Fic: Proof Positive | DCU | Jason/Tim | R | 1/1
Title: Proof Positive
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Jason Todd/Tim Drake (Hooker!Jay/Alvin Draper)
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,300
Prompt: For dcu_freeforall: Skeletons in the Closet/Baggage; For comment_fic: It's no-one's business but his own that he used to turn tricks when he was on the streets. ( here)
Summary: Jay's customer is someone he never would've expected. And he has info that Jay doesn't much like.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own everything, the schmucks.
Author's Notes: Part of the Hooker!Jay-verse. Follows Three Little Words. Warnings for references to child prostitution.
Proof Positive
When the door to the little hotel room at the Super 8 opens at his quick knock, Jason freezes.
“You're my ten o'clock?” he spits, stepping into the room at his customer's gesture of invitation and pushing a hand through his hair.
Alvin Draper closes the door behind them, chewing on the fake lip ring he's sporting and looking far too timid for the little twinky punk he's supposed to be. “Yeah,” he answers, stepping over to the bed and dropping down onto it before tossing his head to get his hair out of his face and leaning back on his palms. “A hundred and fifty, right? Another fifty for kinky shit? I got two hundred right here.”
“You gotta be fucking with me,” Jay shoots back, crossing his arms over his chest and looming over the little shit. “I ain't taking your money, kid.”
“Why not? You been taking money from all sorts of ass holes for months now.”
The revelation that the kid knows about his private business venture hits Jay square in the chest. “You got no idea what you're talking about. And you ain't a Malone, so we got no arrangement. I'm outta here.” Turning away, he makes for the door, but he's stopped with his hand on the knob by the kid's insistent voice behind him.
“Were you seriously gonna keep this to yourself?” Draper asks, not moving from his spot on the bed. “Jason.”
For a second, Jason sees red, his vision literally filming over with a haze of rage at the question. He automatically reaches to his belt, grasping for the hilt of his favorite knife that he isn’t even wearing-dammit!-before sense overtakes him. “How the fuck d’you even know about this?” he asks, voice hoarse with anger as he turns from the door to face ‘Alvin’ again.
The kid-Tim, fuck-reaches over to the little nightstand and grabs up his phone, inputs a few commands, and holds it up for Jason to see.
A video plays on the little screen, his own face smirking as a john guides him into a room here at the Super 8. No doubt; it’s Jay, his face, his street clothes, his swagger as he makes sure his customer gets a good view as they disappear into the little room.
Fuck! He should've known. Should've expected. After the shit that went down in that warehouse, after those damn spores had had their way with the five of them, he should've realized Tim would find out that the hooker thing wasn't just an act.
“Shit,” he spits, adding a few other choice curses to the mix. A long breath, and when Tim lowers the phone and stops the video, he looks his brother square in the eyes. “All right, you got me,” he spits. “And yeah. Yeah, I was gonna keep this shit to myself. It's nobody's fucking business what I do in my spare time. That's my shit. Mine to deal with, mine to work over, mine to keep up if I fucking want to. Got it?”
Tim just scowls in return.
“Got it?”
A slow blink, and Tim nods. “Yeah, I got it. But you have to know that Bruce has seen this already. He's been keeping surveillance on this block for two weeks now, trying to suss out the sudden uptake in business in the area. There are no less than three instances of you coming and going, a different man with you each time, and none of them are Bruce or Dick.”
Jason's jaw clenches as his heart starts to hammer wildly in his chest. Fuck, he hadn't known. Fuck!
“Okay, so, he's seen it,” Jay says, shrugging as if it doesn't even matter. Fuck, he's so fucking screwed. They're gonna kill him when he gets home.
Tim frowns. “So it's really true. You have been doing this again.”
Again? Fuck. Jay can only grimace, his face betraying him, and he crosses his arms over his chest and drops down onto the other bed, facing Tim. “Yeah. I have. What of it? You gonna tell me to stop, Timmy? Gonna tell me it's hazardous to my health? Gonna lecture me on the morality of selling myself to whoever will pay for it? Huh?”
“No,” Tim answers quickly, and it surprises Jay. “What I'm gonna do is destroy the videos. It's like you said; what you've been doing is no one's business but your own. And what you did, however long ago … well, that's not anyone's business, either.”
Reaching into the drawer of the little nightstand, Tim retrieves a file folder and flips it open, pulling out what appears to be a page of photographs, full color, neatly placed and in order. Carefully, he hands the page to Jason. “I took these before Bruce even found you. Didn't know who you were, or who you'd be. I just knew that Batman had been in the neighborhood recently, and that it was likely he'd be back. Kept them all this time, but I destroyed the negatives after you became Robin.”
Jason can only stare at the photos so neatly affixed to the page, willing his hands to stop shaking as his past rears up to greet him, in gorgeous technicolor. There on a street corner-on his corner-Jason leans against the lamp post, smoking, his jeans and t-shirt ripped a little, frayed and faded, his Converse lowtops scuffed to hell. In the second pic, he's blowing smoke rings toward a car that's pulled up to the curb. In the third, he's leaning into the car window. In the fourth, he's getting in the car, looking for the world like he's about to get his ass killed and dumped in an alley.
Jesus fucking Christ, he was all of thirteen.
And Batman had found him ripping the tires off his car not a week later.
Shivering despite himself, Jay feels his face crumple, his eyes suddenly watering. “You … you knew?” he asks, choking on the growing lump in his throat.
Tim nods. “Yes, I knew. I couldn't understand why you did it back then, but I think I get it now. Kind of. I know things were really bad.” Pausing, he takes a long breath. “Point is, those are yours to destroy. I won't tell anyone. Just … you can trust us, okay? After what happened in the warehouse, you can trust all of us.”
Dragging his gaze up from the proof positive that his life has been fucked from the get-go, Jay blinks at Tim, feels a tear slip down his face-fuck it-and heaves a breath. “Yeah,” he replies quietly. “Okay.”
Fuck, why not? Maybe after the warehouse, he can afford to let his shit out. It's not like Bruce and Dick don't know what he went through. They've put up with his fucked up fantasies for long enough that it's pretty damn obvious they're aware of it on some level. And what the hell? Least he can do is get this shit off his chest, try talking to them for once. Even if getting the memories to fade will take a lot fucking longer, the least he can do is try.
Jesus fuck, what a revelation.
Before he can stop himself, Jay hands the page of photos back to Tim, stands from the bed and crowds into his space, looming again, to make his point. “Keep em',” he says. “Leave the video alone, too.” And with not-so-shaky hands, he leans down, cups Tim's face, and kisses him hard. “Forget about the two-hundred. Just stay for a while?”
To his surprise, Tim actually smiles at him, the lip ring almost ruining the effect, but not quite, as the younger brother catches him by the arms and tugs him down to settle on the bed. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”
Jay’s voice catches in his throat, and he swallows down a sudden, unexpected lump. “Thanks, Baby Bird. For everything.”
~*~*~*~
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: Jason Todd/Tim Drake (Hooker!Jay/Alvin Draper)
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,300
Prompt: For dcu_freeforall: Skeletons in the Closet/Baggage; For comment_fic: It's no-one's business but his own that he used to turn tricks when he was on the streets. ( here)
Summary: Jay's customer is someone he never would've expected. And he has info that Jay doesn't much like.
Disclaimer: DC and WB own everything, the schmucks.
Author's Notes: Part of the Hooker!Jay-verse. Follows Three Little Words. Warnings for references to child prostitution.
Proof Positive
When the door to the little hotel room at the Super 8 opens at his quick knock, Jason freezes.
“You're my ten o'clock?” he spits, stepping into the room at his customer's gesture of invitation and pushing a hand through his hair.
Alvin Draper closes the door behind them, chewing on the fake lip ring he's sporting and looking far too timid for the little twinky punk he's supposed to be. “Yeah,” he answers, stepping over to the bed and dropping down onto it before tossing his head to get his hair out of his face and leaning back on his palms. “A hundred and fifty, right? Another fifty for kinky shit? I got two hundred right here.”
“You gotta be fucking with me,” Jay shoots back, crossing his arms over his chest and looming over the little shit. “I ain't taking your money, kid.”
“Why not? You been taking money from all sorts of ass holes for months now.”
The revelation that the kid knows about his private business venture hits Jay square in the chest. “You got no idea what you're talking about. And you ain't a Malone, so we got no arrangement. I'm outta here.” Turning away, he makes for the door, but he's stopped with his hand on the knob by the kid's insistent voice behind him.
“Were you seriously gonna keep this to yourself?” Draper asks, not moving from his spot on the bed. “Jason.”
For a second, Jason sees red, his vision literally filming over with a haze of rage at the question. He automatically reaches to his belt, grasping for the hilt of his favorite knife that he isn’t even wearing-dammit!-before sense overtakes him. “How the fuck d’you even know about this?” he asks, voice hoarse with anger as he turns from the door to face ‘Alvin’ again.
The kid-Tim, fuck-reaches over to the little nightstand and grabs up his phone, inputs a few commands, and holds it up for Jason to see.
A video plays on the little screen, his own face smirking as a john guides him into a room here at the Super 8. No doubt; it’s Jay, his face, his street clothes, his swagger as he makes sure his customer gets a good view as they disappear into the little room.
Fuck! He should've known. Should've expected. After the shit that went down in that warehouse, after those damn spores had had their way with the five of them, he should've realized Tim would find out that the hooker thing wasn't just an act.
“Shit,” he spits, adding a few other choice curses to the mix. A long breath, and when Tim lowers the phone and stops the video, he looks his brother square in the eyes. “All right, you got me,” he spits. “And yeah. Yeah, I was gonna keep this shit to myself. It's nobody's fucking business what I do in my spare time. That's my shit. Mine to deal with, mine to work over, mine to keep up if I fucking want to. Got it?”
Tim just scowls in return.
“Got it?”
A slow blink, and Tim nods. “Yeah, I got it. But you have to know that Bruce has seen this already. He's been keeping surveillance on this block for two weeks now, trying to suss out the sudden uptake in business in the area. There are no less than three instances of you coming and going, a different man with you each time, and none of them are Bruce or Dick.”
Jason's jaw clenches as his heart starts to hammer wildly in his chest. Fuck, he hadn't known. Fuck!
“Okay, so, he's seen it,” Jay says, shrugging as if it doesn't even matter. Fuck, he's so fucking screwed. They're gonna kill him when he gets home.
Tim frowns. “So it's really true. You have been doing this again.”
Again? Fuck. Jay can only grimace, his face betraying him, and he crosses his arms over his chest and drops down onto the other bed, facing Tim. “Yeah. I have. What of it? You gonna tell me to stop, Timmy? Gonna tell me it's hazardous to my health? Gonna lecture me on the morality of selling myself to whoever will pay for it? Huh?”
“No,” Tim answers quickly, and it surprises Jay. “What I'm gonna do is destroy the videos. It's like you said; what you've been doing is no one's business but your own. And what you did, however long ago … well, that's not anyone's business, either.”
Reaching into the drawer of the little nightstand, Tim retrieves a file folder and flips it open, pulling out what appears to be a page of photographs, full color, neatly placed and in order. Carefully, he hands the page to Jason. “I took these before Bruce even found you. Didn't know who you were, or who you'd be. I just knew that Batman had been in the neighborhood recently, and that it was likely he'd be back. Kept them all this time, but I destroyed the negatives after you became Robin.”
Jason can only stare at the photos so neatly affixed to the page, willing his hands to stop shaking as his past rears up to greet him, in gorgeous technicolor. There on a street corner-on his corner-Jason leans against the lamp post, smoking, his jeans and t-shirt ripped a little, frayed and faded, his Converse lowtops scuffed to hell. In the second pic, he's blowing smoke rings toward a car that's pulled up to the curb. In the third, he's leaning into the car window. In the fourth, he's getting in the car, looking for the world like he's about to get his ass killed and dumped in an alley.
Jesus fucking Christ, he was all of thirteen.
And Batman had found him ripping the tires off his car not a week later.
Shivering despite himself, Jay feels his face crumple, his eyes suddenly watering. “You … you knew?” he asks, choking on the growing lump in his throat.
Tim nods. “Yes, I knew. I couldn't understand why you did it back then, but I think I get it now. Kind of. I know things were really bad.” Pausing, he takes a long breath. “Point is, those are yours to destroy. I won't tell anyone. Just … you can trust us, okay? After what happened in the warehouse, you can trust all of us.”
Dragging his gaze up from the proof positive that his life has been fucked from the get-go, Jay blinks at Tim, feels a tear slip down his face-fuck it-and heaves a breath. “Yeah,” he replies quietly. “Okay.”
Fuck, why not? Maybe after the warehouse, he can afford to let his shit out. It's not like Bruce and Dick don't know what he went through. They've put up with his fucked up fantasies for long enough that it's pretty damn obvious they're aware of it on some level. And what the hell? Least he can do is get this shit off his chest, try talking to them for once. Even if getting the memories to fade will take a lot fucking longer, the least he can do is try.
Jesus fuck, what a revelation.
Before he can stop himself, Jay hands the page of photos back to Tim, stands from the bed and crowds into his space, looming again, to make his point. “Keep em',” he says. “Leave the video alone, too.” And with not-so-shaky hands, he leans down, cups Tim's face, and kisses him hard. “Forget about the two-hundred. Just stay for a while?”
To his surprise, Tim actually smiles at him, the lip ring almost ruining the effect, but not quite, as the younger brother catches him by the arms and tugs him down to settle on the bed. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”
Jay’s voice catches in his throat, and he swallows down a sudden, unexpected lump. “Thanks, Baby Bird. For everything.”
~*~*~*~