Chapter Text
Blinking at Jason’s bound form in his kitchen, Tim barely manages to resist the urge to smash his face against the nearest hard surface, hard enough to hopefully inflict permanent damage to the part of his brain that thought this was a great idea in the first place. He doesn’t, but not because concussions are annoying, but because Tim’s gonna need every synapse firing at superhuman rates to get himself out of this situation without someone getting decapitated. Namely Pru.
See, none of the Bats are inexperienced kidnapees.
As the Waynes, they’ve been prime targets for run-of-the-mill criminals looking for an easy Get Rich Quick scheme since the beginning of time. As Robins, getting kidnapped is a standard experience, par for the course when operating in a city such as Gotham. Despite having an overprotective forty-something dressed as a bat hanging over their shoulders, every Robin knows the pain of being kidnapped by idiots very well.
From terrible bondage with no planning nor blindfold to overconfident, monologuing fools without proper escape routes nor drop locations, getting kidnapped was always an eye-opening experience in exploring the stupidity of the human race. If it wasn’t so annoying, it would be downright fascinating.
This extensive experience is probably the sole reason why Jason hasn’t even begun escaping yet.
Namely, because Tim is one of the shitty kidnappers.
No blindfold, all weapons retained, duct-taped to the flimsiest chair in existence, clearly in a residential building and no guards in sight. If this was an actual, proper kidnapping, Tim would score himself a two-point-five out of ten, and that’s only because the duct tape is doing pretty much all the work, and the fact he managed to pull off the kidnapping in the first place.
It’s like the internet always said, ‘die after being shittily kidnapped, or live long enough to see yourself become a shitty kidnapper.’ Or something like that. Tim only goes on social media when he’s using it to cyberbully Jason.
Jason, speaking of whom, is awake, tied to a chair, helmetless and remarkably pissed off. His eyes are about as bright as those teeny glow-in-the-dark stars you tack onto your ceiling as a kid, and he looks like he’s about to rend someone into pieces just as small.
Practised eyes case the apartment, testing the bonds and completing a general inventory check, and no doubt finding everything in order. Because Tim is both a great host, and simultaneously going for gold in this year’s Worst Kidnapper awards night.
The only advantage he has in this situation is that Jason won’t even attempt to escape until he has a greater understanding of the situation and that Tim (a perceived innocent) won’t be in the crossfire, so he should have a short amount of leeway before it all blows up in his face.
Jason’s mouth opens, and Tim is half expecting an accusation or threat, only to be blind-sided by the annoyed, “You again?”
There’s no one behind him. Just to clarify, Tim points to himself with the hand not holding his sandwich.
“Yes,” Jason says, brow creasing in further exasperation, “You. Computer bag gremlin. From the alley.”
No wonder why he’s been instantly recognised from their earlier meeting, Tim’s just realised he’s not even wearing a mask . Another point to him being a terrible kidnapper .
But that’s beside the point. Jason hasn’t started laughing or threatening decapitation yet, so it’s pretty safe to say he hasn’t realised that it’s Tim, and not just some random sassy street rat who keeps on getting the drop on him. It’s gotta be the darkness of the apartment, or maybe the unexpected change in appearance, or the previous impression Jason has of him muddying the waters, but at this point? He’s leaning even further towards concussion-induced brain damage.
He’s changed his appearance a bit, but not that much! Surely not everyone is - wait a second.
Clark.
Is this how Superman feels, every single day?
Sure, every single person in the know about Clark’s civilian identity mocks him about it relentlessly (as they should), from the glasses to the non-opaque white shirts. But seriously, Tim was formerly of the opinion it only worked because Metropolis is full of idiots. Alas, it turns out stupidity is universal, and that Tim’s turbo-garbage accidental kidnapping extravaganza was also in the running to reap the benefits of a widespread room-temperature IQ epidemic.
With Tim’s super secret identity hidden via the power of doing absolutely nothing at all, the only thing he ends up doing in response to Jason’s accusation is to make some sort of unintelligible noise.
Jason raises an eyebrow, unfairly unimpressed for someone tied to a chair. He now has a small blade in hand, one of the many that Tim didn’t confiscate, because this wasn’t supposed to be a kidnapping, and has managed to saw through one of the many zip ties Tim used to secure him.
What can he say to recoup control of the situation now? ‘Sorry, you know how it is, when you’re internally screaming 24/7 sometimes you open your mouth and one accidentally slips out,’ absolutely not. ‘You’ve got the wrong person, I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ an obvious lie, or perhaps, ‘Wouldn’t you like to know, leatherboy’.
Of course, mental breakdowns take time. Tim’s brain is taking approximately four business days to cycle through the various important revelations, such as ‘I accidentally kidnapped someone’, ‘I accidentally kidnapped Jason,’ ‘I accidentally kidnapped Jason, BADLY,’ , ‘Crap, he recognises me’ and most importantly, ‘THANK GOODNESS HE HASN’T ACTUALLY RECOGNISED ME.’
The de-aging has, once again, come in clutch, given that no reasonably sane person would expect an eleven-year-old to be capable of kidnapping a crime lord. And to keep that illusion afloat, there’s only one thing he can do.
Tim might not have any backup, life insurance or armpit hair, but he does have the concept of a plan.
“So,” Jason prompts, “You attacked me.” Another zip tie snaps and he looks at Tim meaningfully. Given Hood’s reputation in the alley, the general situation, and the fact that he thinks Tim is a twelve-year-old, it’s not out of the ordinary to think that this kind of encouragement to spill the deets would work on most street rats in Crime Alley.
Tim looks like the very definition of ‘out of his depth’, but alas, it was him who got himself into this situation, and it’s gotta be him who gets himself out of it. Stupid problems, almost entirely brought on by himself, require equally as stupid solutions.
Jason’s observational conversation starter may be incredibly true and incredibly valid, but alas, the cost has been sunk and Tim has found another hill he’d happily roll over and die on. In his version of events, this was intentional, and not his fault.
So unfortunately for Jason, the blame game ain’t gonna work.
“Hey,” Tim says, only half-faking the offence in his tone, “You snuck up on me! What was I supposed to do?”
Jason’s face goes even flatter. “I don’t know, maybe not try to steal my bike and knock me out with a tyre iron?”
Tim mentally enters a quick-time event in which he has to form a normal response in under 1.5 seconds - overclocking his cerebral cortex harder than the Batcomputer - to come up with a functional 200 IQ solution to a 4 IQ problem.
Objective: Distract Jason enough to grab one of their few remaining syringes of injectable sedative, typically used for non-lethal takedowns of hardier opponents, or when the standard option (a measured concussion) is impractical or not an option. This fits all of those situations. Jason already has possible brain damage - he’s failed to recognise Tim at all. It’s incredibly disturbing.
A time constraint is present, Jason has already sawed through three of the eleven zip ties on his wrists, and injection will be easiest while Hood is still immobile and not expecting it.
If there was a lying competition, Tim’s about to come away with all three spots on the podium.
“I didn't mean to.”
Tim blinks owlishly up at him and hopes he looks adorable enough for Jason to believe it.
“Please, pipsqueak, tell me exactly what about this,” Jason jerks his arms against the zip ties restraining him to the chair, “Is a ‘didn’t mean to’ situation.”
“It was the bald lady! Really, I didn’t want to.”
A thrill of nerves sparks down his back from the intensity of the lurid green gaze he finds pinning him down. All escape attempts put hold, Jason’s full attention is on him in an instant. With the power of plausible deniability, gaslighting and Jason’s current vendetta against bald people, it’s time for Tim to gaslight gatekeep girlboss his way out of this situation.
“She told me there was a sweet ride there! I just wanted the tyres,” Tim lies, like a lying liar, shamelessly throwing Pru further under the bus. He already hated her, it wasn’t like it could get much worse. “How was I supposed to know you’re bad at self-defense? I thought that came with the entire crime lord shtick.”
Jason, who appears to be doing regulated breathing exercises to calm himself, musters a careful, “I’m not bad at self defence.”
Tim can only shoot him a withering look. “The fact that you’re the one tied to a chair suggests otherwise.”
Jason’s eye twitches, and another zip tie snaps. There’s two remaining before he’s freed that hand, and from there he’ll be free in seconds. Tim has to move, and fast. “Yes, about that. Why am I tied to a chair, first of all?”
“Dunno,” Tim blatantly lies. “But I don’t think the bald lady thought you were gonna be up for a while yet, so I’m not sure when she’ll be back. I’ll go track down something to cut through those, now that you're awake.”
A grunt is all he gets in response, and a peek reveals that Jason’s halfway through the second-last zip tie.
Tim takes advantage of the lapse in conversation to dodge past Jason’s figure, into his room. He basically skids over to his bed on socked feet, falling to his knees and lunging to reach the bag of gear shoved under his bed.
“Hey,” he calls, rifling through various compartments for the correct sedative cartridges, “Did you actually think that I kidnapped you?”
“No,” Jason says, in a voice that clearly means ‘yes.’
Tim locates the correct cartridge, and loads it with a metallic click and clinical efficiency, double-checking the patency and gauge of the needle.
“Being kidnapped by me would be super embarrassing, FYI.” He drops his arm to bodily block any potential view of the uncapped syringe, even though Jason’s back is positioned to his bedroom door and he’s currently focused on freeing himself as fast as possible.
“Really,” Jason says, sarcastically, distractedly. There’s only one ziptie left now, and it’s rapidly fraying under the serrated edge of his knife. So close. “I gathered.”
“Yeah,” Tim sighs from behind him, “Really embarrassing for you.”
Something in his voice must give him away, because Jason jerks to attention, twisting to face him with wide, green eyes twisted in something like betrayal. Tim refuses to acknowledge the bubble of guilt, because the needle is already exactly where it needs to be.
Tim depresses the plunger of the sedative into Jason’s neck, and he slumps like a puppet with cut strings.
“Pru,” Tim whisper-yells into his phone, sending intermittent looks at the unconscious crime lord in their kitchen, “I might’ve fucked up. Just a little.”
“How bad we talkin’?” On the line, Pru’s voice sounds distant, as if she’s left her phone on a random flat surface while she’s busy with something she considers marginally more important than talking to him. There’s a bunch of metallic clangs in the background, and the occasional groan transmits through the receiver.
“Uh.” Tim tries to calculate how to explain the current situation in a way that will end up with his actions sounding somewhat reasonable. He fails. Casting another disbelieving look at the bound and unconscious figure, Tim runs a stressed hand through his hair, tugging at his roots.
A grunt and a clang. “Give it to me on a scale of bad from a Condiment King sighting in our area to, to, uh, my boss figuring out where I live.”
“Red Hood is tied to a chair in our living room.”
A pause. “Ah.” Pru’s voice increases in volume, as if she’s picked up her phone again. “That… explains a lot.” There’s another resounding clang in the background. Louder this time.
A suspicion takes root. Tim is beginning to desperately pray that his intuition is wrong. “What does it explain?”
“...Nothing.”
“Pru, what are you doing right now?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Her reply is dubiously quick and does nothing to assuage Tim’s growing stress. “I’m on my way back now.”
“Pru, coming back from what?”
The only response he gets is the dull beep of a dial tone. He stares at the phone in his hand, flat-faced. She hung up on him. Great. Spectacular. Guess he’ll find out what she did when it’s time for her to reap the consequences of her actions.
“We need a location where people can’t stumble over him. Preferably not someone else’s property, with easy access to the streets. A roof is too much effort, and calling the Bats here will bring far too much attention,” Tim says, pacing through the remaining kitchen-living room space that isn’t taken up by the couch, the counter or Jason himself. “We need to put him somewhere out of sight, someplace safe and enclosed, yet far away from our current location.”
Pru mutters something disparaging under her breath.
Tim stops pacing and looks over to her, cocking his head.
“Dumpster,” she says, louder this time. “You’re literally describing a dumpster.”
He glares at her. “I’m not putting him in a dumpster.” He starts pacing the length of their apartment again.
The options are painfully slim. Ivy prowls Robinson Park, and the other parks are hotspots for gang activity. He’s going to get shanked if they leave him in a random alley or under a bridge somewhere, and unceremoniously dumping him in the kitchen of one of his safehouses will make his paranoia go into overdrive. That was why Tim brought him back to their apartment in the first place, as badly as that ended up turning out.
“I might have an idea,” Pru says after a minute of failed brainstorming. “It’s technically public property, and located out of view from the main pedestrian paths. On the off chance he is spotted, people’ll avoid him like the plague anyway. It might be a little bit dirty and slightly moist, but-”
“-We are not dumping him into Gotham Harbour,” Tim interrupts, “He’ll catch a plague or a superbacteria, and die a slow and painful death. Consider the idea vetoed.”
“If you let me finish-”
“Whoops. Sorry. Continue, m’lady.”
She glares at him for the interruption, “They’re usually in areas that are basically uninhabited at this time of night, easily accessible from street level, and large enough to lie him down in...” Here, her voice trails off and gives Tim an expectant look.
“And?”
“Sounds pretty good, right?” she says, leaning over Jason to poke at his cheeks, slack from unconsciousness.
Tim squints. He’s not sure where Pru is going with this, but given their only option at the moment is a dumpster, he’s not sure if he’s really got a choice in the matter. “Yes. Continue.”
“So it fits all our criteria, right?” Pru shrugs, then points at Jason. “He’s safe, we’re safe, easy peasy. Perfect hiding place.”
Tim squints harder. “It fits. And where is this so-called perfect hiding place?”
“Inside a receptacle for unwanted items.”
“A dumpster.”
“It is also known by that name, yes.”
“Really?” He sighs. “Again? Are there really no better options?”
Pru snorts, then prods Jason’s cheek again. His head lolls to the side with the pressure. “He’ll be waking up soon, and he has to be gone by then.” As much as Tim hates to admit it, both of these statements are sadly correct. “Do you have a better idea?”
Tim does not have a better idea.
And thus, it is decided Jason will be going in a dumpster. Again.
The next decision is which dumpster, and thankfully, that is a much simpler conundrum. Tim uses his computer to narrow down routes to the closest dumpsters in the area that give them plausible deniability. There’s one three streets away that should do perfectly.
While he’s still seated, Tim also makes a small edit to his To-Do List, and that is to place the re-creation of his Last Will and Testament as number one priority. Why? Because if Jason ever figures out that Tim was involved with this, Jason will make their Titans Tower beatdown look like a fun Tuesday afternoon activity. His only chance now is to pray to a higher power that either his involvement stays hidden for the rest of eternity, or that Jason’s quest to reclaim his lost dignity doesn’t include beating up eleven-year-olds.
The next problem arises when Pru goes to move Jason to said dumpster, and discovers that the bulk is not just for show. Jason is built like a brick shithouse with armour to match, and he’s heavy. They discover this the hard way, and that is via another concussion for Jason, who is now face-down on the floor.
“I have an idea,” Pru says.
Tim raises an eyebrow automatically. “Is it better than putting a vengeful crime lord in a dumpster?”
From the silence that follows, it’s clearly worse.
“Look,” she says, pinching the bridge of her healing nose, “This is going nowhere. My option is both mobile and easily transportable, and no one will look twice at us moving a larger load at this time of night, especially to a dumpster.”
Tim turns to stare at her, dead in the eye. “This had better not be another trash can.”
“...”
Her idea is, in fact, another trash can.
A wheelie bin. One of those ones with the wheels and the flippy lid. Tim hates how much it makes sense.
With a lot of core strength, grunting, and pilates, Pru and Tim (mostly Pru) manage to get Jason’s uncooperative limp body off the floor (with great effort), down the stairs (with minimal sliding) and out the side door.
Against the wall of the alley, by the door, the wheelie bin lineup is ready for transportation.
“Your chariot awaits,” Tim says to Jason, who doesn’t respond because he is unconscious. He turns to Pru, who is emptying out one of the bins so they have more space to fit Jason inside. “Do we have to put him in a garbage can to transport him to a dumpster? This feels a little mean.”
Pru, elbow-deep in other people’s trash, gives him a stink-eye. “Do you have a better idea?”
Tim does not have a better idea.
They put Jason in the garbage can.
“I’ll take him to the drop,” Pru tells him, having folded Jason’s limp form in a way that most of the obviously human-parts are out of sight. Tim gives her the side eye, and she shrugs. “Someone needs to save the security footage for future use.”
A very good point. That blackmail will be worth its weight in gold if this all comes to crashing down.
Pru kicks the base of the wheelie bin, pushing it to balance on the wheels, and begins to head out of the side alley. The bin thunks loudly over every bump in the pavement, rattling as it goes.
“Really,” Tim hears her say to herself as she lugs her cargo further away, voice barely audible over the racket of the wheelie bin carrying Jason. “I can’t believe I got two in one night.”
Tim blinks after her.
Two of what?
Jason wakes slowly, then all at once. There’s a rank smell in the air, and some unidentifiable liquid is soaking through his pants. Despite the darkness, he can tell he’s lying on something lumpy yet soft, the sounds of the city muted. His head throbs, aches concentrated on the back of his skull. Where he was hit.
He was hit.
A blink and his brain kicks into gear, vestiges of the pit shedding all dregs of sleepiness, and Jason sits up so fast that when he hits the metallic roof of whatever compartment he’s been stowed away in hard, making his vision burn white with the sudden impact.
He slumps back with a groan, hands plastered to his stinging forehead.
Even worse, he’s not even injured, apart from the growing bruise on his forehead.
There’s a buzz in his ear, signalling an incoming call in his comm. Sighing, he unmutes it with a touch, opening the connection.
“Heya Jaybird,” Dick’s voice is menacingly cheerful through the comm. It sends a shiver down Jason’s spine. “You’re not gonna believe what just happened to me.”
Jason, now uncomfortably aware he’s been chucked into yet another dumpster, grits his teeth. “I dunno, Goldie. Does it involve an oversized trash can?”
There’s a pause.
Jason blinks. “Oh shit, actually?”