Chapter Text
Tim wakes up tied to a chair. Ropes around his chest and ankles, zipties and tape on his wrists. Belt and gloves gone, so he's not cutting himself free in a hurry.
His head hurts. It takes a minute to remember how it all happened.
He watched the gang leave the building from across the street and swooped in once it looked clear, but apparently it was less deserted than he thought. A few shots flew around him as he crashed through the window, the line snapped in his hands after a one-in-a-million random bullet, and he wiped out into the wall head-first.
The whole humiliating thing took about eight seconds.
Batman and Nightwing are definitely going to have a talk with him about situational awareness after this. And that's fair. Tim is the situational awareness guy, he literally situationally-awared himself into a Robin suit. He shouldn't have let some junior league biker thug knock him down with a lucky shot.
Tim takes in what he can of the room with his peripheral vision. Three filthy brick walls, several buckets, one less-filthy brick wall at the far side of the room, one broken window, one heavy door with peeling paint, one dingy carpet floor, one metal folding table stacked with guns and weirdly colored bottles, one person in faded once-black jeans and nonslip safety boots standing in front of the table.
He glances down.
There's a stained, clearly well-used tarp on the floor under the chair.
Look, Batman, I'm being so situationally aware that this next part is going to suck.
"Nice nap, bird brain?"
Tim sighs. He was hoping to put off this stage a little longer.
"I know you're awake, I just heard you sigh."
Tim raises his head slowly, because sudden movements still hurt, and gets his first clear look at the rogue who dropped him.
He's mixed Asian, a few inches taller than Tim and younger than he assumed—not that he had much to go by, but he egotistically figured that anyone able to bag a Robin must be pretty experienced. Instead, he's looking at someone who could be any ordinary student athlete, if he was on the grounds of Gotham Community College instead of in the condemned building the Dock Street Boys use as a smuggling logistics hub. Maybe five years older than Tim, at a high estimate.
He’s more heavily built than Tim or Dick, more baseball than gymnastics if Tim keeps with the student athlete metaphor, but he still moves with surprising lightness as he swings up to sit on the table. He stares at Tim for a moment, one lip between his teeth.
"They're not going to be back for a bit, I figure we can chat,” he says finally.
Tim scoffs and the gangster shrugs in his tan leather jacket, then reaches up to slide off the goggles pushed up to hold back his hair. When his hair falls free, Tim sees a strip of white at the front among the brown.
"You don't have to do this," Tim says, trying to meet the gangster's eyes through the mask. Knowing Crime Alley, it's probably too late to reason with him, but…it would feel wrong not to try. "Untie me and I'll give you a head start when Batman comes."
Not that Batman is coming tonight: he's off-world with the Justice League. But this guy doesn't know that, and the anticipation might give Tim a better shot.
The gangster shrugs and glances away, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Not my problem. I didn't get paid upfront for this, so I have to stick around till they're through and I can finish up."
Paid upfront?
Was this a hit? The Dock Street Boys, as might be guessed by the unimaginative pun in their name, aren't exactly in the smarter tier of Gotham gangs. That was why Tim decided he was safe to take them on solo when Dick had to go back to Bludhaven early. He was careful hacking into their shipment records, so they shouldn't have known he was onto them at all, let alone about to swoop into this specific room of this specific building.
And the gangster certainly seemed surprised when he turned up: Tim saw him diving for the guns as he launched towards the window. So what was he being paid for, if not watching for bats and birds?
It makes no sense.
A phone rings loudly in the gangster's pocket. Tim is startled for two reasons: one, because anyone setting up a professional ambush would silence his phone first, and two, because his ringtone is an aggressively cheerful remix of the Nutcracker.
"Jason Todd’s Crime Cleanup," the gangster (Jason, it seems) answers in a perky singsong, his other hand sweeping through the air in an arc, and Tim's stomach turns a little. He’s seen enough to have a very good idea what 'cleanup' actually means—so much for hoping his captor has enough innocence left to be talked down. "Yeah, seriously, that Robin kid, like I texted…"
Tim can't make out the faint voice on the other end, but it sounds angry.
"Yeah, and I'm paid by the hour, remember? I can't finish until you come and sort this out. So I'm totally happy to sit here playing Candy Crush on your dime…ten minutes you say? Great."
Jason ends the call and turns back to Tim. "Guess I'm birdsitting a bit longer."
Tim tests the zipties. Jason knows what he's doing: with the double-wrapped electrical tape he isn't going to be getting loose in a hurry, not without a knife.
Jason watches him for a minute, spinning the strap of the goggles around his hand. Tim notices a smudge of dirt on one cheek. It makes him look even younger, especially when he swipes at it with the back of one wrist and only spreads it around more.
The white streak in his hair shifts softly as he tilts his head: he doesn't look like a cold-blooded hitman. He looks tired, confused, and faintly annoyed.
"You want, like, some water or something? Poptart?"
He gestures at the table and Tim sees an insulated lunchbox sitting next to his confiscated belt, the stripped-off green gloves, and a pair of rubber dishwashing gloves large enough to fit Jason's hands.
The gloves look as well-used as the tarp.
Tim's stomach lurches again. "I'm good thanks," he chokes out.
Jason raises an eyebrow. "Suit yourself, Rob…can I call you Rob? Doesn’t matter, doing it anyway."
Tim shrugs and keeps working on the tape, letting out a slow hiss as he feels a fingernail break.
Jason glances over at the sound, but doesn't seem to realize anything is out of the ordinary. He hops off the table, walking around and taking a few bites out of a half-unwrapped protein bar from the lunchbox before sliding the gloves on and poking experimentally at the Robin belt draped over the table.
The chopped-off edge is ragged, like he got it off Tim with a pair of wire cutters, and he definitely learned the lesson about the internal shocks the first time, because he opens each compartment cautiously, never touching the belt with anything but the gloves or a pair of insulated pliers.
"Oh, very cool toy," he says as he finds the collapsible staff and extends it out. He swings it experimentally a few times—he moves well, if untrained, Tim thinks—then props it on the wall. Next, a few smokebombs, pepperbombs, and flashbangs go in the pockets of the leather jacket.
"Careful with that stuff," Tim says as Jason pulls out the miniature spare grappling gun and spins it.
"I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself…not like the Bat ever gave a shit…"
The edge of bitterness in his voice makes Tim curious. He almost sounds like he speaks from personal experience, and he's not…exactly wrong, at that. Helping the homeless or at-risk youth isn't a Batman-shaped task—a symbol of intimidation can only be wielded in so many ways—so Batman isn't the one who does it. Instead, Bruce Wayne's organizations do what they can, as well as his ward Dick Grayson's pet after-school sports charity. Tim is working on a proposal for a community computer center, once he comes into his trust fund.
But Gotham is Gotham, and there are still all too many cracks. Jason must have fallen through one of them without anyone ever bothering to notice he needed a hand back up.
Even with Wayne money behind them, most polite charities are reluctant to operate directly in Crime Alley, after all. 'What's the point of wasting money on extra security to provide services for people who will never amount to anything?' is one of the standard charity board meeting complaints Bruce comes home to vent about.
Jason shoves the grapple in the back of his waistband and waves another protein bar at Tim, who only glares at him. "Suit yourself," he shrugs, leaning on the table. "So, like, walk me through this Robin job, is it like a recruitment drive? A casting call? 'Wanted: one Caucasian male with a death wish, between twelve and fifteen, aerodynamic preferred.'"
"It doesn't have to be Caucasian," Tim says pointlessly, but wanting to clarify anyway.
Jason blinks, then leans back against the table and laughs, one hand over his eyes. "Kid, do I look like I want that gig? I'm not goddamn insane! I like being alive! I like every crook in Gotham not wanting to kill me and also giving my money sometimes! Besides," he adds, tossing his hair back as he meets the lenses of the mask again, "you know as well as I do Batman isn't hiring from the streets." He taps the zipper of his hooded vest, then points to Tim.
Tim tries to scoff. "You don't know me."
"Please, that is an accent that knows what a canape is."
"Whatever." Tim decides not to point out that in order to make that remark Jason must also have a rough idea of what a canape is. Instead, he twists one ankle in the cords, searching for a loose spot. If he can get his feet free he might be able to break the chair, and then even with his hands still out of commission he should be able to make it through the window.
The window is four stories up, yes, but it's probably better than sticking around for whatever tarp-requiring activities Jason is planning.
It's so weird how talkative and cheerful he is for a hitman. Friendly, almost, even with the flashes of darker frustration. And he even let Robin hear his full name and see his face. It's so baffling that Tim keeps forgetting to be horrified until he gets another glance at the pliers and the rubber gloves Jason is now pulling off to shove in his back pocket.
"And you are just a great advertisement for the job right now, aren't you."
"So you got a lucky shot, you're not special." Abruptly he remembers the other thing that's struck him as strange this whole time. "You barely knew how to hold those guns, haven't you ever done this before? Are those even your guns?"
None of these pieces fit together at all.
Jason rolls his eyes as heavy footsteps troop up the stairs.
“Holy shit, it really is Robin!”
Tim grins defiantly as a half-dozen of the top gang members enter the room. “Dock Street’s back, all right!” he choruses mockingly.
He isn't surprised when the gang leader hits him, a sharp backhand across the face that makes his ears ring. Still worth it, Tim thinks as he pops his jaw back into place.
This is a surprise, though:
Jason laughs into his sleeve. The gang leader turns on him with a snarl, hand raised like he's going to hit him, too, and Jason shifts his weight back like he believes it.
That’s decidedly not hitman behavior.
“Told you it was him,” Jason says defensively, hunching to put his hands in his pockets.
“Told you not to touch the guns.”
“What, was I supposed to let him walk right in?”
This causes a few moments of intense concentration. The Dock Street Boys really aren’t Gotham’s best. “Fuck no!” the leader says finally. “Wait here, we’re going to…discuss this.”
They step out onto the landing and slam the door.
Tim decides to take one last try. “You know what they’re going to do to me,” he says, staring at Jason through narrowed lenses. He can feel a thin streak of blood trickling from his lip.
Jason takes another step back, his shoulders hunching further. “Look, tough luck, okay, what am I supposed to—”
The door opens again.
“...waste the kid and we can deal with the biggest hoods in town!” the leader is saying. He’s swinging something loosely in one hand, something long and thin that shines dully under the bare bulbs lighting the room.
Tim winces. Yeah, definitely right about this part sucking.
Jason spots the crowbar at about the same time as Tim. His eyes go wide, then flick to Tim’s mask.
“Somebody set the camera up!”
The leader paces across the room, bouncing the crowbar on his shoulder, as two of his goons try to get a cheap iphone tripod to stand up on the wobbly table. Jason backs up again, raising his hands as the leader swings the crowbar towards him, then spins it and holds it out, the point just under his chin. “You grabbed him, you can take the first shot.”
Jason takes the crowbar, his face going blank. “But…”
Tim interrupts, bracing for another blow. “He just wants someone else’s face in the video since the Bat—”
“Damn it, shut up!”
Jason swallows. “I’m good, actually, maybe we could rethink—”
“What’s this ‘we’? You think I care what you think?” The leader snaps a laugh. "If you're not going to hit him, then shut the fuck up and get back to scrubbing the damn walls!"
Tim glances around the room again, startled, and suddenly everything starts to fall into place. The tarps, the gloves, the buckets by the wall and the bottles of various strangely colored liquids on the table. “Oh, he meant like cleanup cleanup.” He’s so surprised he actually says it out loud, not that anyone is listening to him at the moment with the argument centering on Jason.
“What, you thought we were going to send him home with a pat on the head or something?”
Jason glares. "Look, I'm just saying, this is seriously going to piss off the Bat—"
The gang leader snarls and snatches the crowbar out of Jason's loose grip. Jason ducks the first swing, bringing an arm up to protect his face, then gasps as the backswing hits him in the stomach. He stumbles back, hits the wall and slides to the floor.
"Any more smart remarks and you go in the harbor with the Bat brat," the leader growls, and aims a kick at his ribs that he curls up to avoid.
"Point taken," Jason wheezes, coughing. As the leader turns away with a mocking snort, Jason slowly grabs an edge of the table and pulls himself to his feet. "I'm gone, get someone else to do your pressure washing." He snatches up the lunch box, the goggles and the rubber gloves, then stumbles to the door and vanishes down the stairs. “You gave shit tips anyway!” he yells from somewhere in the stairwell.
While he was clearly by no means a potential ally, Tim feels much more alone once he's gone.
"Aw, man," one of the goons whines. "Now we're gonna need a new carpet guy."
"And that meeting with Clayface next week—"
"Can it and get that camera set up!"
As the goons keep fussing with the shitty plastic tripod (Tim would bet anything it’s counterfeit, not that he’s likely to live to collect with the way things are going), the lights suddenly shut off with a loud snap.
“Damn it!” the leader yells. “Somebody fix the circuit breaker and get some lights on in here! We can’t snuff the kid without lighting, that’s basic cinematography!”
“On it, boss!”
Two of the goons head down the stairs. Tim keeps working on the tape and the loose cord around his ankles. I almost have it…
He catches a flicker of motion through the lenses as something rolls across the floor from the doorway. What the—
Tim realizes what he’s looking at just in time to hold his breath as two of Batman’s latest model pepperspray bombs go off in the room. He kicks out, snapping the leg of the chair and pulling his ankle free: the remaining Dock Street Boys are screaming so much they don’t notice a thing. He’s still tied to the chair itself and his wrists are still taped, but he has time now, and Batman or Nightwing is on his way in to back him up.
But that makes no sense, since both of them are still out of the city.
He ducks his head as a few wild shots hit the brick. “It’s the Bat!” one of the goons is screaming. “I see him! Shoot him!”
Someone grabs Tim’s arm above the tape, but with bare skin, not a tactical glove. “I’ve got you, don’t freak out!”
Tim knows better than to gasp with the pepper in the room. He makes a confused noise as he recognizes the voice—then he remembers watching Jason raid his belt.
Jason coughs as he shears through the tape and zipties and pulls Tim to his feet. “The Bat’s by the window!” he yells back at the gang as he pushes Tim through the door to the stairwell.
“Got him!”
“That’s me, you fuckin’ moron!”
“I’m not falling for that—”
Jason slams the door shut and leans against it for a moment, chest heaving as he pushes the goggles up and unties the tattered t-shirt over his face. “You—” He stops to cough, pressing a hand to his ribs. “You good?”
Tim nods, finally taking a breath as he wrings out his aching wrists.
“Nice toys,” Jason pants. “Five stars on the pepper bombs.”
They both duck as a stray shot tears through the door.
“Somehow I don’t think I’m getting a good Yelp review on this job.”
“It’s a thumbs-up from me, but they’re going to figure it out in a second,” Tim says—the pepper is probably starting to drop out of the air already. “You go down, I’ll go up.” He pushes Jason towards the stairs.
“Hey, the Bat ain’t in here!” someone shouts from the room.
Jason looks between Tim and the door. Tim pushes him again. “They’ll follow me, go, go!”
Jason shrugs, then bolts down the stairs. Tim backs up the stairs more slowly: he’s only made it eight steps by the time the gang members burst out of the room, but Jason is well out of sight already. Tim sprints up the stairs, dodging the clumsy shots from the pepper-addled gangsters—Jason did better, he thinks scornfully.
As he dives through the seventh-story window to roll onto the fire escape, Tim hears a beat-up engine starting from around the other side of the building. Jason might have had a change of heart, but he clearly isn’t planning to stick around long enough for the gang to realize how their bird flew the coop.
And me without my grapple, Tim thinks. He leans over the fire escape and spots a dumpster. Well, any landing you walk away from.
“Good heavens, Master Tim,” Alfred says an hour later as Tim stumbles into the Batcave. “What happened?”
“Please don’t ask,” Tim sighs, flinging himself down in a chair by the Batcomputer to pull up the self-destruct command on the belt. “Plus side: the new pepperbombs work.”