Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason’s plan falls apart when the batarang leaves Bruce’s hand. He had planned to have to dodge one or two, but that plan had been contingent on the throw being aimed for either his limbs, which he could dodge, or his torso, where he could easily take the hit. This one is aimed directly at his neck. All Jason can do in time is shift so that the cutting edge punctures high into the front of his throat instead of slicing deep into the veins and arteries on either side. Then the shot he had been about to take goes wide, the bomb goes off, and it all goes wrong.

He barely makes it out of the collapsed building. He hurries the few blocks to Leslie’s free clinic on autopilot, batarang still lodged in his neck. He tears off the remnants of his domino mask and knocks on the back door of the clinic with one hand, still holding his throat with the other. The door slams open. Leslie had always hated it when people used the direct line to her office instead of stopping at the front like everyone else. Dr. Leslie Thompkins stands in the doorway, backlit and looking for all the world like Gotham’s personal, sleep deprived, angel. Jason smiles softly and tries to say “Hey Doc,” but his voice won’t work.

“My god, Jason, what happened to you?” She takes his hand and leads him to the exam table in her office. When she gently pries his fingers from around the batarang it feels like he’s being torn open. Jason would gasp, but he can barely breathe around the pointed shape obstructing half of his windpipe. Leslie’s face turns to stone.

“Do you need sedatives or painkillers?” she asks, all business. Always cool headed in a crisis. It’s one of Jason’s favorite things about her. Jason almost tries to speak or shake his head, but he thinks better of it and signs out “no.”

Leslie carefully cuts away the remnants of his shirt collar and probes at the entry point.

“I’m going to have to pull this out. After it’s out, I should be able to put in some stitches, but there might be permanent damage to your voice box. Looks like the edge went right through it. If you’d be willing to go under for some surgery, I could fix that too. Decision?”

Jason can’t tell whether the steel in Leslie’s voice is because she doesn’t really want to be saving someone like him, because of what exactly is lodged in his neck right now, or because she’s trying to get past the shock of seeing to boy who she’d last seen on an autopsy table all grown up. Jason signs out “no,” again. She gloves up and gets the supplies for stitches.

“Alright,” she says “I’m going to pull it out on the count of three. Stay still please. One.” She pulls the batarang out before she even gets to two and wipes the wound.

Jason misses every stitch after the first two. His head is swimming from pain, fatigue, and blood loss. He can only faintly hear Leslie talking. He catches little snippets of a very one-sided conversation.

“Jesus kid… didn’t expect… how… were dead… Bruce do this? … idiot… should’ve… why didn’t you… done.”

The dizziness subsides and Jason sees Leslie by the sink, washing blood off her hands. He inhales deeply for the first time in what feels like hours. Even though his every breath still tastes like blood, the cool air is balm against the angry wound in his neck. Jason decides to try his luck at talking now that he’s got breathing pretty well under control.

“Thanks,” he manages to rasp out, more of a shaping of air than movement of vocal cords. Leslie gives him a sharp look that stops him from trying anymore talking.

“Jason,” she says worriedly “I need to know, did Bruce do that?”

Jason starts to open his mouth to answer, but at another sharp look from Leslie, he inclines his head gently instead, careful of the stitches at the front of his neck. She buries her face in her hands and Jason takes it as his opportunity to get up and start leaving. He puts a wad of cash on the counter near the door and Leslie calls after him as he leaves.

“The stitches need to come out in about a week. No solids until then.” There’s an unspoken plea in her voice for him to come back to her instead of removing them himself. He nods his thanks and disappears into the night.

A week later he stands in front of a dingy bathroom mirror and uses the curved tip of a combat knife to pick out the dark sutures. The still inflamed scar is almost too high to hide with collared shirts and turtlenecks. The last stitch pulls out and a single drop of blood drips from where he wasn’t careful enough to stop the suture from tearing at his skin. So much for planning.

Chapter Text

The Red Hood drops off the map for about two weeks while Jason heals and brushes up on his sign language. After about three days of trying to speak on his own and getting nothing more than a low, quiet, rasp, Jason decides to go to a speech rehabilitation specialist. He makes the appointment as Jay Peters and tells the doctor in his e-mail that he’d had his neck stitched up by an emergency room doctor in the aftermath of a Joker attack and hadn’t been able to talk since.

Not entirely a lie. And certainly not one anyone in Gotham would think to question.

The doctor informs him after several tests and scans, that he will probably never be able to speak above a whisper naturally. He tries out a speech amplifier and an electrolarynx at the office. Jason had always associated the robotic voice of the electrolarynx with commercials about the long-term consequences of smoking and wrinkled old men with holes in their throats from too many years of inhaling death.

 He takes two of the machines home and quits smoking cold turkey. Jason finds it easier to pretend that he’s not crying himself to sleep now that he can’t hear his sobs.

It takes a couple more days for him to rig up a cannibalized electrolarynx to sit against the underside of his jaw inside his helmet and rework the microphones and voice modulator already in the helmet to make his voice more understandable instead of less. He puts a remote power switch for it on the left side of his belt and forgets to turn it on half of the time.

When the Red Hood goes out again, he’s noticeably quieter. The usual quips and threats are replaced with stony silence interspersed with curt responses. Jason finds himself forgetting to turn on the speech simulator often enough that he just stops talking for the most part. Now he only speaks when there’s something important to say. Some of the criminal underground start to theorize that this is a new Red Hood because of period of inactivity and his newfound reticence. He makes more of an effort to be talkative again but gives up after about a week or so of stilted banter and odd looks from the criminal populace.

Jason uses sign language and written notes in public for the most part. The mechanical voice draws too much attention to him, and it makes something hot and angry burn in his gut when he can’t ask a store employee where the bread is without curious shoppers staring at him. The only bright spot is that once a kid asked him if he was Robocop. He had smiled at the kid and said, “Of course I am,” in his best mechanical voice before the kid’s mother had whisked him away, apologizing for his rudeness while Jason looked at their retreating backs. That one day isn’t enough to quell his embarrassment at the robotic voice the machine gives him, so he only uses it when people don’t understand sign language and he’s run out of paper to write notes on.

He wears only high collared shirts because a scar like his draws too much attention. Jason finds it a little funny and a lot annoying that the only scar of his that truly bothers him is also the one that’s the hardest to hide.

Months pass before he even sees a bat again and Jason keeps up business as usual. He does attempt to fly a little lower on Batman’s radar by reducing killing to just the worst of the scumbags and carefully planning his patrols so that they don’t match up with the newly independent Red Robin’s. Jason is fairly sure he can force the attention of Batman or Nightwing somewhere else, but something about Tim, the kid he’s beaten black and blue and nearly killed more than a few times, seems to cut right to the heart of his insecurities.

Jason is afraid that someone like that will be able to see right through the layers of voice modulators and right to the heart of the truth. Possibly being unable to keep this one last secret chafes at Jason enough that he completely avoids one of the two bats that he might be able to stand the presence of.

Black Mask tries to play chess with Jason. He’d figured out that Red Hood must have, at one point, been one of Batman’s flock and could be captured and convinced to share the identity of the Bat. Jason says nothing (couldn’t have it he’d wanted to) once his helmet is knocked off. Black Mask thinks it’s all part of some larger play or out of a deep loyalty to the Bat (it partly is, but that’s not the only reason). Jason burns his most expensive house down as revenge for all Black Mask’s jokes about him not talking and his pointed comments implying that he was too scared to even squeak without the helmet on. One more “Cat got your tongue?” and Jason would have been ready to send Black Mask’s tongue to Catwoman in a velvet box just for the fun of it.

Somehow, Red Hood gets dragged into playing emergency support crew for an Arkham breakout and when it’s time for his debrief after, Barbara won’t let him into the clocktower with his helmet still on. He curses under his breath. He’s not looking forward to what will inevitably be a very one-sided conversation unless Barbara miraculously knows sign language.

The door asks for vocal recognition and Jason’s vision whites out with fury. Logically, he knows that she could only really be certain of his loss if he told her, but he also knows that Oracle has been in his computer and his helmet for a couple months now. It’s been almost a year since the incident, and his voice modulator has gotten good, but he’s not cocky enough to think that she can’t see through it.

He stands paralyzed with anger and fear for what feels like hours. Then Jason hears the hiss of a pneumatic door and sees Barbara for the first time since he’s been back, a contrite look on her face and a soft apology on her lips. She understands, she says, what it’s like to lose. She’s sorry, she says. For some reason, he finds comfort in the words that he’s pretty sure he’d kill Bruce or Dick for. She doesn’t sound like she pities him.

Jason dives into her embrace, helmet clattering to the floor, and she wraps her arms around his shoulders. When he looks up into her face, he remembers being fifteen and meeting her for the first time and hearing her tell him he’d never be Dick Grayson. Seeing the look in her eyes now, he thinks she might have meant it as a kindness even then. Maybe she had really been trying to tell him to stop trying to be someone else. It still hurts, but an apology is more than he’s gotten from most people.

They go inside and Barbara goes into Oracle mode for a few minutes while Jason sits on a spare office chair with a mug of tea in one hand and a thousand words he’ll never say swirling in his head. Once she’s finished, she wheels over to him with a pad of paper and a pencil that he accepts with a silent thanks.

“So,” she says, “It’s been awhile.” Jason laughs at her wry smile. They both know that the last time they’d seen each other, Jason had never been buried and Barbara had never used a wheelchair for more than a week straight.

Missed you - Jason scribbles out on the paper and smiles crookedly at her. She huffs out a laugh.

“You could have visited before the whole Bruce debacle.” Jason’s smile falls and he looks down at his lap, angry and ashamed. Barbara continues. “If anyone might have understood, it would have been me.”

Yes - he writes- but I was too angry. At anyone who was one of his soldiers.

Not for the first time, Jason misses the snarl he used to put into statements like that. It became so much harder to get angry at the world when he couldn’t yell out his frustrations. Now that he had to write his every thought out and present it like the world’s worst flashcard.

“How about now?”

Just him most of the time

“Yeah, me too.” She pauses “I’m angry at you too. What you did…. I can’t forgive that yet, but I think I understand.”

He inclines his head as if to say, “fair enough,” and gets a slight laugh and a shake of Barbara’s head for his efforts.

The rest of the night passes in some strange comfort while he types up his report on Oracle’s computer and she gives him little updates on the status of various allies and enemies. Jason thinks this is the longest they’ve ever spent together outside the field. Barbara invites him to meet Black Bat and the new Batgirl sometime. As part of her final goodbye, she promises to brush up on her sign language before he visits again so that he won’t have to go through so much paper. She was careful not to mention Bruce’s rules once the whole night. Almost like Jason matters more to her than them.

That night, Jason still dreams about the Joker and Batman. He still feels the impact of a crowbar against his back and sees the inside of a coffin seared into the skin of his eyelids. Jason still feels the puncture of a blade in his larynx and still imagines a hundred more flying towards him, pinning him down like a butterfly in a collection. But tonight, at the end of all his tossing and turning, there’s a pair of warm arms that smell like tea leaves and electrical fires to hold him and a voice that whispers to him without pity. There’s no apology, or moralizing, or forgiveness. Just a moment of peace. Of comfort.

Chapter Text

Jason starts visiting Barbara once a week to exchange case information. After his third visit, Barbara gives him the access codes to the clock-tower.

“I can’t figure out how to stop the door from asking for vocal recognition from people that don’t have the override code,” she says when she hands him a sheet of paper with a numerical code written on it. Jason knows this is a lie. Barbara could out-think the Riddler in seconds on her worst day. He accepts the paper with a smile. This is her trusting him.

Out on patrol, Jason sees Batman. He sprints over the rooftops of Gotham, desperate to get away before the Bat can see him. His vision narrows and his chest tightens. Jason’s neck throbs, the scar tissue like an iron band around it. By the time he ducks behind an old electrical box to hide, it feels like there’s radio static in his lungs and his heart is pounding like a jackhammer. The walls of his helmet start to close in, and Jason practically tears it off of his head to gasp in cool night air. The domino mask around his eyes starts to close in too, but he restrains himself from ripping that off too so he can maintain some pretense of a secret identity.

Jason sits there heaving in breaths until his panic boils into rage. He waits and tries to calm himself down as waves of green wash away the blood he imagines pouring from his throat. The pit whispers in his mind, little bits of the truth twisted into whatever will hurt him most.

At first, it’s just variations on Bruce not loving him, him being the failed Robin, questions of why Bruce needs him at all when he has so many better choices. What need does the Bat have for a street rat when he has the perfect pet bird in Dick Grayson? Why would he need a bruiser when he has clever, analytical Tim? What use could he possibly have for Jason’s particular brand of rage when he has his own flesh and blood by his side? Then comes the whisper that becomes a scream- He chose. He chose the Joker. It devolves into what is almost a playground taunt set to the rhythm of a crowbar cracking against flesh.

It takes half an hour for Jason’s heartbeat to stop racing and for him to register Barbara’s voice piping in from the speakers on the discarded helmet next to him sounding a bit panicked. He inhales deeply and resettles the helmet onto his head.

“Hood, are you there? Your vitals have been going crazy. Please answer. Come on Jay.” It’s clear that Babs has been trying to get his attention for a while now. It shouldn’t make Jason happy that she sounds desperate for him to answer.

“I’m fine O,” he uses the voice synthesizer in the helmet to broadcast over the comm. Jason has never been more thankful for the flat affectation the electrolarynx gives him. The telltale crack he should have had in his voice can’t be imitated by the machine he needs to speak

The line goes silent for a minute or so while they both figure out what to say.

“Come spend the night at the clocktower.” Barbara’s suggestion is infinitely compatible with Jason’s desire to not be alone right now.

“Okay.”

Jason barely remembers his trip to the clocktower, but when he gets there, Babs already has the door open for him and is waiting just inside. He makes it all the way inside and to the kitchen, leaving his helmet on the counter before he finally breaks down. Barbara gently leads him to lay down on the couch. She helps him peel off his boots, mask, and jacket while he shakes silently. He signs “Thank you,” over and over again. Babs drapes a blanket over him and stills his hands by holding them in her own.

“We’ll talk in the morning. Just sleep now.” He falls asleep to her quiet voice humming something soft and sad while his shuddering breaths even out.

Jason wakes up early in the morning, feeling drained, and sets about making tea. He looks out into the living room once the mug is in his hand and sees the curious face of a girl with short black hair looking back at him. They consider each other for a moment. Jason is wary of her, but Barbara must have let her in, so she probably isn’t a criminal. Then again, Barbara let Jason in, so he downgrades the girl from, “probably not a criminal,” to, “most likely not a literal flesh-eating monster.”  She tilts her head and seems to make some sort of decision. Jason blinks and she is suddenly in the kitchen, hugging him tightly around his waist and blinking up at him with knowing eyes.

People don’t hug Jason. They don’t touch him unprompted. There aren’t many people who trust him enough for that. He feels something in his heart melt just a little.

She lets him go and smiles up at him. He stands more than a foot taller than her, but it is instantly clear to Jason that she holds the power in whatever this exchange is. She points to herself and says, not without some effort, “Cass.”

Jason automatically opens his mouth to reply, remembers, and shuts his mouth again. Cass takes his mug out of his hand and sets it on the counter. She looks at him expectantly for a moment before deciding that he’s being too slow and grabs his hands, pushing his hands into fists with his first two fingers extended and tapping his outstretched fingers together in a sign that takes a second to register as “name.”

He withdraws his hands and signs out J.A.S.O.N. She considers for a moment before signing back. She signs out J and then brings her hand up to her face, opening and closing her index finger and thumb next to her mouth.

Bird. J-Bird.

She signs it again.

J-Bird.

Cass has apparently decided that the ridiculous nickname fits him better than just a more simplified sign of his name. He sighs and tentatively signs back, hoping she knows more than just basics.

Your.Mask. Name.?.

She replies happily.

Black. Bat. Cass pauses. You. Red. Hood.?.

Jason smiles back. Cass’s grasp of sign language is much better than he’d expected. They volley questions back and forth in increasingly faster signs for a while. Her understanding is near perfect, especially once Jason puts more effort into his facial expressions and body language than the signs. He still struggles sometimes to not get caught up in vocabulary and signing with someone who’s got a better handle on the body language and expression is going to help with that.

Her fingerspelling is somewhat limited, so sometimes they get hitches when that comes up, but she makes him laugh with her signs for the other Bats. For Dick, she signs out. Big. Bird. Robin is. Baby. Bat.

Jason’s favorite is the sign for Batman, which involves signing out. Bat. while scowling viciously. He corrects her sign for Red Robin and signs back. R.2. The twinkle in her eye makes him think that Tim has made her watch Star Wars before. They must be close.

Barbara rolls into the kitchen to see Jason and Cass signing back and forth. She smiles and takes the extra mug of tea Jason made for her. He makes pancakes while Barbara sips tea and Cass carefully fingerspells out the headlines in the newspaper. Babs corrects her and helps her with words she has difficulty with. Last night feels all but forgotten.

Jason’s weekly visits become Sunday pancake breakfasts with Barbara and Cass. The next time Jason sees Batman across the roofs he manages to quell his panic and get to the clocktower. This time, Cass is waiting there for him too.

Chapter Text

Stephanie Brown appears in the clocktower one Sunday morning, chattering a mile a minute and carrying a beat-up waffle iron under one arm. Jason freezes in place while he watches her swoop down to give Barbara a hug that looks like it might be crushing bones. Cass looks at him from where she’s standing next to the stove. Her eyes go wide and pleading in a way Jason hasn’t yet developed immunity to. The tension in his body slowly bleeds out and Cass smiles at him like he’s hung the moon. When she pulls Jason to turn around, Stephanie and Barbara are already looking at them.

“I’m Steph, she says. He already knows, but humors her by signing back. J.A.S.O.N. and pointing at himself. Cass pushes his hand away, shakes her head, and signs.

J. Bird.

Jason sighs at the name but doesn’t correct it.

“So, Jay,” Stephanie speaks again, brandishing the waffle iron “how do you feel about waffles?”

Sunday mornings become a four-person arrangement with Jason making pancakes and Stephanie making waffles while she talks to him. Cass and Babs sit at the dining room table, piping in from beyond the flour splash zone (Stephanie is not a neat cook). Steph makes some spectacular jokes about dead birds, and they form the first national chapter of the Dead Robins Society. Maybe this is what Jason was missing that made Dick and Tim the better Robins.

Jason is permanently patched into Oracle’s network now. Barbara sends him as backup for her birds. He gets on alright with most of the team, well with Catwoman, and too well with Huntress. Black Canary seems to dislike him specifically, but they work together too well for Barbara to stop pairing them up when she needs him as an extra member. She probably also likes to watch them fight. He almost never gets paired up with the youngest members and Jason gets why. Red Hood isn’t exactly kid friendly and he’s been known to injure baby birds, but it still hurts a little. He’s changing, he thinks. Now he’s a version of himself that could make amends.

Black Bat drops in on his patrols at least once a week. They play rooftop tag together and neither of them has to hold back any of their more lethal training. The night always ends with milkshakes from a 24 hour diner before they say goodbye.

Batgirl catches up to Jason on patrol one day. They usually run different circuits to keep up her plausible deniability.

“Heya Red!” Stephanie calls out to him over the rooftops. He turns to face her and pauses to let her jog to catch up. Jason double taps the button Barbara relocated to the middle finger of his glove in order to make the electrolarynx quicker to use and turns it on.

“How’s it going Blondie?” he asks in his heavily processed false voice. Stephanie stops dead in her tracks.

“You can talk?” She sounds shocked and betrayed. He should’ve known that Barbara would make him tell someone himself.

“No.” He keeps walking, and she scrambles to follow. They make it a block or so before he stops walking again.

“The helmet talks for me. Damaged vocal cords. This voice isn’t mine” He has to speak in short statements so that his synthesized voice will be understandable.

Jason finds himself staggering back under the sudden force of a hug that feels like a full body tackle. The newest Batgirl has her face buried in his neck, right up under his helmet, and seems determined to hug him until he hugs back. He hesitantly settles his arms around her shoulders. People don’t hug Jason. Except for Babs. Except for Cass. Except for Stephanie? It’s starting to be more exceptions than Jason expected to have.

“I’m so sorry Jay,” She whispers into his neck. He squeezes back a little tighter before they split apart.

“Who did this Jason?” She sounds more upset than he thinks anyone else has ever been for him. He takes some deep breaths before he responds to stave off the rush of panic he feels any time he remembers.

“B.”

“That fucker,” she spits out. Stephanie grabs his hand and says, softer now “Let’s go to the clocktower, watch a stupid movie, and try that hug again. Without the body armor this time."

“I should tell you. There’s a tazer in the chest panel.”

Stephanie squawks indignantly and pulls him along more insistently.

Jason wakes up on the couch in the clocktower in an undershirt and sweatpants with Steph sprawled out over his chest. Cass is cuddled up in the armchair off to the side. She’s giving him those damn puppy-dog eyes again. The ones that usually precede a hug. Jason sighs and pats the small empty space between his body and the back of the couch that Stephanie hasn’t oozed into yet.

Barbara’s view when she goes into the living room in the morning is Jason buried underneath Steph and Cass on the couch and pleading with his eyes for her to help him. Barbara just takes a picture and sets it as her phone screensaver while he glares at her from beneath a tangle of limbs.

Chapter Text

Jason slowly gets used to Cass’s sneak attack hugs and Stephanie’s casual affection. More often than not, post patrol debriefs at the clocktower on Saturdays turn into sleepovers on the floor of Barbara’s bedroom and Sundays spent helping Barbara around the clocktower and tutoring Steph or Cass in whatever subjects he and Barbara remember from school and Bruce’s training.

Jason gets a panicked call from Steph one Tuesday morning around five o’clock. He picks up the phone and taps the microphone so she’ll know that he’s listening.

“Oh my god. Jason. Thank goodness you picked up.” Stephanie's words rush out like an avalanche and Jason has to focus to pick out the actual meaning of them beyond the speed they’re delivered at.

“I went to Tim’s apartment, and he was asleep on the couch, so I tried to wake him up to move him but he won’t wake up.” Jason taps the microphone again in an attempt to get her to slow down, but she keeps rambling.

“And Cass is in Hong Kong and Babs can’t get here quickly enough. Bruce is mad at me for yelling at him so I can’t call him. And I don’t have Dick’s phone number. I don’t have it. I can’t call.” Jason fumbles to grab his electrolarynx off the bedside table.

“Steph, slow down,” he uses the machine to speak into the receiver. Jason hears Stephanie take a deep, gasping breath before she starts again, slower this time.

“I know that you and Tim have some history, but I didn’t know who else to call,” she sounds so distraught that if Jason had been thinking of denying her for even a second, (he hadn’t, he owes her too much) he wouldn’t be able to now.

“It’s ok Blondie. I’ll be there in ten.”

In his haste to leave, Jason just pulls on a t-shirt instead of his usual high-collared turtleneck or button-up.

Jason barely has time to knock on the door before it’s yanked open, and Stephanie has him inside Tim’s apartment. She drags him to where the couch rests in the middle of the war zone that is Tim’s very messy apartment. Jason understands now why she would have needed to wake Tim up to move him.

Steph is barely taller than Tim and she would have needed his cooperation to navigate the minefield of the floor while supporting his weight. Jason has no such issues so he signs to Steph.

Bedroom.?. Show. Me. Where.?

before scooping Tim up from the couch.

Together they arrange Tim on his bed. Jason checks his pulse and temperature and finds his heart rate to be fine, but his temperature to be definitely too hot.

He’ll. Be. OK. Has. Fever. he signs to Steph. Until. He. Wakes Up. I’ll. Stay.

“Thank you, Jason. I’d have called B, but…” she trails off and Jason indicates for her to continue. Stephanie is avoiding eye contact with him now, solely focused on his hands.

“He’s upset with me and I’m just so angry with him! I yelled at him. I know he expects me to come crawling back, but I’m not sorry.” When she looks up, Jason can see the fire in her eyes, the drive that makes her one of the few people that have stood up to Bruce Wayne when he said no. He sees the girl who’s made Batgirl her own, with or without Bruce’s permission.

“He doesn’t get to treat us like that!” she spits out.

Us. It echoes around in Jason’s head for a second. For the first time, he’s the one to initiate contact when he pulls Stephanie into a hug. There are a million places it would have been better to have this conversation than in this disaster of a bedroom next to Tim’s passed-out body, but this is the only place it could happen.

There is no doubt in Jason’s mind that Tim is part of the “us,” that Stephanie is talking about. The ones who had Robin taken from them. Ripped away by death or Bruce’s edict. Us fits nicely into the place in Jason’s head where family used to.

By the time Tim finally wakes up, Steph is curled into his side on the bed and Jason is sleeping in the only chair in the room not covered by dirty clothes and discarded computer equipment. Tim looks around groggily for a second before Steph notices that he’s awake.

“Tim!” she whispers, “You’re awake! How do you feel?”

“Like I got run over with an overheating monster truck.” Tim responds, smiling weakly. “Quick question. Is that Jason sleeping on my computer chair? I know he’s been helping Babs out lately, but he has tried to kill me multiple times.”

“Yep.” says Steph, popping the P “That is most assuredly, one hundred percent, the actual Red Hood taking a catnap in your computer chair. The only killing he’s been doing lately is making some killer pancakes though.”

“Alright, I’m giving your judgement the benefit of the doubt. Murder via Jason doesn’t seem like your strategy of choice. So, why is he here?”

“Because I have class in an hour, and someone needs to stay and take care of you. Jason agreed to do it.”

Tim sighs and looks over at Jason twitching in his sleep on the computer chair. It’s really almost funny with how large Jason is to see him jammed into the chair. Tim hasn’t seen Jason in more than a year and it’s hard to reconcile the image of the red helmet and unrestrained anger with the sleeping Jason that helps with Barbara’s housework and makes pancakes for the Batgirls.  Steph’s voice pulls him out of a more thorough examination of the man he’s only ever seen up close during attempted murders.

“Hey Tim, how’s your sign language?”

“What?” Tim asks, louder than he means to.

Jason gasps awake at Tim’s voice, barely above a whisper with how raspy he sounds. His eyes are wild for a second before he catches his breath, glowing green in the dim light. Jason and Tim make eye contact and Jason is the first to tear his eyes away.

He can feel Tim’s assessing gaze as it travels over him, catching on all the little oddities in his appearance. The white in his hair. The too-green of his eyes. Tim’s eyes fall from Jason’s face to his throat and Jason sees the spark of some kind of understanding in Tim’s eyes. Jason babbles with his hands, hoping Stephanie sees. It’s something about him going to the kitchen to make something for Tim. Then he bolts.

Around half an hour later, Jason has managed to clean enough debris out of Tim’s kitchen and scrounge up enough ingredients to make three passable grilled cheese sandwiches. Stephanie creeps into the kitchen to give him a hug before she leaves and snags one of the sandwiches on her way out. When her arms close around Jason, she whispers into his ear.

“It’s okay, he knows.”

Then Stephanie is gone, and he and Tim are alone together in the apartment. Tim is nestled into the couch looking at Jason over the back of it. Jason, for lack of better things to do, brings over the last two plates of grilled cheese and carefully sets one down in Tim’s lap before sitting down on the couch as far from Tim as he can get. He resolutely stares down at his sandwich while he eats slowly, but he can still feel Tim’s eyes on him, assessing and cataloging everything about him down to the molecular level.

“So,” Tim breaks the piercing silence “you really can’t talk anymore.”

It’s blunt and to the point. A statement, not a question. Jason nods. This should be easier to deal with than an interrogation. Just confirming what Tim already knows.

“Bruce really fucked that one up, didn’t he?” Something about hearing such indelicate language come from prim and proper Tim Drake forces a small huff that could have been a laugh from Jason’s chest. For a second things almost feel normal.

. Sorry. I. Hurt. You. Sorry. Jason signs out. Tim freezes up, caught in a memory.

“I haven’t forgiven you for that yet.” Tim bites out. All Jason can hear is the hope in “yet.”

Don’t. Expect It. Still. Sorry.

When Steph gets back she finds Jason and Tim asleep on opposite sides of the couch. Their feet are touching and she smiles at the sight of them all curled up, even if it’s barely together. Jason has been opening up much easier. It’s good to see him getting to be a person.

Chapter Text

Tim and Jason get along surprisingly well. Tim’s tendency to alternate between long rambling rants and short periods of silence fits well with Jason’s need for someone else to fill some of the silence now that he can’t. Out in the streets of Gotham, they trade snippy one-liners over the rooftops and Jason almost feels normal.

Tim is meeting Jason on the rooftop of a run-down apartment building after a drug bust when Jason sees Bruce a few buildings away. Tim immediately notices the tension running down Jason’s spine and follows his gaze over to where Batman is perched on a balcony, his back towards them and far enough away that there’s no chance of him hearing. Tim settles his hand gently on Jason’s unnaturally still back and starts to tug him behind an electrical box so that the Bat isn’t in their line of sight.

“Hey, Jason, why don’t you come with me back to my apartment. You can take a nap on the couch, and we’ll debrief when you wake up. Sound good?” Tim talks around the issue like he always does when there’s a problem that he can’t see the whole shape of yet.

Jason can only nod numbly in response. He follows Tim silently and almost unconsciously the whole way back to the apartment. Jason is so out of it that he doesn’t notice the light tread of feet behind him or the flashes of blue in the corner of his vision.

Dick sneaks in through the living room window to find Jason knocked out on the couch with his head pillowed on Tim’s lap and an old black and white musical playing quietly on the TV. Tim is awake, typing on a tablet with one hand and softly combing through Jason’s hair with his other hand.

“Dick,” Tim calls softly into the silence “You should probably go so that you aren’t here when he wakes up.” There’s a slight steel to Tim’s voice that is normally associated with Bruce related arguments and Dick shudders a little to have it directed at him.

Dick crosses around to the front of the couch to be able to face Tim and deflates the second he sees the full image of his most distant brother. Jason’s feet dangle off the end of the couch and his broad shoulders barely fit into the width of the couch. It’s a stark contrast to the underfed street kid with a frame too narrow for his long limbs that Dick remembers. His knees hit the floor, silent as his training allows and he stares into Jason’s face.

“He’s changed so much. I honestly don’t think I’ve seen his face without some kind of mask on it since… “Dick trails off. Tim hums in acquiescence. Dick’s focus shifts from Jason to Tim.

“You’re being careful, right?”

“Dick, Jason hasn’t killed anyone in months. He did some shitty things to me before,” here, Dick opens his mouth to interject, but Tim just steamrolls over him, even though he can feel the tension in Jason’s body that means he’s woken up and is just pretending to still be asleep. ” But, he’s apologized. He’s trying to be better.”

“He almost killed you!”

“Yes. He did. So did Damian. It’s mine to forgive or not. His argument was always with B, not me. Jason is helping us now. Did you know that he makes pancakes for all the Batgirls and I every Sunday? That he helps Barbara with her intel network and her housework? He’s also been helping teach Cass how to read. Jason comes to check in on me at least twice a week to make sure that I’m not dead, even though he has to sneak around to make sure that he’s not here when you and Bruce come to pick up info!”

Silence falls for a moment, the only sounds left in the room are the background of the movie, now on the credits.

“Alright. I won’t tell Bruce, but Alfred misses him. God, I miss him.” Dick replaces the hand in Jason’s hair with his own. Tim is impressed that Jason is still maintaining the sleeping act, but he can only keep it up for so long, so it’s time to get Dick out of here before Jason gives up the pretense.

“If you tell Bruce, I’m not sure Babs will ever forgive you for how much it would hurt Jason.”

“I’m not sure I would want her to.” Dick whispers, almost to himself, before taking one last look at Jason.

Then Nightwing is gone. And Jason is turning over to bury his face into Tim’s stomach and Tim is pretending that he can’t tell that his mind is older than the sixteen-year-old still trapped in Jason’s body.

Chapter Text

Interference comes in the form of Damian Wayne smashing through the window of one of Jason’s crummy apartments down in Crime Alley and nearly getting a face full of bullets from a gun Jason pulls out of the kitchen drawer before he can restrain himself. Jason ends up covered in shattered glass and facing off against a twelve-year-old that seems to possess the same viciousness as most rabid dogs.

Almost instantly, Jason is aware of his lack of shoes and that he’s only wearing an undershirt and boxers, both of which expose the large stretches of scarred skin normally concealed underneath long pants and high collars. The two of them stand in silence for a minute before Damian decides to break the quiet with a scoff.

“Your insistent presence at Drake’s apartment and the clocktower these past few months has considerably disrupted the flow of information to the Batcave. Reveal your sinister plot before I am forced to take action against you!”

Jason slips from panic, to confusion, and back around to panic again in the time it takes Damian to finish his little speech. If Damian knows he’s here, then Bruce knows he’s here and if Bruce knows he’s here, that means Bruce will be coming here. Jason’s heart cranks into overdrive at the thought of what might happen, and he rushes from the kitchen to his bedroom to throw on clothing and collect his things, barely even sparing a thought for Damian, who’s still standing in his kitchen.

He doesn’t even glance at the boy when he hears a shout of “Todd! Get back here.”

He can’t go to the clocktower or Tim’s apartment, Damian knows he goes to both of those places regularly (Bruce knows, he hears the pit sing song in the back of his mind).

He can’t go to Cass because she’s at Wayne manor (his heart aches for Alfred, but Wayne manor is Bruce’s home too).

That leaves only Steph’s apartment, halfway across Gotham. He grabs his duffel bag full of gear with one arm and slings a backpack stuffed with his few personal effects over his shoulders. Jason is out the window and driving away on his motorcycle before Damian has even made it to the window in the bedroom.

15 minutes later (less than half the time a ride halfway across Gotham should take), Jason’s motorcycle is parked next to one he assumes belongs to Tim or Cass in the parking structure of the building. He fumbles through his jacket pockets for his phone and electrolarynx so he can call Steph to be let in. His fumbling increases in franticness when he can’t find the familiar shape of the electrolarynx in any of his pockets. He must have left it on the bedside table. The thought of Damian finding it sends a whole new wave of panic through him and he can barely flip his phone open and scroll to Stephanie’s contact number through the shaking in his hands.

“Hey! Jay, I didn’t expect a call from you till Tuesday at least.”

Jason brings a hand up to the microphone of the phone and starts tapping out morse code.

.N.E.E. D… H.E.L.P… L.E.T...M.E...U.P…?

“You in the parking garage?” he can hear the worry in Steph’s voice.

One tap for yes.

“Cass is on her way down already. I’m gonna stay on the line until she gets to you, okay?”

Jason taps once and Steph starts to ramble about nothing and everything for the five minutes it takes Cass to find him. It feels like an eternity to Jason, with Steph’s voice the only thing keeping him grounded. He knows that once all the panic subsides, the rage will set in and he’ll have a whole new problem to deal with, but for now he focuses on Stephanie’s voice and Cassandra’s barely there footsteps as she heads towards him.

The next thing he knows, Jason is halfway up the stairs, phone closed, and Cass’s hand wrapped in his. Then he’s at the door to Steph’s place and hearing her on the phone sounding as worried as Jason is panicked.

“Tim, get me Dick’s phone number and then get your ass over here. Barb pinged me to let me know that a certain little bird was over at Jay’s apartment and now we’ve got a situation. I need to have some words with Dick about keeping his Robin in check.” She growls out her last sentence before tapping the screen to hang up and rushing over to Jason to hug him from one side while Cass gets the other.

Tim makes his way up almost an hour later with a cut on his cheek and a duffel bag. He drops the bag, slams the door shut, and almost immediately collapses on top of the pile of other vigilantes on the floor.

“The brat followed me to the clocktower and tried to start something. Dick showed up right after.” Tim raises his head from where it’s buried in Jason’s chest to address Steph. “Babs already had a go at Dick, so if you’re planning on calling him to tear into him, there’s not much flesh left.”

Steph laughs darkly, like she’s planning on going for bone. Tim grins back at her.

“It was amazing.”

Cass flings a free arm over Tim and snuggles closer into Jason’s side. Jason huffs a little and lifts the arm behind her head so he can get to Tim. He catches Tim’s attention by tapping against the uninjured side of his face. His other hand is pinned underneath Steph and the particular arrangement of limbs and bodies on top of him isn’t really conducive to Jason being able to sign effectively. He settles for tapping out morse code against Tim’s face.

.D.A.M.I.A.N … H.U.R.T… Y.O.U…?

Jason can feel the beginnings of rage beginning to coalesce in the very back of his mind. If the Bat wants to hurt Jason, the least he can do is get right up close and personal, not send his mini me after one of the few people Jason is reasonably sure actually cares about him.

“Barely a scratch. That reminds me.” Tim rummages around in his back pocket and his hand reemerges with Jason’s electrolarynx.

“Babs got this back from Damian for you. He thought it was bomb.” Surprise manages to cut through Jason’s building rage. He hears Steph laugh and feels the near silent exhalation of breath that is Cass’s equivalent before he gratefully accepts the device.

The four of them fall asleep like that. Jason laying on his back, Cass suctioned closely to his right side right against his waist, Steph pinning his left arm with her face against his neck, and Tim draped over them all, using Jason’s chest as a pillow. Jason knows that he’ll wake up at least once tonight when Steph’s long hair inevitably gets in his face and that in the morning, his back will feel like it’s gone a round with Bane’s knee, but it’s worth it for now to feel safe. As he drifts off, he sees a slight flash of blue near the window that he chalks up to one of Stephanie’s weird hanging decorations moving in the night breeze.

Chapter Text

Jason spends the next night at the clocktower only because of insistence from Steph that the floor there is way more comfortable than the floor of her apartment and Tim’s reassurances that Damian wouldn’t be showing up there anytime soon. They don’t seem to understand that it isn’t Damian he’s worried about.

Jason feels pretty confident that he knows most, if not all, of Damian’s tricks, thanks to his time with the League. His worry is that Damian will lead Bruce to him. Jason isn’t dumb enough to think that Bruce doesn’t know he’s still operating, but he has been able to keep Bruce from knowing anything more specific than that.

Together, they all pack into Barbara’s spacious room and pile onto her bed the best they can. It groans under the combined weight of five fully grown vigilantes, so instead they drag the mattress from the spare room in and lay it on the floor. Barbara still sleeps on her raised bed, but one of her hands dangles over the edge and her face is clearly visible, seeming to watch over the tangled mess of the others. Jason falls asleep surrounded by warmth.

Jason wakes up in the middle of the night to the feeling of eyes on him, watching him where he lays between Barbara’s raised bed and the puddle of limbs on the mattress. Slowly, he shifts himself, careful not to jostle any of the others, and rises to his feet. Silently, he pads out to the kitchen, following the dark shape that had been watching them through the wide hallway. He makes it to the kitchen and settles against the counter before making solid eye contact with the lurking Nightwing.

Jason would love to be able to make a snappy one liner right now so he could call out to Dick, let him know that he’s not as stealthy as he thinks. Instead, the silence hangs heavy in the air until Dick’s eternal drive to talk pushes him to speak.

“Jason.” Dick’s voice comes out soft and broken. It makes Jason wish he could respond with something other than heavy silence, but he doesn’t want to lay all his cards on the table yet.

Dick pulls himself out from the shadows the rest of the way. He looks barely changed from the last time Jason saw him without a mask. He’s wearing a loose t-shirt and jeans that mean he’s most likely not here on official Bat business. To Jason, he looks a lot more like the distant big brother he used to wish for now than he ever did years ago.

“Little Wing, I’m so sorry. Damian shouldn’t have done that. I should have noticed what was happening.” With every word, he gets just a little closer.

Jason is careful to keep his head angled down and any of his bared skin in the shadows. The most important part of playing the long game, regardless of desired outcome, is not to show any secrets too soon. Jason just shrugs his shoulders slightly as if to say, “It’s alright.”

Dick creeps forward a little more, attempting to see more of his one-time little brother. With every inching step he takes closer, Jason tenses up more and tries to press further in against the kitchen counter. Now Dick is close enough that if he were to reach out, his fingers would graze Jason’s cheek. He does, and Jason freezes up at the contact, escape plans forgotten as the part of his brain that’s still sixteen and looking for approval clamors for Jason to lean into the touch, to accept this affection. The rest of Jason tenses up in preparation for the gentle touch to start hurting any second now.

Just as Jason is starting to lean into Dick’s hand, the flash of a helicopter searchlight from outside catches on his face, revealing the pale scratches of scar tissue scattered across his face and the thick band of pale, raised, skin that circles his throat. Jason hears the catch of Dick’s breath in his throat at the sight. He has to know; he has to have watched the tape of that final confrontation. Dick’s hand trails softly down the side of Jason’s face and neck, ghosting over shrapnel pockmarks and thin, just healed cuts from shattered glass all the way down to Bruce’s parting gift. Jason finds himself frozen again at the touch of fingers against the front of his throat. His vision starts to tunnel.

The next thing he knows, Jason is trapped in a Dick Grayson signature hug, the same warm and sure embrace that he has been on the receiving end of only a handful of times in his life (lives?). His body goes stiff, and he flinches so hard that there’s no way Dick can’t feel it. He expects sharp words hidden beneath physical affection, just like when he was Robin (you’re not Robin anymore, his mind hisses, you should be expecting handcuffs). He doesn’t expect the whisper against his neck.

“I’m so sorry Jay. He shouldn’t have,” warm and soft next to his skin. Then Jason is shoving Dick away from himself with enough force to make Dick stumble and fleeing on silent feet back to the bedroom.

Dick can only watch Jason’s back as he retreats. He stands dumbstruck in the kitchen until he hears a slight huff of breath. Dick looks away from where Jason retreated to and sees Cass standing in the shadows. Her posture is defensive, but she relaxes slightly at the sight of his body language that projects confusion and sadness instead of aggression. She pads her way over to him and stops in front of him, arms crossed. Dick hangs his head.

“I know, I’ll go,” he tries a weak smile, “or you’ll sic Babs on me, right?”

Cass shakes her head.

“Steph.”

Dick winces and makes his way over to the exit door. Before he leaves he turns to look at Cass one more time.

“Tell him I’m sorry and that Alfred misses him.” Cass pretends not to hear his voice crack. Dick turns away again and Cass calls after him.

“He’s not who we were told.”

It’s the one of the longest sentences he thinks she’s ever spoken to him. It rolls around his head as he jumps rooftops home.

Had Jason ever been who they said he was?

Chapter Text

Dick spends the rest of his night awake in the Batcave and watching video files of a night, almost two years ago now, that has to be the cause of that awful scar on Jason’s neck. The files had been buried underneath all the other information on the file (Red Hood, not Jason Todd. Bruce has always been the only one to make the distinction. The name here is listed as John Doe). There’s something deeply horrific about realizing that Bruce was the one who gave him that. That Bruce still did it even though he knew it was Jason.

Alfred finds him in the cave around six in the morning, red eyed and tired. The older man is carrying a tea tray and looks even more composed than usual in comparison to Dick’s current state of disarray. He sets the tray down on the computer table and pulls around a rolling chair so that he can sit down.

“Master Richard, are you quite alright?” The soft tones of Alfred’s clipped British accent pulls Dick out of his stupor somewhat. When he looks up at Alfred, there are tears in his eyes.

“I saw Jason,” Dick says and instantly remembers the soft spot Alfred has always had for the only one of the family who had ever expressed any desire to help in the kitchen. A knot of dread grows in his stomach as he realizes what he has to tell Alfred. Alfred watches him patiently, sipping at his own cup of tea while he waits for Dick to speak.

“Alfred,” Dick says, his voice cracking over the two syllables, “I don’t think he can talk anymore.” Dick needs to pause and calm down a little. He continues at Alfred’s soft encouragement.

“Remember that night a couple years ago. The one when Bruce finally knew for sure it was Jason under that helmet?”

“I do. It was one of the more distressing nights in my more recent memory.” Alfred is still calm for now, but Dick knows that is not going to last for very long with what he still has to tell him.

“I think you need to watch the video file.”

Dick loads the file up onto the screen again. He and Alfred watch together as Jason threatens Bruce and the Joker with the gun. The feed taken from the nearby security camera isn’t anywhere near as good as the one taken from Bruce’s cowl, but it shows the bomb ticking away behind Jason, just out of Batman’s sight line. Dick has to look away when he sees Bruce’s hand start to reach for a batarang but he can hear the sharp intake of breath the moment Alfred realizes what’s about to happen and the crash of the teacup falling from Alfred’s fingers to the floor when it actually does.  

There is only silence from the room’s occupants as the sound of Jason’s strangled yell and the Joker’s deranged laugh are covered by the dull boom of the bomb going off.

The recording cuts off and the only sounds beyond his own breathing that Dick hears in the room are little hiccuping intakes of breath as Alfred, ever the stoic, struggles to keep his composure. It could be rage or grief that he’s trying to hold back but Alfred rushes out of the room before Dick can figure it out. He leaves the shattered teacup in pieces on the floor, still hot tea puddling around it on the cement. Dick assumes that Alfred will not be down to clean it up later after this revelation, but he leaves it there instead of cleaning it up. Bruce might as well clean up at least one of the messes he causes.

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne wakes up to an empty house for the first time in years. There are no quiet footfalls to indicate that Alfred is already up and working. He can’t hear any of Damian’s typical calls for his animals or the endless stream of chatter that always starts the minute that Dick is awake whenever he’s visiting. The manor is disconcertingly silent for the first time in over a decade. When Bruce checks his alarm clock, it’s nearly one pm, almost two hours past when Alfred normally would have demanded that he get up out of bed.

Bruce gets up slowly and makes his own coffee. He wanders down to the cave with the burnt and bitter coffee in his hand. As he nears the end of the stairs, he can see that the monitor of the computer is still on, a video playing on repeat across the screen.

Bruce pads nearer to the seats set in front of the computer and winces as shattered porcelain cuts at his bare feet. Pulled up is a video that Bruce himself has watched countless times and hidden away out of shame, out of guilt. Every time he watches the clip, Bruce sees the graceful arc of the batarang as it leaves his hand and can imagine the wet crunch of its impact. It’s so easy to see his Jason in the shocked eyes of the Red Hood instead of the nightmare wearing the face of his son.

It takes Bruce fifteen minutes to be able to pull his eyes away from the screen and shut the video down. When the video tab closes, Bruce sees two files open.

Jason Todd: Robin - Status: Deceased.

John Doe: Red Hood - Status: Active Combatant.

One has logs of injuries and lists of school honors. The other has a rap sheet half a mile long and times served at Blackgate and Arkham. The grade percentages in the first file are only slightly higher than the confirmed kill count in the second.

Bruce almost misses the notes on the keyboard, one in Dick’s illegible scrawl and the other in Alfred’s impeccable cursive.

It had only taken Alfred an hour last night to pack his own suitcase as well as one for Damian while Dick had woken his youngest brother up and told him they were going to be staying in the penthouse for a little while. Alfred had insisted they leave at once because he “no longer trusts Master Bruce’s ability to make decisions regarding his sons.” Damian had offered little protest. This was not the first time he’d spent in Dick’s custody instead of Bruce’s.

Dick almost feels bad for taking the coward’s way out and leaving Bruce a letter before spiriting away with his son and his almost-father. The guilt quickly subsides when he comes down, Damian at his heels to find Alfred with two suitcases and in the process of writing a note of his own. He leaves them both wedged in the keys of the computer. Out of spite, he sets the video to play on repeat and pours the rest of the now cold tea in the teapot onto the computer chair and the floor.

Bruce sits down to read in a puddle of cold tea.

Dear Bruce,

I know in the past you and I have had some differences. We’ve always managed to reconcile them before, but I don’t know if this one is fixable. You hurt Jason badly. I know you don’t want to believe that the man under the mask really is Jason, but he is. It really is him and he’s still your son.

I’m not sure if you’ve been hiding that video file because you know that and you’re ashamed or because you really believe yourself when you say he’s just a trick. Either way, you went too far that night. I’ve seen the effects of what you did. The Red Hood hasn’t been off your radar for the past two years for no reason.

He’s terrified of you. I’ve seen the scar on his neck. He can’t talk anymore because of it and Tim told me that the last time he caught a glimpse of you he had a panic attack so bad he was worried Jason was going to need a hospital visit.

I have Damian with me right now, but there’s no way either of us is coming back any sooner than two weeks from now. Think about why you did something lethal to someone you criticize for killing.

Sincerely,

Dick

Master Bruce,

I will be taking a leave of absence along with Masters Richard and Damian. I no longer have the same faith I once did in regard to your abilities to serve as the father your sons need and make decisions for their well-being.

Your actions towards your second son have only just now come to my attention and have cast more doubt than ever before on your capability as a parent. I am appalled by your management of the situation as well as the fact that you have failed to, at any point in these last two years, mention the resurrection of my own grandson to me or reach out to him in any way.

If in the future, you find yourself driven to the attempted murder of one of your children, don’t. I expected more from you than crossing your own line and then hiding your mess like a guilty child.

Alfred Pennyworth

Chapter Text

Jason gets two nights of a full room. Cass, Steph, Tim, and Barbara dropping in at all hours and adding themselves to whatever accumulation of people have already lain down on the mattress on the floor. It takes two nights for Jason to even do more than just busy-work around the clock tower. Anything to keep his hands from shaking.

Barbara only puts up with his moping for a solid 12 hours before she shoves a case file into his hands and puts him to work tracking drug movements across the Bludhaven-Gotham border.  Jason is so focused on not thinking about anything to do with the Bat that he manages to finish the case in under half the time Barbara expects him to take.

He pretends that he doesn’t hear Barbara having telephone conversations with Dick at two in the morning. He pretends that he’s on the phone and yelling, screaming, shouting, into a microphone with a voice he hasn’t heard in years now. There are so many things he wants to say racing through his head as he lays awake, silent in the dim light.

Barbara puts him on door duty. Her excuse is that she has a lot less trouble with returning solicitors when the door gets answered by someone who can look aggressive in sweatpants and soft sweaters. Jason has fun glaring the door-to-door missionaries and salesmen into submission. Only one is brave enough to come back. Barbara chews him out thoroughly while Jason stands behind her, concealing his amusement behind a scowl, and Steph hides behind the door frame barely containing giggles.

They all do their best to help Jason pretend that nothing is wrong. Every time Babs sees him looking off into the distance, she comes up with another filing cabinet he needs to reorganize. Cass periodically drags him off to read with her. Steph paints his toes and fingernails a different color practically every day, making him sit still, sometimes for hours, while she delicately varnishes each nail and rants about her coursework. Tim brings over movies that Jason missed while he was elsewhere. Jason watches with his head on Tim’s lap while Tim types away on his tablet where it sits on Jason’s chest.

Everyone he knows throws themselves into keeping Jason calm, keeping Jason safe. He starts to feel comfortable in the clocktower again. Three days after the meeting that really shouldn’t have caused him this much panic, he’s cracking smiles again and laughing as he dances in the kitchen while he and Steph make breakfast.

He’s flipping pancakes when there’s a knock on the door. He hands the pan and the spatula to Steph and gets his “no solicitors here,” face ready. Jason can hear the tinny music echoing in the kitchen and the splat and following laughter as someone tries and fails to flip a pancake (it’s probably Tim, Steph enjoys handing cooking equipment to him and watching him mess up).

Jason isn’t ready to see Alfred standing on the doorstep. The man looks hesitant in a way Jason has never seen and it only takes a moment of hesitation before Jason is enveloping him in a hug. Alfred feels small in Jason’s arms, nothing like the monument Jason remembers from his time at the manor. Still, there are iron bones underneath his skin and none of Jason’s anger has ever been for Alfred.

“Master Jason, it is so good to see you,” says Alfred. His always stoic front breaks slightly as Jason holds the man he considers his grandfather tight against his chest. The hug is brief, but it carries more meaning to Jason than all the world’s books could ever. When they break apart, Jason has a shy smile settled across his features and there’s something soft in Alfred’s eyes.

“Is that Master Tim I hear making a mess of the kitchen?”

Jason huffs out a little amused sound and nods in affirmation. Alfred sighs and starts to roll up his sleeves.

“I guess we’ll have to go straighten that out. Come along Master Jason.”

Jason can’t keep the grin off his face as he follows Alfred the short distance to the disaster that is the kitchen. Babs cackles when Alfred forcibly separates Tim and Steph from the stovetop so he can instead install Jason as his sous chef. Jason is easily swept up in the flurry of activity as Alfred sets him about making french toast and bacon in addition to the pancakes and waffles that had already been underway. When they all sit down for breakfast, a huge smile spreads over Jason’s face. The soft chatter of conversation envelops him completely. He and Cass sign out their contributions in between bites of breakfast while Alfred watches with rapt attention. For a shining moment, everything feels alright.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Alfred arrives with Dick and Damian at his heels. Dick faces down Jason’s not so subtle glare with a megawatt smile and drags Damian to stand in front of him. He squeezes hard on Damian’s shoulder for a moment and gives him a meaningful look until the boy sighs and starts talking.

“I apologize for my actions the other day. I should have respected your privacy and gone through the proper channels to reach you instead of breaking into your home and attacking you.”

The “apology,” sounds like a speech Dick had made Damian practice before their arrival. Jason knows Dick is targeting his weakness for children as a fast track to forgiveness and damn him to Hell if it doesn’t work. The remorseless apology is enough to get Jason shifting out of the way just enough to give Dick and Damian entrance to the clocktower. He un-subtly shoulder checks Dick on his way in and notices that he’s a good bit taller than Dick now. For some reason it feels a bit like a revelation.

Alfred slips in after them, his typical neat tailcoat abandoned for a more casual button up tucked into pressed khaki pants. Jason internally laughs at Alfred’s choice of “casual,” wear and signs at him.

. Someday. I’ll. See. You. Wear. a T-shirt.

“Master Jason, the day I wear a t shirt to a Sunday brunch with my family, Hell will have frozen over with me in it.” Alfred’s tone is light, and he and Jason share a smile before Alfred makes his way into the kitchen and Jason shuts the door that keeps the outside world at bay.

Dick spends all of breakfast in uncomfortable and uncharacteristic silence, almost like he thinks if he talks, Jason will kick him out. The distant, guilty looks he keeps sending Jason’s way are really starting to piss Jason off. Jason stretches an arm over the table and snaps his fingers right in front of Dick’s face to get his attention.

.Hey. TALK.

Jason leaves out the rude gesture he had originally planned on for Alfred's sake.

Still, that seems to be enough to shock Dick out of wallowing in his own guilt and start integrating himself into the conversation. Damian’s ineffective glower deepens the second he is the only outsider to the conversation. Jason’s scoff at the childish, possessive behavior is enough to draw Damian’s attention to him. Damian makes eye contact, probably in the hopes of freaking Jason out like he had when he had invaded Jason’s apartment, but Jason meets the glare head on. His stare seems to unnerve Damian somewhat and the kid uncrosses his arms and grumbles under his breath before reluctantly joining the group.

Something about his interaction with Jason has been niggling at the back of Damian’s mind. His thoughts whir at a thousand miles per minute as he pretends to pay attention to the various inanities being discussed at the breakfast table. Brown’s grades are of no import to him, but it is important for him to interject every once in a while, to maintain the illusion of paying attention (but not caring, he established very early on that he did not, and it would be strange of him to start up now).

The look in Jason’s eyes when he had stared Damian down had been familiar in a way that stirred some memory deep in the back of Damian’s mind of a boy with an empty head and steely eyes who used to be Damian’s closest companion.

The more Damian studies Jason, the more similarities he can find between him and the boy that had been his minder and primary source of comfort for a brief p time. Damian thinks about it, and all the details begin to line up. His mother had never called the boy by his name in front of Damian. The boy had been able to fight and did so well, but would only react if provoked. Yet no matter what was done, he would never so much as raise his hand against Damian or his mother and would treat any attack on either of them as an attack on himself.

That instinct to defend led Talia to leave Damian with the boy in the times between his lessons. The same kind of defensive instinct that led to the Red Hood being the primary defender of the street children of Crime Alley. The timelines line up as well, with the appearance of the boy following Todd’s death by less than a year and his disappearance preceding the appearance of the Red Hood by several.

Assuming that Jason had been dipped into the Lazarus pit when he first disappeared from the League, that would give him enough time to become skilled enough to accomplish what even Damian would call an impressive takeover of Gotham’s underground. Such a thorough education would have had to be funded by Damian’s mother. It seems as if maybe it is time to give more than a cursory examination to the dead Robin.

Damian follows Jason into the kitchen.

“I would like to speak with you. About the League.”

Chapter Text

Jason honestly thought that his past with the League had been deemed enough of a conversational landmine that no one would ever acknowledge it out loud. No effort had ever been made on Jason’s part to hide it, but he had never gone out of his way to shove in Bruce’s face just how long Talia had really had him for. At the time, he’d had more important concerns than that. Now, he’s standing with his back to the sink and Talia’s son looking at him with what looks like it could be hope.

“You were there for far longer than the others suspect.” Jason only nods in response to the statement, still trying to puzzle through what Damian’s motive might be.

“Do you remember any time from before the Lazarus pit?” There’s a vulnerability to Damian’s voice that Jason hasn’t heard from him often. Jason tilts a hand from side to side to communicate that he remembers some. Not all, he’d been a little out of it.

Damian’s eyes light up a little at Jason’s response and Jason finds himself with an armful of baby assassin soon after. He hefts Damian up a little higher and settles him against one hip on muscle memory. Damian buries his face against Jason’s neck in an uncharacteristic display of physical affection. Jason hadn’t realized Damian remembered the vacant eyed boy who had once been his babysitter. Even if he had remembered, Jason hadn’t expected him to care.

“I thought Grandfather had you killed, Tayir. Mother told me you were gone because of his disapproval of you,” says Damian, his voice soft, but still unwavering.

With Damian unable to see him, Jason has to resort to tapping out morse code against Damian’s back.

G.O.N.E…N.O.T…D.E.A.D.

God that takes forever. At least it gave Damian some time to calm down. He has a hard time showing his soft underbelly, especially to anyone who isn't Dick Grayson.

Damian momentarily squeezes Jason tighter before sliding down to stand on the floor.

“Why did you not come back for me?” The overly formal phrasing doesn’t quite manage to cover up the childish vulnerability in Damian’s voice. Jason kneels in front of him and gently pushes Damian’s chin up so that he will look at Jason instead of the floor.

I. Forgot. Pit. Took From Me.

Now. I Remember.

I’m. Sorry.

Jason opens his arms and gestures for Damian to bring it in for a hug. It’s not something they do as Jason and Damian, but back with the League, they had snuck in physical affection whenever possible.

Damian looks like he’s struggling to maintain his facade of indifference when he wraps his arms around Jason in a hug so tight it’s almost violent. He mumbles quiet phrases in Arabic against Jason’s skin while Jason makes soft shushing sounds back. A crash from the living room startles them apart. Jason presses a gentle kiss to the top of Damian’s head before straightening up and going to check on whatever chaos just got unleashed (probably by Steph or Dick). Damian grabs onto his shirt and tucks himself up against Jason’s side to follow him into the main room.

“Allow us to see what the fools have done now, Todd.”

Chapter Text

Bruce has always been peripherally aware that he’s not really the best of fathers. He knows he can be cold, a little too good at compartmentalizing. Now he’s realizing that somewhere along the line he started being a bad father. The kind of person he thought he was keeping his children safe from.

Somewhere along the line, his compartmentalization became tunnel vision. His focus got too small, and he blocked out every part of Bruce Wayne that wasn’t Batman. And he… He hurt his children.

Now he’s firmly on the outside looking in, watching his family through a window from the top of a nearby window. Bruce watches them, happy in spite of how much Bruce let his own broken pieces tear them to shreds. If he had, for even a moment slowed down enough to be a person, it wouldn’t be like this.

But.

He didn’t. And now he’s finally seeing the consequences of his actions. Bruce had fooled himself for so damn long, wishing so much for Red Hood to be just some stranger so that Bruce could hold on to the memory of his son, that he almost did convince himself that it wasn’t really Jason under there.

Apologies don’t make up for actions like his. So, for now he’ll stay away. He’ll keep to the shadows and maybe someday one of them will allow him to atone.

Jason knows Bruce is looking in through the windows. It’s impossible not to feel the prickle of eyes against the back of his neck when Jason has spent the last few years being hyper-vigilant about Bat-related anything.

Let him see.

Let him see that Jason is happy and healthy. That Bruce didn’t ruin him and will never be able to. The man deserves to see that every single member of his family can be happier without him.

Bruce makes Jason furious and terrified still. But Jason isn’t alone anymore. He has friends and family who he can turn to. He doesn’t have to be some scared little boy anymore. Not like he with Willis, with the Joker, with Bruce. He gets to be a person now. Now that he doesn’t have to be a monster of his own making just so that he doesn’t feel afraid.

There’s still a long way to go. There’s still stuff Jason needs to make up for as well, but he’s done letting Bruce dictate a damn thing about his life.

Realistically, Jason is probably never going to get his grand moment of catharsis. As much as he’d like to pay back what Bruce has done to him, the fact of the matter is that he really can’t. As much as the pit clamors for it, Jason not going to lower himself to Bruce’s level. He can trust the people he’s close with to protect him from Bruce when he needs it, the same way that Jason will shield them from whatever he can.

Jason isn’t forgiving Bruce. He never will. That door is long past shut and there’s not much that would make Jason consider reopening it. But he’s also not going to let this consume him the way it has been. There are still going to be days where Jason can’t think of anything else, but there have been less and less lately. And there will be even less next year.

Sure, no-contact alone isn’t his perfect fairy-tale ending. Jason’s gotten used to not getting those though. He can’t turn back time and un-fuck-up the whole tangled up mess of him, Bruce, and the Joker.

So, he turns his back to the window. He turns back to the kitchen counter so he can pay attention to what Babs is saying and accept a little half hug from Cass. Jason is going to hold on to this with both hands.