It’s kind of a thing. Jason has killed a lot of people.
He doesn’t even feel particularly bad about it. Guilt implies choice, and, given the chance, those people would have killed him—or someone else—the moment the opportunity had presented itself. And Jason knows this, because the opportunity had presented itself, and someone had killed him.
Take the League of Assassins, for example. The majority of Jason’s “lessons” had boiled down to this is your instructor: kill him when he is no longer useful. And those numbers don’t even count the couple of poor robed lackeys that simply happened to be too close to Jason after he’d emerged from his little midnight skinny dip in the Lazarus Pit.
Then he comes to Gotham—relieves a half dozen people of their heads, relieves a few dozen others of their vital organs’ ability to keep them alive with a couple of well-placed bullets, and voila! Jason has killed a lot of people!
So as he sits, sniper rifle primed, cozied up a tree across from the pretender’s bedroom window, Jason feels right at home.
Because what’s one more?
He’d followed the birdie home from school.
Jason watched Tim take the bus to the edge of the city, where concrete met the lower echelon of suburban wealth, then skateboard the rest of the way to Bristol proper. Seriously? Fucking skateboard? What is he, some fucking comic book sidekick?
That night, Jason had stalked the birdie on patrol.
He paced Tim like the shadow of death. He rolled a knife between his fingers and waited. When Tim had drifted too close to Crime Alley, Jason had struck, throwing the knife and grazing deep across the kid’s shoulder.
By the time Batman had swept in, all righteous obsidian fury, the Red Hood was already gone. But the buzzing satisfaction of drawing the pretender’s blood had left Jason giddy and glowing green the rest of the night.
So, high as a kite on self-gratification and drunk off his ass on the promise of what he’d do once the cuckoo was properly in his hand, Jason had raced the caped pair back to Bristol and climbed a tree in Timothy Drake’s backyard. There was no stalking from Wayne Manor’s grounds, what with it being armed to the teeth by the most paranoid bastard alive—but the massive oak behind the Drake house would do just fine.
Which brings us back here—Jason, cozied up a tree, rifle primed, waiting.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t have to wait long. A figure hobbles into his scope, and he zeroes in on it. Hm. That looks like—
Green erupts behind Jason’s eyes like a flashbang; he grits his teeth against the surge of acid in his blood.
Little Timmy Drake limps—literally limps, all pathetic and wretched, like a puppy with a bruised paw—the almost-mile from Wayne Manor to Drake Estate. Jason watches open-mouthed as he unlocks his back door, disappears inside, and reemerges in the glow of his bedroom window.
Tim sits on his bed, shirtless, hissing at the gash on his shoulder. Then he pulls out a medkit and fucking stitches himself up. Jason feels something bitter and ugly constrict around his stomach like a python as Tim pours fucking isopropyl alcohol on the wound, biting back a pained gasp and blinking hard. His hands shake as he threads the sutures in and out of the tender skin.
No Alfred, no Bruce, no anesthetic or gently murmured reassurances or older brothers coming by to coddle you because you can’t possibly use that arm, now can you? Of course you need a piggy back ride up to the kitchen!
Just—just the incorrect disinfectant, shitty stitches, and a dream. Jason’s going to be sick. Because apparently this is what Robins do now.
Jason forces the rifle away before the surge of green crashing against his teeth and biting at his fingertips spills over and causes him to do something quite rash.
That little cuckoo. That smug, hollow-boned pretender really thinks he’s too good for it all. Too good for help, too good for the care Jason would’ve killed for. The care Jason had died for. Tim Drake, God’s gift to Gotham. The brat swoops in, steals everything that had ever mattered to Jason and then bleeds alone out of sheer fucking arrogance.
And Bruce and Alfred let him, which just fucking blows Jason right away.
Like Jason’s death meant nothing. Like they hadn’t scraped him off the Cave floors and bleached his bones into forewarning themselves. They let their precious new Robin crawl home hurt and bleeding and don’t give a single, solitary damn.
Bruce probably has no idea. He probably doesn’t even see it. The mission is more a blindfold than a great moral calling now—Jason gets murdered, so Bruce grabs the next blue-eyed, black-haired kid that happens to wander by and stuffs him into the tattered remains of the Robin suit, freshly laundered of Jason’s blood.
Jason grinds his teeth together against the rising tide of righteous anger and forces a silent, heavy breath out through his nose. Then he slides down the tree and melts into the night, heading for where his bike waits a half mile down the road.
He races back toward the Narrows at speeds that border reckless, even for him. The city blurs around him, skyscrapers finally giving way to crumbling tenement housing. The cold night air does nothing to clear the green fog swirling around his head.
Even Dickhead shows up more, smother-hening the new bird in ways Jason only ever dreamed of—easy smiles, soft concern, ice cream, sleepovers and Jason can’t continue down this line of thinking or he’s going to fucking crash.
It just…kinda sucks that it took a death for Dick to finally pull his head out his ass and put his big boy spandex on. It shouldn’t have—but it did.
And of course that death had to be Jason’s.
Dick had shined the light of his sun on Jason less than a handful of times—and Jason still bloomed in it, preened under it, and starved for it like some poor, fucked-up desk cactus stretching toward a window it would never reach.
(Jason may be green with anger, but he’s absolutely neon with envy.)
He parks beneath the fire escape of his building and climbs into his apartment. The small space smells like stale coffee from the pot he’d made earlier and faintly of cat pee from the couch he’d bought off Facebook Marketplace (he’d cleaned that fucker about a dozen times, but to no avail). He opens his laptop and begins to plan.
Obviously, he has to keep stalking the baby bird. He needs to know more, no matter how much it fucking hurts. It’s obsessive, almost, like picking a scab or pinching an infected sore or poking an old bruise.
He can’t kill the pretender here.
No, that would be too easy. If he were to clip the little birdie’s wings right here at home in Gotham, it wouldn’t be poetic enough. And Jason’s never been one to pass up a chance at dramatic irony.
So he waits. He plans. He bides his time and stalks the little Robin like a hawk. Jason is no one if not incredibly patient.
A lesson.
Yes.
Jason’s going to teach them all a lesson.
Titan’s Tower’s emergency lights wash everything in such a wonderful shade of red.
Jason feels light, invincible—as sharp and deadly as the blade he twirls between his fingers. He saunters through the halls like a jade-eyed jungle cat; the hunt is euphoric. He’s practically playing with his food now, the poor mouse in his sights wholly unknowing of its rapidly approaching crimson fate. Jason would skip if he wasn’t the picture of self-control. Instead, he begins to hum.
If you see me comin’, better step aside…
The tune warbles out as more a mechanized growl than any melody. It echoes off the Tower walls like a herald.
A lotta men didn’t, a lotta men died…
The satisfying click of his boots on the tile keep rhythm. Timmy, Timmy. Where are you?
One fist of iron, the other of steel…
He turns down a hallway and feels a gust of warm air. The window is open. The little birdie must be on the roof.
If the right one don’t get you, then the left one will…
The night is uncomfortably warm, the light breeze from the bay doing very little to dispel the cloying air. An intense summer heatwave had spurred the city into a series of rolling blackouts. It’s almost time for San Fransisco to go dark.
Tim sits with his feet hanging off the edge of the roof, heels lightly tapping the brick every now and again. The sounds of the city are muffled, only the sporadic honking of car horns piercing the wary silence. Tim takes a deep breath and watches the lights twinkle far below.
Batman had sent him away.
Of course Tim understands why, he’s not stupid.
The Red Hood’s hatred of the Bats is evident. And that would have been fine—most of the Gotham rogues hate Batman’s guts anyway. It’s kinda their thing. It’s not like Freeze or Ivy or even the Joker has ever made Bruce tuck Robin away in some far off nest.
(…well, maybe that last one is part of the issue.)
If Hood’s hatred of the Bats has been clear, then his deep-seeded loathing of Robin has been fucking crystal. The asshole has targeted Tim with a kind of malicious intent that not even the oldest of Batman’s enemies harbor.
(Well—except for…you know. That last one.)
He stalks Tim like a vulture, rains down hellfire whenever he comes within a sneeze of Crime Alley—even leaves fucking dead birds on rooftops Robin is known to frequent. Like who even does that?
After a close call last week had nearly left Tim riddled with more holes than Swiss cheese, Batman had made an executive decision:
Robin was benched until further notice, squirreled away to Titan’s Tower in San Fransisco until the Red Hood could be properly dealt with.
But Tim knows what this really is. Again, he’s not stupid.
It’s the first step down a long, twisted road—one that ends with Tim being stripped of Robin’s colors. Forever.
Tim sighs heavy again, leaning back on his hands and gazing up at the hazy night sky. Even with the rolling blackouts, light pollution from the city fuzzes the heavens into a blank, navy curtain. It’s oddly comforting; he can’t see the stars from Gotham, either. But kinda wishes he could, though. See the stars. Then maybe he wouldn’t feel so…alone.
Because Tim has known for a while now—or maybe even all along—that his days are numbered. Time is running out. He’d forced himself into the role of Robin to stop Batman from killing people. But more importantly, to stop Bruce from killing himself.
To stop him from soiling the reputation of the hero Tim loved.
And now that Bruce is no longer in active suicide, Tim’s purpose…is obsolete.
He knows he’s not a son. He can’t possibly be one. Tim had elbowed his way into a grieving man’s life at the ripe old age of eleven in order keep said grieving man from turning into a domestic terrorist—lodging himself like a splinter between Bruce and his inevitable demise. It’s why he politely declines meals at the Manor. It’s why he tells Alfred that the walk to Drake Estate isn’t really that far. It’s why he patches himself up in the cold quiet of his room, no matter how many tears slip down his cheeks as he falls asleep curled in agony.
He’s not a son. He’s a partner. A work acquaintance. Alfred asks him to stay the night after a particularly rough patrol because he’s polite. Bruce asks after his schoolwork and social life because he’s polite. Tim’s obviously’s not going to take advantage of their hospitality simply because he’s lonely or sad or hurting.
He’s gotten lucky with Dick so far—Nightwing’s back in Gotham a lot more as of late, reaching out a tentative olive branch toward his father-slash-mentor. And whenever he happens to be in Gotham, he showers Tim with affection. Hugs, movie nights, ice cream after patrol—everything Tim could ever hope for in…
Well. In a brother.
But Tim’s not Dick’s brother. That was Jason. And Jason is dead. And Tim knows that part of Dick’s efforts at being Tim’s friend are driven from his overwhelming guilt surrounding Jason’s death. Tim knows that Jason and Dick weren’t very close—that there was a lot of icy silences and resentment at the beginning, especially surrounding Bruce’s elegant handover of the Robin mantle. And Tim knows that the regret eats Dick alive. It…kind of makes all the hugs and movie nights and ice cream after patrol seem underhanded. Because they’re tainted so heavily by guilt.
Bruce and Dick don’t talk about Jason much—literally never, outside of long, forlorn glances cast toward his memorial in the Cave. It makes Tim feels so…so evil, stepping into his place like a cuckoo bird in the nest. He’s a placeholder. But it’s okay, because at least he’s self aware.
He won’t take advantage of Dick’s regret. He won’t feed off Bruce’s guilt like a parasite.
So if sending him away to San Fransisco is a hint that Tim might be getting the boot soon, he’ll take it in stride.
He’s not a son, after all. He’s barely even a bird.
Tim’s eyes suddenly sting. He blinks quickly, dispelling the tears before they can gather on his lashes. Whatever. He wasn’t raised to mope, after all; his mother would be appalled, his father embarrassed into dust. All he can do is sigh again, hoping to ease some of the heaviness from his head and his shoulders and his heart.
Maybe, if he asks nicely enough, Alfred can pack him a couple of freezer meals before he’s kicked out for good—
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
Despite the cloying heat, all the blood in Tim’s body freezes to ice.
There’s no need for Tim to turn around. He knows exactly who stands behind him—the cherry-helmeted Goliath that’s hulking what must be not five feet away.
The Red Hood.
He’s not even supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to find Tim because Tim is in Titan’s Tower and Titan’s Tower is supposed to be safe—
Tim takes a very deep, very slow breath. He tries to swallow his pounding pulse down out of his throat. Loud, panicked, and traitorous, he prays Hood can’t hear his heart beginning to beat like a trapped bird behind the bars of his ribcage. Tim silently curses himself for wearing his stupid pajama pants—stupid pajama pants that don’t have his emergency beacon or his bo staff. Because they’re fucking pajama pants and Tim was supposed to be safe.
He slowly gets to his feet and turns around.
Red Hood stands a few paces back, just like Tim had thought. Confusion filters through some of the rising panic. How did he get in here? Where are the others? Are they okay? The questions spin above his head like a mobile, too far away and honestly—selfishly, so, so selfishly—not his biggest issue at the moment.
Because all Tim can really think about is the red emergency lights blinking silently behind the open rooftop access door, and how wrong they sound without the blaring alarms that should accompany them. How Hood’s posture is loose, almost lazy, but thrumming with something so sick and twisted that Tim’s stomach drops clean onto the concrete below. How some random crime lord breached one of the most secure buildings on the West Coast, three thousand miles from his stomping grounds, to corner a fifteen-year-old in pajamas on the roof.
The rest of Tim’s brain catches up. The others aren’t here. Kon, Cassie, Bart—they’re not here.
It’s just him.
Just Tim.
“Oh,” Tim says faintly. Maybe this is a dream? He certainly feels like he’s dreaming. “You.”
Hood tilts his head, the gesture creepy and startlingly avian. “Hey there, little bird.”
Okay, so Hood knows my identity. Tim swallows hard and forces his shoulders back. There’s contingencies in place for this—besides, that doesn’t mean Hood knows Bruce’s. Plenty of rogues know Bruce’s identity and not Robin’s. Panicking won’t get him anywhere, no matter how much his brain is starting to kick into high gear. He’s fucking Robin, after all. Some shithead from Crime Alley doesn’t scare him. He’s faced worse.
“You’re a long way from Gotham,” Tim says, drumming up some of that good ole Robin spitfire.
“So are you,” Hood replies smoothly. The warped voice makes Tim’s skin crawl, like hearing nails on a chalkboard. “Running scared, pretender?”
Tim bristles despite himself. “Batman sent me here.”
“Oh, did he now?” Hood’s oily smile is evident in his sing-song reply. He takes a step closer. Then another. “Moving the cuckoo to another nest? Because of little ol’ me? I’m flattered.”
Anger flares in Tim—but so does bone-deep resignation. He knows this song. Cuckoo. Placeholder. Stand-in. Bruce accidentally calling him ‘Jason’ and Dick crushing his bones with a hug after a too-close call. Of course Tim knows this song. He’s written whole symphonies to it in his head.
But he’s not gonna let some fucking asshole sing it for him. He sharpens up a retort, subtly moving his feet shoulder-width. Into a fighting stance. Because Tim has a sneaking suspicion that this will end in blood.
“A cuckoo?” Tim says with a raised brow. “You come up with that all by yourself?”
Hood doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, Tim gets the impression that he’s being looked up and down despite not being able to see Hood’s eyes. The invasiveness makes him want to shiver, leaving him feeling weird—like he’s some hunk of meat hanging on a butcher’s hook, cold and stripped bare.
Hood shrugs minutely and takes another step forward. “Am I wrong?”
No.
Tim glares. His fists clench at his sides. The breeze blows across the rooftop again, whispering past the sweat gathering on Tim’s brow and dripping uncomfortably down his back. He wishes he had shoes that weren’t slippers. He wishes he had his fucking bo staff.
Hood is just outside arm’s reach. He looms like a red-soaked omen. The size difference is undeniable. Hood is broader, bigger, solid in a way that Tim is very much not. At least six inches taller and thirty pounds heavier. His sheer presence presses on Tim like a boot on his neck, his chest—hell, a singular kick from Hood could probably cave in his ribcage.
But Tim is Robin. He’s smart and trained and very much not scared right now—
The punch comes out of nowhere.
One second, Tim is standing his ground, staring down the Red Hood with as vicious a glare he can muster; the next, the world explodes into white behind his eyes as a fist slams into the side of his face. Pain dulls every sense and for a horrible second Tim can’t see.
He stumbles, wary that he’s still standing on the edge of the fucking roof when a steel-toed boot collides with his gut in a brutal kick. He doubles over and sucks in a sharp, involuntary gasp, his lungs working around nothing as they desperately try to drag air back into his chest. Tim coughs once, twice, a nearly gagging.
He blinks, the hazy world coming back into focus as something warm and wet drips down the side of his face. He rights himself despite the raging protest of his abdomen—
Another merciless hit definitely cracks a few ribs, throwing him off balance and forcing a sharp cry of pain out of him. He hits the rooftop hard, gravel biting through the knees of his thin sleep pants and embedding small, painful rocks into the palms of his hands as he tries to catch himself. He rolls onto his back, blinking stars from his vision and trying to breathe through the waves of white-hot agony.
“Get up,” Hood says pleasantly.
Tim scrambles up, adrenaline pulling all his limbs in jerky motions like some puppet on frantic strings and nothing like Robin—he’s fucking Robin, he’s not supposed to be scared or bested or—
Hood swings again, but this time Tim ducks and spins away. Hood is fast—much faster than anyone of his bulk should be. Tim manages to get behind him and throws a kick to the back of Hood’s knees.
Hood stumbles forward with a bout of staticky curses. He whirls on Tim, meaty right hook swinging right for Tim’s head—
So Tim ducks low.
Which ends up being a fucking terrible idea, because the right hook is a feint. Hood switches his momentum faster than anyone Tim has ever seen and lashes out with his left fist in an uppercut straight to Tim’s throat.
Tim’s knees buckle and he collapses to the ground, coughing and gagging as his trachea stubbornly refuses to take in air. The world doubles and blurs into a haze of pain and oh fuck I can’t fucking breathe. His eyes water and he claws at his throat, desperate to get his windpipe to fucking work. It’s like trying to breathe through a brick wall.
He barely registers the crunch of boots on gravel as Hood approaches. He delivers another painful kick to Tim’s side, sending a flood of copper to his mouth and another wave of agony through his body.
Hood’s on him in an instant, straddling him at the waist. Between the encroaching blackness from not taking in enough oxygen and the pain flaring every time he moves a muscle, Tim can do little more than writhe in agony between Hood’s knees.
Hood is overwhelming, a shadow swallowing him whole. Distantly, in this moment, it occurs to Tim that…he might die.
Tim gasps for breath at the thought, despite the feeling of knives in his throat. His vision tunnels further and all he can taste is copper. Warm and wet drips down his face, out of his mouth.
“Oh, Robin,” Hood sighs. “I thought you had more in you.”
Despite the blood and the pain, Tim shoots him a pearly, crimson-stained smile.
“He…p-pick you…yet?” Tim rasps, his voice painfully hoarse. It feels like his vocal chords have been replaced with razor wire.
Hood stills, tilting his head again. “What?”
“Batman.” Tim tries his hardest to focus on the glowing white lenses of the helmet through his half-lidded eyes. “H-he picked you…yet? Everyone wants h-his attention—“ Tim chokes on the blood on his tongue, coughing hard and trying to spit it out; it coats his lips and dribbles down his cheek. “You’re n-not special…or even the f-first.”
Hood stares down at Tim like a predator. He’s unnaturally still, his fists tightly clenched at his sides. Tim has a terrible feeling—amongst his many other terrible feelings—that maybe poking the hornets’ nest was…a bad idea, now that said hornets’ nest is being dangled over him. Tim’s heartbeat pulses in every blooming bruise and weeping cut.
Hood’s leather-gloved fists twitch at his sides and Tim flinches, doing what little he can to brace for another hit—
But one doesn’t come. Nausea roils around Tim’s aching gut. The tension pulls itself out of his throat and he gets the distinct impression that Hood is smiling again.
“Keep singing for me, little Robin,” Hood muses, relaxing slightly. “I have so many fun plans for us.”
There’s a sudden, sharp prick at Tim’s neck. Cold spreads through his veins. Tim’s eyes widen as heavy, awful realization crashes into him.
A sedative. He’s been dosed with a sedative.
His limbs go slack almost immediately. His strength bleeds out onto the gravel of the rooftop. He fights it, he fights it so hard.
“No—wait—“ he slurs. His tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth. “Please—“
Hood’s helmet floats and sways above him as if Tim is underwater. His thoughts scatter and slip through his fingers like sand. Everything is falling away so quickly and—
Bruce.
Oh God—Bruce.
He can’t—he can’t bury another Robin. It will kill him. Surely, surely, it will kill him. Tim isn’t supposed to die. He can’t. It’ll kill Bruce and he’ll probably drag Dick right down into the ground with him an it’ll be all Tim’s fault. He’s failed—again.
I’m sorry, he thinks desperately, everything dissolving into darkness. I failed you and I’m so sorry.
The world goes black.
Jason gets to work immediately. The fun has just begun, after all. He only has a few minutes before this sector gets hit by the rolling blackout, and he needs to be on the road by the time the city goes dark. His revenge, his lesson—everything hinges on these next few fragile moments.
He hooks his arms under Tim’s shoulders and drags the kid’s limp frame back inside the Tower. Whatever injuries the pretender sustained during their little tussle on the roof are inconsequential. They are, of course, only a precursor of what’s to come.
Adrenaline and excitement rush through Jason’s veins like the thunderous roar of an oncoming train. But, despite the thrill of the hunt and the satisfaction of the catch, something else is slowly settling in his gut like a torpedoed ship sinking to the sea floor:
Paranoia.
Because this is the most volatile part of his plan. In this in-between space, everything could still go catastrophically wrong if he’s not incredibly focused. Not to mention the shadow of the Batman lurking around every dark corner.
He dumps Tim on the floor. His body hits the ground with a dull thud. Oops.
Jason works quickly. For what he’s going to do next, he needs blood—and a lot of it. He squints in the flashing light, trying to find a vein in the crook of Tim’s pale arm.
A few precious seconds tick by. He almost considers a tourniquet to make the veins more visible before he finally finds the thin blue line and slides the needle in.
And…nothing.
He exhales a frustrated huff and adjusts, rolling the vein underneath his thumb and trying again. Still nothing.
Fuck—okay. He drops the arm and snatches up the other, uncaring that his grip is probably tight enough to bruise (also uncaring of how…small Tim’s wrist is between his hands. Isn’t this kid supposed to be Robin?). He inserts the needle again, wiggling it around, trying to find any purchase. More seconds tick by.
Then, finally, the line flashes dark red…slowly. Thickly.
Jason stops, staring as the crimson line inches toward the blood bag at a snail’s pace. Sour understanding puckers his mouth. A wave of green-tinged hatred crashes into him like a tsunami, nearly knocking him from where he’s crouched over Tim’s body.
The little cuckoo is dehydrated. Not just a little bit, either—enough to make his veins disappear and his blood crawl instead of flow.
What the fuck are they doing to him?
Jason doesn’t even know exactly who he’s really angry at—the subjects of his rage blur together like a verdant Monet.
He seethes at Bruce and Alfred for for not fucking learning, for not changing, for dressing up another little soldier in a blood-soaked uniform that’s not even his and sending him off to die.
And, of course, at fucking Tim Drake.
Little Timmy Drake, Robin on the side, stitching up his scrapes at home and doing the bare minimum to keep himself functioning. It’s a costume to that brat—all a game, a night-gig. Not the calling that Jason gave his life to. Not what gave Jason purpose and a home and a father—
Jason’s breathing heavy now, ragged gasps warbling out of the modulator in bursts of static. He swallows hard. His heart beats ferociously against his ribs. More emotions rise, ones he doesn’t want, ones that erode the rage like waves crashing against a cliff.
He vigorously shakes his head, dislodging the icky, unwanted emotions and shoving down everything but the anger. The green is always easier to hold on to, anyways. He watches the blood bag, choosing instead to be irritated at how slowly it fills. He lets it run a little longer than necessary. Compensation, if you will. If little Timmy’s already running dry, then Jason needs more.
But…still.
His hand twitches traitorously. An absurd, intrusive thought wiggles past the green like a worm:
Fix it. There’s a medbay here. Give the kid a little saline. Stabilize him first. Then—
Oh but wait. That’s actually…not his problem. Like at all.
So he buries the thought. He’s wasting time. He disconnects the line, pulling out the needle and hastily sliding a bandage over Tim’s already-bruising arm.
He pulls a paintbrush from another pouch. The clean, waiting bristles dip into the thick, dark red. Jason stands and begins to paint his masterpiece:
ANOTHER DEAD ROBIN
He’s never been one to pass up dramatic irony, after all.
The letters are wet and obscene on the walls, the message a hellish damnation. The whole scene looks like it’s straight from a slasher film. The words flash in time with the strobing emergency lights, the crimson letters pulsing and alive.
He’d toyed with many ideas, going so far as to consider ‘Jason Todd Was Here.’ Now that was tempting. But the Bats are annoyingly good at connecting the dots—and Jason isn’t planning on revealing himself until after Tim is dead.
He steps back, admiring his handiwork.
Perfect.
He allows a smile to tug at his scarred lips. Bruce will test the blood, because he’s Bruce and of course he will. Jason can practically picture it. The thought leaves a pleasant buzz in his chest.
Bruce’s face, drained of color. The way he stiffens into a statue, reading the results over and over and over again as if another pass will make them change. Dick, clutching the chair back tightly, mouth open, raw horror turning him slightly green. Both of them, bathed in the monitor’s light, forced to face the reality of their hypocrisy.
He wonders, distantly, if they’ll think of him. Of Jason.
But then remembers the way his screams were answered with silence. He remembers his killer walking free. He remembers seeing Tim in the Robin suit for the first time.
And he concludes, rather quickly, that they probably won’t—seeming as neither of them really gave a fuck at the end of the day—but a crime lord can dream.
He dumps the remaining blood and the paintbrush in the Tower’s control room, because that’ll be the first place they’ll check. Or maybe they’ll see the lovely little message first and then stumble upon the gore-splattered monitors. Either way works. Jason’s flexible like that.
He cleans meticulously, bleaching any places that might’ve snagged some of his DNA. He’s taking zero risks when it comes to the Bats. His lesson depends on it. He destroys all the physical cameras in and around the Tower and scrubs all digital recordings of the past twenty-four hours—all except for one:
The front door. The one that shows him walking into the Tower, the little wiggle of his fingers he sent toward the lens as he strolled inside.
Jason knows not-knowing will eat the bastards alive. The paranoia will rot them from inside out. And it’s wondrous, because it’s only going to get worse.
Because Jason plans to take their beloved Robin to a remote place in the Nevada desert. He plans to torture the cuckoo, making sure every delicious moment of suffering is caught on film. Then he’s going to cut the cameras, kill the pretender, and bury his body in the middle of nowhere. Tim Drake will be nothing but pearly white bones when Bruce finds him—that’s if he ever does.
If all goes according to plan, Bruce will be left, pulling out his grays, wondering for the rest of his life what if what if what if.
What if Tim is still alive? What if I’d known? What if I’d gotten there faster?
What if he’s been dead this whole time? What if I’ve been searching for him and he’s been dead this whole time?
And Jason will be snuggled up in Crime Alley, giggling and kicking his feet, packaging up another finger to mail Bruce for Christmas.
The lights outside the Tower windows flicker and then wink out. The rolling blackout has hit their sector. San Fransisco is dark.