Chapter Text
Movement catches the corner of his eye, and Jason's head turns in that direction, one hand automatically going toward one of the holsters at his thighs. He draws the gun silently and uses his other hand to further muffle the already quiet click of the safety as he turns it off.
He follows the sound of breathing that's trying to be quiet but is too harsh to really manage it, the suppressed coughs, the abrupt clatter as the person missteps and dislodges a bottle that rolls off the edge of the building and smashes on the concrete below. It's followed by a soft thump - and Jason rounds the corner, gun up - and stops.
Collapsed in the shadows is a too-small figure dressed like a traffic light, and Jason swears. He should turn around, should leave the Replacement to whatever happened. To put it at a level so mild it circles back around to hyperbole, he and Drake aren't on the best of terms. Drake is a Robin; Drake is his Replacement; Red Hood is a vicious, feared, terrifying crime lord who took Crime Alley almost literally by storm; Red Hood is the enemy of the Bats. It shouldn't mean anything that Drake is a literal child, shouldn't mean anything in this moment that Red Hood doesn't hurt children, can't stand to see children hurt. He should walk away.
Jason's never been good at doing what he should.
Still, he swears again as he clicks the safety back on, returns the gun to its holster, and moves closer, crouching next to Drake. The kid is shivering violently, breaths coming shallowly - but even from here, Jason can hear the rattle in his breathing. "Hey. Boy wonder," Jason says, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Even through his gloves, he can feel the heat rolling off him, and the Pit growls in the back of his head. Who the fuck let this child out when he was this sick?
Drake doesn't respond to the touch, and Jason moves a little closer, nudging Drake onto his back. The boy's eyes are closed, a thin sheen of sweat over his face, his skin ashen. It doesn't take a medical degree to know he's probably got the flu that's been sweeping the streets, and Jason makes a quick decision. He reaches for the kid's belt, finding the tracker behind the emblem and switching it off. Next, he taps the side of the hood to switch frequencies to the general one the Bats use, abruptly glad he had hacked all their frequencies ten minutes after settling into Crime Alley. "Found a Robin with its wings clipped. Doing you all a hell of a favor and not letting the cats at it. I'll bring it home when it's better." He pauses a beat before adding, against his better judgement, "And then somebody'll be explaining to me why the fuck you all let him out of the house with a fever."
Jason cuts the comm, adjusts his stance, and leans down to scoop Tim into his arms, trying very hard not to register just how light he is, how he immediately and unconsciously moves closer to Jason's warmth, how he looks so very much his fifteen years.
He tries, but it doesn't work very well.
Jason straightens, adjusting his hold on Tim so he can reach for his line, heading toward his nearest safehouse.
--
Tim runs.
He races through Gotham, knowing time is running out, knowing he has to get... somewhere. Where was he going? There was something he had to do and he can't remember but he can't stop because there are flames behind him, and hideous snarls, and vicious whispers, and he's only just ahead of them.
"Failure," one of them says, and he trips and goes down hard, staff slipping out of his grasp. He scrambles to catch it but it disappears off the edge of the roof and he's falling, he's falling, he's failing, he has to get there, has to find Batman, has to warn him, and the flames lick at his neck and he scrambles to his feet, pelting onward.
His whole body aches as he races over the rooftops or along the streets or holding onto his grappling hook and he doesn't know which way is up and it's hot, he's burning, he's so cold why is it so cold and he slips and he's falling again and this time it's him going over the edge -
But he catches himself, trying to pull himself back up but he's so tired and the stone is melting under his fingers and Batman is looking down at him and he reaches. "Batman! Please!" he cries - and Batman turns away.
"Another failure. Another waste of time," Batman says and turns away and he's falling he's falling he's screaming --
He's thrashing himself awake in a bed and the room is unfamiliar and dark and he fights the hands on him.
"Shhh, shhh, you're okay, it was a dream, it's okay," an unfamiliar voice says, a hand on his forehead and the hand is cool and he turns into it, almost weeps with relief when the hand is joined by a cool washcloth. "Take it easy, kid. You're okay."
Tim sinks back into the bed and forces his eyes open a little more, wanting to see who's talking to him - but he must still be dreaming or maybe the fever is making him hallucinate, now, because this is impossible. "Jason?" he asks, almost sobs, and the hand returns to soaked hair.
"I've got you, kid," the worried ghost tells him. "Go back to sleep. You're gonna be okay."
Tim isn't sure how it's okay that he's seeing dead people, and the thought makes him choke on a laugh - but he can't hold onto it long, and he sinks back into the bed. "Don't leave me," he whispers. "Please."
Jason's hand pauses on his hair for a moment before it picks up again, and there's some strangled emotion in his tone. "Not going anywhere. Sleep."
And Tim does.
--
Tim drifts in and out of consciousness. He remembers being woken up again, water held to his mouth, candy-colored medicine given to him in a small plastic cup. It's mostly just vague impressions.
Finally, though, he wakes up and realizes he can almost think. His head is still pounding, eyes still feeling like they might burn out of his skull, chest aching from the amount of coughing he's been doing, but when he unearths himself from the mound of blankets, he doesn't immediately feel the need to burrow back into them. With a groan, he pushes himself up a little - and then blinks, his hand going to his face.
"No, no no no no," he mutters quickly, looking down at himself and then looking around the room. His domino is gone, and he's wearing a pair of gym shorts and a Gryffins shirt, both of which are too big. His uniform is nowhere in sight, and he keeps up a steady stream of curses as he works himself free of the covers. He's compromised everyone and everything; he needs to get out of here and warn Bruce and Dick and Barbara.
When he goes to stand up, his head swims, and he puts a hand down to steady himself, looking around the room, looking for any sign of his gear, looking for anything he can use as shoes. There's nothing, and he swears again. He just needs to get to a phone. He'll just have to be careful.
Tim turns toward the small window over the small bed, stepping up onto the mattress so he can reach the window. He's just undoing the locks when there's a voice behind him.
"Oi. Replacement. Where the fuck you think you're going?"
Tim freezes, hand on the latch, heart launching into his throat and rebounding into his stomach, the mantra of no no no no no picking up again. He knows that voice - everyone knows that voice - and this is so much worse than he had thought.
For a moment, Tim runs the odds that he'll be able to get the window open and get through it before Red Hood gets to him. He's smaller and faster - but Hood is almost as fast despite his size. It's part of what makes him so dangerous.
"Don't even think about it," Hood growls, his heavy steps coming closer, and Tim pulls back away from the window, stumbling backwards again - and the movement makes his head swim again, his legs buckling. He flails, trying to keep his balance - and before he can fall, strong arms catch him. He grips Hood's shoulders, closing his eyes tightly for a moment as he waits for his head to clear.
"Breathe," Hood says, still holding onto him, and this. This does not compute. His voice is almost gentle. It's a tone he's never heard - and he realizes abruptly that the modulation is gone. He keeps his eyes on Hood's chest, afraid to look up. They don't kill you if you don't see their face, right?
Never mind the fact that he's pretty sure if he moves his head he's going to throw up or pass out.
He takes several quick breaths - and something in his chest catches, and before he can stop it, he's coughing, still holding onto Hood. The other man shifts, turning Tim slightly sideways but keeping hold of him, rubbing his back gently.
"I've got you," Hood continues. "Take it easy." The coughing stops, but Hood keeps rubbing circles into his back. "Breathe. In for five," he says, taking a breath as demonstration, and Tim unconsciously follows the pattern. "Good. Hold for five. Out for five, take it slow."
Something familiar flickers in the back of Tim's head, that same pattern, those same orders in a gentle but firm voice. They run through the pattern a few times until Tim's head clears. He has another coughing fit, but Hood keeps supporting him through it, keeps rubbing his back. When they get through the routine without Tim's lungs trying to crawl out of his chest, Hood directs him back onto the bed.
"Stay there," Hood says firmly once Tim is settled back onto the bed. He leaves, coming back with two bottles of water and a bottle of Ibuprofen. He shakes the latter at Tim and pops the lid, showing Tim that it's still sealed. "Take two of those and drink these. I'm gonna get the thermometer."
None of this is making any sense, but Tim does as he's told. He finishes the first bottle in two long gulps, not realizing how thirsty he was, and is sipping on the second when Hood returns, passing a digital thermometer over his forehead. It beeps softly, and Hood gives a considering hum, turning it so Tim can see the read-out.
"One hundred point nine," Hood tells him, like Tim can't see that for himself. "Still not great, but at least you're in less danger of your brain going up like popcorn. You take the meds?"
"Yeah," Tim says, still carefully not looking above Hood's sternum.
"You gonna look at me?" Hood asks next - and Tim shakes his head. The sigh Hood lets out seems to come from somewhere near the center of the planet. Slowly, telegraphing his moves, Hood crouches until Tim would have to look away from him not to see his face - and when he does, Tim can't believe what he's seeing.
"Jay... Jason?" he breathes, and Hood - Jason - huffs out a humorless breath.
"Guess you don't remember before, huh," he says simply, something like regret mixed with chagrin passing behind his eyes, and Tim frowns, trying to remember what he's talking about. It's there, barely, mostly obscured by the hazy shimmer of fever and fear.
"You... but you died."
"I got better," Jason tosses back like it's a reflex, and Tim can't help but huff out a breath of a laugh. Jason himself doesn't smile, just looking at him. "Speaking of dying. What the fuck were you doing on the streets with a fever of 103?"
Tim flinches as the edge returns to Jason's tone. "I... I thought I was better," he manages, twisting the lid onto and off the water bottle. "I mean, I was feeling better earlier, but."
Jason huffs out another one of those sighs that seems to come from his soul. "And the Bat just let you."
"Batman's not here," Tim answers immediately. "He's on a mission. He didn't know."
Jason straightens abruptly, barking out a bitter laugh, and sits heavily onto the rickety kitchen chair that he's apparently repurposed into a desk chair. The fact that it's already turned to face the bed doesn't escape Tim's notice. "Somehow that's not as reassuring as I think you want it to be, kid." He pauses a beat. "What about Dickwing?"
"Bludhaven," Tim returns automatically. "I thought I was better," he reiterates. "Obviously I was wrong. So I'll just go now." He tries to sound firm, but even he's aware enough to know it comes out more as a plea.
"Mmm, nope," Jason returns, sitting back in the chair, more of Red Hood creeping back into his posture and expression. "You'll sit your ass down until I know you're not gonna cough yourself to death or try and sneak out the goddamn window again." He pauses a beat - and abruptly, he's just Jason again. It's a little dizzying, especially considering how foggy Tim's head still is. "I told you, kid: no more dead birds. And that includes leaving you passed out in an alley where anyone could've run into you. Or over you."
Tim pauses a long moment, just watching Jason. For a moment, Jason just watches him back - and then he raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"Why haven't you-" he begins, and Jason cuts him off.
"Why haven't I come back?" Jason finishes, and Tim stops as Jason's anger returns, as the dim ring of green around the blue of his iris flares. "Why the fuck would I come back? Bruce sure as hell doesn't want me back - he replaced me quickly enough." He gestures angrily in Tim's direction, and Tim can't stop himself from flinching.
Jason drops his hand, just looking at Tim for a moment before he huffs a breath out through his nose. "Yeah, see. That's why right there."
Tim opens his mouth to protest, but Jason keeps talking, pushing himself up. "Get your ass back in bed and finish that water. I'm gonna get you something to eat." He storms out of the room, something crashing in the other room, and Tim reaches up to run a hand over his hair.
"Great job, Drake," he mutters to himself - but he does sink back onto the bed, taking another sip of water.
--
Jason storms back into the apartment's living area, shoving his single kitchen chair back up against the table as he moves past it. He knew this was a terrible idea. He never should have brought the kid here. He should have just dropped him off on the doorstep of Wayne Manor with a note taped to him. He should have kept his stupid helmet on and kept his stupid mouth shut and "what the fuck were you thinking?" he asks himself as he braces himself on the counter.
There's a pot simmering on the stove, and he moves for his set of mismatched bowls. He takes two out of the drainer, picks out two spoons, and sets the bowls by the stove, setting the spoons into them. He ladles soup into both bowls before picking them up and returning to the bedroom.
Drake is still sipping at the water, and he looks up slowly as Jason returns. "Here," Jason says, shoving the bowl in his direction. "It's hot," he warns as he takes his own bowl and settles into the chair next to his desk. He stirs the soup, taking a deep breath of the aroma that drifts off it. It's not quite from a can, though most of the ingredients are considering he hadn't had the time or ingredients to make it from scratch like he prefers. Still, it'll do, and he scoops up a spoonful, blowing on it to cool it before he takes a bite and looks up at the Replacement.
The kid is watching up, holding onto the bowl like it's something about to attack him, and he rolls his eyes and pointedly takes another bite from his own bowl. "I'm not gonna fucking poison you, kid," he tells him, not quite able to keep the anger and frustration out of his tone. "Been your fucking nursemaid for a full twenty-four now. If I was gonna kill you, you'd already be dead. And I don't-"
"You don't hurt kids, I know," Drake says, his tone bitter, and Jason can't quite stop himself from flinching, because he did hurt Tim, hurt him badly in the name of trying to scare him off.
"Yeah," Jason says simply, not sure what else to say, and takes another bite of a soup. Once he's taken a few more bites, he sees Drake doing the same, though he can't be sure if he decided to trust Jason or if the fact that Jason knows for sure he hasn't eaten in at least two days gets the better of him.
Drake looks up at him after a minute and down at the soup again. "You made this," he says, and it's almost an accusation.
"I opened some cans and dumped 'em in a pot. What about it?"
"I don't know," Drake admits. "I was expecting like... Campbell's. It's good."
"Told you if I was gonna kill you you'd be dead already. Nothing drawn out like sodium poisoning." The teasing comes out before Jason can stop it, and Drake blinks at him for a moment before he huffs out a laugh and returns his attention to his soup.
The quiet that follows is more comfortable than awkward. Jason finishes his soup - and then steps forward to take Tim's - Drake's - bowl from him when he starts to list forward over it, clearly having exerted himself enough that exhaustion is overtaking hunger in the kid's hierarchy of needs. Tim stirs as he takes the bowl, and Jason leans over him to pick up the empty water bottles, rearranging the blankets and putting a hand to Tim's shoulder to direct him into laying back down.
"Get some more sleep, kid. I'll be in the other room if you need me."
Tim's close enough to being unconscious that he just mutters something Jason doesn't quite catch. The touch to his arm is enough to tell Jason his fever is coming down, and Jason pulls the blankets up again before stepping back into the living room.
--
When Tim wakes next, his headache is almost gone, and he can tell his fever has come down. His chest is still sore, but he had been coughing for days before this setback, so that part isn't all that surprising. Most important right now is the fact that he really needs to find out if Jason's shitty apartment has a bathroom.
He can hear the soft sound of a television filtering in from the other room, and Tim gets carefully to his feet, padding out of the bedroom. It doesn't take him long to find Jason, the older man's black hair visible over the back of a sofa that Tim is pretty sure he saw abandoned in an alley recently. Jason doesn't stir as he steps into the room, and Tim takes a moment to look around the room.
It doesn't take Tim long to realize "shitty" isn't a nearly strong enough word for the space that Jason is living in. The room he's using as his kitchen and living room isn't all that much bigger than the bedroom. The kitchen is made up of a stove that seems held together with cracking welds and duct tape, a refrigerator that seems to have come from the set of a 1950s sitcom, a microwave that Tim is sure fell off the back of a truck last week, and a beat up coffee pot. The sink is rusted and stained but not dripping, which is somewhat surprising.
There's a small table set up against the back of the counters that seem to have just been dropped in the middle of the room with no intention to actually separating the space. Wires run along the floor to each appliance. The chair at the table is a match to the one in the bedroom, a few flecks of green paint clinging to the pale wood. The table is covered with papers, electronic parts, and some pieces that Tim knows are from Red Hood's guns. The hood itself is nowhere in sight - and neither is Tim's uniform, which is vaguely concerning, but he also knows better than to think he's going anywhere without Jason's say-so.
The television Jason is watching is startlingly new considering the rest of the room - but Tim knows flat screen TVs are just about the easiest thing in the city to walk away with.
Abruptly, Tim becomes aware that he's being watched, and he looks back to Jason, meeting the other's eyes over the back of the sofa. There's no green in his eyes for now, but Tim still feels pinned for a moment before the other speaks. "You look better," Jason says finally, sitting up a little.
"I feel better,' Tim returns. "Uh... do you have a bathroom?"
Jason blinks at him for a moment - and then huffs out something like a laugh, like he doesn't know what to do with that little bit of normalcy. "Uh, yeah." He points into the corner by the tv, and Tim steps forward to look around the corner. The bathroom is barely a closet, the shower, toilet, and sink all covered in stains, but it's all surprisingly clean and again, nothing is dripping.
It says something about Jason's priorities and state of mind, but Tim's still a little too off-kilter to really give it the attention it needs.
When Tim steps back out of the bathroom, the tv is off and Jason's perched on the sofa's arm, thermometer in hand. Tim dutifully steps forward, and Jason swipes the tip over his forehead, turning it to read the display once it beeps.
"Congrats, looks like you're over the plague," Jason tells him, holding the display so he can see it.
Ninety-nine-point-five is still a little high for Tim's normal, but it's better, and he nods. "You can take me home now," he says simply, and Jason snorts.
"You've definitely worn out your welcome," he returns as he turns the thermometer over in his hands. "I'd tell you to keep all this shit to yourself, but I know you won't, so I'll just save it." He stands, sets the thermometer on the stand in front of the television - and then kicks at the base of the stand. A previously hidden panel clicks and swings open, and Jason hauls out a duffle bag that he throws in Tim's direction.
Tim catches it, his relief immediate when he opens the zipper a few inches and sees the colors of his uniform. He closes it again - and just catches the sneakers that Jason tosses at him next. They're a little big, but they'll do, and he steps into them.
"Come on," Jason tells him as he heads for the door, turning off the lights once Tim steps past him into the hall.
--
If Tim thought Jason's apartment was shitty, the rest of the building is setting a new low. There are rats wandering around in the open; one out of every ten overhead lights is working - and those just barely, most of them dim or flickering. He can hear things behind the other doors he doesn't want to know about - but Jason just keeps walking, heading for stairs that reek of urine and body odor and other things Tim does his best not to categorize. Tim follows Jason down the stairs, carefully not touching the handrails.
They emerge into an alley, and Jason leads the way to a car that makes Tim do a double-take, considering how new it is - and considering that no one's stolen the tires and set it on fire.
Jason catches him staring, and one corner of his mouth lifts. "Perks to being a notorious crime lord," he says simply as he heads for the driver's seat. "We'd take the bike but I'd rather no one saw you riding bitch." He pauses a beat. "And I don't have a helmet for you."
It's a weird afterthought, almost like Jason's making a note to himself, and Tim adds to the rest of the data that he's been gathering. By all rights, Tim's safety shouldn't matter to Jason - but the fact that he had mentioned it has to mean something. He'll think about it later.
For now, he heads for the passenger seat and sinks into the leather, holding the duffle bag on his lap, a little worried about what might happen if he messes up this car. It's shockingly clean and expensive, right out of the Wayne or Drake garages, and Tim doesn't really want to think about where Jason got it considering he's still legally dead.
"Seatbelt," Jason says gruffly as he turns the car on, looking at Tim until he reaches to pull it on - and only then does he put the car in gear, driving carefully but assuredly out of the alley.
"Uh," Tim begins, once they've been riding in silence for a while. "I didn't say thanks. For, you know. Taking care of me. So. Thanks."
Jason's eyes flick sideways. "Wasn't gonna leave you there," he says again, a little pained. "Not gonna happen again, though, so try to be a good little chick and stay under daddy's wing next time you get sick."
Tim feels sure that it would happen again, considering the bits of data he's started to gather, but he definitely knows better than to argue about it. He also knows better than to try and continue the conversation - what would he even say? - and he turns his attention out the car's tinted windows, watching Gotham pass them by.
--
Jason pulls up outside the gates to Wayne Manor and puts the car in park, turning to half-face Tim. "Get out," he tells him simply, and Tim frowns at him for a long moment.
"Come back, Jason," Tim says, something pleading in his expression. "We... we need you. Bruce needs you. He won't say it, but. After you died, he almost killed himself. Or almost let himself get killed. It's why I..." He looks down at the duffle bag, hands clenching in the nylon. "It's why I took over. As Robin. Batman needs Robin, and-"
Jason clenches his jaw, sees green creeping into the edges of his vision - and he looks away. "Get out," he says again, interrupting whatever Tim had been about to say.
The door still doesn't open, and Jason growls, low in his throat, letting anger push down the other emotion that wants to crawl up from the dusty remains of his heart. "Get the fuck. Out!" he almost shouts this time, letting the Pit rise up, letting his vision tint green - and Tim throws his door open and almost faceplants in his rush to get free of his seatbelt and out of the car. The moment the kid's out, Jason throws the car back into gear and peals out, reaching over to close the door when inertia doesn't quite do it.
Fuck the Replacement. He should have known better than to do something nice.