How does this even happen?
It's tempting for Tim to let his head fall against the computer console in his frustration.
A week in, and nothing. No reports of random people wandering around with a bow and arrows, none of his underworld contacts have mentioned anything showing up at on the black-market or at illegal auctions. It's as if Eros' diviners have vanished into thin air.
That he's frustrated is putting it lightly.
Adding to that is the fact he hasn't seen or heard from Jason in the same amount of time. The other vigilante finally appears to have found the tracer Tim stuck on him and sent it on a trip to the Gotham City dump. It's both a relief, because it means he's acting like himself, and a disappointment, because it means he's still resistant to Tim's help.
Apparently when he asserted the Red Hood would eventually reach out to him, he underestimated the exact amount of stubborn that is Jason Todd. He'd come to Eros about something, as Tim discovered when checking his now blank security feeds; the Olympian wouldn't say what, instead complaining about rude capes and the obstinacy of men.
Tim scowls at the dot pixel pattern of static where the footage of their meeting should be, trying to get his emotions under control. He's annoyed, because Eros is annoying, but also because Jason managed to not only get into his apartment undetected, but down into the Nest.
Yes, he knows Jason is a lot smarter than he pretends to be, but it's a dart to his pride because he thought he was being clever.
He's also worried, since something upset Jason enough to come here in the first place. And he's hurt because he'd chosen to speak to the winged appetite that compromised him to begin with instead of the one person trying to help him right now.
He waited until I wasn't around to come here. And Eros won't say what they talked about.
Mostly to be contrary.
As for the reports coming in from the authorities cleaning up after the Red Hood in the past few days, his take-downs are edging toward the worse side of brutal once again.
Something must be going on. If he's being affected, though, wouldn't he not have the interest to keep on with his usual activities?
It's been an almost physical effort not to approach Jason once again, to plead with him to just accept help for once.
Versions of that plan have never worked for Bruce or Dick—or, well, any Bat, really—so Tim doubts it will work for him.
It's why he now forces his focus back onto Eros' case, as futile as it's been. He knows he's has more difficult cases, but this one feels like it's intentionally trying to frustrate him in a way even the Riddler's games never have.
You'd think people carrying around a bow and arrows would be pretty easy to find, but apparently not.
The Olympian is irritating, even as he answers Tim's questions. His story hasn't changed from when he first told it—a trip to Amsterdam that didn't go as planned, and then a desperate hunt throughout all the cities where Tim tracked thefts.
So far, everything lines up with the investigation Tim was running before and offers no new information.
"Are your diviners like you?" Tim asks, considering the giant map on his computer screen; a red line drags across the Atlantic Ocean, connecting locations on the bordering continents. "I mean, will they not turn up on CCTV or other security devices?"
It would explain why he hasn't found anything yet.
"Nah, that's just me," Eros tells him as he flips through a gossip rag. "I have to make the conscious decision to not show up on camera. It's a strain on my abilities." He sighs, putting down the magazine. "I used to be able to go completely invisible in the good old days. Back when people truly believed in us."
"And now you just, what, mess with imaging frequencies?"
"Pfft—Glorified camouflage."
"Considering government reliance on facial recognition software, you're still able to ghost the system. That's something."
"Don't patronize," Eros grumbles. Then he tilts his head as something occurs to him. "Although, now that you mention it, they can change forms."
Tim stills. "…What."
"Yes, to make them less conspicuous. You don't think I wander around with a bow and arrows all the time, do you? Outside of a Renaissance fair that sort of thing catches the wrong kind of attention—"
"Why the hell didn't you say this before?" Tim hisses, fingers itching with conflicting impulses to tear at his hair or punch the Olympian in the face. Luckily for the well-being of all parties involved there's a thick sheet of bulletproof glass between them.
"Uh, one, you didn't ask. Two, I'm the only one who knows how to change their form, so I didn't think it was an issue," Eros replies, ticking options off his fingers.
Tim takes a deep breath through his nose and releases it. "If you want me to solve your case and get your property back, you have to tell me all the information. Even if it seems insignificant."
"Well I know that now," Eros huffs; at Tim's continued unimpressed expression, he rolls his eyes stands up. "Fine! Mea culpa. What do you want to know?"
"What forms can your diviners take?"
"Since they were forged to be divine weapons, they have to conform to their purpose. So they can only be reshaped into other weapons."
"Any weapon? Knives? Brass knuckles? Mace?"
"In theory?" Eros answers, and then looks curious. "Actually, that's an interesting concept. I might try those out when I get them back."
His attention span is possible worse than Bart's.
"Focus—what form were they in when you were in Amsterdam?" There's no footage of that, because apparently that café valued customer privacy over possible security issues.
"Well, I'd just finished watching a James Bond marathon, so I was inspired. I made them into these sweet, gold-plated .45 calibre revolvers. Single shot, custom-design, monogrammed."
And another breath…
"Which you didn't think to mention."
"Oh, I'm sorry, was that important?"
"Yes, it was important! How am I supposed to help you find your diviners when you have me looking for a bow and arrows, and they've basically become the Golden Gun?!"
"Guns. Plural." Eros corrects reasonably. "And you're a detective. It's what you do. I already said I don't tell you how to do your job."
Tim's heard that love is blind; it turns out love is also an idiot.
With monumental effort, he lets it go; he'll revisit the shape-changing weapons on his own time. There's other information he needs. "Back to the theft, though—is there anyone you were with at the time, anyone who might have witnessed what happened?"
"I was with a lot of people that night. And it's not like those people are going to a pot café to pay attention, if you know what I mean?"
"Not really."
"Well, that's not surprising. You don't strike me as the fun one."
Tim rolls his eyes at the dig, "What about other Olympians?"
"What about them?"
"Could they have stolen it from you?"
"In theory, but I would have noticed. And then booked it in another direction."
"You don't get along with your family?"
"Do you?"
"It's…complicated."
"It always is."
"What about your wife?"
Eros tenses, expression going unnaturally blank. "What?"
"I started doing a bit of research on you," Tim explains, studying the sudden change in demeanour. "Just the basics. But the most popular story about you has to do with your wife, Psy—"
"Dead," Eros cuts him off, abrupt.
"But I thought she became an immortal goddess?"
"How many times do I have to explain that the stories don't get everything right?" Eros sneers. "She's dead. Point final."
The message in his voice and eyes is for Tim to drop it; even as his curiosity grows, filing the information into his mental dossier of the Olympian, Tim can recognize a painful topic.
He lets it go. For now.
"So, no one was around? The coffeeshop, I mean."
"I don't know," Eros groans, body language easing out of it's rigidity once more. He winds his fingers into his hair. "There was a pair of identical twins from Sweden that looked like walking Alps, and by the Styx did I want to climb those."
"Gross."
"And then there was the clingy redhead, the hot waiter with the manbun, one total MILF relieving her glory days—I don't know, okay? There were a lot of people!"
Tim leans back in his chair, carding his fingers together. "What exactly is a god of love doing getting stoned in Amsterdam, anyhow?"
"Hey, I don't judge your life choices."
"I'm not judging, I'm just—curious. You're not human, you can go wherever you want, do whatever you want, without being tracked—can probably influence people to get whatever you want. And you decide to gorge yourself on pot brownies in a glorified basement?"
"You might not understand this, but sometimes it's nice to go somewhere and forget for a little while," Eros drawls.
Actually, I get that more than you imagine…
"That's unexpected," Tim offers. "Considering who you are, you'd think you'd be happier."
"When has love ever been synonymous with happy?" Eros challenges. "You know that better than most, right?"
"I'm fine. I'm living with it."
"Not talking about your walking Alp, darlin'. I mean the loss you've gone through." The Olympian is studying him now. "I can see the scars left over from every person you let into your heart and who left you. The boy you loved, your parents, your best friends, your father figure…and it's not just death I'm sensing. You've had things taken from you, things you loved more than anything, just wrenched away."
"My entire life has burnt down! Again! I don't call this 'okay', Dick."
"You have to understand—"
"Oh, are you still here?"
"What Earth are we on that you choose him over me?"
Even after all this time, it hurts.
He is uncomfortable at the reminder of blacker times, some fresher in his mind than others. He still has moments when his mind is trapped back in the days after losing Robin, after his father's death, when he gets stuck in those memories and can barely get out of bed. It's like sleep paralysis, except he's awake, and it usually takes Dick dropping by his place unannounced or Alfred phoning him to remind him not to miss upcoming family dinners, to get him out of it again.
To remind him it's in the past and can't hurt him anymore.
But now, this latest thing with Jason has more than just the potential to hurt, it's practically a certainty. In fact, Tim wonders if Jason being cursed to desire him isn't just the universe continuing its general theme of dumping on him.
"I don't need a replay, I was there," Tim says stiffly, and decides he needs a break from Eros for a little while. In about three hours he has to get up and go to work, something he'd rather skip, but the old guard on the Board of Directors is getting up to their usual bullshit and he can't skip the meetings today.
The rest of the week continues in the same trying fashion. When he isn't working the case, going through hours of footage from various airports, train stations and other checkpoints for a sign of someone carrying any weapons this time, he's at WE fighting a bunch of old, fiscal conservatives trying to undercut employee wages. Neither initiative seems to be going anywhere.
On the sixth night since the warehouse fight, Tim is running on very little fuel, to the point his judgement is starting to waver. He's weighing the pros and cons of checking in on Jason again. He thinks he could probably manage it without him noticing this time. But then, Eros is taking one of his rare (and much appreciated) food-coma naps, which means some valuable quiet time for him to think.
The main computer chooses that point to blink to life with a message from the Tower, and Tim's stomach leaps with hope that Cassie has something for him.
Except it's not her that grins down at him.
"Superboy? Where's Cassie?"
His best friend makes a face. "Ouch, not even a 'hello'?"
"Sorry, just a bit stressed," Tim groans. Apparently his exhaustion has brought him past the point of basic etiquette. He needs another Red Bull. "Hi."
"You sound so enthusiastic," Connor deadpans. "Anyway, Cassie's gone to see her Mom in Gateway City. She said she'd be back soon."
Tim nods. That makes sense, considering Dr. Sandsmark's knowledge of Ancient Greek artifacts and mythology; he feels stupid for not thinking to contact her before.
"Hey Rob!" Bart shoves his face into the frame. "When are you coming back?"
"Might be a little while. I got side-tracked with a case here that's, uh, time sensitive."
"Sucks."
"While you're here, can I get some of those bars of yours?"
He thinks Batburger is about to offer him and endorsement deal.
"Are you pulling another case where you're too lazy to get up and eat? Dude, we talked about that."
"Also, those bars are gross."
"Of course they're gross to you, you're used to homemade Kansas awesomeness that fills you up if you just look at it."
"They're not for me," Tim interrupts. "It's for a…actually—" There's no other way to see it. "He's my prisoner."
His friends look impressed.
"Damn, Rob, are you going Dark Side on us?"
"Ooh, do they have cookies?"
"Ha, hah. And even if I was, everyone else has already done it, I'm due. But no, the guy's a glorified witness, with the metabolism like a Speedster."
"So, hell on the grocery bills," Connor says with a nod.
Tim's comm buzzes, the line from his cellphone; against the backdrop of his mask, Cassie's number pops up.
"Gimme a sec, incoming call," he says, and patches into the line. "Hey—"
"Everything he said is true," Cassie interrupts before he can finish the sentence. "Eros, I mean. People infected by his blood only get worse unless treated—think the Henry VIII, the Manson family, or John Hinckley Jr before they were cured."
Tim recognizes all of those names. "Wait, but they all lived afterward."
"They were the ones who got cured. Other's haven't been so lucky. Medea killed her own children and set her ex's new girlfriend on fire."
The blood rushes from his face. "What?"
"I mean, all those people had severe issues before they got infected, which might be a factor, but if your victim already has trouble controlling their emotions…"
Cassie trails off.
It's like the bottom has dropped out of his stomach. "How long?"
"Two weeks, give or take. It depends on the mind frame of the victim."
A very real, visceral fury spreads throughout Tim's body, anger on Jason's behalf and at the spoiled godling that's watching all this unfold like it's one of his TV dramas.
"…Thanks, Cassie," he manages to croak. "Call you later."
He hangs up.
"Are you okay?" Connor asks; on screen, his body becomes more tense in response to Tim's expression.
"I have to go," Tim replies, tipping his cowl over his head.
"Need help?" Bart asks. "You know we can be there in less than three hours if you do. Two if we're really booking."
Tim considers, then shakes his head. "I—we should be able to handle this." Bruce is never happy when metas show up without his permission, even when they're saving the collective asses of the Family. "But I'll keep you posted. If there is anything, I'll contact you right away."
"Good luck," Connor says, still concerned.
"Thanks," Tim replies, ending the call.
I think I'm definitely going to need it.
⁂
The sun beats down on him from its zenith, and he can feel his arms burning. The air is hot and humid, carrying with it the taste of the sea he usually associates with the Mediterranean, yet he's still sweating in his linen tunic.
In his hands—browner than he's used to, scarred but in a different way than he expects—he carries a wreath of laurel leaves, woven together with fine gold thread. In front of him, a giant mound rises out of the earth, grass and wildflowers covering it, rippling lazily in the wind. At its base, a thick column of aged marble, already falling into disrepair.
He should see about having that fixed before they head for Sardis.
Jason takes a few steps forward, kneeling to place the wreath at the base of the column; despite the heat, a chill moves up his spine as he presses his hand to the earth, clutching a handful of dry soil and bringing it to his lips.
"It is my privilege to stand at the hall of your rest, Honored Forefather," he murmurs. "And know that I will do your blood proud."
The words are less flowery than anything the priests and governors might come up with, but the sentiment remains just as genuine.
Glancing to his right, he sees a similar column several yards away, and another man is kneeling there with his own wreath. It takes him a moment before he recognises him.
Tim.
Except—he's different: his hair is longer, skin darker than Jason can ever remember seeing, because Tim is supposed to be a pasty-faced nerd. He's also wearing a red tunic and lace up sandals, and his features are much more relaxed than Jason is used to. No dark circles beneath his closed eyes. He mouths words that are lost in the breeze.
Jason's own gaze falls there for a moment, taking in the flushed colour of his lips. Something at the back of his mind chides him for looking, but it's lost within a burgeoning warmth in his chest.
He's lucky to have him here, someone as faithful and intelligent and honest—
Eyes blinking open, Tim notices him watching; his mouth tilts upward in amusement, and Jason's heart seems to beat faster. The smaller man straightens up, leaving his offering behind him and wanders over, movements as smooth as a cat. And—
No, this isn't a good idea, he's supposed to be avoiding him, right? He can't remember why, but—
"What are you thinking of?" Tim asks softly. "You're supposed to be making sacrifices to your ancestor's memory, not staring at your liegeman." He adopts a severe expression. "It's distracting me from being appropriately solemn."
Jason shrugs, fond smile on his own face.
"He was happy, when he lived," he says, nodding at the column where he knelt before. "And fortunate in finding a faithful companion, and a great poet to sing of his deeds after his death."
"You say that as if you have neither," Tim snorts.
"There are no more poets of merit to speak of my deeds. Everything is lost to the logical, pedantic record of history."
"And there's the sense of drama I was waiting for," Tim deadpans. "You could always write the histories yourself."
"Hah! You would say something like that. Always planning, aren't you?"
"Well, someone has to."
Jason rolls his eyes, and gestures with his hand that Tim should follow him. They amble down a grassy footpath, returning to the level ground where their horses wait for them. There are guards spread out around them, close enough to help if something should happen but far enough away, they can't hear what's said.
He approaches the massive black Thessalian, absently patting the ox-head brand on its haunch with one hand while his other reaches to detach a large cloth-wrapped package from his saddlebags.
Tim appears curious when Jason hands it to him.
"I made sacrifice at the temple this morning before we rode out and left them with one of my finest sets of armour," he explains. "They insisted it was too much and that I should take something in return. This called to me."
Tim opens the bundle, eyebrows raising at the bronze shield that gleams in the sun.
"It was found in the ruins of the great city herself after the battle. It made me think of you."
"Oh?" Tim watches him from beneath hooded eyes, a delicate colour blooming across the bridge of his nose. "You think of me as a shield?"
"I think of you as my shield," he corrects seriously. "I will always be a sword. I can't be anything else, or others would see it as weakness. But you…you protect everything that I am, even from myself. You throw your own needs and wants to the dirt to raise up mine. You weather the anger of men who believe themselves to be greater. For my sake."
Tim appears struck mute at this, clutching the shield to his body as he stares at Jason with shining eyes. His mouth parts several times, as if he's trying to figure out what to say, and once again Jason's gaze falls upon his lips.
Tim shoots a darting glance at the guards near them, and something like frustration passes across his features, mixing with calculation.
And then he's grinning that sharp grin again, and Jason's stomach flips pleasantly as it fixes on him. Tim sets the shield to one side with careful reverence and takes a step forward until their faces are within inches of one another.
Jason licks his lips, expectation weighing heavily on him, and waits for Tim to break the silence.
"I think we should run a race."
Which...was not the response he was expecting. Jason blinks at the non sequitur. "What?"
"In the old style," the younger man continues, setting the shield on the ground and backing away. He's reaching for the belt of his tunic, eyes sparking with mischief and something else. "To honour our ancestors, of course."
"Of course," Jason agrees, and reaches for him, but Tim dances out of his way.
"Ah, no! You're entirely to dressed for that."
He's jogging backwards now, and Jason laughs, reaching again for him, "Get back here—"
"You'll have to catch me—"
"Hood!"
Jason gives a full-body jerk, dragged out of his reverie by a voice that is no longer laughing, but tense.
"Red Hood!"
The world returns to him, gritty and smelling like rancid trash and smoke. There are several bodies at his feet and the smell of blood in the air; he hears groaning, so he knows they're alive. That should be a relief, somehow, except he's distracted.
There's someone standing in front of him, the height and build familiar, it could be him, except the eyes are wrong and he's younger and—
Not him. Nothing like him.
For a beat Jason is irritated when he realises the person in front of him is not Tim, because he was sure he just heard him. On the heel of that annoyance is the realisation that he's looming over a kid that can't be more than a few years older than Damian, who's staring at him with unbridled terror, pressing himself into the walls of the alley.
New kid on the corner. Johns were harassing him, so I taught them a lesson, but then…
Jason's hand lingers in front of his face, inches away, fingers curved like they intend to brush the boy's jawline.
Realisation hits at what he must look like, what the teenager must think, and it's soon followed by disgust because he knows the motivation behind his current position. He pulls back, staring down at his hands in horror.
What the hell did I almost do?
"Hood, look at me," Tim says, only it's the Red Robin voice, growled from the shadows, and it sends a shiver up Jason's spine.
He immediately turns to face him.
The nameless teen take off at a run, but that's not important; what's important is that Tim is here, barely three feet away. He moves to close the distance, posture open and soothing, and Jason is already relaxing in response, twitching to reach toward Tim's outstretched hand.
And…no.
He should not be relaxing. He should not be reaching out or touching Tim in any way because—
Because…
It's hard to think why, but then he remembers.
Because it's not him who wants to, it's the infection. And he might do something worse.
Jason's entire body seizes up again, and he stumbles backward.
"Hood, it's okay," Tim says in a placating whisper. "I'm going to help you. I promise."
And Jason wants to, he really does. Wants to just go with him, maybe let himself fall against his body in exhaustion, because Tim might be small but he's strong and could hold him up and—
"Back off!" Jason snaps, both to himself and to Tim, who jerks as if he's been slapped. The sight helps ground him a bit more. "You are the last person I should be around right now."
"Ja—"
"No!"
He takes off. Doesn't bother with shooting a line into the air—his hands are shaking too much for that—and just runs. He knows this place better than the other vigilante ever will, knows how to disappear even when being pursued by a Bat.
And right now, he needs to disappear.
Grotty buildings and dark alleys fly by him as he crashes through the backways.
This is better, just one foot in front of the other. The icy air in his lungs is painful, but the good kind—distracting. Waking him from whatever funk he was in.
What the hell was that before? A dream?
But he was awake. And since when are dreams, or even hallucinations, so cohesive? Sequential? He knows it happened like he was living it, though he can't remember exactly anymore. The details are drifting away like sand grasped too tightly in a fist, but he remembers feelings. Warmth. Safety. Laughter.
And Tim smiling at him; everything else is hazy, but he remembers that detail without difficulty.
Jason's stomach lurches, torn between something fond and possessive, and the sense of disgust crouching at the back of his mind and spreading through his body the more he thinks about it.
He has to stay away—from Tim, from anyone who looks like him. Just until he can figure out a fix (or hell, even afterward, just to be sure). No, wait, he can't figure it out. It would involve investigation, chasing down leads, probably running into—
No. Better barricade himself in somewhere. Take himself out of the equation.
Tim will be fine to figure this out on his own—he said he was trying to help, which means he's aware of what's going on with Jason. Which, yes, is mortifying, but also a comfort, because he trusts the younger man to figure it out.
He wonders for a moment if that's because of the growing fascination, and then decides it's not. Even before, he's had an inexplicable amount of faith in Tim's abilities to plan and get results.
It's why he wanted him to be his Robin.
Why he still wants—
"Damn it!" Jason growls, stopping for a moment to breathe and then to punch the nearest wall in frustration.
The comm in his ear buzzes to life.
"Red Hood?"
Not Tim, but Oracle.
"Tell me you found something," he orders, trying to get his mounting panic under control.
"Not yet. I've got a lead that looks promising, but still waiting on confirmation," Oracle replies. There's a pause, and then when she speaks again, it's without the voice synthesizer. "Tim told me what's going on."
Shame hits him. "Of course he did."
"We want to help you, Jason. This isn't something you have to go through on your own."
"Tell me that the next time you get shot up with Olympian blood that makes you fixate on Huntress or Clayface or someone. I just need somewhere to ride this out—"
"I can think of somewhere that would be well-equipped."
The Cave.
"No."
"Now isn't the time for your pride. If you really don't want to hurt someone—to hurt Tim. Again. Your best bet is to get B's help."
The kicker is, Jason knows she's right. And he's off his game enough that all of his usual arguments and complaints and resentments just don't seem to register. All that he can focus on right now is Tim—and wanting to do everything he can to stop obsessing over him.
To stop wanting him, wanting to touch and taste and—
"Damn it," his says again, but this time it's whispered, almost defeated.
Bruce is the only one Jason knows that will do anything in his power to stop him from becoming exactly the kind of monster he's been fighting his whole life. Even if it means throwing him in Arkham until whatever is driving him insane gets fixed.
And even if it doesn't…
He'll lock me up and throw away the key to keep me from hurting Tim. And I'd let him.
"He's enroute to you now," Barbara says.
"Is the demon brat with him?"
"Yes."
He remembers the terrified expression on the nameless teenager's face as he reached out to him.
"Keep him away. I don't…know what I might do."
Barbara's silence is heavy, and Jason feels a wave of disgust with himself rush over him.
"I've told B to send Robin to rendezvous with Red Robin," she says, and it's Oracle's voice again. "He'll be there in five minutes. Try not to bolt."
It's the longest five minutes of his life.
⁂⁂⁂
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