Chapter Text
Dying is not a new sensation. The heat of life's blood, the cold absence of it as it drains from his fingertips and toes, pooling into the puncture in his abdomen and spilling out to water the sand below. Or wait. It's not sand. Not this time. Concrete, maybe? Whatever it is, it's cold. The pain is distant now, no longer white hot, but a bone-deep ache singing in time with the faltering drum of his heart. His mind is having trouble clinging to reality, lingering instead on a devastating truth.
No one is coming.
Well, that's not quite true, someone is. Heavy footsteps pause at the edge of his consciousness even now. But that's kind of the problem.
What is new is the accompanying feeling of deep-seated dread, hurt, and betrayal. Not that those feelings are new, he's felt his fair share of each. But the circumstances certainly are. Because in all his years, from a child who worshiped his hero, to the sidekick of a distraught and reckless-from-grief father, to an independent vigilante, Tim never in a million years thought that Batman would be the one to kill him. Jason, maybe. Ra’s Al Ghul, sure. But never his dad. Never Bruce.
Tim is rarely wrong. But there's a first time for everything. Or a last, he supposes.
1 Week Earlier
Jason meets Tim at 3:45 am in the corner of 22nd and Erithacus. Fancy fucking name for such a shitty area. Erithacus Wafflehouse is a weird little diner on a weird little street. But Tim's a weird little dude, so Jason can't exactly say that the choice of location is all that surprising.
The neon red ‘Open 24 hours!’ sign flickers like a heartbeat. Through the grimy windows, the diner looks to be all cracked maroon vinyl booths, linoleum tables, and dusty license plates from anywhere-but-here choking every square inch of wall. A little bell rings when Jason enters, shaking off the lapel of his jacket, pulling off his motorcycle helmet, and stomping his boots against the doormat. Alfred would have his hide if he found out Jason was tracking puddles into a perfectly good establishment. He taught him manners. Even if Jason is the only one of his siblings that ever learned that particular lesson. Sure enough, a single pair of wet boot prints lead into the corner booth where Jason can just barely see a mop of dark, soaking hair hunched over a steaming cup of coffee.
Rain batters the windows, drowning out the tinny version of ‘Another One Bites The Dust’ playing on the jukebox and capturing the neon light from the sign and hazy orange sodium lamps outside. The light slithers down with the rain to dance and warp against empty oil slick roads. There's some cardboard taped to the window in the far corner that's starting to sag, losing its battle to protect the diner's interior from the bullet-holes exposing it to the rain.
No reasonable person should be out in this weather. Even the rogues took the damn night off. Hell, no reasonable person would ask someone to come out in this squall. And yet, here he is. At a shitty diner on a shitty street, cold and soaking wet, instead of cozy in bed reading. Tim better have a damn good reason for it.
A heavy-set older woman in a stained blue apron peers out from the doorway behind the counter. “Be with ya in a second hon,” she drawls, pulling a lit menthol from out of her mouth and gesturing with it towards the booths. “Sit wherever.”
Jason nods, giving her a wan smile as he glances around the room. It probably falls a little flat considering the black-eye he's sporting, but the lady doesn't seem too stressed about it. She's a Gothamite through and through. Bruisers and people beat-to-shit from muggings probably come through every day. She watches him, face impassive for a moment, before turning and disappearing back behind the door, presumably the kitchen.
Jason rounds the booth, sliding into the seat across from Tim. The vinyl creaks with his weight. Now his back is facing the rest of the diner. There's a lot of windows. A lot of vantage points. He can barely make out the door through the reflection on the framed picture of waffles across from him. It's making Jason's skin itch. It's fine. He's not planning on staying for long. His bed is calling to him like a siren's song. The kid looks like he's been ignoring a similar call for well over a week. He's holding the half-empty mug with both hands, forehead tipped against the mug's rim and eyes closed. If Jason didn't know any better, he'd think he was sleeping.
“You're late,” Tim says after a moment, eyes still shut.
“Well Timberlina,” Jason drawls, “even if it wasn't pouring half of Gotham Harbor down on us, I was already tucked into bed with a copy of Emma that's due to the library tomorrow. You're lucky I came at all.”
“My hero,” Tim mutters under his breath. Little shit. Jason leans forward as quietly as he can, then quick as a whip, he snatches the mug from Tim's hands. Tim's head thumps down against the table at the sudden lack of support. He stays there for long enough that Jason starts to worry he somehow actually hurt himself, before finally lifting his head to glare back across the table.
“Hey,” he says mulishly, rubbing at his forehead. “I was drinking that.” Tim almost looks more aggrieved about the coffee than the potential head wound. He looks like shit. There's deep-seated bags beneath his eyes, and some poorly concealed bruising around his cheek. It's 3 am, unfortunately no one around here is gonna give a shit about one beat up kid, and Tim clearly knows it. Or is just too exhausted to care. Jason takes a pointed sip from the mug, then makes a face. Ugh, that is. Not great. He takes another long drink anyways, just to rub it in.
“Little birds who clearly haven't slept in several days should be in bed, not attempting to give themselves caffeine poisoning.”
Tim just hmms and calls over the waitress to bring another mug. That's strange. No smartass quip? He must be pretty out of it. Or the reason he's called Jason is just that bad.
Jason waits until after she- Beverly, the peeling name tag says- has headed around the corner to put in his order of waffles and bacon and start Tim's order of just bring the whole coffee pot, actually bring two, before leaning over the table and asking, voice low, “Why am I here?”
Tim swallows hard, glancing over Jason's shoulder and crossing his arms tight across his chest, before uncrossing them again. “Okay,” he says quietly, hands in his hair. “Okay, do you remember that kid from the Bowery who went missing last week? The one I talked to you about.”
Of course he does. A nine year old boy from a low-income housing unit in Jason's territory went missing without a trace eight days ago. His mother was at her second job as grocery bagger, and there was a one hour window between when the kid 's school ended and when his big sister could pick him up, where he vanished. They were distraught. Jason had asked Tim for some tech support looking into it. It was probably a kidnapping, but they couldn't rule out trafficking either.
“Yeah, Rikkie Neilson?”
“Richard,” Tim corrects absentmindedly, “was last seen on security feeds passing that convenience store across the street, at 2:40 in the afternoon.”
Jason frowns, peering out the foggy window at the signs across the street. He can barely make out ‘Terry’s Grab n Go’ through the dark and the rain. Neilson’s school ends at 2:30 pm, and it's twenty minutes away from here by bus. He shouldn't have been anywhere near Erithacus St. That messes with their whole timeline. “Did you-” There's a flicker of movement in the picture’s reflection.
“See the Knights game?” Jason finishes, as Beverly rounds the counter.
“No,” Tim grins, “I'm depressed enough already.”
Beverly huffs, footsteps drawing closer. “Ain't that the truth, they haven't won in close to 40 years, and yet still I watch.” She puts a mug in front of Tim and fills his and Jason's with strong, bitter coffee. Then she plinks down the now half-empty pot of coffee in front of them without ceremony. “I'll start the next one for ya hon,” she tells Tim with a wink.
She shifts to regard Jason, crossing her arms. “Yer waffles will be out in a few.” There's a long pause before she offers, “And I can bring ya a bag of frozen peas for your face, but I'll have to add it to your tab.”
Jason snorts. Fucking Gotham. “Yeah, sure, bring two if you got 'em?” He grins, gesturing at Tim's face. Tim scowls at the table, tracing the coffee ring left by the mug with his forefinger. But his expression fades back to neutrality the second Beverly disappears behind the counter.
Jason leans back in towards Tim. “So did you see where he was taken?”
Tim shakes his head, then drains his mug, before picking up the pot and filling it back to the brim.
“Easy tiger,” Jason mutters. Tim raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘try me’, and then takes one more small defiant sip. He sets the mug back down with a clink.
“There's a gap, between CCTV from the convenience store there,” he points, “and the pawn shop, down there.” Tim gestures two buildings down. “Neilson disappeared somewhere between them, and he's not the only one.“
“What do you mean?”
Tim shifts nervously again, glancing back towards wherever Beverly disappeared to. “When I was looking over the footage, I noticed kids appear to walk past the convenience store, who have no business in this area, and don't show up anywhere after that.” Tim holds up a hand, stopping Jason before he can speak. “I checked and the cameras haven't been tampered with. Not a lot of exits either.” Jason closes his mouth.
Tim barrels on, “They are all under the age of eighteen, and vary based on age, race, sex, and economic background. They're from all over Gotham. It's no wonder we didn't see the pattern.”
Sure. People disappear from Gotham all the time.
“Do you know what Erithacus means?” Tim asks suddenly.
Jason blinks at the sudden change of topic. “No? Should I?”
In the background, the Jukebox starts another repeat of ‘Another One Bites The Dust’. The damn thing must be broken or something. It's been like twenty minutes and this song has played at least three times.
And another one's gone, and another one's gone, and another one bites the dust.
Tim shrugs. “Nevermind. Only five of them were reported missing, but I managed to track down the other three with facial recognition software an hour ago.” He chews on his lip, looking off to the side again and fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“Spit it out Timmers, it's 4 am, I know you didn't drag me out here for nothing.”
Tim takes in a deep breath, then slides a sticky note across the table. “Here's the list of all of the victims, in the order they disappeared. One a day for eight days.”
Jason looks down at the tiny yellow post-it and feels all the blood in his face drain.
And another one's gone, and another one's gone, and another one bites the dust.
Shit. Shit. Icy fingers are trailing up his spine. “Maybe it's a coincidence?” Jason offers halfheartedly, picking up the list to stare.
“Maybe,” Tim sighs, “but when have we ever been lucky enough for coincidences?”
Fair point.
Beverly brings Jason his waffles. And the second pot of coffee. The waffles might have been good. He doesn't really know. They taste like ash on his tongue. Tim presses one of the frozen bags of peas to his cheek and pours the dregs of the first pot into his mug. Beverly takes the empty pot and leaves.
“I hate to be the one to say this, but what does B think of all this? Or Dickface? Or Babs?”
Tim hunches down a little, staring into his mug like it owes him money. “They don't know.”
Jason raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Don't you think this is something they'd like to know about?” Fuck, he almost sounded like a responsible adult when he said that. He really must be tired.
Jason doesn't ask ‘why me?’, but the question stretches in the silence between their vinyl booth. They've come pretty far since Titan’s Tower, but Jason should by no means be Tim's first choice, or even his second. If he's here, coming to Jason, something is really wrong.
Tim breaks the silence first, still avoiding eye contact. There's something strange in his tone, adjacent to a lie, but not quite, when he says, “Dick has Damian in Blud tonight, the girls are having some kind of sleepover, only to be disturbed for ‘world ending emergency’, Duke has a big test tomorrow, and Bruce -” he cuts off, takes another deep breath, then finally meets Jason's eyes. The words spill out like water from a broken dam. “Bruce isn't answering my calls. Or my texts. I can't find him. His trackers have gone dark too. Alfred went to sleep around 1:30, when B was on his way back from patrol. He ended it early because of the rain, but log data says he never made it back. And he was looking into the O’Conners case. I'm, um. I'm hoping you'll tell me I'm just being paranoid.”
The icy dread comes back in full force. Jason's mouth goes dry. It feels like the moment after a lightning strike, when he's waiting for the thunder to roll through him, bringing with it memories of bombs and smoke in its booming wake, and he's just. Waiting. And it isn't coming, but he still can't relax.
“Call them,” Jason says, standing and leaving a wad of bills on the table. Maybe it's just a hunch. Maybe he's paranoid too. “Call them all.”
He looks down at the list of missing kids, now creased in his clenched fist.
Richard Neilson
Barbara Smith
Jason Edwards
Timothy Sanchez
Stephanie Gupta
Cassandra O’Conners
Damian Papadakis
Duke Lyle
He looks back at his little brother. “Tim. What does Erithacus mean?”
Tim closes his eyes for a long second. When he opens them, Jason can see the fear.
“Robin,” he whispers. “It means Robin.”