#violetsmoak

More confounding is the kid’s knack for disappearing before Jason can get up the momentum to confront him. One-minute Jason will be surveying him, then he’ll look down to his book and back, and the kid will be gone.

It’s like he takes lessons from Batman when it comes to exits.

Jason doesn’t know anything about him, beyond the immediate facts: pale, black hair and very, very blue eyes. He’s young, the roundness of his face suggesting he’s younger than Jason, but he’s about two inches taller. Athletic, but in an understated way, his weight class far beneath Jason’s own in muscle alone.

The kid comes to the library alone, no friends of parents in sight. He wears clothes that are meant to look casual, but the brands are the same designer ones that Alfred purchases for Jason, meaning he’s got money. Sometimes he wears glasses—on those days Jason notices the staring more, as if the boy thinks having his eyes framed behind glass makes his interest less pervasive.

He’s also familiar in a way that Jason can’t place. If he didn’t know that no crook in Gotham would be so desperate as to employ a shrimp like this kid as anything other than maybe a drug runner, he’d figure he was under someone’s surveillance.

(His clothes are too nice, and those strange eyes not haunted enough to be a child of the streets like Jason.)

He always has a bunch of books he’s flipping through, or a tablet he’s working on; homework, from the look of the textbooks, but Jason’s caught sight of his reading selection on the Returns cart before leaving: digital photography, Zombie Survival Guide, histories of World War II codebreakers and varied biographies with no underlying theme.

It’s hard not to tap into all that Robin training to find out who his little stalker is; but he’s not paranoid, like Bruce, and there are more direct ways of doing it.

“So, the whole watchin’ me thing,” he says one day apropos of nothing and sits in a chair opposite the kid; this earns him a look that epitomizes ‘deer in the headlights’. “You got some kind of beef with me, or what?”

“What?” the boy squeaks.

“Every day the past two weeks, you sit at this table and pretend like you’re not starin’ at me—don’t say you don’t,” he adds when the kid opens his mouth to protest. “I know when I’m bein’ watched. Hazards of growin’ up in Crime Alley. So what do you want?”

He tries to come off as easy-going and joking, but with just the right edge of “if you’re fucking with me, I’ll end you” that Jason Wayne, adopted son of Brucie Wayne and former street kid would be expected to have. No point in breaking out the Robin voice or whup-ass.

“I—I was just—I wasn’t—you’re just—” the kid stammers, clearly having trouble formulating a response. Jason almost feels bad, but his suspicion about why he’s being watched by another kid with such intensity outweighs that.

He opens his mouth to remind the kid to breathe, when suddenly,

“Cute!” the boy blurts out, too loud for the library and earning a few irritated shh! noises from the study nooks in the corner. Jason barely hears those, his own brain trying to parse what the kid just said. “I mean, you. Are. Cute—I think you’re cute.”

And then his eyes bulge, and his cheeks darken, and he looks abruptly furious with himself.

Jason’s own cheeks begin to flame, his jaw-dropping a little in surprise.

Whatever I was expecting, that was not it.

He’s never been hit on by a guy before.

Well, not a guy in his own age bracket. He’s had plenty of come-ons from older, and often drunker, creeps.

“I’m sorry,” the poor kid gasps, and he’s snatching at his things, practically vibrating like he wants to rip out of his own skin in an effort to vanish. “I don’t know…shouldn’t have said that. Sorry, I’m just…”

The kid looks so ashamed that Jason instantly feels bad.

He’s not entirely sure how he feels about having a boy like him; the only attention he’s ever gotten like that has been from the opposite sex, and even that’s sparse. The only kids he comes in contact in his line of work is on his occasional trips with the Titans, and even they’re all older than him. Other than his first and only girlfriend, Rena—who had to leave Gotham when her dad got transferred to Star City—the girls at Jason’s school only show an interest in him when they think he might buy them things.

But, he’s also Robin.

And Robin’s supposed to inspire confidence in people. If there’s something about him—even just as regular civilian Jason Todd—seems approachable to this kid, then he’s got to be careful how he handles it.

Besides, he can’t help feeling a little bit flattered.

It takes him a moment to think of something that might ease some of the tension from the situation.

“Pizza,” he offers.

That makes the other boy freeze and stare at him. “What?”

That earns more shushing, and so Jason makes sure to keep his voice pitched low the next time he speaks.

“There’s a pizza place down the block from the library,” he says. “You can design your own with whatever toppings. I think they do vegan stuff, too. If that’s a thing you… Do you want to maybe…go there? And talk?”

He cringes inwardly.

Did that sound as lame to him as it did to me?

He always thought asking out a girl was hard to do, but he’s never given any thought to how it might feel with a guy.

Said guy’s jaw does drop at this, as if this too, is the last thing he expected.

“You don’t have to,” he rushes to say. “I mean…what I said before. It just—you surprised me, is all. And I—I should go.”

Almost before Jason can register, he’s completely packed up and across the library like he’s got Kid Flash on his trail.

Worried the kid might accidentally run into traffic in his haste, Jason hurries after him.

He finds him outside the stairs of the library, the contents of his rashly collected belongings spilled over the steps and muttering angrily at himself.

Without a second thought, Jason stoops down beside him and picks up the nearest notebook, holding it out to him. “Sorry if I freaked you out.”

“Don’t be—I’m clearly the one who fails at human interaction.”

“I’m Jason,” he offers.

“I know,” is the instant reply.

Jason’s soothing mood vanishes within the next second, once more replaced with cool suspicion as he straightens up. “Yeah? And how do you know that?”

The boy’s face whips up toward him and he makes an almost strangled sound, like he’s trying to choke himself from the inside.

“I don’t mean that like it sounded,” he rushes to say. “I’ve seen you before, is all. At Wayne events. My parents always get invited, and sometimes they make me come along, and…” He trails off, forces himself to breathe, and then offers Jason a wan smile and his hand. Surprisingly, for all his discomfort before, it doesn’t shake. “Hi. I’m Tim Drake.”

“Right,” Jason says slowly, accepting the hand warily.

Kid’s got a strong grip for someone so spindly.

That’s when it clicks for Jason, why the kid looks so familiar.

He has seen him before, hanging out with the other rich kids that always seem to flock together and circle the wagons at these things. Unlike them, he’s always seemed to be as uncomfortable at the parties as Jason was, and spent more time trailing behind his parents and shaking hands with people than with the kids his own age.

Maybe if I wasn’t spending so much time trying to figure out how to get out of those things early, we might have actually talked.

The explanation answers one question Jason had, but not the other.

“So, you’ve seen me at parties, and that made you decide to…what? Stalk me at the library?”

“No! No, I wasn’t—I happened to be in the library one day when you came in, and after that I just…kept…coming back,” Tim trails off, as if realizing he’s not making his case any better. He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose in a way Jason’s only ever seen Bruce do when he or Dick say or do something he can’t rationalize. “Look, it might come as a shock to you, but I’m not great with people. And you’re…” He gestures at Jason like that explains everything, “you.”

Clearly articulation isn’t a strong point, although Jason’s not sure if that’s an inborn characteristic or if Tim really is that flustered by him.

He kind of, really wants to find out.

Jason rubs at the back of his neck, trying to figure out what exactly he’s supposed to say to that, and then decides for both their sakes, he’ll let it slide. Instead, he says, “So, does that mean you’re in?”

Tim is taken off-guard. “Huh?”

“Pizza,” Jason repeats slowly. He jerks his thumb in the direction of the pizza parlor. “That way.”

That earns a stare, and then Tim’s blushing again. “I was serious before, you don’t have to—”

“Don’t tell me you’re not hungry. You look like you haven’t eaten since ever.”

“I have a fast metabolism.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I do!”

“Whatever. Consider it my civic duty as the son of a billionaire philanthropist,” Jason replies with a roll of the eyes. “The getting you fed part. You’re paying for it yourself, since now I know you have money.”

“But—I—what?”

“That’s how it works, isn’t it?” Jason says. “Go for a first date, then decide if you want to actually date or just be friends? I’m not sure, is it the same thing with guys as girls? Either way, I think it works out for both of us.” 

When Tim continues to look at him, uncomprehending, Jason wonders if somehow he’s completely misread the situation. 

“Unless I really did mess you up before and you just said that thing about me for shits and giggles.” Which is kind of a letdown, he realizes, and discovers he really doesn’t want Tim to have some kind of ulterior motive. There’s too much of that kind of thing in his life already. “Though…that still leaves the question about what you thought was so fascinating about this ugly mug.”

He’s barely finished the sentence, but Tim is blurting, “That was it.”

Jason raises an eyebrow.

“I mean,” Tim says, clearing his throat. “You’re not ugly. And yes to pizza. There is no world where the answer to pizza is ever ‘no’.”

“Barring parallel worlds,” Jason offers.

“Barring those,” Tim agrees and swings his backpack over his shoulder. He shifts, a little awkward. “So, where is this place?”

“Just down this way. We should hurry if you don’t want to get stuck in the supper rush,” Jason says, unable to stop the grin breaking out on his face. They start down the street together, but Jason pauses. “Before we go, just one more question.”

Tim tenses. “…Yes?”

“You’re not one of those weirdos that puts pineapple on pizza, are you? Because, I mean, the stalking thing I could probably forgive, but that…”

“Please, do I look like a heathen? The only thing that touches my pizza is Canadian bacon, onions and artichoke hearts.” 

 The other boy adopts a scandalized expression; it’s the first one that has nothing to do with outright panic, and for that, Jason is glad. 

He makes a face at the odd combination, and then shrugs. “Weird. Then again, I’ll try anything once, so why not?”

________________________________________________________________

Yes, Tim is taller than Jason here. Because poor Jay is still malnourished and Timmy had a relatively healthy upbringing. I’d say Jay is 4′6″ here (which is canon for before he died) and Tim’s about 4′8″. Because there’s not enough tiny Jason fics in the world. :P

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So, their occasional meetups have been nothing but casual, family friendly (for this Family, anyhow) encounters with no hidden subtext or intent behind them.

(At least he’s 87% sure, because Tim’s the kind of awkward pretty or pretty awkward that sends out flirt signals without even realizing it.)

In any case, it’s probably the most functional relationship Jason’s ever had with another Robin.

Which is why he’s fairly sure that this text is one of those autocorrect fails.

And he could let it go.

But he’s Jason Todd, and when has he ever let anything go?

J: Depends. Are you going to buy me dinner first, or is this just a casual booty call?

He goes back to cleaning and checking his weapons on his kitchen table, more out of habit than actually needing to. He was taught the fine art of weapon maintenance by the most paranoid man in the world, his guns never jam.

His eyes catch a flicker on his screen and he glances over, watching the three dots indicating someone typing for barely a blink. And then,

T: Omg

T: Shit I meant hang. Autocorrect.

Jason grins, imagining the face Tim must be making, and decides mocking him is more fun than unnecessary gun polishing.

J: Should I bring anything? Condom? Lube?

J: Vibrator?

J: Ball gag?

T: Wtf? No!

J: Also, you’re clean, right? Only B really drilled the safe sex talk into me so

T: Oh my god Jason why are you like this

J: Would it be your first time?

J: Because I’m not sure I should be the one to take your v-card.

T: I hate you.

J: Guess that means sex is off the table?

At this point, Tim seems to realize that the best course of action is to ignore him, which works well enough for Jason. He’s gotten his laugh out of it, and there’s really no need to beat a dead horse.

Or dead bird, as it were.

He promptly forgets about the whole thing when Roy calls him from the front of the ship and informs them they need to pick up supper somewhere because Kori vaporized the hotplate on the ship.

*

The next time he hears from Tim, it’s the night after they save Gotham from a secret society of owls trying to make a creepy nursery rhyme prophecy come true. He answered his call for help against his better judgement since he’s still not on great terms with the Family and didn’t exactly linger to help with the clean-up.

(Barbie was just as unimpressed with him as he remembers, though it was nice to see her up and about again. There’s something cathartic in knowing the Joker couldn’t keep either of them down.)

He, Kori and Roy have just touched down on their little tropical getaway, and Roy’s already trying to get laid (although Jason’s not entirely sure if it’s with Kori or Kori’s ship at this point) and Kori’s smiling that ‘aren’t-human-males-so-quaint’ expression she reserves for the men in her life. Jason’s in the middle of trying to call that flight attendant, Isabel, to see if she’s interested in meeting up for drinks (“Yes, Roy, I know how to ask a woman out, now fuck off.”) when his phone chimes with a notification.

T: Thanks for the team-up. I know it’s not your favorite thing to do.

Jason makes a face at that, both the implication that he was contributing anything to any type of team, and the idea that he doesn’t enjoy beating the crap out of whatever creeper of the week is infesting Gotham.

He weighs the pros and cons of acknowledging that, but eventually texts back:

J: It’s my city too. Make sure you remind him about that.

There’s barely a breath before the kid replies.

T: Always do.

T: And since he won’t say it, if there’s anything you need in the future, just let me know.

And…well. There are possibilities to that. Having a Wayne—even an in-name-only Wayne—owe you favors is a hell of a thing. But it also carries with it the strings of staying connected, which he doesn’t want to out and out encourage.

His eyes flit to the open text to Isabel, and he reconsiders.

J: Know anywhere I can get a few decent suits? Not the Family reunion kind. J: And not so expensive I have to sell me soul.

J: Again.

If he’s going to try this whole dating thing again, he might as well make the effort.

Three dots over beneath his message, and then

T: Your sense of humor sucks. As usual.

T: I’ll set you up with my tailor’s contact info.

T: Gimme a sex.

Jason snorts, and before he’s even really thought it through, he’s typing back.

J: Nah, I don’t put out until the third date.

It’s several minutes before Tim responds—likely he’s gotten distracted by something; it’s the middle of the workday in his time zone, after all—and when he does it’s as indignant as Jason expects.

T: What? No! A sex!

T: A SEC!!!

T: Autocorrect.

J: Methinks the lady doth protest too much.

T: You’re an ass.

J: It’s okay, Timbers, you don’t have to lie. First step is admitting you have a problem.

T: Forget it. No favor for you.

Jason sniggers at that, earning curious glances from Roy and Koru, but he shakes his head. No need to explain the joker.

*

He still ends up getting in contact with Tim’s tailor. Turns out the kid even insisted on paying for whatever Jason wanted up front.

Which he’s not going to say no to.

Somehow, taking Tim’s money doesn’t feel as fraught as taking Bruce’s.

It doesn’t stop him from sending a needling message as he’s leaving the store after ordering several disgustingly expensive suits. (Seriously, what the hell is it with rich people?)

J: So are you my sugar daddy now?

He never gets a reply.

It’s not the harsh tune of I Hate Everything About You that he’s programmed for any of the Bats civilian phone lines, but a generic ringtone. Not a call to offer sympathy, but not an emergency.

(If they couldn’t reach the comm in his helmet, they’d just show up.)

He ignores it, goes back to his drink.

There’s a brief silence once it goes to voicemail, and then ten seconds later it rings again. The bartender is giving him a look with raised eyebrows, but Jason just gestures for another finger of whiskey.

Around the fifth time, Jason picks up the phone if only to turn the damn thing off or chuck it at a wall, but pauses at the Caller ID—Gotham General.

What the hell…?

No one he knows would contact him on a public hospital line.

His thumbs fumble as he accepts the call, but even as he barks out, “What?”, he hears a static click and the electronic monotone of his voicemail bidding the incoming caller leave a message.

There’s a pause, and then a stranger’s tired voice comes on the line.

“This message is for Jason Ardila. I’m Dr. Kerry at Gotham General Hospital. We have you listed as the primary contact for Isabel Ardila.” Jason straightens up as best he can at this. “I have news regarding your wife’s condition. It would be best if you came to the hospital as soon as possible. You can reach me at—”

He rattles off a number but Jason doesn’t catch it, mind whirling.

Isabel? Emergency contact? What the hell? Wife? Even more what the hell. At least she knew not to give his real name, but...again, why call him? They aren’t exactly close, and he hasn’t seen or spoke to Isabel since that thing at Elysium.

That was…what…last July?

He counts back again, needing to check his math against his alcohol muzzled brain. In any case, it’s a few months shy of a year, which makes it more than random she’s calling him now.

Wait…

“—can’t make it here within the next two hours, please contact a hospital representative to assist you.”

The message ends. 

Jason stares blearily at the phone for several minutes, trying to put his thoughts in order.

Something needles at the back of his mind, and his thumb smudges across the screen to open his browser, pulling up Gotham General’s staff directory. It takes longer than he’d like to navigate, squinting at text that’s far too small before he remembers he can resize that shit, and finally he locates—

Dr. David Kerry, M.D., F.A.C. S., Obstetrician.

Jason’s stomach lurches.

He counts back again.

April back to July.

Almost nine months.

Nine months since the last time he and Isabel—

No. No way, it must be a coincidence. Probably she just got into some trouble. Trouble that needs the Red Hood to solve, and that’s why she named me as contact.

He scrubs a hand down his face, trying for sobriety.

But then why didn’t she call me and tell me? Why wait until she’s at the goddamn hospital?

And under the care of an obstetrician. That’s…the thing he’s most concerned about.

There’s no way. She said she was seeing someone, if there were anything, it would have to do with him. But then…why contact me and not him?

He’s dimly aware of shrugging his jacket back on, of throwing a bunch of bills on the bar-top and wandering out despite the barkeeper saying something to him. Of getting out into the chill and damp spring air, trying to hail a cab, because yeah, the bike he left in the alley has an autopilot feature, but Jason doesn’t feel like risking road rash if he slips off it on a sharp turn. Which he might do, considering he drops his wallet twice trying to put it back in his jacket.

Also, if he and Isabel need to make a quick exit if she’s hurt, it will be easier for him to steal a car later than try to put her on a bike. And if she’s not alone—

Don’t think about it.

As he gets his wallet back in his pocket, he remembers he basically gave the barkeep all his cash, and shit, does he even have anything left? This means he’s going to waste time going back in and taking it back since the guy hasn’t exactly followed him out to return it. Probably thinks it’s a tip or—

Jason stiffens, that sixth sense honed from a childhood on the street and training under the most paranoid man in the world bypassing his otherwise alcohol clouded senses to warn him. Someone’s behind him.

“Whoever you are, you really don’t want to test me right now,” he growls, speech only a little slurred. Shit-faced or not, he’s still a better fighter than any low-tier thug in Gotham.

“I’m not testing anything, except how much your situational awareness sucks when you’re drunk.”

The voice is dry and familiar, and Jason turns around, half-expecting to come face to face with Red Robin crouched in the shadows. Instead, Tim Drake is several feet away, dressed casually and leaning against a sports car that has no business idling on the streets of Burnley.

Jason didn’t hear him pull up, which means he’s been here a while—and he didn’t notice him.

Need to sober up now.

“The hell are you doing here, Drake?” he snarls to cover up his obvious impaired reactions.  

“It’s the 27th,” the younger man says, slow and careful. “I’m keeping an eye on you.”

Of course, he knows what day it is…

Jason bares his teeth. “In case I do something crazy? Decide to go on a rampage?”

“In case you needed a ride home or someone to talk to or just make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit,” Drake retorts.

“Aren’t you the little do-gooder. How’d you even find me?”

“Roy Harper called me out of the blue. He told me someone should check in on you, and he figured for some reason I’m the best candidate to look in on you.” He shrugs and there’s a frown of confusion on his face. “Don’t know why he thinks so, considering our history.”

Jason suspects it has to do with Drake being the one who got him the information needed to find and save Roy’s ass in Qurac, but he’s not about to say so.  

“Doesn’t answer how you knew I was here.”

Drake raises an eyebrow at that because, yeah, they both know how he found him.

Damn stalker.

Jason rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You found me. You saw me. Now step off, I’m trying to get a cab.”

He turns away and starts heading up the street to the busier intersection.

“Headed to another bar?” Drake wants to know, uncertain, like he’s trying not to sound judgemental.  

“No, screw you very much, I need to get to Gotham General.”

And it’s further proof of how much his mind and his reflexes are on a roller coaster tonight, because he’s actually started the hand that falls upon his shoulder. As it turns him around, he instinctively lashes out with a right hook, but Drake dodges it with embarrassing ease.

His eyes are raking over Jason, up-and-down, re-assessing. “You hurt?”

He’s fishing, Jason thinks; none of them have gone to the hospital for an injury that wasn’t faked in years, least of all Bruce Wayne’s legally dead ex-son. Perhaps that’s why he’s able to detect the genuine concern in the bland question. It’s not laid on as thickly as Dick might do, or tinged with the hint of judgement and self-recrimination from Bruce.

Maybe that’s why he finds himself admitting, “Someone I know might be.”

The younger man nods, understanding; some of the intentness leaves his face.

“I could give you a ride,” he offers, nodding his head at the car. “I could get you there faster than a cab could.”

It’s on the tip of Jason’s tongue to refuse, before he remembers he has no cash.

He glances back at the bar once more, wondering if it’s the better option to “haggle” with the barkeep to get his money back. Suspects that will lead to a fight, which if Drake insists on hanging around (which he suspects he will, even if it’s just watching him from a distance, the creep) he’ll probably intervene in and—

This is getting too complicated.

“Fine,” he sighs at last, earning a blink of surprise from Drake.

No kidding. I’m surprised, too.

Still, if there’s anything going down at the hospital, if this is a trap or something, and Jason needs to ensure Isabel gets out alright, however much he is off his game right now, having Red Robin backing him up wouldn’t be the worst thing ever.

It’s not like they’ve never worked together before, or kicked ass doing it.

Jason course corrects once more, heading for the car. Still, he can’t help making a comment, just to show how much he’d rather not be doing this. “But if we’re doing this chauffeuring thing, you’re gonna keep your mouth shut about it. And fork over whatever coffee I know you have in that shitbox of yours.”

Tim is the one who bares his teeth this time, a sharp, cold smile that Jason suspects is the last thing his enemies ever see. “Call my car a shitbox again, and you can walk.”

________________________________________________________________

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They arrive at the hospital, pulling up right in front of the emergency entrance beside the ambulance bay.

“Do you need backup?” Drake asks as Jason he swings himself out of the car, somewhat steadier on his feet.

“No. This ain’t somethin’ I need a partner on,” he replies. “Thanks for the ride and all, but I buzz off.”

“Got it,” Drake says, shifting gears. “Circle the block a few times, just in case.”

He pulls away before Jason can argue with him, the sudden movement causing the car door to slam before Jason can close it.

He scowls after him.

Smart-ass.

Though, now that Jason’s actually at the hospital, the idea of having Red Robin as back-up is a little more palatable.

He shifts, appreciating the comforting weight of his guns in their shoulder holsters—insurance for the possibility that this is all a trap—and then strides through the emergency doors, looking for the reception area or equivalent since he doesn’t have the tolerance to search any directories any time soon. By some miracle, there’s no line of people requiring triage just then, and Jason presents himself to the harried-looking young man at the counter.

“I’m looking for a patient,” he says without preamble. “Isabel Ardila. I got a call from a Dr. Kerry?”

“Kerry…” the man repeats wearily, types something into the computer and says, “That’s Obstetrics. Take the elevator down the hall, maternity ward is on the third floor.”

Maternity ward.

The words echo over and over in his head, each repetition making the pit in his stomach grow.

Don’t know for sure. Could just be a coincidence.

He swallows.

He knows as well as anyone trained Batman that there is no such thing as coincidence.

Numbness and queasiness that has nothing to do with alcohol bleed into him.

The journey to the elevator and upstairs pass in a blur of half-formed thoughts and impressions. His heart seems to be beating a lot louder than it usually does. No sign of trouble that he can see, none of the warning signals that there’s something untoward afoot here.

None of his senses warning him of imminent danger.

Perhaps that’s what makes him the most uneasy.

Before he knows it, he’s standing in front of another reception area, asking another nurse, or receptionist or whatever she is, for Dr. Kerry.

“I’m looking for Isabel Ardila,” he repeats, barely hearing himself above the rushing in his ears. “Where’s her room? I’m her…uh…husband.”

Another flick of a hand across a tablet and the woman’s face goes carefully and deliberately blank.

Shit. Even someone without training can tell that means bad news.

“Someone will be with you in a moment, sir,” she says, going for sympathetic.

He barely has time to go through the half-dozen possible scenarios in his head before a lanky man with thick-rim glasses in a white coat over scrubs approaches.

“I’m Dr. Kerry,” the man says when he gets there, as if Jason couldn’t guess. “I was told you are Ms. Ardila’s husband?”

“Ex,” Jason lies automatically, and it comes out as a croak. “It’s…been almost a year.”

“Ah.” His expression flickers with understanding but remains grim. “I wasn’t sure. Considering you weren’t present when she was admitted, and she didn’t mention you beyond putting your name down as her emergency contact.”

“I’m…just as confused as you are.”

Probably more.

Kerry’s expression is sympathetic but guarded. “I’m sorry. I take it your situation was…not traditional.”

“No. She was…we were…,” Jason says, and then shakes his head in frustration. “Listen, do we need to rehash my personal life, or are you gonna take me to see her?”

Kerry stiffens, and then sighs.

“I’m afraid that will have to wait a moment, Mr. Ardila. In fact, I think you may wish to sit down.”

He gestures to the wall of uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs.

“No,” Jason replies. “I’ve gotten enough bad news in my life to know what that means, so just spit it out.”

“Very well. Then I’m sorry to have to tell you, but she died about an hour ago.”

Jason hears the words, reads the shape of the other man’s mouth as he says them, and yet they don’t penetrate.

He’s no stranger to death or loss, but this somehow…

She got out. We went separate ways, she found someone else, she had a life. She can’t be…goddamn it, she was normal!

“…placental abruption…started hemorrhaging…no way to get the bleeding under control…one in a hundred cases…”

He barely hears any of it.

Jason could understand if it was one of the many associates he’s had over the years—his line of work, death is always a risk. People who work with him know that—Kori and Roy and any or every Bat and…and everyone he has ever worked with. Death is just part of the gig. Going out in a blaze of glory is expected.

Sometimes literal.

Which is perhaps why it’s such a shock to hear it’s happened to someone like Isabel. Someone normal, someone not in the life, except for when he selfishly pulled her into it.

“…can understand the shock this must be. I’m so very sorry.”

“That’s…it wasn’t your fault,” Jason says, only vaguely aware that he’s doing it.  

“The baby, on the other hand, is perfectly healthy.”

His gut clenches like he’s been punched.

“Baby.”

Before, it was just a suspicion. A worry. But that word—baby—it’s solid, it’s real.

“Yes. She’s doing well, despite the circumstances.”

She. There’s a baby. It’s a ‘she’.

Jason’s thoughts are refusing to connect properly for some reason, and it bothers him. He’s taken on entire squadrons of men when he was concussed and barely able to see straight. Fought back the side-effects of the Lazarus Pit, held his own against various members of the All-Caste when under the influence of their psychotropic, hallucination inducing herbal concoctions.

In all those cases he could think through his situation.

But he can’t now.  

“I’m…not sure I should be offering congratulations, though,” the doctor admits. “From the expression on your face, you weren’t aware she was pregnant.”

“…I wasn’t.”

“The contact information we had for you…it was in the forms she signed upon admittance. She named you as the father.”

Jason stares blankly again.

He’s been expecting those words since listening to the message, and yet they still don’t seem entirely real to him.

“Mr. Ardila?”

“I…” Jason swallows, forces his brain to get back in gear. “Look. Isabel and me, we haven’t been together for a while.” Nine months, a while, and for a reason. “So…it could be mine…but it probably isn’t. She was with another guy. I don’t even know his name.”

“I see.” Kerry’s brow wrinkles. “That complicates matters. Ms. Ardila didn’t provide any other contact information for anyone else.”

Jason thinks back to every conversation he and Isabel had, trying to think if there was anything that can help here. He knows her parents are dead, that she never had any siblings; she has family in Columbia, but they’re cousins she’s never even met.

“…Other than you, at the moment, this child has no family. And if you don’t intend to take guardianship of her, a social worker will need to be contacted to handle the case.”

Jason tenses.

“Social worker,” he repeats. “You mean foster care.”

He has sudden flashbacks to angry yelling and a belt across his back, always being hungry and cold and unable to sleep for wondering if tonight would be the night the latest piece of trash foster father decided to slip into his room and pay him a visit.

Kerry must detect the distaste in his words, though not the exact reason behind it, because he says cautiously, “I assure you, it’s a valid option, and in her best interest. Babies—infants especially—have a high probability of being placed. If that’s the option you think best, she likely wouldn’t spend much time there.”

Jason doesn’t know what to say to that, thoughts still whirling. He remembers being taken away from Wayne manor, spending weeks in a spartan bedroom in Gotham’s Child Welfare Bureau—

It’s not the same. This isn’t the same situation; this is totally different.

So why is he freezing up and unable to make a decision right now?

The doctor is watching him, expectant, and yet Jason’s tongue feels rooted to the roof of his mouth.

“Surely before that becomes an issue, a paternity test might be an idea.”

Jason closes his eyes at the speaker’s words.

He doesn’t even need to turn around. Of course Drake didn’t listen to him; of course, he’s standing right behind Jason.

Probably has been for a while.

Dr. Kerry appears startled.

“M-Mr. Wayne?”

“Drake,” the younger man corrects, striding forward until he is standing beside Jason. He doesn’t look at him, attention fully on the doctor. His expression is mild, but jaw set and eyes calculating. “I’ve been emancipated for a while.”

The doctor visibly recovers himself. “Be that as it may, this isn’t exactly your—”

“Business?” Drake interjects smoothly. “I’m afraid it is since I’m his partner.”

“Partner?”

The slight bulging of the man’s eyes might make Jason laugh if Drake’s words didn’t penetrate his mental fog. He knows the other man means 'partner' in a totally different sense from what the doctor obviously infers from it. Any other day it would be a joke—hell, he might even play along with it, depending on his mood, drag out the joke to see how annoyed the kid could get—

“Great pains have been taken to keep that quiet,” Drake goes on, warning in his voice.

As in, ‘don’t go outing Tim Drake-Wayne to the press if you ever want to see funding to this place ever again’.

There’d that absurd temptation to laugh, again.

“Of c-course, Mr. Drake. Naturally, patient privacy is paramount. But you understand that legally, right now the only one with a say in the matter is Mr. Ardila, and—"

“And whatever his decision, we need all the facts,” Drake continues in a bizarrely reasonable voice. “He’ll submit to a paternity test, and I’ll expect it to be done as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course, it can be rushed if that’s what you—”

“No.”

The doctor and Drake glance at him.

“No,” Jason repeats dimly. “No rushing it. I can wait like a normal person.”

“A standard paternity test takes two to three days,” Kerry says, nervous. “If you want to know as soon as possible—”

“Other people need their tests done more than I do—things that can save people’s lives,” Jason replies. With effort, he turns to face Drake. “And besides, I don’t need any of this on the record so your nosy-ass family finds out about before…before I know what the hell is going on.”

He doesn’t really need to raise an eyebrow to communicate what he really means; Drake knows better than any of the others.

The younger man turns thoughtful for a beat, and after several seconds, nods.

“You’re right,” he allows. Then he turns to Dr. Kerry, who has been watching the interchange with the discomfort of someone watching a marital squabble. “We’ll wait for the results then. In the meantime, we should see the baby.”

Kerry blinks. “What?”

“What?” Jason echoes.

And Drake, polished as ever, offers the doctor a weary yet charming smile that has to have been perfected over years of training. “She just lost her mother, and as uncertain as the situation is, until we know different, Jason is her father.” Jason almost swallows his tongue at those words. “I read somewhere that it’s important for babies to be held, especially so soon after birth.”

Kerry appears a little shell-shocked. “I’ll…I’ll have one of the nurses escort you, then.”

“Thank you. We’ll wait here. I think we’re going to need a moment if you don’t mind.”

“No, of course. I understand. It won’t take long.”

They watch him hurry away.

Jason immediately rounds on Drake.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, panicked. “Why the hell did you even come in here, I told you to go!”

“Since when do I listen to you?” Drake counters, fiddling with something beneath the sleeve of his expensive-looking jacket. “You spent the whole drive looking like you were headed to your own execution. You forget I’ve been around after you’ve died, and it’s not pretty.”

“Something else is about to not be pretty, and it’s your face,” Jason grouses.

“Threaten me or not, I’m trying to help you figure this out without having to wait two days.”

“I said—”

“I know what you said. And I have DNA sequencing tech built into my wrist computer,” Drake tells him, tapping the spot beneath his jacket. “Totally secure system, direct feed to my computer at the Nest, no other Bats involved, and we can know in an hour. I just need to get close enough to the baby for a cheek swab or hair sample.” He cocks his head to one side, challenging. “So are you coming?”

________________________________________________________________

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“And you can be less of a weirdo! How the hell are you so…” Jason fumbles the word, and then furiously gestures up and down. “This.”

“It’s a tense situation and you’re panicked enough for the two of us.”

“I’m not panicked.”

“Jason, you’re completely tense right now, I can almost see how fast your pulse is going and you can barely think straight enough to give answers to simple questions,” Drake tells him. “Obviously you’re suffering from some sort of emotional shock.”

“Shock my ass,” Jason replies automatically. “I’ve been in literal warzones. I don’t do shock.”

“Have you ever learned you might possibly be a father in those warzones?” Jason’s stomach lurches at the word, blood draining from his face; Drake obviously sees it, because he nods as if satisfied. “There you go. Completely different situation. Look, just take a deep breath and—”

“I know how to calm down!” Jason growls. “Now stop managing me and—”

“Here we are!”

They both whirl around as the nurse from earlier reappears, this time wheeling a see-through plastic crib into the room. Inside is a vaguely wriggling lump in pink blankets and cap. There’s a label at the edge of the crib, with the words Baby Ardila neatly printed.

A rushing noise, starting like the hiss of static and turning into the dull road of a waterfall fills Jason’s head.

That’s a baby, right there. Possibly his baby. Isabel’s gone. Dead. Dead in childbirth. Which means if this is his kid, he’s responsible for Isabel’s death. And if that’s the case…what the hell is he supposed to do? He’s not supposed to have this—was never supposed to have anything like this—he’s going to ruin all of this, every second and minute he’s in this room around this kid, it’s like radiation, growing worse the longer exposed—

“Mr. Ardila?”

Jason blinks, looks up, notices the nurse is addressing him—has probably been doing so for a while, judging by the uncertainty in her eyes. She’s holding the baby, and he didn’t even notice her reach into the crib.

“He’s still processing,” Drake says, explaining and covering for him at the same time. Jason swallows, shaking off the lingering invasive thoughts. “She asked if you want to hold her.”

Not really.

He wonders if his thoughts show on his face, because the nurse hesitates, looking a bit uneasy about handing over the swaddled infant. Compared to the tiny bundle, Jason is a giant—over six feet, nothing but muscle and scars, clad in faded leather that may or may not have dried blood on it somewhere and no doubt smelling like a bar’s back alley.

His eyes shoot to Drake who, for the first time tonight—looks just as much at a loss as him. All confidence and strategizing is gone, and he’s looking at the pink-wrapped bundle with the same apprehension as a bomb.

He’s just as out of his element holding a baby as I am.

Maybe more so.

Jason at least has distant memories of doing so. As a kid in Crime Alley, neighbors were forced to rely on each other. If one of the women doing laundry or selling themselves on the corner told you to mind a baby, you minded the baby or you got a slap upside the head.

But that was a long, long time ago. Not as long as for Drake, who likely never had to do that, but long enough that Jason

“Maybe I shouldn’t...” he trails off. “Since she might not be…you know…”

“Yours?” the nurse says, and then turns red, as if she didn’t mean to say that. “It, uh…it wouldn’t hurt, you know. She…her mother didn’t get to hold her at all. So even if she’s not yours, you knew her mother. That’s still more of a connection than anyone else has to her.”

It sounds like spurious logic. Still—

“Okay,” he hears himself say, possibly damning himself with just the one word.

The nurse motions for him to take the chair beside the crib—it’s comically small beneath his frame and he expects the cheap plastic to give, but it never does. Instantly he wants to get back up—eyes flit to the door, the windows, ceiling panels, cataloging possible exits.

Then, the nurse settles the baby into his arms, gently coaching him how to hold her head properly and support the rest of her on his arms.

Jason swallows thickly, trying to become accustomed to the sensation of the slight weight—hell, he’s held guns that weighed more—and immediately has the irrational fear that he’s going to drop or break her.

The baby is red and wrinkled, and hardly even looks like a baby. He’s seen them that small before, sure—as Robin and as Red Hood, he’s been thrown into situations where he had to get pregnant civilians or young mothers to safety. Hell, he’s had to help pregnant women with an emergency delivery.

(Not sure which was more nerve-wracking, when he was a gawky teenaged boy that still fumbled shaving, or the heavy-handed vigilante more suited to holding an AK-47 in his hands than an infant body.)

She’s also very, very small.

“Are they supposed to be that small?” Drake asks, voicing Jason’s question as he peeks over his shoulder. His eyes are wide and a little awed, and Jason can’t recall ever seeing that particular expression on the kid’s face.

“Five pound, fourteen ounces—she’s just within the right weight percentile for her gestational age,” the nurse replies.

She says something else after that, but Jason mostly tunes her out. He probably couldn’t even process it even if he was firing on all cylinders.

He finds his eyes roving over the tiny face, trying to figure out if she looks like him or not. He wants to cite the fact he can’t recognize any of himself in her features as proof she can’t be his, but the fact is…she barely has any identifying features.

Nudging the tiny pink cap she’s wearing upward, he finds feathery strands of indistinct color—could be strawberry blond, like Isabel. Could be red, like his natural color when he isn’t dying it.

Fifty-fifty chance, really.

Her eyes are scrunched shut in sleep, tiny eyebrows—does she even have eyebrows? —drawn together and pink mouth puckered in a frown. Overall, she looks completely uncomfortable.

He waits to feel any kind of affection or connection to the infant, some sort of primal magnetism that he should feel if this is his kid, but there’s nothing.

Only the persistent instinct to make a run for it.

“I’ll give you some time,” she says with a small smile. “There may be a social worker by in the next hour or so. Since we won’t know anything until the tests come back, nothing will be decided tonight, but it wouldn’t hurt to familiarize yourself with whoever is handling the case, even if it is just for the short-term.”

“Thank you,” Drake says politely.

“And if you need anything, the call button to the nurse’s station is right there.”

And she departs.

Jason and Drake stare at each other without speaking for a while. The noise is broken only when the pink bundle in Jason’s arms begins to wriggle and his back goes rigid.

He looks back down at the tiny human in his hands and abruptly realizes he has never been more terrified in his life.

Even in that warehouse, being savagely beaten—he knew what was going to happen. Either he was going to be saved by Batman at the last minute, or he would die. Either way, the pain would end.

It occurs to him that the infant he’s holding has the potential to cause a whole other kind of pain.

“How do I put her down?” he asks through a dry mouth. “She didn’t…she didn’t show how to put her down—”

His hands feel too clumsy, his arms too big and—god, he could crush her.

“Why are you asking me?” Tim asks, an octave higher than normal.

“Because you—”

He cuts off since he has no idea how he was going to answer that.

“Okay,” Drake says after a deep breath. “Okay, let’s try…” And he approaches slowly, eyeing Jason like he’s approaching a wild dog. Jason normally wouldn’t blame him, considering their not-so-great past together, but at the moment, his replacement’s the only one in his corner.  

Somehow, thin but strong fingers slide between the space of leather jacket and blanket, maneuvering so that the baby’s head is supported, and between the two of them they get the infant back in the crib.

She only scrunches up her face and mewls in distaste.

Which is good.

Not crying is good.

He thinks.

Unless it’s a sign that something’s wrong.

Aren’t healthy babies supposed to cry? She doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong with her, but how would he know the difference?

I'm not qualified for this.

For a long time, he and Drake stand on either side of the crib, tense and neither really knowing how to break the oppressive silence. Staring down at the little pink creature like it might suddenly rear up and attack.

It would be funny if it all weren’t so terrifying.

Jason hasn’t smoked in almost five years, but just then all he wants it a cigarette. Or a pack.

More time must pass than he expected, because there’s a staccato beeping from Drake’s wrist, and they both look up. Jason watches the other man covertly pull up a holographic screen above his wrist, frowning at the numbers and data blinking at him.

His eyes widen. They’re very blue, Jason notices dimly, in the abstract and tired way you notice strange details in the moments before your life irrevocably changes.

When their gazes connect, Tim Drake’s face says it all.

Jason’s lungs constrict.

“Holy shit,” he croaks, because what the hell else is he going to say?

“Holy shit,” Drake echoes. “This is…not the result I was expecting.”

Jason barks out a bitter laugh and begins to pace, running his fingers through his hair. His throat feels like it’s closing over because up until that moment, he really didn’t think it was real.

Isabel dead, he could believe. Her leaving behind a baby, also believable.

But that the baby is his?

That Jason Todd—the clan fuck-up who never entertained the idea of ever being a father except for maybe a lifetime ago when he also dreamed impossible things like growing up to become Batman—has a kid?

“No!” he rasps, whirling around to face Drake. “No, this is not fair! I’m careful—I’ve always been careful! This is the sort of thing that happens to Bruce. Or maybe Dick, because who knows where he’s been—hell, even Alfred had a kid he didn’t know about.”

“This sort of thing happens more than you think,” Drake tries. “Statistically speaking—"

“It doesn’t happen to me!” Jason hisses back.

Especially since he’s always made it a point to only sleep with people he knew were species incompatible, didn’t have the body parts necessary to get pregnant or on birth control. The few times he’d been with Isabel, she’s even laughed at him because of how intent he was to stop and put on a condom.

“This is…” Jason begins, fighting down the mounting urge to throw up. “It’s too much, I need to—”

“Take a walk,” Drake tells him, a commanding note in his voice that is eerily reminiscent of Bruce. “An hour or two somewhere else to clear your head. Or longer, if you need to. I can keep an eye on things here—especially since she’s here for a few days anyway while we wait for the blood tests.”

The unnecessary blood tests, the ones that will tell them the same thing the Bat tech has already figured out.

“And arrangements will need to be made for Isabel,” he continues, then pauses. “If you want me to.”

Jason should say no.

He should tell Drake to back off, to let Jason figure this out the way he always figures things out—on his own. That he doesn’t trust him or anyone enough to deal with this situation properly.

But the lure of escape is too strong just then, and the hospital room feels like it’s closing in on him like a coffin.

He throws one last panicked look at the baby in the crib and then flees the maternity ward.

Jason is not entirely sure he’s going to come back.

________________________________________________________________

But we all know he's going to come back...

So, I'm really hoping I've portrayed Jason's reactions in a believable way. I just figure finding out he's had a kid would hit him a lot harder and he'd be way more surprised about it than Bruce was when he found out about Damian. I figure he would need time to process. And as for Tim, I always see him as the one who steps in and tries to fix everything even when it's beyond his wheelhouse. He's probably panicking as much as Jason right now...

Your feedback matters! I want to know what you think of my story, so feel free to leave kudos, a comment or as many of these emojis as you want and let me know how you feel!

❤️️ = I love this story! 😳 = this was hot! 💐 = thank you for sharing this 🍵 = tea spilled 🍬 = so sweet and fluffy! 🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good! 😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER 😢 = you got me right in the feels