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“Let me go,” Tim said, in what was his best attempt at a level voice. He tried to subtly twist out of the grasp pinning his arms to the side and his back flat against body armor.
“No,” the mechanized voice drawled.
“Hood,” Tim hissed through gritted teeth, “stop it. Let me go. Or—”
“Or what?” Hood asked mockingly. “Batman will show up? Batman isn’t in town, Replacement, and you’re not supposed to be on patrol.”
He was right on both accounts—Tim knew that he wasn’t allowed out on his own, and Nightwing was in Bludhaven and too busy to come babysit him, but he had intended for a quiet, routine patrol of Somerset.
Unfortunately, Ivy had been in a Mood, and his survey through East End had ended in a fight, and he’d only managed to get out of Robinson Park because the Red Hood had showed up as a distraction.
Also unfortunately, Tim hadn’t managed to get his rebreather on fast enough, and had taken a burst of pollen straight to the face.
“Nightwing will show up,” Tim said with a confidence he didn’t feel. He hadn’t had enough time to contact anyone before the cramps hit, spearing agony pulsing through him, and he hadn’t been in any state to fight Hood off when he came to investigate.
“Well until he does, looks like you’re stuck with me,” Hood said. Tim could imagine the satisfaction dripping from the words. Could imagine exactly what was going through Hood’s head at the thought of finding Robin helpless and alone near his stomping grounds.
“Let me go!”
“You don’t want me to let you go,” Hood drawled. “Trust me on that.”
Tim gritted his teeth, but he was right about that as well. Ivy’s pollen was excruciatingly painful, and the only thing that eased the torture was physical contact.
“Maybe I do,” Tim snapped back. “I definitely prefer it to you squeezing the life out of me.”
Hood’s grip spasmed, and the murderous aura swelled. “I’m not going to call your bluff,” Hood said finally, his tone measured, “even though you’re being a little shit.”
“Hood—”
“Shut the fuck up, Replacement. I know you got hit with Ivy’s pollen, I know exactly how much pain you’ll be in if I leave, so do the calculations in that supposedly smart brain of yours and ask yourself—do you really want me to go?”
Tim weighed the options next to each other. On one hand, the Red Hood. The guy who’d beaten Tim half to death in Titans Tower, who hated Batman, who looked at Robin like he was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. On the other hand, Ivy’s pollen. Four hours of shrieking, unrelenting agony.
With Hood, it might not be four straight hours of agony. However, Hood had no reason to stop after four hours, and by that time, Tim might be too hurt to leave.
And no one knew he was out on patrol.
Tim slowly, carefully tensed his muscles—if he managed to make it to the ledge, and slipped down and out of sight, he could ride out the pollen inside a dumpster or something. He just had to get away from Hood.
He waited, counting down from ten in his head, as Hood took his silence as an answer and slightly loosened his grip.
Tim lunged forward—he broke past Hood’s grasp, and a thrill of victory sang into him, he just needed to reach the roof’s edge, he just had to—
Agony slammed into him before he got a step away, sending him crashing to the roof but Tim didn’t even register the loose gravel under his knees, biting into his wrists, because someone was carving his bones with rusty knives and lighting his nerves on fire and pouring acid over every inch of his skin, and it was too much.
Tim didn’t know if the scream was out loud or in his head, but he did hear the vivid, colorful cursing as something wrapped around his shoulders and yanked him back. The pain disappeared slowly, echoes resounding through his limbs like they couldn’t believe it was actually gone, and Tim blinked past the tears to realize that he was curled up in a lap, held firmly in place.
“—kind of masochistic moron would willingly put themselves through—you know what, don’t answer that question, I don’t want to know what the hell you’re into, just—Jesus, where does B even find these kids, all of them bleeding martyrs for the cause.”
The tears came faster, spurred by the blurry red bat in his wavering vision. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t let go of Hood. He was utterly at the man’s mercy, and Tim knew full well that he had none.
He drew a wavering hand up to click the button that removed the whiteout lenses before his mask filled up with water, and he couldn’t hide the choked sob as Hood took advantage of the opportunity to grab his chin and force him to look up at the red helmet.
“You knew it was going to hurt,” Hood said, entirely unsympathetic. “I have no idea what you were trying to prove, but I don’t have fucking cooties, Replacement.”
Tim was hyperaware that he was trapped against Hood’s chest. Of the guns and knives in Hood’s reach. Of Tim’s inability to get away, stuck as thoroughly as if he’d been chained—no, more thoroughly, because Tim could fight chains, could pick locks and escape, but he couldn’t fight the chemicals in his bloodstream.
He was shaking, he noted distantly, and a gloved hand was rubbing gently up and down his arm. Trying to get him to calm down? Trying to lull him into a false sense of security?
Tim remembered running through the halls of Titans Tower, broken bones shifting, panic biting deep as he realized that this was an enemy out of his league. He reimagined the fight if he couldn’t fight, couldn’t move—hell, Hood didn’t even have to do anything special to torture him, all he had to do was take a step back.
“Replacement?” Hood said slowly, and Tim realized he was trembling violently, like a leaf caught in a gust. “Are you—if you’re having a seizure, we need to get you to a hospital.”
Tim took a deep, ragged breath and twisted his head, burying it against the armor so Hood couldn’t see the tears leaking out of his eyes. Hood’s hand shifted to rubbing circles in his back and he hated it, he hated that it felt nice, he hated that he couldn’t relax, he hated that it was Hood in front of him while his mind tried desperately to pretend it was Dick or Bruce.
“Hey,” Hood said, his voice going as soft as it could through the voice distorter, “I’m not leaving, okay? I’m right here.”
That was the entire goddamn problem.
Tim screwed up his courage and dared to ask, “What do you want?”
“What?”
“What do you want?” Tim repeated, his voice barely making it past a whisper.
“Existentially? Financially? For breakfast? You need to be a little more specific there, Replacement.”
“You can’t expect me to believe you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart.” The words came out more bitter than Tim intended. “So you want something. What is it?”
Hood was silent for a long, stretching moment. Tim swallowed, and waited—if Hood tried to deflect again, that meant whatever he wanted, he didn’t want to say out loud. Which was bad. On the other hand, Hood could say something about killing or violence, and Tim would be forced to deny him, and it would turn into a fight.
Hood cleared his throat awkwardly. “I,” he said slowly, “got hit. By the pollen.”
Tim untucked his head enough to squint at him. “You’re wearing a helmet,” he pointed out.
Hood raised one of his hands so that Tim could see the glittering shine on his glove, his jacket, and smeared across the strip of skin between them. “Guess Ivy changed up the absorption method this time.”
Oh. That made sense. No wonder Hood was hugging him—the man probably hadn’t gotten far enough away, and Tim was the only other person on the rooftop. Tim was—grudgingly—willing to cuddle with his enemy to stave off the stabbing agony, and Hood, murderous or not, was definitely not crazy enough to kill him like this.
Hurt him, yes, but Tim had a card of his own to play—all he had to do was break free, and Hood would be delirious from pain.
The only thing he would have to track was if the Lazarus Pit gave Hood an edge on burning through the pollen, and if so, how many minutes of difference it would give. Hood would only need a couple of seconds to kill him, but even in Titans Tower, even with Tim unconscious at his feet, Hood hadn’t gone through with it.
“You willing to call a truce till this wears off, or is that against some rule in your Bat handbook?” Hood asked sardonically.
Tim took a deep breath and slowly relaxed. “I’m willing to call a truce,” he said levelly. He waited a beat, but Hood didn’t immediately attack him, and he relaxed further. Hood didn’t have the patience to play a long game, which meant that all Tim had to do was monitor the duration of the pollen.
“Fantastic,” Hood said. “Glad to see B hasn’t turned you into a mindless soldier. Speaking of which, I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to patrol alone.”
“You’re one to talk,” Tim grumbled, and then froze when the words trickled into awareness.
Now Hood was definitely going to kill him, pollen or no pollen.
Instead of getting a knife in his ribs, Tim was startled to hear a harsh, distorted sound he tentatively identified as laughter. “Ouch, Replacement,” Hood chuckled. “I didn’t realize you kept those talons sharp.”
Tim flushed, and kept his mouth shut. Do not antagonize the murderous crime lord currently holding him captive. It was a simple task. Tim could survive four hours of awkwardness.
He shifted, uncurling enough so that his back was pressed to the body armor and his knees were tucked up to his chest. Hood allowed the movement, snagging his ankles when he was done, and Tim reminded himself that it was the pollen, that Hood wasn’t planning on breaking bones, that this was fine.
He kept one hand on his retracted staff, just to be safe.
In front of them, dark outlines of buildings were smudges against the hazy Gotham skyline. There was a wide expanse of emptiness that corresponded to Robinson Park, but Tim couldn’t see much else from their position tucked in a corner between a shed and the stairs.
He toyed with turning his comm on and calling Nightwing. But Hood was right there, and even if he somehow managed to get a discreet message out to Oracle, it would still take Dick an hour to get here, and then things would devolve into a fight.
And with Hood affected by the pollen, that would be…painful.
Just four hours. He could get through this. He took deep breaths to relax into a semi-meditative state—alert enough to catch any movements towards weapons, but not tense. He couldn’t maintain four hours of hypervigilance, and he didn’t need to give Hood any more ammunition by trembling in his lap.
The helmet was eerily silent—it must only let through sounds of a certain frequency, because Tim couldn’t hear Hood breathing. And it provided no clue as to what the man was thinking.
Tim tilted his head up, staring at the dark night sky. It was a new moon night, and no stars were visible amidst the smog and light pollution, giving the sky an eerily orange tint.
“N took me on a road trip once,” Hood said quietly, and Tim nearly jolted off his lap. “We had to drive through the night on our way back, and he saw me staring at the sky and pulled over and pointed out all the constellations.”
Tim wasn’t even breathing, he was frozen still.
“I’d never seen so many stars in my life,” Hood murmured. “But there, sitting on a car next to a field in the middle of nowhere, staring up at the night sky…that was the first time I realized there was more to the world than this shithole of a city.”
Tim swallowed when the silence stretched, and it was clear that was all Hood had to say. “Did you ever visit the Watchtower?” he asked in a whisper.
“The Watchtower’s for heroes,” Hood replied. “To look down and remind themselves of the world they’re protecting. It’s not—I mean, the view was amazing, it’s not what I—I’m not explaining this properly,” he sighed.
Tim stayed silent, and waited.
“There’s more to this world than heroes and villains,” Hood said finally. “And growing up as I did—as you did—you never realize just how much more.”
Tim felt a faint ache of sadness—Jason, at fifteen, had loved school and books. Loved volunteering with the Wayne Foundation. Had plans for college. Had a future outside of crime and justice and vigilantism.
And here he was, with that same boy, four years older, and every one of those dreams was ash.
“I don’t understand what you’re—”
“I’m trying to tell you to get out before you get killed,” Hood said bluntly. Tim tensed, fingers curling around his staff. “That wasn’t a threat. Christ, kid.”
“Then what was it?”
“A warning,” Hood shrugged. “A peek into your future. You have a life in front of you—school, college, the money and support and connections to get any job in the world. And instead you’re out here patrolling, expressly against orders. Just—don’t make the same mistakes I did.”
The voice distorter did a good job of smoothing out emotions, but not that good. Bitterness and longing and hurt, all tangled together so closely that Tim couldn’t tell which was which.
“I like being a vigilante,” Tim said softly. Hood didn’t say anything, didn’t tighten his grip around Tim’s ankles, so he continued, “I like helping people. I do.” Tim didn’t know how to explain it—how to make Hood understand that solving crime had been his life since he was a child, that this was the one thing he was good at, that he’d never wanted to do anything else.
Hood made a heavy sigh. “Okay,” he said, and fell silent.
Tim felt vaguely like a kid who excitedly proclaimed he wanted to be an astronaut, and got patted condescendingly on the head.
“What did you want to do, then?” Tim snapped back waspishly. Bruce had never wanted to do anything other than Batman, Dick had pursued crime fighting in both his jobs, Cass thought that their normal life was playacting, and Steph’s dream of going into medicine wasn’t all that different from vigilantism.
The question had evidently startled Hood. “I—I don’t know,” he said slowly, “I didn’t really get the chance to think about it.”
Right. Because he died. Because Tim was an insensitive idiot.
“I thought about being a lawyer, maybe? I mean, there’s no point in capturing criminals if all of them walk. Or—or, working at the Wayne Foundation, full-time, there were so many projects that I could’ve—that could’ve been implemented. If anyone cared.”
Tim was extremely aware that this was the first conversation he’d had with Jason that wasn’t about vigilantes.
“You could still do all of that,” Tim said cautiously. “You’re just nineteen—”
“No,” Hood cut him off, his voice flat, “I’m dead.”
Tim winced, even as he kept going, “You can’t expect me to believe that that’ll stop you. How many fake IDs do you have? Make up a high school diploma, and join Gotham U for classes.” Tim had certainly hacked his own transcript enough times to know how easy it was.
Hood didn’t say anything for a long time. When he did, it was only a quiet statement, crackling through the voice distorter, “It wouldn’t be real.”
Tim shifted for the tenth time in the last five minutes, and Hood growled. “Sorry,” Tim muttered, stilling. “Your armor is really uncomfortable.”
“I didn’t design it to be comfortable,” Hood snarled, losing his patience and yanking Tim up before he extended his legs. “You, on the other hand, are a mess of bony limbs that even kevlar can’t protect me against. God, doesn’t Alfred feed you?”
Tim made sure to dig his elbow in extra hard as he squirmed. “Eating a couple extra Sunday crepes isn’t going to change my metabolism, asshole.”
There was no immediate rejoinder, and Tim shifted some more to look at Hood. The helmet was, as ever, unreadable, but the voice distorter made an unidentifiable noise.
“Alfred still makes crepes on Sunday?” came out low and crackly. Hushed, Tim categorized.
Tim sensed they were inching into dangerous territory. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Every Sunday.”
It was the one time that everyone in the family tried to appear, with friendly jousting over crepe fillings and vehement arguing over the order of serving. The kitchen was always lively and loud, and the very first time Tim had showed up to one, he’d thought to himself, this is what a family is.
Hood made another unidentifiable sound, his grip loosening. Tim grabbed his hand on instinct, wary of renewed pain, but Hood didn’t seem to notice. The helmet was turned away from Tim, towards the city, lost and aimless.
Tim swallowed and screwed up his courage. “You could come,” he dared to venture. “Next Sunday. If you want.”
Hood scoffed. “Yeah right, Replacement. What, so Batman can be waiting to cart me away to Arkham? I think not.”
“Alfred won’t let him do that,” Tim said with more confidence, because that wasn’t a I don’t want to. “Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t miss his cooking. He’d be happy to make more crepes—”
“I’m sure he’s waiting to feed all the crime lords in this stinking cesspit,” Hood sneered, grip tightening and loosening like he was timing it to his breaths. “Thanks but no thanks. I only accept invitations to murder and mayhem.”
“He’ll always make crepes for family,” Tim insisted. Hood’s denial felt like a loose tooth—if only Tim pried hard enough—
“I’m not family,” Hood snapped.
“Adoption certificates don’t expire,” Tim pointed out.
Hood went eerily still and Tim had the sinking realization that he’d crossed a line. The older boy’s grip spasmed, like he was going to let go and damn the consequences, before a harsh, shuddering breath crackled through the distorter.
“As far as I can recall, death certificates don’t either.” Tim let out a slow breath, but Hood wasn’t done. “We’re not family, Replacement, so get that out of your head. I’m not the kid that died, you’re the kid that replaced me, and the only reason I’m not holding a gun to your head right now is because of an inconvenient drugging. Do you understand?”
Tim kept his grip on his belt—not tense, but not relaxed either.
“Yes.”
There was no more conversation after that. The sounds of the city gradually quieted into emptiness, broken only occasionally by the sound of an engine or a distant siren. Tim didn’t turn to look at Hood and Hood didn’t look at him. He kept an eye on the clock, counting down the minutes until the pollen wore off, but it was Hood who acted first, a full half hour before Tim’s alert.
“There,” he said, dumping Tim on the ground and straightening to his feet. “All done.”
Tim rolled with the movement, reaction a half second behind as he jolted up—it wasn’t over, it was still going to hurt, he—
He felt fine.
Pins and needles from his cramped position, muscles aching as he straightened, but no ants crawling through his skin and burrowing into his veins. Hood must’ve recognized his surprise, because he offered, “It’s a new variant. Runs harder but shorter.”
Huh. Tim definitely needed to pick up a sample for testing back in the Cave.
Currently, however, there was a bigger threat he had to face. Hood hadn’t left, watching as Tim straightened fully and slipped into a more prepared stance, but he hadn’t motioned to his guns either. Tim waited, poised to act, for his next move.
Hood, unfortunately, seemed to be waiting for the same thing.
Tim stared at that unreadable helmet, both of them stalled into place, and drew a slow, deep breath. He shifted back.
Hood rocked back on his heels.
Tim took another step back.
Hood finally moved, away from Tim and towards the opposite rooftop. Tim didn’t let him out of his sight until he’d cleared the rooftop entirely, but Hood made no threatening movements as they both silently backed away from each other.
Hood did raise a hand in an awkward half-wave, before just as quickly dropping it and launching towards the next rooftop. Tim exhaled, tension slowly draining back out.
What was opposite of a Mexican standoff?
Tim chalked it the entire night to the strangeness of pollen and swung down to ground level to grab a sample before he hightailed it back to the Cave.
Tim was planning to avoid the East End for at least another month, not willing to test their ‘truce’ that far, until he’d stumbled an interesting little factoid while testing the pollen sample. So he ducked out of Nightwing’s protective grasp with a small white lie about taking the long way home and instead headed straight to Crime Alley.
He found Hood perched on a rooftop, peering through a skylight at a gang meetup happening below him. Given the lack of guns, shooting, and murder, Tim assumed that the gang hadn’t broken any of Hood’s rules. Yet.
Perching on the rooftop ledge was a little risky, but Hood didn’t try shooting at him either, thought his shoulders tightened when he registered Tim’s presence.
“What are you doing here?” Hood growled, not looking at him.
“I finished running an analysis on the pollen. Thought you might like an update,” Tim reported, watching closely.
Hood snorted. “What, we’re sharing intel now?”
“Well, since we both got affected, it seems fair.” There—Hood had twitched, however minutely, and Tim had caught it. “Funny thing, though. Seems like the pollen does have to be inhaled. It’s not topical. I checked.”
“Funny,” came out low and wildly distorted. Hood still wasn’t looking at him.
Tim checked the grip on his grapple gun and three likely exits, before he spoke again. “You know, if you wanted a hug, you could’ve just asked.”
Hood inhaled sharply and straightened to his feet, turning on Tim. “Excuse me? I don’t know what the hell you’re on, Replacement, but I don’t need hugs and I sure as hell don’t need them from you.” He took a heavy step towards Tim and Tim prepared to flee. “Maybe my filters were damaged. Maybe you’re wrong. But I definitely wasn’t doing it because I had another fucking choice!”
“Of course,” Tim said soothingly. “It’s not like you deliberately tracked me down or anything.” Finding the security footage was the next thing he’d done after running the analysis, and the evidence was unmistakable.
“You little shit,” Hood’s voice crackled dangerously. “What did you think this was going to get you, huh? You thought you could come here, into my territory, and act all buddy-buddy? What’s stopping me from chopping you into little pieces and delivering those back to the Bat?”
“B’s still out of town,” Tim replied cheerfully. “And I’ll tell Nightwing.”
Hood drew up short. “If you tell Nightwing, I’ll shoot you,” he promised, hand hovering menacingly over his gun, but the threat had landed.
Tim rolled his eyes as he took a healthy step back, opening his mouth to retort—
“Tell me what exactly?”
Whoops.