Archive of Our Own

Jason had been hesitating on going through with his plan. Gotham’s air cleared his head, he saw the good Batman and Robin accomplished, even though they were chained by Bruce’s ethics, and he just...he started to feel like maybe he could tell them who he was, without any grand gestures. Talia was sympathetic, encouraging him to reach out to Bruce, and Jason was starting to consider just—showing up at the Manor one day.

And then, a month ago, they went after him. Mostly Batman and Nightwing, with Robin conspicuously absent. Talia and all his League contacts were conspicuously silent, and Jason didn’t get any forewarning before they targeted him like there was a fucking missile-lock on his back.

Nearly every fucking night they were dropping in, trying to take him out, mucking up his shipments and plan. Shit, they never went after the Joker this hard, and the Joker killed him. At the end of the month, Jason’s temper is frayed, everything is green, and someone is going to pay. Someone wearing his colors, stealing his family, living in his fucking place. He didn’t think he needed to teach Robin a lesson, but he’s changed his fucking mind.

Tim takes comfort from not being alone in the Tower. Cassie just ruffled his hair as she walked to her room, and Raven made sure he didn’t need anything before she went to bed.

And it’s quiet, late at night, the lights dimmed. Tim fingers the panic button Bruce suggested, one that sends an alert to the Cave, because last time—they didn’t know until it was too late.

But it’s different now. The Tower’s been updated, Jason’s codes—because Hood was Jason and the thought Jason could do that to him—were deleted, and no one’s left alone here. Tim was adamant he wouldn’t let what happened keep him from being Robin or being on the Teen Titans. It doesn’t define him, it just—happened. And Bruce and Dick are going to take Hood down, and lock him away, and he won’t ever have a chance at hurting Tim again.

Jason isn’t surprised they deleted his codes from the Tower. He’s a dead kid; why would they keep them around? He’ll just have to hack in on his own. It wasn’t how he planned it, wasn’t going to be as easy, but he was prepared.

Once inside the system, it’s easy to access the filtration system and isolate rooms. It’s meant for containment if the Tower is ever infiltrated or one of the Team is compromised, but it makes it very simple for Jason to make sure everyone but Robin is deeply asleep. And, of course, locked in their rooms even if they do somehow wake up. 

Robin is the only one still out of his room, in fact, which suits Jason just fine. More fun to surprise him if he’s not sleeping in his bed. More fun to beat him in a straight fight, and feed the green with his blood running red.

For just a second, he thinks about what could have happened if they’d just given him a moment to breathe, but no. They don’t care about the good he’s doing just because he doesn’t follow their precious rules. 

Jason slips in the Tower, and quietly activates a lockdown sequence. No one in or out.

It’s harder for Tim to sleep at the Tower, which is something he hasn’t shared with Bruce or Dick. Just being here makes the memories feel fresh, and the nightmares are more vivid. He’s sure it will fade, in time, and exposure’s the only cure.

The feeling of being helpless, a strong hand holding his wrists, thighs clamping his legs still, a sharp knife cutting his costume away, and always that mechanized voice saying the most awful things. And he never stopped, telling Tim what was going to happen, imagining how it was going to feel, and—Tim stands up abruptly. He is going to make some cocoa and not think about it.

Watching the water in the mug go around and around in the microwave, the hairs on the back of his neck start to tingle. It happens to him a lot in the Tower, and he ignores it. He won’t jump at shadows. The Tower is safe and Hood is in Gotham and no one is here but him and his team.

The feeling of being watched grows and grows, making his heart race and his breathing come short, but he stares fixedly at the microwave. When it’s finally done, he allows himself to grab the mug with a hot pad and turn, where he’ll see no one and feel better.

He turns, and Hood is standing in the doorway watching him.

No.

He blinks, to clear the memory away, but Hood is still there. Tim stares, willing the image to go away. He has to be able to get past this, has to be able to live his life, and he can’t if he’s going to start fucking hallucinating in his own Tower! 

His heart is racing rabbit-fast, almost making him light-headed, and his chest is so tight he’s not sure he’s breathing. He needs to—to turn and make his cocoa, maybe read a book or watch a show, and go to bed. He needs to not be trapped by fear of something that isn't real. Hood already—he took what he wanted—they increased security and he can’t get in and—

“Nothing to say?”

At the sound of the mechanized voice, Tim drops the mug. It shatters, hot water splashing through the kitchen, but he hardly notices. He can’t move, rooted to the ground, petrified. Staring at his nightmare come to life. He’s six again, thinking that if he holds perfectly still under the covers that the monsters won’t hear him, won’t find him, won’t hurt him. But this monster is here for him, has already hurt him, has already found him.

Tim’s hand reaches and presses the panic button on his other wrist, trying not to think about how long it’s going to take before anyone shows up. The alarm should be hitting the Titans’ rooms, too, but if Hood is already here, Tim isn’t hopeful they’re in any shape to help.

When Hood steps forward into the kitchen and says, “You must be surprised,” Tim finds he can move. He’s running, without a second glance, sprinting out the far end of the kitchen. He fought Hood before, and lost, and his best bet is to get away. 

Hood’s heavy footsteps feel like they’re right behind him, but Tim doesn't dare check. Tears are prickling at his eyes, hot and painful, but he blinks them back. He needs to see where he’s going.

No, this can’t be happening again, please no—

He’s not sure he’s ever run so quickly, terror giving him wings. He skids around corners, pushes off against walls, and vaults over a pile of books Vic left piled in the middle of the walkway for some reason.

He’s going to be safe if he can get outside and keep running. The panic button has a tracker, and they’ll find him.

Hood doesn’t hurt civilians, doesn’t hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it except for Tim, and if Tim can just get out, he can find a safe place to hide. He can’t stay here, can’t stay anywhere Hood could find him. The terrified child in him wants to hide under the bed and close his eyes, but if he closes his eyes he can feel Hood’s hands bruising his wrists, mercilessly slamming into him, forcing his body to yield, agony rewriting him from the inside out, and Tim can’t—won’t—he’s going to get away.

There’s enough of a gap between them for him to get away, there has to be; he can’t consider anything else. The front door looms in front of him, and he practically slams into it before desperately pulling it open. When it doesn’t shift, something in him crumples—but he puts in the override code with a shaking hand, and mistypes it. He doesn’t have time to make mistakes, Hood’s voice getting louder, sounding angrier, but he puts the code in correctly the second try, and he still has time, he can still get away, but he pulls again, and it still doesn’t move.   

Tim stares at it for a breath, bewildered, and then hears, “What the fuck? You think you can get away from me that easily?”

There’s—there’s nowhere to go. The doorway is at the end of a hall, meant to be defensible so there aren’t any side doors and—Hood is closing in on him. Tim pulls at the door half-heartedly one last time, in case there’s a miracle—

There’s not, and he’s Robin, he’s terrified but he’s still Robin, so he turns to face the Red Hood. If he’s pressing his back against the door because he’s shaking too hard to stand up, no one has to know.

Hood stops a few steps away, and tilts his head. “That’s all you’ve got? Run to the door to get away? Seriously?”

Tim should sass back, tell him it’s a better plan than doing the same thing twice, repetition is boring, but he can’t open his mouth. He can’t—he can’t look away, and he knows his eyes are wide, probably wild, but Hood is here, again, and before Tim was worried about a bullet wound or some broken bones or death at the worst, but now he knows what Hood is capable of, and—and it’s worse than he—

His body pulses with a memory of pain, and he pushes so hard back into the door that he thinks he’s going to bruise himself before Hood gets another chance, staring up at the helmet with sheer terror.

Hood liked his fear last time, he thinks distantly. This is probably everything he’s ever wanted.

When Hood steps forward, Tim flinches.

“Not even going to try to defend yourself?”

Tim can’t even think of a single way to try. His brain is white static, trying to drown out the memories, the expectations, the awful knowledge of what’s to come, the countdown until help arrives that is far, far too long to actually help him.

“Is this really what they replaced me with? Someone who rolls over at the first sign of trouble?”

Roll over. Tim didn’t roll over last time, but Hood was happy to make him, so he could—

Hood steps forward and grabs Tim’s arm, and Tim’s body jerks like he’s been shocked before going limp. Hood is grabbing him, pressure burning him like fire, imprinting the touch into his cells so he’ll never forget a moment of it. Every part of him knows what’s to come and rebels against it, and he can’t stand, can’t think, can’t breathe.

There’s something wet sliding down his face, his body is shaking so hard he thinks it might be painful if he could feel anything, but everything is going quiet and distant.

He hears a muffled, “What the fuck?” as the burning on his arm disappears, and Tim is looking up at an indistinct, blurry Hood from a long, long way down.

What the fuck. Jason stares down at Robin, crumpled in a shaking heap at his feet, crying silently.

The kid looks at him like he’d seen a ghost—before he even knew Jason was a ghost—and then runs away in his own damn Tower?  

Jason isn’t an idiot. He grew up in Crime Alley, lived on the streets, and now works the same streets trying to keep as many people safe as he can manage. 

Tim is—Tim is having a panic attack, some kind of breakdown, and Jason feels...uncomfortable.

He came here to kick ass, have a fight, clear the air, maybe do a bloody reveal. Burn off some of the rage simmering under his skin, now conspicuously absent. He didn’t come here to kick a kid while he’s down, a kid who clearly shouldn’t be put in high-stress situations if this is how he’s going to react.

Jason’s an asshole, not a monster, but plenty of people in Gotham wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of a crying, helpless Robin.

What the fuck is Bruce thinking?

The familiar anger comes surging back, only this time it’s all directed at Bruce, where it probably should have been from the start. This kid might be wearing Jason’s costume, but Bruce is the one who let him, who works with him, who should at the very-fucking-minimum not let him out to fight crime if he can’t handle the pressure.

Jason could just walk away, could leave the kid there. Someone will find him, eventually, and it really doesn’t need to be Jason’s problem.

But on the streets, he’d never leave someone like this without making sure they got help. Bruce clearly doesn’t care about getting this kid the support he needs. Shit, what if he’s pressuring the kid into this? Jason can keep him safe, find him a safe place to live, relocate him if that’s what it takes to get him away from Bruce’s crazy crusade.

Mind made up, he bends down to scoop up Tim and notices a bracelet on his wrist. A beacon of some kind, probably with a tracker. Jason rips it off, and does a thorough check to find all the other trackers. He doesn’t need Bruce or Dick swooping him and taking the kid somewhere else before Jason can make sure he’s safe and making smart choices. 

Tim is moving. It’s confusing, because Hood didn’t have any problems raping him on the floor last time he was here. Why are they moving?

And then there’s a blast of fresh air, and Tim almost feels it fully, but he’s still moving, still feels a large, armored body pressing against him, and he doesn’t let himself feel it. He’s just aware of it, aware of the rhythm of being carried.

There’s a voice talking to him, but it’s a voice he knows more intimately than he should ever have to, and he doesn’t hear it.

He’s put down, but stays sitting up, and then he’s moving in a different way. Stops and starts, a band across his chest catching him, holding him, restraining him. A final stop, and being carried again. And finally—set down somewhere soft.

But instead of his clothing being peeled away, instead of pain, something warm and heavy is draped over him. Grounding him, making him remember his skin is his own. This is his body. Others hurt it, wound it, break it, but it’s his and will always be his. Even if it’s painful, he has to come back to it.

He begins the slow process of reclaiming himself.

Jason is hovering. He can admit that. He’s got the kid swaddled under half a dozen blankets, but without knowing exactly why he freaked out, he’s not going to offer unwanted touches. Leaving him alone doesn’t seem like a good idea, and neither does sitting on the bed. Jason drags a chair in, and sits in it, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring.

Shit, no, that’s way too intense. Jason leans back, crosses one leg, and stares casually at...the wall.

What the fuck is he doing.

He gets up and grabs a book, and comes back to curl up in the chair, thinking nonthreatening vibes. He’s in casual clothes, Hood gear put away, trying to seem as non-threatening as possible. Yes, he broke into the Tower and yes, he technically kidnapped the kid, but he doesn't have to come off as scary.

When Tim finishes claiming all of himself, he’s surprised to find no new wounds. He’s under a pile of blankets on an unfamiliar bed, and someone is reading in the chair across the room.

It’s actually a little uncomfortably warm under—Tim does a quick count, and there are six blankets on him? He shifts, wondering why Bruce and Dick brought him here, and why they thought he needed to melt. Dick surely would want to be curled up with him, could hardly drag himself away for the first week, and Tim found it more comforting than he could say.

But as he shifts, the person reading the book looks up and Tim is pinned by Lazarus green eyes.

It’s Jason.

He’s in Jason’s bed.

Horror washes through him, and numbness settles back into his skin.

“You back with me?” Jason’s voice is soft and gentle, everything Tim imagined the former Robin would be, until he was laughing when Tim screamed and tore open.

“You’re safe now,” Jason says, as fine tremors spread through Tim’s body. He’s trying to back away, but he’s on Jason’s bed and Jason is by the door. “You’re safe,” Jason repeats, as Tim’s heart pounds so loudly he wonders if Jason can hear it. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Tim blinks.

This is—this is unexpected, but Tim isn’t Robin for nothing, and things aren’t adding up. A month ago, Tim was left sobbing and bleeding on the floor. And now he’s bundled under warm blankets and Hood is making frankly ridiculous promises. He must know Tim cannot believe them, won’t even believe them, so why is he even trying? What’s the end game?

Tim needs to—he needs to say something, do something. Play along? Fight back?

“I just wanted a chance to talk to you.”

“Talk?” Tim’s voice is a little too high, throat a little too tight, but he got the word out and that’s good enough.

“About being Robin.”

Tim flinches. He has some idea of how this “talk” is going to go. 

“What about being Robin?” he asks, voice hardly shaking.

“I wondered why you were Robin.” Jason’s voice is gentle, non-confrontational. He sounds genuinely curious, not angry.

Tim knows it’s a lie. Knows that Jason is furious Tim is in costume, and after he put Tim in his place—after he raped Tim, he’s probably more than a little outraged Tim was stupid enough to put the costume back on.

Heart thrumming in his chest, Tim is a little outraged at himself, too. He could have just quit and been safe, and instead he had to prove something.

“I—I—” he stutters, unable to find the right words, unsure what the right words are. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, a little desperately. “I—I didn’t mean—”

Jason tilts his head and then sets his book on the floor.

“You don’t need to be sorry.” I’ll make you sorry, Tim hears. “I wanted to make sure you were making the right decision.” I’m going to make sure you regret this decision.

“I can quit?” he offers, voice shaking more. He doesn’t know what Hood wants and, when he shoves himself up into a seated position, blankets falling off of him, he realizes his tracker is missing. Swallowing, Tim feels panic pressing in at his edges. Why is Jason toying with him like this? Tim can’t play along, and he has to know.

“Wh—why are you doing this?”

There’s a pause and then something seems to occur to Jason.

“You know who I am?”

“Jason,” Tim forces out. “Hood.” He knows exactly who’s sitting on the bed with him.

“Shit, do Dick and Bruce know?”

Tim can only nod.

Jason shakes his head, saying, “I guess that doesn’t matter,” before leaning forward, eyes pinning Tim in place. “Robin is a high-pressure job, Tim. It’s rarely easy, we’re usually a target, and you can’t—look.” Jason sighs, and runs his hand through his hair. “You don’t have to go back to them, Tim,” Jason says, voice dripping with sincerity. “I can find somewhere for you to go that they’ll never find you again.”

Tim flinches. He’s sure Jason could, that’s the thing. He’d find a place to stash Tim, and probably—probably visit regularly so he could—so he could—

And then Jason puts his hand on Tim’s leg, a terrible thing even through the remaining six blankets, and something snaps inside Tim.

“Please,” he begs, tears dripping down his cheeks. “Please don’t. I’m—I’m sorry.” 

This is not what Jason expected. He thought Tim would blow him off, because Robins always thought they could handle more than they could, or that Tim might be wary, or suspicious, but—

But Tim already knows who he is.

Dick and Bruce already know who is and they—they’re hunting him down and—and Jason doesn’t understand why, doesn’t understand why they hate him so much—but that’s not the main problem right now.

The main problem is the kid who’s hyperventilating his way to a second panic attack, even though Jason didn’t do anything, and he’s starting to get seriously worried.

He frantically scans the last couple of minutes to figure out what he said or did that set the kid off.

He said he wasn’t going to hurt him.

Said he was safe, kept his voice gentle, told the kid he didn’t have to be sorry—was it telling him that he didn’t have to go back?

Jason is abruptly more concerned about what the hell Dick and Bruce did to this kid.  They weren’t—he remembers snippets, but Bruce was—was kind and gentle and Dick was smiling and cheerful and always there for Jason to vent to, but what the hell happened that this kid’s going into hysterics at the very thought of getting away?

They’re hunting him down.  They’ve never hunted a Rogue down like this, and Jason isn’t even a real Rogue, he’s just trying to keep Crime Alley safe and at first he thought they’re mad because of his methods, but now he’s wondering if it’s more about the people he’s protecting.

“Hey,” Jason says, kneeling by the side of the bed, “Hey, it’s okay.  You don’t have to see them ever again.  I—” he can’t quite contemplate it, after he abandoned those plans, after he planned to go back, but for the weeping child on the bed, the green comes rushing back in.  “I’ll make sure they’ll never get near you again,” Jason promises.

With murder, if necessary, even if it makes him sick.

The kid scrambles back, away from him, eyes wide in sudden horror.  “N—no,” he whispers, near breathless, choked sounds coming from his throat, “No—no please don’t—don’t hurt them.”  There’s an awful sound, like something inside of the kid cracked painfully.  “I—I’ll go w—with you,” the kid sobs, “J—just don’t h—hurt them.”

Jason feels uneasiness curl around him.  The kid’s crying has gone from panicked to wrenching, sobbing like his world is falling apart around him, and Jason—doesn’t understand.

It—it can’t have been the technical-but-not-really kidnapping, it’s practically a rite of passage for Robins to play hostage, and the kid’s not chained up or anything.  There’s a window on the other side of the bed, so he could just scramble out, Jason’s not armed or armored, and—and sure, a combination of factors could cause a breakdown like this, but—

“I’ll go with you.  Just don’t hurt them.”

Jason doesn’t understand that sentence.  And it settles into his gut like a physical weight.

Nothing he’s saying is helping, he’s just making it worse, and it’s at around this point that Jason remembers that he’s in no way a trained counselor, he basically abducted the kid, and he went to the Tower with every intention of attacking Tim.

He’s clearly not fostering any kind of safe space here.

He debates taking the kid back to the Tower, but he’s still crying, and the lockdown codes won’t lift for several hours.  Jason really doesn’t want to leave the kid alone right now.  Bruce or Dick are option number two, but Jason doesn’t trust them, not after they left the kid like this, and especially not after they went at him like he was a fucking rat for them to hunt down.

They knew who he was.  The whole time, they knew.  And Jason contemplated going back home, but it’s indelibly clear what kind of reaction he would’ve gotten.

He actually contemplates calling Talia, because he—he needs a goddamn adult here, but Talia’s been unreachable the last month, and he has no idea what she’s up to.

Okay.  He has no clue where to take Tim, the kid is still crying, and Jason—Jason doesn’t know what to do.  He forces himself to take a deep breath—the green is screaming at him to find out whatever did this and make them pay, but it’s extremely unhelpful right now—and backs away, taking the chair and moving it away from the door.  Leaving the path clear if Tim wants to leave.

“Hey, kid, it’s okay,” Jason says, feeling absolutely useless, “It’s okay.  I’ll just—I’ll be sitting right here, okay?”

Tim doesn’t answer.  Jason’s not sure he can actually hear him.  Jason snags the book for something to do with his hands, and settles in to wait out the tears.

Gradually, the desperate gasping breaths slow to quiet heaves.  The tears ease to a trickle.  The tight, clutching grip around his chest fades to numbness, as placid acceptance sets in.

Tim—Tim just—he just...sold himself.  Essentially.  His suffering, to keep Bruce and Dick safe.  He has to keep them safe.  He can’t—he’s useless, he managed to be taken by Hood again, and at least if Bruce and Dick are alive, he has a chance at a rescue.

Tim lifts his head from the damp blankets, and sees Jason sitting on the chair, staring at the book in his hands.  It looks further away than last time.

It doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters.

Nothing matters but enduring.  If he can.

Jason looks up, and those vivid eyes pin him again, flickering green, and Tim’s breath catches in his throat.  “Hey,” Jason says easily, straightening, “How are you feeling?”

Like he just agreed to not fight back against his rapist.

Tim consoles himself with the thought that fighting back didn’t do any good the first time.

Jason doesn’t press for an answer, though, merely grabs something from a side table before coming closer—Tim starts to shiver—and handing it to him.

It’s a water bottle.

“You need to hydrate,” Jason says kindly, “Or you’ll get a headache.”

Tim takes the water bottle.  Twists the cap off—breaking the seal—with fingers that feel steadier than they should.  Drinks.

It’s odorless.  Tasteless.  Slightly cold, like it’s been in a fridge.

It feels nice against his sore throat, and Jason is right—it abates the headache pressing behind his eyes.

Jason hands him another water bottle, and Tim repeats the process without talking.  “Do you want more?” Jason asks, almost hovering, and Tim stares at him blankly.

He doesn’t know what the right answer is.  If there is a right answer.  Hood didn’t try to play games last time, just forced him down and took what he wanted, and Tim doesn’t understand what this is.  If it’s just another way of toying with him, breaking him over the long run.

“Okay,” Jason says.  He looks uncertain as he walks back over to the table and brings back a couple of protein bars, an apple, and a banana.  “You must be hungry.”

Tim blinks.  It quietly dawns on him that if Hood wants to keep him alive long term, he needs to give him food and water.  It feels strange.

And it’s another choice.  Tim doesn’t want to make choices.  Tim wants to drift, back to where no one can hurt him, away from the world and what Hood is going to do to him.

Tim doesn’t want to know what Hood will do if he doesn’t eat, though, so he picks up a protein bar and methodically unwraps it.  It tastes like ash in his mouth.  When he’s done, he looks up—Jason is still by the side of the bed.  Staring at him.  Expectant.

Tim looks back at the food.  Two more protein bars, and the fruit.  He doesn’t have any appetite at all, and by the time he chokes down the third protein bar, his stomach is roiling.  He has to pause, because otherwise he’ll throw up, and he takes shallow breaths, trying to be silent.

Unfortunately, Jason notices.  “You don’t have to eat it all right now,” Jason says, which is—not what Tim was expecting.  He wonders how much every instance of kindness will cost him.

Hood can be kind.  Tim knows that.  He’s seen footage of Hood interacting with children in Crime Alley, with sex workers, with mugging victims.  Jason—Robin was kind.

But the Lazarus Pit twists everyone who goes in it, and it always needs an outlet for its rage.

Jason blinks at him, and looks around the room, the silence stretching uncomfortably.  Tim waits.  He knows he’ll—he’ll need to—eventually, but right now he wants to stay under the blankets.  As long as he can.

“I—” Jason makes a frustrated noise.  Some part of Tim quails.  “I’m sorry for scaring you,” Jason says finally.  He’s not looking at Tim, he’s studying the floor.  “I didn’t realize—I’m sorry.”

He didn’t realize he terrifies Tim?  That he stars in every nightmare, every jerk away from an unexpected touch, every glint of unfamiliar red?

Tim can’t even begin to process that.

On the other hand, these are common abuser tactics.  Feign remorse for their actions.  Give presents.  And then do the whole thing over again.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”  And he does a good job on sincerity, but Tim cannot reconcile that face and those eyes with the words.

Jason steps toward him, and Tim can’t help the instinctive flinch.  Jason pauses.  Holds up his hands.  Eases back.

Weird.

Tim’s not going to trust him, no matter what he does, and it looks like Jason’s already straining at his patience.  Green eyes are flickering again, and Tim mentally prepares himself, drifting slightly away so that it won’t hurt.

Jason spends some more time pacing in a small circle, before huffing out a large sigh.  “Can you tell me why you’re afraid?” he asks, voice almost gentle.

It was difficult enough to hear what was done to him in Hood’s voice, Tim doesn’t want to recite it too.  He goes for short, clipped answers.

“You.”

“You’re afraid of me?”  Jason sounds genuinely confused.  It’s...puzzling.

“Yes.”

Jason blinks.  “What did I do to you?” he asks, and it’s half irritated, Tim can hear the bite.  He’s not sure whether it’s a real question, but he answers it anyway.

“You hurt me.”

Jason frowns at that.  Actually frowns, stepping closer and squinting at Tim.  “I did?” he murmurs almost faintly, eyes distant like he’s trying to remember.  “I didn’t—I didn’t hold you that hard.”  He’s still frowning as he meets Tim’s eyes.  “How did I hurt you?”

He’s going to drag this out of Tim, piece by piece.  One part of him just wants to recite the whole thing and get it over with, and the other part of him balks so hard it slams a mental wall over that memory.

“You raped me,” Tim says, distant and blank.

Jason immediately jerks back from the bed, because fucking what?  He—he misheard that, he didn’t—there was no way the kid just—how in all the fucking hells did he come up with that, Jason barely even touched him.

“What the fuck,” Jason says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.  Just—what?  The kid is fifteen years old, he has to know what rape means right?  He can’t just—Jason didn’t—he has to take a breath and calm the fuck down before he gives into the urge to start breaking furniture.

“Kid,” Jason says, as levelly as he can manage, which is not level at all, “I barely touched you.  I definitely didn’t rape you.  I wouldn’t—why the fuck would you even think that—I’ll admit to the kidnapping, but you were kinda freaking out and I didn’t want to leave you there and—”

The kid’s eyebrows pinch together a fraction.  “Not today,” he says, “Last month.”

Jason just sort of gapes at him for a moment.  This is the very first time he’s met the kid, he’s never run into him before—but pieces are slotting into place with an awful, sickening sort of sense.

Batman and Nightwing hunting him down with unexpected ferocity.  The kid’s panic attack at seeing him.  The security upgrades to the Tower.

But Jason didn’t do it.  Why would they think he did—how could they think he did—Jason moves forward, intent on getting answers, because he does not appreciate whatever fucked-up mistaken identity this is, and if it’s on purpose, he’s going to put a bullet in someone—and Tim flinches violently, and then goes unnaturally still.

Jason freezes.

Some kinds of trauma reactions cannot be easily faked.  And unless Tim’s suddenly a genius at acting, this whole—panic and hyperventilating and oh god, does he really think he’s been sitting in a room with his rapist this whole fucking time?—scene can’t be an act.

But Jason didn’t do it.  Jason knows he didn’t do it.  He—he didn’t leave Gotham a month ago, and he can swear he isn’t missing time.  Right?  The Lazarus Pit causes hot flashes of rage, but it doesn’t actually make him black out, he can remember everything he did just fine.

He has to be right.

He has to be right, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he isn’t.

“How do you know it was me?” Jason asks, not able to do anything about the cold tone his voice has dropped to.

Tim looks frightened again, the eerie blankness cracking away.  “The—y—your face.  And y—your DNA.”

Jason wants to puke.

The DNA.  The DNA Jason apparently left while raping a child, and Jason isn’t sure what he’s feeling, but he needs to sit down.

He didn’t do this.  It wasn’t him.

Only Tim seems to think so.  Bruce and Dick certainly do.  All of them think he’s a monster.

Jason stares at his trembling fingers, and wonders if they’re right.

It wasn’t him.

But how can he know that for sure?  How can he know that some combination of the Pit and the head injury and the coming back to life didn’t twist him up inside?  Didn’t—didn’t come up with some alter ego or something?  How can he know that this wasn’t him?

He needs—he needs to figure out what happened.  To figure out if he can spot any clues that anyone missed, anything to pinpoint what really happened.  He shifts, turning to Tim, the questions already on his lips—and stops.

Tim’s staring at him, chalk pale and shivering.

Fuck.

Jason is just full of bad ideas today.

Okay, the first step is getting Tim somewhere safe, somewhere far away from Jason, and not asking him to relive his trauma.  Bruce and Dick are probably in Gotham, too far when Jason’s disabled the zetas, and Jason cannot stay here with the kid that long.  He’ll take him back to the Tower.

The security footage at the Tower is the perfect place to start looking for clues, so he can accomplish both objectives at once.  And then track down Talia and figure out if this—if this is a thing, if Jason’s blacked out before, if he’s—if he’s hurt people without realizing.

If he’s just as bad as everyone he takes off the streets.

Horror tips right over into resignation when they pull back up in front of the Tower.  Of course they’re back here, Hood likes to claim his victories, and—and Tim doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stay in the Tower again.  Not after this.

No Robin in Gotham.  No Robin on the Titans.  He’s just—he’s done.

He follows Jason placidly, always three steps behind, and ignores the frequent glances Jason darts back.  He’s not going to run.  First of all, he won’t make it, they proved that point well enough, and secondly, if this is some sick game of hunting him down, Tim won’t give Hood the satisfaction.

Jason leads him back to the kitchen.  He points to a chair, and Tim follows the unspoken order.  Jason hasn’t spoken much since they left the safehouse, and he jerks back whenever he meets Tim’s gaze.

It’s strange.

As strange as Jason rifling through the cabinets and—and making another mug of hot chocolate for some reason.  He half cleans up the mess of shattered ceramic while the microwave runs, seems to realize what he’s doing, and stutters to a halt, settling for dropping paper towels over the remaining mess.

The hot chocolate he sets in front of Tim.

“I’m sorry,” Jason says quietly, “I—I’m sorry for scaring you and—and kidnapping you.  I’m going to leave now.”  Tim blinks at him.  “I’m sorry,” Jason says again, before walking out of the kitchen.

Leaving.

Tim is so very confused.

He stares at the kitchen doorway, but Jason doesn’t reappear, laughing about the joke.  The hot chocolate is warm, grounding him slightly, and on his fifth sip, it suddenly hits him that he’s in the Tower.  Jason’s left.  He pressed his panic button ages ago, so Bruce and Dick will be here soon.

He’s still in one piece.  He hasn’t been hurt.  Jason—Jason gave him food and water, brought him back, and apologized.

Without touching him once.

And Jason is nothing like before, even from the start, even when he was armed and armored.  He’s flipped from confused to annoyed to earnest to concerned to angry, but never cruel.  Not that laugh Tim still hears echoing his skull, wicked and malicious, drinking off Tim’s pain and hurt and terror.

It’s like he’s a different person.

The Lazarus Pit causes mood swings, but none of their research suggests it causes split personalities, or amnesia, and Jason seemed so shocked by Tim’s words.  Angry.  And Tim expected him to attack, but he just—backed off.  And brought Tim back to the Tower.

It’s puzzling.  And even with the sickening churn in his stomach, fading terror and dying panic, Tim cannot resist a puzzle.

He starts by mentally running through the symptoms of the Pit, hunting for some clue as to why Jason’s behavior is so erratic.  He can figure this out.  He’s back in the Tower, the hot chocolate is rich on his tongue, and he’s not hurt.  Bruce and Dick will be here soon, and Tim will be safe, and—and he’s okay.

A heavy, booted footstep.

Fear sparks down Tim’s spine before he even turns, before he registers the figure standing in the doorway, blocking his escape.  Lazarus green eyes, an easy smirk—Jason, dressed in the armor he took off at the safehouse, Jason, watching him with a cruel smile, Jason, stepping forward with a dark laugh.

“Hello, Replacement,” Jason says, “Did you really think I let you go?”

Jason buries his face in his hands, hiding the screen from view.  He doesn’t want to watch this.  He doesn’t—it took him a couple of minutes to find the right day, to cue up the security footage, to watch a man dressed in his uniform, in his helmet, in his face walk through the Tower, hunting down the kid, forcing him to the ground and—

Jason cannot watch this.

It isn’t him.  It can’t be him.  He—he doesn’t remember off the top of the head what he was doing that night, but that can’t be Jason, no matter how much he looks and sounds like him.

Jason would—would never do that.

It’s not him.

Jason fast-forwards through the footage without looking at it, barely holding onto his stomach as he hears—as he hears his own voice, low and cruel, as he hears the kid’s screaming die to sobs, as he hears the satisfied grunts.

He’s going to be sick.

He’s going to start throwing up and he’s not going to stop and the only reason he hasn’t yet is because he needs to—he needs to find something to prove that it wasn’t him.

He dares to look up when Hood’s sneers stop.  The man is looming over the teenager crumpled on the ground, laughing as the kid cries, and—

Jason closes it and presses his face against shaking hands.

He can’t watch this.  He—he needs some other way of figuring out who this is.  He needs—he needs to get out of here before he starts screaming.

He closes the recorded footage, returning the screens to the real-time views.  He’d be better off breaking into the Cave and finding out how accurate that DNA match was.  He turns back to the monitors to send off a ping to Batman—if the man hasn’t already noticed that the Tower’s on lockdown, Jason is going to shoot him—because the base is vulnerable and he certainly can’t stay.

For a moment, he doesn’t know what he’s looking at.

Tim’s supposed to be in the kitchen, where Jason left him.  Or—well, he’s not supposed to be there, but he is supposed to be alone.

Not pressing himself into the corner while an armored man stalks forward.

While Jason stalks forward, every step a threat.

But Jason’s not in the kitchen.  Jason’s in the control room.  Jason—Jason can’t be the person on the screen.

The prickling wave of relief is only stalled by the surge of green, hissing up at the sight of that panicked face.

Tim’s in trouble.

And Jason’s going to take great pleasure in carving this imposter into little pieces.

He wants to retreat into the haze, but it slips and dissolves in his fingers, his heart racing far too fast, his throat locked up, too present and too real as Jason rounds the table, pressing him back into the corner.

The countertop presses painfully against his back, but Tim ignores it, trembling, trying to—an escape, a weapon, something—this is a game after all, just longer than the last one was—his thoughts are turning to static as Jason gets closer and closer and closer.

“You can’t honestly be surprised,” Jason says, arching an eyebrow, “I showed you exactly what happens to Robins who fly too far from their nest.”  Tim can still feel it, inside of him, phantom pain beginning to throb again.  “And yet here you are,” Jason muses, stopping a foot away and tilting his head.  “A glutton for punishment?”  His smile curves.  “Or did you actually enjoy it, Replacement?”

Tim’s stomach turns over.

“N—no—”

“You were made to be used,” Jason says, and—and that’s a hand, on his hip, pressing him against the counter, thumb slipping under the corner of his shirt, searing hot against his skin—“And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

Tim can’t move.  Tim can’t breathe.  Tim can’t do anything but think please no, but Jason won’t stop, he’s all alone, and he wonders, distantly horrified, if it’ll hurt worse this time.

“Get the fuck away from him.”

The growl is almost inhuman.  Jason jerks, startled, twisting away to look at...Jason?  In the doorway, eyes an electric green, face twisted into a terrifying scowl.

Tim blinks.

Nope, there are still two of them.

One armed and armored, pressing Tim against the counter, hand squeezing the curve of his waist, and the other in the doorway, dressed in the same, soft clothes he was wearing in the safehouse, nearly vibrating in murderous fury.

Two Jasons.

Tim wonders if he hit his head.

Hood laughs.  “And here I was wondering if you’d ever show up,” he says, amused.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jason demands, stepping into the kitchen, “And get away from him, or I’m going to tear your fucking hand off.”

Two Jasons.  Identical Jasons.  Everything about their features is the same, the only difference is that one looks cruel and amused and the other looks incandescently enraged.

“Wait here, Replacement,” Hood tells him, still smirking, “I’ll deal with this, and get right back to you.”

Jason makes an incoherent noise, green eyes almost burning.  “Who are you?” he hisses, “Why the fuck do you look like me?  Why the hell are you here?”

“You seem to have forgotten why you’re standing, dead boy,” Hood hisses, “And on whose sufferance you’re still drawing breath.  Lord Ra’s only deigned to let you live because his daughter begged, because she promised him you would be an asset in Gotham.  And you thought you could just change your mind?”

Jason is staring at him, pale and horrified and betrayed.  “Talia sent you?”

Hood makes an irritated clicking sound.  “The woman has become soft.  Luckily, some in her entourage are still loyal, and Lord Ra’s got word of it soon enough.  If you won’t break Batman and isolate Robin, well.”  Hood’s face twists into a dark smile, “We’ll just do it for you.”  Jason still looks like he’s going to be sick, and Hood is getting closer to him.  “Magic is a wondrous thing, and you should better guard your blood.”

Jason jerks back when Hood steps in front of him, falling to a ready stance.  “I’m going to murder that decrepit piece of shit,” Jason snarls, “So thoroughly even the Pit won’t be able to put him back together.”

Hood laughs.  “You can try, dead boy,” he says, “Lord Ra’s will be pleased to crush you.  Incidentally—do you know where the traitor is?  She’s stolen something quite valuable, and my lord wants it back.”

Jason bares his teeth in a growl, and attacks.

Hood moves like a League assassin, and Tim just never realized how much till now, when he’s faced with the comparison to Jason’s more aggressive, Bat-based style.  Tim stays in the corner, watching them grapple, something cold settling in his stomach, because it isn’t a fair fight.

Jason’s not armored.  Jason’s armed with a single knife.  Jason is furious, but the rage isn’t helping, not in the face of Hood’s cold, vicious calculation.

Tim needs to—to fight, to escape, to do something rather than stay frozen in place and watch the one-sided brawl.

Hood blocks Jason’s latest knife strike, twisting his wrist through a painful block and not stopping until something cracks.  Jason makes an aborted scream and Hood follows through, driving an armored elbow into Jason’s stomach, and fisting a hand in his hair when Jason doubles over.

Hood drags Jason forward one step, and slams his head on the table.

Jason goes limp with a strangled gasp, and slides off the table when Hood lets go.  Tim can hear his ragged breaths, but Jason lies unmoving on the kitchen tile and Hood turns back to him, smile wide and cruel.

“Looks like no one’s saving you, Robin.”

Jason’s head is pounding so loud it feels like someone’s crashing cymbals inside his skull.  Everything is ringing, and fuzzy, and light stabs into him every time he tries dragging his eyelids open.

Darkness reaches for him, promises him no pain, promises to let him sleep, but something in his brain is shrieking an alarm.  He can’t go to sleep.  He—he has to do something.  Something is pressing at him, pushing at him, tugging at him to get up.

Voices slicing through his head.  Shouts and a sneer that sends shivers down his spine.  Someone is yelling.

“No—no, stop, let me go—”

“You remember what happened the last time you ran, Robin?”  A chuckle, and a cracked inhale.  “This is really his fault.  If he just did what he was told, this never would’ve happened.”  Scuffling, gasping, the whine of shoes scrabbling against linoleum.  “I’m going to fuck you on top of him, so he knows exactly what his defiance wrought.  Then I’ll kill him, and fuck you again.  That should be enough to please Lord Ra’s.”

“You’re a monster.”

Another low chuckle.  “That’s what you said the last time too.”

Jason needs to get up.  He squints against the bright light—table legs.  Kitchen tile.  Legs in the distance, one pair struggling furiously.  Glinting metal.  His knife.

Jason reaches for it, and hastily aborts the action.  That arm is definitely broken.  He tries with the other, the taste of pennies on his tongue, his stomach churning, the throbbing in his heart nothing compared to the twisting in his gut.

He needs to get up.

His fingers close around the hilt.  The imposter comes into view, the League assassin with the audacity to wear Jason’s face, and Tim is pinned in his grasp, arms twisted behind him, his face shining with tears as he tries to yank himself free.

“Good,” the imposter says when he meets Jason’s eyes, “You are conscious.  This wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying if you weren't.”

Tim snaps his head back, but Jason is taller, so the imposter merely laughs and twists his grip to force Tim down, until he’s on his knees.  Jason doesn’t look at Tim as he pushes himself up on an elbow, a muffled groan escaping as the world tilts alarmingly around him.  He struggles to roll over onto his side, to get enough leverage to push himself up with one shaking hand, still holding onto the knife.

“We can’t have you getting up, though.”

Tim makes a shocked, punched-out sound and Jason snaps his gaze to him to see Tim clutching one of the table legs, bent over with an arm curled around his stomach, trying to breathe.  The imposter stalks towards Jason, and he isn’t fast enough to roll away, to get up, to do anything to stop the man from kicking at Jason’s broken arm.

Jason collapses back to the ground with a strangled scream—

And the hand with the knife snaps up, moving unerringly, even through blurred vision, to sink into the calf just above the boots.  Jason doesn’t hesitate, just turns his wrist to twist the blade on the way back out, and the shocked, suppressed sound is music to his ears.

He can’t get all the way up, he can only push up onto his knees, the world shuddering around him as his head shrieks, but he doesn’t need to, the imposter is wearing a perfect replica of Jason’s armor, and he knows exactly where the weak spots are.  Knows that the flexible armor under his pants won’t hold up to a knife’s edge.  And knows where to stab to sever the femoral artery.

The imposter makes a strained gasp, stumbling back, one hand trying to stop the blood spurting from his thigh, the other one going for a gun.  It misses as his legs waver and crumple, and Jason half-sways on his knees, bloody knife tight in his grip, and watches the imposter collapse, green eyes wide.

“You can report your failure to your lord,” Jason says hoarsely, green humming around him like a warm blanket, “When you meet him in hell.”

He wants to lunge forward, to stab, again and again and again, to sate the green howling for blood, but the man is already dead.  He makes one last, strained, wheezing breath before he goes limp, blood pooling in an ever-increasing puddle below him.

There’s a second of stillness—Tim breathing harshly as Jason tries to stay upright under a blinding headache—and the body on the ground blurs.

His features wash away, hair turning all-black, skin slightly more wrinkled and a shade paler, jaw narrowing, eyes smaller.  The broad frame shrinks, looking even smaller under the now-unfitting armor.

Jason blinks.  The corpse is a man he doesn’t recognize, dressed in his armor, and it feels like the cherry on top of this extremely unsettling day.

“You saw that too, right?” Jason asks, turning to a wide-eyed Tim, because he’s not confident that that’s not the concussion.

Tim sucks in a sharp breath and cracks on a sob, shuddering all over.  Jason automatically moves towards him, realizes that’s not a good idea, and jerks to a halt, compounding the shrieking throbbing in his head.

But Tim lunges at him, and Jason is barely able to keep his balance as the kid crashes into him, breath forced out in a startled wheeze as the impact jostles probably-cracked ribs.  By the time he can suck in a shallow breath amidst three different rhythms of pulsing pain, he realizes that the kid’s clinging to him, sobbing into his shirt, trembling apart half in his lap.  Jason slowly wraps his uninjured arm around Tim, ready to back off, and gently pats the kid’s shoulder when Tim just presses closer to him.

“It’s okay,” Jason says softly, “You’re safe.  He’ll never hurt you again.”  He takes a deep breath and lets it out.  “You’re safe.”

Tim is so relieved, he can almost pinpoint the fierce joy-respite-oh-thank-god that’s bubbling inside of him, turning him into a limp puddle against the broad chest.  Against Jason’s chest, the real Jason, and every piece of the puzzle clicks into place with a surety that nearly fractures him.

Jason didn’t hurt him.  Jason didn’t rape him.  It was never Jason at all, Tim isn’t the exception to Jason’s rules, it was a fake, it was some sick plan cooked up by Ra’s al Ghul, and Tim’s childhood hero didn’t turn into a monster and shatter him to pieces.

Jason saved him, Robin saved him, he killed the guy who hurt him, and all of Jason’s concern makes so much sense now, it’s like Tim was looking at an upside-down painting the whole time and now it’s finally the right side up.

Jason doesn’t hate him.  Jason won’t hurt him.  Jason is here and real and not a monster and the happiness is almost smothering him.

Tim hiccups as the tears finally run dry, and twists his head to look at the corpse next to them.  This is the man who hurt him.  This is the man who held him down and jeered at him and tore him apart.  This is the man who dared to use Jason’s face to commit his crimes, and Tim doesn’t even want to imagine what would’ve happened if they didn’t figure it out.

If Jason never came here, and this man came back, and they kept hunting Red Hood like he was a monster.

“He’s dead,” Jason rasps, shifting as if to try and block Tim’s view, “He’s dead, and he’ll never hurt you again.”

“I know,” Tim croaks out, pressing his hand to Jason’s shoulder to stop him.  He wants to see the body.  Wants to see what the man looks like, so he knows who hurt him.  So he has something to replace Jason’s face in his memories.

Jason, who bundled Tim up in blankets when he was crying, Jason, who was so concerned about Tim’s panic, Jason, who protected him.

“You said you were leaving,” Tim remembers.

“I, uh—I wanted to check the security footage, because that—that wasn’t me.”  Tim hums—that must’ve been horrifying for Jason to hear, no wonder he was so shocked in the safehouse.  “I’m sorry, by the way.  About the whole lockdown thing.  Your friends will be fine, and the lockdown will lift in a couple of hours.”

Tim doesn’t care.  Tim can’t care about anything but the fact that he’s safe, finally, actually safe, and Jason is here, and Jason is protecting him.

He thinks he could just drift off, not sleep exactly, but nestle into the contentment and let the exhaustion and the drain of the panic and hyperventilation lull him down.  He’s safe.  No one’s going to hurt him.  He’s safe.

Something prickles on the back of his neck.  A stray, niggling thought.  He remembers the panic button he pushed just as Batman sweeps into the room like a dark, vengeful shadow.

Jason hasn’t been so terrified of Batman since he was twelve years old and clutching a tire iron.  He’s pressed back against the cabinets, broken arm clutched to his chest, knees up, one hundred percent certain that the only reason Batman hasn’t turned his face to pulp yet is because Tim’s in the way, kneeling upright in front of Jason.

Nightwing, hovering in the doorway, hands tight on the escrima, looks like he’s close to dragging Tim away and electrocuting Jason until his heart gives out.

“It’s not him,” Tim says, almost tripping over the words, “It’s not—it wasn’t Jason, I know it looked like Jason, but it wasn’t, it was that man—” Tim points at the corpse.  Neither of the two look at it.  “And Jason’s innocent, he didn’t hurt me—”

“We tested DNA,” Batman growls.

“It’s magic, that’s why he looked like Jason, it wasn’t him—”

“Robin,” Nightwing says, level and steady, “Please get away from him—”

“No, you’re going to attack him, it wasn’t Jason!” Tim almost shouts.  Batman and Nightwing don’t budge, and Jason can’t entirely blame them, Tim isn’t making much sense.  Jason would love to help, but he currently can’t remember how to breathe, stuck in the instinctive reaction to curl up and hide because he’s hurt, his head is pounding, that’s his dad looking at him like a punching bag, and Jason can’t take it.

“Robin,” Batman says, “Move—”

“Stop it!” Tim nearly screeches, “Stop it, you aren’t listening to me!”  He sounds on the verge of tears.

Batman and Nightwing exchange a glance.  “Okay,” Batman says, relaxing slightly and focusing his attention on Tim, “Okay, we’re listening.  Take a deep breath, Robin.”

Nightwing doesn’t relax, and keeps his gaze boring a hole into Jason.

Tim struggles through a couple of breaths, until he’s no longer trembling.  “It wasn’t Jason,” Tim says, as steady as he can manage, “The man who attacked me wasn’t Jason.  He looked like Jason, because of magic.  He was working for Ra’s and he was trying to get you to attack Hood.”

Batman finally looks at the corpse.

“He came—came back, and Jason saved me.”  Just glossing over the whole kind-of-kidnapping part, okay.  “Jason didn’t hurt me.  Don’t attack him.”

Batman is studying the corpse, but he doesn’t look convinced.

“Please,” Tim switches to look at Nightwing, “Just—just check the security footage.  He didn’t hurt me.”  Tim’s voice breaks, “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

And Jason cannot help but wonder how deep that faith runs, if it’s still there, ready to be called upon, even after Tim was confronted by a monster wearing Jason’s face.

Batman and Nightwing exchange another glance.  “Okay,” Nightwing says, “We’ll check the security footage.”  He extends a hand out, “Do you want to come with me?”

Tim wavers from his position in front of Jason, shielding Jason.  “Don’t hurt him,” Tim says, quieter, looking at Batman.

“I won’t,” Batman says, “We’ll take him to the Cave.”  Tim straightens at that, tottering over to Nightwing, who practically yanks him into a hug the moment he’s in arm’s reach.  Batman glides smoothly to loom over Jason.

Jason still can’t quite breathe, or the breaths he sucks in aren’t enough, but he manages to uncurl enough to raise his wrists, because he learned the lesson to cooperate in the hopes of lessening punishment a long, long time ago.

Tim squawks, half-tucked against Nightwing’s side.  “He didn’t do anything!”

“We’re going to check that, okay, Tim, I promise, it’s just a security precaution,” Nightwing says, his soothing voice getting further away as they head out of the room, “He’s safe.”

The cuffs click closed around Jason’s wrists.  Magnetic locks, difficult to unlock even if he had two working arms.  He stares at them to avoid looking up at the dark shadow above him, his heart still racing double-time to the pulse of angry Batman, but it’s a little more difficult to manage when the dark shadow crouches down in front of him.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Jason,” and that’s Bruce’s voice, not Batman, and it’s level, none of the warmth it used to have before, but Bruce doesn’t lie, and it’s enough for Jason to drag in a stuttering, deep breath.

Not how he imagined heading back to the Cave, but he’s ending up there either way.

Tim refuses to move out of line of sight of the cell.  It’s clear glass, lit up to show Jason lying down on the cot, because the combination of the concussion and the broken arm and apparently cracked ribs knocked him out as soon as he got treatment.  So he’s sleeping, and Tim is watching him while Bruce and Dick are near the analyzer, talking to Constantine.

Dick’s face went pinched when he saw both Jasons on the security footage, his breath drawing shaky and tight, and he held Tim for a full five minutes after he saw the fight, quietly trembling.  The blood covering half the kitchen floor also tested as Jason’s, which showed that the magic still worked on DNA, and Bruce called Constantine to see if he could identify the spell from the remnants that they had.

Tim still doesn’t want to look away from Jason.  It’s stupid, the other man is dead, he’ll never hurt Tim again, but there’s something quietly clawing at Tim that hisses that he can’t tell the two Jasons apart—even though the differences in personality are enormous—that he won’t know if it’s the real Jason until it’s far too late.

It’s stupid.  The man who hurt Tim is dead, Jason killed him, it’s just taking some time to settle in.

Voices raise then fall, and Tim turns to see Constantine hold a hand in farewell before stepping through a portal.  Dick collapses into a chair right there, burying his head in his hands, but Bruce makes his way towards Tim, his expression inscrutable.

“What did Constantine say?” Tim asks when Bruce is close enough.

“Blood magic,” Bruce says quietly, “Not very pleasant.  It can effect a change on the cell level.  Constantine broke the spell on the other set of DNA, and we tested that too.  It’s not a match to Jason.”

Tim already knew that, but the confirmation still feels nice.  Bruce steps past him, heading for the cell, and his expression is no longer as steady.  Tim remembers the look on Bruce’s face when they identified his attacker, remembers how something cracked before it was covered by Batman’s mask, and the mask has finally lowered.

Bruce unlocks the cell and steps inside, crouching down next to the cot before calling out softly, “Jay-lad?”

Jason snaps awake immediately, instinctively straightening before half-collapsing with a groan as he remembers he’s injured.  Tim drifts closer to the open door as Jason straightens again, this time more carefully.

Jason blinks at Bruce, who’s still kneeling in front of him, clearly half-asleep and groggy.

“Constantine figured out what kind of spell it was,” Bruce says, slow and level, “It’s a type of blood magic.  He’s going to do some research to figure out if Ra’s has any more of your blood and make sure Ra’s will never be able to do this again.”  He reaches a hand out, and hesitates, like he was planning to rest it on Jason’s knee and double-guessed himself.  “He’ll never reach you again,” Bruce says, an echo of what he told Tim a couple hours ago, Batman’s steady, furious growl, “I promise.”

Jason stares at him, his fingers shaking where he’s clutching the edge of the cot, eyes suspiciously bright.  He reaches out his uninjured arm to Bruce, shaky and slow, and the moment Bruce takes it, Jason all-but-collapses off of the cot and into Bruce’s lap.

He’s trembling, clutching Bruce, broken apologies through the sobs, and Bruce holds him close, silent tears slipping down his own face, hugging the child he didn’t believe he’d get back.

“It’s not your fault,” Bruce says, quiet and reassuring, cupping the back of Jason’s head, “You did nothing wrong.  It’s not your fault.”  Like Jason could’ve possibly predicted what a six-hundred-year-old megalomaniac in a bad mood would do.

Jason is still crying, and Tim slips into the cell, silently crouching next to them and curling against both Jason and Bruce.  Against safety.  Another set of arms envelops him from behind, holding all three of them, and the quiet, hoarse voice says, “You’re home, Little Wing.”

They are home.  They’re home, and together, and safe, and Ra’s al Ghul can go rot on a pike.  He won’t break them.