Chapter Text
The cuckoo bird is one of the most well known parasites in the animal kingdom. One that shoves the eggs of their forcibly adopted mother bird out of the nest, and steals what rightfully should’ve been theirs. Those eggs break, or if they don’t, the birds inside die of neglect, and the cuckoo lives a false life until it's old enough to repeat the cycle. One can see why it’s oft used. It’s a well loved metaphor, the cuckoo bird.
But one wonders, or at least, one is currently wondering if the chick deserves that.
Because what they don’t tell you about the world, is that nature is not really ‘eat or be eaten’. It’s really about give and take, but when the bird is given nothing, it must take. It must. What choice is it given? Its mother isn’t around, she left. She left, and the cuckoo could either die, or act. Take, or give up. And the little birds, the birds that were wanted…well they’re the only ones that have a thing worth taking. So what’s an abandoned chick to do? Not that the little birds see it that way. And they’re right, aren’t they? To feel cheated?
The little birds don’t deserve it. But maybe, neither does the cuckoo.
Or, maybe, no one deserves anything. Maybe everyone deserves the fate of the little birds. Maybe instead of letting the world giveth and taketh away, the cuckoo can defy the nature given to it.
He gasps awake, and immediately chokes on green. He fights and kicks while acid fills his lungs, and seeps into his mind, and his skin. He thinks he’s going to die there for a moment. He closes his eyes.
And is dragged bodily out at the very last second, chucked on a floor splattered with red.
From you. Your blood. Don’t you recall?
The Cuckoo coughs, and vomits acid on the floor. The ringing in his ears fades and behind him, he hears laughter.
He wants to join in, even if he doesn’t get the joke. He looks over his shoulder.
Something in his brain says he should know this person, but at the moment many things are a little unclear. The man’s skin is bleach white, and his face is decorated with a thick layer of clownish make-up. His hair is green, and a little disheveled in spite of a gel slick. He’s wearing purple suit pants, and a simple once-white dressy undershirt rolled up to the elbows. Once-white because now it’s covered in blood, as is the skin of his forearm. The white bleached skin and white fabric make quite a canvas. In his hands, he holds a crowbar that’s just as covered in blood as he is. He’s dramatically backlit from a source Cuckoo can’t quite make out, making his face heavily shadowed, and his smile more stark.
Cuckoo's hands twitch, as though there’s something he’s supposed to be doing with them. If the Joker (the Joker. Yes, that’s the man’s name) moves to worse lighting, something will pass the Cuckoo by, but he’s not sure what.
The Joker whistles, once high once low. The sound registers as familiar, but the Cuckoo can’t place where from.
“How’re you feeling, sport?” The Joker asks, his voice layered with amusement, as though the answer will somehow be hysterical.
Cuckoo coughs again. “I feel…” he thinks about it. There is a right answer being sought. His brain offers something up, and he takes it. “Sane.”
The Joker laughs. “Do you?”
Cuckoo shakes his head absentmindedly and tries to sift through his memories as they slowly trickle in.
There was…there was a bat. And birds. And…family-but-not-quite. They spin through his head along with memories of pain and blood, and he’s not sure where that’s coming from.
“No.” He answers the Joker.
This time, when the funny man laughs, Cuckoo laughs with him.
…
One month later
…
That wasn’t the Cuckoo’s last dip in the green, and he’d later learn it wasn’t the first. The funny man wanted to make sure of him. Wanted to make sure he knew his place, and now he knew. The funny man had smiled, given him a gift, and sent him off to…socialize in the ways that a rogue in Gotham does.
It was all stupid stuff. Petty crime. Dropping hints and trails rather than bodies to try and catch their attention. It had worked. This last one was a petty stupid stealing of a few batarangs straight from the batmobile’s emergency supply, and the chase for Gotham's newest rogue was on.
The bats, he knew, had scant information on him, but they had pegged a connection to the Clown prince of crime. Just as well, Cuckoo hadn’t been trying to hide that. They haven’t been able to catch him, close calls though there have been. Cuckoo was born knowing how to become one with Gotham's shadow, because Tim Drake learned how to do it painstakingly.
They had split up, three birds, hot on his trail, the bat no doubt running ahead to try and cut him off, but Cuckoo has already managed to shake them, ducking into an alley and skirting up on the fire escape, cloaking himself in the shadows easily. The only thing that would make this more familiar was a camera at his neck.
They won’t notice him here.
Not unless he makes them.
Cuckoo whistles sharply, and their heads snap towards him like dogs catching a scent. “I think he went that way.” He says idly, pointing left.
No one laughs. So be it. Cuckoo did not really have any intention of following in the Jokers footsteps as a funny man. That wasn’t really why he was made. The three birds beneath him tense.
“This doesn’t need to be a fight.” Wayne says, though his body language, and the fact that his katana is already drawn tell quite a different story.
“It always needs to be a fight with you three.” Cuckoo corrects, amused. “And really, I’d rather it be.”
“Whatever the Joker made you do, we can help you.” Offers Todd-Wayne. Cuckoo tilts his head.
“Ah. So the funny man didn’t give you much to go off, did he? Typical. I’m happy to shed some light on the situation.”
This alley is one of the very few in Gotham situated near working streetlights. Call Cuckoo dramatic, but he was taught (largely) by Batman, and the Joker, and he’s taking notes of the mistakes and triumphs made by his Robin’s Red Hood, so a little drama can’t be avoided. As much as he’s internally groaning at himself for succumbing to the over-exuberant flair of his mentors, he also can’t help the thrill he gets when it hits the time for the streetlights to come on, bathing the alley in sickly yellow, and letting them see Cuckoo's face, and conversely, allowing him to see theirs. He preens just a little at the fact he’d timed it flawlessly as he takes in the faces of the people he was once asked to call ‘brothers’.
“And there we are.” He says softly.
As much changes in three months of absence, more stays the same. Things did not cosmically shift because Red Robin was gone. Damian Wayne Al Ghul is evidently as much a bloodthirsty gremlin as ever, Jason Todd-Wayne has a gun drawn, eyes white on the red of the mask, Dick Grayson radiates movement in a way only he can even as he stands shockstill.
His expression is by far the most satisfying as well. Dick Grayson never had much talent for keeping his expression on lock. He’s the only one of them who didn’t grow up needing to. All he gets from Damian, child of the League, is the slightest eyebrow raise in surprise, and a twitch of the blade in his hand. Not to discount the victory that it is. For Damian that may as well be a reaction worthy of an Oscar. Todd-Wayne is wearing that mask, so a tensing in his shoulders is the most Cuckoo can glean, but Grayson may as well have fallen to his knees weeping for all the talking his face is doing. Guilt, regret, shock, anger, confusion, hope, all in the barest moment.
Cuckoo whistles again, up and down in the way the bird for which he is named would do, and hops up so he’s standing on the thin rail of the fire escape. “Hello, flock. How long’s it been?”
Three months, and six days, and thirteen hours, and seven minutes and two seconds, since the last word Grayson spoke to him over comm, but who’s counting?
“Tim…it’s us.” Grayson informs him, his voice struck with stars. As if he doesn’t know that.
Cuckoo grins. “Oh, I remember.” He assures the bird. “I remember all of you.”
“The only one of us who can’t be called ‘replacement’.” He says, gesturing to Dick, then turns to Damian. “The only one who can’t be called ‘pretender’.” He says waving cheerily to the Bloodchild.
“And you.” Cuckoo tilts his head at his once hero. “My Robin.”
There’s a staticky catch of breath. Cuckoo smiles wider.
“We’ve got quite something in common now, ex-Robin. You got dead, I got very nearly dead, thrice. Joke’s on you, joke’s all over me. His highness, Clown of crime, let me know that he even used the same crowbar. I even took your spot there. You hit the nail on the head calling me ‘replacement’ didn’t you?”
“I-“
Cuckoo doesn’t let him interrupt, because that question was clearly rhetorical, and his Robin was enough of a literary nerd to understand that. “We even both dipped in the green.” He continues. “Different greens, but still.”
“Tim-“
“No.” Cuckoo corrects airily. “No Tim. No longer. Huzzah, right? You three ought be thrilled.”
“Thrilled.” Wayne deadpans, while the others are still choking on their half-hearted objections. Cuckoo smirks. As he expected of the mini bat. It seems the newest Robin shares his father’s penchant for demanding explanations with one sharp word instead of asking questions.
“Thrilled.” Cuckoo confirms. “Between the attempted murder, and Arkham threats Tim Drake received, I can’t imagine much grief over his absence. You only might miss him because I’m worse.”
He turns, cocking his head at his so-called eldest brother “‘Insane’ you said, Grayson? Not then, no, but I got there in the end.”
“And ‘pretender’, ‘placeholder’ , wasn’t it, Wayne?” He simply darts his eyes in the direction of the little bat. “You didn’t know half of it.”
“And ‘son’, it was once said?” Cuckoo raises his voice to the shadow on the rooftop, above and to the left, unable to resist. “The lie stings, Batsy. Your little chicks at least had the decency to be honest with me. I’m sure you’re pleased to be free of that burdensome obligation.”
There’s a beat of silence before the shadow moves. He descends from above like angels are said to do when they herald good news or whatever the hell it is they do. Cuckoo grants him a smile as Gotham’s Knight lands, light on his feet in spite of the bulk of weapons and muscle. His face is unreadable granite as ever. Cuckoo’s half convinced if he managed a hit on the Bat with Ms. Crow, he wouldn’t bleed or have his bones and brains caved in like a man. Rather, a chunk of stone would fracture off and dent the Gotham pavement.
“Red Robi-“ He begins, in the patented Batman growl.
Cuckoo laughs. “Come on. You’re a better detective than that. Use your head. Now’s not the time to go all ‘Brucie Wayne’ on me. Save it for the galas.”
The bat and birds shift, clearly uncomfortable with the Cuckoos use of their civilian names. Them and their secrets. What’s in a name, anyway? Names had never meant much when he was ‘Tim’. Whether he was a Drake or a Wayne, nothing actually changed. But then again, what was he doing now but trying something new?
“I suppose, though,” He muses aloud. “That I haven’t yet given you anything else to call me. I haven’t introduced myself. Mrs. Drake would be clutching her un-mugged pearls.” Everyone winces, none more than Batman. They’ve been all but raised on a story of scattered pearls in a dirty alley, after all. Cuckoo doesn’t pause his speech. “She did raise me better than this. You can call me Cuckoo.”
“Cuckoo? Seriously?” Grayson echoes skeptically. Cuckoo tsks lightly.
“I didn’t exactly coin it, did I?” He says, turning a raised eyebrow to his predecessor. “Only fair that my Robin should get the honor of naming me.”
The Red Hood mask reveals nothing, but another one of those strange choked staticky sounds emerges.
“Oh good.” Cuckoo says. “You remember. The way we danced around it I was half convinced you forgot, but I remembered. Cuckoo. The thief, who steals your place, and shoves the little birdies out of the nest to die. Quite fitting, though if memory serves, it was more often me being shoved by the birdies. Call it karmic justice, I suppose.”
“Tim, we didn’t-“
Cuckoo scrunches up his face at the name. “You’re not a very good listener, you know that False Knight?”
He can sense a stirring at the nickname, but no one asks for any kind of explanation. Cuckoo thinks it’s pretty clear. A weird look flits across Grayson’s face before he takes a breath to measure himself, and speaks.
“We didn’t want to…shove you out.”
“No? So my Robin didn’t try to kill me when I wore his colors? Your colors? And the bloodchild was only trying to test if I could fly, of course. And you didn’t hand the suit off the second an improvement staggered in, right?”
“It wasn’t like that. We…I wasn’t trying to push you away and- and there was more going on. You know it wasn’t like that.”
Cuckoo shrugs. “To be honest, I don’t know if it matters what it was like, False Knight. I didn’t feel like it mattered at Titans Tower, my bones still broke just the same. It didn’t feel like it mattered when Wayne cut my line and let me fall. My blood still spilled all over your colors before you ripped them away. You want to tell me what it was like, I suppose you can. You might even manage to talk yourself into being in the right. You’re…good… at that. But it still won’t matter.”
Grayson opens his mouth, then closes it. Cuckoo tosses him another shrug.
“Besides,” He continues. “We’re men of action, aren’t we? Not men of,” He gives a theatrical shudder. “Emotion. Silly things like what it was like aren’t relevant. It’s about what it was.” He lowers his voice a little, letting his smile slip. “Do you all need a reminder? About what it was?”
He pulls out Ms. Crow from where she’d been tucked at his back. The next gasp from his Robin is sharper, and even more strangled. Cuckoo glances down from his spot on the fire escape.
“Recognize it?” He asks cheerfully. “T’was a parting gift from our mutual friend.”
He spins the crowbar in his hand, the familiar texture of the bloodstained metal soothing on his hands, and watches as his Robin stumbles back a step, yanking himself out of the False Knight’s grip when a comforting hand is laid on his back.
“She’s got a taste for bird’s blood.” Cuckoo informs them. “Care to see?”
Because they’re standing in just the right spots. As if Cuckoo had placed them like a child playing with dolls.
Cuckoo doesn’t sacrifice his high ground just yet. Instead he fakes a stumble from his spot on the rail, and every one of these so-called heroes lunges forward to catch him.
Dolls, all of them. Instead of falling to his death and/or into the arms of a bat, he swings himself to the far end on the fire escape, wedges Ms. Crow in the cracks of the gargoyle there, and all but flings it down at the unsuspecting bats below. Well, really just at Damian.
A lot of things happen at once.
The False Knight swings on a dime, changing directions from being prepared to catch Cuckoo to lunge for the Replacement. He will not arrive in time.
The Bloodchild, with all those league instincts, and probably experience warding off attempts on his life, gets himself away enough that it’s not a fatal injury. Nowhere close to it, but it sure can’t feel good, and it sure doesn’t look or sound pretty when a chunk of the stone hits his leg hard. The League training makes him far too disciplined to do something as childish as crying out, but there is a horrible strangled sound he shoves through gritted teeth.
Batsy had lurched to get to Damian too, but had the wherewithal to keep his eyes on the threat and ensure Cuckoo didn’t have anything else lethal up his sleeve, but at that sound, and the crunch that was unclear whether it was bone or rock, he turns fully. Ever the professional, The Bat doesn’t call for ‘Damian’ or ‘son’ at his child’s prone figure. He calls, “Robin!”
And what with tensions high, and Cuckoo reminding folks of their roots, his Robin turns towards the shout, responding instinctively to the title.
Really, it couldn’t have gone more perfectly as planned unless the False Knight got himself crushed trying to save the Bloodchild, but that was always a long shot. Cuckoo takes advantage of the chaos, and his Robin's momentary lapse to swing off the fire escape, catching the vigilante in one of the few gaps in his body armor in that one perilous second of confusion. Behind the knee, because that’s never a well armored spot. It’s not a hard enough hit to break a Lazarus enhanced bone, but it’s enough to drive the once hero to a knee so that Cuckoo can take a crack at his head.
A crack which doesn’t land. Ms. Crow is grabbed from behind on the backswing. Cuckoo half turns and the False Knight has a hand on her. So he recovered quick, good for him. Cuckoo mentally tabs the location of the Bat, although he thinks it unlikely they would ditch the Robin after an injury, so hopefully it will be a two on one. The False Knight wrenches the crowbar back, sending Cuckoo staggering with it when he refuses to let go. The momentary loss in balance is enough to buy the vigilante an opening.
“I’m sorry about this Tim.” The bird prefaces, before he draws his one of his escrima and jams it Cuckoo in the side with it
Cuckoo screams and screams. And laughs and laughs and laughs before turning to a shocked bird and tearing the lighting stick out of his hands, snapping it over his knee, again taking advantage of his shock (well, his metaphorical shock) to stoop and pick up Ms. Crow. He must have dropped her at some point while being electrocuted.
“Ya’ might want to up the volts on that.” He advises. “Whatcha’ gave there hardly even tickles compared to what the funny man has done.”
Something very readable flashes across his face. Grief, regret, anger, all passing quickly before settling on resolve.
To his credit, the False Knight doesn’t let his surprise slow him for long. He still dwarfs Cuckoo, as he always has, and he knows how to use that to his advantage. He was born and raised as an acrobat, Cuckoo was only really trained as one, and the difference was something he made staunchly clear. He charges, making as if he’s going to try and straight up tackle Cuckoo (bad idea) but switches at the last moment into a handspring, flipping himself over Cuckoo's head (better idea) grabbing his shoulder on the way down and swinging him to the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Before Cuckoo can try and get himself up, there’s a boot on his chest, accompanied by maybe half of the vigilantes' weight to pin him in place.
This is why the best case scenario of the plan had this bird out of commission.
Cuckoo scrabbles against the weight, and it presses down harder. If it’s any more than that, he’ll black out and/or not be able to speak anymore. He can’t have that.
“Good on you, Dickie.” He wheezes. “Finally gonna get me in Arkham, just like you wanted.”
The vigilante's eyes widen, and the pressure on his chest loosens marginally. “I didn’t-“
Cuckoo doesn’t wait around to hear what ‘he didn’t’, because he doesn’t actually care. He takes advantage of the little bit of breathing room to grab for Ms. Crow, and swing it directly at the flesh of his unprotected neck. It’s enough to knock the wind out of him, enough for Cuckoo to shove him off, and even enough for him to stagger up and get a hit at his ribs. Something cracks.
“That sounds broken.” He sings. “More bird bones for Ms. Crow.”
He should go for a leg. Shatter the bone, keeping him from doing those flips that were as essential to him as breathing. He spins the crowbar in his hand, circling the vigilante and considering. How many hits can the so-called Golden Boy take? More than his Robin? More than Cuckoo? Only one way to find out. He winds back.
Before he can bring the weapon down, something hits him in the side, (a foot) and sends him staggering, barely catching himself before he sprawls on the pavement. Ah. He’d been distracted enough to forget his Robin. He regains his bearings, just enough to hear a familiar click. Tim must be following the bats in the shadows, taking pictures…wait. Not that kind of familiar. Cuckoo glances up at his Robin.
It is beautiful, Cuckoo thinks. It would be beautiful. The symmetry, the composition, the barrel of the gun centered in the foreground, the man in the back, face obscured, but nonetheless readably emotional. The colors, sky navy, leather black, glinting silver, cut in the center of the frame with mask red. Cuckoo's free hand twitches around the space where he would've once held a camera. They’ve been doing that a lot since his stint in the green, even though he’s hardly thought about photography since becoming Red Robin. Madness does strange things to muscle memory, it seems.
Cuckoo smiles as he takes in the shot. “A long time coming, isn’t it?”
Because his Robin had wanted this for so very long. The False Knight is halfway to his feet, eyes wide, frozen in place. Somewhere behind Cuckoo, he charts the lack of sound from Bats and the Bloodchild. Should they decide to act and prevent the killing, none of them will be fast enough. Cuckoo is glad for it. They’d only mess everything up for his Robin. He wonders if the eyes are that familiar green beneath the hood. He wonders if the funny man will be amused that his own namesake killed his personal bird. It is quite a punchline.
Cuckoo doesn’t really care about the humor of it all. That’s not quite his schtick, but it is a beautiful shot. He’s nearly thrown himself off buildings for shots that don’t have half the gravitas, the history, the emotion of this one. He’s so glad he survived them all, if only for this moment.
This shot will kill him, and it will be beautiful.
—-
Jason had never gotten close with Timothy Drake. How could he? The first time they actually interacted, Jason was beating him half to death. That’s not a stable foundation on which to build friendship, let alone brotherhood.
Their relationship was…quiet, after the explosive start. Whether it was quiet forgiveness, or quiet resentment, or something in between, Jason never had the guts to know, because he only would’ve deserved one of those things, and he suspected it wasn’t the one Tim was giving.
They saw each other, of course. They spoke in short professional words unless one of them forgot themselves, and slipped in a quip. They watched each other. Jason watched Tim joke around with Dick on patrols, and compile flawless reports for Bruce, and then leave when the family started settling in for the night. Tim watched Jason reintegrate himself slowly into the family, and fight when there was no real reason to, and kill. Perhaps he flatters himself, but Jason liked to think there was a sort of…understanding in their quiet.
Here was the thing: Jason liked Tim. He was funny, when he wasn’t so busy holding himself like he was attending a gala. He was smart. He didn’t seem to judge the Red Hood like the others did. In another life, maybe things would’ve been different between them. Maybe they would’ve been real brothers. But that life isn’t this one, so instead Jason and Tim sit in their quiet, and it is enough.
And then Tim was gone, and quiet is a great deal different than silent.
Three months, Red Robin had been gone. A lot can happen in three months. A lot can happen in three days, and three hours, and three minutes, and three fucking seconds can change a life, and the Bats know the statistics. They’ve seen the statistics play out a million times. They’d like to think themselves immune, being crime fighters and all, but they weren’t. The statistics said forty eight hours, and there are much more than forty eight hours in three months.
Jason took a note from Tim, and watched as his family panicked. He watched their hope steadily dwindle, but not fade entirely. He watched Bruce get more violent on the streets, he watched Damian be uncertain on how to pull him back. He watched Dick scream at Bruce, while also mirroring his violence in a way that struck Jason as subconscious. He watched them all fall apart, and selfishly wondered if his death had produced these same results.
Because there was little doubt in Jason’s mind that Tim Drake was dead.
And he felt…some type of way about that. Some way that he refused to approach. Familiar anger at Bruce was easy, so he fell on that. He helped search, but there was little to find. Not even for Bruce, and he was the World's Greatest Detective, with the capital letters and everything. Jason went out, and looked, and didn’t sleep, and killed, and found nothing.
Until now. Because fucking, of course Tim would pop out of the shadows with smiles and quips, and tear them to shreds without trying, talking about the Joker, and Jason’s own death, and… and of course, Jason would wind up being the one staring at those blue eyes over the barrel of his gun.
His eyes are still sharp, Jason notes. Still icy blue as they all once shared (not Jason anymore, but still.) and still dagger sharp, but not the way they once were. Tim’s eyes had once been sharp as a honed knife’s edge, precise, and practiced, and calculating. This is the sharp of shattered glass. No less intelligent, certainly no less dangerous, but unstable. Fractured. Mad.
You learn a lot about a person when you eye them over the barrel of a gun. This isn’t the first time Tim and Jason have stood like this, but the lessons Jason is learning have certainly changed, because Tim is grinning, and asking if it’s not a long time coming, and Jason’s family is holding their breath, as if they’re scared to move too suddenly, lest he pull the trigger in a moment of panic. And Jason can’t even blame them for the concern, because Tim is holding that fucking crowbar, it’s making everything green, and he’d said it was the same, and he’d said- and if Jason squints it’s not Tim, it’s the Joker, just like before when Tim was Robin, and Jason had squinted and he wasn’t a kid, he was a replacement soldier.
Fuck. That’s enough of a thought for the Pit to let him take a breath. Jason lowers his gun.
“Boo. You’re ruining the shot.” Tim heckles,. Before Jason can readjust to a non-lethal weapon, Tim lashes out with something small and sharp, (the batarang he’d just stolen, Jason’s mind supplies distantly) missing Jason entirely, but nailing the streetlight, cutting off their only light source save the smog filtered stars.
In the half-second it takes for the Red Hoods dark vision to filter on, Tim is already back up on the fire escape, crouching on the rail looking down on them all.
“It’s been a blast and a half, bats. We’ll keep in touch. And Robin?”
In spite of himself, Jason snaps to attention, and sure enough, Tim is looking at him, not Damian.
“I’ll tell the funny man you said…hello.” Tim smiles in a way that indicates he knows exactly what those words mean, and Jesus, just how detailed had the clown gotten when recounting that story? The cadence Tim uses is identical to the clowns in a way that has Jason’s knees buckling. A hand catches his arm before he goes all the way down. It’s Bruces. Jason shakes it off, a little bit aggressively and turns to the spot where Tim was.
But he’s gone.
Dick is too, no doubt in pursuit, but Jason doesn’t think he’s likely to catch him. Not with those definitely broken ribs. Tim Drake has been a shadow of these rooftops since he was nine, undetected by both the worst Gotham had to offer, and the so-called best detective in the world, and Red Robin was almost as good at disappearing as Batman himself.
They won’t catch him. Not unless he wants to be caught.
“Red Hood.”
Jason glances up and meets Bruce’s eyes. He looks away before he can see anything damning in them, turning his attention to Damian, who has at some point acquired a hasty splint on his leg.
So, that’s why Bruce was so effectively out of commission. The pieces of what was, in hindsight, Tim’s very intentional plan fall into place as Jason takes in the fallout.
“Is R- is…is Robin ok?” Jason asks, trying and failing not to choke on the title as My Robin rings in his ears.
“He will be. It’s a clean break. You took a hit.” Bruce says brusquely, likely as close as he’ll come to saying Are you ok?. Under different circumstances, Jason would be being a dick about that, about the fact that Bruce can’t just ask.
“Nothing serious. No break.” He says clinically.
Bruce watches him for another second before turning his attention back to Damian. Under the armor and gauntlets and blades, he’s clearly gentle. Jason tries his best to muscle down the green, but the image of Tim swinging that crowbar around like it belonged in his hands is…
He even used the same crowbar
What hurts more? A, or B?
She’s got a taste for bird’s blood.
Forehand, or backhand?
Please tell the big man,
I’ll tell the funny man,
I said…
You said…
hello.
Jason swallows down bile. “Tell me you felt that, B.”
Bruce glances back at him, and tips his chin slightly in lieu of asking what he means.
“That’s Tim. That’s still Tim in the worst fucking way. Jesus, what must’ve happened to him. If he’s been with the Joker this whole time? Months?” Jason tries to run a hand through his hair, and meets helmet. He drops his hand. “He read us to shit. He tore us apart like paper dolls, he…what the hell are we supposed to do about this?”
The second the question leaves, Jason feels stupid for asking it. It’s childish to beg Bruce for answers like this, and Jason hasn’t been a child in a long time.
And Bruce doesn’t answer. He lifts Damian into his arms carefully, and moves towards the Batmobile. Jason huffs. As pissed as he is for asking the question, he’s more pissed at Bruce for ignoring it.
He turns to walk away, so he can hardly hear it when Bruce offers a soft answer, the Batman growl conspicuously absent. His words don’t make Jason feel any better.
“I don’t know.”