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They get him when he's in the middle of escorting an old woman home.
Her car broke down a couple blocks away from her apartment building, and Dick had been swinging by on patrol. He couldn't help get her car started—he and Bruce have started working on cars together, but he doesn't quite know anything applicable about engines—but he can walk with her to make her feel safe, chattering all the while about inane stuff that makes her smile at him.
The pair of them are coming up upon where she lives, and Dick must've been more distracted by his task than he thought because it isn't until there's a whistle through the air and then a crack against the back of his skull that he realizes they're not alone anymore.
He hears the woman scream as he drops to his knees, head exploding with pain and vision blurring, all of his senses going a little fuzzy. He tries to turn towards her, wanting to help, but his legs won't respond to him and his hands scrabble uselessly across the sidewalk, a groan climbing out of his throat.
Whoever the people are, they waste no time in grabbing him. They yank his arms up, sending his chest crashing against the ground, and he groans again as he struggles against their grip, trying to breathe through the pain in his skull.
There's rough rope wrapping around his wrists, up his gloves, all the way to his elbows. There's laughing, he can hear faintly. Multiple voices overlapping and making his head spin even more, and his heart begins to pound, pulse rocketing as fear floods his veins. He can't—he can't get out—he can't think—
It's pure instinct to shift, wanting the safety of his wolf form, always so much stronger and faster and more fierce than as a human. Bruce always tells him to be careful who he shifts around, because it can be dangerous, but he'd understand this. Sometimes they need to do it in the field; the most important thing is staying alive, no matter how you have to do it.
Changing his form makes the ropes fall away, and clears his head a little. He hears shouts of alarm, and pushes to his feet, intending on running, on putting some distance between them so he can regroup and then face the problem. But there are more of them than he thought, and he manages to skirt to the side to avoid one pair of reaching arms but there are three more, five more, ready with rough, grabbing hands.
They're yelling at each other, telling each other what to do to keep him from escaping, all of them doing their best to hang onto him and pin him down. And Dick tries, he bucks against their grips and snaps his teeth at any body parts he can reach and slashes out with his claws, but they get him down on his side.
Two of them fucking sit on him, forcing the air from his lungs and making it impossible to move. Another wraps their hands around his snout, pinning his jaw shut despite how he twists his head back and forth, growling with rage, paws scrabbling against the ground like his hands had just a few minutes earlier.
"Where the goddamn collar?" one of them shouts, and fear streaks through Dick like lightning, making him redouble his efforts to get away. But it's just as useless as ever.
No one quite knows who invented these things, the collars that can prevent shifters from shifting. It works on all kinds, not just wolves, and though they're technically illegal, it doesn't stop criminals from getting their hands on them.
Traffickers use them, mainly. Snatch kids off the street and force them to shift, then sell them to the highest bidders like pets. It's despicable, and no matter how many times he and Bruce try to tear these places out from the roots, more always pop up. It never ends.
And now he's in the hands of some of them.
It's not exactly common knowledge that Batman and Robin are shifters—at least, Dick really didn't think it was—but considering some of the people they've saved have seen them shift, and a bad guy from time to time, maybe it's not too absurd for it to have become widely known by now. Maybe these people didn't just have a collar on them because they're traffickers, maybe they specifically had one because of him—
Dick whimpers when he feels the rigid leather close around his neck. A shudder runs down his spine, a wrongness filling him. He's—he knew about these collars but he's never worn one before and it's just—the block in his head he can't—no, no no—
"Poor little puppy," one of the men sitting on him coos, watching Dick's distress with sick delight. "Nowhere to go, huh? No big bad Bat here to watch your back."
No, Bruce isn't here. Bruce was off patrol tonight because he's injured from a Justice League mission, and after a lot of cajoling Dick and Alfred managed to convince him to let Dick patrol alone, because Dick is fourteen years old and can manage—was so sure he could manage—so Bruce isn't here, and won't be here because he's not out at all and Dick is all alone—
"C'mon, let's get him up," someone says, and Dick growls, tries to toss his head, claw at them, do something, but they've got him. They've actually got him.
"Shit, pass me—yeah, thanks."
There are more hands on his face, his snout, and the cold bite of metal, and Dick doesn't understand what they're doing—
It's a muzzle. Some horrible mix of shame and rage and fear surges through him, and he can't stop the whine that escapes him, the instinctive call for his dad, his pack. But there is no one here to hear it except for the men, and they only laugh, their voices echoing around him
They buckle the muzzle into place, strapping it tightly so that when they finally release his snout, Dick can't even pry his jaw open more than a couple millimeters.
There are arms wrapping around him, too many pairs to keep track of, and he can't even feel relieved when the two men sitting on him get up (sweet, blessed air) because he can't fucking move, held in place by the combined force of all the men who took him down.
"Lift on three," one of them grunts, and there's a chorus of agreements above Dick's head, none of them caring about the way Dick claws at the ground, none of them flinching at the snarl that rips out of his throat.
Vertigo, as Dick is lifted in the air, arms wrapped around him like bands of iron. They start to walk, shuffling along until they reach a van parked a little way up the road, and Dick hits the metal floor of it with a thud, restraining a whimper. They keep their grips steady as the engine starts up, and then they're driving, Dick's gut sinking at the finality of pulling away from where everything went wrong.
It isn't a long drive, during which Dick tries to convince himself that this isn't as bad as it looks, that he can get out of this no sweat. Because it's—it's not a big deal, right? This is fine. Easy peasy. Robin has been in countless hard positions over the years, and always made it out okay. So it's all going to be—fine. Completely fine.
Their base is like a thousand others Dick has seen before, with rust and concrete and the sneering faces of more malicious men. Dick forces himself to not shy away as they pull him out, to not cringe from their leers and shouted comments, the cruel superiority rolling off of them in waves. He keeps his eyes narrowed, a low growl simmering in his chest. Ferocious, dangerous. Not a scared little boy.
They're all calling out to each other, laughing with their victory. Their nails bite into Dick's coat, small pinpricks of pain as they reach the skin beneath, and he thrashes against their grips once more, giving escaping another shot.
They only laugh and carry him further into the base.
The place they bring him isn't really a cell, more like a sectioned off area. The doorway is narrow enough that they have to wiggle through while carrying his mass between them, and there's the shake of metal pieces sliding together before Dick hears a click and then he's being released.
It's sudden, and he twists to get his feet underneath him, immediately turning towards the door, intent on barreling his way through the men blocking the door, or at least taking out a chunk of flesh to make them fall and clear the path anyway. He bolts forward one step, two—
And then lets out a yelp as he's jerked back by the neck, stumbling momentarily onto his back with a wheeze as he tries to relieve the pressure on his airway. He shakes himself out and gets back to his feet, whirling around to see what stopped him, what happened, and—
Humiliation curls, thick and sour, in Dick's gut. There's a thick chain bolted into the wall, and then a couple feet of slack before it reaches Dick's collar, like a leash binding him in place. Like he's nothing more than a dog to be chained up and muzzled and kept still, helpless and not human—
"There you go, mutt," one of the men says, laughter threading his tone. "Go ahead, try and pull away again."
Dick wants to. Panic is rising in him again, making his heart pound and a whine want to crawl out of his throat, but like hell is he going to give these men the satisfaction. If they want to watch him pathetically pull against a chain that one glance shows isn't going to budge, they're going to be sorely disappointed.
So instead, Dick drags his claws along the ground, glaring and growling as much as he can with the muzzle in place, trying to convey how much he wants to take them down, how he will take them down when he figures out a way. How they're going to regret ever trying to bind him like this.
They get bored, eventually, of calling taunts at him, and meander away, slapping each other on the backs. Dick's view of the rest of the place is limited now, so some of them exit his line of sight, but a handful of them settle at a rickety-looking table with a deck of cards and begin playing some form of poker.
Typical.
Dick turns to look at the place where the chain is bolted into the wall, examining it for any weak spots. But a closer look doesn't change his first impression, which is that this was put in to last, and is doing its job well. It makes Dick feel slightly sick—how many wolves have these men trapped here like base animals? How many shifters were subject to this particular brand of humiliation?
Dick huffs quietly to himself, a pale imitation of the chuff Bruce would give any time he wanted to comfort his pup. He wants Bruce so badly it nearly hurts, and he curses himself for pushing to go out alone. He just—he just wanted a chance, a chance to prove he's capable, that he can manage without Bruce looking over his shoulder. It was such a quiet night, and he'd been so happy that Bruce said yes.
He really screwed it all up, didn't he.
With nothing better to do, Dick settles down, tail curling, head resting on his paws. The metal of the muzzle bites uncomfortably into his snout, cold against his paws, and he does his best to ignore it. To pretend like it doesn't bother him. Because this is. It's fine. He can do this. He can get out of here.
Right?
Their attention on him comes in bursts and lulls.
Sometimes, they leave him alone completely, acting like he's not even there, simply going about their business like they don't have a shifter vigilante bound just twenty feet away. Those are the good times, allowing Dick to rest a little, conserve his strength, attempt to plan how he might get out of here.
But other times...Other times, they want to have fun.
The taunts and insults are relatively easy to bear, even if they rankle at him, make him want to snap his jaw and make them shut up, make them afraid. But still, Dick's been Robin for about five years now, and criminals saying mean things to him is nothing new. Now, given, they usually don't have him collared and muzzled (trapped trapped trapped) when they insult him, but it's—the concept is the same. He can weather it, even if he hates not being able to taunt back.
It's when they get physical that Dick's stress and humiliation gets worse. It starts with one of them throwing an empty can at him, which leads to one of them pouring a half-drunk bottle of beer along his back, soaking him in rank alcohol. His ears flatten back at that, a snarl rumbling in his throat, but it only makes them laugh. It only makes him feel impotent.
They have a shock baton, and a couple of them are cocky enough to come close enough to electrocute him with it. He feels viciously satisfied when one of them is less careful than his compatriots, and stands in a position that allows Dick to swipe out at him, slashing a gash into his leg and making the man howl with pain.
They shock him extra long after that, and it hurts, leaving him twitching and whimpering on the ground, but he thinks it's worth it.
They talk about selling him. They talk about the traffickers who would happily take him, the mafia dons who would love to have a pet vigilante. They talk about the rich socialites who are always looking for new toys, and how shifters make the best ones
They talk about keeping him for themselves, taking turns with who gets to own him. They talk about beating him down, making him loyal like a dog is supposed to be. They talk about making him forget himself.
Dick's heard of shifters that got lost in the shift. Ones who spent weeks, months, years in their shifted form, who began to forget what it meant to be human. Who started to think humanity was only ever a dream, and they really were just the animals their captors told them they were. Horror stories that always made Dick shudder, terrified and sick. Nauseous at the very idea.
He tries to not let their talk get to him, but it's—hard. Because he has nothing else to do but listen to them, to hear their insidious words, to wonder what's going to happen to him. To be afraid of what the future might bring.
Time passes; Dick doesn't quite know how long, but he thinks it's at least a day, maybe two. The hope of getting himself out of here has shriveled up, and now he clings to the idea of Bruce finding him. He knows his dad is looking for him, knows Bruce is probably tearing Gotham up searching, but he's still injured and concussed and he hasn't found Dick yet, he isn't here yet, and that's—it's scary. Wondering if Bruce will actually find him. Wondering if he'll do it before these men get bored of just playing with Dick, and decide to act upon some of those plans of theirs.
The food they give him is moldy or rotten, but he forces himself to scarf it down, ignoring how disgusting it is in place of getting something in his stomach. They wait long enough to feed him that his stomach is gnawing by the time they do, and they look so smug as they watch him gobble it down, like they're oh so clever for feeding their prisoner bad food.
"Thirsty, puppy?" one of them asks, smirking at him, and Dick doesn't have the energy to growl at him for the 'puppy' comment. From Bruce, from his parents, it would be a term of endearment. Here it just makes him sick.
The man doesn't bother waiting for any kind of acknowledgement from Dick, instead saying, "Here you go," and emptying a bottle of something alcoholic over him. The smell is near overwhelming to his sensitive nose, and it mats down his fur in a way that itches, and all of it burns in his chest, makes his eyes sting in a way that he knows means tears are likely. But he bites down on the inside of his cheek, the pinpoint of pain enough to ground him, to keep him from crying in front of these monsters.
It's sometime on the second—or maybe third—day that things change.
There's some sort of commotion outside of Dick's view—an angry yell and a crash, a sound of pain—and Dick's head perks up, curious and wary, ears twitching. The men he can see react similarly, most getting to their feet, some hands drifting towards weapons.
Then, all of a sudden, they relax, a couple even snorting laughs.
"The hell, Frank?" one of them calls, head cocked.
"Caught this little shit trying to break in," an angry voice calls back, and then he appears in Dick's eyesight. 'Frank' is one of the men who enjoyed shocking Dick, and now he's got his meaty hand wrapped around the thin arm of a kid.
The kid's face is twisted up in some mix of anger and fear, probably thinking the anger covers the other. He's yanking against the grip on him, but he's so small, not possibly older than eight or nine. His other arm is curled against his chest, likely injured, and he's breathing too fast as likely panic sets in.
"I wasn't!" the kid argues. "I didn't know anyone was here!"
"Oh yeah?" Frank challenges, shaking him roughly. Pain flashes across the kid's face. "So no one sent you? You aren't a little spy, is that what you're telling me?"
"Demarco does employ kids," one of the others muses. "And he's been sniffing around lately."
"That it, boy? You work for Demarco?"
"No!" the kid shouts back. "No, I was just looking around, I'm not a—honest, let me go!"
Frank smacks him, hard enough that the kid is clearly stunned, and Dick lets out a growl. Not that they're paying him any attention.
Except, the kid is apparently, because his head snaps up, gaze locking onto Dick. His eyes go wide, and to Dick's confusion it's fear that paints his features at the sight of him, far more obvious than it had been before and completely directed at Dick.
Unfortunately, the men notice, too. Some of them laugh.
"What's the matter?" one of them jeers. "Don't like shifters, kid?"
"Throw him in there," another suggests. "Keep him still until we can decide what to do with him."
"No," the kid gasps as Frank begins to drag him forward, towards where Dick is locked up. His efforts to escape redouble, pulling hard enough against Frank's grip that it makes Dick want to tell him to stop, worried that he's going to hurt himself. "No, no, please, don't—no, please!"
His begging goes unanswered, save a few cruel laughs, and Frank tosses the kid into the 'cell', shoving him past Dick. The kid stumbles, and then whirls around before gasping and pressing himself into the far corner of the room. He has a clear path to escape, not locked up like Dick is, but to do so he'd have to walk past Dick, and he appears unwilling to do so.
"Hang tight, kid," Frank snorts. "We'll figure out what to do with you soon. In the meantime, have fun with the big bad wolf."
Dick can hear the derision in the words, the mocking, but the kid only presses harder against the wall, apparently taking them to heart, his terror obvious.
"No, please," the kid tries again, voice breaking, and Dick's heart goes out to him. He wants to calm him down, to help, but he's trapped, too. He has no way out.
But...But now there's a set of human hands nearby, human hands that could undo the muzzle or collar, or unclip the chain from him. Human hands that could free him, and then Dick could get the pair of them out of here!
There's only one problem: somehow convincing the kid to let him out, when the kid looks five seconds away from passing out from sheer panic.
Jason's arm is throbbing, painful enough that it's almost hard to think of anything except how much it hurts.
Almost, because it's kind of hard to ignore the gray wolf shifter between him and the exit.
He can barely breathe through the panic, the instinctive need to run, to get away, to hide. Wolf shifters are always big and mean, always cruel. They like using their size and strength against you, like hurting smaller targets simply because they can, especially bird shifters like Jason. They see everyone else as prey, and, as some of the biggest shifters there are, they're not even wrong.
This one is muzzled and chained up, but that doesn't mean anything. Jason has seen wolves tear through metal before, like it was tissue paper. This could just be one big ruse, it—Jason doesn't know why it would be but wolves like playing with their food, especially food like Jason who is small, and even smaller when he shifts, and it's—
He was just looking for a place to stay. The condemned apartment building he's been living in the last few months is getting torn down soon, and it's getting colder every day as winter approaches, so Jason needed to find a new place to live and fast. He had no idea anyone was staying in this place, let alone that it was a fucking gang, and now they think he's a spy and he's trapped with a wolf and—and—and—
Jason misses his mom. He wants his mom so badly, wants to be tucked under her wing, wants to feel her preen and groom him, wants to hear that beautiful trill she always gave when they were snuggled up together. But she's—she's dead, now, and dad is locked up, and Jason is alone and now he's trapped—
The wolf is looking at him, has been from the moment that asshole dragged Jason inside. Probably sizing Jason up, imagining the best ways to take him down. To hurt him. Not that it'll be all that hard for him; the wolf isn't as big as some that Jason's seen, but he's still larger than Jason, still terrifying. He hasn't made any aggressive moves yet, but he might just be biding his time. Or maybe aware that the length of his chain doesn't let him reach Jason in his corner.
Jason wants to escape. Wants to rush out the door, sneak away when the men aren't paying attention. But it's—but the wolf could reach him easily if he got that close, could pounce on him, and he doesn't need those terrifying teeth to cause some damage. No, those claws are more than enough.
So Jason is trapped. With a broken arm courtesy of the asshole who brought him in here, and just a couple feet out of reach of a predator.
He's doomed. There's no way this ends well.
The wolf gives a quiet huff, and Jason's eyes snap up from his claws to his face, barely breathing at the sight of those sharp eyes locked onto him. The wolf makes the sound again, and it's—soft, questioning, head tilting slightly to the side.
Jason just stares, heart pounding near out of his chest. What does the shifter want from him? Is he expecting him to just go quietly? Just offer himself up to be bitten like a chew toy?
No, but. The muzzle, he's safe from that at least. The wolf is trapped, too.
He doesn't look all that great, honestly. His coat is damp, sections of fur all tangled up, and he smells like a bar. Like dad did, after a long night of drinking. There are parts where it's almost like the fur has scratched or burned away, showing injured skin beneath.
Another huff, and Jason bares his teeth in response, trying to be brave, to act like he isn't terrified out of his mind. "What?" he snaps, quiet enough so he won't draw the attention of the men who grabbed him. "What do you want?"
The wolf lifts his snout, gesturing with his head towards the wall where the chain is bolted. Then he huffs again, tilting his head over and angling it to allow Jason to see the buckle of the collar.
He wants me to free him, Jason realizes, a tad hysterically. He wants me to make it easier for him to hurt me.
Some sort of rumbling noise escapes the wolf, and Jason flinches before he realizes it isn't a growl. It's—softer, and almost—comforting, in a way, like mama's trills used to be. It only makes Jason more afraid; he can't let the wolf trick him, make him think he's safe when he's not, when he's surrounded by danger—
The wolf whines, and Jason sucks in a sharp breath at the vulnerable noise. His eyes almost pop out of his skull when the wolf shifts to lie down on his side, tilting his head to bare his neck to Jason.
He can't help but stare. Because that's—wolves don't do that, not ever. They would never show weakness, never show their belly or their throat to anyone, not even to lull them into complacency. They're predators, and never make themselves weak. It goes against every instinct they have.
"Awww, isn't that cute," someone jeers, and Jason startles violently enough that it sends sharp pain shooting up his arm, a pained breath hissing through his teeth. The wolf twitches too, and ducks his head, a short snarl escaping him as they both look at the man who approached them.
"The mutt is trying to make the spy feel safe," the man mocks, and the others laugh.
"Robin always trying to save the day," someone else calls derisively, drawing another round of laughs, but that's—did he just say—
Jason's eyes dart back over to the wolf. The shifter is sitting up now, ears flat against his head, the corners of his mouth curled up. He's shifted to put himself more solidly between the exit and Jason, and while that sends fear bolting through him, it also—it seems...protective. Placing himself between Jason and the man.
The other one called him Robin. Is this—is it actually Robin Robin? Batman's partner? Robin is a freaking wolf shifter?
But Robin is also a hero. So if he—if he still is a wolf, if he still is going to hurt Jason, likes to hurt people, at least he—at least he saves people more often than not. He doesn't just attack people at random.
It's Robin. Robin will—Robin will take these men down. He'll get them out of here.
What happens after...Well, he supposes he'll have to deal with that when it comes.
The men call a few more jeering comments, and one of them throws something that the wolf leans out of the way of, and then they leave them alone once more. Jason watches the man walk away, locked onto the threat until he's far enough away, before turning his attention back to the wolf again.
The wolf huffs at him, his aggressive stance softening completely like it was never there. His ears twitch, his blue eyes blinking widely at Jason, not narrowed or threatening like they were at the man.
"Robin?" Jason croaks, and the wolf huffs again, much lighter. His tail shifts back and forth on the ground, almost like it's wagging. Jason can do nothing but stare incredulous at the innocent action.
It's a trap, Jason's mind hisses at him. He's a freaking wolf, they only ever cause pain. He'll hurt you.
But it's Robin. He saves people. Jason can't—he can't just leave Robin locked up here. And he can't—he can't just wait around to see what these men are going to do with either of them.
Robin lies back down, head resting on his paws. He huffs gently, body wiggling back and forth for a moment before stilling. Like this, he seems so...nonthreatening. Not a big bad wolf. A hero who wants to get out of here.
But to help him, Jason has to get close. To undo the collar or muzzle, Jason is—he has to be right there, in easy reach for anything the wolf shifter might do. And what if—what if he does listen to his instincts and hurts Jason? What if as soon as his teeth are free, he bites? Jason has a scar on his arm from where his mom's dealer bit him once. It hurt so badly. He doesn't want to go through that again.
Robin whines, head tipping to bare his throat again. Vulnerable surrender. Jason's chest clenches.
It might be the only way out of here. And it's. It's Robin.
Slowly, Jason begins to inch across the room, broken arm curled against his chest. Robin doesn't move, not even a centimeter, allowing Jason to approach at his own pace and not showing any signs of impatience.
Fear is making Jason's hands shake, his entire body trembling as he gets closer and closer to the beast wolf, wide blue eyes blinking up at him. The smell gets stronger as Jason gets closer, and Jason notices the empty beer bottles and cans around them, like they got emptied in the cell. On the wolf.
I can do this, Jason tells himself. I can do this. He's not a baby anymore, not the little chick that clung to his mother whenever his dad was angry. He's ten and he's alone and he can do this.
He hesitantly crouches beside Robin, and freezes when the wolf shifts. But the wolf is only lying on his side, making himself even more vulnerable, neck arching. It almost makes Jason feel powerful, and it's enough to embolden him to reach out, his working hand reaching for the buckle of the collar.
But his fingers are shaking too much, and he doesn't think he could do this one-handed, anyway. Despair begins to creep up his throat, sure that the wolf will be angry at him for failing, is angry at himself for not being able to manage anything as simply as undoing a freaking buckle—
He could do it in his shifted form, he realizes. With his beak he could get a solid grip on the leather strap and pull it free, no hands necessary.
But that means he'd have to shift. Would have to become a bird, right in front of a dangerous wolf. Giving Robin an even better reason to hurt him, making himself a perfect target right there, a little bird that can't stop a wolf from doing anything. And his—his broken arm will translate to a broken wing, a level of vulnerability that has Jason's stomach churning with sour fear.
Being a kid with a broken arm is bad enough, but a bird with a broken wing? When his bones like that are already so damn fragile? He might as well hang a sign that says Eat Me.
Robin sill hasn't moved, holding perfectly still even though he must be wondering what's taking Jason so long, why the collar isn't gone yet. Why Jason isn't helping Robin get them out of here.
I can do this, Jason tells himself again. I can do this. And whatever happens, happens.
The shift ripples over Jason, his worldview shifting. His arm—wing—throbs with the movement, and he can't help the afraid peep that escapes him. A busted wing—God, he's such easy prey like this.
But Jason forces himself to keep going. He hops up onto the body of the wolf, ignoring how afraid that makes him, ignoring the way his wing is shooting with pain. He inches closer, and then leans down, closing his beak around the strap of the collar.
It takes a few tugs, but he gets the hang of it, sliding the leather through the straps and then out of the metal tong keeping it in place.
The wolf shudders when the collar finally falls away, a whimper slipping out of him, but he makes no sudden movements, continuing to hold perfectly still while Jason sits on his shoulder.
Figuring he might as well finish the job, Jason leans towards the buckle of the muzzle, repeating the process so that the metal contraption falls aside as well.
The wolf's jaw opens slightly, a thick breath escaping him, and Jason's pulse speeds at the sight of those sharp teeth, the weapons that could tear Jason to shreds with barely the slightest bit of pressure.
Jason hops off, taking a few quick steps away before shifting back to his human form, feeling a little more settled when he's bigger than a tiny, vulnerable bird.
The body of the wolf ripples, and then there's a boy in yellow, green, and red lying in front of Jason, black hair curling against his forehead. The boy—it really is Robin—simply pants where he is for a moment, taking deep breaths, and then slowly pushes himself up to a seated position.
"Hi," Robin says quietly, offering Jason a smile. It's a tired look, but it seems real, and against his will Jason feels himself relaxing. "I'm going to get us out of here, I promise. Could you shift back to a bird? It will be easier to escape if you're small enough to be held."
Jason's heart thuds in his chest, terrified. Of course he wants Jason to be a bird again, of course he prefers the prey to the boy—but he's...probably not wrong. It. If...If there's a fight.
Without a word, Jason shifts back, forcing himself to hop closer once more. He flinches when Robin's hand reaches for him, but the hero picks him up gently, careful of his bent wing, moving slowly until he can curl Jason against his chest. Jason trembles in his grip, eyes squeezed shut, and resigns himself to whatever is going to follow.
Robin pushes himself to his feet, and Jason hears him pull something from his belt with his free hand, and then they're in motion.
There's shouting, and they move fast, and Jason's wing throbs with every twist of Robin's body. But Robin's grip on him stays steady, not painful, and never close to dropping him. Jason can tell that there is some fighting going on, but Robin keeps Jason out of the line of fire somehow, and then they're running.
Jason doesn't know how long it is before they stop. He knows they've made their way to the rooftops at some point, felt the wind rustle through his feathers and Robin somehow swings through the air, but eventually they slow and stop all together.
Robin's grip on him relaxes, and Jason finds himself being gently set down. Robin moves away from him almost immediately, backing up a few steps and then sitting down crossed-legged, smiling gently at Jason.
"Thank you for freeing me," Robin says, looking exhausted. "No idea how long I would've been there, if not for you. It was very brave."
Jason doesn't shift back, doesn't reply. They're on a rooftop, and at least as a bird Jason can try to fly away if Robin makes any sudden moves. Not that he would be able to fly well, or very far, but it's a better chance of escape than as a one-armed human.
"I pushed my distress beacon, so Batman should be on the way," Robin tells him, apparently unbothered by Jason's silence. "He can help you with that wing, make sure it sets right so you shouldn't lose any mobility. I'm sure shifting back and forth didn't help the injury, and I really appreciate you doing it."
Jason doesn't—he doesn't know how to react. Robin is offering him help? To fix his wing? But he's—he's a wolf, he should be—should be—
Robin carefully extends a hand, but he isn't reaching for Jason, instead offering his knuckles like one might to a dog, to let them sniff your hand. Maybe that's a wolf shifter thing, too. Maybe he doesn't know any other way to communicate with the bird shifter in front of him.
Jason swallows and takes a couple steps closer, pecking at Robin's knuckles with a chirp. Robin doesn't snatch his hand back, or look upset. Instead he laughs, smiling brightly, and gently strokes a finger along Jason's side in a soothing motion.
"It's okay, chick," Robin says softly. "We'll take care of you, okay?"
Maybe it all is a game. Maybe this is just another wolf shifter playing with his food. But maybe Robin means it, maybe he'll actually—maybe this will be good.
So Jason doesn't try to fly away, or shift back and run. Instead he curls against Robin's hand, allowing the hero to keep smoothing his feathers gently, like his mama used to do.