#Rated T for profanity (Jason swears more than normal for me)

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Hounded

Fandom: Batman

Relationship: Tim Drake & Jason Todd

Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Alfred Pennyworth

Gifted to: @bruces-bats​

Series: Mutual Aid

They were going to kill him. Tim Drake knew this in the fiberglass shards of his bones. He would run as far as he could, but it wouldn’t be far enough. They would find him. They would catch him. And they would kill him.

Bruce, I’m so sorry.

Tim clutched his broken arm to his chest and choked back a sob as he staggered through the maze of crates. No noise. Noise was a tell. Noise was death, faster, sooner. If he could find a place to hide, maybe, maybe he would live. He was so stupid for getting cut off and isolated, without backup or ally. But if he could just hide, maybe he could stay alive long enough to be found.

The men chasing him weren’t silent. They were loud, so loud, the baying of hounds on the trail of a limping fox. Tim flinched from the shouts, knowing he was being hounded and herded, but unable to escape. He forced himself to move faster, stumbling over his own heavy feet, ignoring the flare of pain in his leg, one gloved hand pressed to the wall of crates to keep himself upright.

He didn’t see the fist before it hit him, knuckles hitting the side of his head with a crack. Tim went down, twisting even as he did to keep from landing on his arm. His skull was full of bees, humming so loud he could barely hear the shouts growing louder or the triumphant laugh of the man standing over him.

A boot drove into his ribs. Tim curled and rolled with a gasp, and the second strike caught him only as a glancing blow. It didn’t matter. He was caught between the wall of crates and his attacker. The next blow would land, and the next, and the next. Tim was glad, perversely, that the jammer was still working and no one would be able to hear what was coming.

He heard the man over him shout again, a call to his pack, and the unmistakable chu-chck of a handgun being cocked. Oh. Good. It would be quick, then.

BANG!

Even braced, Tim still jerked spasmodically at the too-close roar of the gunshot. It took him too long to separate the bright, shocking scream of pain in his jostled arm from the screaming elsewhere and the lack of bullet wound-related pain generally.

He… wasn’t… shot? He wasn’t dead. Still fever-hot with adrenaline, Tim lifted his head in time to see a man round the far end of the wall of crates, face slick with sweat and fear. He was shouting, gesturing to Tim and the gunman standing over him as he ran toward them. As Tim watched, another shot rang out, and the man fell, screaming, his kneecap a mess of pulp and exposed bone.

“Ред хоод,” the gunman breathed, just loud enough for Tim to hear. A horrible chill ran up Tim’s spine.

Red Hood.

He wouldn’t die quickly after all.

READ THE FULL FIC ON AO3

(I don’t allow AI to scrape my work)