No.
No, it—it couldn't be true.
Jason's grip tightened, causing the phone to creak concerningly. He forced his fingers to relax.
It must be wrong. Because if it wasn't, if he did, then that meant—
His eyes flickered to Talia, busy taking inventory on the other side of the room.
If it was true, then that meant she lied. And if she lied about this, then how much else had she lied about?
Had any of it been true?
All this time, all this training, all his plans . . . were they all for nothing?
Maybe she didn't know. If it was true, he could see it being kept quiet until a decision was made. At least, he thought he could. He squashed the small voice in his head (the voice that the green rage almost always suppressed, a voice that sounded like Alfred, like home) that urged him to believe that of course his family hadn't, couldn't, move on without him.
"Talia," he finally said, voice raspy, as he moved the phone out of sight. "Have you checked in on the Bats lately? Has anything changed?"
If he hadn't been watching her closely, he would have missed the split second in which she froze. His shoulders relaxed a fraction. Maybe she only just found out, maybe she was trying to decide how to break the news.
"Yes," she said. "I received a report this morning. Bruce Wayne has made the headlines."
Jason nodded, fists clenched. He hoped he could fake surprise well enough to fool her. She didn't like it when he went rogue, even just to find information.
"He's officially adopting young Timothy Drake."
Well. The shock wasn't faked.
It was likely true, or at least partly. There probably were even articles about it. For weeks, rumors had circulated around the League about a person who was targeting, and then succeeded in killing, the Drakes. Jason knew it was only a matter of time before the interloper gained a permanent place in the family.
But the article Jason was reading was dated yesterday evening. If Talia received a report this morning, it should have been included.
Which meant she was lying.
He had two choices now. He could confront her with the knowledge, but Jason wasn't sure how he could trust anything she told him again. Or he could stay, try to gain more information, and continue with their plan long enough to get out from under the League's thumb. He was under no delusion that if he tried to walk away now, he'd be captured or killed (again).
Option two it was.
Besides, there was always a chance, no matter how slim, that this was some sort of test from Talia. He'd wait, bide his time. He'd be back in Gotham soon enough. In fact . . .
He let out a snarl. That wasn't faked, the green-tinted rage was always simmering just below the surface, uncaring who it was aimed toward. "So the old man finally went through with fully replacing me, huh?" He glared at Talia with hard eyes. "Guess that means we can put the plan in motion, take revenge on him once and for all."
Her eyes narrowed, assessing. He let her see the barely controlled anger, the seething frustration kept in check by a small thread. It was easy. His anger was real, but it had a new target. Alfred's voice rang in his memory, telling stories of spycraft and instructing him in subterfuge. The best ruses are rooted in truth, my boy. If you must tell a lie, pair it with something that cannot be refuted.
He had always been Alfred's best student.
His redirected anger came with an unexpected side effect: His memories of home were no longer a hazy green. Sure, he was no longer angry at Bruce for not caring about him, but he still expected to be angry about being forgotten, being replaced. About Dick actually giving a fuck about the new kid. About the new kid weaseling into his spot, his home.
But his memories wouldn't even let him keep that anger.
At first it was just flashes. Flashes of laughing with Bruce, of being safe, of being happy. Fine, he could deal with that. All the more reason to be angry at Dickface and the brat, right, for stealing that away?
But then he remembered times nearer to the end, when Dick had actually spent time with him. They were becoming friends, before he died. Becoming brothers.
"How could you do this to me, Bruce?"
Jason hadn't intended to eavesdrop on Dick's fight with Bruce, but he needed to know what was going on. Dick was here first, he was the Golden Child. Jason was just some punk off the streets. He didn't trust that, if it came down to it, Bruce would choose him. If Dick wanted Jason gone, he'd probably be back on the streets before he could say "Holy favoritism, Batman".
"I'm sorry, Dick! I've told you countless times that I'm sorry. I should have told you I took him in. I should have introduced you to him sooner. But you always told me you wanted a sibling—why are you so upset still?"
"You think I'm upset about that?" Jason blinked. He had assumed so.
"Is this . . . is this about Robin?" Bruce asked, quieter now.
"Of course this is about Robin!"
"He wanted to help me. You, more than anyone, should know how that feels."
"Then let him! But give him a different name, a different costume. Robin is mine!"
That stung. Jason had always admired the young hero. To get to be Robin was . . . magic. Why was Dickhead being so selfish?
"You left Robin behind, Dick. You moved on, took on a new identity. It was safer to let Jason use Robin, who is already established as my partner, than run around as someone people wouldn't recognize as associated with me, as someone under my protection!"
That seemed to take the wind out of Dick's sails. His shoulders fell, then seemed to crumple even further.
"Did you even tell him what Robin means?"
A beat of silence.
"Oh."
Dick laughed, but it sounded choked. Wet. Was he crying?
"Yeah. Oh."
"I'm so sorry, chum. I had forgotten how Robin got his start. You made it so completely your own, I didn't even think about—"
"It's alright."
"No, son. It's not. I'll tell him, talk to him about creating a new identity. He might even like that, having something his own. I think he's been feeling the pressure of measuring up to where you were."
"No," Dick finally says. It relieves something clenched tight within Jason's stomach. He couldn't lose Robin. "I—I think you might have been right. To give it to him. I just wish you had talked to me first. But I want to be the one to tell him what it means. After all, he's my brother now, right? That makes him an honorary Grayson, too."
It had been eye-opening, to learn what the name and uniform meant to Dick, to his family and history. That had been the real turning point in their relationship.
How had Jason forgotten?
He wondered if the replacement had gotten the same spiel he had.
You're one to talk about being replaced. That soft voice of reason was back. This time it sounded like Babs. You know better than anyone what it means to be invited into that family. Besides, you were dead. It's not like they could have known you'd wake up again. They weren't going to wait for you. Would you rather they wallow in grief forever? Waste away pining after you?
Still. He clenched his fist. Why get a new Robin so fast? Did the old man just have possible candidates lined up, waiting in the wings for when he lost one?
How did this kid even get involved?
He paused. Talia had only ever told him there was a new Robin. He had never asked how long the kid had been out on the streets, or how he had gotten involved in the night life. He had only ever seen the rich kid, who already had everything, taking the only things that ever mattered to Jason, as if he had any right.
He wanted to do more research, but he was still with the League. They watched his every move, as much as they pretended otherwise. He'd raise suspicion, looking into the new Robin after all this time. Unless . . .
He found Talia.
"I'd like your opinion on the approach I've decided."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Have you chosen how best to destroy your father?"
Purely out of habit, Jason shot back, "He's not my father." He was lucky the anger-driven haze had hammered that into his reflexes. He was too distracted to say it intentionally.
How had he missed it?
There was a tension around Talia's eyes, a dark shadow that spoke to hesitance, reluctance. Why had he ever believed her? She who called him Beloved, who had only ever created plots to catch Bruce's eye and affection. How had he possibly believed she would help Jason destroy the man she loved?
It made him wonder what her motive truly was. But it should make Jason's plan easier.
"I won't touch the bastard." He was right. She relaxed minutely at his words. "Better to make him suffer, right? He can't do that if he's dead. And he's too used to being injured to make anything short of death effective. But the old man's a bleeding heart. He wants to replace me? I'll go after the kid. Show him what it really means to be a Robin. If sons are so disposable, I'll take the new one away from him."
And it would give him an excuse to dive deep into every aspect of the kid's life, but she didn't need to know that.
While he expected to be able to talk Talia around to his idea eventually, he hardly expected her eyes to immediately brighten the way they did.
"An excellent scheme," she purred.
Did she have something against this kid? Was that what she was really after? But why?
Flashes of memory ran through his head, from his time before and just after the Pit. A child, trotting along at Talia's heels, piercing green eyes that seemed so damned familiar, rumors of the Demon's Heir. Jason had always assumed it was another spawn of Ra's (a thought that never failed to make him shudder), but maybe the brat was Talia's. Maybe sending Jason after the Replacement was her way of killing two birds with one stone. Because Jason knew that if he did anything to the new Robin, Bruce would never be able to forgive him. Which would get rid of two of Bruce's sons.
He couldn't think about that now. He just had to focus on getting out, getting to Gotham. Then he could figure this out. The League would send him on his way once he had a fully fleshed out plan with contingencies, backups, and communication lines. But until then, he was indebted. Beholden. Carefully controlled.
But if his half-formed suspicions were right, then that could only work in his favor. He could turn his sights to the new little bird, convince Talia his anger was all riled up and nearly out of control. She'd be more likely to set him loose alone or with the bare minimum than risk sending many of the League to babysit him if she thought they might get caught in the crossfire (or a bad temper). Why waste resources? He could see it now. He wasn't meant to be a subtle knife, like the League taught their assassins to be. He was a hammer, a bomb.
A distraction.
Well. Two could play that game.
The thought that he could have (would have) seriously hurt this kid without a second thought made him sick.
Jason knew himself: he still had issues with the kid and feeling replaced. But he was rational enough now to know that it wasn't the kid's fault. What's more, he owed the kid. He saw the news reports. He saw the numbers.
Timothy Drake saved Batman.
The way things had been going, Batman would have ended up dead or killing someone, which would have started a witch hunt that would end the vigilante's career for good.
He hated to admit it, but Bruce was right. Batman couldn't kill.
Which begged the question . . . No. Time enough to get those answers once he was safe in Gotham. He couldn't let himself get distracted. He had to focus on the kid.
It was easy to show rage while researching him. For all the kid had a privileged upbringing, it was obvious to anyone with a pair of working (non-Pit-influenced) eyes that the poor guy had been neglected all his life. He didn't understand it. The parents were business moguls parading around as archaeologists. The kid was smart as a whip—how had his parents not seen him, loved him, appreciated him? Instead, they abandoned him for ten months out of the year, if not more, with, as far as Jason could see, little to no supervision. No wonder Bruce scooped him up.
Soon enough, Jason was ready. The 'plan' was straight-forward enough—move into Crime Alley, shake things up and prove that the newly-established Red Hood was a more effective protector than Batman, make a few threats to the new bird, kidnap the kid, and set up a confrontation the Bat couldn't get out of without having to choose between his two sons. Jason's own plan was much simpler—make the League believe the more complicated plan, leave for Gotham, ditch whatever watcher he may have, and make a beeline for the Batcave.
Of course, Talia had to throw a wrench into things.
"You'll be pleased to know that your plan is already in motion," she said, watching his reaction carefully.
Jason let his surprise and displeasure show in his narrowed eyes. "What do you mean?" He hoped the frantic pounding of his heart wasn't obvious, that any upset he was feeling was for things happening behind his back and out of his control. He hadn't planned for damage control of any sort.
"One of our agents has moved into Crime Alley, posing as the Red Hood, and is beginning the work of cleaning it up. The Bats have encountered him on a few occasions and been suitably threatened."
He scowled. She could tell he was displeased—she would just think it was for different reasons. "I was looking forward to doing that myself. That's my home, my turf. How do I know your agent isn't screwing things up for me? And why wasn't I informed this was happening?"
She shrugged, an equally elegant and dismissive gesture. "I didn't think it was important. He's following the steps of your plan to the letter, and as soon as you arrive, you'll be able to slip into the role with no one the wiser."
"Except you and I both know the Bats can and would come up with something I haven't planned for. I don't want your guy to improvise and ruin everything."
"Which is why I'm telling you now," she said coldly. "There's been a deviation, so it's time for you to step in."
"A deviation?"
"It seems Batman is even more protective of his new charge than we expected. Rather than confine him to the Manor, he has been sent away to the Teen Titans. Indefinitely, I presume."
Jason barked out a laugh. "Perfect!"
"I thought you would be upset by the change. It will make the kidnapping and staged encounter harder, will it not? To factor in a different location across the country?"
"I know for a fact that the Titans are a bunch of sentimental idiots. They don't remove the access codes of the heroes who fall in the course of battle. Their way of honoring them, or some shit. I can get in, no problem. I'll have the baby bird all to myself, and full control of the tower. Even if the brat gets out a distress call before I lock things down, Batman will be across the country. I'll have plenty of time to leave a message for him: nowhere is safe from me. Then he'll have to bring his wayward bird back to the nest, and we can continue as planned from there."
The look of faint pride on Talia's face would haunt him for months.
As expected, Jason was able to access the Tower. Even better, he could and did insist to his escort that he go in alone. He would lock down the Tower and all communication, so the fake Robin couldn't call for help. If that meant the League couldn't get in or hear or see what happened inside, so much the better.
The kid was all too easy to track down, and distressingly easy to take off guard. Jason leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching with wide eyes as the idiot stared at the coffee maker, as if willing it to work.
"It's unplugged," he finally said. Tim turned to him with uncomprehending eyes, and Jason realized with horrified fascination that he had never seen eye bags that bad, not even Bruce on a bender. When the kid didn't do anything but blink in confusion, Jason sighed and strode forward, leaning across the counter to plug the coffee machine in. Sure, it probably wasn't healthy, but he only had about two hours before the League agents outside started getting antsy, and he needed the kid coherent enough to talk and remember the conversation. He didn't dare write things down and leave a paper trail.
The kid didn't move in all the time it took to set up the coffee maker and for it to warm up. The moment coffee came spluttering out of the spout, he sprang into action. A few last drops dripped onto the counter as the kid raised the full and scalding hot mug to his mouth. Jason lunged forward. Did the kid have no sense of self-preservation?
Jason ignored the pathetic whine, playing keep-away with the cup of coffee until he deemed it cooled off enough. As sleep deprived as the kid may be, he put up a surprisingly good fight. His reliance on coffee was something Jason would have to bring up with Bruce. Or maybe Dick. Alfred, at the very least. Maybe that explained why the kid was so short—all that caffeine stunted his growth.
"Alright, Timmy, let's chat," Jason finally said, setting the mug on the counter. It vanished in the time it took Jason to blink, before reappearing almost as instantly, completely empty.
He eyed Tim, wondering if that feeling of awed horror would become his default reaction to the little gremlin. It quickly changed to humor as the caffeine took all of five seconds to kick in, before Tim jumped, reaching for the bo staff he had stowed under the counter. His eyes darted around as he realized it was gone.
"I already got your weapons," Jason drawled. "You know, you'd be a lot more impressive a Robin if your situational awareness wasn't so shit. Seriously, kid, I know this is meant to be a safe space, but I was here a whole five minutes before you even tried to go for a weapon."
He grabbed the mug and placed it under the coffee maker, setting another cup to brew. Hopefully, if the mug was in the process of being filled, Tim wouldn't try to use it as a projectile.
"Who are you? And how did you get in here?" Tim demanded.
Jason's head tilted to one side. "Eh, I give it about a six point five, in terms of intimidation. Not bad for a sleep-deprived little shrimp."
Tim's fingers flexed, and he darted for the door. Jason sighed, grabbing the now-full mug of coffee as he trailed after him.
"Look, kid, I just want to talk. Your comms are down and you're here alone. If I promise not to hurt you, will you sit down with me for two minutes?"
No response.
"If I promise to give you more coffee, will you come talk to me?"
Jason resisted the urge to facepalm as Tim peeked around the corner at that.
"What do you want to talk about?" he asked warily.
"Dumbass little shithead," Jason muttered. "Seriously, how the fuck does Dick let you out of his sight?"
That settled it. Tim was his little brother, and nothing—not villains, neglectful parents, or sleep deprivation—was hurting him on Jason's watch.
"Well, I'm supposed to be threatening you, making veiled comments about you being a replacement, and beating you to make a point. Luckily, the surveillance I'm under is also blocked by the signal jammer I set up. So we've got a short window of time to make a plan, but I need you to focus. Can you do that, Timtam?"
The kid scowled, finally seeming to clock Jason's outfit. "Are you supposed to be the Red Hood? The guy Batman's chasing down?"
"Sort of. I'm supposed to step into the role that the League set up. It's all a part of my very dramatic, very complex, return to Gotham. It also wasn't supposed to get this far, but I suppose that's what I get for working with Talia and her goons."
"Then why are you working with her?"
Jason resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Either the kid was terrible at subtle interrogation, or he was too tired to care. He was lucky Jason wasn't actually after revenge on Robin or Batman.
"Appearing to work with her was the only way I'd get enough space to make a run for it and stay safely out of her clutches."
That got a sympathetic frown. "Did she kidnap you or something?"
"Or something," Jason agreed. "Look, I don't have too much time to explain things. I need you to agree to play along with this and pass on a message to Bruce."
Tim's eyes went wide. "B-Bruce? Bruce who?"
"You're a terrible liar, Timbo. I know who all of you Bats are. But I don't mean any harm, so can you agree to work with me?"
"What's the message you want me to pass on?"
A nice deflection, without actually promising anything. Yeah, this kid had potential.
"Tell him . . . tell him thanks. For what he did. That I'm trying to come home. That he shouldn't trust anything Talia says, if she decides to show her face and interfere. That he should check the hospital records for a John Doe who was comatose about two years ago. That . . . that if he still isn't convinced, to have Clark look at my grave."
Tim's eyes sharpened, from the topic or coffee kicking in, or maybe a combination of both.
"Who are you?" he asked.
Jason smiled. "You're the detective. Figure it out." Before Tim could respond, Jason whipped out a needle full of tranquilizer and injected it in the kid's arm. "Sorry about this. But I need Bruce to come in a panic, so it's this or a beating. Try not to let the League know what's happening."
Tim's eyes began to flutter, and Jason lowered him to the ground, arranging him comfortably. He found the panic button on Tim's watch and pressed it. Once Jason was out, he'd stop the signal jammer and the distress call would go through. "I'll be home soon, little brother."
Jason snuck in through the window to Bruce's study, unable to completely shake his League training. Besides, there was a certain poetic appeal for Jason—three years ago to the day, Jason snuck out of the Manor to embark on a search that eventually led to his death.
Bruce turned from the wall by the grandfather clock, where he had been studying what looked like a framed newspaper. His breath caught, and he smiled, blinking away tears. Jason walked over to stand next to him and see what held his attention.
He snorted with laughter, bumping Bruce's shoulder with his own before studying the newspaper article Bruce had framed and hung. The very headline that changed his course of vengeance.
Billionaire Wins Legal Campaign: Joker Sentenced to Death
"I don't get it." He finally broke the silence. "Batman doesn't kill. That's, like, your whole thing. It's the reason I had a super-elaborate revenge planned out."
"Well, I certainly hate to ruin your dramatic return," Bruce said wryly. "But the Joker killed you. I could never forgive or forget that. And there's something everyone seems to forget."
"What's that?" Jason was distracted by Bruce's smile. It was sharp, feral. (Familiar—he was going to have to remember to bring up his suspicions about Talia sooner or later—)
"Batman doesn't kill. But I am so much more than just Batman. And Bruce Wayne? He would do anything for his son."
Have I ever read any actual Batman comics? No.
Am I familiar with timelines and canon events? Only sort of.
Do I handwave a lot of canon things for the sake of crack here? Absolutely.
Credit and hugs (and a cup of chai tea!) to my BFF/writing buddy, star-eye, who let me bounce this idea off her less than 24 hours ago and edited this for me.
Yes, this story does rely on a more emotionally-in-tune-with-himself Bruce who's willing to talk things through with his children. Let them be happy. Let me dream. I call this crack for a reason.
If there's any interest, I'd be willing to do a short bonus/follow-up of Bruce's POV/experience getting the Joker the death penalty. (Yes, I did the research, and yes, the death penalty was legal in New Jersey until 2007, but hadn't been enacted since 1963, so let's just pretend this is a fictional world where things are more convenient - oh wait, it is.)