Just a wee ficlet for the Batman universe since I wanted angst and it devolved into cuddles. (And Neocolai believes that holiday feels should start on November 1st.)
Disclaimer: I, Neocolai, being of not-so-sound mind and even more questionable sanity, hereby do swear that I do not own anything related to the DC franchise.
Warnings for violence involving a minor, and Red Hood shooting bad guys.
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Summer garlands have long ago fallen and corroded, and the remnants crunch under Jason's feet with a half-soggy squelch of mulch. It isn't cold enough to ice the brown puddles in the alley, but the frost in each exhale makes him wish he'd brought his thermal gloves. (They're too clumsy; he'd never handle the trigger, but still.)
It's close enough to the holidays that crime is upping the ante. Bank robberies, shoplifting, pickpockets — anything to manage a little more cash when it's wanted most. Kids to surprise, lovers to woo, feasts to prepare; everything needs just a little more to make it a proper Christmas. The sirens won't see a quiet hour until December 26th. This corner of Gotham hasn't seen too much sleep, either.
He wants to call it a night. It's near sunrise and his socks and sleeves are damp, and there aren't enough thermal layers to keep his toes warm in his boots. Wandering around a wind-blown city looking for muggers isn't half as fun as it seemed when he was a kid. Crime never sleeps, but it know when it's being watched, and sometimes it doesn't seem worth the time necessary to weasel the scumbags out of their holes.
Jason is about to leave (there's a clunky radiator and hot water and dry socks waiting for him back home), when smoke puffs from a cheap cigarette and a cold-clenched voice snarls out, "Don't squall on me now. One more night and this'll all be over. We'll be on our way before you can say dead birds."
The moss-encrusted brick wall is suddenly the most interesting landmark in town. Jason leans into the shadows, red melding into black, no more than a shift of texture against stone. Smoke billows out between chattering teeth in the doorway not far ahead, and a hand flicks out to drop the cigarette under a grimy shoe. Threadbare gloves, scuffed sleeves, dirty sneakers and a sweater that fell out of fashion five years ago. It's scumbag material, not experienced thug. Someone who landed on the wrong side of providence and is finally hoping for that one good break. Willing to stoop to anything to make a new start. Not nearly as nasty as the crooked schemers with their suits and face paint and hired guns, but equally deadly in their own right. Desperadoes can't afford a conscience.
"Come on," Cigar-Breath grunts, nodding to the squat shadow hovering in the doorway. "Let's get it done."
"I don' like the way he looks at me," Squat-Legs mumbles, following his partner with a hunched, bow-legged stride. "It's like the Bat himself's about tah swoop in. Makes me feel creeped."
"Then put his eyes out, I don't care," Cigar-Breath snorts. "The deal was keep the brat alive until the pickup. Nobody said nothing about how well he kicks about."
"I'll do it," Squat-Legs warns, his voice low and controlled. (Ponderous, deliberate, conscience-free. The sort of minion who would gladly slice his employer's throat. Or a kid's.) "I'll take his eyes out, an' his tongue. I tell ya, I don' like the way he looks at me, Tate!"
"Look, if you're too squeamish to do the job, you can go blubber to the police," Tate snaps. "If you make it that far. There's worse than Bats in the lower levels."
"I ain't no squealer," Squat-Legs snarls. "And I ain't jokin'. Mah old man poked out me Mam's eyes with his bare hands, when she squared 'im wrong. I ain't waiting for no clown in a posh suit to pick this 'un up. Been a long time since I heard a kid squeal."
Jason hates it when he's right. Low-down and crass and steeped in blood — that's the sort of riff-raff running the underbelly of Gotham. It's days before Christmas and some kid is living a nightmare.
"You had your fun gutting the last one," Tate grumbles, fumbling for another light. "We keep this one alive. For now."
"I'll keep him alive," Squat-Legs promises. "He don't need two eyes tah scream."
"Fine." Tate sighs. "But keep it down. He squeals any louder and somebody's gonna call the cops."
"S'all right, Tate. I know mah job."
Light flickers on steel (well-polished, razor sharp, cleaned of any previous kills), and Jason doesn't wait for a climax, or a clean shot. Three blams follow up with two bodies — Skinner is missing his elbow, but his eyes still twitch until a fourth bullet cleans out his brains. Good riddance; this is Hood's territory, and he's made it clear that child traffickers don't deserve a warm cell and turkey dinner on Christmas day.
A rustle in the corner, followed by a hitched sob, distracts him from dead eyes lolling in a round face. It's the cry of a soul too exhausted to draw any more attention, and too scared to wait in silence. Jason holsters his gun.
"Easy, kid." He keeps his steps deliberate but soft. Who is to say the rescuer isn't worse than the kidnapper, these days. "Nobody's gonna hurt you." Another easy line that's harder to prove. Street kids have seen it all.
The kid shifts again, knees drawing up to a sharp chin, and Jason sees red. In all different shades. Frayed crimson sleeves, flecked scarlet on skin, stained cords binding bare ankles and skinny wrists. The cape is gone and so is the mask, but there's no mistaking the tattered uniform.
"Son of a nutcracker." It deserves better swearing, but it's near Christmas and he's staying on Good Saint Alfred's nice list. (And no amount of blasphemy will bring back those goons so Jason can shoot them again.) He crouches by Red Robin, a quick glance-over telling him more than he wants to know. (Crooked right arm, bruises around the throat, swelling jaw, both legs dangling awkwardly, eyelids swollen in a sea of black.)
There's confusion in slits of blue, but Tim is still trying to glare. He looks... kinda like a floppy seal pup. Jason would've punched in his eyes too, if he was trying to settle a teetering conscience. He settles for a quick pat-down, checking spine and neck before slicing through ropes that are redundant for a crippled kid.
He gets a half-coordinated punch to the ribs for his efforts. That's gratitude.
"You do realize you set yourself up for a beating every time," Jason chastises, scooping the kid up in one graceless swoop. An airless gasp and a flutter and it's lights out again for Timmy. Probably not a good sign.
Concussion, broken bones, possible mental trauma. This is a job for Leslie, but thanks to Batman's stubbornness she's out of office for good. He ought to strip the bird uniform and deposit the kid in a proper hospital. (Days before Christmas, where the press will try to get as much time in as the fam, and the food comes fresh from a bulk cannery.)
It would be mean to jostle him into play clothes, anyways. Not that Jason is above practical bullying, if it suits the purpose. He just doesn't want the kid crying on him. (That's a great way to get a gauntleted sledgehammer to the nose. He has a past history to account for, after all. R.I.P. Jason Todd — again — on charges of murdering his pesky little brother.)
Safe house it is then, Jason decides with a disdainful snort. As long as Tim has a proper splint and a bandaid on his boo-boos, they'll spend more time fussing over his sob story than grilling the Red Hood. (Assuming Squat-Legs didn't mess up the kid's teeth too much. Jason wonders idly if it's worth calling Talia up for a favor. Sometimes the Lazarus pit had its uses, and who's to say a scoundrel's second chance at life can't end twice as miserably as the first?)
There's blood dripping on his boots and sirens in the distance and fresh whimpers coming from Tim, reminding him that there's no sense in regretting a pair of fresh corpses. Jason tucks the kid under one arm (which is ridiculously possible why is this kid so light) and takes to the roofs, leaving blood on the leaves and rust in the puddles and the stench of death stewing with the lingering odor of cheap cigarettes.
Tim somehow molds against him like a living, breathing harness and doesn't fuss when he's jolted. Stupid kid doesn't have the survival instinct to avoid his could-be-murderer. (They should probably work on that. Once Christmas is over and Jason can properly cuss him out and cuff his fool head. Gotta stay on Alfred's nice list for now.)
He's a little concerned when the kid starts snuffling. Because that's definitely Dick's line of expertise and Jason is pretty sure Tim has to be dying before he lets anyone see him cry.
He changes course two blocks from his safe house. He's out of bandaids anyways. Maybe the Bats won't kill him on arrival if he calls in the emergency first. After all, it's been a while he actively tried to kill the Replacement.
Everything will be fine.
"What did you do?"
Everything is not fine. Jason has may-be a hundred pounds of limp teenager across his back and there's a snarling demon darting just out of punching distance and the big bad shadow is just looming in grim disapproval like this is all his fault.
"I picked him up in a scumhouse. This isn't my fault!" Not this time, everyone is thinking, and Jason is making all the right gestures to demonstrate his opinion without setting off the profanity alarms. (Not that he's getting off the naughty list, now. Dang, and Alfred always gives the best presents.)
"He appears to be significantly injured, but not dying," Damian remarks, earning himself a reciprocating snarl.
"Since when do you care, Brat?" Jason snaps.
"Since when do you carry home your mortal enemies?" Damian retorts.
"Enough!" Bruce drowns them both out as koala limbs are detangled from Jason's neck and the kid is laid out on white sheets. The bruises stand out garishly in the cave's lighting, but the swelling doesn't look as bad as Jason thought. The crooking legs might just be sprained and the jaw issue is probably a hairline fracture. Tim probably won't be chewing taffy for a few weeks, but he'll be fine.
Seriously, the Bats have gotta stop shooting glares like Jason just tried to murder their Robin. (He has better things to do with his life now. Like cajoling Alfie into passing down the secret butler book of family recipes. Because some vigilantes have goals for the future that don't involve battering stupid seal pups who nuzzle up to Pit-Raised antiheroes.)
"How did this happen?" Bruce grills him. Jason gives a basic rundown while they're stitching and shushing and splinting skinny limbs. (Seriously, when does the kid eat?) Bruce's scowl simmers down into fretful concern, washing into worried exhaustion once all the bandages are slapped in place. By the time Bruce is satisfied that Tim isn't going to zonk out permanently, it's nearly time for the demon brat to head to school. Bruce looks just shy of patting Jason's shoulder in camaraderie before they both come to their senses and there's two minutes of awkward silence before Bruce clears his throat and mumbles, "Alfred is fixing breakfast. You should probably sleep here."
Dick would probably translate that to "Thank you and I love you and please don't run out into traffic after an all-nighter" but Bruce phrased it as an order and Jason isn't taking it.
"Screw it, I'm going home," he snaps, jamming on his helmet. "Don't call me about the Replacement — if he dies it's his own problem."
The translation is probably lost on Bruce, but Alfred will definitely get the gist and keep him updated on Tim's condition. That's just how they operate around here.
It's the closest Jason will come to saying, 'Save me a place at the table this Christmas, 'cause I'll be there this time.'
Just for the chance to bully Timbers mercilessly over his apparent attachment to homicidal maniacs. He's so getting the kid a koala suit for Christmas.
There are no koala pajama onesies for teenagers, but Jason finds something equally obnoxious. Tim is nestled on the couch, bruise-mottled visage looking appropriately distant without coffee, sprained legs resting on a mountain of cushions, morally boosted by a mug of Alfred's cocoa. Completely oblivious to his environment. Jason snags the last squashy present from under the tree and has no qualms about throwing it at the kid's stupid face.
"Master Jason!" Alfred scolds.
Oops, done it now. Whatever, he's already getting coal.
"Whazzit?" Tim says dumbly, awkwardly tearing the paper one-handed and squinting at the folds of fuzzy grey polyester with button eyes. Increasing bafflement drowns any coherent thought as he pulls out the smiling hood. Jason snaps a picture and tosses the phone back to Dick, who is practically squealing with happy family vibes.
"Uh. Why?" Tim manages at last, the floppy seal hood puddling over his hands.
"The appropriate response is thank you — for you know, saving your life, dragging you back home, and letting you drool over me like a baby koala." Jason lets the sarcasm sink in until Timmy is properly mortified. "I'll let you bypass the verbal recognition if you put on the seal suit."
"Uh... no thanks." For a kid who vindictively antagonizes the world with his words, Timbers can be obnoxiously inarticulate when he's feeling stubborn.
"That's not a request, Replacement," Jason says, flipping the onesie around and flopping the hood over Tim's head. "It's a family photo shoot. For Alfred. We are wearing pajamas."
Bruce might be purpling with inner rage right now, minky polyester spilling over his hands, but that's his fault for acting like a bull-elephant walrus all the time. (Honestly, there are worse associations.) At least Jason was considerate enough to choose the Toothless getup for Damian, instead of Hello Kitty. Dick is already snuggled up in his lemur suit.
"I'm the fox panda, Alfred is a proper penguin, and you are a senseless seal pup who cuddles up to whale sharks," Jason establishes. "Gear up. Photo op in five minutes."
Tim won't refuse — not if it's for Alfred. And if they all huddle by the couch to accommodate him (seconds before the dragon and the panda fox try to strangle each other and the sitting room erupts in typical Batfam mayhem), and if Tim actually falls asleep in a floppy seal onesie and is carried upstairs by Bruce, and if Jason stays until after midnight filching popcorn and demanding that they show Damian The Polar Express...
It's all for the smile on Alfred's face. Because they're a bat cult, not a family, and this feel-good stuff never was the end goal. (Even if they all fall asleep on the couch and Bruce mutes the television and stays put because Damian's asleep in his lap and Jason and Dick are squashed against him on either side, and moving one numb arm would disturb the whole roost. It's all for Alfred's peace and quiet, really. There's nothing familial in this picture at all.)
Jason frames one of the pajama shots anyways. Just because.
He wants to be on Alfred's nice list for next Christmas.