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The problem was that Tim was the only one in the Tower right now.
The problem was that Tim had removed his suit—his suit, which contained charms and gear and his silver-tipped bo staff.
The problem was that Tim was human, and the person chasing him through the Tower was decidedly not.
Tim slammed the emergency doors shut behind him as he kept running, a stitch searing down his side as he tried to plan on the fly. Thinking was the only advantage he had on the monster chasing him—irises swallowed by black pupils, fangs extended, silent as the grave until they’d leapt at Tim across the table and completely destroyed his laptop as he flailed back.
Tim didn’t understand—silver was one of the defenses built into the Tower. For a vampire to bypass it, they either needed the codes or a suicidal streak and the latter wouldn’t have left them functioning for an attack.
The armory was at the end of the hallway and Tim sprinted as he heard the doors behind him creak. They shuddered open as Tim reached the armory door, and he hastily entered the code in the keypad as the footsteps tore after him.
The armory door clicked, Tim pulled it open and slammed it shut behind him, not even wasting a second to take a breath before running to the silver section. He grabbed a backup bo staff and snapped it out to its full length, before snatching a selection of cuffs and the silver-lined bola.
Tim froze.
In the abrupt silence, he could hear the slow beeps coming from the door.
Fear slid like a block of ice into his stomach. So the feral vampire did have the codes to the Tower. How?
Tim stayed near the silver section, lurking behind a shelf as the door clicked open and the vampire stalked inside. It didn’t take long for them to find him, and Tim readied his weapons as the vampire headed straight towards him.
Tim didn’t give them the chance to attack. He lashed out with the bola, neatly restraining the vampire and causing them to topple over from the impact. Before the line could untangle, Tim lunged out, cuffs at the ready, catching strong wrists and latching the cold metal around them.
The vampire growled, thrashing in the bindings, as Tim double-checked the cuffs. He finally felt his heart rate calm down as he pushed back up to his feet and ran a hand through his hair, exhausted and breathless and sweaty.
He definitely needed to put in an extra hour on the treadmill.
Tim kept his staff extended, but the vampire was surrounded by silver and they weren’t a threat, feral or not. He tried to catalogue the visible features, behind the dark, hungry eyes and the slavering fangs and the twisted expression.
They were tall and broad—almost the size of Bruce, and with vampire strength to back up that muscle, Tim was very glad they hadn’t got ahold of him. There was a thin rim of green around their pupils, and a stark lock of white hair amidst the black. Death-touched, he’d heard it called among the supernatural community, a sign of someone who’d passed too close to the veil—or perhaps beyond it—only to claw their way back.
Black-green eyes latched on him, swift and sudden, and Tim resisted the urge to take a step back. The vampire was already bound, all Tim had to do was get him to one of their silver cells and toss in a couple of blood bags before figuring out who the guy was and what he wanted. Vampires didn’t usually stray so close to the West Coast, and Batman would have his hide if a vampire followed him all the way from Gotham.
He also had to find out how the guy had gotten their codes, and it figured that all the problems would land in his lap, Tim had been having the worst run of luck lately, and—
There was a sudden, sharp snap.
Tim spun back around to the vampire—but it was too late, the guy was no longer restrained, broken cuffs hanging from each wrist. He’d shrugged off the effects of the silver on and around him like it was just a minor inconvenience.
Lips curved into a smile around sharp fangs as dark eyes focused on his shock.
Tim had just enough time to bring his staff up—not that it mattered, the vampire brushed the silver tipped weapon aside like it wasn’t even there—Tim’s steps stuttered back—fangs glinted in the air—
And closed around his exposed arm, biting deep into the soft skin at the underside of his elbow.
Tim screamed.
A vampire bite—a willing vampire bite—usually started by numbing the skin, so their blood donor of choice wouldn’t feel the excruciating pain of fangs tearing through flesh, claws closing around his arm bruising-tight to force him still under the onslaught.
The silver staff did nothing to halt the vampire’s hunger, and it soon dropped from trembling fingers. A matter of seconds and the room was spinning around Tim as slurping sounds echoed in his ears.
It was starting to get…cold.
A feral vampire. Vampires starved of all blood, lost to madness, desperate and hungry and mindlessly attacking any human that crossed their path. Vampires that couldn’t be reasoned with, that didn’t understand the meaning of the word stop.
Vampires that would drain their meal dry, suck up every last drop, and never realize what they were doing.
“Stop,” Tim said, his mouth slurring around the word. His knees felt like wobbling jelly. “Stop.”
The vampire didn’t stop.
“Please,” Tim said—his knees crumpled, but the vampire didn’t care, merely adjusted his grip so that Tim was hanging from his arm, knees barely brushing the ground. His head was too heavy to hold up. “You’re—you’re going to kill me.”
The vampire did not stop. The vampire did not care.
Darkness slithered around him—Tim made one last ditch effort, raising his hand to try and pull the vampire off, but it wavered and fell before he could even get close.
Tim took a deep, ragged breath, wetness sliding down his cheeks, his heartbeat slowing.
His eyes slid shut.
Silver. They thought silver could keep him down.
Jason grinned, and enjoyed the look of shock-and-fear on the human’s face as he snapped the cuffs in two.
The silver toothpick in the human’s arms was even less of a weapon, and Jason ignored it to latch onto the bare arm, the vein throbbing at the inside of the elbow, the delicious scent of blood he’d been tracking through the entire Tower.
All his. Ready for the taking.
Fangs sank through skin like butter and the first taste of blood felt like heaven. It was ambrosia, it was heady, it was water on a parched tongue and Jason sank his fangs in deeper as he took gulp after gulp after gulp.
He’d forgotten what this tasted like. Months of drinking from demons or creatures and withering away as it didn’t satisfy, as it never satisfied—months of training against silver, training with silver, until Jason could ignore the howling hunger and the throb of exhaustion and cut down anyone in his path.
And now, finally, after all this time—human blood.
The angle of his bite shifted, and Jason made an annoyed sound as he readjusted his grip, holding the limb easily as he slurped, careful not to waste a single drop. He dimly noted that the silver toothpick had stopped needling at him, and the sobs had finally petered out.
He was hungry and he wanted to focus on his meal, distractions were annoying. Inconsequential—Jason knew how strong he was, as large as any hunter, but with vampire strength to match it—but still annoying.
A drop of blood slipped down his chin, threatening to fall, and Jason momentarily disengaged his fangs, using a hand to catch the stray drop and lick it up. Blood bubbled up easily from the mangled bite—Jason had really made a mess—and he lapped at it, burying his mouth back against skin and inhaling the sweet iron taste of fresh blood.
It was warm and thick and delicious, no poison-taste of silver or acidic black of demon blood. Jason could keep drinking forever, drink until the spring of red ran dry, drink until the hollow in his stomach finally eased, drink until he was satisfied.
Jason took a long pull and paused to lick his fangs clean—he’d usually look at Bruce and judge the man’s pallor to see if he could sneak in another gulp or if Bruce was done for the day, but Jason was so hungry, surely Bruce would let him have some more, he’d—
Jason blinked down at the arm he was clutching. The arm that was too skinny and too pale to be Bruce’s.
Jason followed the arm down to the limp form half-hanging from his grip, and let go in shock.
The boy promptly collapsed into a lifeless puddle of limbs.
His stomach cramped painfully, rather insistently reminding him that he was still starving, but the greater part of Jason was shrieking in horror.
What the fuck had he done?
Jason hurriedly crouched down, hunting for a pulse—the boy’s heart was beating, but slowly—blood was welling up from the mangled wound, red and tantalizing, and Jason snapped his mouth closed, nearly biting down on his own lip in his haste.
He’d attacked a kid.
He’d stolen blood from a kid.
What the hell had he been thinking?
Jason scrambled to scoop up the kid, casting a quick glance at his surroundings—some sort of weapons vault—wait a minute—he recognized this place—he was in Titans Tower.
He’d attacked a hunter kid. Great to know that things could still get worse.
Luckily, Jason had been here before, and knew where the medbay was, and where the blood bags where—and judging by the kid’s pallor, he needed a transfusion immediately.
“I’m so sorry,” Jason whispered, running through the halls with a limp, cold teenager in his arms, “I—I didn’t mean to—” Every breath wafted more of the delicious scent of fresh blood and Jason shut up and stopped breathing.
Jason deposited the kid on the first cot and hastily bound the wound—Jason couldn’t believe he’d mauled the kid’s arm half open—before running to get the blood bags, snatching a couple of bags of O negative, and grabbing a handful of the others on his way. He set up the needle with jerky movements, having watched it being done enough times to know the drill, and laid the kid’s uninjured arm out straight.
The problem was, Jason was still starving, and he didn’t trust himself near a human vein right now.
Jason swallowed painfully—he could feel his fangs half-extend the longer he stared at the expanse of smooth, unmarked skin, blood pumping sluggishly right below the surface—
Jason grabbed one of the other blood bags and tore into it with little grace, suppressing his wince at the artificial, too-cold taste, and using it to resist the urge to bite into skin. He held the kid’s arm straight, located the vein, and plunged the needle in.
The blood bag fluttered, drained dry, and Jason grabbed another one before he could lean forward. He finished taping the needle in place, and rounded the bed to properly dress the tears he’d made with his fang—luckily, the wound didn’t need stitches, because Jason was swiftly losing ahold of his self-control.
He practically threw a blanket on top of the kid—keep them warm to reduce the chances of shock—before moving as far away from the kid as the room allowed.
He opened the third bag and sucked slower on this one, trying to calm down, regain control by his fingertips—he burned through blood faster after he’d been raised from the dead, and he constantly hovered on the edge of feral.
This was the first time he’d actually attacked someone, though.
This was the first time he’d stolen blood from a kid.
This was the first time…wasn’t it?
Dick had been the first one to get the distress call from Titans Tower. He immediately made his way there, his heart caught in his throat—Tim was the only one reported to be inside, which meant that something had happened to his little brother, which meant that he’d failed yet again.
The Tower was silent. Dick quietly slipped through the halls, escrima sticks at the ready, looking for anything out of place.
It wasn’t difficult to find. There was a trail of destruction winding through the Tower—broken electronics, smashed furniture, destroyed doors, and it ended in the armor, near the pieces of a silver-lined rope and a small patch of blood.
Vampire.
Dick felt the old, dark rage seethe through his veins. A vampire had murdered his parents. A vampire had murdered his brother. And now a vampire had broken into the Tower and attacked Tim.
If Tim had managed to fend off his attacker, he would’ve headed to the medbay—to both treat his injuries, and use their blood bag collection. Silver killed vampires, and slowly, but there were several other poisons that would take a vamp down without killing them.
Dick slowly poked his head into the medbay, and halted in sheer shock. If there had been a trail of destruction through the Tower, then the medbay was a warzone—empty blood bags littered the floor, and there were splatters of blood everywhere.
Dick took a hesitant step inside and scanned the corners, confirming the lack of other occupants before rushing to the small, slight figure curled up underneath a thick blanket.
“Tim?” Dick asked softly, gently shaking the boy, “Tim, wake up. Tim?” The boy was pale and shivering, skin cold and clammy to the touch, and his pulse was slow.
There was a quarter-empty blood bag feeding into a needle in Tim’s left arm. The right arm had a large white bandage and Dick peeled back the corner enough to confirm his suspicions.
Fang marks. A bite. A vampire had bitten Tim and drained enough blood to leave the kid pale, shaking, and unconscious.
Fury swelled, and crystallized into icy rage. Whoever did this didn’t want Tim dead—no, they’d set up a transfusion while they depleted the rest of their blood stock. They’d bandaged Tim’s wounds. They’d ensured he wouldn’t go into shock.
The thing that made vampires such terrifying predators was that they enjoyed playing with their food.
Tim was supposed to be alone at the Tower. The unknown vampire probably hadn’t realized that Tim managed to get a distress call out. Which meant that the predator was about to turn prey.
Dick double-checked to make sure that Tim wasn’t going to get worse, and stalked out of the medbay.
He didn’t have to go far.
The sounds of retching came from the bathroom right outside the medbay, and Dick eased inside, careful not to make a sound. There was a figure hunched over a blood-splattered sink, claws sliding against porcelain, taking heaving breaths.
Broken silver cuffs hung around both his wrists, and there were angry red welts across his upper arms.
The breathing stuttered, and the vampire bent down, gagging as the blood made a reappearance. There was a half-empty blood bag on the floor—Dick knew that blood bags were the equivalent of junk food, unhealthy and over-processed, and this vampire had apparently tried to drink too much, too fast.
Dick was not inclined to feel sorry for him. He attacked before the vampire could sense his presence—one slash of his escrima to send the vamp crashing to the ground, and another, accompanied by sizzling electricity, to keep him there.
Batman used silver. But any vamp could develop a silver tolerance if they tried hard enough, and Dick liked his toys much better.
The vampire weakly pushed himself off the floor—arrested by Dick’s escrima nudging into the hollow of his throat, and Dick smiled, intending to make it perfectly clear why no one went after his family—
The vampire looked up. Green eyes painfully wide, half-stunned, half-hopeful, and Dick faltered—no, it couldn’t be—it wasn’t—
“Dick?” asked the apparition of a dead boy.
No.
No.
Jason was dead. Jason—when they’d finally gotten him away from the Joker’s clutches, it was too late. He had too much silver in his bloodstream to survive the night. That was what they said, all the doctors, all the analyses, and Dick had watched Bruce break apart, holding his son’s cooling hand in his own as Jason’s vitals dropped, bit by bit.
He never once opened his eyes.
They never got the chance to say goodbye.
And yet here he was—years older, a shock of white in his hair, mouth dripping red, looking up at Dick like he was the ghost.
“Jay?” Dick said, the escrima loosening a fraction.
Jason sucked in a deep breath, his eyes widening as his expression crumpled. “I’m sorry,” his dead brother said, breaths coming faster and shallower, “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to, Dick, he’s a kid, I would never hurt a kid—I don’t know what happened—I can’t remember—I was just so hungry—I’m sorry, I’m really sorry—”
“Jason,” Dick murmured, dropping ungainly to his knees and lowering the escrima stick, “You—you’re here. You’re alive.”
Alive and well, no trace of silver poisoning in sight, no clouded eyes or discolored skin. Aside from the fact that he’d clearly just been vomiting up blood, Jason looked…fine. Better. Older, taller, he’d put on some serious muscle, and now Dick’s eyes were stinging because he’d always called Jason ‘Little Wing’ and he’d mourned the fact that his little brother would never get the chance to grow up and yet here he was.
“…Dick?” Jason asked hesitantly, and Dick threw caution to the winds to lunge forward and grab Jason in a hug. His little brother was alive.
He was not expecting Jason to dive out of the way, his expression suddenly terrified. “Don’t!” Jason said, high-pitched, raising his arms as if to fend Dick off, “You can’t—I’m so hungry—you can’t get close to me!”
Dick paused. Took in his little brother again—the sheer volume of blood bags, though those had clearly gone straight down the drain, the trembling in his limbs, the red-rimmed eyes. Remembered Tim, the careful way his wound had been treated.
And revised his opinion of who exactly sent that distress call.
“Jaybird,” Dick said softly, tugging off one of his gloves, “You’re my little brother. I thought you were dead. There is nothing in the world that will stop me from giving you a hug, Little Wing.” He offered his wrist in an open invitation.
Jason lowered his arms, staring at his bared skin in desperate hunger, but holding himself back. “I can’t,” he whispered, “I—I nearly killed the kid, I can’t stop myself—”
“I will stop you, if necessary.”
Jason’s eyes were darkening, his fangs slowly sliding out, but he still didn’t move. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I don’t want to see you starving,” Dick said softly, “You’re not going to hurt me, Little Wing.”
Jason swallowed, and edged forward. He darted a look up at Dick’s face, as though searching for a lie, and slowly bent over Dick’s offered wrist. He gave it a couple of licks before hovering over the skin, fangs fully out, inhaling like Dick’s hand was a bouquet of roses.
When he sank his fangs in, Dick didn’t feel a thing.
He leaned forward as Jason began drinking, sucking long, deep pulls, and rested a hand on Jason’s head, slowly combing fingers through his hair. Jason made a low sound around the slurping, and slumped sideways, dropping against Dick as he drank from his wrist.
Dick tucked his little brother firmly against him, and let his head fall against those dark locks, his eyes prickling painfully. Alive. Alive and warm and here, where Dick could feel the pulse under his fingers, the warmth of his skin, the brightness of his green eyes, all the ways that marked him different from the living corpse they’d stood vigil over, all those years ago.
“Little Wing,” Dick said, his voice cracking. Tears dripped soundlessly onto Jason’s hair. “I am so happy to see you again.”
Jason made a sound like a sob, clutching Dick’s wrist close even as he burrowed further into Dick’s grasp.
Dark spots were slowly edging around Dick’s vision, and he gently but firmly pulled Jason’s head away from his arm. “Enough,” he said as Jason strained to lick the still-beading drops.
Jason whined, but reluctantly let go, licking his lips to catch every stray drop.
Dick wrapped a hasty bandage around the wound, and turned enough to look his little brother in the eyes. “Are you still hungry?” he asked softly, surprised—even starving, even feral, feeding from two different people should’ve been enough to satiate him. Especially if he’d half-drained Tim.
Jason’s crumpled expression was enough of an answer. “Hey, Little Wing, it’s okay,” Dick murmured, drawing Jason close again, “We’ll figure this out. You’re alive, which means that everything else is solvable.” The distress call had gone to the Cave as well, which meant that Bruce should be arriving soon.
“I—I don’t know how—I didn’t—”
“Shh, Little Wing,” Dick hushed him, “It’s okay. You’re here and you’re alive and everything else is secondary.”
Jason didn’t relax, but he didn’t try to refute it either, and Dick took the small victory.
Bruce had felt his heart skip a beat when he saw the distress call. It would take him an hour to reach San Francisco, and the tight curl of dread and fear and horror loosened slightly when Nightwing confirmed he’d arrived at the Tower.
He’d awaited Nightwing’s update, prepared for anything from an accidental summons to—to a death, but nothing could’ve prepared him for what Nightwing had sent.
Emergency handled. Tim injured, not critical. Jason’s alive.
Bruce had nearly crashed the plane. Nightwing had thoughtfully included a picture with the update, because Bruce couldn’t believe what he’d read.
Jason, blinking at the camera, smears of blood drying on his chin, green eyes vivid and bright. A brush of white hair. The mark of death, some called it.
But Jason was dead. No vampire could’ve survived what the Joker had done to him, no vampire could’ve lived with that much silver in their veins. Bruce had held his son as he died, and knew that he wouldn’t wake up. It wasn’t possible.
And yet here Jason was.
Bruce was abruptly and extremely grateful that he hadn’t cremated Jason. Nothing could come back from a fire death.
It was a herculean effort not to jump out of the plane as soon as he caught sight of Titans Tower, and Bruce didn’t bother to hold back as he sprinted through the halls and ran through the doors of the medbay.
He stopped short as the chatter in the room broke off.
There was a small bundle on the bed, one arm poking out from the mound of blankets with a needle snaking up to a half-full bag of red. Dick was sitting on the chair next to the bed, one hand—glove off, bandaged wrist—absently patting the head of black hair atop the blankets, while the other was twined with pale fingers, gripping fast as Jason looked up, his expression fearful.
“Jay,” Bruce thought, or said, he wasn’t quite sure which. All he knew was that the ten steps separating him and his son were far too much, and he needed to rectify that immediately.
Jason flinched, which was the only thing that could halt him in his tracks.
“Jason,” Bruce whispered, now only two steps away, one hand half-outstretched, and Jason visibly shuddered at the sound of his name.
He took a deep breath, and unwound his fingers from Dick’s, still not looking up at Bruce. Then he clasped his hands, one on top of the other, and held it out to Bruce, head bowed.
Bruce noted the faded red marks around his bare wrists, but ignored them in favor of gently grasping Jason’s hands. “Jay-lad,” Bruce said softly, and Jason jerked violently.
“No,” he rasped, “No, don’t—don’t call me that.”
Bruce exchanged a startled glance with Dick. “What happened, Jay?” Bruce asked, “Why—what did—”
Jason still refused to look up, speaking to his knees. “I know I—I screwed up,” he said hoarsely, “I—I didn’t meant to, I didn’t—but I get it. You—you’re taking me to Arkham. Just—just, please, don’t say—don’t sound like—don’t—”
“No, Jason,” Bruce cut him off, because what. Dick looked just as bewildered as him, and Bruce dropped Jason’s hands and crouched to get a better chance of looking him in the eyes. “I’m not taking you to Arkham.” What could possibly make you think that?
“But,” Jason looked confused, “But Arkham’s where the vampires go. Where else—”
“I’m not sending you to prison!” Right now, Bruce wanted nothing more than to wrap his newly alive son in a hug—he had no idea how and why Jason had arrived at the conclusion of Arkham.
Jason stared at him, expressionless. “I hurt a kid,” he said, his voice blank.
Bruce darted another glance at Tim, but Dick made the all-clear signal, so he turned back to Jason. “Why did you hurt him?” Bruce asked levelly—he’d gotten the bare bones of the details from Dick, but Jason was clearly attempting to confess.
“I—I didn’t mean to,” Jason stuttered, blankness dissipating into horror, “I was just—I was so hungry, I didn’t realize, I swear, I didn’t mean it!”
“I believe you, Jason,” Bruce said quietly—the words he should’ve said years ago, when he found his son standing next to a body drained dry with horror and satisfaction churning across his face. “I’m not taking you to Arkham.”
“You—you don’t understand—I didn’t even realize—I’m a threat, you can’t let me go free, I could hurt someone again—I could—”
“You were hungry. You’re not a threat, you just need a full meal.”
Jason’s eyes narrowed and, before Dick could track, before Bruce could stop him, Jason had lunged out of his chair, vaulting past Dick and onto the bed, snagging Tim with one arm as he backed into the furthest corner of the bed.
“I am a threat,” Jason growled, extended fangs an inch away from Tim’s jugular. “I’m faster than you. I’m stronger than you. I spent years training against silver exposure. You can’t take me down and you can’t keep me down. You can’t stop me from hurting people. You can’t even stop me from hurting him.”
Jason lightly pressed his fangs against Tim’s neck to emphasize his point, his eyes darkening with hunger.
Dick’s fingers were nearly white with how hard he was gripping the arms of his chair. Tim was limp, eyes closed, but his fingers were trembling. Bruce stayed where he was and took a deep breath.
“Are you going to hurt him?” he asked calmly.
Jason moved slightly away from Tim’s throat, startled by the question. “I—that’s not the point.”
“That is the point,” Bruce said.
“No, it’s not,” Jason snarled, “I could hurt him! I could drain him dry right in front of you and none of you could stop me!”
“You certainly could,” Bruce said levelly, “But would you?”
Jason lowered Tim, his expression crumpling. “I don’t want to,” he said, voice thick, “But I can’t—I can’t control myself—”
Bruce snorted, he couldn’t help himself.
Jason drew his expression into a frown, half-shocked, half-hurt.
“Jay,” Bruce said softly, trying not to let his exasperation show, “You have more self-control than the majority of vampires I’ve met.”
“No, I don’t—”
“From when I first met you, I saw—”
“Things change!” Jason snapped out, “I don’t have that kind of control anymore!”
“Jason,” Bruce said quietly, “I cannot think of any other hungry vampire that could’ve held their fangs to a human’s neck and not bit down.”
Jason blinked at him. And then at Tim, who was doing a very good job of faking being asleep, if they ignored the fingers curled tightly into his blanket.
“I—I didn’t—”
“And,” Bruce continued, “I have never met a feral vampire that managed to stop themselves before they drained someone dry.”
Jason was still staring at Tim, his hair covering his eyes as clawed hands tightened into fists, loosened, and tightened again.
“Jay,” Bruce said softly, and Jason moved again, nearly a blur as he leapt off the bed. Bruce didn’t have the time to brace himself before Jason all-but-tackled him, grunting as he was knocked flat on his back as arms closed superhumanly tight around him.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Jason said wetly, his head burrowed over Bruce’s chest, the thicket part of his armor.
Bruce finally, finally indulged his desire to wrap his son in a hug. “You won’t,” Bruce promised, holding him tightly.