I can't believe I never shared this here. It's such an old thing...
Title: "Glimpses", or "Five Otherverses Where Jason Got Tim as His Partner."
Fandom: DCU- Batman.
Rating: PG to R.
Genre: Bro...mance?
Wordcount:
Characters/Pairings: Jason Todd/Tim Drake, and several combinations thereof (Batman!Jay, Batman!Tim, Talon, Red X, Joker Jr, etc.)
Warning: Violence, blood and curses as per usual whenever Jay's concerned. Some vague sexual reference (Oh Tim, you and your prepubescent, Jay-based wet-dreams, you...). Speed-written, unbetaed. Also contains The Worst Pun EVER. SEE WHAT I DID IN GLIMPSE 3.
Summary: My boys are damaged. Perhaps that's why they fit each other so well?
Notes: This plays fast and loose with the canon of : Countdown, Countdown Presents: The Search for Ray Palmer, Teen Titans/Titans of Tomorrow and Batman Beyond: The Return of the Joker.
Glimpse 1: "Batman Needs a Robin"
Location: Earth-15 (wherein Bruce is dead, and Jason is a freakingly intelligent and battle-apt Batman)
Rating: PG (WOAH)
It's a mere exercise of style. Move the appropriate facial muscles, calibrate each gesture on behalf of who it is you're facing, infuse every sentence with just the right dose and sense of emotion, be it polite interest, drunken exuberance or good-natured mischief.
The Billionaire persona is as much Bruce's legacy as the cowl, and twice a mask. Jason twitches underneath it, but carries it with perfection. It takes only a fraction of his impressive mental capabilities, and with the rest... well, Jason Todd-Wayne has long since perfected the act of multitasking.
So he has no problem flirting in a deliciously sly fashion with the lady hanging from his arm, carrying on a trivial conversation on the culinary value of pasteurized black caviar with her husband, and take stock of the boy glancing every so frequently at him from behind the refreshments table.
Jason is not unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of long, appraising stares, but it's the intent behind this particular stare that gives him pause. Besides, the chance that the boy is truly one of Gotham's upper-class socialites is threadbare at best. Too many clues point out to his humble origins, from the way he shuffles his feet when addressed directly, to the almost-healed bruise at the side of his mouth.
A mouth that – Jason frowns in concentration – is now moving silently around a word, a game they've been playing since the party began. The motion is slow, deliberate, before the lips tighten into a thin, determined line. Message deciphered, Jason tenses, several layers underneath the façade of Jay, Rich Kid, Great Catch, Sob Story.
He skilfully directs the couple hanging all over him towards the punch bowl, somehow convincing them it was their own idea and he's only tagging along. He introduces them to an handy young millionaire (not a Wayne, but a pure-blood, unlike him) and laughs dutifully at a bit of trivia he's already wiping from his brain. The sound is infused with just the right mix of amusement and distractedness, as he closes his hand around The Boy's elbow and carefully steers him away from the crowd.
His... no, Bruce's study (it is too soon to call anything of Bruce's his own; it feels uncomfortable, when the grief is still so fresh) – Bruce's study is blissfully quiet, and when Jason slams the door shut behind the two of them, it goes blissfully dark too, like a cave. He whirls on the boy with the ghost-wish of a cape he keeps secured several stories below, and growls. The switch from Sly Richling voice to Bat voice is sudden and startling, but the boy doesn't as much as blink.
"Care to repeat that, kid?"
"I said," and now the little elfin chin is pointed up, like a dare, the blue eyes clear and sharp under the shock of raven-black hair. "I think you might want to employ me." There's a pause. "Mr. Batman."
Jason makes a sound deep in his chest, eyes narrow and considering. He looks the boy over, filing away the barely-there blush and squirm, and nods once, briskly.
"Name?"
The boy stands at attention like a good soldier.
"Timothy. Timothy Drake, Sir. Though they usually call me Tim."
"Noted."
Glimpse 2: "Broken pieces, still fitting together."
Location: Batman Beyond/DCAU (In which the Joker and Harley Quinn kidnapped Tim, tortured him to the point of insanity, and "adopted" him as Joker Junior)
Rating: R-ish
Tim erupts in a cackle, something that makes Jason think of crunched glass and nightmare-carnivals. Annoyance forces his jaw to clamp automatically, and he reaches for his gun, fires, hits the hostage hanging from Tim's hands square between the eyes.
"Drop the noise, Timbo."
Tim drops the man instead, and waves airily back at Jason, still very much prey of his mirth. He hums and laughs, hums and laughs as he dances between the duct-taped hostages, hips swaying and eyes wild. Jason snatches him by the waist when he twirls close enough, and Tim pounces, grinning, thin, hyena-like laughter spilling through his lips, and reaches up.
His hands are wet and clammy as he traces them across Jason's face, using blood to draw a red, red domino mask around the blazing blue eyes. He hums as he paints – hums and laughs, hums and laughs – then seals his masterpiece with a kiss.
Red X sighs into him, clamps his teeth down hard on the tongue darting around his cheeks, pushes blood and saliva between their lips. He slices through Tim's shirt with the edge of his knife, bares his chest, the budding nipples.
Joker Jr starts laughing again, delighted.
Glimpse 3: "Birds of a feather"
Location: Earth-3 (wherein the good guys and the bad guys get their roles reversed, and Tim is Talon, the wicked sidekick of the evil villain Owlman)
Rating: Pg-13/R
Watching Talon III work is... hypnotic.
He moves with a mix of Talon I's dynamic grace, and Talon II's quiet strength. A mix of Richard and himself that Jason Peter can never quite explain, especially since Talon III hasn't had the chance to train under either of them.
Talon III is smart, he's full of grace, he's abrasive. He is, possibly, the craziest of them all, in that cartoon evil-doctor way that's endearing, in a fashion, when it's not utterly terrifying. Jason knows that. Because he watches Talon. Always.
He's watching now, as Talon makes a sound low in his throat, and kisses the wildly fluttering pulse at the base of his prey's neck. Jason clenches his fists. He's better at taming his irrational jealousy than he used to be; even so, he has to bite down on his lip to stifle a growl.
Talon knows Jason is there – he has to. The boy likes to play with the people he kills. Only too much. But he never puts up this much of a show, unless he knows he's got an audience. An audience of one, specifically.
Jason.
His latest prey is a 30-something man, rich, single, tangled in affairs Jason doesn't approve of, at all, which is the excuse he tells himself for letting things go so far, letting Talon scare... no, scar the man so bad. It beats the real reason – watching Talon III work is hypnotic – ten to one.
The man is tied, spread-eagle, to the table. His shirt is drenched in sweat, even his expensive pants are. His body is shivering ever so faintly, all over.
"No more," he pleads. "No more."
Talon croons, sweetly, and kisses the man languidly on the mouth, on both eyelids, flicks his tongue across his ear. A quiet moan reaches Jason, then a scream, and then there's blood pouring from the man's earlobe, streaking the side of his neck.
Talon licks his lips and looks at him, eyes hooded, when Jason stands out of the shadows.
"Talon," he says. "End this madness."
Talon – Tim. Jason knows his name is Tim – sounds pleased to see him.
"Bad Wolf," he purrs. "Lover. Why don't you join in, instead?"
Jason glances at the terrified man, the blood on his neck (he used to be Talon, once), the hope in his eyes (he died as Talon, once) and clenches and releases his fists, pumping air between the leather of his gloves (he's not that boy any more) as he remembers his oath (he is his own man, now): No More Deaths.
Jason reaches for the dart gun, points it at his replacementloverarchnemesis and tries to tell himself that Tim – Talon. Jason knows he is Talon – doesn't look betrayed.
Glimpse 4: "Aw, Does the Big Bad Bat Need a Robin to Make Him Better?"
Location: Titans Tomorrow Verse (wherein Tim, now the Batman, uses the gun that once killed Thomas and Martha Wayne to take down all of Gotham's most notorious villains)
Rating: Pg-13/R
"So, you're Batman, uh?" the stranger says, and even from behind the helmet, his laugh sounds boisterous and amused. He is possibly the leader of a motorcycle posse, judging by the leather attire, though his jacket is suspiciously bare of any insignia, either known or otherwise.
Tim never particularly cared to be the source of anyone's amusement. Once upon a time, he would've ducked and flinched at the sound. Now he has matured, and his temper has shortened. He reaches for the gun. An easy, fluid motion. But the stranger has him at the end of his own weapon before Tim can ever reach the utility belt. He's good.
"Nu-uh, Pretender. None of that."
"I'm no pretender. I'm the real deal."
"What, the Bat?" The stranger laughs again, and there's something dark and ugly in the way he holds himself. Not quite a wound, but... not of the physical sort, at least. "Sorry kidd-o. Unless you got washed on the wrong program and shrunk, there's no way you're Bruce Wayne."
Tim stiffens, blinks once, and is grateful that the white lenses of his cowl are down, hiding his sudden surprise.
"Got your attention now, have I?"
Tim pulls the cape taut around him in a dramatic, dark shape, and stands very still.
"Who are you?"
"Straight to the one-million dollar question, uh?"
Tim glares hard. His stillness is that of the death, his countenance that of a demon. He's yet to meet a man who doesn't quake at the mere sight of the Bat, but it seems he has finally met his match. Surprisingly, he's the one who breaks first.
"Who. Are. You?"
The stranger cocks his head, looking like he's considering another laugh, but then settles for a shrug.
"That should be my line, Batsy-Boy. But if you're in the family business, my name might light some bulb for you, while yours..." he trails off, shrugs, somehow managing to convey "it'd mean jack shit to me" in a way that's both irritating and... familiar?
The stranger reaches up one-handed, fiddles with the back of his helmet until it thuds carelessly to the floor.
Tim can't quite contain the flutter of something in his chest, or the sharp intake of a breath as his mind flashes back to years past, back to long nights warmed only by glimpses of a red tunic and a yellow cape. As it flashes back to stolen photographies clutched to his chest as his other hand wandered over his body, frantic and wild; back to the feel and texture of it as he pressed his face into his pillow, groaning a forbidden name, and finally: to tears and blood and the sickening satisfaction of a crowbar smashing an head of green hair like it was a rotting pumpkin.
"...Jason Todd."
Jason grins, and there's a kind of beauty in it, and a kind of madness. His mocking half-bow is all things Robin, and absolutely the opposite.
"The one and only," he puts the gun back in its holster with a flourish, flexes his arms across his impressive chest. "So, I heard the gun veto was lifted from Gotham."
"Apparently."
"Yeah, and it got me wondering."
"Wondering?"
Jason laughs.
"Ever thought of getting yourself a Robin of your own, Batsy-Boy?"
Tim manages to control his breathing, this time. His mouth quirks in a Bruce-smile.
"You're offering?"
"Hell, yeah."
Glimpse 5: "I came back from the dead for this??"
Location: Earth 51 (which should have been wiped from existence, but how could I possibly resist?)
Rating: Pg-13
The Robin-wannabe is skinny, and wears all the wrong things (The black cape he can almost forgive, but... tights? Boots?). It pisses him, so when Jason slam him into the pavement he does it with a sort of unnecessary vengeance.
"What do you mean, killed?"
His temper was never that impressive to start with; but after the dip in the Lazarus Pit... yeah. Drop that line of thought, breath. Exhale. Deep Breath. Ease the fuckin' pressure on the kid's fuckin' windpipe, if you want him to answer any time soon.
The Robin-wannabe coughs for a moment; then inhales gratefully and moans, like breathing was the most sexual experience since... ever. He wriggles around, pushes back against him in such ways it gives Jason all the wrong ideas.
Focus, Jay.
"Well?"
The Robin-wannabe's voice is raw and sort-of breathy, and again, all the wrong kind of images pop up in Jason's mind, aided by commentary.
"I..." he gasps, swallows. "...I saw it happen. It... you know there was that... that war. And he... Batman, he..."
"Who?"
Robin-wannabe shakes his head. His voice is small, and he curls into himself defensively, like a little kid.
"A meta. I don't know which. Does it... does it even matter?"
There's a long moment of silence. Then: "fuck,"Jason growls, and steps away. "Fuck." He racks a hand through his hair. "Fuck." The sting of tears in his eyes is as familiar as it is unwanted. "FUCK."
Robin-wannabe is looking at him now, with a worried little frown creasing his face. He reaches out hesitantly, pauses, then swallows and touches Jason's shoulder, anyway.
"Are you... are you all right?"
Jason darts him a glance, wants to reply no, I'm not all right, I'm the farthest thing from all right, because I was dead, and now I'm not, and the best and bravest hero of the whole frigging world went mad because I died, and now suddenly I'm not dead anymore, but it turns out that he is, dead and forgotten, and I might've loved him, or perhaps he did, and now I'll never find out, because he's dead, and the City is in shambles and the Manor's gone, and I can't find home, I can't find Alfred, can you imagine that, a world without Alfred? And I can still smell the mildew from my coffin, because I was dead, killed with a crowbar, and now there's a kid playing dress-up with a totally wrong replica of my old costume, and, Jesus, I think I'm going to throw up.
Which he does, though he has enough sense to jerk away from the kid and go empty his stomach in a corner. It's the dry sort of heaves – he hasn't bothered much with food during his mad rush to Gotham – which is like saying it's the worst of all. For a minute, he thinks he's about to die again, then there's a gentle hand moving the sweat-matted hair from his face, and another rubbing his back. The voice in his ear is low and crooning, not sweet but musical enough, bird-like even, and it convinces the muscles in Jason's body to unlock at least a little bit.
It takes some coaxing for the kid to get him up and onto a bunker, of all things, and before he knows it, Jason is nursing a mug of... something, spiced and scalding hot. He's folded in a quilt, and the bluest pair of eyes he's ever seen (yes, a truer blue than even Bruce's own, which sounds like a desecration, in his mind) are locked on him, looking at, through, and into him.
"So... you were the previous Robin, I take?"
Jason swallows down a bit of the something and nods; a little numbly, because apparently he did say that tirade out loud, back there in the alley. Robin-wannabe pushes his mouth this way and that for a moment, like he's trying the taste of something, then nods, quietly, to himself, clearly pleased with whatever it was.
"I'm Robin now, but... I think what this City needs, really needs, is a Batman. A Batman like he used to be before. As a point of fact, I know that Robin needs a Batman. And you... you know it, too. You know this City. How it was. How he was. And if you felt so inclined, I'd like it if you..." He pauses, gathers himself with a visible effort.
"Join me," Robin says/demands/begs/orders. "Be my Batman."
Jason laughs. Or sobs. To this day, he's still not sure.
He's in the cowl and flying by Robin's side the very same night.