So— Jason's not paranoid, alright?
Okay. That's a lie already; he is paranoid. Actually, his paranoia's been at an all-time high, lately, because Dick keeps fuckin' showing up to piss him off (mend fences, he keeps saying, regardless of how much ammo Jason wastes shooting at him). The thing is, where Nightwing is, Batman's sure to follow— or, at least, not very far away, and that, that just isn't good for Jason's mental health.
Paranoia aside, though, Jason had been aware of the his surroundings long before he locked on the red helmet, long before he flew tropical colors. This isn't something he'd learned, not really; it's a skill that comes with the territory, as easy as breathing and feeling and seeing.
So. There are eyes on him, and Jason's going to get to the bottom of it.
Typically, Jason has three ways of dealing with a tail; they go as follows:
Shoot them . This works especially well when the tail is Dick, Bruce, or any variant of a low-level asshole who decided they really wanted to take the express lane to the top of Jason's shit-list.
Engage in some friendly torture for information, and then shoot them. This also works spectacularly well, though the fatality of the shot depends on how magnanimous Jason's feeling at any given time and the caliber of the tail's crimes.
Reverse tail them back to their base of operations in the hope of finding out more information, and then, depending on the caliber of the crime, potentially shooting them.
So there's a lot of shooting involved, but look, Jason has a reputation to uphold.
(In hindsight, though, he's... Pretty fucking glad he didn't— literally —go in guns blazing, to this one.)
His tail's been at it for a few hours now; it's been an uneventful, day, largely, and the third day of Jason working on tracking down the latest cursed amalgamation of fear toxin and Ivy's pollen. He just— doesn't understand why there are so many of these experimental drugs, and the speed with which they circulate around Crime Alley is frankly horrifying. Jason's already banned the production of six of them, which is for some reason an invitation for these fuckers to keep making, keep circulating, and keep getting shot.
He can't imagine his tail's seen a lot, frankly, which is good; that means their guard is down, which means the iron is the perfect temperature for Jason to strike— and burn.
He vanishes into an alley between two bars, weaving into the elongated, twisting shadows rearing up underneath a fire escape, and quickly, carefully creeps up onto the roof. From his vantage point, he catches his tail leaning over the edge of the roof, peering down into the rain-slick streets. Their head twists back and forth urgently, and the sharp knife-twist of satisfaction pinches at Jason's spine.
This is his territory after all; besting Jason in Crime Alley simply doesn't happen, and when it does, Jason's quick to ... rectify the situation and reinstate himself as the foremost authority.
So he extends his arm. Cocks the gun. And speaks.
"Hey."
The tail jerks upward, shoulders spiking almost a full foot as they tense. There would've been no mistaking the sound of Jason preparing to shoot; the tail must know exactly what's going on, by now, and Jason edges closer. He waits for an apology. A plea. Sputtering niceties with the intent to satiate the thread of bloodlust weaving underneath Jason's greeting.
The tail, however, does nothing of the sort. They tilt their head slightly, just enough for Jason to see a round-faced profile, the curve of a small, pink nose that catches the moonlight, and then promptly roll right off the goddamn edge of the goddamn roof.
Jason swears, lunging out to cross the roof in three quick strides. There's fucking— nothing on that side, fuck. No fire escape stairs, no window ledges, not a single goddamn thing to even hold onto. It's a straight shot into the dirt, and fuck, Jason hadn't been expecting that. Even before he actually makes it to the ledge, he hears a pitiful little crunch and an even more pitiful whimper and thinks, bitterly, idiot. All the dumbass had done is prolong the inevitable; actually, Jason's even more pissed now, because he has to make his way back down the fire escape.
By the time Jason swings his way down and lands with a thump onto the ground himself, he's even crankier than before. He turns the corner, fully prepared to yell, shit, maybe even shoot first, this time, and-
And.
And that. That, right there, is a fucking. Munchkin. A munchkin is looking back at Jason, just standing there, in front of the same bar that Jason had actually murdered a man at a few days ago, actually. A munchkin barely dressed for the weather, at that, for the nippy chill in the air and the turn of the leaves. All he's got to keep warm is a scarf mostly bundled around the lower half of his face and shoulders, and underneath that a jacket that's a little too nice, more fashion than comfort.
Okay. Weird.
The munchkin is just standing there blankly, wide-eyed, semi-propped up against a fire hydrant and staring at Jason like he's just seen the devil himself. And, well, to a kid about the size of an Oompa-Loompa, that sort of checks out, actually. In fact, the kid really has the audacity to look inconvenienced, as if Jason just wandered onto his territory.
Jason cautiously moves a step closer, and looks around the kid for the tail.
Gone.
What the fuck? He'd heard the distinct sound of a bone cracking; there's no way the tail could've just shaken that off, especially if it was a leg injury. The kid shifts slightly, and Jason glances back at him, first studying his face, the pink of his nose, and then drops his gaze to the kid's ankle.
Bingo.
Slowly, he holsters his gun and leans back against the wall, not even sure where to begin, what the fuck? Does this kid even know what the hell he's doing? Does he know where he is, for fuck's sake. Maybe he's here on a dare, just a dumb, rich kid far, far from the likes of Bristol and Crest Hill, and ... He got dared to, what, roam around behind Jason? Fuck's sake, Jason can think of ten ways this kid could've died just in the last hour, about 150 in the last day. He should've caught the tail out earlier instead of playing cat and mouse with him, fuck.
"What the fuck," Jason says, very calmly, if he's being honest. Generously calm, considering this kid had apparently been roaming around after Jason for the better part of the day.
And fuck, the kid looks like he's about. Seven. No— older, fine, but Jason's gauge for guessing kids' ages is a little fucked. They all start to look like munchkins to him at a certain point, some even more so than others. And this one especially, with a baby face to beat all baby faces, fuck.
The kid doesn't move. Jason doesn't think the kid can move. He's balancing himself disturbingly well on what Jason's pretty sure is at least a fractured ankle, at best. He's kind of worried, now, that the pale in the kid's face is only partially from the cold, and largely from the pain.
"First of all," Jason says evenly, keeping his tone cool, disapproving, "I'm going to take you to the clinic to get a look at that ankle, and then second of all, you're going to tell me what the fuck you're doing out here, tailing a crime lord."
Do kids even understand that kind of language? Maybe Jason has to dumb it down a little bit, just so the kid gets it. "You—"
"Whatever you're going to do to me," the kid says, and fuck, shit, fuck, the kid is shaking so hard his teeth are clattering together like the clack of marbles in a glass jar. The kid is going for calm, clearly, but he's not managing. "Please just do it now."
"What I'm gonna do to you?" Jason echoes incredulously. "Last I checked, you were the one who wandered onto my turf, followed me around- shit, here I am thinking they're hiring child spies a little fucking early these days, huh? Are you even out of kindergarten, yet? Fuck's sake." He shouldn't be cursing this much around a kid, he knows. But the kid's been following him around all day, and he's heard a hell of a lot worse than this. He doesn't seem fazed at all by Jason's language, which, if Jason's being honest, is in no way at all a good thing.
The kid tenses, shoulders spiking up again— this time, defensive, a far cry from the surprised gesture he'd made when Jason had caught him earlier. There's something different about it, paired with the oddly spooked look on the kid's pale face, and it's all just giving Jason a really bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, actually.
He angles slightly to shield his guns and other various weaponry a little more out of view, crossing his arms uneasily, and reduces the modulation of his voice a little bit. He figures the robotic tone isn't soothing the kid's worries.
"How old are you, kid," he asks quietly, trying to give the kid a verbal nudge.
The kid jerks slightly, hand slipping ever so slightly off the hydrant as he tries to regain his balance on his bad ankle. Jason wants to help, but every time he even moves toward the kid, the kid tenses, staring at him like the way a fawn watches a Jeep flying toward it.
"Eleven," the kid says after a beat, shifting his weight minutely. "I— Um. Eleven."
"Eleven," Jason echoes, strangled. Young enough to scare the shit out of Jason, old enough to know better than to be here. Hadn't his parents told him nightmare tales of Crime Alley? Hadn't they warned him?
He shouldn't have asked.
"Eleven." The kid's shaking like a leaf, now, unable to keep his gaze on Jason. He's staring at the cracked sidewalk in front of him, the dark of his eyes almost consuming his irises, and the evidence of fear tears through Jason, leaving him uneasy and rattled. He hates the feeling; in fact, he's hardly familiar with it, and hasn't been this uneasy for a while. There's something about the kid's skittishness, about the way he wobbles unsteadily on his bird-like legs. Like his bones are hollow, and the wind could pull him apart easily, so easily.
"Kid," Jason says, and semi-crouches so that he's closer to the kid's height. "Listen... What did you think I was going to do to you, exactly?"
The kid's brow furrows slightly, and he's hobbling back slightly, shifting, reaching back with one hand to flatten himself against the brick wall. Jason straightens, tracking the movement, but doesn't move closer, and the kid exhales out a shaky breath that crystallizes in front of his mouth.
"Well, I'm eleven, isn't that... Um. You know. Don't you like..." The kid says, and his hands shake at his sides.
Once upon a time, during a fight, Jason had fallen into a vat of ice-cold water, back-first, blindfolded. It'd been a long day, and an uneven fight, and Jason had nearly gone down like a rock. The cold he'd felt in his chest— it'd been all-consuming, so cold that it had burned like the way a black hole would burn, he thinks. It had swallowed everything inside of Jason and left him a wasteland, barren, empty, for days.
That's how he kind of feels now, actually.
"Huh?" he says, numbly, and the kid rattles even harder, so loudly that Jason thinks he can hear his bones. "What... Did you..."
He's glad the kid can't see his face. He's glad he can't see his own face. He doesn't want to see anything at all, actually. He's never felt horror like this before, he's never felt— anything like this before. It's perhaps the worst thing he's ever known, actually. He wants to scream. Burn. Dissolve away, if the kid's saying what Jason thinks he's saying.
"Where did you hear that," he says, and his throat scrapes like he's been screaming. He feels like he has. He suddenly can't even look at the child in front of him, and averts his gaze, not that the kid would be able to see, anyway. This has to be some kind of new, unique Hell or something, something tailored for Jason and Jason's fears specifically.
"Well," the kid says, pressing back up against the brick nervously. Jason's gaze follows him, but he stays silent. He wouldn't know what to say, anyway. "M-My dad said you, you'd," he says, swallowing. "That if I didn't, that if I didn't behave, he'd sell me to you. And you, you would…"
The shock burns away immediately; the ashes condense into a murky, muted sort of rage.
He stays still for a long moment, then pulls himself up against the wall. "Okay," he says monotonously, taking a step toward the kid, and the kid- flinches. He flinches.
Jason reels back, not speaking yet, not trusting himself not to yell. And when he does speak, he says:
"Come on, kid. Let's go say hi to your dad."
"Oh," the kid says, and then looks surprised that he said it. "No, um. Well, I'm not supposed to..."
Obviously, Jason thinks. "Right. Your ankle needs medical attention first," he says vaguely, somehow managing to keep his fury under his teeth, under his tongue. For now, even though he wants to fire off about a hundred rounds in the brick wall, and then another hundred at the kid's dad, who's going to be so fucking beyond dead when Jason gets his hands on him, it's not even funny. If he's making threats like that, he can't be good for the kid, anyway, and Jason will make sure to be nice for the kid's sake, he'll make sure to be good about it-
"Don't tell him," the kid pleads plaintively, and Jason blows a harsh breath out between his teeth noisily. Of course, he thinks. A kid this scared of Hood must be just as scared of the father who threatened to sell him off to Hood. "I— I just wanted to see if you... What you were like, because..." He drops his gaze sheepishly, and his eyes are a little too bright, and fuck, Jason would comfort the kid if he weren't about 99% convinced that he's traumatized by Jason.
Oh, he thinks, then. Something becomes obvious. He reaches up, unlatching his helmet and slowly, very slowly, lifts it off his head, not sure why he hadn't thought of this earlier. Maybe, he thinks, if he separates Hood from Jason, maybe the kid won't look at him like that, like...
The kid's eyes widen and only grow wider, wider, as Jason tucks the helmet underneath his arm. Curious eyes catalog the details of Jason's face, of his hair, taking in details Jason's shown only a handful of people.
"This better?" Jason asks, wincing at the way his own voice echoes around the alley. It's always weird speaking after removing his helmet.
The kid shrugs listlessly. His eyes are still watering; he must be terrified, Jason figures, his stomach turning. Tears incoming, in about 3... 2...
But surprisingly, the kid doesn't cry. He swallows effortfully, throat bobbing, and then tilts his head back up. "It's better," he whispers, lower lip wobbling ever so slightly. "I'll be good," he adds, twisting the threads of his scarf around his index finger. "I won't cause any trouble. I'll do what you say."
The way it comes out, practiced and careful, makes Jason's teeth hurt. He grinds them together, muscle in his jaw jumping as he, with every ounce of restraint he can possibly muster, stares up at the murky, cloudy sky. He counts backward from 100 until his chest stops shaking, at least.
"I'm just going to get you some help for your leg," Jason says, as gently as he can manage with his voice shaking as much as it is. "I'm going to take you to see someone nice who won't tell your dad, and I won't tell him what you were up to today either, okay?"
The kid blinks at him dubiously, liquid blue of his eyes almost too glossy, and Jason doesn't dare to move any closer.
"You're not going to... Take me home," the kid says. "A- And... ask me to— to do anything—?"
Please stop saying that, Jason pleads with him mentally. For the love of God, kid, when I'm trying to be quiet, when I'm trying to be kind.
"I won't do anything, I promise." Jason assures him quietly. "I won't do anything other than getting you help for your leg. You've been brave this long," he adds, and the kid considers Jason from underneath a dark fringe of hair and even darker eyelashes. "You think you can be brave a little longer?"
"...Okay," the kid says after a moment, sniffling. Jason starts to remove his jacket, then, but the second he moves, the kid tenses again. Fuck. Jason lowers his arm immediately and crouches again, turning his back to the kid. A sign of trust, he hopes, that the kid takes him up on.
He waits for a moment, for two moments, three, and then thin arms wind around his neck carefully. The kid's fingers are cold against Jason's neck, cheek cold against Jason's, but Jason doesn't dare to move too suddenly as he unfurls himself to his feet.
"Okay," he says, "that's great, kid. What's your name?"
Another moment passes, but Jason doesn't dare rush the kid. He can almost hear him thinking. Jason has questions, so many questions, but he doesn't dare ask yet. They'll have time for that later. It's clear the kid still doesn't trust him, but is more afraid of his own dad than he is of Jason at the moment.
"Tim," the kid says quietly, after a moment. "My name is Tim."