"You're acting shifty."
Marco's gaze doesn't leave his laptop, but his eyebrow twitches.
"Was Tim okay going to school this morning?" He asks evasively as Jason gets to idly scraping dried blood off the knuckles of his gloves, and that's not suspicious at all. Jason had gone for a few dealers that morning; usually, he preferred not to in broad daylight, but with the nature of I-7, he wanted to be involved somehow— especially with evenings now officially off the menu. He knows Tim doesn't actually mind being left alone, but Jason does mind leaving him alone, and prefers not to do it if he doesn't have to. Dick's also been busy on a case with Bruce, and Marco has his hands full with everything I-7 himself, so it really is on Jason to be there for the kid. Not that he minds, particularly, but he is more mindful of his presence.
"It was rough," Jason admits ruefully, and can't help a little smile. "It's not that he hates school, but he's obviously no big fan. Managed to coax him out with pancakes and the promise that we'd do something fun this evening when he gets back." He studies Marco for a moment before glancing down at the band-aids around Marco's fingers.
Hm. He's been biting.
"What's going on with you?" Jason asks.
"I'm going to tell you something," Marco says after a beat, too-calm. "And I don't want you to freak out. It's definitely freak-out worthy , but I'm just speculating, so it might not even warrant freaking out. Yet."
Jason narrows his eyes, and then reaches up to take his helmet off. It feels like the conversation necessitates as much.
"I think Tim's been given I-5," Marco says plainly.
Jason blinks. The world tilts sideways like a seesaw, and then smacks down hard in the complete opposite direction.
"Huh?" Is all he manages, and he feels Marco nervously assessing his expression. "Wh—"
Something— some very small, overworked thread inside of him, something holding two very volatile pieces of him together —snaps.
"Marco," he says, and he knows how he sounds— wrecked — because Marco's expression tightens.
"I saw something last night," Marco says, and bites at the only unbandaged finger left— his thumb. "In Tim's reaction, that made me think… it was his response. His reaction, when he just… obeyed what you said, as if his body was remembering something. I knew it couldn't be I-7, because Jack Drake hasn't been in town for months, now, and I-7's only hit its boom recently."
Jason opens his mouth and immediately closes it.
Please, no, he knows his expression is saying. Not I-5. Not the bane of Jason's existence, not I-fucking-5, anything but I-5. It's one of his worst nightmares come to life.
Marco presses his lips together.
Please, Jason thinks, and his throat swells up. If there's a shred of humanity left in Jack Drake, please.
But—
"I'm so sorry, Jay," Marco says, and the thin fracture that frissons through his voice splits into a gaping crack. "I— After the milk—"
Jason's limbs give way as he all but folds like a collapsible chair. "No," he says, practically begging Marco not to go on, but he knows he has to hear this— for Tim, he has to hear this, no matter how much it's going to break him. Maybe he'd always had the inkling, but he'd hoped— he'd hoped after everything—
Marco knows as well, because after a brief moment of respite, he keeps going.
"When he— obeyed you, immediately." Marco says, all too gently. "It felt almost like … he was mirroring the effects of I-5, as if … something about the circumstances —reminded his body of I-5. It's something that happens sometimes, a placebo effect, it."
Something occurs to Jason through the haze— a point of clarity, beaming like a warning beacon through a fog.
"You," Jason says, and manages to pull his wild gaze back up to Marco with effort, "you aren't just speaking from observation, are you?"
Marco's expression twists.
"No," he says after a beat, heavily. "I'm speaking from experience."
A long, stretching silence passes, because honestly, Jason can't fucking think of anything to say. His brain just goes into hibernation mode, as if it's trying to preserve itself.
"Are you..." He sort of rasps, and then stops. "Who—"
Asking if someone's okay after I-5 is like asking if someone's okay after getting hit by a car going full speed. The answer is always no.
"I don't remember who did it," Marco says calmly. "And for the record, I didn't not tell you because I don't trust you. I think I probably would've died with this if I didn't think sharing it would— help Tim. It was just one of the worst experiences of my life, so I wasn't … I didn't." He absently pulls at a curl. "Anyway. The point is, I'm still looking into all known transactions of I-5 that we recorded, trying to see if it was ever sold to Jack or an alias of his. We do have some of his aliases on record because he actually did dabble in some shady stuff after Janet Drake passed away," he adds, and he's speaking so quickly, as if he's just trying to gloss over whatever nuclear warhead he just—
"Wait, stop, stop," Jason says almost woozily, lifting his hands. "Someone drugged you with I-5, and you just … came back to work the next day?"
Marco's brow furrows slightly. "I guess," he says, purposely vague. "I needed something to focus on so I didn't spiral. Also, I don't remember what happened." He lowers himself to the ground across from Jason, folding his legs up close. "I never really stopped using sex work to get information, but I've been in that industry for so long that I let my guard down, and it was so… fucking stupid, with I-5 especially." He sighs, half into his hands. "Next thing I know, I'm waking up to like six missed calls from you, from my sisters, I have the worst headache —" He stops. "Actually, I don't really know if what I think happened— happened. I just assume the worst… always."
And Jason remembers a morning from before Bruce had taken him in, when he'd woken up much the same way. Untethered, in a stranger's bed, with no memory of what had happened and cash waiting for him on the nightstand— it hadn't even been one of the horrifying amalgamations plaguing the Alley these days that had left him in that state, but he remembers how it'd felt to be so afraid.
You got paid, so what does it matter? The guy had said, airy and dismissive.
It had fucking mattered. Jason just hadn't known that at the time, but Bruce had made sure to make it stunningly clear for Jason when Jason had confided in him. It was perhaps one of the most personal things Jason ever had the courage to share with Bruce, and he can still so clearly see Bruce's stricken expression; it's seared into the back of his eyelids like a brand.
Bruce had made so many mistakes, but not this— never this.
Jason reaches out, clasping Marco's shoulder. "For what it's worth," he says, and it comes out shaky. "I'm sorry. I should've known. I should've— been better. Fuck." He can't even remember what he'd done that day— it's all a blur, a disorienting blur.
This garners him a small smile and a light pat on the hand. "No, you shouldn't have. Don't take that upon yourself, Jay. When I came in that day, you'd been awake for almost 43 hours straight, and you got emotional from the stress that day. It was awful for everyone, and you did the best you could."
Jason's eyes sting, and he bites at the inside of his cheek and averts them. "Could've at least asked for a day off," he says, freeing his hand to smack it against Marco's shoulder lightly.
"From you? Nah," Marco says easily. "I'm in this underpaid hell until I croak." His expression sobers, then, and he offers Jason an arm as he lifts himself back onto his feet. "What about Tim?"
Jason's glad Marco helps him up, because his legs go unexpectedly unsteady again. The thing is— he already knows what happened after Tim was drugged, if it had been I-5. It's just that now, he doesn't know how many times it's happened, or how often Jack gave Tim I-5. It'd been one of the iterations with less fear pollen, so Tim wouldn't have necessarily been in danger of a heart attack with prolonged use, but the suggestibility on its own… and the thought of using that on a child—
Pieces of the desk chip away when he glances down, crumbling down underneath his fingertips.
"He won't remember, even if I ask," Jason says warily. "He saw a picture of the drug before, when we had the meeting, but he didn't really react to it. He probably only knows it through the dissolvent."
"The milk," Marco says quietly.
Jason presses his teeth down so hard that the inside of his mouth bleeds. "The milk."
"I have been checking," Marco says, "and I can keep looking into Jack's prior transactions. You…" He hesitates, and then flicks Jason a look that's colored with just a touch too much anxiety for Jason's liking. "You might want to check to make sure I-5 is shut down for good."
Everything starts to spin again; Jason somehow manages to rasp out a, "yeah. I should," despite.
He actually manages to get a decent amount of ground covered before he goes to get Tim from school; he goes back to old I-5 production locations, despite the way the ghosts of the victims he'd found still seem to haunt the walls, the floorboards.
On his tongue, he swears he can almost taste the tang of fear— terror in the air, as potent as it'd been back then; standing in the hollow skeletons of the production plants brings it all to the forefront of his memory with a vengeance. Goosebumps ripple in wide patches up and down his arms as he marks another location off the list.
"Nothing here either, boss," Carlos says, leaning out from behind abandoned metal shelves. He tosses his flashlight in a spinning arc and snatches it out of the air, making his way back over to Jason and glancing around the deserted warehouse. "Surprised you didn't bring Marco for this."
"Why?" Jason asks flatly, lolling his head slightly to look at Carlos. "You got a problem coming out here with me?"
"No! No, no, nothing— uh," Carlos says quickly, and then frowns. Jason's mouth tilts up at the corner into a small, hidden grin. "Wait, you're fucking with me, aren't you."
"Little bit," Jason admits, turning to face him. "Marco's been following a few I-7 leads, so I didn't want to take him away from that. I don't want any more incidents like what happened with Adelaide, so that needs to take priority."
"But, uh… I thought I-5 wasn't a problem anymore," Carlos says, and a frown beetles his eyebrows. "Or at least, that you guys managed to shut it all down."
"We did," Jason says, and sighs. "But it— it's just a precaution, really. I would be surprised if anyone had the fuckin' stones to keep producing it, though, considering…" His tone darkens. "What I did to anyone I found manufacturing and selling it."
Carlos swallows audibly, the sound noisy in the otherwise quiet warehouse. "Right."
They're successful, in the sense that they don't find anything; at least for the moment, Jason's worries regarding I-5 being currently produced are somewhat assuaged. Of course, he can't have eyes everywhere, but he'd been sending out plenty of feelers to cover the areas he had less authority over, and those reports had come back clean as well.
So. For now, he can at least look at Tim and know that I-5 won't be a threat to him ever again.
When Jason arrives to pick Tim up from school, mind still restlessly preoccupied with I-5, he realizes that, for the first time, the kid isn't waiting outside; instead, Tim only comes speed-walking up to the sidewalk after Jason arrives, and hastily clambers up onto the bike without so much as a greeting.
Jason isn't too distracted to notice that , at least; Tim usually has so much to say, after all. When Jason glances back, Tim's gaze snaps up to his, as if he'd been looking somewhere else.
"Hello to you too," Jason says, a little amused, a little more concerned. "School was that bad?"
Tim shakes his head; Jason feels the motion against his back more than he sees it. "I really wanna go home," Tim says plainly, and his hand tightens around a fistful of Jason's jacket. "Can we leave?"
Right. They can talk later, Jason thinks; if Tim wants out, Jason's not going to hang around much longer, no matter how much Tim's tone is setting his teeth on edge. His mind immediately goes to the worst, especially with I-5's influence still poisoning the well dark— all he can imagine is someone at Tim's school bothering him, making him upset and— quiet .
He fishes a carton of ice cream out of the freezer when they get back, sits Tim at the table, and sets it down in front of the kid with a spoon.
Tim picks up the spoon and blinks, tilting his head slightly at Jason. "Are you going to give me bad news?"
Jason huffs out an amused sound and sits down across from Tim, watching as Tim pries the top off the carton. "No. But I do want to know what's wrong, if you're okay with telling me?"
Tim pauses, spoon hovering over the ice cream. He flicks somewhat tired eyes at Jason, and then shrugs. "It's not a big deal. I'm just kind of exhausted, after…" he trails off. And— it makes sense, right, it makes sense that the kid would have had a rough go of it after the events of last night. Even still, though, Jason's … not fully convinced.
There's the sound of a text alert, then, and Tim jerks. Jason's gaze flicks from the kid's pale face to his phone lying innocuously on the table, and something in his chest tightens.
"… Is someone bothering you, Tim?" Jason asks carefully. He's not planning on looking at the phone without Tim's permission, but it's clear that Tim's distressed , at the very least.
"Just some kids at school," Tim says, fumbling to turn the ringer off. "We got assigned groups for a quarter-long project in English today, and they keep trying to get me to take the most work. I know what they're trying to do, but— it's hard to say no," Tim says, and sullenly shoves a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. "It's stupid because I'm not even that good at English. They just think I am because I bailed some other guys out of a math project last quarter."
Jason's shoulders relax.
I-5 and I-7, they feel like huge, looming final bosses of doom that Jason doesn't feel like he can even properly swing at, let alone fight. School bullies? Now that's a mid-level minion that's way easier to punt.
"Ah, I get it," Jason says lightly, and reaches out with his own spoon. This strawberry cheesecake shit is dangerous, he thinks, because they're already about three-fourths of the way through the carton. "Let me guess, going to your teacher is off the table?"
Tim hesitates. "She's one of those people who thinks arguing is essential to making bonds stronger or whatever. It's weird."
Jason makes a face. "What's the project on?"
"Change one decision made by Hamlet," Tim says, fishing out a chunk of cheesecake about as big as his thumb. "And then reenacting what would've happened if that one decision had been different. We have to write a script and act it out. Nothing too long, obviously, but one scene."
That's fucking awesome, Jason doesn't say. Somehow, it doesn't feel like Tim would appreciate it. "So they, what, want you to …"
"Do all the writing," Tim says glumly around his ice cream. "So then they just have to show up and act."
Jason hums, tapping his spoon against the carton contemplatively. It's shit like this, really, that makes him feel like he actually is responsible for the kid. Like, he has to make these decisions that'll actually have some bearing on the kid's— development, and that's fucking terrifying, actually.
"Sometimes, if my guys give me shit, or try to push work on one person," Jason says, "I figure out a way to make them want to do better. Does the teacher give out group evaluations?"
Some sort of understanding dawns on the kid's face. "Yeah, she does."
"So maybe you tell these guys," Jason says, waggling his spoon, "that you're more than happy to do the work for now. Start documenting everything. They'll lower their guard. Maybe you tell them that anyone who helps you is sure to get a better group eval from you. And if they try to screw you or give you a low score, you have all the proof that you've been doing everything. Be friendly about it, but don't reveal that you've been documenting all the work you've been doing until later. Let them know there's merit in helping you, because you'll be nice to them in the evals. I'll help you do it, too. Not everything, but I'll help."
"So then, they start trying to do more and overcompensate in the second half of the project," Tim says slowly, and then smiles slightly. "Just to get on my good side, because I'm the one with all the power."
"Don't get too confident," Jason warns. "Nobody likes a tyrant. You have to be careful and disingenuously friendly, but if they do try shit—" He cocks a finger gun. "You have all the ammunition you need to take them down, and by then it'll be too late for them."
"Oh." Tim's eyes widen as he flashes Jason that starry-eyed sort of look that gives Jason the chills— but, like, in a pleasant way. Like he doesn't know what to do with that sort of open adoration, but he knows it makes his chest tighten.
"I feel bad for your lackeys, Jason," the kid says lightly.
Jason shrugs, grinning around his spoon. "What's some casual bullying between pals?"
And yet, even as Tim picks up the carton to excavate for any remaining chunks of cake, Jason notices the light of his phone flicking on, over and over, and … he wonders if that's all this is.
Tim's phone continues to go off all day.
And like, that doesn't happen with the kid. It's not like Jason's some kind of technophobe that can't stand seeing Tim on his phone; Jason's not exactly a trivia machine like Tim's phone, and as long as the kid gives his eyes a break once in a while, Jason doesn't actually monitor how much Tim uses his phone.
He doesn't monitor it today, either— but he does notice.
Tim tends to focus hard on whatever he's doing with Jason, but he's distracted today, constantly texting and burning trails into the floors as he roams all over the apartment. He's barely present as he stares at his phone beside his homework, and not all-there while they're making a snack, either— and Jason had endeavored to make something Tim actually really liked, too. It usually garners a much more enthused reaction, but today— Tim's fretting. That's the best way Jason can really sum up how pale the kid looks, the way he's worrying at the inside of his mouth, the way he's tapping away at his screen.
And then: with clarity, it comes to him when they're watching a movie later that afternoon. Tim's been fidgeting, gaze flicking restlessly from Jason, to his phone, to the movie, and back to his phone, and the kid just doesn't do that.
So— he figures, there's probably only one person that could have such a strong command over Tim's emotions, like that.
With a calm that surprises even him, Jason says, "your dad's back in town, isn't he?"
Tim flinches. The fear with which he looks back at Jason is all the confirmation Jason needs, but he only has a moment to recover from the visceral distress on Tim's face before Tim's eyes well up. .
Jason's not exactly proud of how long he just sits there and stares at the kid, mostly because— it takes him completely by surprise, and his mind just gibbers nonsense at him.
With no small amount of panic, he finally unthaws and reaches out, but Tim says, "No, not yet, please don't," and Jason immediately pulls his hands right back.
"Okay, okay," he says reassuringly, keeping his voice low. Tim hiccups, wiping clumsily at his tears, and his breath stutters when he tries shakily to inhale. "It's okay, Tim, it's okay. It's going to be okay. I'm right here, okay?" Something occurs to him, then, and he can feel a cloud fall over his own expression. His voice goes tight. "Was he at your school?"
Tim's face crumples up like a flower being crushed underfoot, confirming Jason's worry. "I wa—" He gasps, his fingers scrabbling at his phone anxiously. "I want to stay with you. Please don't make me go back, Jason, please, I won't be any trouble. I won't—"
"No, never," Jason says immediately, extending one arm and turning his hand palm-up as an open invitation. He's amazed he can move at all, considering Tim's fucking breaking his heart; why on earth would the kid even think Jason would send him back, Jason isn't sure, but he has a feeling it has everything to do with Tim's buzzing phone. "Tim, you're not— trouble, you're. I want you here. I want you here, okay?"
Tim's glossy eyes swim, but after a beat, he extends his index finger to trace over the lines of Jason's palm; he really only manages to complete one of the grooves along Jason's skin before he makes this miserable sound that makes Jason's skin crawl and just launches himself at Jason like a projectile.
"Okay, okay," Jason says as he catches Tim, and maybe he says a bunch of other things, low, soft words that don't make any sense, but it doesn't matter. What fucking matters is that Tim is fucking terrified and Jason is ready to do just about anything to make Tim not-terrified .
Tim isn't crying anymore, but he's holding onto Jason with the grip strength of a crocodile, and Jason isn't particularly inclined to ask the kid to loosen his hold whatsoever. He just lets it happen and leans back against the couch, internally trying to decide what the fuck he's going to do about this situation.
Because it's all well and good for him to go track down Jack Drake and, with full sincerity, make him stop breathing. It's just that— Tim would probably, like, never talk to him again, understandably. That's a hell of a lot of trauma for one kid.
It's all a bit overwhelming, actually. He's not sure who to ask about the situation; everyone has their own problems, after all, and well—
Jason's Tim's caretaker— self-assigned, admittedly. That means… he's the foremost authority. He's the one that has to make these sticky, difficult decisions, even if they're not— even if he doesn't agree with them.
For now, at least— the correct decision feels like hugs, pats on the back, and a quiet promise that Jason's going to fix this, by any means necessary.
"So, what's your plan, actually?"
Jason hums, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear as he scouts around his cabinets for baking powder. "I'm going to lay low with the kid, for now." He glances back toward the living room where Tim's sprawled over the couch, asleep, and lowers his voice. "The fucker showed up at his school, Dick. He was there. He was that close to Tim."
His grip tightens around the phone. He'd been distracted by Pift, but no longer— he can't afford that anymore.
"The fucking audacity," Dick says, disbelief coloring his tone dark, and Jason thinks he hears a small crackle-pop like fireworks, or potentially gunfire. Answering the phone during high-stress combat situations really does run in the family, apparently; Jason's pretty sure Bruce is yelling something incomprehensible in the background. "Did you see him yourself?"
"No, but Tim did," Jason mutters, flicking the side of the measuring cup to get the flour to settle. "He was spooked to hell when I went to pick him up. He's been spooked. I don't know, Dick, just… I'm trying to do this legally— properly, instead of going right up to Jack and—" He stops. "I'm trying to do this in a way that minimizes Tim's distress. I'm just afraid that if I do it legally, they'll—"
They'll take him away from me, is on his tongue. He doesn't have to follow the rules, but it'd make Tim's life so much fucking harder if he doesn't. Things he maybe should've thought about before he'd impulsively decided to take Tim in, but, well, he'd been somewhat preoccupied at the time. Moments like this really remind him of his own age, sometimes— he's not actually that much older than Tim, which is staggering. He feels like he's in his 50s, sometimes.
"Right," Dick says, and grunts either out of pain or constipation. Jason assumes pain. "We'll be back soon— I think this operation is wrapping up soon, anyway. We'll figure it out, Little Wing. Together."
The unspoken "neither of you are alone" lingers, unsaid. Jason clears his throat. "Whatever. Don't get shot."
He can almost hear Dick's two-fingered salute. His brother's voice lowers slightly into something gentle. "Stay safe, both of you."
As Jason's hanging up, his phone buzzes.
From: Marco
I had Srish look into Jack Drake's I-5 dealings. There's a list of names here, people who potentially bought from him or sold to him. A lot of these deals seem to have taken place at Drake Manor, judging by all the footage she dug up. Does Tim know about this? Did he ever witness any of these transactions?
A chill flicks up Jason's spine as he reads the words once, and then again.
He hadn't told Marco about what Jack had actually done to Tim; Jason isn't sure what Marco thinks, currently, but he doesn't feel right telling Marco behind Tim's back. It had been such a difficult thing for Tim to share the first time, and even that hadn't been entirely his own will.
From: Me
I'm not sure how much he knows. Can I have those names, though?
He taps open the file that Marco sends and flicks through the names— some familiar, Jason realizes, with a fury that burns so hot it runs all the way back around to cold. He recognizes some of them. People who he'd had run-ins with, and they'd—
Fuck. He's holding his phone so tightly he can feel the case start to give.
Jason shoves the muffins into the oven and nudges the door closed with his hip, resolving not to look at the list too closely. The truth is, these guys have always been a part of Jason's world— sleazy, under-the-counter deals all but form the backbone of Jason's empire. He's always used them in his favor— and he knows how to use them in his favor now, too. It's just…
It's just that they should never have been part of Tim's world, too. They should never have fucking been part of Tim's world.
He drops down next to the kid on the couch, reaching out to absently smooth down a tuft of Tim's hair as he fires a message off to Marco with the other.
From: Me
M, I need you to track down everyone on this list and figure out if they ever made a deal with Jack Drake at Drake Manor.
From: Marco
Does it matter how I find out?
Jason smiles. It's not a friendly smile.
From: Me
Any means necessary.
He tosses the phone aside and sighs, brushing his thumb over the side of Tim's head lightly. If someone had told him this would've been his life a year ago— even six months ago—
Tim's fingers curl against Jason's ankle slightly, and Jason really, really hopes those fuckers don't cooperate with Marco. He hopes Marco has a reason to fuck them up before Jason even gets his hands on them.
By the time Tim wakes up, late into the evening, the muffins are done; Jason hadn't meant to let the kid sleep for so long, but the longer Tim sleeps, the less he's awake and fretting about Jack.
The kid shuffles into the kitchen sleepily, rubbing red-rimmed eyes. "Did you make muffins?"
"I did," Jason says mildly, and then sets a glass of water down in front of Tim. "Hydrate, first."
Tim gulps down the water obediently, and then glances up at Jason. "Are you mad at me for not telling you?"
Jason hesitates as he plucks the muffins out of the tin. "I'm not… mad," he says, and rolls the words he wants to use around his head for a moment. "I'm— concerned. Worried about your safety." He sets the plate in front of Tim and leans forward against the island. "I want you to be able to tell me when things like this happen, because I can protect you, Tim," he adds gently.
Tim picks at the blueberries in the muffin idly. "Dad always told me that if I ever ran away, he'd find me," he says after a moment, expression cloudy. "And like… I knew Batman was next door, that… Robin was next door. But my dad, he…" Tim taps at his phone. "I can't … explain it. He's not particularly big, or strong. He's— he's actually kind of a short guy. He used to joke with me that I'd… probably be taller than him, one day." Tim swallows. "That sort of joking was before Mom died."
Jason eases into the chair next to Tim, nudging the kid with a shoulder. "You don't talk about her much."
Tim's shoulders rise and fall, faux-dismissive. "She was … She wasn't mean."
Jason watches him carefully. "But she wasn't nice either, was she?"
"It's hard to explain," Tim says, and his brows pinch together. "She did everything she was supposed to do, I guess. Praised me if I did well. Punished me if I did something wrong. Mom was all about decorum— don't slouch. Don't look bad at galas. Don't speak too much, don't speak too little. She was the one who cultivated Timothy Drake, Gala Version." Tim says, and the corners of his mouth twitch— not exactly mirthful, but almost. "And she was scary. Investors used to be terrified of her. Mom could get anyone could pay for their expeditions." Tim rubs the inside of his wrist almost absently, and shrugs. "I don't think she really knew how to treat me like a kid, so she treated me like an adult."
Jason says a heartfelt, "that's kind of fucked up, Tim," around a mouthful of muffin.
Tim's startled into a laugh. "I guess it is, kind of. But I only knew that after we hung out." He smiles up at Jason, and though the expression is still tired and red-rimmed, it's genuine. "I can't believe I'm saying it, but it's been nice to be treated like a kid. I used to see you at the galas, with Mr. Wayne. I thought you were the weird one, but like, in a good way."
It's Jason's turn to bark out a laugh. "I was really bad at galas. Bruce could pull out Brucie, Dickie was a riot. He could get anyone to like him. They all wanted to pinch his cheeks or ruffle his hair or just watch him flip and do his stunts, I guess." He shakes his head. "I stuffed my face full of shrimp and got into scuffles. I didn't mean to fight, not really. Shit, I didn't even want to fight…" Jason rubs the back of his head, a little embarrassed— though he isn't sure why. "I just have a hard time letting shit go, when I hear it. I mean— Dickie, too. He'll fight like you wouldn't imagine for someone's honor, but … he's better emotionally, I mean." He scowls. "Don't tell him I said that."
"I'm glad you don't let shit go," Tim says, leaning in to bump his shoulder against Jason's. "And I'm glad you don't mind your own business."
Jason taps Tim's pinky with his own. "Yeah. Me too."
Tim folds down the muffin wrapper carefully; when it's about a fourth of its original size, he looks up at Jason. "You never asked me more about what happened," he says, and Jason feels his stomach tighten. "But you're … doing something, aren't you?" It isn't phrased like a question, or a request— it's a confirmation, and really, Jason doesn't have it in himself to lie.
"Yeah. I am," Jason says carefully, and swallows. "But I didn't want to ask you, because I don't want you to have to relive that. We have ways of figuring out who was in your house, and ways to deal with your dad, too. Marco's out interrogating a handful of them right now."
Tim nods. He looks pale, but he pushes on. "Will Marco be able to get answers from them?"
Jason huffs out an amused sound. "Oh, yeah. And he'll enjoy it, too. You just focus on the important things, Tim." He ducks down slightly, so that he's closer to Tim's height. "Actually, about that… You know I'm here for you, no matter what. But, um, I'm no professional, really. There's a lot of stuff that you do because you're…" he hesitates, intimidated by the anxious expression on the kid's face. "… You've been through so much, Tim. And I'm worried it'll stay with you for the rest of your life unless someone helps you through it. Things like… the nightmares, and the rain, and…"
"The milk," Tim says quietly.
"The milk," Jason echoes. Some part of him still so badly wants to believe Tim hadn't been drugged with I-5, but it's starting to feel naive to keep imagining as much. "And that sucks. That isn't fair. You deserve to not have to worry about so much of that, and there are people who can help you."
Tim twists the wrapper up into a thin rope. "I'm afraid to talk about it," he says, extending his index finger and looping it around Jason's like an anchor. "Because then it'll be real. It'll be real, and not just a nightmare."
"I know," Jason says, and lowers his head against Tim's. "I know making it real is scary. But once it's out there, it becomes less scary each time, and then… eventually, you'll be able to sleep again. You'll be able to enjoy things like milk again, or rain, at any time."
"Yeah," Tim says, and takes a breath. "Can I … think about it?" he asks, tilting his head against Jason's. "It's a lot right now."
"Yeah, of course," Jason says immediately, and ruffles Tim's hair with his free hand. "I just wanted to put the idea in your head, is all."
Tim nods, and then glances up at Jason. "Marco actually enjoys beating people up, doesn't he?"
Jason grins. "He sure does."
That evening, with split knuckles and a wild, almost triumphant gleam in his eyes, Marco gives Jason an updated list— seven names. Seven people who'd gone to Drake Manor. Jason isn't sure if all of them had been involved with what Jack did to Tim, but he's determined to find out— and make it fucking hurt.
"Did they give you a hard time?" Jason asks, flipping through the pages, each with an attached photo of the scumbag in question.
"They tried," Marco says mildly, using a handkerchief to scrub blood off his knuckles. "Not that I don't think it's important, but why are you interested in these guys, anyway? These deals happened a while ago."
Jason glances out the glass window of the office at Tim, who's sat in the conference room with his homework, and Marco follows his gaze.
"I was really hoping they didn't have anything to do with Tim," Marco says heavily, after a beat, and seems to get his answers from Jason's silence.
Jason shakes his head. "It's evil," he says, leaning back against the desk. "It's just fucking evil."
"I thought as much, with I-5 involved," Marco says, staring down at his bruised hands. "I should've killed the fuckers."
"Not yet," Jason says, and sets the papers down. "I wanna know how many of these guys actually had any involvement with Tim. Dealing in I-5 at Jack's place is bad enough to get them on my shit list, but that… that's just step one. They think they're in the clear now that they've answered your questions," he adds, and stares down at his reflection in his helmet. "Let them get comfortable for a minute."
Marco clicks his tongue restlessly. "To his own fucking kid, Jesus Christ. Please tell me we have a plan for him, too."
"Working on it," Jason says, folding his arms. "I already know the legal isn't going to be punishment enough, but what I want is too extreme. Tim's already been through so much, I don't want to traumatize him by breaking his dad in half."
"Some people don't deserve to keep breathing," Marco says, matter-of-factly. It'd be so easy to put a hit out on Jack, Jason thinks. Nobody would question Hood, either; it'd be done and dusted by the end of the day. But this is so much personal than that— so much deeper. Jack doesn't deserve to be sniped anonymously; he deserves to be afraid forever, the way he made Tim afraid. "He's back in town, now, isn't he?"
"And trying to reconnect with Tim," Jason says, and gets chills just thinking about it. "I don't imagine he wants the kid to come back to take him to a fuckin' baseball game, either. Bastard."
"Well, that's just not going to fucking happen." Marco says, and worries at what's left of his thumbnail with his teeth. "Does he know his kid's roaming around with the Red Hood?"
"He must, by now," Jason says. "Jack's potentially the worst father on earth, but he's not an idiot. He's had dealings with this side of Gotham before, and before Tim even came into my life, properly, Jack had—" He stops, because fuck, he'd actually forgotten about how all this came about to begin with. "—Made some very colorful threats to Tim using my name," he says through gritted teeth. Marco's expression twists. "I have no doubt that he's going to make his move soon. We have to be ready for whatever that is, but in the meantime, keep an eye on these guys' movements." He pushes open the door, papers in hand, and looks back at Marco, who's tucking his gun back into his thigh holster in preparation. "Jack'll have to pry the kid out of my dead fucking hands, Marco, I'll tell you that much."
Tim's back is to the door when Jason knocks, and even before the kid turns around, Jason gets a bad feeling. Tim's unusually still when he'd normally be flicking through the pages of his book restlessly, or scribbling something on the board, or— something.
"Tim?" Jason ventures, reaching out, and when he does, Tim jerks. He turns slightly toward Jason, and then sluggishly reaches for his book.
"Sorry, I— I was distracted," Tim says airily, getting out of the chair to face Jason. He smiles, but it doesn't exactly reach his eyes; Jason's stomach unknots slightly, but the dread doesn't dissipate— not entirely. "Are we going home, now? Did you figure out, um…" He trails off, glancing down at the papers in Jason's hand, and Jason moves them out of sight. He doesn't want Tim to even see the fuckers' faces.
"Yeah. I did," Jason says carefully. "Is everything okay?"
Tim's brow furrows, but only for a moment before it smooths ou into something that feels… too composed, actually. "Actually, there is something," Tim says, and mimics Jason's careful tone as he taps his phone against the table. "I think some of the kids from my school are planning on making a deal for I-7 tonight."
Jason's brain ices over for a second; that's the only way to explain how cold he suddenly goes at the thought of Tim or any kid Tim's age getting their hands on I-7. It'd have been unfathomable, if not for the recent death of Adelaide Shipton still weighing heavily on Jason's troubled conscience.
"Where?" he asks, keeping his voice as humanly level as he possibly can. "I'll have a couple of my guys go to check it out."
Tim's expression clouds over as he glances back down at his phone. "I— I think you should be the one to check this out, Jason."
Jason leans in slightly, nudging Tim's wrist with his own in silent question, and Tim shakes his head.
"It's just— I don't have proof, but I think someone from your, uh— someone you work with might be involved," Tim says, very quietly, and Jason's entire world sort of seesaws dramatically.
"You what?" He thinks he says, kind of fuzzily. He isn't sure. He's really hoping he heard Tim incorrectly, though, because—
"I think— you may have a mole," Tim says in the same, small voice, and it just feels like it's getting smaller. Or Jason's losing his hearing— both are equally possible. "Like I said, it might not… it's just that I've been looking at the server, and—"
He stops when the door swings open.
"I'm headed out," Marco says, and glances down at Tim with that expression Jason's come to recognize as sort of anxious contemplation. "Stay close to Jason, kiddo."
Tim presses his lips together and nods, his movements a little stilted, and Jason's mouth tightens at the corners. "I will. Bye, Marco."
Jason grinds his teeth together, frustrated, as he closes the door behind Marco. If this actually is going to spiral into an issue, he basically has no choice but to go in hands-on, especially with kids involved. Jason's always been kind of technologically illiterate, crudely speaking; he prefers to be at the physical heart of any given issue, especially something like this… But at the same time, he's loath to leave Tim on his own.
As if sensing his reluctance, Tim says, "I— um, I know you're probably worried about leaving me, right? Couldn't you just set up some of your traps?" He gestures toward the window, and Jason, still half-reeling from the idea that someone on his team is a traitor, blinks.
"I could," he says grudgingly, and glances out the window at the empty room next door.. It isn't that he can specifically pinpoint any particular person from his team that he's suspicious about (least of all Marco, who's openly admitted to betraying him several times) but— Tim's Tim. The kid's detective skills may need a bit of fine-tuning, but there's no doubt that he does know what he's doing. For all of their sakes, though, Jason hopes Tim's wrong; it isn't that Jason's not paranoid, because he is— spending all that time with Bruce had all but guaranteed that Jason would have contingencies for every relationship he could possibly ever have. It's just that he doesn't actually want it to come to any of those contingencies. He doesn't exactly enjoy being suspicious.
Dread settles into his bones, but he isn't exactly sure what it's directed at. Something just doesn't feel right. "Let's go home, for now."
By the time they arrive back, he's decided that he is going to go check it out, if for nothing than his own peace of mind.
"But I'm not happy about it," he makes sure to tell Tim as he paces the length of the living room. The kid isn't fully safe, not with Jack roaming around, on one hand— but on the other hand, the lives of all the kids who got wrapped up in the web of I-7 are at stake, too, and Jason hates having to prioritize— kids.
"It's fine, Jay," Tim says, unconcerned. He's spread out over the sofa and focusing on his movie— surprisingly relaxed, Jason thinks, considering everything that's going on. Jason's glad for it, though; he's hoping it's because the kid's concerns have been somewhat assuaged by Jason's presence. "I've been home alone a lot. I know all the rules."
Jason adjusts the gun beside the window and levels Tim with an unamused look. "You think you're saying things that make me feel better about leaving you home alone, but they actually make me feel worse."
Tim twists his finger around the drawstring of his hoodie. "You worry too much."
"I worry exactly the right amount," Jason says defensively, hefting a grenade in his palm. According to what Tim had said, the deal's going down about ten minutes away by bike— not terrible, and it means Jason can rush back in five if he breaks a few inconsequential traffic laws. "You're a fucking pipsqueak. I'd be a shitty guardian if I didn't worry. Legally, I don't think you're even allowed to be home alone."
Tim rolls his eyes heatlessly, and then straightens. "Um— I was thinking, when you get back… I found this really good place."
Jason pauses in the middle of tightening a string and glances across the room at Tim. "Yeah?"
"It's like, in the budget," Tim says, tapping at his phone. The budget had really been whatever the fuck they wanted, actually, but Tim had frowned at Jason disapprovingly until Jason had actually given him a number. Jason's not surprised; the kid for sure is the type to set only about one hundred parameters every time he searches for something. "And not overly gaudy. It's not in a penthouse or anything so we don't have to worry about privacy." Tim flips the phone around.
"So," Jason says carefully, and crosses the room to kneel beside the couch and take a look. "You really wanna do this, huh?"
Tim gauges his expression for a moment, and then nods. "I do."
What feels like the weight of the world, really, melts off of Jason's shoulders. Like he doesn't even care that he might get betrayed for a moment, like everything else is lost to a haze of unimportance. Like this, what Tim's saying, is the only thing that matters right now.
"Yeah?" He asks, and if it comes off pathetically hopeful, that's really his own damn business.
"Mhmm," Tim hums affirmatively, and then nudges his shoulder against Jason's. "Yeah."
Jason taps through the pictures of the place approvingly— cozy, decorated tastefully with black and gray marble, in-built bookcases, a fantastic kitchen —and then pulls back and ruffles Tim's hair. "Looks good," he says, and can practically feel himself trying not to grin like an idiot. "Okay. I'll, uh, schedule a tour once I get back."
Tim purses his lips as if he's trying to hold back a smile himself. "Don't look too excited, Jay. It's a serious mission."
"I can compartmentalize," Jason defends, even though he's actually pretty shit at compartmentalizing. That's really more his brother's forte.
"You suck at compartmentalizing," Tim says immediately, returning his gaze to the TV and ducking Jason's swipe. "But for the record," he adds, and his smile fades. "I really hope I'm wrong about the mole, Jason."
"I don't usually say this, but I hope you're wrong, too," Jason says, and sighs. Fuck, but he isn't looking forward to this. It always feels so personal when kids get involved, these days— and this might end up being personal for a different reason, too. "Whatever it is, I'll handle it. If I run late, don't stay up. I mean it," he says, and points at Tim. "You have school tomorrow. And speaking of which, did you finish your reading?"
Tim blinks at him shiftily. "I will."
Jason yanks on his boots and narrows his eyes. "Right now, right? As soon as I leave?"
"As soon as you leave," Tim echoes. He's watching Jason with a look in his eyes Jason can't place, something longing but reserved, almost… melancholy, really, at the angle Jason's looking. As if… he's holding something back, somehow— maybe he'd gotten fairly attached to their current place, Jason reasons. He's fond of it, too, even with all its shitty maintenance issues. "It'll be done by the time you get back."
"Attaboy," Jason says, and then hovers by the door for a second. He feels like he should say something more for some reason, but he's not exactly sure what. "Um— just, be careful, Tim. Don't leave for anything. Don't answer the door, don't tell anyone where you are. Call M—" He pauses, and then sighs. "Call Dick if I'm not answering." Fuck, but he hates that he needs to leave, he hates that he's even— doubting . "Just…" He drums his fingers against the doorway. "I'll be back soon. Before you even know it. Promise me you won't do anything stupid."
Tim presses his lips into a tight line— annoyance, perhaps. It's not like the kid is really used to being parented, but hey, it's important stuff. "I promise I'll be safe," Tim says, somewhat stiffly. "I won't do anything stupid."
"Alright," Jason says, and hoists his bag over his shoulder. He dithers for a moment, and then nods. "Okay. I'll be back."
Tim nods. "Be safe," he says, and tugs on his drawstrings as his attention returns to the TV.
"You too," Jason says, and reluctantly, finally closes the door.
The thing is, he thinks as he tosses his shit into the seat compartment of his motorcycle, Jack isn't stupid enough to come find Tim on his own, now, which must be why he's trying to coax Tim out himself. If Jason had been Batman, this would've been an entirely different story; Bruce can be one scary mother when he wants to be, but Batman doesn't kill. It's like his whole thing (as Jason's relearned over and over… and over).
Hood, on the other hand? As far as Jack's concerned, Hood will pop someone for breathing in his direction wrong. It's funny, really— Jason wouldn't actually kill Jack, presently, but only because he thinks it'd be the easiest out for the bastard.
Set up at the scouting location is swift; Jason unpacks with the practiced precision of a man who's only done it about a million times. The dingy lighting from the single flickering street lamp is honestly absolute shit; he can barely see the shady street corner from where he's crouched, but he supposes that's what makes it an ideal spot to peddle I-7. He just really hopes he's not about to see one of his fucking people turn around the corner.
To: Tim
Did you finish your reading?
From: Tim
doing it rn
Jason's brow furrows slightly. No capitals, not a complete sentence, abbreviations. Weird.
Movement from below catches his attention before he can respond, though, and he tucks his phone away to peer down at the man shuffling over to stand on the corner. He's no one familiar, and he leaves almost immediately, quickly quashing Jason's little burst of adrenaline.
Jason can be patient when he needs to be. Times when he isn't patient, however, include when his kid is sat home alone with his psychopath of a father on the loose.
To: Tim
You sure about this location?
From: Tim
sure
Jason groans, lowering himself into a crouch to take another look over the edge of the roof. There's not a single soul in light; in fact, the only movement he sees is one pathetic looking newspaper, floating over the otherwise empty street.
It's while he's staring at the newspaper that it finally occurs to him that something is very, very wrong.
The betrayal, he realizes with a growing panic, had muddled him. It had muddled him enough to not ask Tim too many questions— what evidence did you see of a traitor? Who told you there was a deal going down? Fuck, he hadn't even asked the most basic of questions after totally getting clouded by his emotions, actually, because he'd been interrupted by Marco coming in. Tim had planned for that. He'd known Jason wouldn't be able to— He knew Jason would overthink, dwell in his own head over it, start to doubt. Enough that he wouldn't ask questions, he'd just— go.
The look on Tim's face. The way he'd cast doubt on Marco earlier, to keep Jason from asking him questions.
Fuck . Motherfucker.
Jason almost leaves half his shit behind as he carelessly shoves what he can get his hands on back into his bag and leaps over the edge onto the fire escape, his footsteps pounding loud enough against the metal staircase to rival his heart in his ears.
Tim's not picking up. Of course he isn't, because there had never been a fucking deal, there had been only Tim's word, which Jason had taken at face value.
He makes it back in three minutes. He breaks consequential traffic laws, but anyone with a problem can fucking take that up with his goddamn fucking handguns, fuck .
The world's already starting to black out at the edges as he takes the stairs three at a time, five at a time to get to his door; it opens without triggering the trap Jason had set, because there is no trap anymore, because Tim had disabled it. Tim had disabled it as he'd—
As he'd—
"Tim," he kind of says, not even a call so much as a croak as he stares into his empty, quiet apartment. He's sweating fucking ice , ice that's creeping down into his pores and freezing his blood still. Everything's fucking wrong— like, his heartbeat's out of rhythm, his breathing feels like it's stuttering out of him in unsteady, staccato bursts, and he needs to sit down or he's going to fucking pass out. His legs all but give out from underneath him; dimly, he hears the bag hit the ground, but it's fuzzy against the bright, alarm-like ringing that consumes everything.
Panic attack. He's having a—
Tim could still be somewhere here. He could be hiding. The trap could be disabled, because— because. Jason's brain scrabbles for something to hold onto, something, a story he can hold onto. Maybe Jack had come here searching for Tim, and Tim had felt like the best thing to do was run, or hide. Maybe, somehow, Jack had figured out Jason lived here— How, Jason isn't sure, but he can always figure that out later. And the deal, there's gotta be a reason, maybe Tim had just— gotten the location wrong, maybe. Kids make mistakes. Kids make mistakes all the time.
They can laugh about this when Jason finds Tim. They can have a good fucking laugh about this in hindsight, no, they will have a good laugh about this—
He can always—
Jason's vision starts to expand slightly past a single pinprick, allowing fuzzy colors and shapes back in. He can hear his own breaths now, as ragged and heaving as they are— each one sort of shudders out of him, long and shaky. Nausea, acidic and bright, burns away the inside of his throat, and fuck, he can feel himself trembling. He's shaking so bad that his ring is clicking against the floor.
Yeah. Yeah, maybe— Maybe Tim's just somewhere else in the complex. Maybe he'd gone somewhere to hide, maybe he's in one of the neighbors' apartments, maybe he's with little Ms. Pullett having some of her really fucking awful snickerdoodles that both taste and feel like cardboard. She really can't bake to save her life, Jason thinks hysterically, and doesn't know why he's remembering that now—
( Never mind that Tim hadn't texted—
Never mind that Tim hadn't called—)
Jason sits back onto his haunches, pressing his palms flat against his chest to keep himself from shambling apart. His bones start to knit together again, start to feel solid instead of like— dust. Right. Pull in some of those bat instincts, he tells himself sharply, some of those Robin instincts — not out loud, because speaking still feels like too much of an ask, but—
And then. And then he sees it. And then he sees it, tucked underneath Hamlet on Jason's dining table.
A note. There's a fucking.
Note.
There's a note, just like there'd been a note the last time, the last time. Right. The last time, when Jason had left a note and fucking. Died. There's a note. A note means not-an-accident. A note means Tim-is-gone-because-Tim-wanted-to-be-gone.
A note means—
(There's smoke in Jason's lungs.)
He's nearing hysterics again. He can feel the ground from where he's pressed up against it, and the note is in his hand, and he isn't sure how it ended up in his hand because the note was there and he was here and now they're both here even though he wants to be anywhere but here. He's gripping it so hard he can feel it crunch and tear in his fist.
(There's fire in his throat).
A fucking note. He wants to laugh, a sort of panicked cackle because he can't believe he's thinking about Bruce right now, he wants to laugh until he unravels apart into nothing but ash.
Dad found out about your identities because of me, the note says.
I'm going back, it says.
I'm sorry, Jason, I'm going to try to be really strong, it says.
The water-splotched words are smearing together. The words are smearing together because Jason's vision is blurry. The words are smearing together because Jason's vision is blurry because Tim wrote him a goddamn, motherfucking note and left to protect Jason. He left.
He's. Gone, and with him, whatever fragile, stupidly hopeful pillar that had been holding Jason up crumbles away entirely as well.
(If you don't figure this out, you might just kill me, Tim had said in his nightmare.
Jason's pretty sure he just failed.)