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There were many good reasons to keep the Bats at arms length.
They could find out who he was and hate him even more than they did before—throw him in Arkham and let him rot to the steady sound of laughter and see how long it took for him to join in.
Or worse, they could find out and they could love him. They could sob and cry and tell him they thought he was family even though the only reason he left to find his mother was because of how clear their words were when they told him he wasn’t.
Like he was nothing more than a passing thought to them.
Both those thoughts and their accompanying spirals had kept him up into the early hours of the morning, but no matter how much they scared him, when Scarecrow actually managed to get fear toxin into his system (mainly due to how he had been putting off the needed repairs to his ventilation system) he did not see the men who pretended to love him.
He only say himself.
Younger.
Smiling so sweetly and so sickly and he was so ready to be taken advantage of in that Robin costume that should have been busy collecting dust.
The cape didn’t move as Robin came at him—attacked him.
Jason held back as he blocked, realizing belatedly that Robin’s size betrayed none of his strength.
The fist hit heavy in his stomach.
He gagged and kicked.
Robin hit against the wall, head snapping back with a vicious noise before those eyes locked back on him, “You know who you remind me of?”
Jason’s gun was out.
He shot.
Shot again and missed both times.
He didn’t see where either of the bullets landed.
“Red Hood—that was the Joker’s old name, wasn’t it? You must want to be like him. That’s why you’re hurting me, isn’t it?”
“I’m hurting you because you’re not fucking real.”
A smile.
Someone threw a fist and the other dodged.
“I’m as real as your idiocy, Robin.”
Jason made a strangled noise. “Don’t call me that.”
“Little birdie. Little Wing.”
Robin tried to dodge past him, but Jason grabbed the cape and pulled him to the floor, straddling him and punching the boy where he lay beneath him.
There was blood coming from Robin’s mouth and when the boy smiled, he was missing teeth. “No, maybe you’re trying to be more like Willis.”
“Shut the fuck up. You’re not real. None of this is fucking real.”
“No, of course not,” Robin smiled and Jason moved his hands to Robin’s throat, pushing and pushing but Robin still spoke clearly despite all the effort, “Because even though Willis was you’re real family, you went for the people who could throw money at all your problems and make them go away. What do you think happened to Daddy without you around to help pay for groceries?”
Jason squeezed the boy’s neck even tighter. “Shut up, you fucking—”
“Did you ever even care about Dick? Alfred? Bruce? Was he a real dad to you or did you just get off on the idea that someone could care for you?”
“That’s none of your fucking business,” he growled. The strangulation wasn’t working—it wouldn’t shut the boy up, so Jason reached one hand back and unsheathed one of his knives.
“Isn’t it, though? I want to know, Robin, did you ever even love Bruce?”
He chose a thin knife. A long one.
He lined it up with the divot between the boy’s collarbones, pressing until the knife broke skin and throat.
Until it ground into the concrete beneath them.
He looked Robin in the eyes, “I loved Bruce till the day I died.”