Okay chewing on this, two AU ideas:
One: Jason is getting help from Talia (or doing a favor for her) while Deathstroke is doing whatever the hell it is he did to Cass, and Jason comes across this. Jason objects to brainwashing people, and besides, that's the Batgirl he has like zero beef with because Why Would He (Yet), so he intervenes.
Deathstroke regenerates and Jason has Cosmic Punch Won't Let Him Stay Dead Mystical Bullshit, so this gets very messy very fast. Unclear how Cass's No Kill policy plays out against an opponent who regenerates, but considering what she's done to people who don't, and her, uh, everything with her mom, there's a lot of potential for Slade to rapidly come to regret his choices.
Two: during Jason's World Tour of Crime Skills, Talia sent him off to David Cain for some hand to hand combat training. This is instantly apparent to Cass the first time she sees him fight (regardless of circumstances) and Cass has some Feelings about this.
Bonus angst points: the first time Cass sees Jason fight is after her brother kills her, and he moved the same way.
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it's your conclusions that make mine delusions– tma
Jon's feet dangled underneath him, hanging limp. Papers fluttered to the floor, forgotten in the mad scramble between the two men. Jon's hands rested loosely around Tim's wrists, just above where his fists were twisted into Jon's collar. With his back against the wall, Jon was trapped completely under his co-worker's wrath. Tim stepped closer, crushing a lazily written report under his shoe.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Stoker?" Jon asked lightly. Tim's nose scrunched with disgust as Jon's smirk widened enough to bare teeth.
"Stop smiling," Tim snarled, "Stop fucking- what is wrong with you? Why are you here?" Although his grip on Tim's wrists remained deciptively gentle– hands poised so that fingertips just brushed skin– Jon's expression grew hungry. Entertainment flickered behind dark irises; Tim got the sense Jon was relishing in his desperation.
"I work here." Jon answered simply, unbothered despite the way Tim's knuckles dug into his throat. Tim barked out a mirthless laugh.
"Not the same way the rest of us do. Prove it- prove you're trapped by- by whatever is wrong with this place. Go ahead, Sims. Say it." He goaded, hoping Jon would rise to the bait. Jonathan Sims was perpetually level-headed, but Tim was at his wits end.
He wanted this puppeteer wearing a human face out of his life– out of all of their lives.
"Personally, I don't have any desire to leave. I'm quite happy with this job." Tim growled, rearing back and slamming Jon into the wall. The back of his head hit the damp drywall with a satisfying crack. Jon blinked rapidly, dazed.
Tim's blood pounded in his ears; he wanted to hurt this thing under his hands and he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. It was destroying his friends, creeping like a crawling rot into every nook and cranny of their minds. Slowly, it invaded– a sweet croon here, a sharp discouragement there; watchful eyes and cutting words hidden behind an open kindness that came from the confidence of security. It felt safe picking them apart sinew by bloody sinew.
Sasha was ruining herself and wouldn't listen to reason. She ran headfirst into any situation she thought would give her leads, not even bothering to tell anyone when she was in danger. She was working longer hours, talking to people in her office in secret, stashing tapes and statements in odd places he and Martin wouldn't look. Every new statement plucked from the mess Gertrude left behind sent her on a spiral, clawing for any connection to latch onto– and she latched onto Jon's words like a woman drowing. When Sasha ducked away from conversation with Tim and Martin, Jon was at her elbow, whispering in her ear. When she eyed Tim with distrust, he could feel Jon's gaze burning into the back of head. When she continued to pull away from anyone who could anchor her to reality, Jon was right there, pulling her along.
Jon's breathing was becoming laboured. Tim pressed more weight against his chest, egged on by the slight give of Jon's ribcage under his forearms.
"Kill me," Jon choked out. Tim lurched back a step, allowing Jon to take a deep breath that left him with a dry cough. His grin split his pockmarked cheeks, "Kill me, right now. Get it over with. That is what you want, isn't it?"
"You're sick," Tim spat. He pushed against Jon until he wheezed, "You're a sick little creep and I- I want you gone. Leave the Institute. Run into traffic. Anything, just- just get out." Jon's beaming smile wavered, eyes fluttering as consiousness was squeezed out of him, "If I ever see your face again-"
"Tim!"
Tim startled, dropping Jon's collar and letting him crumple to the floor. The anger drained out of him instantly, leaving a hollow in its wake.
He stared down at the man at his feet; Jon's narrow back was shaking.
Shaking with laughter.
Jon's boney shoulders jumped up and down, breathless snickering wracking his entire frame.
He peered up at Tim through spidery bangs. As if on strings, his lips were pulled into manic smile, eyes alight with joy. Hysterics were carved into every crease of his face.
"You can't. You will never be rid of me." He whispered, voice pitchy with wonder.
Someone pushed Tim aside; he stumbled out of the way without even turning to see which of Jon's victims it was. Red faced anger entered his sight, made fuzzy by the film of haze filling his brain.
Helplessness squeezed like a band around his chest; no one would believe him about Jon. Not Sasha, too paranoid to see the problem right in front of her. Not Martin, who would give and give and give to a monster who could only take. Not Elias, who had let Jon into the Archives in the first place.
"-at is your problem, Tim?! What could /Jon/ have done to-" A tinny voice buzzed beneath the rapid gallop of Tim's heart.
Jon was right– Tim couldn't do anything. Nothing would keep Jon from weaving his web around all of them; all he could do now was watch as the threads tightened and tightened until they each snapped under the tension.
Something bumped– shoved his shoulder. Salt and pepper hair left his vision and, instinctually, Tim's eyes traced the monster across the room.
From under Martin's arm, Jon pressed his face into his shoulder. Crocodile tears soaked into the soft, well-worn knit of Martin's favourite jumper. In stark clarity, Tim zeroed in on the hand that raised behind Martin's back.
Jon waved at him slowly and deliberately as he was led gingerly into the breakroom.
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