Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Nightwing sees the assortment of ninja arranged out in the open courtyard, it takes everything in him not to throw back his head and groan in pure and utter exasperation.

But he’s a professional. So he doesn’t.

And if he does take a second—just a small second—to close his eyes behind his mask and mourn the fact he’s the adult in this situation (again), no one has to know.

(He really should know better by now. When does anything ever go their way?)

“We just wanna leave,” Nightwing says, and screw him, he can’t help a hint of irritation from escaping into his tone.

Sensei snarls at him, and because he’s a cranky old fart, lover of clichés and The Villain Classics, he says, “Your trespass must be punished.” 

Superboy has even less patience for it than Nightwing does, bless his soul. “Wrong answer,” he says simply.

There’s no hesitation. Dick hasn’t fought with a team in awhile, not this team, anyway, but he doesn’t have to think, much less give any orders. Those who rely on long-distance attacks know to give way to the heavy-hitter and close-combat specialists, and without any coaching, they will support each other’s weaknesses and emphasize each other’s strengths, cover each other’s blind spots, and keep an eye on the newbs.

Nightwing trusts them to watch his back, and they trust he will watch theirs. Because that is what they do.

Nothing needs to be said. It’s the same old song and dance, and it’s as easy as breathing.

Dick and Conner move first, Conner launching himself toward Sensei with a superpowered leap and Dick pulling his escrima from his back. Tigress provides cover fire with her handheld crossbow while Black Lightning shoots a bolt at the red-hooded assassin, who breaks rank to rush them, goggles glinting in the moonlight.

The assassin moves like water incarnate, avoiding Jeff’s lightning bolt effortlessly. Nightwing knows talent when he sees it, and a thrill races down his spine as he clashes with his opponent.

From the moment Nightwing’s escrima stick makes contact with the assassin’s sword, he has a more well-rounded idea of who he’s facing. The guy is no novice on the battlefield—his reaction time is wicked—but the sword...it is new to him. Not his preferred weapon, without a doubt. He does not have the same rigid poise or disciplined precision that other Shadows have, but what he lacks in experience, he really does make up for in speed.

And in pure audacity, Nightwing thinks, both impressed and mildly disgusted as he spins out of the way of a cheap shot to his shin. Because whatever that was? That wasn’t League of Shadows protocol. At all.

Just where the hell did they pick up this guy?

And better yet: why does Ra’s have a new recruit acting as a part of his vanguard?

Something isn’t right here.

When Nightwing breaks away, the assassin flings himself right after him, hoping to press his advantage. The sword whistles past Nightwing’s ribs, and Dick twists and ducks under the assassin’s guard to jam the escrima stick right into his stomach. The blow knocks the wind out of his opponent, and he retreats, wheezing.

Barking a laugh at the assassin’s botched attempt to catch him on the sly, Nightwing spins his sticks and revels in the sudden spark of resentment in his opponent’s glare, which, despite every effort to conceal his face, the assassin projects through his body language alone. “Oh, ho, ho, if that’s how you’re gonna play it,” Nightwing sings, a baiting smirk on his face. The assassin twitches oddly, and Nightwing’s grin broadens. “Then let’s dance, Goggles!”

It’s amazing, how quickly Nightwing falls into a rhythm, losing himself in the ebb and flow of blows and retreats and backflips and kicks. Every sense is alight, but Nightwing only vaguely hears some commotion behind him as Brion flares up and Conner shouts M’gann’s name. He almost risks a single look over his shoulder, but he can’t—not now, not yet—his focus entirely on his opponent, on reaction and action and the strain and flex of his muscles, of the sweat gathering on his brow and the pace of his heart thud-dudding in his chest.

Until suddenly...

Everything falls away. He’s in the Cave, not fighting but sparring. Bare feet and sweats, loud music blaring and cries of frustration and laughter ringing across the cavern, Bruce’s precise forms—adapted from the Shadows and dozens of other masters—giving way to Dick’s specialized acrobatics, puppy wrestling, and...

What?

The odd prickle of déjà vu distorts his concentration, allowing the red-hooded lacky to get another lucky shot in—and a solid kick near the groin, no less, the punk—and Dick falls back to shake off the pain of the forming bruise at his navel. He recovers just in time to parry another overhanded sword swing and pushes off the ground to flip out of the ninja’s reach. He nails Goggles in the jaw with his foot on his way.

It’s barely a love tap: it doesn’t have nearly enough power to force the guy to the ground. Goggles stumbles, but his sword is already swinging up to meet Dick’s following blow.

“Enough,” comes an irked command from across the courtyard.

Ra’s al Ghul sounds almost bored. It’s a little insulting.

Goggles halts, deferring to his master immediately, and Dick is forced to abort his attack mid-swing.

Quickly, he takes stock of the situation, gaze darting around to his friends. Miss Martian and Superboy seem a little worse for wear, Tigress is shaking out her hand and cursing under her breath, and Brion is smoldering, but everyone is standing, which is good enough for Dick. Seeing everyone safe, he turns his attention to Ra’s.

“Well, young man,” Ra’s drawls from where he lurks in the darkness. “Are you proud of this little debacle?” Dick clenches his jaw, and as he steps into the light, Ra’s smirks. “I believe the Detective would be quite disappointed.”

Beside him, the red-hooded assassin tenses, his body rim-rod straight, but Dick ignores him, shaking away the sting of Ra’s’ diss. Rage pools in his gut, and he growls under his breath, baring his teeth.

Ever the picture of careless arrogance, Ra’s waves a hand and continues, “I assume you came to recover these children?” He does not wait for an answer, already turning away. “Take them and go.”

“Not without my sister,” Brion demands. Furious rivers of lava flow down his arms and up his face, blazing a deep trail as his temper flares. “Tara Markov. We know the League of Shadows has her.”

Surprise, surprise, it is Sensei who snaps, “Stay your tongue when addressing the Demon’s Head.”

Ra’s raises a hand, a wordless command to Sensei to stand down. “It is fine, Sensei.” He lowers his hand and glowers in Brion’s direction. “Boy, the Shadows may indeed have your sister, but I’m not longer head of the Shadows. As you can see, there are no Shadows here. In fact—” His gaze flicks to Nightwing “—I’m no longer part of the Light.”

Dick’s eyes widen in surprise, and he can see the smug satisfaction on Ra’s’ face, to have caught him—and therefore Batman, Robin, and Oracle, whose intel was his own—unawares.

What the hell is going on here?

Bruce, Tim, and Babs aren’t infallible—of course they’re not—but it is a one-in-one-thousand chance that all three of them are wrong. The entire Family will need to investigate how they missed this—as that is probably the question with the most dangerous answer—but the more immediate question is why? Why did Ra’s leave the Light? Why did he give up the Shadows?

Or worse yet: was Ra’s actually overthrown? And if so, who could have done it? Who had the power to...?

Dread cartwheels through his chest, heart skipping several beats. Something really isn’t right here.

“He lies,” Brion hisses suddenly, venom dripping from his voice.

Nightwing yanks himself out of his thoughts to step up and de-escalate. “Ra’s al Ghul is many things,” he says, “but a liar isn’t one of them.”

Brion simmers with disbelief, but his fury cools enough that his geo-forced armor crumbles away.

Tigress steps up to question Ra’s, and Dick would feel grateful for her taking the helm, but he is sucked back into his own personal whirlwind, unable to wrap his mind around the impossibility of what Ra’s just revealed.

Ra’s Founded the League of Shadows. He’s the Demon’s Head. That isn’t nothing.

So why? Why did things change?

He realizes he should be paying attention, even if he knows Ra’s will tell them nothing more, or maybe he should be telling Tigress to stand down. She poses a question to Ra's that amuses him and then another that tests his patience.

Ra's' expression is dead and dry when Dick forces himself to tune back in again, clearly Done with them and Artemis' interrogation. “Get ou—"

A sharp wail rings across the courtyard, and the red-hooded assassin, who was in the process of slinking back to Ra’s’ side, jolts to a stop again, head cocking, attention ricocheting from Ra’s to a dark alcove beneath one of the covered pathways surrounding the courtyard.

The entire group falls into a silence so thick the very air trembles with its weight, and it’s as though everyone is holding their breath.

“What,” Dick asks, because he must be hearing things, “was that?”

Ra’s’ eyes have gone flinty, his tone chilly as ice. “None of your concern.”

“It sounded,” Conner snaps, “a hell of a lot like a baby.”

The accusation does not break Ra’s’ composure in the least. Nightwing was watching for it. “Leave me to mine, Nightwing,” the immortal says, disregarding Conner entirely. “And take yours with you.”

A baby. Conner heard it too. He’s not going crazy from exhaustion and caffeine-deprivation, then. Nightwing meets Ra’s’ eyes steadily, his instincts urging him to stand his ground. “I don’t think so,” he growls, hands itching for his escrima again. “Not yet.”

Ra’s’ eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth, probably to spit vitriol or presume to chastise him again. At this point, Dick can’t give a single damn. He had been prepared to leave unsatisfied, but now? Now, he’s not leaving without answers.

“Hey,” Black Lightning calls uneasily from the back of the group, “you alright there, dude?”

It’s so random and unexpected that Dick dares to turn from his staring match with Ra’s. Black Lightning inches away from the team to approach Goggles, who is quaking from head to toe, shaky hand shoving back his hood and running through his dark hair.

What the fuck? What is going on here?

“Night...wing?” Goggles grunts.

“Um...yeah?” Dick asks, frowning. There’s an odd change in the air, tension screaming through Ra’s’ entourage.

The assassin, though, isn’t bound by the same shackles the others are. He shakes his head like a dog. “No... No.”

Ra’s barks an order in Arabic, a dagger slithering from its sheath, but Goggles doesn’t respond to it. Maybe he doesn’t even hear it. He looks up, straight at Dick.

“Gray...son?”

The world stops.

Useless and rooted to the ground, legs threatening to give out, heart thundering in his chest, the world narrowing...

The voice of his dead brother washes over him in a roar.

He...he doesn’t understand. It can’t be. It can’t.

 “Jason?” Dick breathes, and the moment it’s out in the open, he knows.

He knows.

Jason’s alive. He’s here.

Dick’s eyes burn behind his mask, and he almost laughs because, honestly, who the fuck else would fight that dirty, even after Shadows training? Who else would move like that? Slick as a street cat, flighty as a Robin, silent as a Bat...

He’s alive.

“Jason,” Dick says again, and this time, Jason—it’s really him—responds to Dick’s voice, breath hitching. Several of his friends gasp behind them, their murmurs of disbelief and wordless exclamations of surprise bolstering him like the cheers of a full house underneath the Big Top. He steps forward, pushing through the crushing relief, the hope, the utter incredulity cementing him to the ground. “I—”

He doesn’t get to finish. Time doesn’t stop for anyone, and when the world turns again, it shatters into a million pieces.

Ra’s entourage explodes into motion. With all the speed of a striking snake, Ra’s has Jason in a headlock, his expression contorted with promises of death and retribution. The blade of his dagger digs into the vulnerable flesh of Jason’s throat.

“NO!” A woman’s voice splinters the air, and the pop of a silenced pistol cracks through the night.

“DOWN!” Conner orders. Half of Dick’s team drops to the ground at the sound of the gunshot. The other half crouches low beneath Halo’s red shield.

The bullet finds its target in Big-Guy-With-Laser-Gun, who hollers in pain, his weapon falling from his now-useless hand. Blood streams from the gunshot wound, bits of bone spiking through his skin. Sensei spits curses and threats, but when he levels his sword at the new threat, Ra’s stays him again with a single biting word.

“Show yourself!” Ra’s commands, addressing the hidden assailant. “Now.”

Talia al Ghul steps out from behind a pillar, her head held proudly. One arm is held aloft, her pistol loaded and aimed at her father while the other clutches a squirming bundle to her chest.

The baby whimpers, and Dick can’t get a word past the stone lodged in his throat. Jason’s turning into the edge of the blade, in the direction of the baby, oblivious to its bite.

“You dare,” Ra’s snarls.

“I do dare,” Talia says. “For my Beloved. And for my son.”

Ra’s’ face purples. “I warned you, daughter. I warned you what would come of this. I told you I would indulge your pet project, and if he stepped a single toe out of line...” The dagger presses a little deeper into Jason’s neck. Dick can see blood welling, staining the dark red of his face mask.

“Stop!” Dick croaks, and he scrambles to his feet, hands held placatingly. Jason is still as stone, and he doesn’t understand. Why isn’t he mouthing off? Why isn’t he doing anything? Dick can’t... “Ra’s!” he begs.

Ra’s doesn’t deign to respond to him. He’s fixated on his daughter, his jaw tight. “You have ruined everything.”

M’gann, Dick projects as loudly as he can. M’gann.

He feels her touch in his mind, and his own joy and pain and confusion and utter desperation is reflected like a mirror back at him. She reads the floundering panic in his head and somehow extrapolates what he’s trying to tell her.

Hold, Dick, she says to him, and it’s the hardest thing he’s had hear. He takes a deep breath, and his plan to get Jason out of there starts to piece together with her help. Images flash through his mind. Conner and Artemis are invited into the mind-link, and the fierce array of emotion that pours in—for him, for Jason—nearly overwhelms him.

Hold.

“I will not allow you to have him,” Talia says, eyes alight with protective fire. “And if it means I have ruined your plans, then I do it gladly, for it means Damian is safe from the likes of you.”

An inhuman scream of rage tears its way through Ra’s’ lips, but nearly as soon as it starts...

A green dart zips through the air. Ra’s topples, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Sensei and Big-Guy-With-Laser-Gun follow before Miss Martian or Superboy can even touch them. They crumple to the floor as unceremoniously as their master.

Silence reigns.

Jason staggers to his knees, and Dick moves as though possessed. Without a single thought, he’s there, squatting at his side. His training, drilled into him by Bruce, takes control, and he does not hesitate to help Jay remove his face mask, tenderly drawing the fabric away from the wound in his neck, which, by his estimate, really isn’t half as bad as he feared it was. 

“I’ve got you,” he says, and he’s been repeating it from the moment Ra’s fell. He takes a field bandage and a travel-sized canister of antiseptic from his belt. He begins tending to the wound, Jason braving the sting of the medicine like a champ. “I’ve got you.”

“Dick,” Jason interrupts under his breath, goggles glinting. He is breathing oddly still, and his head...it must hurt, judging by the way his brow pinches.

“Yeah, bud,” Dick whispers, and as Jason wrenches his goggles off, Dick huffs a watery chuckle because God, he’s grown. He’s....God, he’s alive. It’s him. “It’s me.”

“Nightwing!”

Dick’s gaze shoots up at Conner’s call, and he watches as a Shadow flits across the slanted rooftops, sliding down from her perch and landing lightly next to Talia, who drops her weapon like it’s scalded her. Cheshire, for her part, slips her extra darts into her belt and slinks over to murmur into Talia’s ear.

Tigress’s jaw is hanging to the floor. “Jade?” she demands. “What the actual fuck?”

Cheshire turns and slides her mask up into her thick mane of hair, a playful smile on her face. “Well, would you look at that. Quite a time for family reunions, wouldn’t you say, sis?”

“That’s—that’s all you have to say?” Artemis stammers. Her expression is a storm cloud, and her voice steadies. “You disappear for two years, and that’s all you have to say?”

“Don’t play with your food, Cheshire,” Talia orders mildly as she bounces her baby. “It’s unbecoming.”

“Screw you, Talia,” Artemis mutters.

Talia’s eyes flash. “Enough. Ra’s has an unfortunate tolerance to most poisons and sedatives. He will wake sooner than we’d like, and you need to be long gone before then. We do not have time to pander to your petty rivalries.”

Jade hums, looking not in the least bit chastised, and quirks a claw at Nightwing. “She’s right. Get your pretty ass over here, Boy Wonder. Leave zombie boy for a moment.”

“Like hell,” Dick says, turning back to Jason, who’s gone still again. Terrifyingly still. His overpowering delight and disbelief is tempered as fear prickles at his scalp. What is wrong with him?

“That’s no way to thank me,” Cheshire pouts. “I did you and your little family a favor.”

“Enough games, Jade!” Tigress shouts, and there are layers of hurt and fury in her voice. “What the hell is going on?”

“Things are not as they seem,” Talia says, and stepping gracefully over the bodies of her father’s bodyguards, she approaches Dick and Jason. Jade follows, with far less consideration to the unconscious.

“Stand, if you will, Richard,” Talia requests.

The odd note of amiability, of muted respect, in her voice surprises him, and he finds himself rising. Jason struggles to follow, and Dick automatically helps him up. “What have you done to Jason?” he asks. “How did this happen?”

Talia stares at him with piercing green eyes. “It is a mystery, even to us,” she reveals. "I found him, catatonic on the streets. He does all that he needs to survive, and he can fight and follow orders, as you have seen, but he does not speak. He does not remember.” She sighs. “I took him, with every intention of returning him to Gotham healed in mind. But...”

Dick highly doubts her motivations are as simple as that, but all he can think in that moment is that she found him, which means that they missed him, and an ugly, guilty sense of inadequacy grips him by the throat. “But?” Dick demands.

“But it was for naught,” she says. “That is, until he recognized you.” She surveys him with an interested expression. “A most curious happenstance. Had I known you would trigger something in him, I would have—” The baby fusses in her arms, and she trails off to hum a comforting tune to him. “Well,” she finally says when the babe settles, “it is of no consequence now.”

For the first time, Dick takes a moment to appreciate the fact there is a baby there. With Talia. On Infinity Island. A living child. It’s almost surreal.

Dick looks around at Ra’s, at Sensei and Big-Guy-With-Laser-Gun, and pity wells in him. No child deserves a life like this.

Damian, she called him? It’s a nice name. He’s a cute kid, too. With pudgy cheeks and a dark puff of hair that looks beyond soft to the touch.

“I don’t understand,” he says. “It almost sounds as if...”

“Yes, Richard. I did arrange this meeting,” Talia says softly, and something breaks in her tone. She’s looking at Damian like he’s her entire world. “In part. Circumstances played out quite nicely in my favor, thanks to your...friends.” Her gaze darts to where the three newbies have congregated and back again. “I apologize for the dramatics, in any case. My father could not suspect. Otherwise...I dread what would have happened."  

"Why was it necessary?" Dick growls, a delayed sense of anger rising in him. 

"It is Ms. Nguyen who convinced me this was the best course of action."

Jade steps forward, taking a hold of Talia’s arm with far more familiarity than Dick can believe. From over Talia’s shoulder, Dick sees Artemis’ stunned expression match his. “It is for the best,” Jade whispers. “My Lian...” She shakes her head, trailing off. “She has grown. So much. She is better off without me. Safe. Healthy. Happy.”

And that alone is enough to demolish Artemis’s cold, unforgiving expression. “Jade,” she breathes, heart breaking in her voice.

“As will Damian be without me,” Talia admits. She takes a shuddering breath, and after pressing a light kiss to his nose, she holds the baby out to Dick. “Take him.”

Dick stares. "Um?"

Amusement flickers across Talia’s face, lips twitching. “Surely you have guessed, Richard?”

What was he supposed to guess? Hadn’t enough happened in the last few minutes to give him a little bit of leeway? He looks at Jason, who is watching the proceedings with a distant expression. He’s not about to get a clue from him. “...No?”

“In that case," Talia says, "meet your brother.”

Dick’s heart stops. “My...?”

Motherhood has softened Talia, without a doubt. She’s never been so gentle, so understanding. She rolls her eyes, almost fond, and as she expertly braces Damian on a hip, she uses her free hand to maneuver Dick’s arms, where, when she’s satisfied with the positioning, she finally deposits Damian. Jason hovers closer, and there’s a shadow of a smile on his face.

“He is of Al Ghul and Wayne blood,” Talia says. “He will be great.”

“He’s...” Dick’s throat is swollen with unshed tears.

“Yes,” Talia answers. “And he must leave. My father...I do not wish to see Damian a pawn in his plans. And now that we no longer lead the Shadows, it is too dangerous—much, much too dangerous—for him to remain anywhere near us. Near me. At least, not until I have taken control again.”

“Oh,” Dick murmurs, and as Damian blinks up at him, he feels a grin start to break across his face. He looks a lot like Talia, but there’s something unmistakably Bruce in his gaze. “Hi there.”

Talia catches his attention and showcases a flash-drive, which he takes immediately from her. “Everything you need is here. Every answer to any number of your questions. My Beloved will know what to do with it.” To Jason she adds, “You may have no love for me or my father, after all we have done, but I ask you continue to protect him, Jason Todd.”

“Aww,” Dick can’t help but coo when Jason responds to the order, jerking his chin up in a semblance of a nod. “You guys bond without me, Little Wing?”

Jason’s gaze sharpens, and he looks more present than he had before. He flicks a Look at Dick, but what little life and individuality he just expressed is sucked away, leaving behind a semi-blank state.

Dick’s ember of hope falters, but he pushes his doubts and fears away. “I’ll take care of them,” he says fiercely to Talia. “You have my word, Talia.”

Talia looks satisfied by his promise. “I know you will,” she says, and a chain falls from between her fingers, a heavy pendant on its end. “Take this, as well.”

Dick tenderly accepts it and brings it up to his face. Within the heart of the pendant, the vibrant green waters of Lazarus swirl. Disgusted, he jerks it away and offers it back to her. “I can’t take this,” he says.

Shaking her head, she takes his hand and wraps his fingers back over the pendant. “For Jason,” she says simply. “If he does not improve and there is no other option. Consider it my apology, for keeping him from you.”

This is no gift, but a curse. Dick doesn’t like it, but maybe Bruce will appreciate the gesture. At the very least, he will jump at the chance to study it in more detail. As Dick tucks the pendant and flash-drive away, Talia takes the opportunity to rest her hand on Damian’s head. She murmurs a tender blessing under her breath, and when she raises her eyes, they are hard as stone.

“It is time,” she says. “Go.”

“Wait.” Latent questions come spiraling to the forefront of his mind. “You can’t just—”

Ra’s stirs, and Talia snarls, finally withdrawing from her son. “The flash-drive, Richard! Everything is there. Now leave, before everything is undone! I will keep my father occupied when he awakes.”

“You heard the lady!” Artemis snaps to their team. “Get on the Bio-ship!”

“I’m sorry,” Brion says, shaking his head. “But—”

“Forager does not—”

“Move now, questions later!”  Her tone is downright ferocious, and no one dares to argue or speak up as they hustle to do as they’re told.

“Artemis,” Jade calls as her sister, Jeff, and Conner follow the newbies onto Bio-Ship. When Artemis spares her a glance, Jade says, “Kiss Lian for me, will you?”

Artemis freezes for a moment before she nods once. Jade seems to understand that all is not completely forgiven, nor would it ever be, and she offers a melancholy, somewhat cynical smile before sliding her mask back over her face.

Dick doesn’t remember getting onto the Bio-Ship himself. He vaguely recalls M’gann zipping over to grip him by the shoulders and lead him on. He might have said something to her, about Jason’s mind, and about how they were going to need her and J’onn’s help, and Jesus, what was he going to tell Bruce? Alfred? What about the girls? And Tim?

(Tim’s going to flip his shit. He’d always looked up to Jason, hadn’t he? And Cass? Cass never knew Jason. He can’t even imagine...).

Dick, M’gann shushes him. The mission is over. Stop thinking, for once, and just be there. In the moment. With them.

So he does. He eventually stops talking as everyone settles and the Bio-Ship lifts off. Messages from Babs begin to filter in now that they’re off Infinity Island, but he can’t bother to answer them, let alone read them.

He soaks in the sight of his brothers. “I can’t believe this,” Dick says to himself, and if he's crying, he can't bring himself to care. Jason is the only one near enough to hear him, and Dick’s rewarded with a hint of a smirk. “Shut up,” he says, because that smirk very obviously translates to something along the lines of well, believe it, Dickwad. “You don’t get to judge me right now, asshole. You died. And now you’re alive. I have every right to be weepy about it.”

Jason’s smirk becomes more defined, and overcome by affection, Dick beams and, careful not to jostle Damian, takes an arm to wrap it around Jason. “I don’t care how or why, but I’m so happy you’re alive, Jaybird.”

Jason, to Dick’s surprise, doesn’t flinch or scowl but rather tucks himself, momentarily, into Dick’s side-embrace.

“Fuck,” Dick says, huffing a breathy laugh, and his eyes are really burning now, overflowing with tears. He tears his mask off to rub them away. “Fuck.”

Black Lightning, ever the parent, coughs politely. Dick resists the urge to stick out his tongue when Jeff’s severe eyes dart to and from the kids, who are not attempting to hide their stares as he struggles to compose himself.

“So,” Brion says, breaking the silence, “am I allowed to ask what just happened?”

Conner snorts, folding his arms. “No. Bat business is none of your business,” he says bluntly.

“Conner,” M’gann chides.

“What?” Conner says. “It’s true. Superman doesn’t even—”

Dick doesn’t get to hear what Conner says in his or Clark's defense. There’s a beep in his ear, and he jerks upright, spine snapping straight. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, he’s not ready for this, not from—

“Nightwing,” Batman growls over the line. “Report. What is your location?”

Oh. Oh, God. Dick’s heart sprints. Oracle, he could handle, probably, but Batman?  Jason back, a son Bruce never knew about in his arms... He can’t just break this news over the comm, can he? And definitely not to Batman.

He needs Bruce.

“Nightwing.”

Batman’s tone is nonnegotiable. He unravels his arm from Jason, adjusts Damian on his lap, and presses the comm. “Here, B.”

Batman is silent for a moment, but Dick knows him well enough to read the pause, to hear exactly what isn’t being said. “Location,” Batman finally grunts, as though he doesn’t already know. He wouldn’t be so angry if he didn’t already know.

“Um...” Dick purses his lips. “Well, it’s a bit of a funny story.”

“I’m not laughing,” Batman says.

“I wasn’t either,” Dick agrees. “I’m going to have a super serious conversation about it with them.”

Jason exhales what sounds like a laugh, and Dick nudges him in the shoulder to get him to be quiet. “I can be serious,” he says, for both Jason and Batman’s benefit. He looks up to see Forager, Halo, and Brion accepting M’gann and Artemis’s requests to check them over for any injuries. Grateful beyond words for their intervention, and for giving him, Damian, and Jason some space, he throws a soundless thank you over the mind-link.

“They can’t do this again,” Dick says to Batman.

Artemis must overhear him because she meets his eye and gives him a distinct look. Great. So they are saving the lecture—and the explanation—for him. Just swell. That’s what he gets, he supposes.

“That sounds awfully familiar." If Dick isn't mistaken, that's definitely some amusement filtering through Batman's voice. “Doesn’t it?”

“You’re not helping.”

“Karma,” is all Bruce can say in response to that.

“Ha, ha,” Dick mutters. “But seriously, we’re all fine.”

“Hmph.”

“Oh, don’t give me that, B,” Dick says. “We...we’re better than fine. I...”

Jason’s blinking at him, looking a little agitated, and it distracts him. He trails off, his tongue as heavy as lead. He shrugs helplessly at his brother and mouths, What do you expect me to say?

“You are going to have to apologize to Oracle,” Batman says. 

Dick winces. The rescue op was so last minute he didn’t have a chance to give Babs a heads up before flying into the dead zone that was Infinity Island. She’s going to have his balls for that. “Yup, without a doubt.”

“Return to Gotham tonight,” Batman requests. “After. We need to talk.”

Lately, Dick hasn’t been able to stomach Gotham, especially not with how much work there’s left to do with the meta-human trafficking problem, but he aches to be home, more so than he can remember being in a long, long time.

But he can’t. They can’t. They need to find out what’s wrong with Jason, first and foremost. “Um, about that.”

Batman sighs over the comm. “What.”

“I...might have picked up something,” Dick hedges. “Two somethings, actually.”

Damian takes offense to that, and his little face wrinkles up. For as good as he has been, Dick’s startled when he begins screaming at the top of his lungs. He immediately switches his comm to mute and, in a panic, tries to soothe him.

“Dick.”

Dick spins to Jason, surprised. Jason’s eyebrows raise, and he gestures impatiently. It takes Dick a moment to realize what he’s asking.

He wavers for a second, but Batman’s starting to demand answers in his ear, so he slides Damian into Jason’s arms.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Dick rushes to say, and he can’t keep the smile off his face as he watches Jason settle down with Damian, who quiets and blinks with utter fascination at the goggles Jason’s decided to flash around to occupy his attention.

Jason’s smiling again, too, and Dick’s heart swells.

“Are you?” Bruce asks doubtfully. “What have you done?”

“Me?” Dick repeats in mock offense. “I didn’t do anything. I just...may need you to brace yourself. This is...big.”

Batman mulls over his words, and Dick holds his breath, hoping beyond hope he’ll leave the mystery alone, for once in his life. “Watchtower?” Bruce asks finally.

“Yes,” Dick says, hiding a sigh of relief. “Clear everyone out, if possible. And...” He closes his eyes. “Just you. No one else.”

“...Okay.”

Dick makes eye contact with Artemis and taps his wrist. She glances at Bio-Ship’s dashboard and flashes ten fingers twice. “Twenty minutes out from the nearest Zeta,” Dick tells Bruce. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Batman out,” Bruce says.

The line goes dead, and Dick rubs his eyes, blowing out a puff air. Shuffling over to Jason and Damian, he says, “It’s going to be okay. Dad’s going to meet us soon.”

Jason jolts, pain flitting over his face as his brow furrows. “Bruce?” he eventually manages to say, and it sounds as though he’s hardly daring to hope.

“Yeah,” Dick says, smiling. “We’re taking you and Damian home, Jaybird.”

“Home,” Jason breathes, and he closes his eyes, a few tears falling from his eyelashes. All remaining tension and pain drains from his face, and when he opens his eyes again, he offers Dick his brightest smile.

For the first time since he got Jason back, Dick sees Robin in that smile.

Dick wipes his own face and ruffles Jason’s hair. “Watch over Damian for me for a sec.” When Jason starts, Dick is quick to reassure him. “I’m not going far, promise. I’ll be right there.” He jabs a thumb in the direction of the others. “I need to be The Adult for a minute, but then I’ll be right back.”

It kills him to turn his back. The others are whispering amongst themselves again, tones argumentative, and as Dick crosses the Bio-Ship, he realizes it may take more than a minute to lecture, and few more to explain what he can. He’s not exactly looking forward to it, but as he studies Forager, Halo, and Brion—how they move around each other, how they act in each others’ presence—he sees something that makes his heart leap.

Nostalgia settles over him like a hearth-warmed blanket.

Don’t go too hard on them, Conner says, addressing him through the mind-link. There’s a deep sense of empathy and pride transmitting over the link that the clone can’t even pretend to hide. M’gann takes a hold of her fiancé’s arm and leans her head into his shoulder.

Dick snickers, recalling their conversation on the ride over. How can I? They’re us. Besides, he adds, looking back at Jason and Damian, a delirious joy filling him up to the brim, without them...

Artemis sidles up to him, knowing what he can’t express in words.  They’ve mourned together, and they’ve shared so much over the last two years they don’t need words to ground the other. She shares his blind happiness, and Dick can sense she’s been also struggling with tears from the moment they were safe in the air. 

(She always liked Jason. Out of everyone from his original team, she was the one who bonded most with him).

Jason, for his part, hasn’t taken his eyes off Dick since he turned his back, and Damian, it seems, has lost interest in Jason’s goggles in favor of watching Dick, too, his curious eyes glistening with unshed tears from his random tantrum.

One brother found, another gained. He doesn't know what's going to happen next, but everything's about to change. For the better. It may not be easy, what with Jason's memory loss and partial muteness and Lord knows what other traumas, but the payoff is sure to be everything. The thought of reconnecting—as a family—of watching Bruce grow as a father, promises of seeing Damian grow, as well, and with Jason there to be an older brother, too? As he should have been from the beginning?

Dick always wanted a big family, even before his parents fell. His had grown since Jason had died, but that doesn't mean Jason hadn’t left a gaping hole where none could reach. And that hole? It finally, finally, feels full again.

And that was because of these fledgling heroes.

Yeah, this is probably going to be the worst lecture in the history of ever. He may have a lot to say to them—about responsibility and being smart and listening to (some) orders when necessary and what it means to be a part of a Team—but...

He really does have even more to thank them for, doesn’t he?

Chapter Text

“So much for your resignation.”

Batman steps from the Zeta platform and meets Superman’s unimpressed gaze from across the Monitor Womb. Clark has spun around in his chair to greet him, arms folded, a single brow slowly creeping upward. It’s a look he usually reserves for petty criminals. And for friends he does not necessarily agree with. Understandably, it is a look Bruce is quite familiar with, in any of its forms.

Today, Clark’s not accusing him. Not really. No, smothered amusement and smugness dances behind those bright blue eyes.

Clark is, in actuality, laughing at him.

Batman resents it, but he is not terribly surprised. Despite his posturing and careful planning, he suspected Superman would see right through his ploy the moment it was put into play. Even if most of the Community still buys into Bruce’s Dark Knight persona, Clark once told him that he’s really not half as mysterious or severe as he makes himself out to be, especially when there are only so many times he can make a Scene and use it as a cover for yet another Broody Bat Thing before it gets old.

Clark’s words. Not his own.

And possibly his children’s. He’s not sure anymore. They are bad influences on each other.

In any case, he and the others are working behind the rest of Justice League’s backs for a reason, and they need to maintain the pretense. Clark himself may have been excluded from their plans—to spare him from duplicity, something Superman could never be accused of and something Clark found distasteful in the first place—but he isn’t stupid. He can play the game, if necessary.

...Even if his poker face is atrocious.

Needless to say, Batman is lucky Superman is alone on monitor duty. He is already breaking his own self-imposed rules—and risking the mission—by being here as it is. Had others been here, his entrance to the Watchtower may not have been so easy, hacked Zeta or otherwise.

“It is my satellite,” Batman eventually grumbles.

“Seventy percent of it, maybe.”

Batman elects to ignore that technicality. Instead, he scans the screens over Clark’s shoulder. It is a calm night, from what he can see, and a foreboding sense of dread opens its maw deep in his chest. Nothing ever good comes from a night like this. It’s too perfect, too still, and much too quiet. It doesn’t help that Nightwing’s request doesn’t sit well with him. Even now, he can’t make sense of the odd fluctuation between lightheartedness and gravity that had taken hold of his son during their conversation, not even fifteen minutes past. Something is wrong, and if it isn’t wrong, per se, it definitely isn’t right. Nightwing never would have implied they needed to meet here, at Watchtower, instead of the Cave, if everything had been alright.

“Do I need an excuse?” Batman asks, turning to look out the windows into the expanse of space before them.

Clark catches the nuance in Batman’s tone, and his good humor flees in an instant. “Is there one?” he asks in alarm. When Batman remains silent, inclining his head toward Clark, he jolts from his chair. “It’s not—?”

It’s a testament to how long they’ve known each other that Batman immediately interrupts, “Arkham is secure.”

The Joker is secure, is what he means. Clark scans Batman’s face, looking for Lord knows what, and relaxes. He’s waiting now, patiently, for an explanation, knowing better than to push Bruce for it.

“Are we alone?” Batman asks.

Clark’s mild expression doesn’t change. His eyes don’t even flicker to any of the three cameras in the Womb. He’s probably very aware that they had already been hacked and disabled. “You know we are.”

It’s true, but it never hurts to double-check. It isn’t uncommon for a wayward hero or heroine to stumble out of the showers after using the state-of-the-art training center, or to race to and from the Speed Lab, or traipse through to socialize, seek medical care, or do any number of things that would otherwise interrupt what Batman would like to keep private.

With Superman’s affirmation, he feels some of his walls crumble, and he explains, “Nightwing and Team dispatched to Infinity Island at approximately 0014 hours EST after his...new responsibilities took it upon themselves to attempt a rescue mission for Tara Markov, who we have reason to believe may be a captive of the League of Shadows.”

“The Markovian princess? On Infinity Island?”

“The very same.”

When Bruce does not continue, Clark presses, “Did they find her? Are they all okay?”

Bruce grits his teeth and doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to. Dick left him with far more questions than he had answers, and reporting anything less than the full story is inefficient and useless.

But Dick asked him to hold his interrogation. Maybe not in as many words, but he did, with the tone of his voice alone, and Bruce can’t remember the last time Dick asked him for anything.

It wasn’t easy—not in the least—but Dick wouldn’t ask unless the information he gathered was either sensitive or personal in nature.

And if that didn’t add another layer to Bruce’s anxieties.

“They must be uninjured, at least,” Clark muses, and he turns back to the monitors to do another sweep. “You wouldn’t be sitting here with me if that were the case.”

 “No, I wouldn’t,” Bruce says, unease creeping up his spine. “But something isn’t right.”

“Such a pessimist,” Superman tuts.

“You say that as though you have never met Dick before.”

Clark also didn’t hear Dick, over the comm. He didn’t hear the odd note of panic and uncertainty edging his voice, of the emotion Bruce sensed bubbling just at the very edge of his control.

“Come on, Bruce. He’s not the same kid who convinced a handful of sidekicks to go rogue and trash Cadmus anymore.”

“He’s the still same kid who prefers freefalling off of rooftops, cartwheeling into ambushes, and train-surfing blindfolded,” Bruce deadpans.

Clark waves off the comment. “You have to be at least a little bit of an adrenaline junkie to do this job. It doesn’t change the fact he’s become a mature and responsible young adult.”

Bruce almost chuckles. Almost. As they speak, said mature and responsible young adult has nothing but cupboards full of cereal in his apartment. Alfred nearly had an aneurysm over it, just the other day. He doubts Dick went grocery shopping yet, even after the earful he got. He doubts he will until necessity demanded it and his milk spoiled.

(Not even then, Tim cheerfully interjected at the time, well out of Dick’s earshot and much to Alfred’s growing dismay and Bruce’s revulsion. I’ve seen him eat cereal with water, orange juice, coffee...whatever he has on hand. It’s actually rather impressive.

Tim may or may not have a very perverted interpretation of the word ‘impressive,’ and Bruce did not hesitate to tell him so).

Bruce realizes, though, that Clark is talking more about Nightwing’s achievements on the field than he is off of it, so he remains composed and levels a very blank stare at Clark. “That does not mean he still doesn’t get himself into trouble. Or find himself collecting strays wherever he goes.”

“And I wonder where he gets that from,” Clark teases fondly. Before Bruce can so much as narrow his eyes, Clark adds, “Wayne Manor can afford to handle a few more strays, can’t it?”

Clark’s ribbing has its intended effect: Bruce finds his paranoia diminishing. Superman’s overwhelming optimism usually makes his skin crawl, but in this instance, it is a voice of reason, pitted perfectly against his worst assumptions.

Besides, he trusts Dick. Two new, unknown “somethings” and cryptic remarks to “brace himself” aside.

“Alfred may have a few things to say about that,” Bruce jokes, allowing a hint of a smile.

“You both love it,” Clark says. “In any case, I’m not surprised, you know. That Dick’s collected a new team. He’s...inspired a lot of people, since he became Robin.”

And isn’t that the truth. He isn’t sure if Dick realizes it, that he’s the bridge between the first generation of heroes and those who followed, that he has touched more of their lives than Batman himself has by leaps and bounds. The loyalty he’s garnered is truly unparalleled, and it amazes Bruce that for all his ability to see the good in others, and to help them reach their highest potential, Dick has always been a little blind to his own strengths.

“He has,” Bruce agrees, a ball of pride warming him straight through his core.

Clark nods. “So whatever happened on Infinity Island,” he says, “I highly doubt that—”

The Zeta whirs behind them, cutting Clark off. With the announcing intercom offline, the Zeta is nearly silent as it powers on. Bruce turns to the platform automatically, squinting against the light.

“Do I need to leave?” Clark asks in a quiet voice, already halfway out of his chair.

“No,” Bruce says, a little distractedly, and it’s the truth. Clark does not need to abandon monitor duty for this, no matter how slow a night it is. Dick will understand.

The blinding gold light from the Zeta dies, leaving the platform shadowed and dark. He cannot distinguish how many people Nightwing has with him, but it is clearly more than one.

Somethings, Dick said? Try someones.

Alarmed and on guard, Batman’s fingers trail to the batarangs on his belt, an act of habit more than anything, and he steps forward, only to stop in his tracks when he hears Dick’s light tenor murmuring from within the belly of the Zeta.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Clark go slack-jawed. “I’m...yeah,” he stutters. "I do need to leave. Right now.” He scrambles up, at superspeed, and before Bruce can register the growing, bemused smile on Superman’s face, he’s gone.

...What.

Unable to bear the mystery any longer, Batman stalks across the Womb. “Nightwing,” he growls, and it’s a command and question all in one.

Nightwing stops talking, and it feels like Batman’s aged ten years, rather than ten seconds, before Nightwing steps out from the platform to meet him, Miss Martian at his side.

Batman doesn’t spare the Martian a second glance. Instead, he stares at his son, who, in direct violation of protocol, has removed his mask.

“Hey, Bruce,” Dick says.

Batman starts, gaze sliding back to the Zeta. There’s another form, hesitating, just out of sight, and a rush of irritation overcomes his curiosity, if only for an instant. Out of all of the heroes he’s worked with, his own family knows better than to address him as anything other than Batman—or in rare cases: B—when the cowl is on. Especially when others are around. It is something he has drilled into them, and unlike a majority of the League, they do not slip. Ever.

He bites his tongue, allowing his temper to die down, to look at it all rationally. Ever since Dick viciously dressed him down for snapping at, and then subsequently benching, Tim for making a decision he did not agree with during his first official week as Robin, he has made an effort to understand his partners’ point of view before immediately jumping down their throats.

He doesn't want to make the same mistakes he made before. He can't afford to. Not again.

He is rewarded for his patience when a clear answer comes to him the moment his initial reaction has passed. That Dick has his mask off and is making the distinction between Batman and Bruce Wayne now...It is deliberate.

This is big, Dick said on the comm.

Without concern for M’gann, Bruce lowers his cowl, and he can see Dick opening up like the petals of a flower, his posture loosening, his plastic smile widening into a genuine, outright beam. He’s smiling like he’s just finished a stellar and challenging rings routine, like he does whenever he gets to visit the circus, or whenever he witnesses one of his siblings achieve one of their personal goals. He’s smiling that particular Dick Grayson smile that’s wild, uninhibited, and positively alight with his own inner radiance. 

Brace yourself.

“What’s going on?” Bruce asks suspiciously, because he never sees his son smile like that after a mission, no matter how successful it is. To his knowledge, it was a rescue op, too, which was hardly cause for a reaction such as this.

What did you find, chum? Why the cloak and dagger act?

As if on cue, the shade within the Zeta jolts forward, and Bruce’s eyes snap up. He peers into the darkness.

“...Bruce?” comes a hoarse whisper from within.

Bruce’s heart stalls. Ghosts breeze across his grave, ice spiraling down, down, down to the tips of his toes. He knows that voice. It is one that haunts his dreams, one that stalks his waking hours. It echoes in his memories, locked away in the hollow of his heart.

That voice...it can’t be.

(It sounds exactly like him).

But it can’t be. It...he lost Jason. Jason’s gone. He’s not....he’s not coming back.

(He’s done this before. He cannot do it again).

Jason’s ghost steps out into the light, its head cocked. It’s dressed from head to toe in various shades of red, a knapsack slung over its shoulder, an empty sheath, clearly of Shadows make, hanging at its hip. A fierce expression of concentration, so fierce it looks pained, is set on its face, but there...is that...?

A hint of his son’s lopsided grin plays at the phantom’s lips.

(It’s him. God, it’s...)

“No,” Bruce breathes, and he chokes the life out of the deep emotion kindling in his chest. He takes a step back, shaking his head.

He’s hallucinating. He must be. When was the last time he tested himself? He scrambles to remember. Considering how many of his rogues depended on chemical warfare, he’s been in the habit of performing drug tests on himself at random at least once weekly. It has paid off in innumerable ways since.

(It would be just like Crane, to do this. Ivy, while usually far more fond of playing with aphrodisiacs, is just as capable. Either of them would revel in preying on that pain and inadequacy and fear and sense of utter, utter failure—the crushing guilt...)

Bruce’s breath catches in his throat as Dick...Dick is turning toward Jason, putting his hand on the phantom’s shoulder.

He isn’t hallucinating. He and Dick have experienced a lot of weird things together, but shared hallucinations were not one of them.

(But...it doesn’t make sense. He held Jason in his arms. In Ethiopia. He...he had lowered himself to the ground, cradling his broken body to his chest...)

Bruce doesn’t understand.

(He buried his boy. This boy. Three years, one month, and nearly three weeks to the day, he laid Jason to rest. This...this is...).

“Hang on, Jason,” Dick requests, and Bruce nearly loses all sensation in his legs when the Jason lookalike ignores Dick in favor of maneuvering around him, gray eyes fixated on Bruce.

“No,” Bruce says again, and this time it’s stronger, more forceful. He shifts on his heels again, backwards, away, his mind a tangle of excuses, of disbelief, of pain.

(Of utter elation that...)

No. His teeth grind together, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He cannot endure the hope that, if this isn’t some hallucination, it also isn’t a dream. That it isn’t a cruel trick. That Jason is really there. Alive.

(He failed Jason once. Irrevocably. Irreparably. He doesn’t deserve a second chance).

His eyes sting behind their lids. “No.”

“...No?” Dick wheezes, and his voice is strangled. It sounds like he’s either about to burst into tears or laughter. Possibly both. “Oh my God. Jaybird, I told you to wait until I explained. You’ve broken him.”

Bruce’s eyes fly open in time to see Jason fling something of a nasty look in Dick’s direction.

The scene is so familiar it knocks all of the remaining wind out of him. Dizzy, stumbling, he senses his feet guiding him forward, of their own accord. What little remains of his logic holds him back, just barely, from launching himself right off the precipice and into open air.

There will be no going back once he does.

“Jason?” he whispers, voice raw, and his son turns back to him. “Is it really...?”

Mr. Wayne, M’gann says kindly, projecting directly through his shattered mental shields, and her tone is enough that he doesn’t need further evidence. The truth hits him all at once. Superman’s departure, Miss Martian’s presence, his conversation with Dick...

It is him.

A piece of himself he long since thought lost slots back into place, as though it had never been gone in the first place. Bruce strides across the remaining distance between him and Jason, and as his son raises his eyes to meet his own, Bruce reaches out, tentatively, and places a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing a stray tear away.

It’s him.

“...B?” Jason says, voice wavering.

Bruce barks a throaty laugh, and he moves his hand to Jason’s nape, tenderly tugging him forward so that he can press his forehead against his son’s. “You’re alive,” he whispers, still slightly hysterical. His cheeks are wet. “I can’t believe it,” he says, swallowing over the stone lodged in his throat.

Jason tolerates the contact for longer than Bruce expects, and even then, he is stunned when his son shifts to wrap his arms around him. His stiffness melts away as Jason buries his face into Bruce’s shoulder, silent sobs wracking him, his entire body shuddering from head to toe.

“Shhh, Jaylad,” Bruce murmurs, and awkwardly, he reaches around Jason’s back to return the bone-crushing embrace Jason has locked him in. “Shhh, it’s okay now. It’s—”

One of his fingers prods something fleshy.

Bruce freezes, and without disturbing Jason, he lifts his head to investigate the source over his son’s shoulder.

Hanging from Jason’s back, in what Bruce had assumed was a knapsack, is, in fact, a scowling baby.

He stares at the baby, heart lurching drunkenly in his chest, and his gaze hunts for Dick.

Dick’s watching the reunion with a broad smile, one that becomes a little less mushy and far, far more mischievous when he realizes Bruce has finally noticed Dick’s third companion. 

“What,” Bruce croaks, “is this?”

“I think you’ll find it’s a baby.”

“I...yes, Dick, I can see that,” Bruce snaps, and he engages in a staring contest with said baby again. When Dick doesn’t seem likely to elaborate, Bruce barely hears himself say, “Whose baby?”

“Bruce, come on.” Dick’s grin is sharp and merciless now.“Whose do you think?”

All the air is expelled from Bruce’s lungs, every bit of joy at Jason’s return sucked into his own inner black hole. A million explanations scream and sail through his head like vengeful spirits, all seeking to lay their claim. One in particular—one he has taken great lengths to banish from his mind entirely—unfurls its rotten, acidic feelers and wiggles its way back into his soul. Revulsion, hazy panic, and a deep, dark sense of self-hatred suffocates him, forcing his gorge to rise as certain memories, long since suppressed, begin to return in bits and spurts.

(He can’t do this. Not like this. He can’t...)

The baby blinks sleepily, its grimace softening, and it wraps a tiny hand around one of Bruce’s fingers.

“Aw, look at that,” Dick coos to Miss Martian. “Looks like Damian knows who his daddy is. Smart kid.”

The word daddy rings in his ears. “Damian,” Bruce repeats, taking the name and rolling it like a piece of hard candy in his mouth.

The baby gurgles at him, squeezing and shaking his finger, and just like that...the storm within Bruce passes, this dazzling ray of sunshine piercing and banishing the darkness within.

Bruce feels himself being remade, in that one instant, and it suddenly doesn’t matter, the circumstances. None of it matters in the least, because this is a child—his child—who had no say in his mother’s actions, who did not ask for any of the terrible things that lay between him and Talia.

And he will die before he allows Talia to keep their son from him again.

She kept two of his sons from him. A blazing surge of rage tinges his vision red.

The last time he came this close to wanting to break his One Rule, Joker had been boasting about his role in the second Robin’s death. Talia, he decides, will not have Superman there to stop him this time.

As if reading his mood, Jason pulls jerkily away. The loss of Jason’s presence draws Bruce out of his head, and he watches Jason pointedly shrug out of the monstrosity of straps and buckles on his back. With methodical, almost practiced, movements, he maneuvers Damian’s limbs out of the carrier and offers him to Bruce.

Bruce hesitates, for a fraction of a second, and then takes Damian into his arms. Damian settles into the crook of his elbow, heavy eyes slow-blinking at him with a vague sense of wonderment.

A curious little fellow, Bruce can’t help but think, his lingering anger dying to a simmer as his chest swells like a balloon. And he’s mine.

He’s fallen in love with quite a few kids, but never one so instantaneously as this one.

“...How?” he asks aloud, feeling lightheaded.

Jason chortles, and Bruce experiences emotional whiplash again as he oscillates between the new sensation of paternal protectiveness and unconditional love for the baby and the ravenous gratitude and unbridled joy of Jason’s unbelievable presence.

Dick, for his part, wrinkles his nose, following up Jay’s bawdy laughter with, “Yeah, not touching that with a ten-foot-pole.”

Bruce realizes, somewhat distantly, that he is going to be the butt of many jokes in the upcoming months. “You know what I mean,” he states, refusing to look Dick in the eye. He watches Damian instead, captivated by the delicate brush of his eyelashes against his fat cheek.

“Sorry not sorry,” Dick says lightly. After a moment, his humor fades, and he answers the true heart of the question. “To be honest, B, I don’t have a fucking clue. The Shadows are a legit shit-show right now. Ra’s isn’t in control anymore.”

“Later,” Bruce grunts, because later, he will be able to feel something more than distinct irritation at the news. He’ll have an appropriate response then. For now, he doesn’t give a single damn about the Shadows themselves.

Dick nods, as if in approval. “In that case, all Talia would tell me is that she found Jason catatonic on the streets and...”

Bruce’s heart takes a nosedive. “What?” he interrupts.

Dick doesn’t look terribly pleased either. He folds his arms, lips pulling up into a vicious grimace. It is downright terrifying on his son’s face. “Yeah, she took him. Right from under our noses. The how is still unclear. But she did give me something for us to look over, later.”

Bruce hums and turns to address Jason, to ask for his input and for him to corroborate the story, but Dick stops him with a halting, “B, wait, Jay’s...”

Muted, Bruce substitutes, horror striking him like a vulture on carrion.

Jason is loud and brassy and full of life. He laughs and snarks and always has something to say. This...this isn’t...

The moment he fully comes to that conclusion, he sees what he missed before: the distance on Jason's face, the dull glaze to his eyes, the unnatural silence. He’s not with them, not fully, and a roar echoes throughout his ears, newfound apprehension for his second son strangling him from the inside out.

“Miss Martian,” Bruce snaps, concern making him sound far more acerbic than he intended. Damian does not like the tone, and he fusses a little in his arms. “Have you scanned him?”

M’gann’s gaze flicks to Dick and back, and Bruce praises every god in the multiverse and then some that Dick had the foresight to bring Miss Martian along. Her uncle is a strong psychic, but even he admits M’gann is his superior. If anyone can isolate the problem and help cure Jason of whatever it is ailing him, she can.

“Only to verify his identity,” she says. “And to get a preliminary idea of what we’re dealing with.”

“And?” Bruce asks.

“His mind is fractured, his mindscape...foggy. His memories are clearly there, floating like dust in the wind, and that’s how he can, with effort, piece some of them together, but...”

“But what?”

“Mr. Wayne,” M’gann says, and her voice cracks. “Jason was dead. The psyche is not built to have a full and complete understanding of what comes After. That’s why so many fear death. Even those who don’t fear it...they always wonder. To everything and everyone who has experienced Life first, Death is beyond comprehension, and Jason...he’s crossed into the After and has somehow come Back. I—I do not know if I can reconcile that. It’s not...natural, by any means.”

“What M’gann is trying to say,” Dick interjects, and he sounds as though he’s already heard the argument more times than he’d care to, “is that she may end up doing more harm than good.”

Bruce takes a single look at Jason and knows his decision has already been made for him. “Do it.”

M’gann looks discomfited. “Mr. Wayne...”

“Bruce,” he corrects absentmindedly. “And I don’t want to hear that you advise against this, Miss Martian. It can be done, correct?”

“It’s never been done,” Miss Martian specifies.

“That’s not what I asked.” When M’gann winces, Bruce relents and says, far more kindly, “I appreciate your warning, M’gann, but...I don’t think it is necessary.” Jason blinks at him, his forehead furrowed like he’s trying to solve a tough case. “He offered me Damian. He laughed at an innuendo. He said my name. Dick’s too, I assume. Those are not the actions of a lost cause. Those are Jason’s actions.”

“He’s responding more to us than he ever did with Talia,” Dick asserts, and it reinforces Bruce’s decision.

“I have faith in your abilities,” Bruce adds. “And in Jason.”

“Forgive me for saying so,” M’gann says boldly, “but it’s not like you to bet on nothing but personal faith, Batman.”

Bruce can’t help but smirk. “Batman might not, but Bruce Wayne tends to lose his head when it comes to his orphans. Cited and sourced: the Gotham Gazette, October 2018. Vicki Vale.”

Dick bursts into peals of laughter.

All of Bruce's children make a hobby out of quoting ridiculous articles at him, and that particular article is one of their favorites, namely because it’s an article about the entire Wayne family and they can use it against each other, too. They throw the quotes out of context to make their other siblings laugh just as often as they use the same quotes to make points and win fights. It's practically an art form at this point.

Bruce himself rarely participates, which makes for a great deal of entertainment whenever he does. Exhibit A: Dick’s reaction.

As it happens, he can see M’gann’s perception of him changing before his very eyes, but he can’t find it in himself to care. One day, he might, but today, he isn’t Batman. He’s a dad, first and foremost.

He has three of his five children there with him. He’s entitled to some lame jokes.

“Before we do this,” Dick says suddenly, sobering, “you need to know.” He pulls an intricate vial, attached to a long chain, from one of the pouches on his belt. “Talia offered a failsafe.”

“Lazarus,” Bruce mutters, taking the pendant from Dick. The sickly green illuminates Damian’s face, and it occurs to him that...not one, but two of his boys might have suffered years serving under Ra’s al Ghul, a certifiable madman (made mad by the very waters contained in this pendant) had it not been for the insolence of a few new child-heroes.

Bruce doesn’t believe in coincidences, but in this case...

He hides a shudder, unwilling to linger on the subject, and tucks the Lazarus water into his own belt. “Absolute last resort.”

“Agreed,” Dick says.

To Miss Martian, Bruce says, “Can you take Jason to the med-bay? I need to speak to Dick.”

“Sure,” she says. She murmurs a gentle command to Jason, whose expression sours. He resists her attempts to lead him away, and Bruce heart pangs.

“He doesn’t want us out of his sight,” Dick mutters.

“Go with M’gann, Jay,” Bruce requests. “Please.”

Jason stares, and Bruce can see the fine tremor racing down his son’s limbs. When M’gann tries to get his attention again, he finally acquiesces to her direction.

“I know this is going to be difficult, Dick,” Bruce says, watching them go, “but I need you to take Damian home. Get him settled. And I—I need you to tell everyone what’s going on.”

Dick starts. “You...don’t want to tell them yourself?”

“It’s not that I don’t,” Bruce says. He wants, more than anything, to have them all here, with him. He wants to see Al’s face when he sees his new grandson, to bear witness to Tim’s reaction when he learns his childhood hero is actually alive. He wants to sit down and tell Cass that she’s got another two to add to her brood, and Lord knows he doesn’t want to let Damian go. “It’s just that...I need to delegate. And I can’t leave Jason right now. Not after everything. If this works—”

“When it works.”

“When it works,” Bruce amends, “I need to be here. Everything that happened in the last three years—it needs to come from me.”

“I understand.”

Does he? Bruce has the inexplicable need to ensure that he does. “I need to do it right this time, Dick.”

But, of course, he forgets who he is talking to. Dick's gaze immediately softens. “You didn’t do it wrong before, necessarily,” Dick says, and he reaches out to squeeze Bruce’s shoulder. “Once Jason gets an idea into his head...he’s like a dog with a locked jaw. He will not let go. No one could have changed his mind once he found out about his mom. You know that.”

“Hmph.”

“He’s going to forgive you, B,” Dick says forcefully. “I know he will.”

Bruce isn’t so sure, but he refuses to take this blessing for granted. He’ll weather all of Jason’s fury, his accusations and tears and every last curse he shoots at him, if it means he gets to have him in his life again. He can’t predict what is going to happen next, not by a long shot, but he will be there, every single step of the way, whether Jason decides to push him away again or not.

Because that’s nothing less than what Jason deserves.

Bruce ducks his head, just for a minute, and fights the deep, gnawing emotion crawling back up his throat. He will not break down now. He refuses.

Gently, so as to not wake Damian, who has fallen asleep against his chest plate, Bruce transfers the baby into Dick’s arms. “I’ll call you when he’s back,” he promises his eldest.

Dick is good with the baby. He holds Damian like a natural. “I’m holding you to it,” Dick says. “And I’ll try to keep the masses away until he’s ready, too.”

Bruce nods, not trusting himself to speak. That is all the goodbye he can manage, too, and he turns his back to follow M’gann and Jason's path through the Watchtower, the invisible tether connecting him with Dick and Damian resisting his departure with every step.

When he exits the Womb and skirts through the connecting hallway, he raises his head and says, in a normal tone, “Clark.”

Clark appears in a blur of red and blue, his smile rivaling Dick’s.

Bruce glowers at him. “You’re not even going to pretend you didn’t overhear everything.”

Clark, it seems, is far past the point of feeling ashamed for his lack of etiquette. “Congratulations, B,” he says, ignoring Bruce’s admonishment, his tone bright and warm. He offers his hand. “I am so happy for you. For all of you.”

Bruce meets Clark’s eyes. A sensation of solidarity possesses him, and any lingering annoyance he feels about the invasion of privacy drains away. He accepts Clark’s hand and grips his forearm. “Thank you.”

Clark’s smile broadens, a near impish gleam in his eye. “You know, if you need any baby tips, Lois and I—”

Moment over. Bruce’s expression clouds, and he withdraws. “Get your ass back to work, Kent.”

True to form, Clark isn’t in the least bit intimidated, and he laughs as he flies back into the Womb. “Offer stands!” he sends back over his shoulder.

Bruce hides a fleeting smile, and with a renewed energy and purpose in his step, he makes his way to the med bay, where his son and their second chance wait for him.

Chapter Text

Come now, bird-boy!

Jason stirs, groggy and disoriented. He’s been drifting, floating, a heavy fog weighing him down, dense as water, muffling all extraneous noise and stimuli, and yet...that voice...

It cuts straight through, like an arrow with a barbed head.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

You’ve been a bad boy.

A flash of metal. A pipe, maybe.

(No. A crowbar).

Tick, tick...tick.

...this is going to hurt you a lot more than it does me!

A shock of blonde hair, the flick of a lighter, cigarette smoke, blood on his teeth.

Tick, tick...

The bomb, Jason!

That’s a new voice. Not the simpering one. Not the one that sends roils of hatred and revulsion straight through his core. Another one. A woman’s, clear as a bell, sharp in her desperation.

Tick....tick....

It’s locked! The Joker—

Jason shoots upright, gasping like a man drowning for air, an earth-shattering explosion booming in his ears.

Phantom pain ricochets up and down his limbs, his ribs shrieking as he gulps oxygen into his lungs. But he can’t get enough. There isn’t enough. He can’t breathe through the thick smoke hanging in the air. It’s lining his lungs, coating his throat, and he gags against it. Fire blazes its way up his skin, licking its way into the edges of his tunneling, spiraling vision.

There’s a single flash of green. Maniacal laughter echoes in his ears.

(Oh, hell no).

He flails, fighting against the restraints holding him down. Bile rises, and he’s pretty sure he throws up. He can’t really tell. There’s shouting all around him, but he can’t make sense of the noise. It bounces, coming from all directions and from no distinct source. He’s dizzy, disoriented, and every instinct in him is screaming wrong, wrong, wrong. Panic sends his heart racing. Its thundering pace drowns out the din and chaos all around him.

He needs to get the hell out of there. He needs—

Someone grasps his hands, and fuck that, he needs to get the fuck away. He fights against the hold. For all Jason’s struggling, the firm, yet gentle guide helps spread his fingers, one by one, and presses his full, open palm against something solid and warm.

It takes a moment for Jason to register the low rumble vibrating through his fingers.

His breath hitches. He knows that rumble.

Bruce.

He anchors himself on the familiarity and safety Bruce’s voice, and slowly, the smoke clears, the pungent smell of the careless cigarette disappearing without a trace. He stares, unseeingly, at the hand splayed across the Bat Symbol on Bruce’s chest, and once he recognizes it, he zeroes in on it with every last ounce of focus he can garner, his training kicking in as he tries to match the rhythm of Bruce’s breaths.

Only now does he isolate the individual words Bruce is murmuring to him. He latches on to those, too, savoring every syllable.

“It’s okay now, Jay,” B’s saying, over and over. “Breathe with me. It’s okay. Breathe with me.”

It doesn’t feel like it’s okay, but Bruce is there, and Bruce is safe. Bruce is home.

“Fucking...” Jason croaks, closing his eyes. His voice sounds all kinds of wrong. He must have been screaming. A lot. A few involuntary tears squeeze their way through his eyes. “Shit. Hell. Mother...of all...”

Jesus. What in the hell did he get dosed with? This is one hell of a trip. He does not like. Would not recommend.

He doesn’t realize he’s actually verbalizing the thought until there’s a strangled chuckle from the man in front of him.

Jason’s eyes are blurry, and he struggles to look up at Bruce. He looks different. And, hang him, is the old man...crying?

“What...?” he struggles to ask.

“Just breathe, Jason,” Bruce says again. “In. Out. Good.”

Jason does as he’s told. “But—”

“Shh, it’s okay.”

It still isn’t okay, Jason knows that. He’s starting to feel the tangled mess of panic in his chest settle into odd, uncomfortable little flutters. He draws in another breath with B, his thoughts beginning to convalesce and piece themselves together.

Something isn’t right. He’s missing something.

It’s suddenly imperative he knows. What little hold he gained on reality begins to slip, terror scuttling its way up through his gut. “What...” he tries again. “What happened?”

Bruce won’t look him in the eye.

...He didn’t get dosed with anything, did he?

You’ve been a bad boy.

No. Jason grits his teeth, fighting the uprising of giggles in his head.

Let’s try to clear this up, okay, pumpkin? What hurts more? Forehand?

Crack.

Or backhand?

C r a c k.

“Joker,” he gasps, hand rocketing out to grip Bruce’s gauntlet like a lifeline.

Bruce stiffens. “You remember?”

Jason can’t stop shaking. His body isn’t his own. He releases Bruce as though he’s been shocked and stares at his hands. They’re...not right. He’s not right. None of this is.

They...were in Ethiopia, weren’t they? Bruce came after him. They went looking. Together. They found the Joker and...

“My mom,” Jason says. Cigarette smoke floods his nostrils again, and he fights nausea. “Sheila.” He remembers. He was so happy because he found her. She was so beautiful and accomplished, and she...

Just step over here, and you’ll understand everything...Robin.

She lost her way. She was afraid. And tangled up in something awful. He was going to help her. But then...

 “Dammit, Bruce. What happened?” Jason demands, even as the memories flash before his eyes.

Tick....tick....

T i c k.

I lied.

...No. No, no, no. No. She didn’t. She can’t have.

There must be some mistake.

“She...sold me out,” he whispers, answering his own question. “I tried to—”

There’s a brush against his mind. It’s a sensation not unlike thread trailing across his skin, and he forcibly shuts it out, locking everything away with iron clad resolve. It’s instinct more than anything, and Jason gaze snaps to Miss Martian—to M’gann—her exhausted face stained with tears, her back pressed against the med bay wall for support.

The bomb, Jason! Deactivate it!

“St—stay out of my head!” he stammers, scrambling away from Bruce and up against the metal headboard of the narrow cot he was on. “Stay out! I need to think!”

 “Jason,” Bruce says, drawing his attention back to him. “Listen to me.”

“What happened?” Jason repeats.

“None of this is your fault, Jason. None of it. Do you hear me?”

We’ll both get out of here. Together.

“Then she didn’t make it,” Jason breathes, heart twinging with agonizing regret. His failure leaves a black mark in his soul, where guilt and self-loathing make their playground. “Crap. Some—” He coughs. “Some Robin I am.”

Bruce’s expression becomes lifeless as stone, something dark and disconcerting lingering behind his eyes. Jason sees the truth in startling, brilliant clarity, and all negative emotion is wiped away. It doesn’t make any sense, and yet it somehow makes all the sense in the world. He’s nearly giddy, intoxicated as he is on the absolute pinnacle of horror, where nightmares and reality meet, and he chokes on a hysterical laugh.

The door! It’s locked!

Well, fuck.

“I didn’t make it,” he realizes aloud, and there are black spots and flashes of light on dull metal twinkling in his vision. Laughter rings in his ears, drowning out everything else. “Did I?”

He doesn’t get to see Bruce’s reaction. The clock in his head hits zero, and the bomb blows.

He faints dead away.

~...~

The next time Jason wakes up, it’s like a switch has flipped on. One second he’s oblivious to the world, and the next, he’s alert and very much aware.

And numb. To the core.

Vaguely, he wonders if he should feel something more, but in the end, there’s really no precedent for how to feel when you wake up remembering your fucking death. And not only that, but knowing that your death was completely fucking worthless, because the one you sacrificed yourself for (for all that she deserved it, a vicious part of him thinks) is dead, too.

Perhaps numb is the only way to feel right now. It’s not the worst thing, he supposes. Better than losing his shit over it.

Again.

He decides not to think too much about it. Instead, he lays completely still, taking the moment to revel in the slow and steady expansion of his lungs, in the pure and clean air, in the strength and energy he feels coursing through his unbroken body.

What does it matter that he was tortured, or that he died, if he’s somehow alive and whole?

Slowly, he opens his eyes, and he immediately feels like an asshole.

Because of course it matters. It matters to those he left behind. It must have.

Bruce dozes in a rolling desk chair right at Jason’s bedside, arms crossed over his chest and bare head leaning back, breaths long and deep. He hasn’t changed out of his suit, but for all that the suit looked the same, Bruce didn’t. His raven dark hair is flecked with a few grays, and even though sleep has smoothed out some of the new lines on his face, Jason can see a few lingering shadows that had never been there before.  

Unease trickles down Jason’s spine. Just how long was he...?

He makes the mistake of shifting out of the ball he’s curled himself into, and Bruce, naturally, jolts upright, wide awake in an instant.

Jason freezes, and he and Bruce stare at each other. There’s something unnaturally naked in Bruce’s eyes, and it strikes Jason completely dumb with fear.

He’s not sure he's ready for this.

“Jason,” Bruce says, a flicker of a relieved, joyous smile on his face.

“B,” Jason returns, and he feels utterly dissociated for a moment as he registers that, yeah, that voice is his.

If Bruce notices his brief distraction, he doesn’t reveal it. He scooches the chair forward and asks, “How are you?”

“Not about to faint like some damsel in distress again,” Jason jokes in his not-right voice. His gaze darts around the room. They’re in a sectioned off quarter of the Watchtower med bay. He’s free of IVs and monitors, though those stand like ominous sentries in the corners of the room, and it seems weird to him. Because he was blown up. And beaten half-to-death before that. He shouldn’t be...this healthy, even if some time has passed since it happened, as he suspects it had. He tries to ignore the warning bells ringing in his head. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

Bruce frowns at his self-deprecating tone. “From what M’gann said,” he says, slowly, somewhat cautiously, “your mind needed it.”

Jason vaguely remembers M’gann in the room, not looking in what he would say was ‘top form.’ He thinks he may have yelled at her. Maybe. It’s a bit fuzzy. “Why was she here, anyway? Is she okay?”

“...She will be.”

Will be. Jason takes note of the fact Bruce did not answer his first question—and barely answered the second—which probably does not bode well for anyone. Avoiding the man’s intense gaze, he sits upright and draws his knees up into a cross-legged position. He waits for the inevitable, uncertain what to expect but preparing himself for the worst in any case.

The silence between them grows, and it’s so fucking awkward Jason can’t take it anymore. “Well?” he blurts, crossing his arms. “Aren’t you going to yell? Say ‘I told you so,’ at the very least?”

Bruce finally blinks, and he looks downright horrified. “No. God, no. Why would I do that?”

Um...? Jason can’t comprehend. He fucked up. He really, really fucked up, and Bruce isn’t even going to...lecture?

“What do you expect me to think?” he asks. When Bruce begins shaking his head, a pained expression on his face, Jason doesn’t know what to make of it. “You told me to wait for you,” Jason reminds him. “I didn’t. I got blown up. So yell already.”

“No, Jay,” Bruce says, and he has the gall to sound surprised. “Believe me. That is the absolute furthest thing from my mind right now.”

Jason doesn’t really understand, but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. “Then stop staring,” he grumbles. “It’s weird.”

That startles a chuckle out of Bruce, and before Jason can think to brace himself, Bruce is leaning across the bed, wrapping him into a warm embrace. “You’ve grown,” he murmurs, completely unapologetic.

The unsaid I think I have every right to stare is somehow clear as day, and it's a confirmation of his previous suspicions.

It takes everything in Jason not to fall apart, right then and there. He closes his eyes and slowly, shakily, inhales.

He’s okay. He’s fine. He’s not there. He’s here, with Bruce. It’s fine.

“How long?” he finally dares to ask.

Jason can feel Bruce’s muscles tense, and it is some time before the man draws away, a single hand bracing itself on Jason’s shoulder. He looks Jason right in the eyes as he answers, “Three years.”

Jason’s first reaction is to laugh because what the fuck, that’s impossible. There’s no way. “You’re messin’ with me,” he says. Because he has to be. Jason figures he may have died, what, for a few minutes before he was resuscitated and brought to the Watchtower? Isn’t that what happens in the movies? Maybe with an additional coma thrown in for shits and giggles? Why else would M’gann be here, if not to help with a coma?

But then again, no one feels this good after three years of death and-or coma, do they? That’s not normal.

Bruce, however, holds his eyes, intense and unfaltering in their vulnerability, in their pain, and spiders of dread creep through his chest. “No,” Jason breathes.

“Yes,” Bruce insists, sympathy softening his expression.

“Let me...” Jason licks his parched lips. It doesn’t help anything. “Let me get this straight. Joker kicks my ass, I’m blown up, and not only did I fail to save my mom, I was...what, dead for three years?”

Bruce’s expression does not change, persistent and open and damning. Jason’s fingers tremble as he reaches up to push his hair back from his forehead, and he struggles to keep the panic buzzing under his skin from taking him by storm.

"I don't understand," Jason says. "How?"

“We aren't sure. It may not have been three years, in total, from what...I have come to learn,” Bruce admits. “But that is how long you have been gone. How long we all thought...”

Three years. Gone. Jason sits back, staring across the room. “...I’m nineteen now,” he states. It’s the first thing that comes to mind to say.

“Yes.”

Jason closes his eyes and swallows over the growing lump in his throat. Three years. He...would have graduated high school, started college, and thrived there (take that, Dick, you college drop-out). There was a girl in his fourth-period Trig class who, as rumors had it, was going to ask him to TWIRP in a few weeks. He may or may not have agreed to go with her, because while she was sweet and funny, it was the quiet boy sitting next to her he had been crushing on since the year before. He could have been dating either of them or someone else entirely. Hell, in those three years, he might have miraculously managed to hear Alfred to cuss within his earshot. He could have finalized his plans with Dick to convince B to let them get a dog. Or several. He might have even decided to graduate from Robin, like Dick did. He could have already decided on a major, on a real career...

Three fucking years. Gone. Opportunities lost. The things he could have done. The people he could have met and known. The laughter and tears he could have shared with Bruce, with Dick and Alfred, with the Team and his friends. Movie nights, weddings, new book releases, funerals, birthdays, births and anniversaries...

Gone. And he can’t get that time back. Ever.

His eyes sting, and he fights the grief threatening to overrun him. God, he can’t even imagine how many memes he’s missed, and that is tragic, too.

 Jason jolts when Bruce leans forward to take his hands, and that induces a new level of sorrow because this man before him...thought he was dead. For three years.  

He can’t even imagine.

“It’s going to be okay, Jaylad,” Bruce murmurs. “I promise.”

Shaking his head, Jason inhales a measured, shaky breath. And then another. It’s too much to process, and he hates that he doesn’t want to let go of Bruce to wipe his face. “I don’t remember,” he says, and there’s an embarrassing amount of distress in his voice. He forces himself to meet Bruce’s eyes. “Bruce, I don’t remember any of it.”

Bruce squeezes his hands. “It doesn’t matter, if you remember or not. It doesn’t change anything.”

But it changes everything. Jason’s expression twists, thoughts spiraling back down the rabbit hole of sorrow and abject panic, and Bruce draws him back out of his head with another squeeze. “Three years, Bruce,” he chokes.

The pressure and warmth of Bruce’s hands around his grounds him. “Hey,” he says softly. “We will figure it out, son.”

Son. The word is laden with emotion, with hope and promise and security. It kills him. Jason can’t look Bruce in the eye anymore, and lowering his gaze to his lap, he pulls away from Bruce.

And freezes.

His hands...aren’t right. They’ve grown, sure, and he’s oddly familiar with their weight and size, which...is weird, considering he definitely remembers being one of the smallest boys in his class and hating how long it’d taken him to get so much as a single growth spurt during high school—that’s street kid malnutrition at its finest—but that isn’t what catches his attention.

It’s the minute crevices and white marks lining his fingers. He turns his hands over and back again in the light, flexing to see the scars stretch and move over his skin.

He stares at them, detachedly, and frowns. Those are new. Those—

It hits him with all the subtlety of a lightning bolt, and pain rents through his head.

And he remembers.

There’s dirt, raining down on his face, and a belt buckle clenched in his bloodied and torn fingers, fingernails cracked and hanging by mere threads as he gasps and gasps for air...

“Jason!” Bruce shouts, and Jason’s breath catches in his throat, a pathetic little whine escaping it as he struggles to ignore his migraine and swallow enough air to make up for the fact he’s freaking the fuck out. Again.

Bruce is trying to get him to focus on him, to breathe normally, but Jason’s trapped in a dark flood of foggy memories. Flashes of murky images and impressions—of a grave, the grime of the streets, the beeping of hospital monitors, a secure compound oversees, files of assassins patrolling the halls—tumble through his mind. There’s a vague sense of hunger and fear and then, oddly, comfort and safety and...

There was a woman. And a man. He’s sure of it. He remembers he could not trust her, not really, and he feels his skin crawl just thinking of the man, but he still...accepted the woman’s help, he thinks. He stuck by her. He knew her, somehow, if only in a vague and aloof sort of way, because she had been a connection he couldn’t ignore, and she...watched over him. Just as he had been asked to watch over—

“The kid,” Jason gasps, a lingering surge of protectiveness rising to claim him, breaking through his panic attack. “B, I think he’s...he’s important. Is he okay?”

Bruce is pale as a sheet, and he looks about as trapped as Jason feels. Jason isn’t sure he wants to know what Bruce is thinking, but the question has brought some life back into his eyes, and the warm fondness Jason sees there calms him. “Yes,” Bruce says. “Damian is at home now.”

Damian. The little prince. A fucking infant in the al Ghul palace, settled right and pretty in Ra’s’ crosshairs.

He’s safe now, though. Talia made the right choice, in the end.

“Good,” Jason murmurs, relief coursing through him, banishing the feelers of rage wiggling into his heart. He smiles. “That’s good. Always wanted to be the big brother.”

The sentiment makes Bruce smile, and Jason’s grin broadens. He attacks without mercy. “Did you freak out? I don’t really remember, and I wish I did. I bet that shit was hilarious.”

“A little,” Bruce admits. “I’m sure Dick will delight in filling you in. He seemed to get a kick out of it all.” Bruce studies him for a moment before asking, “I thought you said you didn’t remember the last three years. But you remember some things, clearly. What else do you remember?”

Immediately, Jason’s humor fades, and he shakes his head. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

Bruce levels an unconvinced look at him, and Jason can’t help a flicker of amusement from twitching at his lips. Of course. He forgets who he’s talking to. Details are the bread and butter of what they do. Nothing is too small or insignificant to a detective.

“Not much,” he amends. “Bits and pieces. Of...” He swallows thickly. He won’t think about the scars on his hands and what they mean. Not now. That’s something no one needs to know right now.

It hurts to remember, but he strains to bring it all back. He fully understands now, why M’gann was in the room. He came back, alright, but he wasn’t all there. Not until...

Dick? Jason grits his teeth, struggling to keep the blurry memory from slipping back beneath the surface. This one, he recalls more like a hazy dream and less like a suppressed nightmare. He remembers spinning and dancing with someone who could meet him blow-for-blow, feeling flickers of irritation at the lame shit-talk spewing from his opponent’s mouth, and finally, the strike of recognition itself—like the first beam of sunlight after days of Gotham rain.

“I was in a hospital and escaped to the streets, I think,” Jason says. Time is fuzzy, indistinct. He doesn’t know when this happened or for how long he was fending for himself. “And then suddenly I wasn’t. Because of...Talia? And I guess Dick?”

“Yes,” Bruce confirms.

Jason falls silent. “She took me out of Gotham. I don’t know why.”

A flash of anger crosses Bruce’s face. “We don’t either.”

“You didn’t know,” Jason assumes. “You had no idea.”

Bruce’s expression crumples. “No,” he admits, in a voice Jason can’t recognize. “I am sorry, Jason. I am so sorry. I—”

Jason recoils. B’s taken this on his shoulders? No, the sheer wrongness of the apology, of the break in Bruce’s voice, does not sit well with him at all. He can’t accept it. He refuses.

Because, really, who in the hell can expect a dead kid to—from what he can gather—literally crawl out of his own grave and then walk around Gotham like a fucking zombie? Even the World’s Greatest Detective can’t predict something as fucked up as that. It’s almost hilarious, and more than a little sad, that Bruce blames himself for not predicting it.

“That’s...Jesus, Bruce, don’t apologize,” Jason interrupts.“What is there to apologize for?”

He shouldn’t have asked because Bruce is clearly prepared to answer, and Jason watches his dad tear himself apart before his very eyes.

It breaks his heart.

“For all the fighting,” Bruce rattles off. “For leaving you alone with Sheila, when we both knew something wasn’t right. For falling for Joker’s tricks. For choosing the wrong priority in Ethiopia. For not getting to you in time.”

Jason feels as though he’s swallowed a lemon. “...What?”

“I was right there, Jason,” Bruce whispers, unable to look him in the eye. “I was so close. If I had gotten there a minute sooner, I would have—”

“Shut up,” Jason growls. “Don’t say it. It doesn’t matter, okay? I...” He thinks he accepted death, in that moment, right before the clock hit zero, and when he knew that Bruce wasn’t going to be there, the only thing he regretted was that he wasn’t sure Bruce knew just how much he had to thank him for. “I don’t blame you. I made those choices, not you. It wasn’t your fault.”

He reveals too much, saying that, and Bruce turns to him so fast he must have given himself whiplash. “It wasn’t your fault, either, Jason,” he says, eyes stony. “You realize that, don’t you?” When Jason doesn’t answer immediately, Bruce’s voice becomes Batman-stern. “Jason. Look at me.”

With some effort, Jason drags his eyes up, away from his new scars. “I died,” Jason says. “And then went missing. For three years.”

“And now you’re here, and I couldn’t be more amazed—and ecstatic—that you are. We’ve missed you. So, so much. You have no idea how much.”

Jason’s eyes burned. “I didn’t save her.”

“I don’t think there’s any scenario in which she could have come out of that alive, Jason, but I am proud of you for trying,” Bruce says, voice thick and eyes bright with repressed emotion. “Sheila managed to tell me what you did. What you tried to do, even after—” Bruce’s voice breaks. “I am so proud of you.”

It’s Jason who initiates the hug this time. He clings to Bruce, digging his fingers into the thick cape at his shoulder, burrowing his face into the material. The gunpowder, sweat, and warm leather scent reminds him of his first few nights as Robin. In that moment, he doesn’t feel nine-fucking-teen. He feels like the sick kid Bruce once skipped patrol for, the one Batman pulled off the streets after attempting to jack his tires, who was so used to being alone, and so used to taking care of others, that he didn’t know what it felt like to be the one who needed to be taken care of sometimes, too, until he suddenly found himself with a new family who was willing to show him how.

It really is going to be okay. No matter how fucked up it all is, Jason will be just fine. He always is.

Because he’s a motherfucking Robin, bitches, and that’s what Robins do.

Joker ain’t got shit on him.

Involuntary shudders possess him, loathing and resentment for the clown filling him to the brim, and he feels Bruce tuck him more securely into his chest. It takes everything in him to stop shaking, to ignore the taste of imaginary blood in his mouth.

Fuck the Joker. He took those years away from him. He was the one who did this to them.

When Jason feels ready to pull away, he does it jerkily, embarrassed. “Sorry,” he mutters, emotionally drained.

“Don’t be.”

Jason fidgets, and for the first time in a long time, he almost craves a drag on a cigarette. As soon as the craving hits, though, it’s followed by an unnecessary lurch in his gut. He feels sick, just thinking about it—about Sheila, lighting one up and turning away as the Joker raised his hand, crowbar glinting in the low warehouse light.

He doubts he’ll even be able to handle secondhand smoke now. Torture and trauma: one surefire way to ensure he never starts up again, he supposes.

“I need to know what happened,” Jason says suddenly, putting all thoughts of Sheila in the back of his mind.

“What do you mean?”

“Joker,” he spits. “I need to know what happened. After the explosion. How many people died?”

Bruce is silent, a shadow crossing his face. “Too many.”

Jason exhales slowly. “Was he one of them? In the end?”

It doesn’t look like Bruce wants to answer, and that, in it of itself, does all the answering for him.

“He’s still alive,” Jason says, a near snarl on his lips.

“...Yes.”

It isn’t until Jason hears it that he realizes he’d hoped, beyond all hope, that the outcome had been different. His temper rises before he can keep it in check. “He took me from you.” Bruce opens his mouth, but Jason won’t hear it. “He took me from you. And he took years away from me. I can’t get any of that back, Bruce! And not only that he...he’s taken how many lives, and he’s somehow—?”

He can’t even vocalize the rest of his thought he’s so angry. He growls in wordless frustration, flinching away when Bruce reaches toward him. “Don’t fucking touch me. I can’t fucking believe—”

“Jason...”

“No,” Jason says, and he begins swinging his legs out of bed. He hates that he’s reacting like this, that rage is bubbling up his throat, clouding his head. He hates that he’s directing it all at Bruce, as though it’s his fault Joker is a fucking cockroach of a human being, but he can’t stop himself: his heart is racing, he’s broken out into a cold sweat, and his hands are trembling again. He drives his fingers into the bedclothes, hoping to mask the evidence.

The Joker ain’t got shit on him? Ha. Ha, ha, fucking ha.

Guess the clown really did get the last laugh.

“It’s not fair,” Jason says, “that that utter piece of filth gets to keep on breathing, after everything he’s done. To Gotham, to us, to the rest of the world. I can’t—”

“It wasn’t for lack of trying!” Bruce snaps.

Jason freezes in place, stunned. “What did you just say?” he breathes, something like wonder and horror in his voice.

He knows, intimately, that there is nothing Bruce abhors more than killing. It is the one line he won’t cross, the one moral he refuses to compromise on. It’s what separated him from the likes of them. It’s who he is, and what Batman is founded on.

He doesn’t break that rule. Ever.

Bruce sighs. “If Clark hadn’t been there, after what happened to you, I would have gone too far,” he admits, voice tormented, almost...ashamed, but overlaying all those twisted emotions, there’s also an unapologetically vicious bite that Jason marvels at. “And Nightwing nearly...”

Jason can hardly believe his ears. He waits for Bruce to finish his thought and realizes he isn’t going to. “I’m sorry, what about Nightwing?” he asks.

Bruce’s jaw clenches. “You’ll have to ask him.”

Wow. Okay. If Bruce is giving Dickiebird the free reign on this one, it must be a doozy. “Will he actually tell me?” he asks curiously because, honestly, judging from Bruce’s tone and behavior, he will not be surprised if neither Bruce nor Dick ever revealed what, exactly, they went through to ‘nearly’ do anything to the Joker.

Bruce shrugs. Helpful. As always.

Jason sits and absorbs the information, and though the ire stalls and lingers under his skin, he doesn’t feel like he needs to storm from the room or throw something against the wall anymore. It’s...not unbearable, and he doubts it will ever leave, but still, it helps to know that, even though the fucker is still alive and kicking, his family didn’t just...let him get away with the literal murder of a Robin.

He can accept it, for now. And hey, maybe it isn’t so bad in the long run: Jason may have to breathe the same air as the bastard, but he also has the opportunity to pick up a crowbar and reciprocate.

He looks forward to it.

“So we’re still playing the Arkham game,” Jason says.

Bruce jerks a nod. “He’s been remarkably quiet for about a year now.”

That is a long time. Jason can’t remember a time when Joker was contained in Arkham for more than seven months. He thinks that was the record, at one point.

 “Well,” Jason says, clearing his throat. He tries to put some cheer into his voice as he changes the subject. “It’s been awhile, old man. You have to tell me everything. Everything I missed.”

Rapid-fire questions and commentary pours out of his mouth because this is the important stuff to focus on now. Everything else is secondary now that he’s gotten the chance to process. “How’s Babs?" he asks. "No, don’t answer that. She’s kick ass awesome, so of course she’s doing well. Have she and Dick boned yet? Please tell me they’ve at least gone on a date. Because let me tell you: if I have to sit in a room with them again and experience three-years-worth of sexual tension, I might just hurl. Being around them was disgusting then.”

Bruce is laughing, and it sounds so carefree. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Jay, but they’re still disgusting sometimes.”

Jason lights up. “But they’re together?” When Bruce nods, his face splits into a grin. It’s the best news he’s heard in years. Literally. He leans back against the pillows on the bed. “Finally.”

“I think we all agree on that point,” Bruce agrees, chuckling. “And they’re both well. Nightwing...is no longer leading the Team.” That strikes Jason as unusual, and concerning, but before he can ask, Bruce continues to talk. “He operates out of Blüdhaven most of the time, but he comes home when he can. And Barbara? She’s our private information broker and hacker now. Calls herself Oracle.”

“Wicked,” Jason says reverently. “And Al?” he asks.

“Tolerating us all,” Bruce says easily. “As usual.”

“Gotham? The rest of the Rouges? What about school? And when can I get back out there? Am I cleared? You can’t be out there all alone, right? Even with Barb in your ear and Dick coming in every once and awhile, you need someone to watch your back, you know. And I may not remember much, but I’m almost positive I faced off with Dick and held my own, so my training hasn’t completely—”

And just like that, Bruce closes off, a guarded expression muting everything on his face, and Jason feels a pinprick of trepidation seeping like poison through his veins. He cuts himself off. “What?” he asks, tone wary.

Bruce doesn't answer, and jeez, it’s like pulling teeth from him sometimes. He somehow navigated through a fucking minefield of emotional revelations and minor panic attacks just now without breaking a sweat, but this is what trips him up? A simple question about when he can start living again?

He's probably just being dramatic. 

“C’mon, B,” Jason wheedles. “Lay it on me. With your resources, it won’t be hard to make up some story for me and announce that, yay, I’m actually alive. Then I can work on getting my GED and apply to college. Easy-peasy. So...if it's not Jason Todd's daytime identity that's the problem, you’re hesitating about our night work.”

“I...” Bruce purses his lips. “A lot has changed in three years, Jason.”

“Okay,” he says, and because he’s nothing if not pragmatic and unwilling to let the Joker take another second away from him, he adds, “So I’ll need a few months to catch up on case-files. Maybe get reassessed for field readiness. I’ll definitely need to train with the Team before I go on any missions with them, considering there’s probably been more than a few new additions in three years. Fine. I’m okay with that. I’m prepared to do the work. You know I am. I’ll even submit myself to as many psych evals you want, even though I’ll hate every second of it. Next?”

Halfway through Jason’s spiel, Bruce’s eyes began to dance. “You forgot re-familiarize yourself with the city.”

“Screw you, Bruce, Gotham is in my blood,” Jason jokes without heat. “Next.”

“You mentioned training with the Team,” Bruce says, and Jason does not neglect to notice his light tone become more sober. “You’ll need to train with the family, too. We’ve...grown.”

“Oh?” Jason says, cocking his head. He isn’t sure what Bruce means by that. “Do we have some new friendlies in the city now?”

“We do, yes,” Bruce admits. “But...I also mean it literally, too.”

Jason’s heart skips in his chest, and he’s not sure if he’s more jealous or excited. It’s complicated, in any case. “You mean...beyond your love-child with Talia?” he asks, and as his chest begins to swell, he decides, then and there, it’s definitely more excitement than jealousy.

“Yes.”

Damn. He missed so much. He does not like it.

“Well, don’t hold back,” Jason says, grinning. “What are they like? When can I see them?”

Bruce offers a small, oddly reassured smile. “Soon. They will be excited to meet you.”

“They?” Jason repeats incredulously. “B, has anyone told you that you have a bit of a problem?”

“Repeatedly,” Bruce deadpans, and Jason snorts. “But they both needed someone, like you did. Like Dick did. And I won’t lie and say I didn’t need them, too, just like I needed you and Dick.”

Both. So there’s two. Jason grins and makes an impatient rolling motion with his hand. “So? You’re the proud father of a beaming boy? Girl? Both?”

“Both. And both younger than you, before you ask.”

Jason’s familiar enough with brothers to think, yeah, alright, cool. Dick’s alright, he supposes. Nothing special, really. Damian is just a baby and free from judgment for the time being—and it doesn’t help that all he can remember about the kid is a drive to protect him, which isn’t unnatural because, hello, baby—so he gets a pass, but as far as Jason’s concerned, to know one brother is to know them all, right?

So, in the end, a mysterious new brother? Whatever.

But a little sister.

“Orphan—sorry—Cassandra...was a special case,” Bruce says. “She was raised in horrible circumstances and denied basic human contact. Her educational and social deficits are all byproducts of some cruel method of conditioning to form her into the perfect assassin. It only partially worked, considering she saved Commissioner Gordon’s life, renounced her father, and has since decided to leave her previous life behind her and stay with us in Gotham. She’s learning to read now. And it’s incredible, how much she’s grown in the short time she’s been with us.”

Something about Cassandra’s story rings a bell, and before Jason can fully acknowledge the niggling in his mind, he’s saying, “You don’t mean Cain’s daughter, do you?”

Bruce pulls a sharp look, and Jason gapes at the blatant confirmation. “I...don’t know how I know that.”

“David Cain,” Bruce says, “had connections to the League of Shadows, as does Cassandra’s mother. Maybe you, inadvertently, crossed paths. Overheard something.”

“Maybe,” Jason murmurs, still unnerved. Shaking it off, he smiles and says, “So where is she? I figured ‘Wing would be here, too. He can’t resist the sappy family stuff.”

“They’re at home,” Bruce says. “I asked Nightwing to take Damian and field visitors for me, just until you were ready to meet her and Robin, who, coincidentally, is probably going to be the hardest to keep away.”

Jason feels the world tip underneath his feet and slam itself down again. He did not just hear that. Please tell him he did not just hear that.

“What,” he asks, “did you just call him?”

Bruce blinks, and as if realizing his mistake, the paternal affection and levity in his voice fades. “It’s not what you think, Jay,” he says softly.

“Isn’t it?” Jason demands, and God, he’s a complete idiot. Honestly, what did he expect? He was the Robin who failed. The one who died and couldn’t even accomplish the one thing he died for.

“Did you mean anything you told me just now?” Jason asks.

“What?” Bruce asks, horrified. “Jason, of course I did. I do. Always.”

Jason’s too furious to hear the sincerity in Bruce’s voice. He can’t believe he fell for it the first time. Of course Bruce wouldn’t just come out and say it: that Jason’s irrelevant. Unworthy. Useless.

“I find that hard to believe,” Jason snarls, the volume of his voice rising. “Because for someone who’s oh-so-proud of me, and who missed me so much, you sure found a replacement mighty fast. What, did the old model disappoint you so much you couldn’t help but upgrade?”

“Jason,” Bruce snaps, eyes flashing.

“What?” Jason sneers, betrayal stabbing him right through the heart. “It has to be true. Why else would you just give Robin away?”

“I didn’t give Robin away.”

“You mean to tell me the kid just took it? And you let it happen?”

From the look on Bruce’s face, Jason must have hit the nail on the head. At least partially.

What in the fucking hell?

“‘A lot has changed in three years, Jason,’” Jason mocks, lowering the pitch of his voice in a near-perfect imitation of Bruce. “What a joke. How long was I dead and gone before he was in the uniform, huh? What does Dick have to say about this?”

“Do you really think either of us ever wanted to see another child in Robin’s colors after what happened to you?” Bruce asks angrily. “Losing you was—”

“And yet,” Jason interrupts, not wanting to hear excuses, “there is still a third Robin, Bruce! So don’t give me that load of shit! Clearly you don’t give a damn one way or another! You would have kept him and Cassandra off the streets entirely if you really never wanted to see another one of your kids die!”

Clenching his teeth, Bruce rises to his feet, and Jason follows, unable to stand getting looked down upon. “You were irreplaceable, Jay. I mean that. Robin is only a title. Each and every one of you made it your own. It was passed down, but that doesn’t mean you were ever forgotten. We never forgot you.”

More bullshit and false sentiment. Dick gave him Robin, and though he knew, even before Ethiopia, that he couldn’t possibly be Robin forever, it isn't until now that he realizes he wasn’t done with it yet.

He...isn't sure who he is without Robin.

And now Robin is someone else’s, as though he’d never had Robin in the first place.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It hurts to breathe, to think, and Jason can’t stand it. He can’t even look at Bruce anymore. He flings an arm out, pointing at the door. “Get out.”

“Jason...”

“Get the fuck out!”

Bruce pauses, expression unreadable, and spins toward the door. “I’ll be staying across the hall,” he murmurs, not turning to look back at Jason, “if you need me.”

“Why would I?” Jason says nastily. “I’m not Robin anymore.”

Bruce’s shoulders tense, and finally, blessedly, he opens the med bay door.

There’s a finality in the click of the door behind him, and alone at last, Jason allows himself to mourn everything he thought he gained...and everything he most definitely lost.

Chapter Text

It’s ungodly o’clock in the morning, and Tim is already Done with the day.

In his defense, he’s pretty sure he hasn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, so it’s already been a bit of a long day.

But he’s also kind of lost track, so who really knows anymore.

In any case, he supposes his lack of sleep may have some bearing on his current predicament.

Steph’s knees dig into his forearms, her chest heaving as she hovers over him, blonde flyaways from her ponytail sticking to her forehead, slick with sweat. The training baton she wields presses against his Adam’s apple, making it near impossible for him to move without choking himself. She’s got him, fair and square, and she knows it. She’s grinning ear to ear, eyes bright.

From where she’s perched on Dick’s pommel horse, Cass says, “Point.”

Crowing in victory, Steph rolls off of Tim and leaps to her feet, where she bounces in place. Tim watches her from where he lies on the mat and doesn’t move, a little sickened by her pep and energy.

Morning people. Ugh.

“Nothing easier than showing up a Robin deprived of his morning espresso,” Steph gloats. “How’s that for ‘taking advantage of your opponent’s weakness,’ oh fearless leader?”

Tim doesn’t respond and stares at the ceiling. He tries to review the match, to hunt for areas of improvement, but he can’t isolate any one thing to talk about.

With the exception of his own blatantly subpar performance, of course. He has plenty to say about that. From what Tim can recall, there were at least two openings he just gave Steph, one of which ultimately allowed her to pin him. Rookie mistakes, really. Perhaps he should be grateful Bruce is not here: the mere thought of seeing the disapproving—or, God forbid, disappointed—frown on his adoptive dad’s face is chastisement enough.

But he’s nowhere near grateful. Not really. In fact, he’s downright anxious. Because this is where Bruce said he would be this morning. And it is also where he is currently not.

Something must have happened. It had to have.

But it really doesn’t make any sense, and it’s driving Tim absolutely crazy.

Their mission has been, for all intents and purposes, an utter success. Meta-human traffickers are taking huge hits all over the globe thanks to their efforts. All teams have their orders, and everything is starting to come together just beautifully under Oracle’s direction. Not a single one of their teams should—or could possibly—need Bruce’s immediate attention right now.

It can’t have anything to do with the League either, considering Bruce cut ties with them specifically so he wouldn’t have to deal with them right now. And since Tim’s other horrible deductions were automatically eliminated by Alfred’s calm, collected “I assure you there is no crisis or emergency, Master Timothy” earlier this morning, Tim can safely say no one is injured, dead, or missing.  

So in the end, all evidence points to one fact: there really is no viable or logical reason Bruce would miss a training session he himself mandated.

And yet. Here they are, without Bruce.

“Uh, Earth to Tim?”

“Better,” he finally says because he has to say something. “That was better.”

 Steph scowls at him. “I’d say it was better than better. Right, Cass?”

Unfurling from where she’s crouched, Cass hops to the ground and saunters over to them. “Yes,” she agrees. “Good.”

“A ‘good’ from Cass is like a ‘superb’ from Batman,” Steph says, pushing her hair back and swiping up a water bottle. “I can die satisfied.”

“It was a clean takedown,” Tim congratulates from the mat. He can offer her that much. “Good job.”

Cass leans over him and nudges his shoulder with her foot. “Mind...not here,” she tuts, a light reprimand in her voice. “Not with us?”

She phrases it like a question, though she isn’t questioning his behavior so much as she’s looking for the right word to describe the behavior. As is his habit, Tim absentmindedly responds, “Distracted.”

Cass nods. “Yes. That.”

“Tim? Distracted?” Stephanie scoffs. “That’s kind of his perpetual state of being, Cassie.”

“I resent that,” Tim says, more on principle than anything, because it’s not a lie, but he makes it work, doesn’t he?

Dick says it’s his superpower. So take that, Steph.

Cass cocks her head at him as he rolls upright and sits cross-legged on the mat, soulful eyes piercing him straight through. He meets her eyes steadily.

When Bruce first took Cass in, it bothered him, a little, that Cass could read him so easily, especially after all the effort he put into crafting his composure and all of his shields, both in and out of the mask. It also felt invasive, in a way, but he eventually accepted that the tactical benefits of Cass’s particular skills with body language outweigh any personal discomfort he feels. Besides, it’s hard to maintain any sort of argument against Cass’s uncanny ability when he’s allowed Martians to link his mind with others.

Dick had no such reservations when he met Cass, but then again, Tim wouldn’t have expected him to. Dick’s more in tune with his physicality than anyone Tim has ever met. He and Cass, naturally, got on like a house on fire.

Thinking of Dick brings Tim’s thoughts cycling back to Bruce’s mysterious absence. Because Dick has been MIA recently too. He knows Nightwing’s had his own successes, and set-backs, in Markovia recently. He’s—unsurprisingly, in Tim’s opinion—gathered a new team about him. The new kids have been keeping him and the OG Team members busy lately, but from Dick’s reports, there’s been no alarming developments on that front.

Except last night, when ‘Wing’s tracker and comms went dead for over two hours. Tim’s scanned the logs. It was hardly cause for concern, considering a) Alfred’s assurances, b) there are any number of reasons Dick would decide to go dark for a short time, as well as any number of reasons Babs would see fit to send Tim a string of frustrated emojis when he shot her a quick message to ask about it, and c) it looks as though Batman successfully achieved contact with Nightwing shortly thereafter anyway.

But still.

Tim has a gut feeling it’s all connected, and he’s learned not to ignore his gut feelings.

Someone waves a hand across his field of vision, and he blinks, finding Cassandra crouched in front of him. “Where?” she asks, gently reaching out to tap his temple with two slender fingers.

“Wherever Bruce and Dick are,” Tim responds.

Cass blinks at him. “Find?”

Tim shakes his head, brow furrowing in frustration. “No.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Steph says from the bench. “It’s not often we get to train without the big man breathing down our necks and pointing out every last thing we did wrong. Let’s enjoy it.”

“He said he’d be here,” Tim tries to explain.

Only Cass seems to understand how much it’s bothering him, her expression softening. He feels naked under her gaze, and he avoids her questing look, trying to get a hold of himself.

He doesn’t need any abandonment therapy today, thanks. He’s already had his session with Dinah this week.

“Yeah, and plans change?” Steph says, shrugging her shoulders. “’s why the Arrows aren’t here, isn’t it?”

Tim just shakes his head again. Steph hasn’t been around long enough to know how truly unnerving this is. Bruce doesn’t just change plans, not in his daytime identity or as Batman, and definitely not without informing someone. Between Wayne Enterprises and the superhero gig, his every minute seems scheduled.

Tim would know. He interns for W.E. too.

For half a second, Tim entertains the traitorous thought that Alfred was lying to him this morning, to spare him from worrying, but nearly the moment it forms, he dismisses it. Alfred wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t do that. Not like Dick or Bruce might.

“Besides,” Steph goads, “I want a rematch. With you preferably present this time, please. It really isn’t as satisfying, now that I know you weren’t even trying.”

“I was trying,” Tim argues weakly.

Cass gives him a look like she knows he’s lying, and Steph snorts, clearly thinking the same. “Try harder, then,” Steph says. Leaping back up to her feet, she sets her water bottle down and shifts her weight back and forth, jabbing a few times at the air. “Come on! On your feet, Tim! Let’s go!”

Cass seems to think it’s a good idea because she’s gesturing for him to get up. “Two-one?” she asks with a devious smile, picking up some extra training batons from the rack and giving them an experimental twirl. “Focus.”

Pull yourself together, Robin, Tim tells himself, and he maneuvers to his feet, picking up his own padded weapons again.

“Alright, two-on-one,” he agrees. The number of variables presented by two opponents will certainly help him focus. And take his mind off of things. Part of him revels in the challenge, his heartbeat already increasing its tempo at the prospect. He’ll lose, inevitably, but Bruce would probably insist, if he were here.

(Ugh. Not helping. He tries to push Bruce and Dick and whatever is going on from his mind. He really does).

Cass and Steph settle into ready positions, and he falls into his own. Despite the anxiety niggling at him, he finds his breathing evening out, thoughts sharpening and muscles tensing in preparation for the match.

He’s just about to call for a start when the Zeta tube announces an arrival from the other end of the Cave. Tim immediately drops out of his battle-ready stance, spinning around. “Stand down,” he orders.

He doesn’t wait for them. He’s leaving his batons behind and jogging off the training mats before they can so much as protest.

Alfred emerges from the equipment room as he passes, wiping his hands on the small, dirtied towel hanging at his waist. Judging by the amount of grease staining his fingers, the butler had been cleaning and doing maintenance their grappling guns to keep himself occupied while he, Cass, and Steph sparred and everyone else was away from the Manor.

“Who is it?” Tim asks as they fall into step together, heading for the center room, where the Bat Computer and entrance to the Zeta are housed.

“Master Dick, it would seem,” Alfred says, a curious lilt in his tone. And for good reason, because Dick’s been traveling so much, Tim hasn’t actually seen him in the Cave proper for at least two months now. “And authorized guest.”

“...Guest?” Steph asks from behind Tim. She skips ahead, turning around to walk backwards as she addresses him and Alfred. “Think it’s one of the newbs?”

Tim shakes his head and senses more than sees Cass come up on his left. “No,” he says slowly. “Dick wouldn’t bring one of them to the Cave without—”

He stops dead in his tracks, all coherent thought tumbling into what to an outside source might visualize and compute as a string of furious exclamation points and question marks. Alfred comes to an equally abrupt halt at his side, followed by Cass and Stephanie, who spins around and vocalizes everything that is spiraling through Tim’s head at that very moment with a succinct, “Um, what the fuck?”

Because there’s a baby in Dick’s arms.

Tim pauses. Blinks. Studies the others from the corner of his eye.

(Just to be sure. He’s been dosed with enough weird stuff in the last few years that it isn’t a completely unnatural assumption—that he’s hallucinating, that is).

But, yeah, no, everyone is reacting appropriately to the fact that there’s a living child in Dick’s arms, so it’s not just him.

Dick’s not looking at them as he steps out of the Zeta, his attention focused on the baby. Tim can tell he’s been up all night, but there’s a soft light and transparent tenderness shining through his expression that banishes most of the bone-deep weariness lining his face.

At Steph’s exclamation, Dick looks up from the baby—the baby, Tim feels the need to reiterate in the privacy of his own mind—and says, “Oh, hey, guys. What’s up?”

The greeting is so lackadaisical and ludicrous considering the situation it almost feels like blasphemy to Tim, and it throws him for a loop. Simply because he needs to be doubly sure he isn’t hallucinating now, he blurts, “Is that a baby?” 

“Yep.”

“Why?” Tim says, and he hopes the single question encompasses everything he wants to ask.

It really doesn’t, judging by the trademark troll grin spreading across Dick’s face.

“Why not?”

And now he’s just being obtuse on purpose. Wonderful.

Alfred, ever the godsend, puts a stop to it immediately. “And where, if you don’t mind my asking, did you procure said baby, Master Dick?”

Or maybe not so immediately. Dick looks like he’s having the time of his life. “Where you typically get babies, I guess,” he jokes.

Tim isn’t sure what to make of that, and without thinking, he asks, “It’s not yours, is it?”

Dick barks a sparkling laugh. “Oh, hell no. I’m off the hook. Bruce, though? Not so much.”  

...What.

“Oh my...” Alfred gasps beside Tim, hand coming up to cover his mouth. He inches closer, a yearning and joy alighting his features, making him look years younger. “You mean to say...?”

Dick beams and approaches Alfred, who, after a moment’s pause, accepts the transfer of the sleeping baby from Dick, his pale eyes gleaming.

“Meet grandkid number five, Alfie,” Dick says warmly.

How.

“Oh my,” Alfred repeats in a whisper, smiling without inhibition now. His fingers pull back the hastily wrapped blanket the baby’s swaddled in. “Good to meet you, little one,” he murmurs.

Uncertain, stupefied, and feeling way, way out of place, Tim remains rooted where he stands, half-convinced that crowding the kid is the last thing any of them need right now, but Cass has no such reservations. She dances up to Alfred’s elbow to peer curiously at the baby. “See B here. And here,” Cass says, pointing at the child’s nose and brow. Addressing Alfred, she adds, “Likes you. Safe.”

Alfred looks very pleased at that, eyes moist. “Naturally, Miss Cassandra.”

She laughs and turns to Dick. “Name?”

“Damian. Damian al Ghul-Wayne,” Dick says and then hesitates, a pondering expression on his face. He flaps his hand. “Wayne-al Ghul? Whichever.”

“Good name. Strong,” Cass says at the same time Tim parrots, “al Ghul!?”

Because of all the things he expected to hear, it was not that.

He knows Bruce and Talia had a rather passionate romance when Bruce was still training with the Shadows, years and years ago, before Batman was ever created, and that he truly loved her, once, before their ideals drove them apart, but...this baby can’t be more than a year old, at most, which means that...they had another tryst approximately two years ago? Sometime in the aftermath of the Reach invasion?

Did Tim get possessed? Briefly incarcerated by aliens? When in the world— 

“Wow, okay,” Stephanie says abruptly, clapping her hands. “The little assassin-bat baby is super cute and everything, and I would really love to hear more—” Tim doubts that, considering how oddly discomfited she sounds “—but this looks and sounds very much like a Wayne-family-only sort of discussion, and I’m pretty sure my security clearance in no way covers this. So I’ll just...you know, go. Or something. I’ll catch up on the summary later.”

No one stops her from slinking off in the direction of the showers. Tim, for his part, takes a moment to absorb what she just said and realizes, in a distant and detached manner, that, no, he doesn’t have to follow her—though he probably should take the time to talk to her, later, and reassure her that her previous disagreements and problems with Bruce don’t automatically exclude her from being In-The-Know, necessarily—and that, yes, Tim himself is a part of the Wayne family now. He’s hyphenated and everything, and that means...

He’s an older brother.

It takes a moment, but the thought settles over him in a wave of unexpected delight. Ever since becoming Robin and learning what it’s like to have a present—and somewhat emotionally available—family, he’s been the youngest, and he’s never minded, not really, because it’s all he’s ever known, but the prospect of being older, of being a brother to someone like Dick is to him?

That’s...that’s something he never thought he’d want. Not until now.

He regards Damian with a little more interest, a tentative smile creeping up onto his face, and it’s Dick who notices first. He nudges Cass, whose gaze rises to him and then to Tim. She grins and slips from Alfred’s side to take him by the elbow.

Faced with the prospect of going closer, Tim’s excitement fizzles into pure terror. He digs his heels in, resisting Cass because it occurs to him that he has no business getting anywhere near this baby. Because he’s still fighting off that cold from last week, isn’t he? He’s not contagious anymore, right? No, he doesn’t think so, but what if he infects the baby?

And hang on, when’s the last time he brushed his teeth? He can’t remember, and that’s no good because he can’t hover over the kid with gross breath. It would wake him up, probably, and then there’d be tears and screaming because Lord knows Tim wouldn’t like being breathed on by a stranger, which is exactly why he doesn’t like public transportation, but that’s so far off the point it doesn’t bear acknowledgement.

The point is: he’s going to do something wrong.

Why did he think this was exciting again? This is nowhere near exciting. What’s he going to do? Babies are fragile. They’re precious. He knows he won’t hurt Damian—he’s done his fair share of helping victims of crime with their young ones—but this is different. He can’t just—

“Tim,” Cass says flatly, tugging on his sleeve.

“Oh, um,” Tim stammers. “I’m good. Really.”

Dick chuckles. “He’s not going to bite, Tim.” When Tim opens his mouth to argue, Dick adds, “And he’s not going to break. C’m’ere.”

Numbly, Tim allows Cass to lead him to Damian. Dick rests his hands on Tim’s shoulders and gives him an encouraging squeeze, moving aside so that Tim can have his turn to look at the baby.

“Would you like to hold him, Master Tim?” Alfred asks kindly.

Holding his breath, Tim shakes his head, mostly because he knows Alfred is only asking to be polite. The butler looks nowhere ready to let go, which really is adorable (where is his camera when he needs it?), and he can’t bear to threaten Damian’s peaceful sleep right now anyway. He can appreciate just how valuable and necessary that sleep is, especially in this family.

He makes do with evaluating Damian from where he is, and he is surprised to find he agrees with Cass. He can see the Wayne nose and eyebrows quite clearly in the pudgy little face before him, but there’s no denying who his mother is, either: Damian also has so much Talia in him it is impossible to think otherwise.

A slick icicle of dismay stabs through his chest. Tim can’t even imagine the atrocious plans this child had been a part of. Whatever it is that Dick got caught up in? It had just saved Damian from a fate worse than death. Of that, Tim has no doubt.

There’s no way Damian exchanged hands peacefully. Or without a price. Ra’s would never allow it.

“Where did you find him?” Tim asks quietly.

“Infinity Island,” Dick answers. “The new kids went to baptize themselves as independent rebels without a cause and got trapped over there by Ra’s. I took M’gann, Conner, Artie, and Jeff to rescue them.”

“And the al Ghuls just...gave Damian up?”

“Essentially,” Dick says. Tim’s expression must give away just how much stock he takes in such a simple explanation because he adds, “I’m totally serious! No tricks, no ultimatums, nothing. You should’ve seen it, Tim. Talia totally stood up against Ra’s, and Cheshire nailed him with a poison sleep dart. It was great.”

Ha. That is pretty great.

“I think we all would have enjoyed seeing that,” Tim agrees, making a mental note to see if he can hunt down security footage later. He can enlist Babs for that. She’d enjoy it, too. “But I guess I don’t understand why now? Why at all?”

“Talia...wanted a better life for him. It’s not safe right now, so she thought he’d be better off with us.”

“I would imagine so,” Alfred scoffs, a sharp bite in his tone. “And thank heavens for that.”

Tim latches on to another point entirely. “What do you mean ‘not safe right now?’”

“Not safe always,” Cass agrees, face twisted into a dark expression.

“Apparently,” Dick says, “the al Ghuls no longer control the Shadows.”

Tim’s gaze snaps up at that. “What?” he breathes.

Dick frowns, troubled. “Yeah, I have no idea. Talia gave us something to look over, later. When B’s back.”

That annoying anxious flutter returns as Tim is reminded that B still isn’t here, is he, and Alfred says, quite tartly, “Ah, yes, and where is Master Bruce exactly? Surely he didn’t assume this Shadows business was more important than welcoming his son into his home?”

Dick twitches. It’s hardly noticeable, but Tim catches it only because Dick’s hands are still resting on his shoulders. Cass, too, reacts to Dick’s sudden tension—no, anticipation?—with an odd expression on her face.

“Oh,” Dick says, releasing Tim. “Um.” Without speaking, he requests Damian back from Alfred. The butler raises an eyebrow, at which point Dick explains, “You may not want to be holding him when I tell you what held B up.”

“...and why is that, Master Dick?” Alfred asks, tone unnervingly stern. It’s rare Tim sees Alfred so close to losing his temper, and he hopes, for Bruce’s sake, there is a really good reason he’s not here right now.

Needless to say, Tim’s not going to want to be anywhere near the blast zone.

“He wanted to be here,” Dick assures, “Trust me, Alfred. It’s just...”

 “Happy,” Cass says suddenly, cutting Dick off. “Very.”

“Yeah, Cassie,” Dick agrees with a breathy laugh, a note of hysteria in his voice. “You can say I am. It’s good news. Better than good, actually. It’s...well, it’s a miracle.”

“A miracle?” Tim repeats skeptically, raising his eyebrows.

Dick meets his eyes, unblinking. “Yes.”

Tim purses his lips. Dick’s not one to throw the word around: he knows better. In the world they live in—where nearly every unusual or spectacular occurrence can be explained by meta-science, alien technology, or magic—miracles are a rare commodity. They simply don’t happen in their line of work.

But Dick’s also a dick, sometimes, and a good actor on top of that. ‘Dramatic’ is his second middle name, so Tim isn’t sure what to believe.

Alfred, however, seems to buy into it, and he finally relinquishes Damian. The baby stirs at the change of hands, little face scrunching up, but it doesn’t look as though he’s too troubled by the switch because he doesn’t ever fully awaken.

“So Damian wasn’t the only one we found on Infinity Island,” Dick begins, eyes skipping between the three of them, expression open and earnest.

“...Whatever do you mean?” Alfred asks, wary.

Dick takes a deep breath and nearly stumbles over his next words. “Guys, Jason’s alive.”

Tim’s entire world stutters to a halt, everything suspended in something beyond crystal clarity, silence ringing like a bell through his ears.

Jason’s alive.

“I’m sorry,” Tim interrupts, dazed, lightheaded. It feels as though all the air has been suctioned out of his lungs.

Robin’s alive.

His voice and vision are narrow, and he hears himself speaking as though from the other end of a tunnel. “Did you just say...?”

And Dick, somehow, nods and repeats those world-stopping words, voice thick. “Jason’s alive.”

Alfred staggers back, legs bumping into one of the Bat Computer chairs, and Cass, helpfully, holds it steady as he lowers himself into it. “It’s not possible. It’s...”

“Truth,” Cass states. The confirmation strikes Tim with nuclear force. “I see.”

Jason’s alive.

“Dear Lord in Heaven,” Alfred rasps. “Master Dick? How...?”

Tim doesn’t really hear Dick’s re-telling of the fight he had with the red-hooded assassin on Infinity Island, or how they all came to realize who it was under the mask and goggles, or much of anything about Dick’s trip back, or Jason’s weird catatonia and amnesia, or how M’gann was supposed to help piece his mind back together.

No, all that matters to Tim, for the first time in his life, isn’t the how or why, but that one, impossible ‘what:’ that Jason is alive.

God. This...this is Jason Todd. His Robin. Without whom...Tim...wouldn’t be.  

Tim needs to see him. He needs to see him now.

He’s only been waiting his whole life to meet Jason, face-to-face, and now...now he can.

There’s so much he wants to ask. And so much he needs to say. It can’t wait.

Naturally, the moment he begins to move is the exact moment that he is conscious enough of Dick saying, “Bruce stayed behind to...acclimate him. If he needs it. We don’t know. He’ll send word when Jason’s ready to see us.”

Dick’s looking at him as though he can read his every thought and intention, and immediately, Tim dials it all back. Nods, like he understands. Says something to the effect of “of course we don’t want to overwhelm Jason until he’s ready” just to sell it. He asks a few thoughtful questions, questions he would ask if it were anyone else in the superhero community who came back to life, and he throws a few theories out there, about how it may have happened, for good measure. He may have even made a few promises to do some tests at Jason’s gravesite, follow whatever paper trails he can find, hunt down some witnesses.

Tim plays the dutiful nerdy detective they expect him to be, and he can proudly say he portrays a perfectly normal amount of excitement, which is the hardest part of the whole ruse, if only because he feels like he’s going to explode he’s so excited.

Later, he’ll undoubtedly be downright fascinated by Jason’s resurrection and actually act on his promises to investigate, but that’s later. Right now, all he cares about is slipping past Dick, past Alfred, and getting up to the Watchtower as soon as humanly possible.

It’ll be easy enough, the moment Damian wakes up demanding attention or food, when they all realize the Manor needs to be baby-proofed ASAP and they have next to nothing in the way of supplies to care for him. It’s just the distraction he needs.

Cass knows what he’s up to—there’s no way she doesn’t—and when she presses her hand in his, secretly, he knows she won’t be the one to stop him. He presses back, in thanks.

His opportunity will come. Tim just needs to be patient.

Tim can do patient.

~...~

Tim does not have to wait long.

In fact, it feels as though he hasn’t had to wait at all, considering.

He somehow got stuck with babysitting in the den, one of the few places in the Manor Alfred dubbed completely baby-friendly, and after a bit of awkward floundering, he was sat down with Damian on his lap and given stern orders not to let him out of his sight while the others did whatever it was they needed to do. Tim took it all very seriously at the time, settling himself on the plush couch and resolving not to so much as move a muscle until someone claimed Damian from him.

And he kept that promise. For the most part. The only thing is that he definitely ended up slumping over and falling asleep with Damian’s comfortable weight resting against him. Understandable, really. He hadn’t slept in awhile, and it wasn’t like the kid was going anywhere, right?

Right. No reason to feel guilty. Or like a bad brother or anything. Napping together is a great bonding activity, in Tim’s opinion.

That doesn’t stop him from forgetting he has a baby on his chest and panicking the moment Damian begins to whimper and wiggle against him. He jolts awake in an instant, gasping as the baby’s weight suddenly feels downright suffocating, and it takes Herculean effort for him to fight off his initial reaction and reorient himself.

But when he does, it all rushes back to him in a flood.

And he starts freaking out for another reason entirely.

“Oh, no, no, no, don’t do that,” Tim murmurs, now painfully alert despite how gross he feels. He’s still in his sweat-stained dri-FIT t-shirt, basketball shorts, and leggings, for one, and his nap can’t have been longer than an hour, tops, for another. He supposes it’s only to be expected he feels wretched.

Doesn’t help that Damian’s bound to start crying any minute now. Tim is not prepared. For any of it.

“It’s okay, Dames,” Tim attempts. “Promise.”

His efforts are ignored. Damian shuffles, fighting the blanket he’s still wrapped in, and his whining becomes more insistent. “Yeah, I know,” Tim agrees, “No one likes waking up after a long flight. But you’re okay. You’re fine.”

Damian responds with a very solid kick directly into one of his healing bruises, the little demon, and Tim hisses in pain, biting back a curse. 

It’s about then that Damian begins to sniffle.

And scream.

There it is.

“Alright, alright!” he says, a little too loudly, springing to his feet. “Time to find Alfred!”

As it turns out, Alfred finds him, and Tim has to take a clumsy step back to avoid plowing the butler down the moment he races out of the den. From over Alfred’s shoulder, Tim spies Dick leaning up against the wall, looking over Barbara’s shoulder as she swipes through his phone. He notices Tim immediately and grins. It’s his troll grin again, and Tim stares, eyes darting back and forth between Dick’s face, Barbara’s laughing eyes, and the phone, realization dawning.

Caught in the act. His cheeks blaze.

“Ah, Master Tim,” Alfred says, a wry smile on his face. He’s completely unfazed by the baby’s screaming. “I was just about to come fetch you and Master Damian.”

“Oh, thank God,” Tim says, immediately holding out the baby. “Hi, Babs,” he says offhandedly as Alfred takes Damian from him. “When’d you get here?”

“Hey, Tim,” she returns, not bothering to look up from Dick’s phone.

When Damian continues to wail from Alfred’s arms, Tim feels a little better about himself, but he still asks, “He’s not dying, is he? He sounds like he is.”

“Of course not, Master Timothy. Just jet-lagged and missing his mum, I’d wager,” Alfred muses. To Damian, he adds, “We’ll sort you out in no time, young sir.”

With his responsibility to Damian currently complete for the time being, anticipation and renewed enthusiasm buzzes through Tim’s veins.

This is his opportunity. He’ll need to move fast.

“Do you need me for anything?” Tim asks, carefully composing himself and rubbing his eyes. “I need a shower before I can feel remotely functional.”

“Nah, you’re good,” Dick says, pushing off the wall. “Cass, Steph, and I got the essentials while you two were napping.”

If Tim’s face wasn’t bright red already, it is now. “Shit,” he swears.

“There’s no need for such language, Master Timothy,” Alfred says mildly, bouncing Damian, whose sobs have subsided into little hiccups, his thumb stuck in his mouth. Seems the kid likes movement. Tim finds himself unsurprised. “It was quite darling.”

“I’ve already sent the pictures to Walgreens for printing,” Dick agrees cheerfully.

“Oh my God,” Tim mutters, turning and waving a hand over his shoulder. “I’m going!”

“Do be down shortly,” Alfred calls after him. “I’ll see about changing Master Damian, and I expect us all to make an appearance for breakfast.”

Tim acknowledges him with a careless thumbs up, all the while calculating the odds that Dick follows him. It’s probably sixty-forty, and not in his favor, though with Babs thrown in the mix, those odds could just as well be—

“Let me help,” Tim hears Dick say to Alfred, and he does a dorky little fist pump, closing his eyes and marveling his luck.

(Thank you, Damian. Best little brother ever. That nice kick in the ribs earlier? Forgiven and forgotten. What’s a few bruises between brothers, anyway?)

With a new energy and levity in his step, Tim keeps a natural pace until he’s sure he’s in the clear and then he takes off, looping back to the entrance to the Cave. He sprints past Cass and Steph, who are digging through a box at the foot of the dropdown attic ladder, and hurdles over the mess effortlessly. Out of breath, he looks back over his shoulder. “Cover for me, Cass?” He barely sees her affirmative nod before he’s around the corner. “Thank you, you’re the best, bye!”

His luck holds out when he finds the Cave unsealed and easily accessible. Again, he silently thanks Damian for being the perfect little distraction for everyone in the Manor. He thanks Cass for good measure because knowing her, she’s probably diverted suspicion and helped pave the way for him, too.

Tim spares only a few seconds to swipe up a spare domino and his gauntlet before beelining for the Zeta, where he wastes no time plugging into the panel and tricking it into delaying its log of his jump.

It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.

It isn’t until he’s telling the Zeta to take him to the Watchtower that Tim realizes he in no way looks anywhere near presentable, running on near-zero sleep and sweat-stained, rumpled, and bed-headed as he is, but it’s too late to care—the Zeta whirs around him, light flooding his vision, fingers and toes tingling, lungs constricting...

He blinks, and it’s over. Taking a deep breath and shaking out the lingering pins-and-needles, he clambers out of the Zeta tube into the Watchtower Womb. His gaze immediately hits the hallways branching off to the right, where the medical wing is located. It’s the most likely place he’ll find Jason. 

A wild smile spreads across his face. He can hardly believe he’s here, that he’s about to—

There’s a polite cough from across the room, and Tim freezes in place, heart jumping up his throat.

Crap buckets.

He was so eager and ready to escape the Manor, he totally forgot to accommodate for the fact that, yeah, this is Watchtower. And people are here.

All. The. Time.

He’s an idiot.

(But damn if he isn’t one hell of a lucky idiot).

He doesn’t know which sibling or deity to thank for this one, but once his blood thaws and mind starts churning again, it registers to Tim that Bruce is somehow not one of the three people who looked up to greet him when he stumbled into the room.

It’s M’gann, Clark, and Barry Allen who stare at him from the monitors, unblinking.

Tim stares back, hopefully a lot more like a badass, gives-zero-shits racoon caught with his hand stuck in a trashcan...and a lot less like a little kid who knows he’s seconds away from getting sent to his room.

Not that any one of the three can stop him, really. Not now, not about this. Hell, even Bruce can’t. Tim’s proven that once before.

Nearly three years ago now.

God. It’s really been three years.

M’gann’s the first one to offer him an exhausted smile, and he can feel her approval, support, and relief, which...gives Tim pause, a little prickle of worry stirring in his chest. Clark, however, is the one to tell him exactly what he needs to know. “First med-bay. He's still awake.”

Tim nods, grateful, and Barry adds awkwardly, “And, um, just so you know, Bats is brooding across the hall, so...”

“Noted,” Tim says easily. At Barry’s doubtful frown, Tim adds, “Stealth is kinda our thing, you know,” even though he understands that’s not exactly what Barry’s implying. Paired with M’gann’s concern, it’s easy enough to assume.

(Tim’s borne witness to enough of Dick and Bruce’s spats to know what it looks like to outsiders, and it’s never pretty).

He takes another deep breath and locates his resolve. He can do this. Of course he can. He’ll be cool. Totally. He’s managed it before. Twice. First with Dick and then with Bruce. And now look at him. He’s one of them. He can do this.

This is so surreal, he thinks as he walks across the Womb. Utterly surreal.

Robin, M’gann projects into his mind, just as he’s about to disappear down the corridor to Medical. Her mental voice is oddly weak, so much so that it stuns him enough to turn and face her again, but the impression behind it nearly knocks him off his feet.

He doesn’t acknowledge the hollow ache he feels, hearing the name and knowing...

She doesn’t say anything else, but she doesn’t necessarily have to.

And so he goes.

Pulse racing in his throat, palms sweaty, he slips into Robin as he paces the corridor, coasting through its low light and between its shadows like a ghost, until he finds himself at the cold, imposing metal door to the medical wing, where Med-Bay One awaits.

Just beyond that door is Jason Todd.

Tim pushes open the door and slips inside before his mind can catch up and convince him he doesn’t know what he’s doing here.

The medical wing is lined with three bays on each side, each guarded by a sliding windowed door, drawable curtains, and thick walls. Tim’s only ever been in this part of Watchtower once or twice, but its layout is intuitive enough. Med-Bay One is the first on Tim’s right, and Tim doesn’t even have to fully face the room to see Jason’s left his curtains open.

Tim stops breathing. Because, holy shit, there he is. Right there. Lying on the bed with his eyes fixated on the ceiling, hands crossed under his head, a deep frown etched on his face.

Knowing Jason is alive and seeing him alive are, in fact, two very different things. Tim’s enthusiasm reaches its peak, and he dissociates a little, high on the mere prospect of getting to meet his childhood hero.

He moves as if through a dream.

And knocks.

From the bed, Jason huffs, a humorless scowl warping his lips. “Look, B,” he growls, voice muffled behind the glass, “I told ya to get the fuck out of my fa—”

Jason rolls over to face him, angry slate eyes widening in something like shock, and no small amount of confusion, when he sees Tim, and not Bruce, standing there. In the span of a heartbeat, the reaction is smothered, a smooth mask of indifference sliding over his features, a healthy amount of wariness in his frigid gaze.

Understandable. Tim’s a stranger, and he’s encroaching. He knows this. But he still throws all caution to the wind, totally disregarding his frosty reception, and slides open the door to poke his head in.

“...Hi,” he says, and it’s so inadequate, but what else is there to say?

Jason continues staring at him, slowly sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed.

Tim licks his lips and jerks a thumb into the room. “Um...can I...?”

Jason rises to his feet. And wow, that’s not fair. Tim half-expected to find himself looking Jason in the eyes, not looking up at him. Jason’s easily a head taller than he is, and the secondhand S.T.A.R labs crewneck and old, baggy sweats he’s borrowing can’t hide just how much he’s grown. God, he’s built like Bruce.

“No, you can’t,” Jason says.

Despite the clear warning in Jason’s voice, Tim enters the room anyway, closing the door behind him.

Jason’s eyebrows skyrocket to his hairline, and he takes another step closer to Tim, scanning him up and down. “Do you have a death wish, kid?”

Well, that’s a weird question, but it’s Jason asking it, and he sounds genuinely curious, so Tim considers it before babbling, “No? But I guess some well-adjusted people might think so, considering what we do, so...maybe? Really depends on your perspective.”

 “...Who in the literal fuck,” Jason breathes. Tim opens his mouth, and Jason crosses his arms, scowling. “No, don’t answer that. I know who you are. You’re the new kid. Aren’t you?”

“I guess?” Tim says slowly. “Wait, no, sorry, that’s a bit of a lie. I was the new kid, but since Cass and the baby, I’m not exactly the newest, but new enough to be...new.” He finishes lamely. “To you.”

Jason’s staring at him again.

Oh my God. If he didn’t have a death wish before, he certainly does now. Someone take pity on him and smite him where he stands, and if not that, at least let him sink through the Watchtower floor so he can wallow in the depths of space and reconsider his life choices without anyone there to bear witness.

“Wow, I’m sorry. I told myself I’d be cool,” Tim says, nearly tumbling over his words he’s talking so fast, “but I think you realize I’m definitely not.” He reads it on Jason’s face, and he accepts his fate. “Yep, totally nailed it, so I’m just...” He blows out a breath and tries again, reaching out his hand. “Hi, I’m Tim.”

Jason doesn’t even look at his hand. Instead, he turns, sits back down on the bed, and mutters, “Well, this should be good.”

Tim lowers his arm. “I’m sorry?” he asks, cocking his head.

Jason’s giving him a look like he’s completely insane.

(And maybe he is. He’s so starstruck he can hardly formulate a coherent thought, much less decide where to start. This really was so much easier with Dick and Bruce. With them, he had careful plans, and at least five different contingencies, should Plan A, B, and C fall through. Heck, he rehearsed each of them. Numerous times. He’s woefully unprepared now by comparison.

But, really, who can blame him? Are there ever words enough in the human language to fully encapsulate just how much of you is because of the person standing before you?)

“Well?” Jason demands, impatient, and Tim jolts out of his head, jarred by the fresh layer of tension in the room. “Get on with it, Replacement.”

Shock smacks him right off the cloud nine he’s floating on, sending him crash-landing and careening into a blaze of horror. Every last fiber of his being rejects the word, the hostility behind it, the impression it leaves in its horrible wake.

“...What did you call me?” Tim asks, in a whisper.

It’s...the exact opposite of what Tim is. What he’s tried to be. It’s so far from the truth, it makes him sick to his stomach.

“You heard me,” Jason retorts. “So why don’t you skedaddle, little bird? You probably have better things to do than chat with the fuck-up.”

Tim shakes his head, disturbed. “No. No, no, no. That’s....Did—” He swallows, throat dry as the Sahara. “Did Bruce not...?”

He doesn’t need a verbal answer. Tim can tell just by looking at him, and he wonders how he missed it.

Jason doesn’t know. He doesn’t know any of it.

No wonder. No freaking wonder.

“What do you mean?” Jason snaps, and for all the anger and betrayal Tim can see now, raging clear as day, Jason also looks...small, insecure. “All I know is that you, Robin Number Three, replaced me. What else is there to know?”

 “No, no, no, no, no,” Tim mutters, and like a thousand little bubbles bursting in his chest, frustration broils over into his voice. “That’s not...” That’s not right. It’s... He growls under his breath. “Why didn’t Bruce tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“You called me Replacement?” Tim asks. “Try Place-Holder.”

Jason stills, a storm of emotion thrashing in his eyes. “What?”

Barking a laugh, feeling as though a dull fishhook is carving him from the inside out, Tim admits, “I was never meant to be Robin. Not like this. And not for this long. That was never the plan. That was never what we agreed.”

Jason blinks, and his inner storm recedes, something fragile taking its place. “...I don’t understand.”

“I...was a big fan, when I was little,” Tim says. “I figured it out. And I would have died before I let any of you know I knew. Because that’s what little I could do for you, considering everything you sacrificed for us. But...after you passed away, Bruce just...went off the deep end, Jason.”

Jason goes deadly still, color draining from his face. His knuckles are white as he clenches them into fists. “What do you mean?” he asks again, voice low.

“People were scared to death of the Bat on the streets,” Tim explains, and his words bite like fire ants, painful on impact and stinging abominably in their aftermath. “People were getting hurt. By him. Because of him. Directly and indirectly. He wasn’t thinking. Wasn’t trying. His relationship with the GCPD and the Justice League was in the toilet. Dick left. Alfred was about ready to quit. There was nothing to stop him and no one to tell him he was losing it. Gotham was a mess. It was terrifying. I had to help. I couldn’t...just sit. Not when I was the only one who seemed to see the truth: that Batman needs Robin.”

Jason’s eyes flashed at that. “And, what,” he mocked, “you decided you were the one who just had to take the dead Robin’s costume?”

Tim feels like he’s been slapped.

Is... Jason blind? Does he not realize just how much he was missed? Just how much his death tore Bruce and Dick and, by extension, the entire city apart? Doesn’t he see how broad of a shadow he cast? “Hardly!” he denies viciously.

Jason’s jaw tightens, minutely, but it’s enough to draw Tim’s attention. He forces himself to calm down, approach this rationally. His tone is not doing him any favors.

He starts over.

“I went to Dick first,” he says, “to convince him to take up Robin again, just until Bruce could actually see what he was doing to himself, and to the city, but Dick and Bruce were fighting, and Dick was with his circus and perfectly happy as Nightwing. So I—”

“Took the costume.”

“...yeah, I guess I did,” Tim admits, jamming a toe into the floor. Jason looks a little vindicated, for whatever reason, and Tim sighs. “Bruce told me no. I went out anyway. He threatened me. I went out anyway. He told me there was no way in hell he’d see another Robin out on the streets while he was acting as Batman. I went out anyway. I essentially forced him to let me stay at his side.” He looks up, meeting Jason’s unreadable eyes. “He needed you, but at that point, all he had was me. And trust me. You left some mighty big shoes to fill.”

“But you filled them,” Jason says slowly.

Tim shrugs, emptying himself of all emotion. “I only ever wanted to honor your memory,” he admits. “Because you were amazing, and if I could be half the Robin you were, I’d be happy. So I worked hard. Did my best. Even still, Bruce never...never really was the same, after.” He shakes off the memories, offering Jason a weak smile. “But like I said, I was never supposed to be Robin for this long. That was always the unspoken deal, you know. That I would quit the moment Bruce didn’t need me anymore.”

“And yet,” Jason drawls, unimpressed, “here you are. Still Robin.”

“Not if you don’t want me to be,” Tim says without hesitation.

Because what’s the point otherwise? he screams inwardly. He can say he forced himself into the Bat Family for Bruce, for Gotham, but that’s only half of the story. He really became Robin for Jason.

Jason, whose arms had been firmly crossed during Tim’s entire story, slackens in utter surprise. He leans forward, fingers clutching at the fabric hugging his thighs. “You’d...give Robin back to me?” he asks in disbelief.

“What? Jason, of course,” Tim answers, and though there never was a question about it, a part of him aches. He smiles through the pain. “Robin’s been everything to me, ever since I saw the very first Robin pull off one of the Flying Grayson’s signature moves on TV when I was nine.” There’s so much more he wishes he can say, about his parents, about his adoption, about how Robin saved him, how Robin gave him a family and friends and a life, and how Jason’s Robin, in particular, inspired him—day in and day out—but he hopes the passion trembling through his voice is enough to prove to Jason just how much he means every word he’s saying.

From the look on Jason’s face, so vastly different from the sardonic one he had been giving him earlier, Tim wants to think Jason does get it.

But no. Of course he gets it. That’s Robin’s legacy.

“And even if the circumstances suck,” Tim continues, “And even if Bruce pushed me harder than he pushed either you or Dick, I won’t apologize for loving every second I was able to be my own Robin because Robin....being Robin was a dream. And it’s been a great dream, but it’s time for me to wake up. Robin’s yours. It’s always been yours.”

Awkward, ringing silence reigns between them for a moment, and Tim fidgets. “So, yeah, Place-Holder. Not Replacement. Never that. Don’t insult me.”

Jason lowers his eyes, picking at a stray thread in his bedclothes. He’s quiet for so long Tim starts vibrating in place, anxiety fueling him like the Speed Force does all the speedsters. Tim can’t read Jason, can’t even begin to guess what he’s thinking, but he hasn’t been kicked out of the room yet, so he must have gotten through to Jason, at least a little.

Right?

“You’re something else, Replacement,” Jason says eventually.

Wrong.

“Oh, come on,” Tim blurts without thinking, and suddenly, he’s too drained, too exhausted, to censor himself. “Are you serious? I just embarrassed myself and poured my heart out here, and you—” Jason begins to smirk, looking amused beyond belief, and Tim stops, sensing a hint of Dick’s influence there. “...what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Jason says slowly, like he’s speaking to a child, “that I’m graduating you myself. From Place-Holder to Replacement. Officially.”

“But...”

“Was B really that bad?” Jason interrupts. “After?” When Tim hesitates, then jerks a nod, Jason sits back, folding his arms, shadows of guilt and sorrow snarling across his face. “Then I think you’ve earned it,” he says. “For doing what I couldn’t.”

Tim reels, uncertain how to feel. A part of him glows with pride, fit to burst with joy—because Jason’s acceptance is all he ever wanted—but...he was so sure. Robin wasn’t his to keep. He’s known this for years, and he's accepted it, even after he started to see himself as Robin, and not just the-next-door-neighbor-playing-Jason’s-Robin.

And now Jason’s...giving him his blessing? Talk about whiplash.

“What about you?” Tim asks.

Jason plays with his fingers, a hint of a dry smile on his face. “‘I can’t go back to yesterday,’” he quotes, voice barely above a mumble, “‘because I was a different person then.’”

“Lewis Carroll,” Tim recognizes aloud. “Alice in Wonderland.”

Jason’s eyes sharpen, losing their misty quality. He looks pleasantly surprised that Tim knows the reference. “Yeah. And I guess...Robin’s not my dream to dream anymore,” he says, playing off Tim’s previous metaphor, and there’s something melancholy in his voice, but also something that’s at peace. “According to Bruce, I’ve been...gone for three years. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do, and I can’t do that by pretending to be someone I used to be, right?”

“For what it’s worth,” Tim says, not quite agreeing with the inflection in Jason’s tone, “you’re always going to be Robin. Same way Dick is. Same way I’ll be, after I give it to someone else.”

“Nice thought, Replacement,” Jason says, and though his tone is nonchalant, Tim knows how grateful Jason is to hear it, “but my point remains: gotta keep moving forward, weird zombie status or otherwise. Screw the rest of it.”

Tim grins. Now here is the Robin Tim always wanted to meet: the one who, without fail, looked adversity, change, and every other dread monster dead in the eye—even Death itself—laughed, and said, “you can try, but you can’t touch me. I won’t let you.”

“You’re looking pretty good for a zombie,” Tim offers, hoping to lighten the atmosphere a little. “But I get what you mean. I bet you’re dying to get back on your feet.”

Jason snickers, a real grin spreading across his face. For the first time since Tim entered the med-bay, he relaxes. “Yeah, it seems rumors of my death were gravely exaggerated.”

Tim laughs and, daring to be bold, settles himself right next to Jason on the bed. There's so much more he wants to talk about, and so much more they both still need to unpack, but he thinks this is a good start. 

They have all the time in the world now, and Tim's not about to go anywhere.

“So...we good?” When Jason looks up at him, Tim prattles, face growing redder by the second, “Because we’re kind of adopted brothers now, and you’re also literally the person who changed my life, and if you can’t tell, I’m really happy to meet you, so it’d be super weird, and kind of unbearable—for me, at least—if you hated me just because Bruce is a dunderhead who didn’t explain anything to you, God.”

Jason bursts into laughter. “Jesus,” he wheezes. “Who are you even.”

“Tim Drake-Wayne,” Tim deadpans.

“Oh, I think I’m going to like you,” Jason says, and this time, he’s the one to hold out his hand. Tim grips it without thinking twice. “Yeah, Tim,” he says, “we’re good.”

Chapter Text

Tim Drake, Jason decides, is the weirdest kid he’s ever met.

And he doesn’t even mean it in a bad way.

When Bruce let slip that there was, in fact, a Robin Number Three, Jason can’t say he knew what to expect. Maybe a snot-nosed brat who thought he knew best, all piss and vinegar, peacock feathers, and flared hackles. Maybe a dumbass kid with stars in his eyes and a lot of stupid ideas in his head about what it meant to be a hero, about what it meant to sacrifice in the name of someone else. Maybe someone who thought he was invincible. Someone drugged to the brim on adrenaline and some prissy sense of justice.

Jason had been all those kids, in some form or fashion. So had Dick, if some of his more insane stunts were anything to go by. Needless to say, Jason really had no reason to believe Number Three was any different.

So, in the end, maybe he’s a big fucking liar. Maybe he did have some expectations about what Robin Number Three was like. Maybe exactly none of those expectations were in anyway flattering or positive. Maybe his resentment of the kid’s mere existence—of the way in which Bruce said the name Robin—blinded him to the slight possibility that maybe—just maybe—Number Three wasn’t actually half bad.

Whatever the reason, Jason feels like he’s fallen into a frickin’ parallel dimension when this tiny, five-foot-three menace with crazy black hair, a distinct lack of self-preservation, and electric, sparkling eyes invites himself into the room, completely oblivious to Jason’s enmity and desire to be left alone. The kid’s a whirlwind of anxious charisma and pluck, and somehow, instead of acting on his first impulse to grab the kid by the scruff of the neck and throw him out, Jason is drawn into his orbit, completely stunned into listening to what he has to say.

The kid speaks in a weird, alternating dichotomy of clinical sharpness and frenzied passion, with the only constant being the flurry in which his hands gesticulate, totally in sync with his motor mouth. He’s open and unashamed and totally brazen in a way Jason can’t help but respect, and it’s so fucking disarming, because Jason doesn’t want to think “huh, this kid is kinda a trip.” What he wants is to hold onto his anger, his betrayal, because it fucking hurts—being replaced, being forgotten. What he wants is to rage and spit and fucking fight, and he tries to bait the Replacement, to push all his buttons and test his boundaries, but damn it all to hell, this kid really has none of the above, and the longer Jason sits and listens, the more he hears the subtle undercurrent of self-deprecation in Tim’s voice, and the more he realizes he can’t fucking kick this kid any more than he could kick a puppy.  

Not only would it be completely ineffective, but if he did, it’d also make him a jackass in the truest sense of the word.

Especially when this kid—this exhaustion-riddled, earnest, inexplicable kid—reveals he took care of the family while Jason was gone, and in more ways than either of those emotionally repressed assholes they call eldest brother and dad probably realize.

And then he willingly offers Robin back to him.

Which...just...

Defies all expectations.

Every last word the Replacement says strikes a chord deep within Jason, where, once upon a time, there lived a street kid who never lived for anything but the times in-between, when he was free from hunger pangs, fear, and other shameful aches; who discovered the magic of Robin and suddenly had something more to live for.

If Tim Drake can get that—can feel and know what that’s like, intimately—then...Jason’s happy that Robin’s story didn’t end in that warehouse, that tragedy didn’t suck away what remained of Robin’s magic.

He’s...he’s glad that Robin lives on.  

It’s almost too easy, after that. To let it all go. The moment Jason settles on the decision to let Tim keep Robin, he feels an odd, smothering weight lift off his shoulders, and from the way the kid’s eyes light up—awed, elated, hopeful—Jason knows, in his heart-of-hearts, he’s made the right decision.

If only he knew what it means for him.

He’s a little numb, a little hollow, deflated like an overused balloon, but Tim, the observant little shit, somehow reads his mind, looks him in the eye, and passive-aggressively reminds him that he’s still got a piece of Robin’s magic, whether he likes it or not; and that all three Robins, past and present, are bound together. No matter what.

Jason can’t help but feel a burst of appreciation for the Replacement, for the inherent loyalty and steadfast honesty in his words, and the cynic in him staggers, driven off by power behind Tim’s unspoken promise.

And, naturally, at that point, even Tim can’t handle the heavy mood in the room and decides to rectify that by making death puns, which is so fucking out of left field it’s hilarious, and Jason responds in kind, because if there’s one thing he’ll welcome at a time like this: it’s making light of something that is clearly not okay to make light of.

(In Jason’s newfound opinion, that’s really the only way someone in his position can stay even remotely sane, so sue him. He died. He came back. What else can he do, but make jokes about it? Seems to him it’s a far healthier method of coping than, say, dressing up as a bat to fight crime.

But that’s neither here nor there.)

When Tim plops down next to him as though they’ve known each other their whole lives, Jason lets him. We’re kind of adoptive brothers now, Tim tells him, flushed bright red as he stammers through a question about where all of this leaves the two of them. It’s without a single iota of lingering bitterness that Jason laughs at him—because fuck, what in the world did any of them do to deserve this kid?—and offers his hand.

Jason doesn’t know a lick about him, not really, but he doesn’t have to.

He won’t mind having this one watch his back.

Tim, for his part, smiles as brightly as the sun at high-noon, and without any prompting from Jason, he pulls out his iPhone, which, much to Jason’s pleasant surprise, doesn’t look too different from what he remembers, and says, “I only have so long before the others find me, scold me for coming here, and then drag me back home. We have to get you as up-to-date on pop culture as we can in the meantime.”

So they do, their conversation ever swaying between the mundane and the important, never quite crossing the line, as they brush on topics ranging from movies to games to little anecdotes about their shared family and the Team.

Jason wasn’t over-hasty, to say he thinks he’s going to end up liking Tim. For as mild-mannered as he is, he’s sharp as a whip, with a wicked wit to match, and to Jason’s amusement, he’s also easy to fluster and tease, even easier than Dick, whose sore spots are really all too fun for Jason to poke and prod. From what he already knows about Tim, though, Jason’s unlikely to ever get a true rise out of him, which takes some of the fun out of it, but that only presents a something of a challenge he’s willing to accept.

(He won’t realize until later that he made it a life goal, then and there, to see Tim lose it, and he’ll excuse it as big brother prerogative. What’s the use of having a little brother if he doesn’t take advantage, now and then?)

Jason’s halfway through an answer to one of Tim’s questions about his opinion on John Mulaney when Tim just...passes out on him, like a fucking narcoleptic. He’s not even aware Tim’s no longer with him until the kid kind of...leans over, phone slipping out of his lax fingers. It’s so sudden, Jason almost loses his head, instincts on high alert, convinced that some hidden enemy had nailed Tim with a sedative-filled dart right there, in the med-bay.

It occurs to him a millisecond later how utterly stupid that is—they’re in fucking space, with Batman and probably no fewer than five other Justice Leaguers in the near vicinity—and he forces himself to relax, chuckling at himself self-consciously.

He’s got enough issues without adding unnecessary paranoia to the mix, anyway.

Jason shifts, maneuvering Tim’s weight off of him, and like a cat, Tim stretches out into the warm space Jason left behind. The kid looks even younger when he’s asleep, and without all that nervous energy to fuel him, Jason can see the sleepless nights, stress, and bone-deep fatigue ringing Tim’s eyes, standing out in stark contrast to his pale skin.

Just looking at him makes Jason feel tired, too.

He is tired, he realizes, and he pinches the upper bridge of his nose, massaging the area between his bleary, scratchy eyes. Without Tim to distract him, to keep him from lingering too much in his own head, his thoughts tumble back into the disorganized bramble of cycling, directionless confusion, trepidation, and self-doubt that had encroached on him the moment Bruce shut the door behind him.

It seemed so easy, when it was just him and Bruce. Jason laid out his plan without flinching, determined to get started as soon as possible. He figured he’d take one step, and then another, and he’d eventually...find his way. Isn’t that the way things work? You work hard, go with the flow, and everything turns out alright and all that shit?

Ha. Maybe he has been gone for too long. He knows better. Real life isn’t that simple. Even if everyone on the fucking planet likes to pretend it is.

Tim’s presence, for all that Jason accepts it now that he’s met him, doesn’t exactly make that realization any easier.

He’s not stupid: he saw the hero worship in Tim’s eyes. He saw it in the way the kid hung to his every word with unfailing, downright intimidating attention. He heard it in his voice, too, when he was trying to tell Jason how, and why, he became Robin. Jason recognizes it, because that’s how he felt when he first met Aunt Diana. He knows, because when he embarrassed himself, Dick took pity on him and told him how he reacted when he met Uncle Clark. Hell, nearly every second-generation hero in the biz has their own mortifying first-meet story with their personal hero. Tim isn’t unique in that regard, but...shit, Tim chose Jason to be a part of that narrative? Him? The Robin who crashed, burned, and then fucking died? Not Dick? Not Bats himself? Why?

And the better question: how...how can Jason even hope live up to that?

He’s not sure he can be whoever this kid thinks he is, not with all the work he has ahead of him. He’s not even sure he can be whoever Bruce remembers him being—the one who, according to Tim, Bruce nearly ruined himself for.

It’s...too much. For all that he worried about being forgotten, displaced, it’s a different kind of fear, to wonder if maybe it’s a worse fate to be remembered incorrectly. As some untouchable paradigm, placed up on a pretty little pedestal.

That's not him. He’s not special. He’s not perfect. Not by a long shot. Besides, he just gave up Robin, officially, and his life outside the mask is currently in a shit pit of shambles because he wasn’t there to, you know, live it. There is so much to do, so much to accomplish, fix, and change, and Jason isn’t sure where, exactly, to start. He isn’t sure what he wants now, much less what he needs, and he sure as hell doesn’t how to prioritize either. 

It’s daunting as hell. It’s...

Jason rakes a hand through his hair and grimaces as he pulls his fingers out of the oily tangle. He needs a shower. Like, yesterday. He debates for a moment, side-eyeing the entrance to the little bathroom attached to the borrowed room. He knows he needs to find Bruce, and soon, because in addition to everything else, Tim unintentionally guilt-tripped him hard as fuck by informing him of the fact that he’s the Asshole-Of-The-Argument, and as the Asshole, it’s his responsibility initiate the apology for all of his woefully dickish and premature assumptions. Jason’s not too prideful to own that, and now that he has, he feels like shit. Bruce’s entire demeanor earlier makes sense now, and he hates that he wasn’t able to see it before. His skin crawls with the need to address and rectify what he broke, because for all that he hurt after what Bruce said, he can’t even imagine how much he hurt Bruce in turn, and he doesn’t want to leave it any longer than absolutely necessary, especially knowing...

Ugh, fuck. Jason shakes off the dreary, depressing mental image of his friends and family mourning him. Of the desolate Gotham Tim described. Of the Bruce who gave in to his grief. Because of him. 

His gut curdles, mouth sour, and he closes his eyes, swallowing against the swollen lump forming in his throat.

Yeah, a shower sounds marvelous. He needs to chill out. Tim’s visit has unraveled him, and though their reconciliation has allowed him to feel a little more at peace with everything that’s happened, Jason needs some time to pull himself together, to kick all this shitty emotion to the curb so he can focus on what really matters: that he is here. Right now. Alive. With his family nearby.

He can’t be like this when he tries to apologize to Bruce. He can’t be like this when Tim wakes up or any of the others show up. He refuses.

He’s caused enough pain.

Sliding off the cot, Jason plants his bare feet on the ground and moves so as to not disturb Tim. He shouldn’t have worried: the kid is out for the count, breathing even and deep, face lax. Odd, that he’s such a deep sleeper. Jason would have thought Bruce would’ve trained it out of him by now.

He... feels safe, Jason realizes, and it strikes him with the force of Harley Quinn’s mallet. It took him months before he felt safe enough to sleep like that in the Manor, back at the beginning, and this kid just...trusts him enough, within minutes of meeting, to leave himself so vulnerable?

Little weirdo.

Not for the first time, Jason wonders just what kind of life this kid led, before he ever got involved with the Bat. Something happened, to land him here, of that Jason is certain. He won’t make any more assumptions—he’s made enough of an ass of himself, thanks—but...

No. He won’t even think it. Thinking about it will only piss him off.

 More eager than ever to drown himself in a blazing hot shower, Jason pushes open the door to the bathroom with a little more force than necessary, catching himself from flinging it carelessly closed behind him. Instead, he walks it into the jam, turning the knob before it latches to keep it from click’ing into place.

And then he’s alone, with nothing but white, unmarked walls surrounding him. You’d think, with the whole I crawled out of my own grave thing, Jason would feel claustrophobic in this tiny room, but he revels in the privacy, in the simple structure of its layout, in the monotony.

He exhales heavily and shrugs out of his crewneck, bending over to turn the faucet in the shower. For a stupidly long time, he crouches beside the tub with his scarred hand held under the spray, listening to the music of the water’s fall, watching the droplets bouncing off and collecting on his skin. Without meaning to, he begins to count breaths, like Bruce taught him, and he falls into a sort of meditative state, all negative emotion and thought just...draining away.

When the temperature is to his liking, Jason finally removes his hand and straightens. He’s about to shuck his sweats off when a flash from the corner of his eye catches his attention.

He finds himself staring at a stranger in the mirror.

He understands, logically, that his body has grown. He may move in it like he moved in his sixteen-year old body, but Bruce said it, and Jason saw it, earlier, in his hands. He thinks he can feel it, too, if only in the vaguest sense. He thought he accepted it. Besides, who wants to be stuck in a body that’s trapped in the past? He certainly doesn't, no matter how much he still mentally, and emotionally, feels sixteen. No sir. Something like that is likely to cause more problems and create more barriers than anything.

But even still, the man in the mirror looks far too much like Willis Todd for comfort—Jason has his sharp jawline; his proud, broad nose and stubble-ridden chin; his thin, downturned lips and shaggy dark hair, longer than Jason himself usually preferred it, curling at the ends with the growing humidity in the air.

His eyes remain the only true recognizable thing in that face, pale and near-blue.

Those, he realizes, are Shelia’s.

“Shit,” Jason breathes, ghostly fingers of uneasiness caressing his spine. He reaches forward to wipe at the collecting fog on the mirror and winces as the phantom of his fuckhead of a father mimics him. He backs away, closing his eyes.

It’s fine. It’s okay. He’s really not sixteen anymore. He’s realized this. This is just visual confirmation. He’s actually nineteen, he’s missed three years of growing with his body, and it’s fine. It’s okay. It’s not the end of the world. Not at all. His biological father wasn’t bad looking, by any means, objectively speaking. He can pull it off. It’s not a bad thing, either, to be tall, to have built up a bit. Isn’t that what he always wanted? When he was always the smallest in his class?

He makes the mistake of opening his eyes again.

Because that’s when he notices the scars.

There are more scars than freckles riddled across his chest, arms, and shoulders. Some of them he recognizes—the cigarette burns from his loving father, that slash across his ribs from Killer Croc, the gash trailing down his hip from one of his...overeager bosses—but even those are somewhat lost amongst the new divots and valleys of puckered and roping, gnarled skin, all intertwining and skirting around the most disturbing of them all: a severe, deep scar angling like harpy wings over his collarbones, meeting at his sternum, and plummeting down, straight down, to his navel.

He’d...he’d been...

Jason stumbles, dissociating from this scarred body that’s no longer his, suddenly feeling far, far too small to fit into its large feet and long limbs, and he barely makes it to the toilet, where he retches violently, gagging and gasping as his stomach flips itself inside out.

He curls over the bowl, tears and snot falling, and another surge of vomit rises, choking him. He can’t breathe again, and smoke fills his nostrils and lungs, overpowering the wretched smell of the mess he made in the toilet. Manic giggling surrounds him, darkness pressing down. Imaginary blows rain down on him, tracing their previous paths along his skin.

He needs to get out. Right now. He can’t stay here. He can’t...

There’s a rush of cool air behind him, and before Jason can react, callused hands, familiar and warm, brush across his bare shoulders, gripping him, grounding him in place. He focuses on their anchoring weight, on the slender and clever fingers massaging into his trapezius. Distantly, he can feel the tile beneath his knees, the cold metal of the toilet pressing against his forehead, the sound of running water pattering off the shower floor. Dick’s voice, distant and grainy, breaks through the discordant laughter and booming in his head.

His gut rebels one last time, expelling nothing but bile. He has enough sense to spit, and he tries to further differentiate what he knows is true from what is not: he’s nowhere near Ethiopia. The Joker’s gone. That fucking clown can’t touch him. He’s in a bathroom. The shower’s running. The air is steamy, muggy. He can smell stale sweat and a hint of cologne. There’s no explosion, no smoke. He’s not about to die. He’s on Watchtower. With...Dick.

Dick.

In that moment, Jason is grateful beyond words, and he can’t help but utter a tearless sob now that he can breathe again. Because thank God. Thank God it’s not Bruce. If someone had to catch him falling apart, half-naked and sick, he’d have Dick over anyone else, except maybe Alfred.

Dick isn’t looking at him like he’s a freak of nature, or like he’s damaged and something to pity. He never had, not even back then, when he caught the tail-end of one of Jason’s more violent nightmares, one of the ones where Jason’s skin boiled off his skeleton; where slime ran down his spine and seeped into his marrow. He didn’t look down on Jason, then, for admitting to what Dick and Bruce had suspected all along, about his time on the streets.

Now, the lack of judgement in Dick’s eyes helps settle him, and he feels less like a spirit inhabiting a lump of shapeless, ruined flesh and more and more like himself, as a single being, bound by gravity and the laws of nature, with a heart to pump the blood running through his veins, and lungs to breathe with, and a brain to rationalize with.

He’s fine. He’s okay.

Jason raises his head, only half aware of the melody Dick is humming to him, and notices the door is still cracked open. He can see the off-blue of the walls, and all the blood drains from his face.

“The...kid,” Jason croaks, embarrassed and angry and terrified. He pushes against Dick, who sits with him on the floor, bracing him against his lean chest. “Tim.”

“It’s fine, Little Wing,” Dick says. “Tim’s fine.”

“No,” Jason grunts, fighting another roiling churn of his gut. Dick doesn’t understand. “Fuck. Don’t...let him...”

Dick’s hand pushes Jason’s damp locks off his forehead, checking his temperature, and then drapes a cool rag over the back of his flaming neck. It feels like Heaven, and Jason does not moan. Not a bit.

“Tim’s dead asleep,” Dick’s saying, but there’s still a gratifying schnick as he pushes the door completely shut with his foot. “He’s not going to wake up anytime soon, trust me.”

Jason’s shoulders sag in relief. He’s not about to fucking let that kid out there see him like this. It’s enough that Dick is.

And speaking of whom.

“You can fucking go, too,” Jason protests weakly, voice torn, face hot. For all that he’s privately indebted to Dick for his timely arrival, he also doesn’t necessarily want to cry in front of Dick, too. The panic attack was enough, he thinks. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Dick whispers. “And that’s okay. I’d be worried if you were.”

Jason, for his part, is too wrung out to try to fight him off. By some nonverbal consensus, Dick doesn’t touch him again, but he continues to sit with him, silent and supportive in all the ways that matter. Jason just breathes, fixating on the sound of the shower running, light droplets playing a symphony against the tub.

One he’s gotten a hold of himself, he feels even more disgusting than he had earlier. He’s cold and clammy with sweat, muscles aching and still quaking in the aftermath. His lips twist. “Fucking hell,” he curses, ashamed and frustrated with himself. “This sucks.”

Dick, wisely, in Jason’s opinion, doesn’t say anything. Instead, he nudges Jason, eyebrow quirked, and gestures upward with his thumb. Jason shakes his head and stands of his own volition, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You’re wasting all your hot water. Finish your shower,” Dick suggests, balling up a towel he collected from the vanity and throwing it at Jason. “And drink something. You’ll feel better.”

Jason catches the towel and digs his fingers into the fabric. He watches Dick turn his back and open the bathroom door, but before he exits, Jason steps forward. “Dick. Wait.”

Dick looks over his shoulder, curious, and Jason can see he’s just barely keeping it together, his expression simultaneously guarded and exposed. “Thanks,” Jason says awkwardly, stunned by the clash of emotion fighting for dominance on Dick’s face.

Joy ends up winning. Dick beams at him, eyes bright with tears. “I’m so glad you’re back, Jaybird,” he whispers. “Call me if you need something, okay? I’ll be right outside.”

Jason pulls a scowl, just for habit’s sake, but Dick knows just as well as he does that it’s an act. He doesn’t call Jason out on it, though, and with a softening smile, he closes the door behind him.

For the first time since he kicked Bruce out of the room, Jason feels completely safe.

~...~

It takes a bit of courage, no small amount of tenacity, and at least one additional near-dissociative episode, but Dick’s right: Jason feels like a new person after his shower.

He’s still towel-drying his hair when he steps out of the bathroom, and Tim is still blissfully dead to the world (heh), having not moved a single inch from where he passed out. It looks as though Dick has tried to manhandle the bedclothes to make the kid more comfortable, without much success.

“Amazing,” Jason mutters, shaking his head. From the corner of his eye, he spies Dick’s dark head of hair outside the room, and he heads for him.

Dick’s sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wall to Jason’s temporary room, head leaning back. He’s not dozing, not quite, but he doesn’t open his eyes as Jason settles down next to him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dick asks quietly.

“No,” Jason says. He knows he’ll have to, eventually, because there’s no way he’ll be allowed out in the field with an issue like this hanging over his head, but he’s beyond tired. He’s quite done with high-intensity emotions for the time being. Dealing with them has been like participating in an extreme sport he’s never trained for. Read as: exhausting, somewhat traumatizing, and decidedly not fun. “Not yet.”

Dick doesn’t react, accepting Jason’s limits for what they are. Jason was half-expecting his older brother to force him into a pseudo-therapy session then and there, and he’s absurdly thankful for Dick’s understanding.

“How did you know?” Jason asks instead, voice barely above a whisper.

Dick hums, deep in his throat. “M’gann.”

Temper flaring, humiliation staining his cheeks, Jason nearly flings himself to his feet because who does she think she is, anyway, invading his mind and watching him without his consent? Monitoring him, without him knowing? He’s going to have words with her.

Dick’s hand snaps out and stops him halfway. Jason glares. “What the fuck,” he hisses.

“Ease up,” Dick says, finally opening his eyes. “It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t listening to your every thought and emotion, much less your conversation with Tim. She was just...on alert, in the event you needed someone or your psyche dissolved or whatever it was she thought might happen. It’s...not an easy thing she did, and she was worried. Didn’t help that the moment she sensed something was wrong, you did that thing where you lock your mind down like a fortress, Bella Swan.”

The old joke draws a dark chuckle out of Jason. It had been something of a surprise, when they realized he had a natural inclination to block psychics, friend or foe. His mental defenses, according to the Martians, exceeded even Bruce’s, and it was unheard of to come by such a gift. Normally, people have to learn how to keep psychics out, and it took years upon years of training. Sometimes, it wasn’t even possible. Not everyone had the mental fortitude or self-awareness to manage it.

But it was the opposite story for Jason, which was both inconvenience and a blessing back when he was on the Team. It was always a personal victory when he could maintain a mind-link, albeit a staticky one, with endlessly poor reception, for the entire duration of a mission.

On the other hand, it was also exceedingly satisfying, to see the look on someone like Psimon’s face when they threw Jason at him, but that was another story entirely.

“M’gann just...went pale. Mid-conversation,” Dick explains. “Scared the shit out of me.”

 “Oh,” Jason says. He draws his knees up to his chest, shuddering as the fabric of his shirt bunches and rubs against the scars he can no longer ignore. “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Dick says, and his voice cracks. He doesn’t even bother to cough or hide the fact he’s crying. He’s a mess, Jason realizes, and it forces a small lump into his throat, too. “Jesus, Jason.”

Jason doesn’t have much warning. Dick twists at the waist and flings his arms around him, squeezing so hard Jason’s forced to pinch his shoulder blades together. There’s a fine tremor running through Dick’s body, and Jason sighs, accepting his fate and returning the hug.

“I still can’t believe it,” Dick murmurs into his shoulder.

Jason has a vague sense of déjà vu, the words resonating like an echo in the mountains. An odd sort of amusement and wistfulness that don’t exactly belong to him flickers through his chest.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Jason says, patting his older brother on the back, sourly thinking of his earlier panic attacks—plural—hating that he’s been forced to accept them for what they are, “neither do I.”

Dick just tightens his embrace in response, mumbling nonsense in Romani. The only word Jason catches with any certainty is God and brother.

“Alright, Dickiebird,” Jason grumbles, tolerance exceeded. “Lay off. You know how easy it is to tear reanimated zombie skin, don’t you? I’m surprised I’m not falling apart as we speak.”

Dick immediately pulls away and smacks him on the shoulder. “You’re awful,” he says, but he’s fighting a smirk. “I hate you. I hate you so much.”

“Lies,” Jason says, his smirk mirroring Dick’s. “You missed me.” Before Dick could take that statement and turn it into something far too sappy for him to deal with right now, he asks, “What’re you doing here, anyway? You look like shit, for one, and I thought Bruce assigned you to Damian for the time being.”

Dick snorts. “Damage control,” he says. His gaze flicks up into the med-bay and back again. “Or so I thought. You guys didn’t maim each other even a little, from what I can see. I was expecting a blood bath. Or a fist fight. Some bruises, at least.”

“Ouch, do you really think so little of me?” Jason asks. He gestures between the two of them. “We weren’t that bad, were we?”

“No,” Dick says carefully, “But I also know it’s not the easiest thing in the world, learning Robin’s been passed down and knowing you were...side-lined from being a part of that decision. Bruce never understood that.”

Point: Dick. “Kid’s got no fear,” Jason says, crossing his arms. “I can respect that.”

Dick reads between the lines. “He’s already wormed his way into your good graces, hasn’t he?” he crows, delighted. Capturing Jason’s head between his arm and side, he rubs his knuckles into his scalp. “Welcome to Big-Brotherhood, Little Wing.”

“Ge’off! Dick!” When Jason was smaller, there was no escaping a noogie from Dick. Now, he has some weight and bulk on his older brother, and he manages to push Dick off of him with only a little bit of a struggle. “You suck,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ve got three years of messing with you to catch up on,” Dick sing-songs. “You can’t deny me.”

“Yeah, well, turnabout’s fair play, Dickface,” Jason grumbles. “You better watch your back. I have a feeling it’ll take little to no effort to persuade Tim to join forces.”

“I’ve got a Babs on my side, though,” Dick says. “She’s a force of nature. You have no hope.”

“So you are together,” Jason extrapolates, and he tries, and fails, to keep the smile from his voice. “Bruce said as much, but I still have trouble believing you, literal walking disaster that we all know you are, landed someone like her.”

“I don’t deserve her,” Dick agrees without hesitation, and there’s something disgustingly gooey in his tone.

“As long as you’re aware,” Jason says smoothly. “We all know Babs can take care of herself, but if you mess this up, I’ll shove your escrima so far up your ass you’ll have trouble walking for the rest of your days.”

Dick grins at him, completely unintimidated. “Was that shovel-talk, Little Wing?”

“Better fucking believe it.”

“That’s adorable,” Dick says. “You should’ve heard Commissioner Gordon’s. I just about pissed myself. Apparently he'd been working on it for years.”

Jason can imagine it, and he guffaws mercilessly. “I’d pay a pretty penny to see that.”

“Stephanie recorded it,” Dick says, not embarrassed in the least. “She and Cass were there for the whole thing.”

Another new name. This is bound to get annoying really fast. Jason sighs, exhausted. “Who the fuck is Stephanie?”

“Oh, sorry. She’s an ally. One of Tim and Cass’s best friends. She goes by Spoiler in the field. You’ll like her, I think. She’s got spunk.”

Ah. Jason recalls Bruce saying that, in addition to the new family members, there were a few new friendlies in the city. He makes a note, for future reference. “Cool,” he says simply.

Dick gives him an appraising look. “You’re taking everything remarkably well,” he says, a little suspiciously.

Jason’s not sure that’s true, considering what just happened in the bathroom, but he’s not about to bring that up. “Thank Tim,” he says, jerking a thumb back to their slumbering Number Three. “It’s not hard to accept all this big news when someone who’s actually competent tells you what you need to hear.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Dick mutters, a weird conglomeration of exasperation and fondness in his voice. “He’s got a tendency to clean up Bruce’s messes. It’s a talent of his.”

“What’s his story, anyway?” Jason asks.  

Chewing on his lip, Dick says, “I’m not sure I can answer that. Tim’s...been hurt. In ways he doesn’t really realize all the time. His parents were absent most of his life and then they were both murdered. In two completely separate incidents, and by two completely different psychopaths.”

Jason winces, his respect for Tim doubling in the wake of this new information. He isn’t sure how to take it, hearing at least a part of his previous suspicions confirmed. Neglect leaves its marks in more indirect ways than physical abuse, but mark it does all the same. “Any triggers?” he asks in a controlled tone.

“It’s hard to tell,” Dick admits. “Tim’s good at pretending nothing bothers him. He’s always fine. He’s a deceptively good actor. If he thinks he’ll be even the slightest inconvenience to anyone, he’s already got a story and an apology ready. He tends to isolate himself, and he pushes himself so hard it’s scary sometimes. It’s been a bit better, since he’s been adopted and taken on more responsibility as Robin and at Wayne Enterprises, but...”

“Old habits,” Jason finishes. He lets the information absorb before saying, “We’ll remind him.”

“Damn straight,” Dick agrees. “You know, I—”

The door pops open to their right, and Dick cuts himself off abruptly, looking around Jason. Tim sticks his head out of the room, blinking his over-large, groggy eyes at them. “Oh. There you are.”

“Have a nice nap, Timmy?” Dick asks casually.

Tim freezes, realizing he’s been caught. “Uhhh.”

“Relax,” Dick says, eyes dancing. “I’m not about to drag you kicking and screaming to your room.”

Tim looks a little skeptical that he was off the hook that easy, and it makes Jason laugh. “Why are you guys on the floor?” he asks, ignoring Jason. He’s looking more alert with every second, eyes darting between them. “Did I miss something?”

Perceptive little shit. Jason responds before Dick can pull a stupid cover story for him out of his ass. Or worse: tell Tim the truth. “Nothing important,” he says, maneuvering to his feet. 

Tim offers him a sheepish smile, playing with the hem of his basketball shorts. “Sorry for falling asleep on you.”

“No skin off my nose,” Jason says with a shrug.

“Sooo,” Dick drawls, when neither Tim nor Jason pursue further conversation, “what now?”

“You should probably get some fucking sleep or something,” Jason suggests. “I stand by what I said: you look like shit.” Jason eyes Tim and says, “You look a little less like shit, but you could probably do with some more sleep, too.”

Tim honest-to-God rolls his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Dick gives Jason a significant look, one that definitely does not escape Tim’s notice. His eyes widen, and he looks between the two of them, accusation screaming through his body language. “What did he tell you?” he asks Jason, betrayal in his voice. When Jason’s not fast enough to respond, he turns to Dick, “What did you tell him?”

“You’ll never know,” Dick teases at the same time Jason responds, in the least convincing tone he can muster, “Absolutely nothing.”

Tim stares. “Oh my God, there’s two of you now.” The dramatized dismay in his voice is downright entertaining. “Damian cannot grow up fast enough. You think Cass will have mercy on me?”

“No. You make it too easy,” Dick laughs.

Tim opens his mouth to respond, but he’s cut off by a gruff voice. “Boys.”

Jason nearly leaps out of his skin, and he’s not the only one. Both Tim and Dick spin on their heels, turning to face Bruce, who’s just entered the med-bay, loaded tray of food in his hands. He’s bare-headed, though still dressed in his armor, face lined with weariness. He meets Jason’s eyes, briefly, and Jason can see an infinite depth of melancholy there that he didn’t see before.

Well, shit.

Bruce breaks contact and sighs in exasperation as he raises an eyebrow directly at Dick. “Dick,” he says, tone long-suffering.

Dick immediately throws up his hands. “In my defense, Damian is downright adorable and distracting, I’ve been awake for far too long, as Jase kindly pointed out before you showed up, and baby-bird here totally took advantage and flew the coop. I tried.”

Bruce turns his disapproving frown to Tim, who is gloriously unapologetic. “It’s true.”

Jason can see Bruce working on a lecture, or perhaps a disappointed grunt, which he knows from personal experience can be worse, so he steps in. “’S okay, B,” Jason says lazily. “I think I needed it. Tim explained some things, and Dick...gave me a bit of normalcy.”

Bruce studies him before he turns to his two other sons. “Thank you.”

There’s an indescribable amount weight and emotion laden in those two single words. Tim looks a little dumbstruck, but Dick merely offers a shrewd smile and salutes Bruce with two fingers. “We’re Robins. It’s what we do.”

“Hmph,” Bruce grumbles, but there’s something warm and impossibly delicate in his gaze as he looks between the three of them. “I’m proud of you,” he surprises them by saying. “All three of you. And—” His eyes land on Jason again “—for what it’s worth...”

“Save it,” Jason interrupts. “I was the asshole this time, and I’m...” He swallows, cursing the heat pressing against his eyes. “I’m sorry for earlier, B.”

His apology feels insufficient now that Jason understands what his death did to Bruce, and given the sheer amount of shit still left unsaid hanging between them, it’s hardly even fair to call it the start of a new beginning.

But for how small it feels, it clearly matters. Bruce’s expression doesn’t change in the wake of Jason’s apology, but Jason sees how his grip on the food tray slackens, how, in the most infinitesimal ways, he relaxes and releases the apprehension clinging to him like a second cape.

“It’s going to take time,” Bruce says slowly, softly, something of a sheepish smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, “and I don’t expect it’s always going to be easy. We all have a lot of healing to do. A lot to talk about. A lot to do.” Jason can’t hide his grimace at the reminder, and Bruce steps forward, smile dissipating into an expression so fierce and protective Jason doesn't know what to make of it. “But I don’t want you to think for a single second that we’re not going to be right there with you. Every step of the way.”

“Even if I blow up again?” Jason asks before he can stop himself.

“Especially then,” Bruce says firmly. “You have every right to feel what you feel about everything that’s changed. Everything that...that’s happened to you. To us. I want you to express yourself. I want you to talk to me, or if not me, then one of your siblings. Or Alfred. Or Dinah. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care who. As long as it’s someone. Can...you promise me, Jaylad?”

It takes a moment for Jason to find his voice. “Yeah, Dad,” he says, voice hoarse, and if his apology was weak earlier, he thinks he made up for it by using that one word. “I can try.”

“Good,” Bruce says, trying to hide just how pleased he is. “That’s good.”

Jason hears a sniffle from his side and turns to see Dick’s wiping at his face. “Honestly, Dick?”

“Shut up,” Dick says, defensive edge to his tone, and Jason’s thrown back to the time before Dick accepted Jason’s Robin, when he and Bruce were having their worst disagreements. “You weren’t here. You didn’t see what happened to us, after. This—this is...”

“I think you’re overdue for some rest, chum,” Bruce says gently as Dick trails off. He looks a little discomfited and more than a little distressed by Dick’s outburst. “And maybe a break.”

“Don’t you dare suggest you’re benching me,” Dick snarls, without heat this time. 

“I wasn’t suggesting anything of the kind,” Bruce says. “A lot has happened. Go rest. Recharge. Jason still needs to cleared by Doctor Mid-Nite and J’onn.” He pointedly ignores Jason’s muttered cuss and continues, “We can all talk more later, with the rest of the family.”

“...Yeah, okay,” Dick agrees, with a surprising lack of resistance. He’s muted, drained, and Jason doesn’t like how exhausted apathy looks on his perpetually optimistic brother. “Coming, Tim?”

Tim, who has gone so quiet Jason nearly forgot his presence, steps up, and Jason catches a hint of some indescribable emotion flicking across his face. It’s not happiness, exactly, but something like...

Fulfilment.

“Sure,” Tim says, a somewhat manic, lopsided grin growing across his face. It’s new to Jason, but it reads like trouble. “I have some work to do anyway.”

“I’d appreciate it if you left Talia’s flash-drive for the time being, Tim,” Bruce says mildly.

If that was supposed to be some form of chastisement, it's pretty ineffective and interesting besides. It sounds to Jason as though Bruce is requesting that Tim keep his nose out of it, appealing to the mutual respect between them, rather than outright ordering. Which is...bizarre. What sort of magician is this kid exactly?

Tim, to Jason’s surprise, blinks as though the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “What? Like I’m anywhere near ready to delve into that! There’s a million other things I need to check out first! I’ll get what I can done, and then we can all work on the rest of it. Together. I’m sure Jason wants in, too.”

“That’d be nice,” Jason agrees.  

“Not before breakfast,” Dick chides, sounding a little more like himself. “Alfred’s orders, remember?”

Tim’s expression twists, enthusiasm fading. Never has Jason seen someone look so put out by the mention of Alfred’s food before. “Right.”

“That’s cruel, Dick,” Jason complains as his stomach releases an unnatural gurgle. He can’t remember the last time he ate, and it doesn’t help he probably regurgitated whatever remained of his last meal. “I’m stuck here for the time being, and you have to mention Alf’s food?”

That elicits a snicker from Dick, and as he nods to B and leads Tim forward, he asks, “You going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jason says, playing up his whiny bitch-fest, hoping it’ll bring some of Dick’s humor back to him. “I can survive a little longer, I guess. Don’t worry about me. Go kiss Barb. Bromance it up with Wally. Gorge yourself on Alf's food. Sleep, for God’s sake. I’ll just suffer in solitude and daydream about—” Jason cuts himself off, nearly too late to sense the sudden tension layering the room.

Jason’s overstepped, somehow, and said something very, very wrong.

It doesn’t take long to read the underlying mood, to see the answer on his family’s faces. Dick’s face, in particular, crumples, dark and lifeless. He reviews what he said and picks out the most likely cause.

“No,” he whispers, hardly daring to believe it. “He’s not...” Tim nods once, silencing Jason’s question, and he swallows, unable to imagine the thought of Wally West...dead. He’s been a presence in Jason’s life for as long he’s been in Bruce’s house. He always seemed untouchable, in the same way Nightwing did, free-spirited and always laughing, and now he’s...just gone?

Oh, God, Jason thinks, throat thick. Artemis. Barry. The whole Flash family. He takes a brief second to process the loss and turns to his older brother. It makes sense, now, why he’s no longer leading the Team. “I’m so sorry, man. That’s...”

“It’s fine,” Dick lies, tremulous smile on his face. For the first time, Jason can see how Dick’s aged over the last few years. “Wally...Wally died saving the world. I’ll tell you about it. Later.”

Jason winces, and the horrific realization crosses his mind that his resurrection must feel like a bitch slap in the face to Dick. Jason never believed in the idea of soulmates, much less platonic ones, but damn, if there ever was such a thing, Dick and Wally were it, in the flesh. No doubt he wishes it was Wally who came back. He bets Dick looks at him and thinks, maybe—

Dick’s eyes flash. “Knock it off,” he says, tone sharp enough to slice right through bone. “Whatever you’re thinking is absolute bullshit, and I won’t have it, you hear me?”

“Sure,” Jason says, unconvinced.

“I mean it. Promise me.”

Jason doesn’t respond, instead fighting the distinct buzz of dread taking hold of him. Heart climbing up his throat, he cycles through names, worrying about who else passed on in the time he was gone. He’s not sure wants to know the answer. He can’t bear the thought of hearing Donna’s name, or Tula’s, Gar’s or Artemis’s. Hell, if he died, if Wally died, it could be anyone.  

He needs to know.

“Who else?” he finally asks.

Bruce’s hand grips his shoulder. “Later.”

No, not later. Jason’s fucking sick of the word. “But—”

“It’s not the time or place. Not yet. It's alright to focus on yourself right now, Jason.”

Jason has some thoughts about that, but before he can protest, Bruce stops him. “We’ll visit the Grotto later,” Bruce promises. “Before we leave for home.”

Dick reads the lack of recognition on Jason’s face. “After you died, we decided to make a private place to commemorate our fallen,” Dick explains before he can ask. “We didn’t always have the luxury of knowing everyone well out of the masks, much in the same way some civilians couldn’t be privy to what their friends and loved ones died for, so it was important, especially after you.” He hesitates, looking a little sick to his stomach. “We’ll...need to dismantle your hologram. ASAP.”

“Fine,” Jason says grudgingly, willing to accept the compromise for now. “Is it morbid that I want to see it?”

“A little, but that’s okay. We won’t judge. And speaking of morbid.” Dick gives Bruce a pointed look. “We have to get that suit out of the Cave.”

Jason’s heart stalls in his chest. “The one I was killed in?” he exclaims, horrified. The look on Bruce’s face is enough answer for Jason, and he shudders. “Jesus, Bruce. You’re a masochist, I’m convinced. That’s fucking messed up.”

Tim hides a wince, but Bruce is surprisingly open about it. There’s a sardonic look on his face as he attempts to joke, “Well, I was a little messed up, afterwards. I’m sure Tim didn’t sugarcoat that.”

“No,” Jason agrees, flicking a look over at Tim, who stares at Bruce like he doesn’t recognize him. “He didn’t.”

“You shouldn't have to see it," Bruce says. "I’ll see to it that it’s removed.”

“Oh, no, don’t do that,” Jason denies, a little viciously. “I’m gonna smash it to pieces myself. With a crowbar, maybe. Sounds cathartic.” To Dick and Tim, he asks, “Wanna help?”

The matching, downright diabolical grins spreading across his brothers’ faces is perhaps the most satisfying thing he’s seen all day.

"You three," Bruce predicts, as he watches them bond over the promise of destruction and chaos, "are going to give me premature grays. I can see it now."

"Robins, B," Jason reminds him, feeling lighter than he can remember feeling in a long, long time. "It's kind of what we do."

Chapter Text

~Conner~

“I’m sorry.”

Conner looks away from the bike part he’s cleaning, quirking a brow at Brion. The young Markovian joined him at the kitchen table nearly half an hour ago, fresh from his shower, and had not spoken a single word since. Conner didn’t mind. None of them were going to be sleeping well tonight, and he had work to do, his own thoughts to sort.

Besides, he knows better than to push anyone to talk. He’s been the one in the opposite chair plenty of times. It was where he learned that silence is just as important as verbalization in a conversation...and that the people who truly mattered, the ones who cared, never left you sitting alone, no matter how long the silence lasted.

Conner would have sat there until the sun rose and straight through the morning, if that’s what it took. Dick may complain about being the grownup now, but he knows, just as well as Conner does, that that’s exactly what they are there for.

(Little bastard loves it, too. He isn’t fooling anyone).

Brion is clearly still gathering his thoughts. He’s not glaring at the table so much as staring through it, his brow furrowed. For the first time since Conner’s known him, it’s not anger, frustration, or impatience that warps his expression into a frown. This frown is laden with deep contemplation, humble in light of his and the others’ failure at Infinity Island. It’s the frown of a man who’s had to take a frank, difficult look at himself, and at his situation, and has since decided he doesn’t quite like where he is or who he has become.

This, Conner realizes, with a burst of approval, really has been his wakeup call.

Kicking his socked feet down from the tabletop, Conner sets aside his part and his rag and gives Brion his undivided attention. In front of him is an assortment of glimmering bits and pieces, all arranged carefully on a large towel. M’gann hates when he brings work into the kitchen, but he needed something to do with his hands while he waited.

“You don’t have to be,” Conner finally responds. “It was stupid, don’t get me wrong, but...” He struggles to find the appropriate words to fully summarize his mixed feelings on the issue. In the end, he smiles, shrugs, and figures honesty is the best policy. “I wouldn’t be sitting here right now if some stupid trio of kids hadn’t done something as equally stupid as what you, Halo, and Forager did tonight.”

And neither would Jason Todd be back home, where he belongs. Conner is still trying to wrap his mind around it. Every time he blinks, he sees the red-hooded kid removing his goggles; sees Dick on the floor of the Bio-Ship, their lost Robin smothered in his embrace.

Brion looks up from the table. “The boy we found,” he asks cautiously. “He is...family?”

From the corner of his eye, Conner sees Halo rouse herself from her doze, her inquisitive brown eyes locking on Conner, awaiting his answer. Forager is curled up in the corner, but he, too, zeroes in on them from across the room. His double-lidded eyes click as he blinks.

They are going to be a phenomenal team, Conner thinks. Once they’ve shaped up a bit.

“Jason,” Conner amends, and it’s unreal, the automatic smile that follows. For so long, the name had been taboo, a source of pain and sorrow. And now... “Jason is one of us.”

Brion pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, and he avoids Conner’s eyes, picking at a stray thread on his plaid pajama pants, debating with himself. “What happened to him?” he finally dares to ask.

It sounds to Conner as though Brion has already guessed. After a moment, he responds with a question of his own. “What do you know about Robin?”

“Nightwing’s brother?” Brion shrugs. “Not much, aside from the fact that Dick is very proud of him. And that he probably needs more sleep.”

Conner snorts, genuinely amused. “You’re not wrong,” he says, “but I didn’t mean Robin as he is currently. I meant Robin as in the title.”

“Title,” Brion repeats, a blank expression on his face. “I don’t understand.”

For a brief moment, Conner is baffled—for as long as he can remember, “Robin” always came after “Batman and.” They’re a pair, like peanut butter and jelly, forever linked—but then he remembers that these kids aren't from around here, that not everyone is familiar with the Dark Knight’s story, let alone privy to some of the insanity that is Gotham City and the fact Batman somehow has a whole collection of child heroes following in his wake.

Maybe it’s an American thing. Or maybe Conner’s just been around other capes for too long. Both are equally valid reasons.

“The current Robin,” Conner explains, “is the third to hold the title. Dick was the first. The second...”

Brion finishes Conner’s thought for him. “The boy.” He sits back, folding his arms. “He...got into trouble? Serious trouble? Is that why...?”

Conner hesitates, uncomfortable. Even he isn’t aware of the full story. Very few of them are. One day Jason was there, laughing and training with the rest of them, and then the next...

Well, some of the Bats’ behavior spoke for itself. Joker bragged, and the Rogues gossiped, often using Robin’s death as a spiked barb; hoping to enrage, distract, and otherwise inflict pain with a weapon even more harmful than their fists or their powers. Needless to say, conclusions were drawn and blanks were filled. Belonging to the Super family, too, had its perks. Clark was able to tell him what Dick, Bruce, and the villains couldn’t.

“Yes,” Conner decides to respond, as it’s the simplest answer, and the one Brion needs to hear. “They lost him a few years ago. They thought he was gone. We all did.”

“He was gone,” Halo says quietly, and her voice doesn’t sound like her own. It sends icy tendrils creeping down Conner’s spine. “The little Robin was dragged behind the Veil, and the Veil spat him back out.”

“Like Halo?” Forager asks, blatant and tactless in his curiosity.

Halo shakes her head, hugging her knees to her chest. “No,” is all she says.

Well. Like that isn’t spooky as hell or anything. Despite how unsettled he feels, Conner knows better to dismiss Halo’s comment and makes a note to talk to her later, preferably with M’gann and Dick present. She may be able to provide some insight on how all of this was possible.

Brion stares at Halo with a storm of emotion in his eyes. Conner makes note of that, too. “All of Nightwing’s lectures about patience,” he eventually muses, tone hoarse, thick with guilt and self-loathing. “The work he was doing behind the scenes, all those times I, ah, 'got in his face'...why didn’t he tell me?”

“Would you have listened if he had?” When Brion winces, Conner sighs, softening his tone. “Nightwing’s lost a lot of people. He’s not always the best at showing it, but he cares. Too much sometimes. And he wasn’t about to lose another friend the same way he lost his brother.”

“But the boy—Jason—is...back,” Brion says haltingly. “His brother is alive. Even after. That means...there is hope. For all of us.”

Conner wants to say this is a complete anomaly. He wants to express just how much of a miracle this is. Realistically, people don’t come back. Not like this. And not from that.

But this isn’t the first time. It probably won’t be the last. The world they live in is weird and wild, and they’re weird and wild people.

In the end, Conner can’t deny the statement. They deal in hope, after all. They spread it to those who can’t fight for themselves, to those who feel lost and alone, to those who need saving. It’s why they do what they do, even if they often pay the price for it.

Sometimes, however...sometimes their sacrifices are rewarded. Sometimes, Karma is kind and decides it’s okay to give a little bit of hope back to them.

“You made a mistake, Brion,” Conner says eventually, and he’s hit the nail on the head. Brion sits rim-rod straight, eyes bright with pain. “But it isn’t the end of the line. Not by a long shot. We’ll find Tara. One way or another.”

Brion nods, and before his eyes, Conner can see some of his vigor, some of his inner fire returning to him in fits and spurts, determination and a desire to be better fueling the blaze. “One way or another,” he repeats.

~Artemis~

Artemis fumbles with her keys, cursing as they slip through her fingers. It’s just after four in the morning, and she hates how she feels like a thief in the night as she crouches silently, duffle bag with all her Tigress gear banging against the back of her legs. Her Stanford baseball hat is pulled low over her eyes, concealing the nastiness of her unwashed, grungy hair.

She didn’t have the time to shower, after Bio-Ship landed. She had run after Jeff instead, whose dead, glossy eyes scared her, whose immediate exit and furious march across M'gann and Conner's open land alerted her to something wrong.

“I need to check on my kids,” Jeff said in response to her query at the foot of the Happy Harbor Zeta, his gaze staring straight through her, his whisper crackling with unease. “My kids...Virgil...”

“Okay,” Artemis murmured back, and she released the arm she grabbed to stop him from leaving. “Go. Do what you need to do.”

His gaze sharpened then, focusing on her as he broke through his anxious haze. “Are you okay?”  

“Of course,” she scoffed. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Jeff's soulful brown eyes bore down on her. “I don't know," he said. "You were close to Jason. Closer than most of the others on the Team. It’s okay, if you’re...not okay, you know. I’m not. I admit I’m not, and I didn’t even know Jason well.”

“But I am okay,” she said, smile stretching her cheeks so wide they hurt. “Jason’s alive, Jeff. I’m more than okay.”

And isn't that an understatement. Hours later, and ecstatic energy buzzes under her skin, happiness making her near-giddy. Damn, has she missed the little twerp. She’s missed him so much. She’s missed their chili dog dates, their literature debates, their Crime Alley in-jokes. She’s missed how he’d come to her for help with homework, especially in the beginning, when he was too proud and intimidated to ask Dick or Bruce; how eager he was to prove himself; how hard he strove to do good. She’s missed the banter, the sarcasm, the foul mouth. She's even missed the bad times, when they shared haunted looks that reflected in the eyes of those they saved from abuse, from crack houses, from sex slavery and every other manner of vile situation that reminded them of their own; when they saw something that made them snap, pushing them over their carefully drawn lines in the sand, vision tinged red, red with rage.

She hadn’t known Jason Todd was like a little brother to her, not until all she had left of him was a hologram in the Grotto.  

And now he’s back. He’s alive, and she...she doesn’t know how to contain it all.

Her fingers tremble as she finally picks up her keys. They shake as they struggle to find the keyhole to the side door, and they do not stop as Will, eyes ringed with exhaustion, pulls open the door for her. From behind him, Roy is messing with his prosthetic arm, a domino mask lying on the kitchen table. He quirks a brow at Artemis when he notices her and then shoots a glare at Will's back, looking very unimpressed.

“You didn’t check in,” Will accuses drily, scanning her up and down for injury. “We expected you back hours ago, Art. I was about to—” He cuts his lecture off, transforming before Artemis’ eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks, a little more sharply than he probably intended.

“Nothing,” she says. “Nothing. I’m...” She hasn’t realized she’s fighting tears until her own soft sob catches her unawares. She ducks her head, wiping rapidly at her face, and slides past Will, who closes the door gently behind her.

“Batman has an infant son, and Jason Todd is alive,” she announces without ceremony, dropping her bag with a soft thump.

“The Jason Todd?” Roy asks, tone dubious as he bulldozes right over Will’s impassive what. “The fabled second Robin? No way.”

“Really?" she teases. "This, coming from the cyrogenetically frozen Roy Harper?” She laughs, tsk’ing playfully, and she feels a burst of vindication as Will transcends from disbelief into open-mouthed shock. 

“Huh,” Roy grunts, leaning to sit on the back edge of the family room couch. A weird sort of half-smile, one that screams chaos and a plethora of bad ideas, twitches at his lips. “Interesting.”

“How?” Will demands, because he, unlike Roy, is actually sane and logical and responds to news like this in an appropriate manner.

“We found them both with the al Ghuls,” Artemis explains, and it’s enough for Will, whose expression darkens like a storm cloud. “And we—we don’t...”   

We don’t know how. We don’t know why, she tries to say, but she can’t. She can’t get the words past the hot stone lodged in her throat.

“Roy,” Will says suddenly, and Artemis hears him as though he’s talking from the room down the hall. “I think I heard Lian get up. Mind checking on her for me? And then using all your charm to get her to go back to bed? I need her to sleep for at least another hour or two.”

“What are you talking about?” Roy asks lazily. “I didn’t—”

Will must give him his patented Dad Look because Roy’s immediately muttering under his breath and leaving the room, with Will’s customary reminder to disarm and safety lock your damn arm, Roy and Roy’s irritated I blow a hole in the wall one time trailing behind him.

Well, if Lian wasn’t awake before, Artemis thinks she may be now. The Harpers are, as a rule, loud. She’s long since decided it’s embedded into their genetic code.

“Talk to me, Art,” Will says gently.

A few years ago, Artemis would never have imagined them here. In-laws in all but title, living together and coexisting like true siblings, co-raising her sister’s darling little girl as daddy and auntie. Never, ever, would she have guessed he’d be the one to help her stand...or that she’d be the one to pick him up.

There aren’t many walls left between them. They’ve lost too much, been through too much, but this is one Artemis can’t...

She can’t.

“He’s alive, Will,” Artemis says, and she silently begs him to leave it at that. Because it’s what really matters here. A boy she loved like family is back from the dead, and how often do any of them get to say they have a second chance with someone they’ve lost? She is thrilled. Of course she is. “And it’s absolutely insane. You should have seen Dick. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him so floored by anything. It would have been hilarious if it wasn’t so sweet and...”

Will lets her ramble, but he knows her. He knows her too well, at this point. He can read between the lines, pick up on all the things she’s leaving unsaid. “And?” he prompts.

“Fuck,” Artemis curses, and she bows her head, tears slipping down her face. “Dammit, Will. I’m happy, okay? I’m so happy I could puke.”

“But?” he prompts again, and the lack of criticism in his eyes makes her break.

“But.” She swallows harshly, hating herself, hating life, hating the guilt she feels for the words forcing their way up her throat. “But if Jason can come back, then...then why...?”

Will’s expression cracks, and she takes his empathy and wraps it like a blanket around her quaking shoulders. “I miss him, Will,” she whispers, heartbreak in her voice. “I miss him so much I can hardly breathe.”

“I know,” Will says, and he finally approaches her. She accepts his offer and lets him hug her. “So do I.”

“Jason deserves the world,” she says fiercely, because despite everything, despite how much it hurts, she needs to vocalize that. Because while she may not be with Jason or Dick now, a large part of her spirit celebrates and dances and drinks right alongside all of the Bats’ and Birds’ tonight. “That kid deserves so fucking much.”

“He does,” Will agrees.

Her tears run thick and hot, and Will’s form blurs through their glaze. “But doesn’t...doesn’t Wally deserve that much, too?” 

Will doesn’t have an answer for her, but there doesn’t need to be one. She buries her face again and cries into his thin Henley, cursing whatever fickle god decided to torment her with something as foolish and impossible and beautiful as hope.

Hope that maybe...

No. 

She slams the destructive thought down, down where it can never see the light of day again. She doesn’t want to know how. She doesn’t want to know why. Because if there’s a reason Jason’s alive...then there’s also a reason Wally’s not, and that is one truth she refuses to acknowledge.

Tomorrow, she will be okay. Tomorrow, she’ll be able to put her conviction into practice. Tomorrow, she will follow up with the Bats, or perhaps force her company on them, just so she can have the chance to ruffle Jason’s hair again and tell him she's missed him, too.

But tonight? Tonight, she allows herself to think it’s not fair. Tonight, she falls victim to the pain of her old wound, whose gaping edges ooze and sting as though they've been carved anew.

Tonight, she mourns Wally. And the second chance they’ll never have.

~M’gann~

“You did it.”

M’gann offers a weary, vacant smile in the vague direction of the voice. “I suppose,” she mutters, and there’s a rush of air and large arms wrapping around her, catching her as her legs give out.

Clark’s brilliant blue eyes hover over her, wide with concern. “Cripes, M’gann,” he mutters. “Can I get you something? Water? Something to eat?”

“No, no,” M’gann refuses, shaking her aching head. “I just...”

Need to sit. She spies a chair nearby and tries to direct herself toward it. It doesn’t go well, considering her spinning vision. Her spectacular miss makes her, somewhat loopily, think of that adorable string of photographs Gar once texted her—the one with the big jungle cats all trying, with varying degrees of success, to sit in cardboard boxes. It was captioned if I fits, I sits.

She must not fits. The thought makes her laugh. It’s ridiculous. Martians can morph. She always fits, right?

Clark ends up leading her to said chair and helping her into it. If he’s disturbed by her behavior, he doesn’t show it. She sinks down into the seat bonelessly, gripping the armrests and trying to stop the room from spinning on its axis.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Clark says, worry coloring his tone. She sees it appear before her in a shade of mauve purple. “Are you okay?”

What is okay? M’gann just hums, closing her eyes. There’s a roiling sea of memories and associated emotion in her, most of which are not quite hers. It’s all very murky and disconcerting, heartrending and painful, and it’s taking a little longer than usual to isolate them as Jason’s and not internalize them as hers.

She wasn’t lying when she told Batman this wasn’t going to be easy. It’s not the first time she’s healed a sick mind, but...this was beyond anything she’s ever attempted, even beyond what she had to do to help Kaldur’ahm, years before.

Back then, Kaldur’s subconscious, eventually, accepted her help, thanks to Artemis’s timely intervention. It knew what it was meant to be, and it did not protest her attempts to fit the jigsaw pieces together. It even actively helped her find the pieces she needed and held her hand as she led them back to their natural place.

Jason’s, by contrast, didn’t have any recollection of, and no frame of reference for, what it was meant to be. His mindscape was warped and waterlogged, constantly shifting and slipping through her fingers, a canvas of runny watercolor. The dense fog obscuring her sense of his True Self misled her time and time again, memories and impressions distorting between Before and After. It didn’t help that Jason’s natural defenses would try to cut M’gann off, only to playfully lower and slam back up again. There was no rhyme or reason to the attacks, and it was like trying to spar with a drunken pirate aboard a tossing ship deck. There was plenty of enthusiasm there but next to zero skill involved. It was a distraction more than anything, and it was one that took far more of her concentration than she would prefer.

She almost thought...but no, in the end, it took hours. Hours, before it clicked.

She was having trouble piecing Jason’s mind together because, unlike Kaldur’s, and despite how it presented itself to her, it wasn’t necessarily fractured, like she originally thought.

No, Jason’s was more...repressed. Buried. And why make more work for herself by hunting down “pieces” when she could just...lower the fog? Allow Jason’s mind to form itself in its place?

It was easier said than done, but with some coaxing, Jason’s consciousness flooded forth like water from a burst dam, gleefully filling all the spots the protective fog had saved for it. Just for it.

She hadn’t been fast enough to retreat from its onslaught. She’d gotten a full taste of Jason’s primal fear, and his numb resignation, at the very end. She’d felt the crowbar strike her, again and again, and she’d been battered by his full-blown hatred for the Joker, the overwhelming burn of his regret, the sting of Sheila Haywood’s betrayal.

The horrifying, all-consuming void that was his death.

And that was only the initial wave. Jason woke, confused and disoriented, and Mr. Wayne rushed to his son's side in that instant, allowing a brilliant, real smile to spread across his face. His hope, his relief, was addictive, pure, and she fed off of his slew of grateful thoughts, just to help shake some of Jason’s lingering darkness from her own soul.

But it wasn't deserved. Not in the least. Just because Jason was awake didn't mean...

M'gann reached out, just to see, to assure herself. Jason, however, recognized her immediately and violently ejected her from his turbulent mind, voice breaking as he met her gaze from across the room and told her to stay out, his hand burrowing into his thick curls, eyes glazed and fever-bright. From her position, M'gann slumped, sliding down the wall to the floor and forcing herself to take deep breaths. Before she had the opportunity to get back to her feet, Jason's eyes had rolled into the back of his head.

Mr. Wayne swung to her, body language screaming with concern, and without need for further instruction, she tentatively tried to touch Jason's mind again, to no effect. Dizzy and dazed with all that she experienced through Jason, she heard herself say, “He shut me out. I—I can't..."

"You've done enough," was all Mr. Wayne murmured in response, already turning away and taking Jason's hand in his own. 

"I...want to say that he needs this," M'gann said, because what else could she say, after what Jason's gone through? Her thoughts spun, and some gut instinct told her what Batman's already assumed: that she'd done all she could. The damage was done. "Give him time."

"Hmph."

She took that as the dismissal it was, and, stumbling, left the room without another word.

So now she sits, shaken and sick. She waits, and she worries, because until Jason wakes a second time, M’gann can’t be absolutely sure she’s...done any good. She can't be sure she didn't just lie to Mr. Wayne. Jason has a unique mind. A marvelous one. She knows, in her core, that allowing it to heal itself was the best choice she could have made, but the mind is as fragile as it is strong. As promising as it is that Jason's recognized both her and Mr. Wayne, there's still a reason his mind was not restored prior to her meddling, and there are consequences, always, to playing around with the order of such things.

If there was something more she could have done to save the vibrant boy she once knew—and if there’s so much as a single part of him missing because of what she was unable to do—then she’d never, ever forgive herself.

Dick entrusted Jason to her. Batman entrusted him to her.

She can’t fail Jason. Not like she’s failed Gar. She can’t.

Clark does bring her water and food, though it mostly remains untouched. She appreciates the gesture, but she appreciates his silent presence even more. The Flash arrives, at some point, to relieve Clark of Monitor Duty, but she’s deep in a self-imposed, semi-meditative state, halfheartedly working on sorting her own house, and does not really acknowledge either of them or their hushed discussion.

She brushes against Jason’s mind in the interim, monitoring his status. Even in his sleep, his subconscious recognizes her touch and thickens its barriers, a familiar reaction that soothes some of her anxieties and makes others flare right back up.

(How can she know if he's doing well if he won't let her in?)

In the end, she doesn’t know how she misses it. One moment, Jason’s asleep and the next...he’s not. She feels no joy, instead reeling from the brooding clouds hovering over him and Batman. Their minds are both disturbing, dark tempests that send bolts of fear straight through her chest. Jason’s, more so than Mr. Wayne’s, chills her from the inside out.

He needs someone. Right now.

And somehow, as if by magic, Tim appears, and he is projecting his intentions so loudly, she nearly cries. Because she knows. She knows just how much this Robin has done. She knows what he is willing to do, too, to keep his family safe.

Alone, Tim Drake can do more for Jason Todd than a dozen Martians combined ever could, she's utterly convinced. 

(And he proves it, too, within minutes of walking into Med-Bay One).

By the time Dick rushes in, frazzled and irritated (read as: reluctantly impressed) by his wayward bird, M’gann thinks things are starting to look up, and she is recovered enough to laugh at him. She tries to tell him not to worry, repeating what she's been telling herself since Tim arrived: Jason’s resilient, and Tim is the balm none of them deserve. Jason's going to be fine.

But then she absentmindedly checks again. Just to be sure.

Her knees threaten to buckle under her.

She was wrong. Jason's not fine.

Dick sprints.  

Superman squeezes her shoulder as they watch him go. She’s soul-sick again, trembling in the aftermath of this new loop in the intertwining roller coasters surrounding her, and she barely registers his touch.

“They’re going to be okay,” he says gently.

“How do you know?” she asks, because she can sense just how much Jason wants to crawl out of his own skin, appalled by what he sees in the mirror, and it hurts because this is a boy who was once beautifully unashamed of who he was, and proud. Proud of his roots and his scars.

It hurts. It hurts because this...this isn’t something she can fix. Because Jason's hurting, and hasn't he hurt enough?

“It doesn’t feel like it will be okay,” she admits.

“They’re Bats,” Superman says. “They support each other.”

"But—"

Superman tilts his head suddenly, and she knows he’s hearing what she only vaguely senses: Dick’s arrival in the bathroom.

“There," he says gently. "You’ve done a marvelous job watching over him, M’gann. You’ve done so much for him—them—already. You can let go now. You have to let go now. You'll drive yourself crazy otherwise. Believe me. I know.”

M’gann reads the understanding in Clark’s eyes and finds comfort in the unwavering faith there. No normal person can deny Superman when he looks at them like that. She finally relents, severing her awareness of the Bats’ minds entirely.

It’s the first time in hours she’s allowed herself to fully disengage, and exhaustion hits her again, the edges of her mind tingling as they retract. She feels oddly empty and sensitive, now alone in the privacy of her own mind, untethered by those she’s been watching over without pause.

It’s the first time she fully realizes what she’s done.

“I did it,” she whispers, repeating Clark’s earlier words and absorbing them and their full impact. She smiles, overwhelmed by what this means. For the Bats. For everyone who ever once had a friend in Jason Todd.

She’s been stressing, all this time, about what she might have failed to do...without ever fully realizing what she has actually succeeded in doing.

It's not perfect. It never is, and there will always be turmoil and trauma that M'gann, for all her gifts, can never erase. But there is also nothing—nothing—like seeing a family reunite like this. There is nothing better, no high more sought after in their line of work.

And she's given that back to Jason, to Dick, to Mr. Wayne. She's given the newer Bats a chance to meet a brother they never would have otherwise. 

"Oh my gods," she says, covering her mouth, "I actually did it."

“Yeah,” Clark says, his smile reflecting her own. “You did.”

Chapter Text

When Dick and Tim arrive back in the Cave, Barbara is there to greet them. She sits in front of the Bat Computer on the main floor, at least three different screens illuminating her face at once. It’s obvious she’s running on just about as much sleep as Dick is—ratty, overlarge sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, hair pulled into a sloppy bun at the top of her head, usual contacts forgone in favor of an old pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses—but at the moment, Dick thinks he’s never seen her look more stunning.

(God, is he hopelessly in love with her).

Dick beelines for her, Tim trailing behind him. Babs, for her part, doesn’t acknowledge them immediately, but even from a distance, Dick catches the sly upward turn to her lips.

He’s not so exhausted that he can’t make a few deductions about what that means. 

“Welcome back,” she calls out lazily as they approach, not taking her eyes off the central monitor.

“You enabler,” he accuses in response, bending to press a hello-I’ve-missed-you kiss into her hair. It smells like coconut and creme, and he inhales deeply.

You’re home, the warm, sweet scent reminds him. And you’re okay, because you’re here with me.

Babs swats him away playfully and spins in her chair, an expression of bemused innocence on her face. “Me?” she asks, putting a hand to her chest. “Whatever do you mean, Hunk Wonder?” 

Dick raises his eyebrows and gestures at Tim, whose mind is clearly miles away from the here-and-now, eyes glazed as he stares blankly through them and into the beyond.

Babs turns a fond look to Tim before rolling her eyes at Dick. “I think you’ll find that Tim went rogue without any outside assistance from me.”

“You didn’t stop him.”

“Perhaps,” Babs says, turning back to the data she was studying. “Perhaps not. But, then again, if I just so happened to turn a blind eye—hypothetically speaking, of course—”

“Of course,” Dick deadpans.

“—I suppose I did it for a reason,” Barbara finishes with a beatific smile.

Dick blows a pathetic raspberry. He’s not too proud to admit that his imagination was running amok in the time it took for him to transport up to Watchtower, a slew of awful scenarios streaking through his mind with every step he took. He might have been partially joking about half-expecting to rush in on a bloodied Tim and Jason, but he also remembered how it was, during those first few months Jason was Robin. The blatant miscommunication—not to mention the fragile tension and fractured trust—that riddled their family at the time was definitely not something he was sure he could handle again, and especially not now, not when, by some miracle, they had Jason back.

He needn’t have worried, truly. He’d overestimated the degree to which Bruce could fuck up. Or, perhaps, it was more that he’d most certainly underestimated his brothers.

He won’t be making that mistake again.

Robins, Jason had echoed earlier, gesturing between the three—three—of them. It’s what we do.

A lingering sense of comradery and belonging, light as a sun-shower, whimsical as dandelion seeds on the breeze, unravels some of the tangle in Dick’s chest. It’s monumental, surreal, and there’s nothing that made Dick happier than hearing Jason accept that eternal bond between them so effortlessly, and without regret.

Dick’s smile splits his face, so wide it nearly hurts.

Barbara smirks at him. “And I also suppose,” she says, an astute gleam in her eye, “you have absolutely nothing to complain about.”

His smile falters, not because it isn’t true. (He, truly, isn’t upset. Not at her. Nor Tim, for sneaking out against orders, or Bruce, for probably necessitating it. In fact, he’s really so far beyond definable emotion right now that describing how he’s feeling in any series of words, much less a single word, would somehow automatically be a lie).

His smile falters because there’s a snarl of warmth and cold in his core he’s trying to ignore, tumbling end over end, swelling in aggressive spurts one moment and roiling in nauseating lurches the next. It’s taking everything he has not to let it all spill through the cracks. He’s already snapped at Jason once already—nearly blew a gasket at Bruce, too—and his exhaustion is only crumbling those walls further.

He’s a volcano about to blow, a dam about to burst, but he can handle it.

He always does. He has to.

Besides, Babs is there, and when Babs is there, everything will be okay. That’s just how it goes: her mere presence is a salve for all his aches and pains, his worries and fears; bolstering him, enlivening him, lifting him back above the tumultuous water he pretends he doesn’t sometimes struggle to tread. The weight of his fatigue is suddenly less burdensome, the stress of his assumed responsibilities reduced to ash. When she’s there, nothing, nothing, seems insurmountable, and even at his worst—

Nope. Dick stops that train of thought before it can take root. He can’t let it. Not now. Not with Tim here. He has good news to spread, smiles to share. This is a happy day, and tomorrow’s problems and yesterday’s regrets shouldn’t bother him today. Besides, he promised Jason. Perhaps not in as many words, but a promise unsaid is a promise all the same, and he’s not about to go breaking another promise to Jason. 

Not again. He refuses.

“You’re right. I don’t,” Dick says, choosing to focus, as he does, on the positive. For his own sake, he feels the need to add, “You know, part of me thinks you enjoy watching us all run around like chickens with our heads cut off. You do realize how ugly this could have been if Jason had been the slightest bit like me in the beginning, don’t you?”

“Well, at least he’s self-aware,” Babs says under her breath. When Dick grimaces, taking the gentle criticism for what it is and accepting the hot slash of guilt that follows, she adds at a normal volume, “I won’t lie and say it didn’t cross my mind, but as an objective party who a) has never been Robin and b) is very much invested in making sure she doesn’t have to deal with all the Bat-boy drama, again, I happened to realize we have a secret weapon now, and he went off and did exactly what he does best. Isn’t that right, Tim?”

“What about Tim?” Tim asks suddenly, jolting as though he’s been tased.

“I was just saying that was a neat hacking job,” Babs compliments, not missing a beat. “Bit rushed, not very elegant, but it definitely got the job done. We’ll be closing that loophole in the future, by the way. Just FYI.”

“Oh,” Tim muses, his tone suggesting he’s deciding whether to accept the praise or mourn the loss of one of the aces he’s kept hidden up his sleeve. “Worth it,” he eventually says.

Barbara’s lips twitch into an amused smile, but Dick knows her well enough to see some lingering concern hiding behind her façade. “How is he?” she asks, eyes darting between the two. “Truly?”

“He’s awesome!” Tim blurts, wild grin on his face as he bounces in place. “Babs, you would not believe the conversation we had!”

“He’s awake, then,” Babs breathes, and she looks as relieved and overjoyed as Dick felt the moment M’gann stopped him in the Monitor Womb and said, I...I think he’s going to be okay. Her excitement is so contagious he can’t help but feed off of it, and he does. Greedily. “Functional and present? Memories intact?”

Tim bobs a nod or seven. “And I’m not freaking out. Not at all. Because I totally didn’t just have a really cool conversation with Jason Todd about Star Wars, Super Smash Bros, and new meme formats. And he totally didn’t just give me his blessing to be Robin, which, in addition to Dick’s and Bruce’s, is literally everything I could have ever wanted in my life. I’ve transcended. I can die happy: all my current goals are achieved. There’s nothing else.” He pauses, and a horrified realization crosses his face, smile slipping off his face like melted butter. “Oh, God, guys,” he whispers. “He probably thinks I’m a real nutcase, doesn’t he.”

Dick bursts into laughter. “Sorry to break it to you, Tim, but we all think that some days.”

“And we love you anyway,” Babs says.

Tim doesn’t look convinced, and it becomes obvious he wasn’t kidding around. Despite their lighthearted teasing, he continues to twitch, gnawing at his lip, picking at his cuticles, and Dick’s heart shatters.

It always hurts, seeing Tim like this—like he doesn’t really know how incredible he is, how much of an impact he makes by just being himself—and Dick has to bite his tongue, to keep himself from breaking Jason’s confidence.

Dick knew, even before their chat outside Med-Bay One, that Jason cared; that he already accepted Tim as one of his people. He could see it screaming through his eyes, through the frantic way he glanced at that open bathroom door. Jason only verified it after the fact by sitting down and asking about Tim’s story, about the things he knew Tim would never tell Jason himself.

In the years since Bruce picked him up off the streets, Jason might have become a little more willing to open up, a little less cynical and cautious about who he lowered his barriers for, but there was always a part of him that was slow to trust. That Jason’s already asking after Tim, already adorning himself with the duties of an older brother, after one short conversation?

It’s beyond telling. And, somehow, Tim doesn't see that?

Babs brushes against Dick, her fingers playing with the tips of his own. He squeezes them, momentarily, and releases.

Modulating his tone, Dick says, “You don’t have anything to worry about, Tim. I promise.”

Tim’s brow furrows. “He doesn’t know me, Dick. Not really. I didn’t have the chance to really talk to him before I fell asleep on him. Maybe he just took pity on me, felt sorry for me or something. I mean, how can you know that he even—”

Dick stops himself from growling, from grabbing Tim by the shoulders and yelling you didn’t see it, but I did! I know!, and he shoves away the mental image of his other younger brother panicking on the bathroom floor, eyes wide with fear as he struggled to breathe, using every last bit of air he had to ensure that Dick kept Tim from seeing him fall apart.

Dick takes a deep breath, fighting with the indignation attempting to bulldoze its way through his shields. “Trust me,” he suggests, interrupting Tim’s tirade and putting on a cocky grin. He reaches out to ruffle the younger’s hair. “I’m the oldest. I know these things.”

Tim grumbles, dancing away, and Dick withdraws with a chuckle. “You did good, Tim,” he says. “And, besides, you guys have all the time in the world to become best buds.”

“But, Dick, studies show that first impressions—”

“Tim,” Dick interrupts, and he feels his exhaustion fraying at his temper again. He reins it in and, placing his hand on Tim’s shoulder, pours every last bit of encouragement he can into his voice. “Trust me.”

This time, Tim keys into Dick’s sincerity, and he studies him with piercing blue eyes. “Okay,” he finally says, shoulders slumping forward. He shrugs out from under Dick’s hand, running a hand through his hair, and starts scanning the Bat Computer screens, an obvious ploy to avoid eye contact and change the subject. Unsurprisingly, Barbara’s work absorbs his attention within seconds, his embarrassment dissolving in an instant. “What’s this?” he asks.

“Diagnostics on Talia’s flash-drive,” Babs says easily. “We may be indebted to her for what she did for Jason and Damian, but I don’t want to assume anything. She may still have an ulterior motive. I’m checking it for spyware and viruses before we accidentally let it corrupt our entire network.”

Tim’s clearly itching to get in on this, eyes alight as he leans forward. “Anything yet?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Babs says, putting a hand on Tim’s chest and pushing him back. “Alfred’s already delayed breakfast for you, you little delinquent.”

Tim winces, and he opens his mouth, probably to insist he’s not hungry, that he can take his coffee and protein shake in the Cave just as well as he can upstairs, but Babs’ no-nonsense expression rivals Alfred’s, stopping him in his tracks. “Alright,” he says, contrite. “Cass and Steph are up there already?”

Babs hums. “They’re keeping an eye on Damian for Alfred.”

Tim eyes the clock. “And I suppose he already knows we’re back.”

Leave it to Tim to try to make the most of his time before being subjected to family obligations. Dick sighs, and Babs responds, “Yep. You now have...” She takes a peek at the digital clock on the central monitor, too. “Approximately fifteen minutes left to clean up, get changed, and scurry your ass upstairs. I’d hustle if I were you. He’s threatened a twenty-four-hour Cave ban if—”

Babs doesn’t get to finish. Tim’s gone.

Dick snickers. “Predictable. I’m glad you only use your powers for good, Babs. We’d be in sorry shape if you decided to switch sides on us.”

“And don’t you ever forget it,” Babs says, turning her back on him for a moment. With a few quick keystrokes, she starts a few more tests to leave up and running while they’re at breakfast and minimizes all the programs.

When she faces him again, Dick sees the humor dancing in her eyes ebbing into something calculating and contemplative. “What happened?” she asks.

Because of course she does. She knows him better than he knows himself.

And that’s really all it takes. The ugly and furious flood of emotion he’s been struggling to contain boils forth, overpowering everything in its wake. The strength behind it leaves Dick breathless, his hands trembling.

He wants nothing more than to scream.

Because for all that he believes, in his heart of hearts, that everyone deserves a second chance, that no one is irredeemable and people can change, if given the opportunity; that there’s always another side to the story and no matter which side of the story they're privy to, they’re not the ones to decide the fate of the ones they fight...

Seeing Jason hug himself on the bathroom floor, using his arms as a shield against unfriendly eyes, unable to hide the myriad of scars littering his torso, a testament to the horrific pain he's endured, the scent of vomit lingering in the air...

It’s long past time Dick accepts that some villains...aren’t going to change. Don’t want to change. And that they won’t stop. Not for anything. They’ll continue leaving a bloody, fiery trail in their wake, uncaring of those caught in the aftermath. And if that’s going to be the case, then they don’t deserve his consideration, much less his mercy.

Dick closes his eyes, gorge surging as his anger reaches its peak.

“The next time,” Dick says through clenched teeth, “that monster is out of Arkham, he better hope I’m not the one to find him.”

Babs doesn’t react, expression nonjudgmental and calm, and Dick takes it as permission to continue spewing his vitriol. “I could kill him, Babs,” Dick admits, without a single ounce of remorse. “Again. With my bare hands. And I wouldn’t let B push me aside this time, I swear on my parents’—”

“You don’t want to finish that sentence,” Babs says quietly. “I know you don’t.”

Dick works his jaw, unable to confirm or deny the statement. He’s sick to his stomach, fury rotting him from the inside out. He feels wretched and wrecked, seconds from vibrating apart. God, he feels worthless. His brother is hurting, and the bastard responsible is currently untouchable.

“Come here,” Babs says, opening her arms.

Dick kneels, somewhat reluctant to get so close to her when he’s this angry, but as he allows her to pull him close, he melts into her embrace, his full-body tremor subsiding second by second.

“It’s not fair,” he mumbles. Jason doesn’t deserve this. He shouldn’t have to feel like a stranger in his own skin, forced to battle flashbacks and God knows what else he’s got locked in his memories from his time...away. He shouldn’t have to learn to live his life again, and he sure as hell shouldn’t have to navigate the changes he was meant to be a part of from the beginning.

“I know. Believe me, babe. I know.”

Babs doesn’t deserve this either. She shouldn’t have to wake up from night terrors in a cold sweat, forced to fend off the phantom pain that sometimes spasms down her legs and spine. She shouldn’t have to feel as though she can’t defend those she cares about, as though she failed and continues to fail every single damn time the Joker escapes and decides to hurt someone else.

“I hate him,” Dick admits into her sweatshirt. “I don’t...I don’t hate anyone, Babs. Hating anyone...” It feels wrong. He isn’t built to hate, to rage, like this, and the way it consumes him, in all its violent and hideous intensity, scares the shit out of him. It always has. It’s why he tries so hard to keep his temper under wraps, why he can’t let Tim see him like this again, much less Jason. Hell, were it anyone but Babs, the shame of it would eat him alive. “I hate him. I hate what he’s done to us. To you. To Jason. To Gotham. Life is wasted on him.”

“I hate him, too,” Babs says, the conviction and promise of retribution in her voice echoing his own. “And one day, he’ll get what’s coming to him. All the better, if I’m the one to deliver justice to him, once and for all.”

“It’s unfair,” Dick murmurs again.

“I know. We will be free of him. I have to believe that. And until then, I daydream of the day someone finds him sitting propped against some long-forgotten alley wall, nearly unrecognizable, with his head half-severed from his body, brains blown to hell.”

She says it in such a casual, light tone, it immediately breaks Dick out of his funk, and he chuckles. “That’s disturbingly specific, Babs.”

“Let a girl dream.”

“It wasn’t a criticism.”

Babs laughs and begins carding her fingers through his hair. Dick relaxes to her ministrations, and a comfortable silence falls over them. With every breath they take together, Dick feels more and more like himself. He’s still exhausted, wrung out like a rag left to dry, but a majority of the poison’s been purged from his soul. His anger settles into a controllable simmer, where it can’t lash out and hurt anyone else.  

What’s left behind is a slew of resentment. He's useless to Jason right now, and he despises that he can't do anything to help. Not unless...

“What do we know,” he asks suddenly, “about the properties of Lazarus water?”

Babs pulls away from him, surprised at the non sequitur. Her eyes flash, cautious and sharp. “Not much. Why?”

Dick doesn’t respond right away, instead answering his own question with, “We know it...rejuvenates Ra’s. We know it heals lethal wounds. Possibly grants immortality.”

“Yes,” Babs agrees slowly.

“What about...minor wounds? Scars, even?”

He’s taking a shot in the dark. He can’t know, for sure, that’s what triggered Jason’s attack. He's not Bruce or Tim, but he’s not a shabby detective himself. He can make some educated assumptions, and until Jason decides to open up, that’s about as good an assumption as he can make.

Babs studies him. “I’m not sure,” she says. “But would you be willing to test it, knowing what else those Pits are rumored to do?”

He winces. He’s seen the remains of those who were lured to the Pits or otherwise stumbled upon them by accident, and he’s heard the stories. Some of those stories came from the mouths of Shadows themselves. They might be cautionary tales, meant to dissuade outsiders from seeking out the Pits and either taking a swim or hoarding the treasure for themselves, but they’re so nightmarish even Bruce can’t ignore the possibility they’re not entirely fictitious.

It doesn’t sit well with him, but if it helps Jason, then it’s worth looking into, at least. He files it away for future consideration.

Seems like he’s going to have to make his peace with Exercised Patience, his old nemesis.

“He is okay,” Babs says, after a moment, anxiety edging her voice, “Isn’t he?”

“He will be,” Dick assures, and for the first time since he left Watchtower, his happiness isn’t tainted or riddled with holes. It fills him up, pushing everything else to the periphery. “Tim wasn’t lying. He’s back with us.”

Babs’ smile is blinding, and her joy compounds his own. “We owe M’gann big time.”

“True that. I’ve never seen her so out of it,” Dick says. “But when we left, J’onn just arrived and assured us she’ll be fine with some rest.”

“‘All was well,’ then,” Babs says. “Or as well as it can be, at the moment. Thank God.”

“Did you just quote Harry Potter at me?” Dick says, laughing. He dusts his fingers up her sides and leans forward for a kiss. “You absolute nerd.”

“Naturally.” She smiles against his lips, and Dick presses against her, hungry for a little more contact. Heat licks down his spine, pooling in his gut, and just as his tongue presses against the seam of her lips, there’s a crash from the other end of the Cave. He breaks off, turning around to see Tim next to a toppled pile of old, bullet-ridden armor, fighting with a sock, hair an uncombed mess.

Babs leans around Dick and asks, “You okay over there?”

“Always, Babs,” Tim says absentmindedly, and there’s a hilariously triumphant grin on his face when he finally manhandles his sock on. When he looks up to them and notices their intimate position, his grin twists. “Ew. Gross, guys. Get a room, maybe?”

“Later,” Dick says unabashedly, glancing at the clock and straightening from his crouch. He takes Babs’ hand as he rises, interlacing his fingers with hers. To adjust for the height difference between them, they rest their hands on her left shoulder, where they can both comfortably continue to hold hands.

Thank you, he communicates through touch alone.

Anytime, she responds.

Dick smiles at Tim. “C’mon, bro. Chow’s on.”

~...~

Breakfast is a quiet affair.

For the most part.

Or, at least, it is until Stephanie makes the mistake of asking, “Um, I’m sorry, what about Jason Todd?” because apparently, between Damian’s introduction, her less-than-graceful retreat from the Cave, and the flurry of activity necessary to accommodate for the baby, she somehow missed that with Damian had also come a reanimated Robin the Second.

It becomes all too apparent, too, that she also knows next to nothing about Jason—about how he died, why he died, much less anything about who he was as a Robin—and that’s just...

Not okay. At all.

It horrifies Tim to such a degree he almost wishes he can march right back up to Watchtower and confront Bruce, ask why that is, but in the end, he comes to the conclusion he’s just as guilty for the oversight. They’re all guilty.

Then again, Jason’s name, up until today, while never forgotten, had been actively avoided in the Manor’s halls, his absence an oozing wound that refused to heal. Maybe no one really was to blame, in the end. It was only recently that Steph was let in on their secret IDs, anyway, and as she said earlier that morning, her level of security clearance really is kind of up in the air at the moment. Even so, it bothers Tim to the nth degree that it never occurred to them to share such an important piece of the Robin legacy with someone on their team.

He delights in making up for it now.

He probably ends up talking more than he does eating, something that Alfred usually chastises him for on a normal day of the week. The butler, however, has a new battle to fight with Damian, who, it seems, is just about as fond of big brunches as Tim is.

That’s to say: not very fond at all. Damian’s having far more fun wiggling around in his ancient high-chair, mushing fruit between his grubby little fingers, and throwing his Cheerios and sippy cup onto the floor than he is sitting still and using any of his food for its intended purpose.

Tim sympathizes, and he and Damian make eye contact as Cass takes over part of Alfred’s usual duties, jamming her bony elbow into his ribs and giving him a pointed look at his plate. He takes a dutiful bite at the same time Alfred, somehow, manages to get a button of banana into Damian’s mouth.

“Now that wasn’t so difficult, now was it, young sir?” Alfred asks fondly as Damian chews sloppily, smacking his lips and pulling a scowl.

Solider on, little man, Tim thinks, taking another prompted bite of his own food.

Bab and Dick don’t talk much, tired as they clearly are, instead preferring listen to him ramble about Jason, but when they realize Damian’s been watching Tim for a good portion of the meal—probably distracted by your fanboy flailing, you big loser, according to Steph, which is just untrue because he does not flail, Stephanie—they turn their attention to the baby instead, probably in the hopes of helping Alfred teach Damian how normal, well-mannered individuals are supposed to behave at the breakfast table.

Well, Babs does. She and Alfred engage in a discussion about the behaviors and language capacity of thirteen-to-sixteen-month olds, and normally, Tim would be fascinated, but he’s preoccupied with the way Dick’s eyes are starting to droop as he rests his elbow on the table, propping his chin in his hand, mouth slackening as he dozes.

“Ten bucks he’s going to get tabasco in his eye,” Stephanie bets, observing Dick’s precarious position over his plate.

Cass shakes her head at Tim from out of Stephanie’s line of sight, and he smirks. “You’re on.”

To the surprise of literally no one, Dick’s elbow goes sliding not even moments later, unbalancing him, and he jolts forward, drool glistening on his palm. His plate clatters as it knocks against his silverware, but no food or any associated condiment goes flying.

Tim laughs, and he's just about to tell Stephanie to keep her money when there’s a pealing ripple of bubbly giggles erupting from the other end of the table, ringing high above his own.

The whole table goes dead silent, and they whip their attention to Damian, whose pudgy cheeks are split into a gaping smile that displays all five of his teeth. His eyes are locked on Dick, whose surprised expression morphs into something so smitten that it wipes away all traces of the fatigued shadows lining his face.

“You like that, Dami?” Dick coos. “How about this?” He pretends to fall forward again, dramatizing it as much as he can. Damian gets a kick out of it, his laughter even more boisterous than before.

“Oh my God,” Dick breathes, giddy. He sits himself upright again, gesturing to Tim’s phone, but Tim’s so ahead of him. He’s already been recording for about ten seconds. Alfred, too, has retreated momentarily to capture the entire scene with his own smartphone, his usual, polite smile growing into an overjoyed beam.

They take turns, then, falling forward and catching themselves for Damian, whose giggles are so infectious the rest of them are laughing right alongside him. Stephanie and Dick, in particular, get the biggest reactions out of him, taking their natural, near-obnoxious energy to new levels as they compete for Damian’s attention.

Tim’s not surprised. Dick’s always been good with kids. He’d know. And Steph...he’s glad some of the chilly distance she’d been keeping between her and the baby had thawed. He should have realized it sooner, just how much Damian’s presence might affect her, but it seems he has nothing to worry about now. She’s a natural, and he’s kind of proud of her, for taking that step.

It’s good for her.

“He’s taken to us all remarkably,” Alfred murmurs some time later, when Damian’s hysterical laughter has died down and he’s actually eating his food of his own volition, observant blue eyes trained on Dick, who’s finally finishing his own, too.

The imitation is adorable, and Tim snaps a picture to send off to Bruce immediately. “You almost make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”

Alfred shakes his head. “Of course not, Master Tim. I’m elated Master Damian does not seem shy or otherwise upset in our presence, but I do...wonder. At this age, many babies have separation anxiety from their primary caretakers.”

Tim sees what he’s getting at, and he considers Damian for a moment. He shrugs. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Can you imagine Talia dropping her work for the Shadows just to play nurturing, stay-at-home Mom?”

(Janet Drake sure as hell hadn’t).

For a moment, he almost regrets the thought, but then realizes he has nothing to regret. He isn’t bitter, necessarily, and he’ll neither judge Talia nor Janet for their choices, much in the same way he’d never judge any other woman who chooses differently. How a woman decides to balance motherhood with her career and social life is on them. Stephanie had appreciated his stance on that, not so long ago, when she had to make the difficult, heartrending decision to put up her baby for adoption, an ordeal that would forever solidify Tim’s opinions on the matter and allow him to look at his own mother’s actions from a new perspective.

A few of his family members suggested that that wasn’t quite the best way to look at his own situation, as it implied a certain level of denial, but they didn’t get it. The backlash and emotional agony Stephanie had to deal with, in addition to her self-doubt and depression after the fact, helped him process some of his parents’ decisions regarding him in a more objective manner. For the first time, he could truly see the differences between a mother who acts in the genuine interest of her child and a mother who, under the guise of doing the same, actually acts in her own self-interest, which, according to Dinah, was a bit of a breakthrough.

In any case, Tim knows Janet and Stephanie can hardly be compared to Talia, much in the same way he can’t compare himself or Stephanie’s baby to Damian, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have suspicions, doesn’t see key parallels and obvious dissimilarities. He’s a detective. Drawing conclusions from related events and behavior is what he does.

Tim’s tone is neutral as he continues, “She’s been active as a member of Ra’s’ organization this entire time, traveling and acting under his name, not a single whisper of a baby from any of our contacts. That implies Damian’s been handed off to nurses and caretakers that had been sworn to secrecy for most of his life. He probably prefers Talia, of course—because I can’t imagine she’d neglect what’s hers—but he’s probably used to new people. And far less used to this much positive attention. I mean, look at him.” Damian and Dick are currently waving back and forth at each other. Dick’s clearly delighted in having found another game they can play, and Damian’s having an equally good time of it. “He’s eating it up.”

Alfred’s gaze is uncomfortably tender as Tim offers his opinion. Tim avoids it for all he’s worth, fiddling with his phone and sending copies of his pictures and videos to the Family group chat so they can save them for themselves. When Alfred doesn’t say anything more, Tim deflects again. “At least we got him early. We can make up for any lost time, right?”

“Of course, Master Timothy,” Alfred says, blessedly letting it be and turning back to observe the rest of the family. “It is a shame we are missing several members of our party.”

“They’ll be back soon,” Tim says. “Jason’s not going to let them hole him up for long.”

Alfred cracks a grin at that. “Assuredly. Now, before I go and encourage Master Dick and Miss Gordon off to bed, did you have enough to eat?”

Tim’s been full pretty much since the first three bites of his pancakes, so he nods. Alfred, true to form, doesn’t believe him, frowning at the mess he sees on Tim’s plate. With a sigh, he says, “At least take a snack into the Cave with you, Master Timothy. There is still some yoghurt and berries in the fridge, and some fresh granola in the pantry, if you would like to augment your late lunch with something more than the usual cups of coffee.”  

“Thanks, Alfred,” Tim says, gratefully accepting the butler’s unsaid permission to leave the table. He skirts around the table, giving Damian a wave as he passes. He’s rewarded with enthusiastic flapping from the kid, which Dick wastes no time praising him for.

“Say bye-bye to Timmy,” Steph adds to Damian, a light tease in her tone. “You won’t be seeing him for another few hours.”

Damian doesn’t say bye-bye, and he doesn’t seem to care Tim’s leaving. Tim doesn’t mind. He heads for the kitchen to grab a fresh mug of coffee and the snacks Alfred recommended, knowing that he would be given a tongue-lashing should he have conveniently forgotten, and makes his way to the Cave.

When he arrives, he slides into a computer chair and pushes off the floor, using the wheeled chair to propel himself to one of the extra computers attached to the Bat Computer’s mainframe. He aches to take a peek at the work he knew Babs left up and running, but he also knows she’d kill him if he touched it without her there to see the results herself.

For the work he wants to do, it’s best he sets up his own work station, anyway. Jason’ll appreciate having at least some answers when he comes home, and Tim fully intends on providing what he can.

He boots the computer up and logs in, mind churning. His first instinct is to tackle the evidence at Jason’s gravesite first and foremost, because, logically speaking, where else would one start in a case like this? It only makes sense.

Within a few minutes of researching grave exhumations, Tim is forced to dismiss his initial train of thought for a number of reasons, the least of which being he...can’t start messing with Jason’s gravesite without Bruce. Or, at least, not without knowing how they are going to play this. The amount publicity an exhumation of Jason Todd’s grave will generate is unprecedented, and Tim does not have the authority to go off a script that hasn’t even been written yet.

It sucks, in the long run, that Jason was buried beside his mother and not on Wayne grounds, in the family cemetery. It would have erased a great number of privacy-related issues.

Tim thinks he can bribe a few officials and overseers at St. Peter’s Cemetery, but factoring in the sheer amount of people who, legally, must be present at and/or informed of an exhumation, he’s pretty sure even an illegal, covert operation would have too many variables to control, and he knows they hardly want loose lips spreading rumors around Gotham before they’re damn well ready to tackle them.

He supposes he could go gravedigging himself—bypass the security, maybe call a few superpowered friends to help—but that...sounds distasteful in the extreme. Besides, not only is that not his decision to make but it’s also hardly the greatest use of his time, not to mention it’s daytime, and he wants to be here when Jason and Bruce return.

The cons outweigh the pros by a landslide.

Later, he decides. They can investigate the physical evidence together, when they have a full plan in place.

With the gravesite investigation on standby, Tim starts step two and hacks into the shabby private records in place at St. Peter’s Cemetery as well as any public records pertaining to it. His goal is to review any odd or unusual reports of vandalism or trespassing, as well as study the possible witnesses to said occurrences. He wants to do a deep search into the cemetery supervisor and other office management, too—to hunt for any sign that Jason’s resurrection was covered up by some third party.

All that, as it happens, turns out to be a big bust, and Tim wishes he can say he foresaw the high staff turnover rate as well as the numerous accounts of a) Gotham U kids acting on dares for their Greek sororities and fraternities and b) Scarecrow. Just Scarecrow. 

But he didn’t, much to his chagrin, and he hisses at the screen. Only in Gotham can someone have trouble discerning a morbid prank from the aftermath of some villain’s sick plan from some drunk weirdos’ nighttime wanderings from actual evidence.

Or any combination thereof.

After downloading a short list of the cemetery staff members around the time of Jason’s funeral for future reference, Tim scraps the cemetery angle altogether. Pursing his lips, he leans back, twirling idly in the office chair, gaze staring through the jagged ceiling as he thinks.

There’s so little they know about when and how Jason was found by Talia that Tim has trouble narrowing down his next avenue of action. An investigation of the gravesite really is exactly what they need to shine a little light on the mystery. It’d give them something to go off. Right now, they can’t know if his body was...stolen, by magic or other means, let alone if...

A horrible, niggling suspicion starts to take root in Tim’s mind, and he spins back to the computer, dragging up as many old pictures and videos of Jason’s Robin as he can find. He looks at everything from newspaper clippings, to footage from the Cave, to anything and everything he, personally, took with his old Canon camera and had uploaded for Bruce onto the Bat Computer.

He scans the pictures. Naturally, he’s probably tabbed through a hundred or so photographs before he finds what he’s looking for: a shot of Jason without gloves or gauntlets.

He zooms in on Jason’s hands, enhancing the image as much as he can and blessing Bruce’s software for making it easy on him. The end result is still a little pixelated, but it tells him what he needs to know.

His gut flops like a fish out of water, cold from the inside-out, and he finds a few other pictures, just to be sure he can reach the same conclusion each time. In the end, he confirms, with at least ninety-percent certainty, that the curious marks he noticed on Jason’s hands up at Watchtower...weren’t...weren’t there before.

Tim furiously closes all of his windows and starts a new search, enabling the use of several backdoors they already have set up through a number of private databases, including the GCPD and Gotham’s med center. He pauses then, tapping his fingers lightly against the keys.

If Jason...did break out of his own grave, it isn’t too far of a stretch to assume, maybe, he’d been found, at one point or another. Before Talia. If Tim, for a brief moment, considers that possibility as irrefutable fact, then logically, Jason can’t have gotten too far on foot, right?

And assuming he was found by a Good Samaritan, there’s only one place they’d take him.

He starts setting his parameters. The search includes any emergency room admittance for a “John Doe” within a twenty-five-mile radius of St. Peter’s, dated from the day of Jason’s funeral and up until today. When hundreds upon hundreds of options flood in, he scowls and narrows his search, cutting off at least a year from the tail-end, acting under the assumption that Jason had been with the al Ghuls for at least one year out of the three he’s been gone. He adds several other key words, including “young male,” “catatonic,” and any variation of “dirt” and “mud,” hoping he’ll catch a physician’s SOAP note in one of the John Does’ EMRs that features any of the above.

To cover his bases, he decides to cross-reference that search with one that removes his key search-words and instead focuses on those John Does who had their prints run while in the hospital. A third search hunts down reports of an ambulance call for someone fitting Jason’s description.

Tim sits back and clicks go, allowing the computer chug through the data. He’s about to take a sip from his coffee mug when he sees the reflection of someone behind him.

“Hey,” Stephanie says quietly.

“Hey,” he responds, and he swirls around to give her his full attention. He studies her carefully. “How are you doing?”

She knows what he’s truly asking and doesn’t beat around the bush or play stupid. He’s always liked that about her. “I thought it would hurt more,” she admits. “But Bruce’s got a cute kid. I’m...I’m okay, I think.”

“Good,” he says. “I should have asked earlier. I’m sorry I didn’t check up on you.”

Stephanie scoffs, flapping her hand. “Please. It’s not like I’m about to go slitting my wrists or something every time I see a baby, Tim. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” Before he can react to that, she nods toward the computer. “Besides, you had something else on your mind.”

It’s not an excuse, but Tim will accept the change in topic. “I want to give him some peace of mind when he gets home. Or at least lay the groundwork for it.”

Stephanie watches data filter across the screen for a moment before saying, “You talked a lot about him. At breakfast.”

Unsure where this was heading, Tim nods. “I did.”

“It was kind of embarrassing. You’re a really big fan.”

“He was my Robin,” Tim explains. “Of course I'm a big fan. Weren’t you?”

Steph shrugs. “I don’t think...I realized Dick and Jason were two totally different Robins,” she says. “I never thought to look that much into it, especially considering you were the only Robin I cared to know. At least until...” She jerks her thumb in the direction of Jason’s memorialized suit. “I saw that. And kinda started to wonder.”

“Omigawd, Steph,” Tim says, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you just said that to me. Dick and Jason’s preferred fighting styles as Robin are blatantly different compared to mine and especially compared to each other's, not to mention—”

“Omigawd, Tim,” Stephanie mocks, mimicking his tone and placing her hands on her hips. “You need to find some chill or this guy’s going to have to put a restraining order on you.”

In light of his recent realization of the same, even with Dick and Barbara’s assurances, Tim winces and chews on his inner cheek.

Steph must see the insecurity flash across his face because she immediately reaches for him, saying, “Oh, shit, no, I didn’t mean it however you’re taking it, Tim. I just...” She hesitates and tries again. “I only knew him as another kid who got sucked into this life. He’s no different from me or Cissie. Cass, even. But you...even after getting in on the big Wayne-Family secret, I never really understood...what brought you here. You never said. I assumed a lot. But it makes sense now, I think.”

The computer pings behind him, but Tim doesn’t dare turn around. Steph would only drag him back. Steph’s eyes trail to the screens, momentarily, and then latch back onto Tim’s.

“Jason was more than your Robin. He was your hero. Wasn’t he? And not in the mindless, arbitrary way I say ‘Ariana Grande is my hero’ one week and then switch to Robert Downey Jr. the next. Or the universal way that kids say 'Superman's my hero.' I mean...he really was your hero. More than Dick or Babs or any of the others. He was...that hero. For you. The one who got you through?”

Tim doesn’t respond right away. His mind is locked.

Steph’s right. He hadn’t dwelled on it, up at Watchtower—he’d had far more important things to address at the time—but Jason’s always been far more than the catalyst that changed his life. He’s more than the Robin who inspired him to be better than he ever thought he could be.

Jason had saved him from himself long, long before Tim ever thought that, maybe, he could be Robin, too.

He takes a shallow breath and closes his eyes, remembering the nights he sat up alone and lonely and drowning in his bedroom, waiting for the sun to rise, hoping it never would. He remembers pulling his legs to his chest, burrowing his face into his knees, and wishing he wasn’t there. Wishing...Wishing he could just...

Cease.

My parents obviously don't care one way or another, he remembers thinking, at a mere ten years old, when all the darkness inside him started to conglomerate and manifest its own personality. Why should I?

And whenever that nasty, recurring thought decided to emerge in his mind, he remembers forcibly turning his thoughts to the new Robin instead. He remembers every time he saw Jason out there and thinking that, if Robin can stand to bring light to even the grimiest of Gotham’s streets—the very same that abused and would have killed him otherwise—then Tim could get up and face another day. And if Robin can laugh in the face of the worst Gotham had to offer—the very same that spurned and tormented him—then he could manage it all with a smile, too.

So he got up. He went to school. He ate and showered and went through all the motions. He eventually started talking to a school counselor, and then a therapist, and if that failed, he tried again. And again. And again.

And he did it all with a smile, just like Robin. It didn’t matter that it was all a façade at the beginning, because the more he smiled, the more real those smiles became. 

Now that he’s met Jason...God, Jason may have accepted that he’s grown out of Robin’s yellow-lined cape, but he’s always been so much more than a mask, and he’s never made it more obvious to Tim than he did today.

It takes more than a fair amount of courage, to admit change has happened without you, to look toward the future with determination and with the expectation that life will go on, and even though it’s tough, it’s also beautiful that way.

Tim knows. It’s taken him a long, long time to find that courage himself, and he’s got Jason to thank for starting him on that path.

He was your hero. Wasn’t he? Steph had asked.

Tim smiles, and unlike the ones that he put on, years ago, it isn’t forced, not in the least. He has Jason to thank for that too.

“He still is.”

Chapter Text

“Shit.”

Jason has stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of PET-CT machine before them, his fingers twitching as he stares at the flat bed sticking out of its maw. His face is drained of color, jaw clenched. “I have to sit in that thing for how long again?” he asks.

Bruce hesitates, studying his son.

Jason hadn’t been too pleased when Doctor Mid-Nite advised against eating any of the food Bruce delivered for him, but he’d been more than willing to skip another meal and participate in any number of tests the doctor insisted upon if it meant he could be cleared to return home sooner rather than later.

A standard physical and comprehensive metabolic panel had been the first order of business, and it had gone smoothly enough, all things considered. Jason had always been particular whenever he was forced into Dr. Thompkins’ office for a check-up, especially at the beginning, when he’d been suspicious of all strangers and downright hostile toward those who touched him without permission. During that first visit, Jason had been an anxious mess, but Leslie had been an angel, patiently walking Jason through everything she did and asking for his consent at every stage of the exam. Bruce recalled Jason nearly fainted during his first blood draw with Leslie, too, and it’s a testament to how much he has grown that he didn’t so much as flinch when Doctor Mid-Nite brandished the needle this time around. The physical itself put Jason on edge, but not so much that Bruce was concerned. That was pretty typical, even after Jason became more comfortable with Leslie.

This reaction, however, is new.

Jason’s never been claustrophobic before.

“About forty-five minutes,” Bruce says slowly. “We need a full body scan.”

Jason nods once. The expression on his face...Bruce recognizes that expression. It’s as heartwarming and familiar as it is painful and unnecessary. “Alright,” Jason says, nonchalant. “Cool.”

Heart clenching, Bruce takes Jason by the shoulder. “We have Valium on site,” he murmurs. “To help.”

The determination on Jason’s face morphs in an instant, a new edge of stubborn willfulness coloring his tone. “Fuck no,” he snaps.

“Language.”

Jason rolls his eyes and says, “With my family history? No. I refuse.”

Bruce considers him for a moment and turns back survey the machine. Part of him wants to tell Jason that a one-time dose in a controlled environment and under the supervision of a medical professional is hardly going to trigger any addictive tendencies in someone who has never tried a benzodiazepine before, but he remembers a time when, once upon a time, he told himself something of the same.

Venom and BZDs may be two very, very different beasts, and Bruce may believe Jason’s at low risk, despite family history and previous nicotine misuse, but his son’s discomfort hits close enough to home that he doesn’t say anything but, “I understand.”

He expects any number of skeptical responses—a scoff, a sarcastic do you?, a dead-eyed stare—because while his children have seen him work with addicts before, not a single one of them knew he’d been there, too, and he meant to keep it that way.

It was enough that Alfred knew his shame, knew him at the absolute worst pinnacle of addiction, not to mention the absolute lowest trench of withdrawal. They never spoke of it thereafter. Bruce didn’t intend to start now—and certainly not with one of his kids.

He should have known better. Jason, as usual, defies all expectations, turning to give him a look that Bruce feels pierce him straight through, something like astonishment flitting across his face.

Before Jason can draw any firm conclusions and voice them, Bruce says, “We don’t need to do this today. I can tell—”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine,” Jason snaps.

Bruce hesitates. Jason doesn’t sound like he’ll be fine. He’s learnt to accept and respect his children’s minor decisions regarding their own limits, but Jason...Jason’s never been good at stopping, much less gauging when he should stop. He’s even worse at asking for help, and perhaps Bruce is projecting. Perhaps he’s a little sensitive and more than a little overprotective, seeing as he’s only just gotten Jason back. Whatever the reason, he’s prompted to ask, “Are you sure?”

“Fuck, yes, B.” Jason finally drags his eyes away from the machine. “I’ve already got the tracer and contrast. This needs to be done, so let’s do it.”

“Jason.”

Jason’s shoulders tense, rising minutely to his ears. Bruce doesn’t say anything more, waiting his son out. At the beginning, each of his Robins struggled to understand that Bruce’s silences weren’t always punishments or expressions of disappointment, not so much as they were permission to speak and an invitation to share, as well as they were acceptance should they decide not to. They are full of the things he can’t say—the things he doesn’t always know how to say—and though he is well-aware it isn’t the best or healthiest way to communicate how much he cares, it is his way. Those important to him know.

Jason hasn’t been gone so long that he’s forgotten.

A muscle in Jason’s jaw twitches, but his shoulders fall. He murmurs something under his breath, something Bruce can hardly make out.

When Jason doesn’t speak up again, Bruce sighs. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he deadpans, “but I’ve been told I’m getting old. I didn’t hear a word you said.”

Something stutters in his chest when his joke doesn’t elicit a response from Jason, whose eyes go alarmingly dead. “What is going on, Jay?” Bruce asks.

“I dug out.”

For a brief moment, Bruce doesn’t understand. He comprehends the words as English, of course, but strung together in that particular way, and blurted in such a tone, he is as stupefied as he would be had Jason just spoken in a dead language. “What?” he asks, hunting for some context, for some indication he misheard.

“I fucking dug out, okay?” Jason repeats, fire edging his words, and Bruce’s gaze lands on the fingers Jason’s pulling up into the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He doesn’t look Bruce in the eye. “I...” His voice breaks. “I dug out.”

...Of his grave?

Horrified, Bruce inhales, sharp and short. Without thinking, he surges toward Jason and pulls him close, into a side embrace. Jason’s far too tall for his cape to drape over him like it used to, like it has all of his birds at one point or another, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to give him that same sense of security, just as he had the night any of his partners suffered from fear toxin for the first time, or the night they first met the Joker, or any other time Gotham’s darkness threatened to smother some of their inner light.

God, Bruce prays, closing his burning eyes, give us strength as we navigate these murky waters, for we may not fully understand the monsters that hide in their depths.

Jason shudders against him, swallowing convulsively. Bruce doesn’t push, instead allowing him to draw what comfort he can from him. In the meantime, he feels no shame in depending on his son’s presence to keep himself from falling apart at the seams. “Take the Valium,” he rumbles after a moment.

Jason lifts his head. His eyes dance across Bruce’s face for a moment before he asks, “How much longer will it take to get this done? If I take it?”

Relief blossoms through his chest, followed quickly by alternative bursts of fondness and crippling sorrow. The fact Jason’s willing to compromise proves, perhaps even more so than the physical evidence on his scarred hands, that what he says is true: that...at one point...

Bruce’s teeth gnash together. He wishes, more than anything, there was someone he could hit, someone he could punish, for putting his son through that. He wouldn’t wish such a thing on even the most foul of the monsters he’s faced.

Pulling himself together, Bruce eventually responds, “No longer than another hour.” When Jason’s nose twitches in disapproval, Bruce turns and calls, “J’onn? Mid-Nite?”

Over the intercom system, J’onn’s calm baritone responds, “Yes, Batman?”

“Will anti-anxiety medication interfere with your technology?”

“Yes,” J’onn says, “but not so much that we will be unable to interpret the data we need to ensure young Jason’s mental and subconscious health. Our technology can account for it, should the medication be necessary.”

Bruce nods, the scientist in him impressed despite himself. “Change of plans, then,” he says simply.

J’onn has worked with him long enough to follow his train of thought. “Acknowledged.”

“Come on,” Bruce murmurs to Jason, once the intercom clicks off. “We’ll get you a dose and make the most of our time while we wait for it to take effect.”

“Sure,” Jason says, and though his tone is agreeable, his eyes are tired, tight with repressed impatience. “What’s this one again?”

“Martian voodoo,” Bruce jokes, because despite how many times he and J’onn have sat down to discuss the science behind it, Bruce still can’t fully wrap his mind around the scope of the Martians’ medical technology. Their people have such rich inner lives, and because they communicate with each other and interact with their world through their minds, they have had to develop a number of processes to assess their minds for disease, deterioration, and general health. A lot of it, Bruce is not ashamed to admit, goes well over his head.

 “This technology,” Bruce continues, when Jason scowls at him, “was developed specifically for the Martian mind, which is arguably one of the most powerful psychic minds in the universe, so as you can imagine, when used to assess human minds, most of the output is useless.”

Jason blinks at him, unimpressed. “So I have to sit through this why?”

“For science,” Bruce says. He decides not to remind Jason he agreed to this. He doubts that will be beneficial to any of them. “You...you’ve come back to life, Jason. That’s...that’s no small thing. For any of us. We need to know how. And why.”

“Others have come back before,” Jason argues, a bitter note in his tone.  

They emerge from the radiology room, where one of Mr. Terrific’s robotic nurses waits with J’onn. With a command from J’onn, it beeps and whirls on its mechanized wheels down the hall, disappearing into their tiny pharmacy. “And each of them was subjected to this test, too,” Bruce tries to explain. “As was I, more than a few times.”

“It is not an invasive exam,” J’onn supplies, picking up on the general note of the conversation, “and your natural capabilities will not skew the results, which makes it most useful, especially considering M’gann and I are hardly infallible. In recent years, the exam has proven most adept at helping the Justice League identify otherworldly or psychically implanted mental afflictions in its members, as well as any number of human mental illnesses, dark matter interference, mind-control, sleeper programming, possession...”

“It’s standard procedure now,” Bruce adds, after Jason huffs an impatient breath. “To be evaluated after off-world missions.”

That, for whatever reason, breaks through Jason’s foul mood, his lips twitching into a smirk. “That’s one way to put it, I guess.”

J’onn cocks his head, uncomprehending, and Bruce stares. “You’re impossible,” he decides. “You’re going to give Alfred heart palpitations with that sort of humor.”

“Aw, c’mon, B,” Jason jests. “I’ve come back to life. That’s no small thing.”

Hearing his own words thrown back at him, Bruce isn’t sure if he’s more amused by Jason’s morbid humor or stung by his flippancy. He supposes he should be grateful, more than anything, that Jason hasn’t been so distraught by what’s happened to him that there’s been a noticeable or concerning change in his personality. In fact, he’d probably be a little worried if Jason wasn’t making light of things.

They can do worse than suffer through a few bad death jokes. Beats the alternative, doesn’t it?

The dark little snort that escapes his throat sounds strangled, but if Jason notices, he doesn’t show it. In fact, Jason looks mighty pleased with himself.

“Alright, twerp,” Bruce says, failing to find it in himself to reprimand Jason further. “We’ll do this back in Med-Bay One.”

“Whatever works.”

Together, the two settle back into Jason’s temporary room, where J’onn quickly and efficiently sits Jason down and sticks the thin, round electrodes to his temples. The robotic nurse zooms in shortly after the prep is nearly done, rolling right up to Jason with a little plastic cup of water in one metal arm and the medication in the other.

“Cheers,” Jason murmurs, taking his tablet without delay and chasing it with the water. He grimaces and shuffles so that he’s resting back against the pillows, crossing his arms behind his head and kicking up one leg over the other. “So what now?”

Bruce sits himself down at the chair he left at Jason’s bedside as J’onn flips a switch on one of the machines next to the bedside and explains, “You sit still for about ten minutes and do whatever you wish. You many listen to music, converse with Batman, browse the Internet. It does not matter. I will be in the office with Doctor Mid-Nite, reading the results as they come.”

“You don’t have to sit here with me,” Jason says to Bruce, once J’onn phases out of the room. “I’m sure you want to review all the results of my bloodwork with the good doctor.”

“Sure I do,” Bruce says, “but you should hear it too. We’ll talk about it all, after we’re done with the PET-CT scan.”

Jason takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, and Bruce is glad his son relented to the medication. “Then we can go home?” he asks hopefully.

Home. Bruce smiles. “Barring any serious results that require medical attention or further observation,” Bruce says, trying to remain sober and failing, “yes.”

“Thank God.” Jason’s head hits the metal headboard as he leans back. “I’m hungry.”

Bruce chuckles, deep in his chest. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this is only the beginning of a very long day for you,” he admits. “Tim is likely to have more information for us when we get back.”

Jason is silent for a moment before he says, “I hope you tell that kid you don’t deserve him. Every single day.”

Bruce almost wishes he’d been able to see it—Tim and Jason meet. Only Tim could bulldoze his way into someone’s affections so effortlessly. Even Dick, who’s as charismatic as they come, doesn’t have quite the same level of...oblivious, unintentional charm Tim can have when he’s not particularly trying, or acting, as the case may be, for a particular role. It’s always been that way with him. Even from the very beginning, when, at a mere thirteen years old, Tim walked into Wayne Manor, looked dead him in the eye, and told him he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Tim pulled him out of a very dark place using that particular talent of his, and he will be forever grateful. “He knows.”

Eyebrow quirking, Jason asks, “Does he?”

Does he. That’s a strange question. Because Tim must know. Surely he knows. He’s going to surpass Bruce himself one day, and Bruce has said as much to Tim before. He knows he’s told Tim, shown him, just how valued he is. How amazing he is, having grown leaps and bounds from day one as a detective, as a student, and as a crime-fighter.

...Hasn’t he?

Bruce blinks and sits back, Jason’s doubt settling like a jury’s proclamation of guilt on his shoulders.

Jason seems to think Bruce’s pause is actual confirmation of his claims. “And I suppose you haven’t shown Dick the paperwork yet either, have you.”

It isn’t a question, and Bruce’s spine snaps as he jolts upright, eyes narrowing. “How do you know about that?”

He doesn’t even think Alfred knows about that, and Alfred knows everything.

Jason’s smirk grows into a full-blown grin. “Thought you were hiding something from me about—” A swift shadow brushes Jason’s features like the wings of a bird, the corners of his smile dulling before he catches himself and grins all the brighter. “Well. You know. I just so happened to find it all in your office. It’s kinda why I didn’t leave the place a mess for you, you know. Just to piss you off before I left. I was about to.”

Jason’s flinty eyes pin Bruce where he sits. Never one to be outmatched by his children, no matter how right they think they are, Bruce meets and holds the gaze, but he doesn’t respond. He’s not quite sure how to.

Those documents have been sitting in a locked drawer in his desk for nearly four years. Maybe closer to five, considering they were drafted even as Jason was first being integrated into the family.

“Seriously, Bruce?” Jason asks. “I know there’s this unsaid thing in this family, and I know you and Dick have a weird agreement that dates way, way back, but...”

“It didn’t seem appropriate,” Bruce admits, withholding a wince. “After.”

“Tim said we’re adopted brothers.” Jason counters. “So it was okay for Tim and not Dick?”

“Tim was threatening to invent an imaginary uncle and live on his own as an emancipated minor,” Bruce says. “And continue his internship at W.E., his duties as Robin, in both Gotham and on the Team, and possibly try not to fail out of high school in the meantime.”

Jason blinks, slowly, and whistles under his breath. “Wow. That’s...a point to you there, but my point is you’ve got a bad habit. And it’s stupid.”

“It’s only a bit of paper,” Bruce says, voicing the same thing he told himself whenever it occurred to him to try again. “It doesn’t matter.”

He and Dick have never needed titles or labels to define their relationship, and Dick never needed it to feel like an older brother to any of the others. The younger ones always considered him as an older brother without the need for the official paperwork saying as much, as well. That’s how it’s always been, and it’s silly, truly, to have drafted the paperwork at all. Dick would never agree, and considering their previous arrangement, it may even be construed as disrespectful, too, especially in light of all that Dick has done to assert his independence after the fact.

 When Jason stares, Bruce finds himself echoing, “Dick knows.”

Jason rolls his eyes to the ceiling and mouths oh my fucking God. His gaze snaps back, fiercer than before. “Does he?” he demands again.

This time, Bruce hears the or do you assume? in the silence that follows. His heartbeat skips a step, again, and for a moment, he almost entertains the thought of defending himself, of explaining again, because of course Dick knows, but Jason, out of all of them, has managed to replicate the closest approximation of Alfred’s well-known expression of rebuke—an unholy mixture of mild disdain, hidden amusement, and all-knowing smugness—and he isn’t hesitating to use in on Bruce now.

Bad habits, Jason said. Bruce has been faulted for many, and considering his public persona, he’s learnt to take most of the criticism with a grain of salt, but this...this is one he takes to heart.

“Alright,” Bruce says eventually, “you’ve made your point. I’ll...talk to them.”

“Good,” Jason says, softening, “Because you can’t use my death as excuse anymore, you know. I won’t let you.”

Bruce can tell Jason’s joking, trying to make light of a heavy situation, as he does (and as Bruce has already decided to be grateful for him doing), but he can’t help but construe it as an accusation, one that cuts straight to the bone. Bruce never expected he’d have to face judgement for who he became in the dark period after Jason’s death and prior to Tim’s introduction into his life—not so soon, anyway—but it’s like Jason’s gone stampeding through the dirty pond that is Bruce’s past, stirring up all the sediment and scum that had only just settled after its last greatest upheaval, all of Bruce’s greatest failures, worst regrets, and horrific actions rising to the surface of his memory.

He’d become an empty husk that roamed the Manor halls, a brutal monster that stalked the streets, and he knows that Gotham city and his company, his coworkers, and his friends hadn’t even received the worst of it.

His family had, and Jason’s reminded him of that.

Because he has used Jason’s death as an excuse to push people away, to pretend as though he didn’t need or want the emotions that connected him to others, and that Jason knows that, in all its ugly glory, without any white lies to dull the truth of the matter...hurts. It makes him feel sick, in retrospect.

Closing his eyes, Bruce internalizes it all, forcing the pain inward, where it can do what it does best—fuel his motivation, passion, and drive. “Never again, Jason,” Bruce says, and he’s not sure if he means it more as a promise or as an order, because he and the others can’t go through it again.

He can’t put them through it all again.

If Jason reads his words as anything more or less than what they are, he doesn’t show it. “I’m giving you a deadline,” Jason says instead. “Because you shoulda asked Dick forever ago, and you’re just a big coward.”

“Is that right?” Bruce asks, and he can’t help but feel amused by the childish manipulation tactics Jason’s employing. It’s equally amusing to him that said tactics are working like a charm.

Jason sets his jaw stubbornly. “It is. So next week, at the latest. Otherwise, I’ll tell Tim and the others, and then we’ll all tell Dick before you do, and I know you don’t want that.”

It’s no idle threat. Bruce definitely does not want that. Dick deserves better. He deserves to hear it from him, and if Bruce truly wants to do this right—as he has pretty much since the first year Dick was his ward, even after the promise he made to never replace the Graysons—he would ask in private, and without the others there to influence Dick’s decision one way or another.

“Okay,” is all Bruce can respond with.

“He’ll say yes,” Jason promises, withholding a carless yawn, “If that’s what you’re worried about. He would’ve said yes then, too.”

Bruce isn’t so sure about that, but he’s saved from responding with more than a noncommittal hmmph when a cell phone, which he’d stored on Jason’s bedside table and next to some of the gear he removed for comfort’s sake, buzzes once. And then again. And again.

Jason perks up, eyeing the bundle of stuff. “Gonna get that?” he asks when Bruce doesn’t automatically make a move for the phone.

Bruce had set most of his notifications to silent, with the only exception being that of any messages from his family members. Just as a precaution. He honestly wouldn’t have expected them to contact him now, not after Dick explained to everyone why he wasn’t at home with Damian.

Damian.

“If it were an emergency,” Bruce says, gut lurching despite his calm exterior, “they’d call.”

Jason scrunches his nose at him before turning and sorting through Bruce’s things for the cell phone, which he succeeds in unlocking on the first try, using the same digits Bruce has programmed into the grandfather clock in his office.

“Looks like Tim’s spamming you,” Jason says mildly. “Pictures. Video, too. Can I look?”

“Scooch,” Bruce orders.

As Jason shuffles to the other side of his cot, Bruce shifts out of his chair and sits on the edge of the space Jason left behind. Once Bruce is situated, Jason taps the message and pulls up a video, frozen on an image of Damian sitting in a high chair, mid-laugh, his sloppy, spit-covered cheeks split into a huge smile.

Bruce is immediately captivated by the image, throat swelling with unbidden emotion and a desperate, desperate longing. Beside him, Jason’s breath catches in his throat, and when Bruce looks at him, his eyes are blown wide, face slack.

“You remember him,” Bruce concludes aloud.

“Yeah,” Jason croaks, blinking rapidly. He pinches the bridge of his nose, brow furrowed. “I mean, I remembered he existed before, and that he was super important to us, but seeing him...”

With a huff, he hurriedly taps the video instead of finishing his thought, and the pair of them watch as Dick makes a fool out of himself for Damian’s entertainment, the others joining in when they see Damian’s bubbling hysterics and decide they can’t get enough of it.

Bruce can’t get enough of it. He listens to his baby laugh and doesn’t want it to end. A warm sensation fizzles like champagne bubbles in his chest with each fresh peal of giggles.

“Talia trusted me with him,” Jason says when the video stops, eyes staring through the phone, glazed with foggy memories. “I watched him, when she was unavailable. And when I wasn’t being tested or...trained? I think I spent a lot of time with him.”

Bruce swallows over the lump in his throat, and he takes the phone from Jason so he can tab through a few of the other pictures Tim sent through the family group chat. There’s very little Bruce likes about the fact Damian and Jason were kept from him on Infinity Island, but knowing they weren’t separated, that Jason, in whatever capacity, was able to look out for Damian, is a gift he wasn’t expecting. It warms him from the inside out. “I’m glad.”

“He...” Jason grimaces suddenly, hissing, eyes screwing shut as he rubs at his forehead.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Bruce says in concern. “Don’t force yourself to—”

“He likes animals,” Jason blurts, a victorious note in his voice. “I remember. There were horses, sometimes. Birds. Monkeys, maybe? I’d take him to the water, to see the tide pools. He fell in once.” Jason flashes an apologetic smile toward Bruce. “Sorry.”

It takes a moment for Bruce to comprehend why Jason’s apologizing. It occurs to him, in a new way, that Damian has spent his whole life without him, has faced danger, pain, and fear without him there to kiss his injuries, to comfort and console him, to send his imaginary monsters back from whence they came. His child could have drowned that day, Bruce realizes, had Jason not been there to pull him out, and Bruce would have been none the wiser. The thought is terrifying.

Bruce looks down at the image he still has up on his phone to calm himself. To remind himself it didn’t happen. And it won’t. Not now. Not ever. “He doesn’t look terribly traumatized,” he comments.

Jason’s face pinches again. “He wasn’t. He leaned right back over the pool the moment I pulled him out. Utterly fearless.” He grins. “You’re going to have a time with him.”

Bruce snorts and scrolls up the chain of messages again. It seems Tim wasn’t the only one to bombard him with updates.

“And I suppose now would be a good time to mention,” Jason drawls, “while you’re looking particularly vulnerable, Dick and I have always wanted a dog. Before. And now that I remember Damian loves animals, that’s three in favor.”

At least Jason has the courtesy to acknowledge his manipulation as plainly as he is. This isn’t the first time someone in the family has asked for a dog, not by a long shot, but Alfred’s veto was non-negotiable each time. With more hands on deck to help, Bruce finds his previous reluctance negligible at best, and he knows Alfred’s will be too.

And even if it isn’t, Bruce finds it difficult to deny Jason anything right now. Paired with the mental image of his laughing baby lighting up at the sight of a new dog...

“We’ll see,” he says, pretending as though he has some semblance of control over this decision.

“We decided on a German Shepherd, if you’re curious. Dick suggested the name Ace.”

A Shepherd. Bruce’s always wanted one, for as long as he can remember. There’s no hope for him now. “We’ll see.”

Knowing better than to push (or perhaps knowing that he’s already won), Jason drops the subject and continues looking at the rest of the pictures over Bruce’s shoulder, an odd expression on his face as his enthusiasm fades. “You should be with him.”

Bruce, half-smiling at a picture of Tim sleeping with Damian, only offers a distracted hmm in response.

“Bruce.”

Bruce sets the phone aside for a moment. “Jason.”

“I mean it. You don’t have to stay.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” Bruce says simply, a small part of him reveling in being contrary. He may not particularly like that he can’t be two places at once, that he’s had to choose between two of his children, but he doesn’t regret the choice he made. One needs him more than the other right now, and besides, it’s worth it all just to see the irritated scowl on Jason’s face—the one that always read why-are-you-so-stupid-sometimes-I-don’t-get-you. It was the very same scowl Jason gave Batman when he took one look at his jacked tires and laughed, the one he gave Batman when he offered him food and then a free ride to a safe place, and also the one he gave Bruce whenever he gave Jason over a hundred dollars to spend at the movies with his friends or overestimated how much a something like a single banana would cost at Walmart.

He’d missed it. So, so much.

Normally, Bruce would leave it with that, but in light of their last conversation about assumptions and feelings and his promises regarding both in the context of his family, he clears his throat and murmurs, “I’m right where I need to be.”

Before Jason can have any chance to feel embarrassed by the level of sincerity and broken emotion that came through Bruce’s statement, the intercom pings and J’onn announces, “The scan is complete. Join us.”

“Oh, cool,” Jason says, immediately pulling the electrodes from his temple and rolling off the bed to his feet. “Let’s go see what death and reanimation have done to my brain.”

Bruce is the one following Jason out of Med-Bay One and back down the hall, where Mid-Nite and J’onn sit before a panel of computer monitors. Mid-Nite is studying Jason’s electronic medical record, as well as his autopsy report, as they walk up, some of the...details more visible than Bruce would prefer. He hides his wince, putting a hand on Jason’s shoulder and unthinkingly trying to direct his attention back to J’onn’s monitor, where a smear of color, lines, and shapes bounce across the screen as J’onn scrolls back and forth.

Jason’s attention, however, is not so easily diverted. His gaze latches onto the images from his autopsy, face pale in the light from the monitors, paler even than it had been when he’d seen the PET-CT machine. “Are you alright?” Bruce murmurs quietly.

Jason reacts as though he’d been pinched, flinching. “Of course,” he lies, without looking Bruce in the eye. He fights a visible shudder and turns jerkily to address J’onn. “Whatcha got, Manhunter?”

J’onn offers a hint of a fond smile at Jason’s informality. “Good news. As suspected, there are no signs of mental manipulation by magical, meta, or mechanical means. Your mind is clean, unaltered, and your own. I would say you are fit to return home.”

Jason’s shoulders, tense under Bruce’s hand, relax considerably. Bruce, for his part, feels a brief and brilliant burst of relief before his mind begins churning, the detective in him eager for more. “And I suppose that also tells us,” Bruce muses, “that none of those means are...”

“What brought me back,” Jason finishes in a neutral tone.

“I...can’t be sure,” J’onn admits, turning in his chair to face them. “But it does not appear so.”

“I can confirm,” Mid-Nite adds. “Neither dark matter nor magic was at play here.”

Bruce frowns. He expected that the question of Jason’s return wouldn’t be so easily answered, but he still had hoped for a lead, at the very least. Jason, too, looks a little ill-at-ease at the lack of information, as though the unnaturalness of his return is only just starting to occur to him.

“Regarding Jason’s mind’s health,” J’onn says, “it...is strange. The scan looks as any other human’s would, in the most basic sense. Perhaps, Jason, if I had also scanned you before M’gann went in to help, it would be a different story, but there is no indication there was any...interruption in your subconscious or mental capacity. There is also no sign of damage. I cannot even tell that you, at one point, were catatonic. Here, though—” J’onn points absently to a spike of activity on his odd graph. “This is unusual.”

Bruce marks the time stamp and looks up in the corner, where the security footage of Med-Bay One is running in time, and in loop, with J’onn’s scan. “That’s when I showed him a picture of Damian,” Bruce realizes.

“Fascinating,” J’onn says, leaning forward. “So M’gann was right. She tried to describe it to me, Jason. How your mindscape looked when she first attempted to bring you out of your previous state. This must be similar, except on a smaller scale.”

“Okay?” Jason says. “I’m not sure I get it, but it...isn’t a problem, is it?”

“Oh, no,” J’onn says. “You can rest assured there is nothing here that you weren’t already aware of yourself.” There’s a point in that statement that makes Jason wince, and Bruce tightens his grip on his son’s shoulder, a show of encouragement and support. “It merely proves that you will be able to reclaim some of the memories you had prior to your mental restoration. They are not completely lost to you. But even still, with your permission, I would like to look into these results further. Perhaps consult with specialists on Mars and take another scan in a few weeks, to compare. The mind is a complicated thing. There may be some subtlety I am missing.”

Jason shrugs. “Sure. Whatever helps.”

“By then,” Bruce adds, “we may have some leads to help with that.”

“I am sure you will.”

“And for some more good news,” Mid-Nite says, “your labs look good, Jason. With the exception of a minor vitamin D deficiency...all are within normal limits.”

“That’s new,” Jason jokes, jerking a chin toward the records Mid-Nite has on his screen, where his previous malnutrition and the work Leslie put into correcting it is all too apparent.

Bruce offers a long-suffering sigh. “Jason.”

“What? It’s true.”

Mid-Nite’s lips twitch into a smile. “You’ve grown five inches since your last physical. Gained about thirty pounds, too, so you’re well at a healthy weight for your height and age. Heart and lungs, good. Blood pressure and heart rate... all normal. Absolutely incredible.”

“I’m good, then?” Jason asks eagerly.

“Yes, I agree with J’onn. You’re looking fit to return home, Jason.”

Bruce can feel the joy radiating off Jason, and it is contagious. Mid-Nite turns back to the computer, clicking through a few reports. Several old radiology scans, most featuring previous fractures from Jason’s time as Robin, as well as several post-mortem, skip across the screen. Jason deflates upon seeing them, but to his credit, he does not turn away. In fact, the unease he experienced upon entering the room and seeing them for the first time is replaced by something like detached, morbid curiosity.

He’s probably looking at the files as though they aren’t his own, Bruce realizes, spiders of distress scuttling up his spine. That’s how Bruce had to look at them, in the beginning, until he was desensitized enough to study them without feeling his heart tearing from his chest.

Even now, it’s difficult. Bruce can close his eyes and still catalogue every fracture, every crack and break. He can see the soot coating Jason’s trachea and lungs, the sunken shape of his right orbital, the many bruises and scars discoloring his body.

Jason’s seeing it all for the first time.

“The only thing we need now are the PET-CT scans to verify everything on the inside is as it ought to be,” Mid-Nite says. “I’m curious to see the extent to which you’ve been healed. Your scars seem to suggest—”

There’s a clamor as Jason’s elbow slips from its perch. Something crashes off of the file cabinet, several loose papers raining from where they were carelessly left. Irritation and exasperation at the lack of organization and cleanliness flashes through Bruce—he’s had more than a few words with a certain Barry Allen about this—but he realizes his priorities are a little off when he sees Jason’s face.

“Sorry, fuck,” Jason mutters, bending to pick up the papers. “Fuck.” He’s quaking, hiding his face, some of the mess skittering and jumping from his unsteady hands. He freezes at the sight of them in front of him.

Something’s wrong. Something...

“Mid-Nite,” Bruce says, heart sprinting in his chest. “J’onn. Give us the room. And for God’s sake, shut off the monitors. Now.”

Mid-Nite is already on his feet, his finger poised to push for assistance from one of the robotic nurses. He looks as though he wants to argue, his authority as a doctor and his concern for his patient driving him to defy a direct order from Batman, but Bruce growls, “I’ll hit the call button if we need help. Go.”

~...~

Jason doesn’t hear Bruce call his name. Barely registers him kneeling beside him. He feels trapped in this room, the pressure of its walls crushing him. The images of his own autopsy dance like ghosts in his mind’s eye. A few overhead lights flicker on, the monitors going black, and he feels some relief as the anxiety tightening around his heart loosens its death grip.

Jesus. Isn’t Valium supposed to help with this sort of thing? So much for that.

Jason huddles down, closer to the ground, trying to regulate his breathing.

Is this how it was going to be? Every single damn time he’s reminded of his mortality? Every time he looked at something that proved, beyond reasonable doubt, that he’d been murdered?

He hopes not. He can’t go on like this. He can’t...

He takes deep, steadying breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, and he closes his eyes shut, focusing only on the air flowing in and out of his lungs.

‘Can’t’ my ass. I can. I will, he tells himself. I’m alive. I’m alive, and I am here. And if I’m alive, I always can.

Just as he’s starting to get a grip on himself, there’s a flash of light behind his eyes and a concussive pop in his ears. Someone is pushing him behind, rough and insistent, and he loses his balance from his crouch, sliding across his ass as Bruce shoots forward, expression a storm of retribution and utter focus. In his hand, a batarang flashes. Alarms blare across the Watchtower, ringing once, before going ominously silent.

Before them is a swirling vortex of black and indigo, and Jason jolts out of his funk enough to rocket to his feet behind Bruce, fingers scrabbling for something heavy to use as a weapon. “What the fuck?” he asks.

“Boom tube,” Bruce responds tersely. “There’s someone coming through.”

"Someone" appears as nothing more than a shadow until suddenly, it—no—she isn’t. She steps out of the boom tube, casual as can be, arm cradling her stomach and an expression of utter confusion on her face, eyes pits of black and pupils glowing indigo.

“Oh,” she says when she sees them, blinking her big doe eyes. The boom tube disappears with a suctioning sshwoop. The light fades from her eyes and aura in the same instant.

Bruce straightens from his battle-ready stance, and Jason hisses a warning. Batman, dropping his guard after the infiltration of the fucking Watchtower by an unknown meta? What in the fuck is going on?

“Halo?” Bruce asks. “What are you doing here?”

“You know this girl?” Jason demands behind Bruce.

In lieu of an answer, Bruce whips around and pulls a communicator out of his belt, muttering into it. Jason doesn’t pay much attention as Bruce relays to the others on Watchtower that there was indeed an arrival of an unknown entity on Watchtower, now identified as an ally and no threat to them, and that, yes, the alarm system may need maintenance.

The girl, for her part, continues ignoring Jason’s frosty reception of her, looking down at her stomach and removing her arm. “Oh. How strange,” she murmurs to herself, shaking her head. Her gaze snaps to Jason’s, and he suppresses a shudder. There’s something not right about how she’s looking at him. It...feels a lot older, a lot less human, than she appears. “I see now,” she murmurs.

The only response Jason has to that is an intelligent um.

“Halo,” Bruce says again, attracting her attention. “The boom tube is new.”

She nods. “Yes. Very. I felt strange. Ever since the Island. Now I don’t.”

Bruce nods, as though it’s something to be expected, and Jason gapes. What in the hell?

“Why are you here?” Bruce asks again.

Halo’s eyes don’t deviate from Jason. “You are...Nightwing’s brother.”

“Um.” A flicker of recognition stirs, shadows of a memory returning to him. “Yes?”

She hums, a smile on her face. “I am glad you are back. I can tell you are...very dear. And were very missed.”

“...I am too?” Jason responds. It’s funny. He used to think he was conditioned against all things weird and abnormal after he became Robin, but having a random girl boom tube up into space in order to make small talk with him is just... beyond his processing capabilities right now.

She said she knows Nightwing? Where does Dick find ‘em. Honestly.

Her smile fades, and she cocks her head. “But you are not alright. Not really.”

If it were anyone else, Jason would have immediately snapped back. He would have cussed them out. No stranger has any right to tell him how he should or shouldn’t be feeling, and they sure as hell have no right to judge him for any of it.

But...he sees something that makes him pause. It’s not sympathy. Or pity. He recognizes it in her, in a way he can’t explain, but he knows, without reasonable doubt, that she understands.

“How do you know?” he asks, uncertain of his own gut instinct.

“I just do."

Jason stares for a moment. “You’ve come back before, too,” he breathes aloud, and the moment he voices it, he knows it’s true. “Haven’t you?”

Halo stiffens—surprised, perhaps, that he can see it in her as easily as he can in him—and slowly nods. “I have.” Jason exhales a bark of a laugh, and she smiles. “But not quite like you have. I...” She hesitates and frowns, crossing her arm over her stomach with a grimace. “There’s that weird feeling again.”

Considering what Jason knows about weird feelings and metas, he’s not sure what possesses him to stand still as she approaches him, a sort of realization solidifying in her eyes as she does. “I think I can help you.”

“How?” Jason asks curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Jason.”

Jason spares Bruce a glance. He’d forgotten he was in the room. “Fuck off, B. I want to hear what she has to say.”

“She’s a new meta. Her powers are still developing.”

“I can heal,” she says quietly, completely ignoring the glowering Batman in the corner. Jason’s impressed by just how unaffected she is by Bruce’s potent distrust.

“I’m not injured,” Jason says. “I don’t need healing.”

She shakes her head and taps her chest with two fingers before turning them to Jason and pointing at his own. “But you are. And I think you do.”

Something like hope kindles in his gut as it occurs to him what she’s offering. He smothers it down. It can’t be that easy. Even still, he finds himself blurting, “You can...?”

“Not all of them,” she says regretfully. “Not here.” She taps her temple. “But enough. Enough for the rest to heal well, too.”

“Why?” Jason asks. “What’s the catch?”

Halo shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “And I don’t know that phrase. But I know I can heal the scars. Because I know you and you know me. And because I can. Because I think I should. Because it will help you. Isn’t that enough?” She raises a hand, a soft violet light enveloping her body. “Will you allow me?”

Jason wavers. A large part of him wants to say yes. To be done with it. To live without the weight of its reminder. To be able to look into the mirror and not see the evidence of Joker’s hand all over him, to not have to hear that clown laugh in his head whenever he changed into pajamas every night. To be able to have his family look at him without pity in their eyes, to swim in public without the need to hide, to maybe, one day, have a relationship without the need to explain.

But saying yes? That’s...that’s accepting that the Joker got to him. That’s admitting a weakness to the world—that he isn’t strong enough to accept what happened to him, that he isn’t proud of what he survived and is still surviving, every single day. Those scars are proof he came back, and owning them, in all their entirety, would probably be the biggest fuck you to the Joker he could ever make.

The moment the thought fully forms, Jason feels disgusted with himself. What a fucking stupid thing to think. Does he really think the Joker would ever see it that way? That, if he knew Jason was alive and branded with his marks, the sick fucker wouldn’t get off on it? That he wouldn’t taunt and love every moment, knowing that he was the one who not only killed a Robin but forever marred the one who came back, too?

So, what? Jason’s seriously considering keeping these scars? Just to be macho? Just to pretend he’s getting back at Joker? To say he got over it without any help?

Fuck that. There are other ways to get back at Joker. Plenty of them. He just needs to get creative, and he certainly doesn’t need to sacrifice his own mental health to prove a point only he will understand.

He knows better. He wants to be better. And he will be.

It won’t be a quick fix. It won’t solve all his problems. But it sure as hell is a good start to freeing him of at least one of the many chains the Joker’s got shackling Jason to that fucking warehouse in the middle of nowhere, Ethiopia.

His gaze sharpens, and he steps up to Halo. She’s a good head and a half shorter than he is, but he still feels humbled, somehow, by her presence.

“Please,” he requests.

She beams at him, and the violet aura around her fluctuates, growing brighter and purer in color as she presses a warm palm flat against his breastbone. An odd, melodic chant pours from her lips—words of power that make Jason shudder from head to toe—and underneath her palm, he feels his skin wriggle and crawl.

 “Ah, there you go, Nightwing’s brother,” she says cheerfully, stepping back and withdrawing her hand. “I think it’s done!”

“It’s Jason,” he corrects, rubbing a hand on his sternum. Feeling no shame whatsoever, he pulls down the neck of his shirt, as far as he can, and is rewarded by the sight of clear, smooth skin, where previously...

His vision blurs, the force of his awe and gratitude rendering him speechless.

He can’t tell if all the others are gone. They don't matter. All that matters is that the ugly Y-incision is.

It’s gone. It’s gone, and it can’t bother him again. A weight he didn’t know he’d been shouldering lifts, and the relief is so great, he feels he can take it all on—everything about returning from the dead, everything he was anxious about...it all seems far more manageable than it had mere moments ago.

“Ah, that’s right,” she says, oblivious to his reaction. “We’re not in costume. You may call me Violet when I am like this. Violet Harper. Halo in costume. What may I call you?”

Jason can feel Bruce’s gaze on his back, silent and expectant, and it occurs to him that he never told Bruce exactly what he and Tim had discussed, what they had decided about Robin. “Just Jason for now,” he says. “But I think I’ll have a new name and costume sooner than I thought I would, thanks to you.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Bruce’s stunned, and then fiercely proud, expression.

“You have been gone awhile,” Violet says, a hint of a playful challenge in her voice. “Will you be able to keep up?”

“Not gone so long I can’t hold my own in a fight,” Jason scoffs. “You were on Infinity Island, weren’t you? I got the better of Dick a few times.”

Violet waves her hand dismissively. “But you were not you, were you? Not entirely. You must train with us. Dick is a good teacher. Hard, but good. He will like having you back.”

Jason barks a laugh. “Dickiebird? Hard? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Well, I suppose he isn’t quite as hard as Artemis.”

“That’s because no one’s as fucking badass as Artemis,” Jason agrees, enthusiasm leaping at the chance to train with her again. He might actually be able to knock her down now, now that he's taller. “Except maybe the Amazons.”

“Then you will come?” Violet asks hopefully.

Jason grins. “For you? Anytime. Anywhere. I’ll be there. I’ve gotta defend my honor now that you seem to think that death’s made me soft.”

She laughs. “Good. I must go—I think I have worried my friends—but it will be nice to see you again, Jason. We will decide, then, what death has done for us. Together.”

“Hey,” Jason says, just as she turns, beginning to glow indigo. The boom tube generates without setting any alarms off this time, and even after he distracts her, which is kind of wild. Just how powerful is she? “Violet. I mean it. I owe you one. Thank you.”

“We will talk again,” she says as a farewell.  

She walks through her boom tube and disappears, leaving the room oddly silent and still.

Bruce steps up to him. “That was very dangerous. What you did.”

Jason rolls his eyes, teasing, “You and your thing with metas. There’s another bad habit for you.”

“What did she do?” Bruce asks. “Did she really...?”

Jason wonders how much of it Bruce already knows, how much of it he deduced for himself. He rubs an absent hand at his chest and says with a broad smile, “She gave me a head start.”

Chapter Text

Alfred is just settling Master Damian down for an afternoon nap when he receives the text message.

It’s from Bruce.

He knows immediately, because one of the boys, knowing of his propensity to set an individualized text tone for each of his contacts, thought it would be a fine joke to change Master Bruce’s to the first few notes of Beethoven’s 5^th [1], and as it inspires a particularly humorous, pinched expression on his face every time he hears it, Alfred never saw fit to change it back.

(It’s a not-so-hidden secret it greatly amuses Alfred, too).

Today, the irony of the tone does not amuse him. Today, it feels far more appropriate than it has any right to, a foreboding sensation of dread latching itself like a leech onto him the moment the text comes through.

Hours, without word. Hours, without knowing, from Master Bruce himself, when they are likely to return home. Hours, with only the barest of details from Masters Dick and Tim to sate his curiosity and placate his apprehension.

It has been hours too bloody long.

It takes considerable willpower to ignore the burning weight in his pocket as he sets the baby monitor. Master Damian, for his part, does not stir in response to his father’s text message, nor does he when Alfred leans over the crib to kiss the crown of his head. In fact, Alfred doubts the child would wake to so much as a circus troupe cartwheeling through his room at the moment, exhausted as he is from the morning’s excitement.

The thought is enough to momentarily shake Alfred free of his fouled mood. He has seen a variety of remarkable things during his time in this household—as if that is any surprise: he is surrounded by talent and capability, and it’s been his privilege to be a part of what Master Bruce and the others have built together—but it is something else entirely, to witness them come together to help him welcome baby Damian home; to watch each of them handle the child with such care, with laughter in their voices and smiles on their faces.

Alfred cannot recall a time he was more awed, or more proud, of his charges, and he never, in his wildest dreams, thought he’d be here, in this moment. That, too, is an incredible thing.

Master Damian himself is absolutely incredible.

For the span of a few tender heartbeats, Alfred indulges himself and watches Bruce’s son sleep. He counts the baby’s breaths, the rise and fall of his tiny chest reminding him that, in rare cases, perhaps there is some merit in what other men have been known to say, and that which has never been his experience.

No news can in fact be the very best news.

It is with this small comfort in mind that Alfred silently backs himself out of the makeshift nursery, closing the door behind him. His mobile, rather unhelpfully, reminds him of his unread text message, and he stands in the hallway, pulls the device out of his pocket, and with unsteady hands, finally opens the message.

1415, it reads.

Alfred stares at the text for a moment, his heartbeat fluttering like hummingbird wings in his ears, before muttering, “Bloody typical.”

He is dialing out before he can think to temper his irritation.

To his credit, Master Bruce answers within the first ring. This day is full of miracles of all shapes and sizes, it would seem.

“You do realize,” Alfred says, before Master Bruce can say a single word, “that word-of-mouth and an estimated time of arrival some hours after I should have heard from you is not an appropriate way to keep me apprised in situations such as this?”

“Hi, Alfred,” Master Bruce responds, tone dry. “How’re you?”

“Don’t get cheeky with me. I’m cross with you.”

Master Bruce offers a chuckle in response, and something about it gives Alfred pause. Echoes of a past life float through his memory like ghosts across a grave.

He...hasn’t heard Bruce laugh like that in quite some time.

He’s alright, Alfred deduces, and his knees are weak with relief. They’re all going to be alright. He braces himself against the wall, overcome. All further thoughts of telling Master Bruce off dissipate in that instant, and he finds he can’t speak, words escaping him, for their Jason Todd is alright, and he’s coming home.

He’s truly coming home.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce murmurs, perhaps reading Alfred’s lack of response as further chastisement. “I...There really isn’t a precedent for things like this. Is there.” There’s a hitch in his voice at the end of his sentence, ringing with an off-note of hilarity and wonderment that belies his composure and good humor.

It may have fooled another. Alfred knows better.

“Oh, my boy,” he says. Years of shared pain and unspoken regret hangs between them in the seconds that follow, and though they are miles upon miles apart, Alfred feels more in tune with his ward than he has in years, the tumultuous emotion he’d taken care to hide from the others reflecting back at him, clear as crystal, through Bruce’s silence. He blinks away the burning sensation in his eyes. “I don’t suppose there is.”

When Master Bruce does not immediately respond, Alfred decides a change of subject is in order. This is a joyous day, and it will not do for either of them to linger on any misplaced guilt or impractical hypotheticals now.

It never has.

“But I do suppose we have good reason to break into the champagne tonight,” he remarks. “The Krug or the Dom Pérignon, do you think, Baba Bruce?”

Without missing a beat, Bruce says, “I don’t know. What do you think, Grandad Alfie?”

Alfred’s chest swells to the brink of bursting. He wipes a hand across his face and says, as definitively as he can, “Both. And then some, I should think.”

Bruce chuckles that chuckle again. “How is he?”

“Adjusting well,” Alfred says. “Being positively spoilt.”

“I saw.”

Alfred hears the wistful note in Bruce’s voice. He approves. “And Master Jason?”

“Hungry,” Bruce says. “Eager to come home. To eat. And see you, of course.”

He’s eager. Jason’s eager. And hungry. Of course he is. It’s Master Jason. Their Jason. Come back to life. And Master Jason’s always hungry, and Alfred’s always had a time keeping him sated.

He tsks. “A ten-minute advance warning is not enough, Master Bruce,” he chides. As he speaks, he realizes he's already halfway down the hall, headed in the direction of the kitchen. “Had I some time to prepare, I would have—”

There’s a muffled voice at the other end of the line, interrupting him. Bruce murmurs something in response, out of direct line of his mobile, and for a moment, Alfred marvels at modern technology. Mere years ago, even the most brilliant minds of the Justice League scoffed at the idea of working cell phones in space, and up until recently, Alfred never had been able to hear background noise with any sort of clarity. In any case, it is a wonderful improvement from the staticky, screeching feedback he used to get every time he needed to speak to someone up at Watchtower.

Whoever Bruce is speaking with says something more, and it is only then that Alfred recognizes the voice. It’s not quite as he remembers it, for their Jason’s gone and grown up without them, but that lilt is impossible to associate with anyone else.

It has never been enough, to hear things secondhand. It’s one of the prices Alfred has to pay to be a part of this family, and Christ, has he been paying it. He’s been paying it for decades, from the moment Thomas and Martha Wayne took their son out to the cinema and only one of them returned home alive.

It is not that Alfred doesn’t believe the reports of others. He depends on them and appreciates them, no matter the situation, for they give him some idea of what he’s dealing with at any given time, but he’s learnt, from the very beginning, that secondhand information does not hold a single candle to the observations and conclusions he can make with his own eyes and ears.

And hearing Master Jason—actually hearing him, the sound of his voice providing true evidence of his return...

He...he needs to prepare something. Something grand. A homecoming such as this will require it. He’ll need pull out all the stops for this, dig out old recipes he hasn’t touched in years. Perhaps he’ll—

“Jason’s yelling at me,” Master Bruce informs him suddenly, “for making him sound like he cares more about your food than he does you.”

“Of course, sir,” is the clever response Alfred comes up with. He’s still trying to mentally inventory everything in the kitchen. Because Master Jason’s hungry, and he has nothing prepared.

“Leave the food for now, Alfred. We’re about to finish up here,” Bruce says, and his voice breaks through Alfred’s mental fog, “so we’ll meet you downstairs in five. I’ve already shunted Tim out for you.”

 Alfred is about to argue, because Master Jason’s immediate needs surely come before everything else right now—he can still get a platter of cheese, meat, and biscuits together before they make it home, thank you very much, and there’s some homemade hummus leftover, too, he’s sure of it—but he registers the second half of what Bruce has said.

Master Timothy is not known to respond well (or respond at all, as the case may be) to interruptions. He’s just as, if not more, stubborn than his adoptive father in that regard. Only Alfred has ever had a measure of success in getting Timothy to slow down or otherwise take a break. Master Dick’s come close, but Master Bruce?

His hypocrisy on the matter makes it rather difficult for anyone to take him seriously.

“And how exactly did you manage that?” Alfred queries, skepticism lacing every word.

“I...may have given him permission to take work upstairs,” Master Bruce admits. “As well as a promise he won’t get in trouble. Just this once.”

It is, of course, at that moment Alfred intercepts Master Tim in the hallway, his nose buried in what is clearly one of the military-grade laptops from the Cave. He greets Alfred with a truly impressive deer-in-headlights expression, freezing in place.

Alfred stares back, for this is a taboo of the highest order, and he feels as though he should be irate. Normally, he would be.

But damn it all to hell, his new infant grandson is asleep down the hall. A dead boy is returned to life. Phantoms that have haunted these halls for years are currently being wrangled, dispelled, and forever banished, a levity and brightness that has been sorely missing from this family returning in their stead, and he’s promised a drink (or several) with his son in celebration of so many extraordinary blessings, not the least of which include a house—nay, a home—filled to the brim for the first time since Bruce was a boy.

So what about this day, pray tell, remotely constitutes as normal?

The world’s gone bloody mental. Is it so surprising that he must have caught a bit of it too, just by default?

“This,” Alfred says to both Bruce and Timothy, his strict tone holding true by some minor miracle, “is not going to become a habit.”

 “Of course not,” Master Tim breathes quickly, and he looks relieved to have avoided a lecture, eyes gleaming with the thrill of discovery. “Alfred, I think I’ve found him. We’ll need to collect some physical evidence at the gravesite to verify it, but it’s here. It’s all here.”

“Of course it is, Master Tim,” Alfred says patiently, stomach churning. He does not look at the screen Timothy has turned in his direction, though he pretends to, for he can never bear to discourage any of them when they’re in the midst of a breakthrough, no matter how abhorrent or devastating the subject or the crime. “Marvelous work.”

Master Timothy beams. “Bruce thought so, too. He’s already corroborated at least one of my theories, too. I have to show the others!”

The boy dashes around him, and Alfred watches him rush off. He has half a mind to remind him not to disturb those who are catching up on their sleep, but Master Tim is out of sight before Alfred can act upon it.

“Five minutes, Alfred,” Master Bruce reminds him quietly. “See you soon.”

It doesn’t fully occur to Alfred what Master Bruce has done for him until his mobile beeps twice, signaling the end of the call.

He pulls the mobile away from his ear, motions jerky, and stares at the numbers of the digital clock on his home screen. 14:11, it reads. Four minutes.

This hallway, Alfred decides, blinking rapidly, needs dusting. Shoddy work on his part. Truly shoddy.

The thought lingers in every pristine hallway thereafter, until Alfred stands before the grandfather clock in Master Bruce’s immaculate office, takes the stairs down, surveys the empty Cave, and decides he can’t bear to lie to himself a second longer.

This is an occasion worth a few tears.

His mobile reads 14:13 now, and he puts it aside. Watched pots and all that.

After dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief, he gathers himself up and rolls up his sleeves. He finds things to keep himself busy, hands acting almost of their own accord as he tries to find his center, his pulse thudding ever-louder in his ears.

It takes ages. And somehow no time at all.

The moment Alfred hears the Zeta, he is across the Cave and standing in wait, heart stuttering in his chest, breath catching with every inhale. When Masters Bruce and Jason exit the Zeta together, Alfred only has eyes for the latter.

It is almost humorous, that the first thing he notices is how Master Jason’s borrowed clothes are much too small for him—tight across the chest and short at the leg—and he’s both entertained and exasperated by the fact: he’d rather thought they’d broken him of the habit of keeping old clothes or otherwise neglecting to inform them he needed new ones years ago.

Years ago. It has been years.

And Master Jason has grown. It’s a man standing before him now, nearly unrecognizable, in some respects, but for that crooked smile and those laughing eyes.

Those are his boy’s.

The same boy who, once upon a time, came into the Manor with no expectations and even fewer reasons to believe he could find a home with them; whose vicious, cynical looks had, over time, become curious, then respectful, and then finally affectionate.

The same boy who was slow to trust but quick to love; whose guarded scowls transformed into broad grins and whose skittish behavior became bright and boisterous; who, after a year as Robin, finally held out the empty overnight duffle bag he “borrowed” from the laundry room and said, I don’t think I need this anymore.

The same boy who flourished in everything he attempted and only pushed harder when he did not; who strove to learn everything he could, and in every subject he could think of; who never sacrificed himself in the name of being someone he was not.

This is the same boy whose courage and compassion never faltered. Never once. Not even, as Alfred understands it, at the very end.

“Hey, Alfie,” Master Jason greets softly. “I guess I should apologize for running off, huh?”

“You stupid boy,” Alfred says in response, because that’s a silly thing to say. It’s also something Alfred didn’t know he needed to hear until Master Jason said it, and that, too, is a silly reaction to have because he’s long since been convinced that Jason’s running away was as much his fault as it was any of the others’.

(That is to say: not at all).

This whole thing is silly, really—him, standing over here, and them, standing over there.

Protocol and professionalism be damned. In retrospect, the bloody things never stood a chance.

Alfred crosses the room and yanks Master Jason into a fierce embrace. He squeezes for all he’s worth, reveling in the physicality of this remarkable child, who, quite literally, stole his way into their lives.

And then somehow stole his way back.

Master Jason is much taller than he is now, and it is not perfect at first, but when they adjust to the new height difference, Alfred realizes Master Jason hugs exactly the same as he’s always done, with a brief hesitation before a gentle, and then progressively more enthusiastic, squeeze in return.

 “You stupid, stupid boy,” Alfred repeats, and he pulls away for a moment, to force Master Jason to look him right in the eye, because this needs saying, and has for a long, long time. Alfred never once believed he’d have the opportunity to, and the words tumble like marbles across hardwood, rolling every which way and that, keen to be released from their previously locked confines. “You are never alone in this. Never. Do you understand me, Jason Todd?” he asks.

It’s a request and a demand and a reminder all in one, and Master Jason holds his gaze, slate grey eyes shattering, mending, and shattering again, caught in an unending cycle of indescribable emotion. “I understand,” he whispers, voice stripped and raw.

Alfred nods and pulls him back into his arms, and Master Jason hides his face in Alfred’s shoulder. “Don’t forget, lad,” he murmurs in Jason’s ear. “I won’t have it.”

“I’m sorry, Alf,” Master Jason mumbles. “I—”

“Shush now,” Alfred interrupts. “You’re home now.” Master Jason’s shoulders begin to quake, and Alfred begins rubbing his back with gentle strokes, repeating, “You’re home.”

Jason’s arms tighten, and Alfred allows Jason to cry into the shoulder of his waistcoat. He looks up and sees Master Bruce giving them some space, attention pointedly on the nearest computer monitor, where it appears he’s uploading some new medical files. When he notices Alfred’s gaze, the pretense drops. The two men don’t say anything, but Master Bruce inclines his head, somehow sensing exactly that which Alfred cannot, and probably will not, ever be able to voice in words alone.

Once Bruce has received his message, he tucks his chin and closes his eyes. Nothing, he thinks, can compare to the gift of a reunion such as this.

Eventually, the tension in Jason’s body drains away, and his sniffles come to an end. Alfred continues to hold him until he makes the choice to leave, maneuvering out of Alfred’s arms gently and without embarrassment for his breakdown. “I think I have a story for you, Alf,” Master Jason says.

Alfred’s lips quirk into a smile, heart surging with warmth and familiarity. It almost always started out that way: a game, a trade, an excuse...Each of his charges has a way to say, I want your ear and your advice, but I don’t quite know how to ask for it outright. The formula changes every so often, and is dependent on the situation, but Alfred knows exactly what to listen for. “I imagine you do,” he says.

“It has some holes,” Master Jason admits. “And I’m sure you heard a bit of it already. From Dick and Tim.”

Alfred wonders why it matters, when Master Jason is here to tell his tale at all. He’ll have to ensure he’s aware that every bit of extra time Alfred has with him is a treasure beyond all imagining. “I’d love to hear it,” he assures. “Whatever you can tell me.”

“And in exchange?” Master Jason asks, the lively glint in his eye betraying his grave tone as he follows their script.

“Tea,” Alfred says with a decisive nod. “A private kitchen.” At this, he shoots a very pointed look at Master Bruce, who is now so focused on whatever it is he started working on that he doesn’t acknowledge Alfred in the slightest. Naturally. He hides a sigh. “And whatever I can whip up in five minutes or less.”

“I’d like that.” Master Jason's cheerful expression twists into a scowl when he finally notices Master Bruce lingering at the Computer. “What the hell, B?” he asks. “What are you still doing here?”

Master Bruce doesn't respond immediately, and it’s clear to Alfred he hasn’t heard a word either of them has said in the last few minutes. “I—”

“Don’t care,” Jason interrupts with a careless yawn. “Get changed and go see your kid.”

“He’s asleep.”

“So?”

“Don’t you want—?”

Jason doesn’t even let him finish. “No. I’ve been poked and prodded and examined enough today. This stuff isn’t going anywhere. And neither am I.”

Master Bruce looks to Alfred, who offers him no sympathy. It is both strange and unsurprising to see the indecision on Bruce’s face, the flicker of insecurity, and when Alfred offers him a nod of encouragement and a shoo'ing motion out of Master Jason's line of sight, the deep lines on Master Bruce's face disappear, sharp blue eyes softening. "Hmm," he murmurs. “You’ll be alright, Jason?”

“I’m with Alfred,” Master Jason responds, and despite the deepened, roughened pitch of his voice, Alfred hears the snarky Alley boy he first met, all those years ago.

It makes him grin, and like a loon, too, he’s sure. 

“That doesn’t guarantee you won’t be bombarded by the others,” Master Bruce warns.

Master Jason shrugs. “I’ll have to meet the new kids sometime. Better earlier than later, right?”

Master Bruce considers him for a moment and steps forward, reaching out to give Jason a quick squeeze on his shoulder. They seem to have a conversation without words, Master Bruce hunting Master Jason’s face for hidden tells. Master Jason stares back, undaunted and open.

“Go see your kid,” Master Jason repeats firmly.

“Okay.” Master Bruce smiles, and it’s a sincere smile, a true one, unmarred by sarcasm or the easy charm he uses on his business partners and the general public. It gives Alfred hope, the likes of which he hasn’t experienced in a long, long while. “I’ll find you later.”

Master Bruce brushes past, heading for the locker rooms and showers. Jason watches him go. “He’s gonna psych himself out,” he comments, amused. "Over a baby."

“As he does,” Alfred agrees. “But Master Bruce has always had an affinity for—" He does not realize he was about to direct Master Jason out of the Cave until he's met with some measure of resistance, informing him of something amiss. Alfred hesitates, surveying the lad. Master Jason has his feet planted, keen eyes fixated across the main platform. "Master Jason?" he asks.

When the lad doesn't respond, Alfred follows his gaze, and a horror-laced chill runs through his veins, so cold it burns.

No. Oh, no, no, no.

Jason moves away to get a closer look, and Alfred follows, as though dragged and manipulated by a sick puppeteer’s strings.

“So this’s it,” Master Jason mutters as he stands before the memorialized Robin suit, tone light and morbidly curious. The cocks his head as he glances at the plaque below, nose wrinkling when he reads what’s inscribed there. “Weird.”

“I—I am so terribly sorry, Master Jason,” Alfred says, and he chokes on each word, fighting bile and shame.

“Why are you sorry?” Master Jason asks, and he sounds so blasé, Alfred doesn’t know what to make of it. He supposes it only makes him feel rotten, ill, and ever so small.

“I...I didn’t...” Alfred trails off, unable to finish his statement. It is dismaying to realize that he hadn’t given this bloody suit a single thought since he learned of Master Jason’s return, and it is even more horrible, that the damned memorial has become a natural (and therefore almost ignorable) part of his daily environment.

It is not something he should have overlooked.

“This is...this is nothing you should be seeing,” Alfred finally manages to say. He steps forward, because surely there’s a tarp or old towel somewhere he can use to hide this dreadful thing until he can remove it permanently, but Master Jason’s hand shoots out, latching onto his sleeve.

“Don’t worry about it, Alf,” Master Jason says, and it’s with some reluctance he drags his eyes away from the case. There’s a mischievous smirk on his lips and a dark promise in his voice. “I’m going to take care of it later.”

Alfred halts, and it takes every bit of learned discipline and acting skill not to snort or otherwise show any sign of his satisfaction with the implication in Master Jason’s words. “Don’t come to me complaining of any sliced fingers,” he warns. “I don’t treat stupidity.”

Master Jason snickers, and he slings an arm around Alfred’s shoulders. “I’ve missed you, Alf.”

“And I you, my boy,” he says, vision blurring once again. “It has not been the same without you.”

“I’m back now,” Master Jason murmurs, arm slipping back to his side.

“And we’re all the better for it.”

Master Jason doesn’t respond, eyes trained on his ruined Robin suit. “A good solider,” he quotes wryly.

“Jason,” Alfred says. When Master Jason turns back to him, blinking in surprise at the dropped honorific, Alfred catches and holds his eyes. “This suit, that plaque...these are symbols of what we have to lose. It reminds—reminded—us of what we have lost, and what the true cost of selfless sacrifice looks like. Your Robin stands for something the others do not, and cannot, and it has changed us all, without question.

“But do not think, for a single moment, that our...honoring of your Robin has any bearing on, or is an appropriate measure of, how much we love you. You, Jason Todd. Not Robin.”

Jason exhales a shaky breath, and Alfred presses his grandson’s warm hand. “That,” Alfred says, “you do not ever have to doubt.”

Master Jason doesn’t respond, but he does clasp at Alfred’s hand. Alfred holds it, grounding the boy until his tremors die away. They stand in the quiet of the Cave for some time before Alfred feels it's alright to speak. “Tea?” he suggests quietly.

“God yes,” Jason says. “Please.”

Together, they turn away from the memorial case. Neither of them look back.

~...~

Stephanie has no idea what she’s doing.

To be fair, she never really does, so perhaps not the best way to put it.

To rephrase, then: she can’t explain why she’s still in the Manor. There’s no reason for her to be here. Training’s been interrupted (understandably), Dick and Babs are dead asleep (bless their hearts), Tim’s off in Tim’s world doing whatever it is that Tims did (her best friend is weird, and she loves him, but she doesn’t always get him), and Cass...Cass is Cass (she defies explanation).

So why? Why is she still here?

Stephanie hasn’t even contributed much to the baby’s arrival, to be honest, outside of making a quick run to the store with Dick and Cass earlier that morning. Sure, she helped watch the baby a little bit and made him laugh, but in the grand scheme of things, she realizes she’s really just been mooching and freeloading the day away.

The question why stings like a cigarette burn, and it flares into something downright uncomfortable when Bruce steps into the den. Stephanie and Cass notice him right away, but Tim is in the middle of explaining all his findings to them, his excited babble nonstop and breakneck—something about a Superboy Prime^[2] and a punch (like, a punch with an actual fist) that literally broke reality (how has her life come to a point where Tim can say something like that with a straight face and it actually sounds plausible to her?)—and he doesn’t stop until Bruce, who stands there listening in like a creeper, decides to shift in place and alert Tim to his presence.

“Oh, hi,” Tim says, scrambling up from where he’s sprawled on the floor. He sits cross-legged and cranes his neck to look up at Bruce. “You’re back.”

Bruce hums. Stephanie can’t tell if it’s an acknowledgement or if he’s annoyed—amused, even—at Tim for his obvious statement. Maybe he’s pissed at Tim for his lack of situational awareness. She doesn’t know. She can’t read the man under the mask that well yet.

It’s easier with Batman because if there is an option between showing human emotion and being a dick, she knows Batman will be a dick every single time.

(No offense to the actual Dick in the Manor, by the way. Important distinction there. Said Dick is an angel most of the time, and she has no issues with him).

“You’ve gotten a lot more done than you mentioned on the phone earlier,” Bruce comments. “Thank you, Tim.”

“'Course.” Tim’s eyes slide behind Bruce, and he asks, “Where’s Jason?”

“Visiting with Alfred in the Cave,” Bruce says. “I think he’s had it about up to here—” Stephanie stares, incredulous, as the man jokingly levels his hand, palm down, and bobs it at about Bruce Wayne height. “—with all the tests and theories. Give him some space. He’ll come find you when he’s ready. And then we can have a family meeting.”

“Sure,” Tim says easily, already distracted by something that popped up on the screen in front of him. He clicks a few times. “It’s no rush, really.”

A guttural rumble interrupts whatever Bruce has to say in response to that, and the man frowns, sighing. “Tim. Did you eat?”

Tim looks utterly betrayed by the inconvenience, and Stephanie has to hide a snicker behind her hand. “I did,” Tim responds. “Pancakes.”

“When?”

“I'm fine. Dinner's only a few hours away.”

"That's not what I asked."

"Oh, um. At breakfast. Today."

Bruce studies him for a second before turning to Stephanie and Cass. “Did he eat?”

“No,” they say together.

Tim’s glare is something to behold, truly. It would be intimidating if Stephanie hadn’t already seen the kid react to news about the new Legend of Zelda game for the Nintendo Switch. That had been a few years ago now, so it wasn’t so new anymore, and it did happen before Stephanie knew he was Robin, but still. It’s hard to be intimidated by someone who also reminds her of a hyperactive puppy with a new toy.

“C’mon, Nerd Wonder,” Stephanie says, grabbing Tim by the bicep and hauling him to his feet. “Leave the computer a moment. Let’s go.”

Tim looks like he wants to argue (or whine, as the case may be), but he catches the raised eyebrow Bruce is directing at him. “It’s been a...very eventful day. Take a break, Tim,” Bruce suggests. “We all are.”

Something about that makes Tim pause. Stephanie can see it. Hell, she gapes, too. The fact the Batman is even suggesting they take a break...

Wow.  

“Alright,” Tim agrees slowly. “I...guess there isn't much more I can do right now anyway." He sounds a little put out by that. "Not without you or Jason giving me the green light.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce says, and Jesus, he almost sounds easy-going. What sort of body-snatcher is this? "Like I said, we'll talk later."

Cass rises like a dancer and crosses the den, leaping up on the end of the couch for a moment so that she can stand and kiss Bruce Wayne on the cheek as she passes. “See you,” she says.

Stephanie watches with no small amount of interest (disbelief) as Bruce...thaws even more before her eyes. It’s unlike anything she’s ever seen before. “See you, Cassandra.”

Cass leaves the room, and Bruce follows, but not before muttering something to Tim, something that makes him smile, and acknowledging Stephanie with a nod(?!).

When it registers that Bruce has actually noticed and accepted her presence in his home, it makes her irate, the casual way he just does that—twists her expectations and somehow makes things a little bit better than they were. The fact that her anger is belated, too, just infuriates her even more because she’s not supposed to be forgiving him yet. She opens her mouth, probably to say something she’ll regret later at his disappearing back, but a small hand brushes against her elbow, holding her in place.

Cass shakes her head. “Let go,” she says.

Steph takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “He’s so weird,” she whines. “Why is he like this?”

“Because he’s Bruce,” Tim offers with a shrug. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. You’re gaining his respect. I promise.”

Stephanie throws back her head and groans. She isn’t convinced, and she hates that it matters. She hates that she wants this man’s approval as much as she does. After all the effort he took to discourage her and get her off the streets, he doesn’t deserve the work she’s putting in for him, let alone any of the loyalty she’s been giving him in spades. “I don’t understand him.”

“You will,” Cass says, with utter conviction. “Trying. Both of you.” She peers down the hallway Bruce disappeared down, an odd note in her voice. “Different now.”

“Ugh, whatever,” Stephanie says. She's had enough of this conversation. “He hasn’t kicked me out, I guess, so I’ll continue taking advantage.” She takes Tim by the shoulder and whirls him around, giving him a nudge forward. “Food. Now.”

Tim grumbles something under his breath, and it doesn’t necessarily matter what he said because Stephanie’s response of, “Well, has it ever occurred to you that if you didn’t eat like your vigilante namesake, you might not be babied as much as you are?” is perfect regardless.

The den isn’t too far from the kitchen, and Stephanie is the first one through the kitchen door, laughing at Tim over her shoulder when she hears a clatter of silverware on china.

Whipping back around, she’s welcomed by the sight of Alfred lowering his teapot. The stranger before them spins lazily around on his island barstool, and Stephanie’s breath catches in her throat.

He’s fucking stunning. Like, wow, is he stunning. Dark, tall, rugged...

“Oh,” Tim says from behind Steph. He steps up to her right. “Sorry, guys. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s alright,” Alfred says, rising to his feet. “Hungry, Master Timothy?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind throwing a snack together, Alf, we’ll be out of your hair ASAP,” Tim says sheepishly. As Alfred heads into the pantry, Tim greets the stranger with a causal, “Hey, Jason.”

“Hey, Replacement,” the stranger says, and dear God what is that voice? What is that smile? “S’up?”

Steph’s brain short-circuits, rebooting in chugs and spurts, and she doesn’t think before she speaks. “Whoa, time out,” she says. “You're Jason Todd? Why did no one tell me he's actually super hot? Was this something I was supposed to find out on my own?”

Jason blinks his arresting slate blue eyes at her, adorably taken aback, and Tim buries his face in his hands. “Oh my God, Steph.”

Judging by Tim’s reaction, she supposes she should feel more embarrassed than she is. She considers Jason. He doesn’t look particularly uncomfortable or otherwise disturbed, so she decides she doesn’t have to apologize.

Good thing too. It would’ve been a filthy lie.

“What?” she asks with a shrug, reveling in Tim’s distress and Jason’s growing WTF expression. “You don’t have to be jealous, Tim. It’s not like all you Batboys aren’t super attractive. I mean, Dick’s got that sexy underwear-model-worthy thing goin’ on, and you’ve got your super cute geek-chic thing, so don’t feel left out. I am allowed to appreciate all of the Robins equally, you know.”

Tim goes bright red, and Jason bursts into laughter. Alfred, for his part, has emerged from the pantry and is busying himself at the refrigerator, back facing them, but she can see his shoulders rising and falling with repressed mirth.

“Aww, c’mon, Tim,” Jason teases. “You can run around Gotham in form-fitting tights all night long, and you can’t take a compliment?”

Very nice. Steph can appreciate a guy with a sense of humor. Even more so one that can play along.

She thinks she's going to like this one.

“Screw you,” Tim mutters, which only makes Jason guffaw louder. Alfred makes a disapproving coughing noise, and Tim has to settle for shooting Stephanie a glare that reads, And screw you, too, you abominable flirt.

Damn straight, she grins back at him.

“It’s actually really not fair,” Stephanie continues aloud, folding her arms and sighing. “You boys are all prettier than me and Cass.”

Stephanie turns to Cass, expecting her to back her up, but Cass is staring unblinkingly at Jason. She’s not here, Steph realizes, stomach dropping. She’s somewhere—somewhen—else.

“Now I wouldn’t say that, Blondie,” Jason says, and when she looks back at him, he’s definitely checking her out. Or perhaps getting her measure. This isn’t the first time another vigilante looked her up and down like that. Not every gaze has been friendly, necessarily, and a lot of them have been judgmental, but Jason's makes her feel powerful and appreciated, either way, so she isn’t about to complain.

“Stephanie,” she corrects, and she has to pretend not to be affected by him or his flattery. She may be free with her words, and it’s nice to flirt and tease, of course, but she knows better than to actually fall for a Robin.

(Again).

Despite herself, her gaze slides, momentarily, to Tim, echoes of past aches twinging at her chest. Too little, too late, she tells herself, firm and uncompromising. Much too late.

“Stephanie,” Jason repeats, and his tone catches her attention. He recognizes her name. She wonders what he’s heard about her. And from whom. “You’re from the Narrows, aren’t you?”

Amazing, how quickly the wind can drop from her sails. 

“And what of it?” Stephanie demands, a little defensive. She knows her accent grates. She's knows it's a little ugly. She’s only reminded of it every time she leaves Gotham and meets up with the rest of the Team. She doesn’t need—

Alfred comes to the rescue, interrupting her internal rant with, “Master Jason met Master Bruce in Crime Alley, Miss Brown. If I’m not mistaken, you both grew up within blocks of each other.”

Oh. Well, now Stephanie feels like an asshole. “Huh,” she says. “You don’t sound like—”

“I clean up well,” Jason drawls with a disarming smile, and his accent slips into something languid and familiar. 

Interesting. Recovering quickly, Steph smirks and says, “That you do, Robin Number Two. That you do. Especially for a dead guy. Welcome back, by the way. I can’t say I missed you because I didn’t know you, but the sentiment is there, I guess?”

Alfred frowns at her, and if it were anyone else, she imagines they would have trouble not dragging a hand down their face in abject mortification. She almost feels like doing that herself, because for a gut-dropping moment, she finally wonders if she’s overstepped, said something irreparably tactless.

(But what else is she supposed to say? What can someone say to a kid who’s come back to life? After honest-to-God death?)

She knows she’s done no harm when the cute little crinkles at the corners of Jason’s eyes deepen. His smile starts there, Steph notes. In his eyes. Tyra Banks would be all over it.^[3]

“Thanks,” he says. “It’s good to be back.”

At that, Cass suddenly spins on her heel and darts out of the kitchen. The door swings back and forth on its hinges, and Stephanie stares after her, alarmed.

“Weird,” Tim murmurs. “Wonder what that was about.”

 Jason looks a little unnerved, fingers picking at his cuticles. “That...that was Cassandra, right? Is she...?”

“She does that,” Stephanie says, waving her hand. Her outward nonchalance does not quite match the pinprick of worry dropping into her gut. She avoids looking at Tim. She’s sure she’d see her own confusion and concern reflected back at her. “Disappears without a word. I wouldn’t be too bothered. We’ll find her later.”

Jason’s not convinced, clearly. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and his eyes follow the swinging door until it halts in the jam. He looks a little tired without his smile, Stephanie thinks. Haunted. Despite his brawny exterior, there’s also something remarkably soft about him, in retrospect. And it’s nothing she can pin her finger on, but she knows, somehow, that he is far, far more than a Robin, and even more than a handsome face.

She’s fascinated by that. And maybe...maybe she can see why Tim looks up to him so much.

You wonder why you’re still here, Stephanie? she asks herself ironically. Why you don’t want to leave, even when you don’t feel welcome?

Before she knows it, Tim’s slunk over to the island to swipe at some of the snacks Alfred’s laid out for Jason, and true to form, he’s distracted Jason from Cass’ hasty exit. He’s already got Jason laughing again, and Stephanie can see from the little smile on Tim's face that everything’s gone according to plan.

She watches them for a moment, and it amazes her that they’ve never met before today. They fit together like puzzle pieces, clicking in a way that’s almost enviable. It’s the same way Dick and Tim fit, the same way Cass and Babs fit, the way Bruce and Alfred somehow fit with each of them.

It’s the same way she’s still struggling to fit with them, too. The way she wants to fit with them.

“Steph?”

She blinks. “Hm?”

“Tim was just saying you’ve got a wicked left hook,” Jason says.

She snorts and sneers at Tim. “He’d know.”

Tim rolls his eyes and accepts a fresh plate from Alfred. “I was thinking about picking up where we left off this morning,” he says, popping a sandwich pinwheel into his mouth. “Tomorrow, probably,” he says around his mouthful of food. “So Jason can start training again. And with us, too, to get his legs back under him.”

“Watch it, Replacement,” Jason says without any heat. “Why is this the second time I’ve heard this shit today? I might not have been in the field or running with any of you, but I wasn’t exactly sitting around and twiddling my thumbs with the al Ghuls. I’m pretty sure I can take you and Blondie over there without trouble.”       

Immediately fired up by the challenge, Steph pumps her fist. “Alright! You’re on, Todd!”

“Tomorrow, then,” Jason promises. 

Steph bobs her head and goads, “I look forward to it. It’ll be interesting to see if the Bat hasn’t trained all the Alley out of you.”

Jason’s playful expression speaks of promises that it most certainly hasn’t, and from the edge of her vision, she notices the satisfied gleam in Tim's eye.

It’s no longer directed at Jason.

(Why is she still here, then? Why does she bother to ask anymore? Deep down, she knows. 

This. This is why.)

Chapter Text

He’s different. But he’s also the same.

And that’s the problem.

Cass retreats down the hall, putting distance between herself and the kitchen. When she no longer hears their voices, she presses her back against the wall, leans her head back, and breathes, long and deep.

She knows that boy in there. She’s fought him. More than a few times. And she remembers him distinctly. Because she’d never met anyone like him before.

At the time, she didn’t understand why.

Her father called the boy “Talia’s pet.” She knew what that meant. It meant the boy was no better than an animal. Others called him “brain dead.” They said other things about him, snide things she couldn’t translate, and they laughed. They laughed at her like that sometimes, cruel and ugly and always out of earshot of her father.

She knew what that meant, too. It meant they thought she and the boy were inferior. That they were no more than designer weapons. That they weren’t worth a second thought.

And yet.

She remembers facing that boy in the dust. He was always dressed in red, vivid against the shadows of the League, and before each bout, he stood still as death, unreadable.

She moved first, every time. He met her first blow, every time. She remembers wondering how someone so ...vacant in the eyes could move like a snake in the reeds, like a cat in the streets. She remembers wondering how he could stare at her like a husk, empty and cold, and still fight like tongues of flame.

She did not understand, and she watched him, trying to. She toyed and played, pushing buttons and prodding weak spots, and she began to smile whenever she faced him. Because even though he never spoke, never once; even though he...wasn’t there all the time, flickering in and out like a faulty light, he was fun. And maybe he wasn’t like the others, maybe he was a little strange, but so was she, and she liked that. She liked that he wasn’t as easy to read. She liked how fearless he was, and how...brazen. She liked that he fought dirty.

He intrigued her.

It cost her. It cost him, too.

David Cain did not tolerate play any more than he did mercy. So, before long, she had to stop.

And she had to comply.

That little smile she started coaxing from the boy every time they fought did not come back after that. That little spark of life? A flitting memory. Perhaps even a figment of her imagination.

In her mind’s eye, Cass sees him. There’s blood on his lips, dust in his hair, a bruise forming over his right cheekbone. His fire’s dull, muted. He’s bent over, chest heaving, fingers digging into the dirt. He pants, wheezes, but somehow, he gets up, every time.

She knocks him back down. Every time.

She...she doesn’t remember the last time she saw the boy in red. She wracks her mind, but she doesn’t remember the last time she turned away. In the end, she doesn’t remember sparing him a second thought.

Just like the others.

Cass slides down the wall, hitting the floor and curling her knees to her chest.

That’s no way to treat someone. And certainly not...a friend.

She hadn’t had a friend. Before him.

And now...

Now...

She buries her face into her knees.

It’s only now that she understands.

He moved like a Bat even then.

Cass feels like crawling out of her skin, her tummy flipping inside-out, fingers twitching with the need to...do. She wants to fly, to run, to pull her mask over her face and become someone else, someone who doesn’t have this tangled ball of emotion stuck in her chest or any of these memories in her head.

But it’s daytime. Orphan can’t go out in the day. B’s rules.

Cass rockets to her feet. It’s only a matter of time before Tim or Stephanie comes to find her. They pretended for her in the kitchen, but Cass knows. They will come. Because they care.

Jason Todd will come, too. Because he’ll want to know why.      

Propelling herself forward, she speeds down the hall and away. Her feet will carry her anywhere. Because anywhere is better than here. She aches for the Cave, for its cool silence and its dark corners. There, at least, she can dance or train or run. There are options in the Cave. And plenty of distractions. She wants to find Barbara, too. The older woman is prag-mat-ic (Tim’s Word of the Week) and composed, and being around her calms Cass.

She doesn’t go to the Cave. She doesn’t wake Barbara.

Cass finds B standing in baby Damian’s makeshift nursery, stiff-backed. He is loud, projecting without restraint. The tension in his body screams protect-anger-sadness-pain, then awe-panic-what, and then joy-fear-lovelovelove, and it’s a whirlwind, the rush of his emotions folding in and over themselves like ocean waves, consistent and unending.

Not...for her to see.

A lump rises to her throat. She almost turns around. Because she is an intruder here. Not welcome.

But then she notices the baby.

Damian is on his feet in his crib, pudgy hands gripping the top edge of the bars, and he meets his father’s gaze with fierce attentiveness. He isn’t glaring. Not really. He’s mimicking. Because he thinks the man in front of him is funny, and he’s curious, to see what the funny-man will do.

Cass drinks in the sight of them. Damian’s innocence calls to her, refreshing and addictive in its purity. Like the first taste of homemade lemonade in summer. The knot in her chest slowly unravels, and she catches a smile.

Neither B nor Damian have noticed her. She watches B gather his scattered courage and approach the crib. Baby Damian still stares, inquisitive and unafraid. He doesn’t raise his arms, but he shifts on unsteady feet.

Cass can tell he’s learnt not to ask.

A pulse of anger floods her, sweeping away her humor in a sickening lurch.

(And so she vows, here and now: Damian will never have to hesitate to ask again. It isn’t always easy, with B. Or Tim. But Dick...Of all of them, he is most free, and most comfortable, with touch. Alfred, too. Between all of them, they will teach Damian that it is okay. To want. To need.

She will not stand for anything less. She will help, too. She will cuddle and snuggle and blow raspberries into his belly and kiss his hair and hold his hand. She will do it all, if it means she never has to see him hesitate again).

Damian shifts again. A question. A little blip of hope.

B has reached over the crib to pick Damian up.

Cass’s righteous anger sputters out, and she’s overwhelmed by the fluffy peace that settles over the room as Damian is taken up in B’s arms. Father and son continue to stare, and Cass does, too.

B doesn’t read like fear and pain now. He doesn’t scream of hidden betrayal and a broken heart and fury all mixed up with blind love.Not with the baby in his arms.

No. This is a father and a son, and there is nothing else. It is so simple. And it is also everything. It is ember-warm, Hershey-sweet, and fleece-soft, all-encompassing in its...rightness.

It’s beautiful.

Damian fusses in B’s hold, testing the funny-man-turned-comfy-but-hard-but-nice-man, and he whines a little, wriggling and pretending he wants down. Bruce passes his test by ignoring him entirely, by leaning forward, murmuring into his dark hair, and pulling him ever close.

This, Cass thinks, is a father. This is a son. This is...

Damian goes still. He sees Cass over his father’s shoulder, and he burrows, little fists digging into B’s black Henley. Shy. Uncertain.

B turns. “Cass?”

She wags her fingers hello, joyful little skips of movement that smile for her, but Bruce frowns. “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong. Cass tilts her head.

“You’ve been crying,” B says gently.

She blinks and touches her cheek. It’s wet.

Oh.

Closing her eyes, Cass shakes her head. She can say she doesn’t know what’s wrong. She can say she doesn’t know how to say what’s wrong. She can lie. She can say she likes watching them, that she’s touched by them, by the bond she sees developing right before her very eyes.

She can say any number of things.

“Sorry,” she ends up whispering.

B’s eyebrow rises. Why? Why are you sorry?

It feels like an accusation. She tries to see it isn’t. Her mind can see. B’s body language says so. He’s open. Accepting. Concerned.

But her heart can’t see it at all.  

She doesn’t deserve...

“Cass,” B says, and with a deft maneuver, Damian is resituated in the crook of one big arm, leaving his left side open. Come here, B says without words.

She accepts, only because she can see how much B wants her to. Despite herself, she takes immediate comfort in the arm he wraps around her. Perhaps he is better at this than she gives him credit for.

Perhaps he’s better at this than he gives himself credit for, too.

He waits for her to speak, and she pretends she doesn’t realize that’s what he’s doing. There are too many words for what she wants to say, and most of them she can’t voice. They tumble in her mind and twist her tongue. She tries to start, but the words stick, trapped, with nothing to support them.

So instead, she looks up at Damian, who is pouting at her, little brows pinched together and lower lip jutting out. “Mad at you,” she informs B with a glimmer of amusement. “Wants you. Doesn’t like me right now.”

B looks at his son, surveys his face, and murmurs, “Jealous little bugger.” He sounds so incredibly fond. Damian latches onto that immediately, his pout deepening now that he knows it has gotten him more attention. “You have me,” he adds to Damian, kissing his forehead. “Always.”

The baby doesn’t understand the words, but he feels the tone, and it’s enough. He isn’t mad anymore. He buries his face again, pretending he’s sleepy and upset and uncomfortable with Cass so he can be held for just a little while longer.

B isn’t fooled. He’s smirking when he faces Cass again, but she sees between the lines, too. She knows she hasn’t fooled him either.

It isn’t just Damian he is promising.

He isn’t going to let it go. This is another invitation to talk.

“Promise?” she asks, and her hands fly through the corresponding ASL sign of their own accord.

B hardens into Batman and then softens immediately. “Yes.”

It’s not quite a lie—because he wants, with all his body and soul, to make and keep this promise—but his first reaction betrays him. It always will.

There’s no room for promises like this in Batman’s world. B knows this. She knows this. The Family knows this. It isn’t really fair of her to ask for more. Because sometimes...sometimes breaking those big promises is inevitable.

It was inevitable for the boy she left lying in the dust, who was dead in the eyes, once, with no history and no voice; who was a blanket of coals in the night, glowing and dimming and spurting and sparking on and off, off and on.

No longer. The boy in the kitchen has a fire that roars now, bright and bold, dancing and leaping, no longer banked by that which was stolen from him.

No. Stolen from them.

“Makes...sense now,” Cass struggles to say.

“What does?” B asks.

Everything, she wants to say. But that is not enough. Not nearly enough. Not for this father and not for the son he has sitting the kitchen. Fractured words sit on her tongue, her hands tremble, and frustration wells in her. B’s patience only makes her more anxious, and ever more eager, to say this right.

“Jason,” she begins.

“You’ve met him.” It isn’t a question. “Just now.”

Cass nods and then hesitates, carefully gauging his reaction. “And before.”

B does not react with surprise. “He thought he might have met you, once or twice,” he muses. “He knew of you, at least.”

Cass’s throat goes dry, shame enveloping her. So he does know her. He does remember. “Yes,” she admits. “I—”

“Cass,” B interrupts. His eyes chill her. They always have, more so than the soulless lenses in Batman’s cowl, and she flinches away. “Cassie,” he says again, his posture a plea and an apology at once. “Whatever happened before—”

Cass shakes her head because that isn’t...that isn’t it. “Knew him,” she tries to explain. “But...not.”

B frowns. “You couldn’t have known, Cass. You might have met him, but you—”

She shakes her head again, more vigorously. “Left him,” she hisses, and this time, her hands move with her words. “Victim. Hurt. Empty. Alone. No difference.”

“Big difference,” B disagrees, bouncing Damian when he whimpers at her tone. “Cass, I don’t blame you. Jason won’t either.”

“Blame myself.”

“You shouldn’t. You didn’t know.”

“Could have...” she trails off, blowing a strand of hair out of her face when she sees the lecture growing on B’s face. She knows how he feels about what-if statements like this. “Should have known,” she says instead. “Should have remembered. Should have brought him home. Long ago.”

“Cassandra.”

“Lost him,” Cass tries to explain, her voice breaking. She pokes a firm finger into Bruce’s chest. “Lost you. Broken family. Never the same. And now...” She slumps, hand falling to her side. “Forgotten him, until now. Should have known.”

“Cassandra,” B tries again. “Listen to me. Please.”

She pulls away from him and finally finds it in herself to face him. His brow is crinkled in that way that means he’s thinking, carefully, about what to say. And how to best say it.

It comforts her, as it always does, that he struggles to say things too. They’re of a kind that way, and it helps that she can read just how much he wants to make this right.

“Do I wish I had known earlier?” B asks in a murmur. He can’t look her in the eye, but it doesn’t bother her. She knows how hard this can be for him—to give away his innermost thoughts. “Yes, I do. Of course I do. I would move planets to spare every single one of you from more pain. I would have done anything to have found each of you sooner than I had. But merely wishing...and looking back on what I could have done differently—that doesn’t matter. It never helps. Not you. Not them. And not me. What matters is that you’re all here now,” B says. “And that is all that matters.”

Cass allows B’s conviction to sink in. There isn’t an ounce of regret in his voice, truth ringing through the set of his jaw, his shoulders, his hands.

“So much pain,” she mutters, in sympathy. “You. Him. Us.”

B is silent for a moment, focusing on the baby, who’s testing boundaries again by yanking at the collar of B’s shirt. “But that’s the remarkable thing about us,” B says, gently extracting his shirt from Damian’s fist and allowing the baby to wrap his fingers around B’s thumb. He shakes his hand and jostles the baby’s arm, playfully, distractedly, make-believing he’s trapped by Damian and unable to escape. Damian gives B a gummy and delighted grin, gripping the thumb tighter and pulling with all his baby strength.

“We hurt,” B continues. “Sometimes, we hurt for life. But we also have the capacity to heal. It’s what makes us human.” He finally looks back at Cass, and it’s all B, not Batman, who looks back at her. There’s pride there. And a deep appreciation. “We’re going to heal,” B finishes. “We're strong.”

He smiles. It’s radiant, one of his real ones, so rare to Cass, and treasured all the more for it. It is a smile that solidifies the promises he can keep. The ones he doesn’t say—can’t say—in so many words.

And so...she believes him.

It is a relief, to let go. It’s not exactly right, not yet, but she thinks it will be.

A part of her sparks with excitement. She never expected to want siblings, but the more she has, the more she decides she likes it. Besides, she and Jason were friends, once, when they were mere fractions of the people they are now.

They can be friends again.

There’s a small, awkward tweak in B’s stance that draws her attention again. He’s watching her. Waiting again. To see if he’s needed further, to see if anything he’s said has remotely done anything to help her.

So she smiles at him and murmurs, “’kay.”

B huffs. It’s sarcastic, because he’s disgruntled and unsatisfied with her very illuminating response, and she startles herself with a burst of good humor. He is...what is it Dick says sometimes?

Oh. Yes. B is such a Dad.

“Will go now,” Cass announces. “See Jason.”

B relaxes. “Good.”

“And B,” Cass adds. She makes him meet her eyes. “Thank you.”

She’s thanking him for more, and he knows it. It makes him flush with something like embarrassment, as though he’s only just realizing he’s done a Good Dad thing and doesn’t know how to process it.

No wonder Damian finds him funny. He is. Very much so. 

She hides her growing grin and waves goodbye, first at Damian and then at B. B’s soft voice follows her out the door.

“Anytime, Cassandra.”

She takes some of B’s warmth with her as she wanders through the manor halls. She will find a nook to sit and wait.

Because there is only one thing left to do now.

It’s much later—another hour or so later, actually—that she finds the opportunity.

Jason’s head is in the clouds when he and Alfred finally finish their talk, thoughts a million miles away. He is wrung dry, eyes lined and puffy, and there’s a bone-deep exhaustion there he doesn’t care to hide, thinking he is alone. She hesitates at the door of Alfred’s sitting room as Jason passes. Because this is...private. There is a turmoil and anxiety in his gait, in the distance in his eyes. She doesn’t know how to fix it, how to approach it.

But that’s...that’s not it. She can see another story from behind. His shoulders are set and strong; his back, straight. Determined.

Defeat is a myth to him. It always has been.

It still is.

Cass reveals herself, slipping out of the sitting room and calling, “You.”

Jason snaps back into reality, and he spins around, tense, at first, and shocked to see her. The tension intensifies, shrieking through his entire body as she nods, decides yes, now; other stuff later, and launches herself at him.

She ignores the way he’s primed for an attack. He won’t hurt her. She knew him then, and she knows him now, too, if in a new way.

So, heedless of retaliation, she tackles him in a hug, reveling in the oof of air escaping his lungs.

“...Cassandra?” he asks, a little uncertainly.

She squeezes him tight. “Glad,” she tells him, pouring her apology and her joy and all her sorrow, too, into her tone. “So, so glad.”

His initial stiff reaction melts away, a resigned sort of tolerance taking its place. He isn’t usually a hugger, Cass learns. But he doesn’t protest when he gets one. He may even like it, a little. Kind of like Tim. She can work with that.

“You talk now?” he blurts.  

She pulls back, grinning. She looks him up and down, and she sees his tragedy written in his scars, the purpose behind his eyes. All those little hints of a person that fascinated her before blaze through every aspect of him now. “So do you,” she teases.

He studies her for a moment, gaze going misty, but not dead. “I like it,” he says to her, slowly, and all of a sudden, he comes back to himself in a fiery rush. His smirk speaks of glimmers of memory, of respect, of sadness, of a willingness to learn about this new-but-not-so-new person he sees in Cass. It speaks of a promise they’ll never—never—go back to who, to what, they were before.

Cass takes Jason’s hand. Squeezes it. An agreement.

“I’m glad, too,” her new brother and old friend says, and his tone is a mirror of hers. “So, so glad.”

Barbara wakes to the sound of running water and an empty space next to her. Dick’s voice is muffled honey, a little rough with the last dredges of sleep and as smoky as the steam escaping the cracked ensuite bathroom door. He’s singing in the shower. Disney, if her sleep-addled brain isn’t imagining things.

She’s almost lulled back to sleep, listening to him, but as the moisture in the air gets heavier and hotter the longer Dick’s in the shower, the less comfortable she is. With a mild groan, she flips off the duvet and reaches toward the bedside table for her phone. It’s her civilian phone, not her work phone, and yet she still has a flurry of notifications, all from friends within the superhero community. She doesn’t have to do more than skim them to know they’re all asking the same questions. All probing. Wondering.

It’s only a matter of time now.

She swipes away the messages for the time being and checks the time. It’s evening now. Probably best she gets up anyway.

There’s a lot of work to do.

After a brief stretch, which elicits a satisfying pop from one of her shoulders, she works on maneuvering herself out of bed and transferring into her chair, taking a mental tally of everyone she needs to follow-up with ASAP, not the least of whom includes a certain undead Batboy.

Jason. Her heart stutters, mind screeching to a halt. Not for the first time that day, she experiences a jarring dissonance between the logic that says not possible and the ache in her chest that says but it is.

She immediately draws lines through her growing To-Do List, rearranging her priorities as she goes. The others can wait. The Waynes are Priority Alpha. She has to trust the Team, the League, and the Outsiders can hold their own without her silent supervision or her assistance. They’ve survived without Oracle before. They can certainly do so for the next twenty-four hours.

Or longer. Depending.

She rubs the grit from her eyes, mind whirling, plans blazing through her mind, considered and then either discarded or filed away at top speed.

Damian, at least, won’t be such a PR nightmare. He is easy, in comparison. She will have little to do there, as Bruce will undoubtedly need to do most of it himself. Any shortcuts, anything not done by the book, may cause a much larger headache later on, especially if Talia ever changes her mind and decides she wants to regain custody. Babs can’t imagine it will take long to talk to the right lawyers, provide the right proof, and have a frank discussion with Talia herself, should the information in her flash-drive not already contain the answers to their questions (and perhaps despite all that, too).

Damian will legally be a Wayne by the end of the week. Max.

There will be some buzz when the news breaks, naturally. A moonlit tryst with a mysterious woman and a happy little accident in the form of a beaming baby boy is something people might expect from Brucie Wayne. In all likelihood, they’ll joke and sneer and wonder how this is the first time this has happened. Damian will be an entertaining scandal for the masses, a mere distraction for the vapid, and then, when they grow bored, they will move on to the next big gossip, and Damian’s abrupt entrance into the Wayne family will fade from society’s memory.

All in all, nothing to worry about.

Jason, though.

Jason’s story will be put under the microscope.

She needs to get with Tim and Bruce, especially. Lucius, too, perhaps. There is only so much time they have to spin this in their favor. Lips fly, rumors spread, and word reaches the wrong channels faster than Barry Allen can run across the country, and too many people know already. Everyone who knows has no doubt told their spouses, or their friends, and no doubt those spouses and friends have told others, too.

That’s the nature of news like this: it is too big, and too spectacular, to keep to yourself. And no matter how well-meaning, even the best of secret-keepers slip sometimes.

Life will be hell if they don’t get ahead of this. They need a solid, watertight story, with all the documentation and evidence to back it up, as well as a trustworthy reporter to tell it. They need the entire Family to approve, and the whole Community will need to be informed, too. Officially.

It’s contained enough that it doesn’t look like a mess. Yet. But they’ve already lost a bit of the time they can spare (thanks, sleep), and it doesn’t help that she feels somewhat scummy and scattered.

“Scattered.” One way to put it. “Going a little insane” is another.

But that’s Jason for you. She can’t say she’s surprised he’s causing trouble for her the moment he’s back.

(Damn, has she missed him).

Her fingers fiddle and tear at the edges of her cheap phone case. Catching herself, she scowls and tosses her phone aside, back into the bedclothes. From the bathroom, Dick’s voice rises into a falsetto he can pull off remarkably well, and Barbara takes advantage of the distraction, a fond smile spreading across her face. For a brief moment, she entertains the thought of joining him in the shower. A shower would help her collect her thoughts, settle her mind. She could ask Dick to wash her hair, and he would, gladly, because he loves playing with her hair—always has, even before they were an official couple—and she could just...decompress, allow her mind to float away. Just for a few more minutes.

It’d be worth it, she thinks, just to come out of it feeling refreshed and ready.

Barbara’s just about to decide one way or another when a brisk knock sounds at their door.

“Naturally,” she mutters to herself. She twists a hair tie off her wrist and begins collecting her hair into as much of a respectable ponytail as she can. As for the rest...the bra she threw off before crashing into bed can go screw itself. She’s long past the point of maintaining an illusion of modesty in this family. The borrowed t-shirt she’s in will have to do. Battling her hair and raising her voice, she calls, “One second!”

“Oh, fish-sticks and buttercups,” comes an unexpected, wry voice. Barbara freezes, ghosts of the past trailing frigid fingers down her spine. “I’m actually not prepared for this. I thought I was, but I’m not. You and Dick decent, at least, Barbie?”

Barbara barely manages to finish tying off her hair. She jams her glasses onto her face and spins her chair around, zooming to the door and throwing it open without hesitation.

Jason stands in the doorway, leaning casually up against the jamb. He straightens the moment the door opens, a broad shit-eating grin already on his face.

“Jason,” she greets with a laugh, the deep ache in her chest easing into something warm and light as she beams up at him. He’s grown into himself, and he looks well. He’s taller than Bruce, and isn’t that hilarious. She’ll have to remind him she told him so. Her smile grows, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Look at you. Long time, no—”

Something is wrong. She cuts herself off.

Jason’s grin is gone.

He tries to control his reaction. She can see he does, but that startled, then horrified, expression is something she recognizes intimately, and with echoes of humiliation and untamed fury.

He’s staring at her chair.

In a single moment, she’s thrown back to the worst of her physio sessions, when the mere thought of being subjected to the pain and frustration of learning how to function without legs turned her thoughts dark and made her tears burn; to the days when she had to have others take care of her until she could shower and go to the bathroom on her own, the indignity of it choking her like bile; to the days she started to venture out on her own, when the gawking still got to her, and she wished she could strangle anyone who treated her like glass.

The balloon of glowing emotion within her bursts, dowsing her in a wave of negativity and annoyance, followed quickly by a shield of cold, learned indifference and stubborn pride.

This was not how she wanted, much less expected, to feel when Jason came to see her. These tainted emotions have absolutely no business haunting her now. Not here, facing a boy once dead, a friend she’d thought she’d lost forever, and certainly not when she thought she’d long since conquered them.

Jason drifts through the open door, wide-eyed and pallid. He sinks to his knees at the foot of her chair. “Babs,” he chokes, and it’s a testament to him that there’s no pity when he raises his gaze. His eyes are tight but fragile, seconds away from fracturing to pieces, and everything that isn’t written on his face, she can hear in the layers of distress and confusion in his voice. “What happened?”

He’s shaken. Truly shaken. Her shield shatters. “No one told you,” she realizes out loud.

Jason shakes his head, a short, frustrated jerk of movement.

Babs softens. “It’s fine. You’ve been coherent and with us for—what?—a few hours? Half a day? A lot’s happened.”

“Clearly,” Jason grinds out. “I’m so sorry, Barb. I—”

“It’s okay,” she assures him again. She takes one of his hands. “I’m okay, too. I’ve been okay. I came out all the stronger for it.”

Jason scans her, hunting for a lie. “You look good,” he concedes. “Really good.”

She smirks. “I just woke up from a nap. I’m half-dressed and un-showered. Points for trying, though, Boy Wonder.”

“I mean it,” Jason says, unphased by his old nickname. “Bruce said you’d taken on a new name. And a new role. It doesn’t look like...anything’s holding you back.”

Babs catches the hesitation in his words. “I don’t need Batgirl to make a difference,” she says softly. “Never have.”

Jason’s lips quirk. He’s too clever not to understand the point she’s trying to make, and she’s satisfied to see with her own eyes that he’s come to that conclusion himself.

It is as Tim said: he’s not holding on to Robin. Not in the least.

The implied offer in her words goes unacknowledged as well, but she won’t begrudge him that. If he needs help, he’ll ask. Forming a new identity...That is something people need to do for themselves. She and Dick both know that well.

“So is it tactless of me to ask again?” Jason asks, blunt as ever. His expression is earnest, open, understanding. “You still haven’t told me what happened, and I’m already kind of sick of not knowing anything.”

Some gut instinct yanks at her the moment she opens her mouth, prompting her to tread carefully. She needs to remember who she’s speaking to. And why it matters. The last thing she wants to do right now is to trigger any lingering trauma Jason is dealing with. Besides, this is supposed to be a happy reunion. Something to celebrate. The Joker has no business interrupting or otherwise ruining it.

“We don’t have to talk about that now,” she finds herself saying dismissively. “We didn’t expect to see you again, Jase. None of us did.” Her voice hitches. “We’ve missed you.”

That, apparently, was not the right thing to say, and Barbara could kick herself, for making the same mistake she made when Jason took the Robin colors.

She underestimated him.

Jason completely shuts down, a severe shadow darkening his features. His jaw clenches, eyes hard and uncompromising. “It was him,” he snarls. “Wasn’t it.”

It’s not a question. Not really.

Barbara closes her eyes, inhaling deeply and fighting the hatred rising inside her. “Yes,” she admits.

Releasing her hand, Jason shoots to his feet, shaking with rage. “That fucker,” he hisses. With a wordless scream, he spins and punches the wall. The drywall splits under the force, leaving a sizeable hole. “THAT FUCKER.”

“Jason!” Barbara barks, looking in alarm at the destroyed wall. Throwing a look over her shoulder, she sees Dick has not heard enough to investigate, and she wheels herself out into the hall and closes the door behind her. “What the hell? That’s enough!”

“No! First me, then you?” Jason demands, wild-eyed. “All he does is take and take and take! I’m sick of it!”

“The Joker didn’t take anything from us,” Babs denies in a near-whisper. “And the moment you think otherwise is the moment he wins. We’re here, Jason. And what we do with our second chance—what we become—it isn’t because of what he did to us. It’s because of what we decide to do despite what he did to us.”

Jason pulls his lips into an affronted scowl. “That’s... I fucking know that!” he argues, eyes flashing. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t...It’s just.” Something tears in his voice, and he runs both of his hands through his hair. “How many more people does he have to kill? How much more pain does he have to cause? When does it end, Barb? When does it fucking end?”

She doesn’t respond. She can’t. She doesn’t have an answer, and any response she has is not the one either of them want to hear.

The Joker is a difficult opponent to beat, not because of Bruce’s rules regarding their criminals, but because the clown has a PhD in manipulation and deception. He lives under the protection of his so-called insanity, pretending to be crazier than he is and thriving off of the chaos he breeds, which people may realize is not so chaotic as it is methodical if they actually took the time to look at the statistics and make some assumptions about what, exactly, the Joker knows (or, rather, what he pretends not to know). His motives aren’t as mysterious or unfathomable as they appear, either, despite the unpredictability of his attacks. And yet, somehow, despite being the perfect foil to Bruce’s own genius, despite the calculated moves he’s made, all in the name of causing mass destruction, panic, and casualties, the Joker has convinced everyone he’s incompetent to stand trial for his crimes.  

And by everyone, she means everyone. She wonders, sometimes, if Bruce himself isn’t half-charmed by the very same lies.

And Barbara can’t even blame them. It’s hard to consider that any sane human can do that much evil, and to try to rationalize some of the horrors the Joker has wrought borders a new realm of impossibility. In the end, that perception is all the Joker needs to get what he wants out of Gotham: a permanent cell in Arkham to stay in when he’s been caught, an infamous name to fall back on when he escapes, and no formal punishment for anything he’s done any time in between.

So it won’t end. It can’t. Not as things stand now.

And she’s tried. It’s one failure she can’t stand to admit, not to herself and certainly not to anyone else Joker has hurt.

“We’re not doing this right,” Jason realizes out loud. “Not with him.”

Babs purses her lips, holding her tongue, and Jason’s eyes narrow. She can see her contempt, her frustration, and her fury reflected back at her.

“You know what? That’s it,” Jason growls. “That is fucking it. I’m going to get that bastard, Babs.” His voice is nearly inaudible it’s gone so deep, taking on a gravely quality not unlike that of Bruce’s in the cowl. “I don’t care how close Bruce was to putting him down. I don’t care that Dick almost managed something himself. I don’t care that Joker’s been a good and pliant little mental health patient for the last year.” He balls his hands into fists. “I am going to get him. I’m going to dog his every step and back him into a corner, where he can’t escape. I’m going to drive him to true insanity and make him realize, once and for all, that death is too good for scum like him. And if I can’t manage that, then I am going annoy the ever-fucking shit out of him. So much so that he has to escape Gotham, preferably to a state where they won’t hesitate to enact the death penalty on his ass.”

Jason takes a shallow, shuddering breath. “He’s not going to be able to get rid of me now, Babs. Never. I’m not letting him get away with it anymore. Whatever it takes.”

If it were anyone else, Barbara might think them naïve. She’d laugh in their face, even. Perhaps try to talk them down, explain why their words are empty and inefficient in the face of this particular beast. Because you can’t plan for the Joker. You can’t trick him. You can’t play his games better than he and Batman can. He’s too smart to be trapped, too good at what he does.  

But this...this was something else. Something more.

A deadly quiet falls over them both.

“Whatever you need,” Babs says eventually, and her voice doesn’t sound entirely her own. “Whatever you have to do. You have my support.” She holds out her hand. “And I expect I’ll have yours.”

There’s no hesitation. Jason’s hand dwarfs her own. “You and I are the last people in this family he touches,” he promises.

Barbara squeezes his hand, a wordless promise of her own.

By nonverbal consensus, they release the other’s hand, and Jason backs down, the power and ferocity in his eyes transforming into a directionless anger. He shifts his weight, impatient and irritated, and before Barbara can think to ask if he’s alright, or if he might want to talk it out (preferably without throwing any more punches), Jason mutters something under his breath and darts around her and into Dick’s bedroom. “Dick!” he shouts. “Get your ass out here!”

There’s a wild scrabbling, and Dick, still dripping and clothed only in a towel around his waist, flings open the bathroom door. It crashes into the stopper. “Whe’s ‘e fi’ya?” he asks around the toothbrush sticking out of his mouth.

“No fire,” Barbara answers from the doorway. “Jason’s—”

—already moving around her and stalking out the door, yelling, “TIM! TIIIIIIM!”

Dick and Barbara exchange a baffled look, and while Dick explodes into motion and rushes around the room, throwing on whatever he can find, Barbara sets off after Jason, who, by the time she’s caught up with him, has somehow found and recruited Tim, as well as Cass and Steph.

Two of them are staring after Jason’s retreating back, mouths agape with varying levels of confusion. Stephanie, for her part, is in the process of mouthing, “What the actual fuck?”

Tim is the first to shoot a Look at Barbara, but all she can do is shrug uselessly at him. Tim, bless his heart, shrugs back and follows Jason without another word.

Barbara appreciates Tim and his go-with-the-flow attitude. Very much. It’s grounding to be around. It helps her stay sane.

Dick slides around the corner soon afterwards. As he scans the assembly of Batkids, marching in file after their raging Robin Number Two, he reads the mood and immediately zeroes in on Jason’s back, brows furrowed.

Jason leads them down to the Cave.

They gather on the main platform, before the Bat Computer, and they are silent as Jason storms around the Cave, cursing and banging and crashing. A sledgehammer is shoved into Dick’s hands, and several huge wrenches and other hefty tools start to conglomerate at their feet.

“He’s lost it,” Stephanie whispers to Barbara. “He’s totally lost it.”

“...No,” Barbara responds, eyes latched on Jason. “No, he hasn’t.”

Finally, Jason comes to a halt before them, and propping a crowbar up on his shoulder, he stares them down. “Well?” he demands. He swings the crowbar down and points at the pile of tools with it. “Pick your poison.”

Dick and Tim are the only two who seem to understand exactly what Jason wants, and Barbara shudders at the impish grins growing on their faces.

Those are the type of grins that never bode well for anyone.

On behalf of all the girls in the room, Stephanie is the one who is bold enough to ask, “I’m beginning to feel left out. What exactly is going on here?”

“Bonding,” the three Robins say in unison.

Jason spins on his heel and saunters up to his memorial case. Barbara’s mouth goes dry, and they all watch as the motion sensor lights flicker on, illuminating the suit within. Jason pauses, shoulders tight, head held proud, and without warning, he takes a calculated, measured swing at the case.

Bruce did not skimp. The glass is thick, bullet-proof, layered. The first swing doesn’t so much as mark the case.

“Imagine every hit,” Jason announces as he swings again, “is you telling your nightmares—” Another swing. “—your failures—” Swing, crash. “—and every last asshat who pissed you off—” A single, thick, satisfying crack laces through the glass at the force of Jason’s last blow, and he turns back to them, grinning. “To fuck off.”

It’s a free-for-all, after that.

Dick gets a good shot in with the sledgehammer, splintering the deep crack Jason made even further. Tim, too. His precise shot sends spiderwebs shooting from the weakest point of the crack. Cass and Steph tag-team from both sides, putting every ounce of force behind their swings.

Barbara stands back and watches. She lets them get it all out first. She lets them rage and hurt, releasing all the emotion they have kept buried behind their masks. She watches as they scream and laugh and whoop and cheer things like “Nice one, Goldilocks!” and “What was that, Tim? That was pathetic!”

Jason clearly enjoys it the most, but he’s the one who calls the others to halt when the glass is so damaged they cannot clearly see through to the suit within. He’s the one who gestures her forward, handing her his crowbar.

Barbara takes it with numb hands.

“Whatever it takes,” Jason mumbles to her, his expression a wildfire.

“Whatever it takes,” she agrees.

She is the last one to swing, and with a strangled shout, she’s the one finally who takes the entire memorial down.

The glass rains around the desecrated Robin suit, and she watches with detached interest, knuckles white and fingers aching around the crowbar.

Dick comes up behind her, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. She releases a heavy exhale and looks up at him.

He’s breathless, eyes alight. His gaze is on Jason, who is standing before his suit again. Tim joins him there, and Cass has Stephanie wrapped in a big hug. There’s a...sense of peace emanating from them all, and it’s one that Barbara realizes, with some surprise, she shares with them.

Huh. Who would have known that beating the crap out of a glass case would be such a marvelous stress reliever? In truth, that probably speaks pretty poorly of them and their mental health, but that's a battle for another day.

Today, nothing can touch them. Jason is home. They're together and whole, their burdens lying in literal shards at their feet.

Today is a good day. 

“We really are going to be okay,” Dick whispers, and he sounds as though he’s coming to a life-changing revelation. He’s been a contained mess ever since he got home from Infinity Island, but for the first time since Jason's return, all of his lingering fears, his worries, and anger...Everything he was trying to keep from seeping out around his battered defenses—it seems to have been purged. Completely. His optimism is back, unhindered and unforced, and it’s as contagious as ever. “Aren’t we.”

Barbara pulls his hand off her shoulder to press a kiss into his knuckles, and she catches Jason's eye from across the room. “Without a doubt.”

Chapter Text

Bruce walks in on a scene of serene chaos. 

The kids stand in a sea of glass, bearing grins and tears; bleeding knuckles and shoulders cut from diamond. It is still and quiet, their voices barely rising above that of whispers. Overseeing them all is Jason’s Robin suit. It remains proud and untouchable, somehow more noble, more authentic, than it ever had been while encased in glass.

They stand together. All of them. For the first time.

The swell of pride Bruce feels takes his breath away.

This is how it should have been. From the beginning.

No, he corrects himself. This is how it is. From now on.

When Jason notices him and takes stock of his crossed arms, raised eyebrow, and long-suffering expression, he laughs so hard he cries. The others don’t hesitate to follow in suit.

Bruce narrows his eyes at them—there isn’t a single iota of remorse shared between the lot, of course—and points wordlessly to the supply closet.

He ends up grabbing a broom himself, just so he doesn’t have to pretend he isn’t fighting a smile the entire time.

“Ja!”

Jason doesn’t remember crossing the distance between them, much less the joke Dick makes as he goes. Something about having a head start. The words “Damian’s favorite” may or may not have followed.

All he feels is Alfred settling Damian comfortably in his arms. All he sees is that grumpy little face, jade eyes alight with recognition, and when he clutches Damian close, all he hears is the baby babbling at him, and he chokes on little gasps of air, overpowered by the sensation of protectiveness and affection cresting and plummeting through him like a waterfall.

Part of him balks, uncertain by the power of these emotions that don’t quite belong to him, terrified by what waits at the bottom of those falls. But the other part...

The other part latches on for dear life and braces eagerly for the drop.

It comes back to him in spurts and flashes: the horror of seeing a baby in that godawful place, of seeing that possessive, calculating gleam in Ra’s’ eyes; the desire to see to that baby’s every need, no matter the cost to himself, no matter that he wasn’t capable of understanding what exactly that meant at the time; the gnawing, all-consuming need to get out, to get Damian out...

Bruce’s hand rests on Jason’s shoulder, and Jason jolts back to himself, riding the wave of relief that pours over him when he looks up and realizes where he is.

Where they are.  

This...is real. They came for us. It’s all real.

“We’re home,” Jason finally whispers around the stone lodged in his throat. Only Damian hears him. It doesn’t matter that the kid doesn’t understand. It only matters that, one day, he will.

“We’re home.”

“Hey, Jason?”

Jason jerks awake. “Yeah, that sounds great, Tim,” he says automatically.

Tim blinks at him, and Jason snarls at the smirk growing across his face. “Meeting’s over.”

“Yeah, I know.” He totally didn’t know. “And I’m reiterating to you that it’s a solid plan. I agree with everything you said.” He dares Tim to say another word with his glare alone.

“Sure, if snores count as verbose agreements,” Dick pipes up from the other end of the room. “You were agreeing up a storm in here.”

Dignity? Gone. “Shut the fuck up, Dicks-for-brains.”

“Language,” comes the causal chastisement from no fewer than three of the others.

“Hey,” Tim says quietly. “It’s not a big deal. We’re going to play up the amnesia angle, so you not knowing what’s going on kind of...validates the story? You’re not going to be talking to the press for awhile yet, anyway. Because, you know...”

“Trauma.”

“Yeah.”

“Always tell your lies with a sprinkling of truth. Easy enough.”

“That is the Bat Way.”

Jason shrugs, apathetic. He stands and raises his arms above his head to stretch, fighting a yawn. “Whatever works, Timbo.”

Tim studies Jason to the point where he feels uncomfortable. He stiffens and drops his arms. “What?” he snaps, defensive. “Spit it out.”

“Is this really okay? I just thought you’d...I don’t know, want to have more of a say in all this?”

You trust me? is what Jason hears between the lines. You trust that this will work?

Something sits hard and uneasy in his stomach, a sense of powerlessness curdling his mood.

He has to.

No one goes on patrol that night.

Instead, everyone sits around the table. Even Babs, who says she probably should have left hours ago. And Steph, who already had one foot out the door before Cass manhandled her back.

They don’t talk about Jason or his situation. Instead, they swap stories as they share the greasy pizzas Dick sweet-talked Alfred into allowing through the threshold, and it’s easy as breathing—to forget, to pretend. Alfred and Bruce sit at the heads of the table, watching with fascinated disgust as the rest of them converge like rabid beasts on the food. The boxes line the center of the table, haphazardly flipped open and terrorized by hungry hands, overflowing bags of truffle fries and garlic bread twists peppered in between.

Jason soaks it in, speaking little and laughing a lot. They talk late into the night. So late that Bruce has to excuse himself multiple times to check on Damian and Stephanie gets a furious call from her mother demanding her to come home now.

Before long, he’s eaten nearly a whole pizza himself, and his family’s voices begin to fade in and out as he dozes in a daze of contentment, the pleasant buzz of noise and hearty warmth in his gut coaxing him to sleep.

He’s so out of it he barely jumps when thin hands rest on his shoulders.

“Up you get, Master Jason,” Alfred murmurs, prodding him gently awake.

Jason sighs, settling further into the plush seat. “Nah.”

But Alfred is magic, and of course he manages to lure Jason to his feet. Somehow, they make it up the stairs without braining each other, and there’s only one stubbed toe to boast of between the two of them by the time they reach the top.

“Been a long day, Alfie,” Jason murmurs, bleary-eyed.

“That it has.”

“A good day, though?”

If he were any more awake, Jason would hate that it sounded like a question. Alfred humors him, tone gentle and fond when he responds, “The best, Master Jason.”

When Alfred leads him to his room, Jason hesitates. Because it’s his room. Not a fresh guestroom. Not one of his siblings’. His.

East of Eden sits on his bedside table, his place marked with an old receipt; Post-It notes and old movie ticket stubs dot the tackboard over his desk; the blanket he stole from Bruce’s room is folded neatly at the foot of his bed.

It’s as though he’s never left.

Jason runs his fingers over the crimson duvet. “Thanks, Alfred,” he whispers.

Alfred sports a small smile. “Sleep well, my boy.”

Jason intends on doing just that. Truly. He throws on whatever he finds in his closet—Alfred must have exchanged his old clothes for hand-me-downs of Bruce’s or Dick’s—and he flops face-first into bed without a second thought.

It isn’t until he blindly flings his hand out to flip the bedside lamp off, underestimating his reach and cracking his knuckles against the edge of the solid oak, that he is painfully reminded.

The room hasn’t changed. But he has.

It isn’t so easy to fall asleep, after that.

 When Jason shows up in the Cave, a half-hour late for training, Bruce takes one look at him and says, “No.”

Tim immediately stops what he’s doing when he notices Jason, allowing Dick a neat swipe at his ankles. The younger just barely manages to maintain his balance, and Cass’s laughter bounces around the cavern walls. Bruce, for his part, sighs as training dissolves into a wrestling match.

Jason’s watching them play with animated, eager eyes. They are bruised and exhaustion-bright. He clearly did not sleep well, but even still, Bruce notes the way he bounces on his toes, the way his body screams with energy, aching for release.

“What?” The scowl Jason directs at him is familiar, and a nauseating sense of déjà vu trails in its wake. Bruce’s heart clenches. “Why not?” his son demands.

Bruce studies him for a moment before barking an order at Dick to stop fooling around and take over for the remainder of the morning.

He doesn’t wait for Dick’s acknowledgement and gently takes Jason aside, where the others can’t overhear. He will not lie and say he hadn’t already been planning for this conversation. He just hadn’t been prepared to have to address it so soon. He supposes he should have known better. Jason has never been good at sitting around, much less taking things slow.

It’s why they started fighting. Before.

“I know how the Shadows train their members,” Bruce begins.

Jason’s eyes narrow. “And what I’m getting here is that you don’t trust me.”

Bruce is already shaking his head. “What I’m getting at is that you may have new skills you may not even be aware of. Muscle memory is a powerful thing. We need to assess you. See what they’ve taught you. Accommodate for how you’ve grown. So.” He takes a step back, appraising Jason with a coach’s eye. “Let’s start with the basics.”

Jason throws back his head and groans, probably cursing Dick to kingdom come. It is, after all, the Grayson family’s thorough pre-show routine that Bruce had decided to drill into each and every protégé who followed in the first Robin’s footsteps.

“Stretch?” Jason grumbles.

“Always.”

Stephanie finds Tim with Jason in the media room. Tim’s playing Zelda, of course, and Jason is clicking between what must be at least a dozen different tabs on Tim’s old laptop, a deep frown of concentration on his face.

Tim gives her a look from the corner of his eye that reads don’t ask, which, naturally, makes her all the more curious. She props her elbows on the back of the couch and peers over Jason’s shoulder.

He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. In any case, it takes Stephanie a second to realize exactly what it is she’s looking at.

Jason Todd is GED prep book hunting, and judging by the sheer number of tabs he does indeed have open, he cannot decide which to pick.

“Wow,” she snorts. “Tim wasn’t kidding when he said you were actually kind of a nerd.”

Jason raises his eyes over the edge of his screen to level an unimpressed glare at Tim. “That’s rich coming from you, stalker.” Tim splutters, and Jason turns his attention to Steph. “And you can go screw off, Blondie. This is important.”

Steph doesn’t rise to the bait, instead rounding the couch and flopping right next to Jason. She kicks her feet up and reaches for another controller. Tim’s read her mind. He’s already switched to a multiplayer game. Mario Kart. Perfect.

“I know you’ve been gone for awhile,” she drawls, eyes on the TV screen as she chooses her character and customizes her kart, “but you do realize Bruce is still one of the wealthiest men in the world, right? I think he can spare the money for as many prep books as your heart desires.”

“Thank you, Stephanie!” Tim exclaims, throwing up his hands. “I made that very suggestion about an hour ago, but apparently, that option is much too practical for Jason here.”

“It’s excessive,” Jason complains.

“You’re being excessive.”

“And you’re being a little bitch. I really only need one.”

“Then maybe pick one?”

They’ve clearly had this argument before her arrival, and Steph thinks she’s heard enough. Without a word, she throws her controller down and crawls over Jason’s lap, pushing his face away and swiping the laptop from him. Before he can recover, she’s clicked the “proceed to checkout” button on Amazon, where there is a cartload of shit ready for purchasing and a credit card number already autosaved.

“There,” she says, with a final click. Both boys stare at her. “Whatever was in your cart is going to be here in at least two business days. You’re welcome. And congrats on upgrading your status from ‘I Guess We’re Brothers Now’ to ‘Best Brothers Forever.’ Three days must be a new record. Now are you guys ready to get your asses handed to you in Mario Kart or what?”

“Dick.”

“Hmm?”

“Dick, there’s been so many Marvel movies.”

“I’m awa—Oh! Oh, shit! Get off there! There’s spoilers everywhere! What’s the last one you remember? We need to fix this. We can probably start after—”

“No, no, wait, hang on, don’t do that. I just saw there’s been a new Quentin Tarantino movie! And they remade It, too?”

“Yeah, I guess?”

“And what’s this about Pride and Prejudice and Zombies?”

“Uhhhh...”

“What the fuck, Dick?”

“Jeez, I’m sorry, okay? Despite what you might think, I do have a life outside of movies, you know.”

“No, not that! Disney’s doing live action now?”

“Oh my God. Go to bed, Jason!”

“Master Jason?"

The boy curses, knocking his head on the top of the refrigerator. He turns, expression guilty and sheepish. The light from the open refrigerator pours across the tile, where several pieces of fruit have found themselves after the boy’s clumsy rummage through the shelves.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, Alf,” Master Jason apologizes. His voice is torn, frayed.

“No harm done, lad,” Alfred says immediately, fixing the tie on his dressing gown. “I was awake.”

Master Jason looks at the clock. It is nearly three in the morning. “They’re back?”

Alfred nods. “Mission success. Another metahuman trafficking ring is dissolved.”

There’s a numb nod, and the boy bends to pick up the fruit he scattered. He’s hiding his face, his reaction. Alfred hears the hint of resentment and longing in his voice anyway. “Good.”

The butler watches for a moment before he maneuvers around the kitchen island and begins gathering things for tea. He flicks the overhead stove light on, and when he catches the deepening guilt on Master Jason’s face, Alfred stops him before he can protest, saying, “So long as we’re both awake, it won’t do to just sit around in the dark. Is chamomile acceptable?”

Jason purses his lips and slides into a barstool with a small nod. He rests a heavy head in one of his palms, elbow propped on the island, and watches Alfred putter around in the near-darkness. Neither of them makes a move to turn on another light, nor do they dare to shatter the fragile silence.

Alfred maintains that silence until he can bear it no longer. He hands Master Jason a steaming mug and asks, “May I ask why you are awake at this time of night, Master Jason?” 

“I can’t sleep,” Jason admits. His tone is frustrated, and he rubs his eyes, heaving a dark sigh. “I close my eyes, and I see...I don’t know, I see a lot of shit.”

Nightmares, Alfred realizes, heart aching at the confirmation. A tried and true enemy of this household. “Do you wish to talk about it?”

Jason’s shaking his head before Alfred even finishes the query.

Alfred rephrases his question. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I don’t...” He swallows harshly, eyes lowered. Dejection does not look well on people as a rule, but Alfred thinks he has not seen anything more crushing than having to use the word to characterize Jason Todd. “I don’t know.”

Alfred doesn’t push. He doesn’t pry for more, but he does stay awake with Master Jason for another three-quarters of an hour. He sips his tea, fighting the sleep wishing to claim him, and waits for the moment he should be needed. He forces himself to accept that, for now, that he may wait an eternity.

But wait he will. It’s the most he can do now, so the Sandman be damned.

When Master Jason finally downs the remainder of his cup, he stands from the island and murmurs, “This.”

An odd non sequitur, undoubtedly. The statement sits between them like a clumpy lump of dough waiting to be knead. “I’m sorry?” Alfred asks, blinking his blurred vision away.

Master Jason chuckles, offering Alfred his arm. “I think it’s time for bed.”

Alfred huffs, offended for a reason he can’t quite understand at this juncture. Perhaps he is being mocked. Turnabout is fair play, after all. If there’s one thing he’s instilled in his charges about humor, it is that, at least. “I will have you know, young man—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Master Jason says, stifling a yawn. “You’re tough as nails, and we don’t have any say in what you decide to do, considering our life decisions are immeasurably poorer than yours.” Alfred opens his mouth to respond, but Jason cuts him off, voice softening in his sincerity. “Thanks, Alfie.”

The genuine gratitude in the boy’s voice warms him, and the pang in his chest eases. “Anytime, lad.”

“...Wayne’s second son, reported tragically killed in a horrible accident overseas in 2015, has since been discovered alive! Victim of a kidnapping and ransom plot gone wrong, and further subjected to a medical coma, amnesia, and the horrors of human trafficking, Jason Todd-Wayne has—”

Click. Pause.

“Billionaire Bruce Wayne is reportedly ‘overjoyed’ to welcome home not only his firstborn but also his long-thought-lost second adopted son Jason Todd, who, as most of Gotham may remember, supposedly passed away after an explosion in Ethiopia—”

Click. Pause.

“—something not right about the story. It seems too convenient that it was the unnamed mother of Wayne’s newfound biological son who just so happened to stumble upon an amnesic Jason Todd, let alone recognize him and have the power to extract him from the hellish conditions Todd was allegedly—

Click. Pause.

“—unclear if Jason Todd-Wayne has—”

“Oh my God, Tim, give it a rest!”

Tim pauses the newscast again. It’s the first time Jason’s spoken to him since he stormed into the den, bearing a book and a glower that’d melt the tires of the Batmobile. “You don’t have to be in here,” he reminds Jason.

“Everyone else is busy,” Jason grumbles, as though that is explanation enough. “It’s also been a few days since the news broke. Surely if something was going to go wrong, it would have by now. You don’t have to keep monitoring every little thing they say.”

But...of course he does?

Tim doesn’t understand. What kind of suggestion was that? Jason should know him well enough by now to know he needs to keep abreast of what’s going on. But then again, maybe that’s exactly why he’s saying it—it wouldn’t be the first time in the last twenty-four hours that someone mentioned he should take a break—but...

Tim sees the way Jason’s nervous fingers pluck at the edge of the knitted blanket hanging over the edge of the couch, how the bruises under his eyes deepen with every passing day. He’d been raging around the Manor like a caged animal ever since Bruce’s PR team made their first moves, frustration threatening to boil over at any moment.

And it had. Just last night, Bruce had made a gentle suggestion that Jason “slow down,” and Jason’d snapped. The one-sided shouting match had been rather spectacular, and everyone had been walking on eggshells since. Even Cass had taken to giving Jason wide berth.

Jason had been a bonfire of anger yesterday, but today...Today, Tim can’t help but think he looks sad. Worn.

This, actually, is also the first time Jason’d chosen to accept someone’s company since the fight. Tim wonders why Jason chose him to come to first. It’s not like he got burnt last night. Bruce had taken the brunt of it.  

Tim decides it doesn’t matter and shrugs the question away. Treading lightly and overthinking the situation is not how he should approach this. Jason had had his space. Now it’s time to cut the crap.

“That’s remarkably optimistic of you,” Tim says, tone purposefully composed.

Hook, line, sinker. Jason’s eyes flash, and he looks himself again. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean, Replacement. I’m a fucking ray of sunshine,” he asserts viciously. His lips twist, betraying his returned humor, but it dies before a true smile can fully form.

Tim doesn’t quite like it. He deflates and frowns, uncertain. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He wants to, but...

Something on his face must alert Jason to what he’s thinking because he sighs and says, “Don’t hurt yourself. I’m just sick of hearing about it. I’m sick of hearing my name. If I hear it one more goddamn time today, I’ll—”

A slammed door resounds from the entrance hall. “Jayyyyyy!” Dick’s voice echoes after it.

“Motherfucking hell,” Jason curses under his breath, and when Tim bursts into laughter, he thinks that, maybe, Jason can’t quite help but smile, for real, this time, too.

“BBBBRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPP.”

Jason flies up from where he’s crouched, weapon falling from nerveless fingers. It hits the floor with a clatter, and he backs away from the training dummy, cold with horror. The others of its kind have halted their advance, standby lights blinking across their metallic faces. Their inhuman stillness is an accusation, crowding and pressing in on him like the walls of a coffin. 

“Lethal force applied,” the dummy announces coolly.

Jason stares at the ground. He...he doesn’t remember choosing the batarang from his belt. Why did he? How did...?

The android stares at him. “Error,” it says. “Error.”

Failure, Jason hears. Failure.

Bruce stands to the side, arms crossed. He’s frowning.

Jason closes his eyes, tries to steady his breathing. He doesn’t want to think about what this means. Self-disgust and panic quakes through his chest. “B,” he chokes. “I...”

Bruce shakes his head, face stony. “Let’s try again.”

“Bruce, he’s beautiful,” Diana coos for the third time that evening, tossing Damian lightly and snuggling up to him once she catches him again. Damian erupts into delighted laughter, basking in the thrill and the attention.

“He looks so much like you,” agrees Clark, shifting his own dozing son on his lap. Damian had taken to pulling Jonathan’s hair, so they’ve since been separated.

(“Already so bossy,” Clark had joked, tutting at Damian. “Definitely a Bat.”

Clark foresaw a great friendship ahead. A mighty fine brotherhood. Bruce? He wasn’t so optimistic. He foresaw trouble. Probably a shared jailcell, at some point.

Diana didn’t take that bet, but she bore witness to theirs, smirking all the while. “They will be just as their fathers,” she said instead.

Neither Clark nor Bruce knew what to make of that.)

“I think he looks more like his mother,” Bruce disagrees quietly.

“The gremlin?” Jason asks suddenly from the doorway. “No way. Have you seen that pout of his? That’s all you, B.”

“Jason,” Clark breathes. He floats to his feet immediately, mindful of Jon.

Jason smiles. It’s tired, a little hesitant. “Hey, Uncle Clark. Aunt Diana. Didn’t know you were coming.” Gray eyes flick to Bruce and then away again, tone deceptively casual. “What’s up?”

Bruce finds his arms full of Damian. Diana steps past him and approaches Jason with a face rent with empathy. Without waiting for permission, she gathers him into one of her trademark hugs, the kind that leaves its recipients feeling treasured and capable of any manner of miracle.

Bruce is very glad he’s decided to invite her to see Jason. In her arms, his walls crumble in a way he hasn’t allowed them to since he came home.

“Oh, little bird,” Diana whispers. She pets his hair and quotes, “‘Take courage, my heart: you have been through worse than this. Be strong, saith my heart...’”

“‘I am a solider,’” Jason finishes, hoarse. “‘I have seen worse sights than this.’”(1)

“And you will weather this new trial, too, Jason.” She draws away and takes his hand in one of hers. The other, she rests on the lasso hidden in her civilian messenger bag. “This, I promise you.”

“Knock, knock.”

Jason tosses aside his pen and turns away from his prep book. Dick hesitates in the doorway, knuckles rapping lightly against the wood. Jason is going to tell him to go away and leave him alone, because he’s done with all the hovering and all the are you okay?s and their brethren do you need anything?s, but he stops short, biting his tongue. There’s something wrong with Dick, Jason thinks. His eyes are too bright, his smile sitting awkward and shaky on his face.

All in all, he looks wrecked.

“What happened?” he asks, suspicious. Unbidden anxiety swoops through his gut.

Dick doesn’t answer. “Can we talk, Jaybird?” he asks instead, and that doesn’t bode well. Jason braces himself. “Just for a minute? I don’t want to interrupt.”

With a wave of his hand, Jason gestures him in. Dick takes the proffered seat on Jason’s bed.

“I’m going back to Blüdhaven tonight.”

Jason’s first reaction is embarrassing, truly. His heart sinks, straight through his feet. “Oh,” he murmurs. He wonders why he expected anything different. A few years have passed, but of course Dick would still butt heads with Bruce. They are too alike. And too different. It was only a matter of time before this illusion of family shattered. “Okay. Whatever.”

And fuck Dick, but he’s so attuned to others, of course he hears the odd note in Jason’s voice. “We aren’t fighting,” Dick assures automatically. “I promise.”

“Oh,” Jason says again, face flushing. Is he really that transparent?

“It’s kind of the opposite, actually. He was...” Dick bows his head, raking his hands through his hair. He drops them, a motion too jerky to be fueled by anything but excess nerves. “I just popped into his office to tell him I’d see him later, you know? He was working on some additional paperwork for Damian, and he had the weirdest look on his face, so I was like, ‘awww, that’s cute, he’s actually getting sentimental,’ but then BAM, he pulls out another folder and shows me that it’s...”

It’s amazing, how quickly Jason’s mood spun on its axis. He follows Dick’s rambling with an honest curiosity (because when was the last time he’d seen Dick so flustered?), and the more Dick stumbles over the retelling, the more obvious it becomes.

“It’s not just Damian,” Jason finishes for him, and God, his cheeks hurt he’s smiling so wide. He hasn’t felt like this since he busted up the memorial case, nearly a week ago now. It feels like being reborn, happiness for Dick mowing over any negative thoughts and feelings he’d been harboring since. “He finally did it, then?”

Dick doesn’t look terribly surprised Jason knows. Bruce must have told him. “I...he showed me the first draft, too,” Dick admits, and his voice has gone misty, gaze fixated on some obscure point on Jason’s wall. “It’s dated from my second year here. After CPS finally got off B’s ass.”

“So I take it you agreed?” Jason asks.

“I—” Dick exhales in a puff of disbelieving laughter. “Yeah, I did. Of course I did.”

Jason crosses his arms, pleased. “I told him you would.”

Dick beams at him, and for a shining moment, the room is full of unspoken light. To Jason, Dick’s smile reads, I didn’t expect this. I didn’t need this. But I am so happy I could puke.

There’s only one little thing that ruins it.

“But you’re still leaving,” Jason muses.

Dick nods, a sheepish smile on his face. “We can celebrate another time. I really do need to get back. The city hasn’t seen Nightwing in a little while—properly, anyway—and when I checked in, it looks like some trouble’s been brewing on the docks. And I...may have already used more vacation days than I can spare right now. I need to show my face at work tomorrow.”

“You? Going to work? Holding down a job?” Jason asks, voice thick with sarcasm and mock surprise. “What happened to you while I was gone?”

Dick throws a playful punch at his shoulder. “Ha, ha. I coach now. Gymnastics.”

Jason raises a brow, but inwardly, he can’t think of anything better for Dick. He’d struggled to feel fulfilled after he left college, and even his short stint as one of the only clean police officers in Blüdhaven hadn’t been enough. “Don’t get enough of that with the Team?” he jokes.

Dick shrugs, and he looks a little discomfited for a moment. It’s then that Jason remembers he’s not leading said Team anymore. Because reasons. He almost feels like a rotten person for mentioning it, but Dick says, “I s’pose not. I like it.” Refocusing on Jason, he adds, “And speaking of coaching.”

Jason’s bubble of happiness bursts. He turns back to his prep book and twirls his pen between his fingers. “Nope. Not now.”

“I just...This isn’t about the dummies. We don’t have to talk about that.”

Despite himself, Jason feels his shoulders creeping toward his ears, his grip on his pen much too tight. He takes several deep breaths.

Dinah’s told him it’s important that he’s honest about how he’s feeling, that he advocates for what he believes he can and can’t handle. And he does do that—he’s not shy about it in the least—but it doesn’t necessarily help that his family is taking the word clingy to new levels. It doesn’t help that he feels the others’ concern for him like a physical thing now, smothering the life out of him, or that he’s embarrassed by his failings, or that he's feeling fucking trapped in his own house.

“And I still don’t want to talk about it.”

“I just...” Dick hesitates. “Don’t want to leave without knowing you’re feeling better.”

Part of Jason wants to spit abuse because Dick isn’t listening, but the other part...

That was the part that went to Dick in the first place.

It's coming from a good place, Jason tells himself. It always is. He steadies his temper, doodling looping circles in the margins of his prep book.

“It gets a little better every day,” he admits finally, not taking his eyes off the paper. “It’s only bad when I think too hard and realize I’m not...I’m not moving the way I remember I can. I’m not tripping up as much. Between your exercises and my unauthorized spars with Cass...” He trails off, hoping that’s enough for Dick. The whole issue has been a blow to his pride, a huge drain on his motivation and nerves, and he, for the third time, doesn’t really want to talk about it anymore.

“I still think you should mention this to Bruce,” Dick says.

Jason shrugs halfheartedly. “He’s probably a little too busy focusing on the fact I’ve probably killed people for the Shadows to care that my sixteen-year-old mind is feeling a little clumsy and awkward in my nineteen-year-old body, Dick.”

Dick’s face goes stormy. “I think you’re underestimating just how much he cares. It’s important that you feel safe and comfortable in your own skin, Jase. And not just in the field.”

“If I’m ever going to get back in the field,” Jason mutters under his breath.

He regrets the words the moment they’re out of his mouth. It’s been a growing fear, one that’s taken root and festered deep in his everyday frustrations with the people and friends flitting in and out of the manor, crying on his shoulders and welcoming him home; with the family who has been stifling him, telling him he’s moving too fast and that he has all the time in the world, as though the time he lost doesn’t matter. It’s a fear he can’t shake, and it’s one that’s poisoned his thoughts and his every breath. 

He needs to get out there.

It hasn’t even been a full week since he’s been home. He knows there’s a lot more wrong with him than they initially assumed. He knows he doesn’t want to go out until he’s no longer afraid of what he might do, until he’s sure he won’t hurt someone. He knows it’ll take time. 

But knowing all this doesn’t scratch this particular itch, much less ease this suffocating pressure.

If possible, Dick’s expression goes even darker at Jason’s disclosure. He shoots to his feet and grabs Jason’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, hang on, you can’t just—” Dick hauls him to his feet, and Jason hisses as his foot catches on the legs of his desk chair. He stumbles forward. “Uh, owww, that was my toe, Dickwad. Aren’t you supposed to be leaving anyway?”

“Blüdhaven can wait a few more hours. You’ve been stuck inside too long.”

Jason sighs. It comes out more like a groan. “Where the hell are we going?” he asks with absolutely zero enthusiasm.

He imagines Dick’s going to drag him to Dinah. To M’gann. To Cass. Maybe suggest he talks to someone outside the family who’s dealt with amnesia or mind control.

Again.

Dick surprises him. He shoots a devilish grin over his shoulder. “Oh, us? We’re going for a little run. That is, if you think you can keep up.”

Damian is crying.

Bruce groans as he rises. It feels as if he’s only just fallen into bed. He checks his clock and sees that, yes, it’s only been a half-hour since he ended patrol.

He swipes the glass of water off his bedside table and downs it as he crosses the hallway to Damian’s room. He finds the child standing in his crib, a blanket angrily thrown across the room. His face is twisted in distress and anger, and the moment he sees Bruce, he pauses, just for a moment, before throwing an even bigger fit.

“Oh, shhhh,” Bruce murmurs, approaching the crib and taking Damian into his arms. He knows he needs to keep his nighttime visits brief, but it has been difficult, even with the research he’s put in and already committed to memory. With everything that’s been happening, it feels as though this is the most intimate and quiet time he can share with his youngest.

And despite the bad habits he’s probably breeding, he treasures these visits. More than he can say.

He settles down in the chair beside the crib, and after situating Damian, who is clearly neither hungry nor in need of a diaper change, Bruce pulls his phone out of his robe’s pocket and pulls open the saved tabs he has bookmarked.

“Look at this one, Dami,” Bruce murmurs, pointing out the black and tan German Shepherd. “She’s at Gotham City Humane Society. Five years old.” He switches tabs and shows Damian another, this one a longhaired red and black. “And this one is about to have puppies. Dad is an all black Shepherd. The litter is going to be gorgeous. What do you think?”

Damian stares in rapture at the phone, jabbing his fingers at the screen. Bruce chuckles and shows him another Shepherd, this one a two-year-old male at a rescue just outside of Gotham. He keeps coming back to this one.

His name, as it happens, is already Ace.

He doesn’t necessarily hear Jason poke his head in. He’s busy reading the steps to apply for adoption. “Oh,” he hears from the doorway.

Bruce raises his gaze. “Jason. It’s late.”

Grimacing, Jason mumbles, “Is it? I don’t know anymore.” A reluctant flush dusts his cheeks. He looks like he wishes he hadn’t said anything. “Sorry. It is late, isn’t it? I’ll just go.”

“No,” Bruce says. “Come in. Please.”

Jason pauses before slowly inching his way in. He spares a small smile for Damian, who blinks sleepily at him.

“You should be in bed,” Bruce says casually.

Bruce does not like the flinch he sees in response. Nor does he like that his son can’t look him in the eye. “So should you two,” he grumbles without any heat.

The conversation stalls, and Bruce looks back down at his phone. This is perhaps the first time he has been alone with Jason outside of their training sessions in a few days. He doesn’t know what is on his second son’s mind, but he senses the crackling tension between them, the hesitation and the guardedness.

All he wants is to ask what he can do to help. But Jason has made it clear he’s sick of hearing that question. He’s also made it clear he’s sick of people making assumptions, or mere suggestions, about what he wants and needs.

And what is Bruce supposed to make of that? He’s not certain there’s an avenue in between.

In the end, Bruce is so grateful that he is spared from making the first (and subsequently wrong) move when Jason blurts, “You know what? I’m sick of this. Lay it on me, old man. Get it all off your chest.”

...What? This is definitely not quite how he expected this conversation to go.

“Get what off my chest?” Bruce asks, bemused.

Jason rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Jason, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His son shoots wild, furious look at him. “Liar.”

“You asked for space,” Bruce reminds him, and he has to modulate his voice so that it does not appear to be a question but rather a statement of fact.

“That’s not—” Jason groans in frustration and spins around. “You know what? I’m going to bed.”

It hits Bruce like a strike of lightning then, and he realizes he has screwed up. Heart plummeting through the floor, he rises to his feet and says, “Is this about training?”

Jason freezes in his tracks. “Ding, ding, ding,” he sings sarcastically. “Want a prize?”

Bruce feels sick. “Jason, I’m not upset. I’m not mad. You’re doing well, all things considered.”

Jason’s face contorts into something Bruce can’t read before going blank. “All things considered?” he repeats bluntly. “I’m a killer, Bruce.”  

“You were conditioned, manipulated, and you’ve already made huge strides to improve. I can see it. And no one blames—”

“Since that day,” Jason interrupted, bulldozing right over Bruce, “I’ve been remembering. I remember some of them—why they were there and what they did—and Bruce, I...I don’t regret they’re gone. Don’t you get it?”

Damian whines at his raised tone, and Jason immediately backs down, exhaustion smothering his flare of temper. “Shit,” he whispers.

Bruce seizes the opportunity to speak. “Do you regret it?”

“I just said—”

“You said you don’t regret they’re gone. You never said you don’t regret having been the one to deliver their sentences.”

Jason purses his lips, eyes tormented. “And if I don’t regret that either?”

Something in Bruce’s chest cracks. These are not questions civilians have to wrangle with, and no child, no matter how capable, should ever have to confront them at all. Period. In that moment, rage rises like vomit. It is Ra’s, and no one else,who put his son in this position. It is he who undoubtedly did it for his own twisted amusement, and all in the name of “corrupting” a Robin, a son of the Batman.

“Then they must have been truly bad people,” Bruce manages to say, holding Jason’s gaze. “And I will not lie to you and say I haven’t had the same thoughts about...about some of the consequences that befall the evil people in this world. Will I try to save them? Yes. Every time. That is who I am. That is who Batman is. But that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize the part of me that is tempted not to. Or deny that there’s a part of me that...sometimes feels relieved no one else has to be hurt, should I fail. Does that make me an awful person?” Bruce shrugs. Damian has rested his head on his shoulder, and Bruce takes comfort in it.

“The world isn’t black and white,” he continues. “It’s a consequence of this life: we are forced to confront and understand every shade of gray and color in between. We are not the afforded the luxury of a simple answer. Does...” Bruce feels a little self-conscious, Jason’s glistening stare cutting straight through to his core. He licks his lips. “Do you understand?”

“I...yes. But...” Jason admits. "I don't know."

Bruce offers a small smile. That, he can believe is an honest answer. “That’s alright. You don’t have to know now. But I believe every hero, at some point, has to answer it for themselves: what shades of gray can you accept? And which do you condemn? Who are you, where is your line, and what do you believe?”

“I’m not sure what to believe anymore. I don’t even know what I am anymore,” Jason admits in a near absent voice, gaze back on the floor. “Hero or otherwise.”

In that moment, Bruce is fiercely reminded of a straggly street kid who once stood before the mirror on the first day of school, dressed in his new school uniform; who pulled nervously at his collar and looked up at him to ask skeptically, You sure about this?

You sure about me?

“I can tell you what you’re not,” Bruce says, and after a moment’s hesitation, he reaches over to place a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “You are not damaged goods.” It echoes exactly what he told Jason that morning, years and years ago, and Jason looks up, eyes sharp as glass. He recognizes the words as his own. “You are not unworthy or any less deserving. And you are not going to allow a few lethal force alerts stop you from finding your footing again.”

Jason can’t hide a sniffle, and he sags into Bruce’s side. They sit like that for awhile, and Bruce basks in the warmth cocooning him. Damian is finally asleep, drooling against one arm, and Bruce is almost convinced Jason has nodded off too when he hears another sniffle. “I hate this,” Jason says, laughing a little in self-deprecation.

Bruce doesn’t have to ask what this is. He wants to apologize for waiting so long to address this. He wants to remind Jason he has time, that he doesn’t have to rush or put more pressure on himself, but the words stick, feeling inadequate and empty in light of the weight Jason has on his shoulders.

Besides, Jason has already told him—and quite vehemently—that he doesn’t want to hear it anyway.

Instead, Bruce pulls out his phone again. “This was supposed to be a surprise,” he says, turning his screen toward Jason.

It was the right call to make. Jason’s face lights up. “Really?” he breathes in disbelief. “Bruce, I was joking.”

Bruce looks down at Ace again, captivated by his goofy grin and playful brown eyes. The blurb below, gently cautioning future owners that this dog may need special attention considering his past, does not faze him. He sees a spirit unbroken by the circumstances that put him in this rescue, he sees a companion, and most importantly, he can see this dog fitting right into the family.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bruce says. “I am far past the point of saying no.”

“Neat,” comes a grinning voice over his shoulder.

Jason slaps a palm over the page he’s sketching on, heart flying up his throat. “Cass! Jiminy freakin' Cricket, are you serious right now?”

She is unapologetic, her smile broadening when he shifts in his chair to face her. “Always serious.”

“Well, congratulations, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Yes,” she says, pleased.

What a little troll. Narrowing his eyes, Jason says, “Well, since I clearly failed your test and we discovered we need to add situational awareness to my growing list of things to work on, what the fuck do you think you’re still doing in here? I’m busy.”

Cass cocks her head, smile fading. With a light click of her tongue, she reaches forward and bops him on the forehead with a finger. “No. Stuck up here. Like Tim. Too long.”

Jason opens his mouth to protest, but she gives him a flat look that tells him a) she already knows what he’s going to say, b) doesn’t want to hear it from his actual mouth, and c) is not afraid to call him out on his bullshit.

“Fair,” he ends up saying. “Is this your intervention?”

She nods, and her gaze trails back to his notebook, curious. “May I?”

Jason hesitates. “It’s...just a sketch,” he protests. “A vague idea. Nothing more.”

 “No,” she says, and sensing she has his nonverbal permission, she dances up to his desk and nudges his hand out of the way.

Under his palm are a few crude sketches, red pencil and dark lines of sharpie stark against the lined paper. He’s not a great artist, not by far, and if it had been Dick or Tim who caught a glimpse of what he was working on, he would have rather died again than let them get this far, but Cass...

Cass is different.

When she looks up at him, her eyes gleam, and Jason can sense she sees his vision as clearly as he does. She takes his hand, giving him a supportive squeeze. “No,” she repeats. “Much more.” 

Chapter Text

Tim is staring at him.

Jason has come to accept, as with most things regarding Tim, that is just the way things are. No one else seems to mind, so he doesn’t either. Besides, in most circumstances, Tim doesn’t stare at people so much as he stares through them whenever he’s lost in thought. It’s easy enough for Jason to tell: he gets this particular glazed sheen to his eyes, and his ability to filter extraneous noise (read as: totally ignore you when you’re talking directly to him) is unparalleled.

This time, there’s no sheen. There are no other signs. Tim isn’t off in LaLa Land.

This time, Jason is positive Tim is staring at him. As he eats breakfast.

Jason is not comfortable.

“Is there something on my face, Replacement?” Jason finally asks around a mouthful of cantaloupe.

Tim frowns, twisting his mug between his hands. It’s emblazoned with the Central Perk logo from Friends. “No?”

He sounds as though he has no idea why Jason would ask such a silly question, so Jason tries again. “Do I look like shit or something, Replacement?”

“I don’t know? Kind of?”

Jason almost laughs. Almost. Trust Tim to be honest.

“I know I look like shit, Replacement,” he allows. He doesn’t know when he last slept, let alone for how long. Since coming home, the days (and nights for that matter) have blurred by in drunken lurches and hard stops. Time is a myth, and exhaustion is a permanent stain on his face. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Tim looks really confused now, and he takes a long draught of his coffee. “The amount of intelligence in this conversation is stifling,” he comments when he comes up for air.

“Then stop watching me eat, you weirdo, and I’ll stop asking dumb questions.” Jason turns back to his fruit bowl and stabs a bit of watermelon. He shakes the fork at Tim. “I’m not one of your cases. Deal?”

“What? No, that’s not—”      

Tim’s saved from finishing his floundering excuse by the echo of a slammed door in the Manor.

“Huh,” Jason interrupts, popping his fruit into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “I didn’t know Dick was coming by today.”

Speak of the devil. Dick bounds through the swinging kitchen door, looking as though Christmas’d come early. “Jaybiiiiird!” he trills. “You’re awake! Ha—”

From the corner of his eye, Jason sees Tim makes a strange motion with his hand, and Dick aborts, zeroing in on the motion.

“I’m always awake. What are you doing here?” Jason asks Dick, who purses his lips. “Seriously. What’s the occasion? I thought you were staying in Blüdhaven for awhile.”

“Oh, you know,” Dick says, waving a hand. "I—" His gaze flicks to something over Jason’s shoulder.

That’s the first warning Jason has. He senses something behind him, and he strikes, twisting and catching the wrist of the little thief picking through his fruit salad.

Cass grins from where she’s perched on the breakfast bar, and with a motion so smooth, Jason is a little impressed, she drops the strawberry in her trapped hand and takes advantage of his distraction to swipe his half-eaten pastry with her free one.

“You little shit,” Jason marvels as she takes a bite. Bright red jelly seeps from the center of the pastry. “Where’d you come from?”

Cass’s smile broadens, and she hums in appreciation. “Good.”

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” he grumbles. “You do realize there’s more? Alfred made a ton.”

Cass shrugs and slides off the granite, happily munching on Jason’s food. “Hi, big brother,” she says to Dick.

“Hi, little sister,” he responds. His smile is just as sunny, if not sunnier, than it had been when he entered the room. Tim, Jason realizes, is nowhere to be seen, all signs of his presence gone with him. Weird. The kid had been annoyingly stuck to his side all morning.

Well, whatever. Good riddance, he supposes.

“Hey, Jase,” Dick says, drawing his attention. “How d'you feel about going out today?”

Jason immediately hesitates, defenses and hackles rising. He doesn’t look Dick in the eye. “Where?” he asks, stabbing at his fruit.

“Conner and M’gann’s.”

Jason quirks a brow. “For what? To train with the newbies? What’s the point? It’s not like I can actually join in.”

“You can’t stay holed up in the Manor forever,” Dick says. “I thought you wanted to get out of here?”

That is a loaded question with a loaded answer. Jason does want to get out. Desperately. That’s why they risked Bruce’s irritation and wrath and went out for rooftop tag last week. That’s why Jason’s pushing himself so hard, with both his GED prep and with the reconditioning program Bruce is putting him through down in the Bat Cave.

But Jason’s so tired.

This isn’t the first time his family has subtly mentioned that his friends are eager to see him. Jason has tried to avoid it—avoid them. It was enough to have seen Clark and Diana a few days ago, and while it had been nice, it had also been horrible, because seeing baby Jon and Damian and the Trinity together, with their new lines and scars and age...it only reminded him that time had not stopped for any of them.

And how much of that time had been taken from him.

There is also nothing worse, Jason has come to realize, than seeing just how much everyone missed him, when he, in comparison, hadn’t had the opportunity to miss them at all.

He’s been working on accepting change. On accepting everything that’s happened. He has. The whole family has, too, and it’s getting easier.

He just knows better than to think he’s ready to confront that feeling again.  

“Watch me,” Jason finally says in response to Dick.

“Jason.”

“People are exhausting,” he complains. 

Cass, bless her heart, wrinkles her nose and says, “Yes. Very.”

Jason gestures toward her, a wordless see? “Forgive me for not being the extrovert you are, Dick,” he adds.

Dick doesn’t deflate. “Okay, how about this?” he asks. “I really want another pair of non-powered eyes on the newbies today. Artie’s my partner in crime with this group normally, but she’s busy. And Conner’s got some work to do. Come with me, just for a bit, and if you’re bored helping me train them, and you’re still feeling shitty, then you can Zeta back. You won’t offend anyone.”

Jason purses his lips, on the edge. The fact Dick asked him to help train newbies, rather than merely watch them, is an unexpected thrill. It means Dick trusts him and respects his opinion enough to ask. It means he hasn’t lost his groove entirely.

Dick senses him wavering—Jason can tell—but it’s Cass who puts a hand on Jason’s shoulder, fingers sticky with residual sugar. “Good for you?” she murmurs quietly into his ear. “New friends?”

It’s a suggestion rather than a recommendation. Jason heaves a sigh.

Later, Jason would see how well it was orchestrated, how slick Dick’s recovery had been, and how quickly and efficiently Cass and Tim had teamed up on him. He’d blame a lack of sleep and his inability to keep track of time for not smelling a scheme, for letting it all sail so far over his head.

But that’s later. Right now, Jason is still hungry, still attempting to garner enough energy to power him through his now-perpetual state of exhaustion, and still utterly, utterly oblivious.

“Fine,” he says, and he stands, finally having the motivation to grab himself another of Alfred’s pastries. “It’s not like I have anything better to do today anyway.”

~...~

The Zeta spits them out into a garage left open to the summer air. There’s a nice breeze, carrying the scent of the sea in the air, and it automatically brings back memories of Mount Justice; of sprawling out on the beach with the others, watching Garth and Tula practice their sorcery and Gar experiment with his shifting; of facing off with Dick and Artemis in the sand.

This is not Mount Justice. Outside the garage, there are acres of land, dotted with trees. A few motorcycles, all in varying degrees of disassembly, line the drive, and to the right, Jason can see Bio-Ship, disguised as an RV.

“What happened to the Team’s Cave?” Jason asks.

“Oh, um.” Dick rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, it kind of blew up. A few years ago. Entirely my bad.”

First he learns that Bruce finally gave up on the stupid sunglasses rule, and now this? He doesn’t believe it. He can’t. It’s too much. “What?!” he demands, a hint of a distressed whine in his voice.

At his raised voice, a dark head of hair pokes around the corner of the garage. Conner removes his earbuds. “Oh, hey!” he calls. “I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I might have heard a certain asshole. It’s been awhile, you know.”

“Oi, watch it,” Jason retorts, more out of reflex than anything. He places two protective palms over Dick’s ears. “Dickiebird’s sensitive.”

Conner’s faux serious expression dissolves. He holds out a fist. “Bring it here, kid.”

Jason returns Conner’s smile and meets him halfway, glad to see one thing, at least, hasn’t changed.

It’s something Conner did with all the kids—a fist-bump after any mission, whether it was a success or failure, whether they screwed up or did everything by the book. It was his way of checking in with them, of reminding them that, no matter what, their mistakes weren’t unforgiveable.

It was also, Jason learned, a sort of defiance against Batman, whose dressing-downs often left younger members of the Team a little needy for positive encouragement.

And understandably so.

Conner looks him up and down once, and apparently satisfied by what he sees, he nods once. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says simply.

See, this is why Jason’s always liked Conner. According to Dick, he hadn’t always been so chill. Jason appreciates it more than ever now. “Glad to be back.”

“Jason!” comes a delighted voice from the other side Bio-Ship. “Hello!”

Halo, engulfed in an aura of orange, darts into the garage. Jason barely has enough time to shoot Dick a look that says we’re talking later before Halo flies up to him and wraps him in a hug. “Hello, Violet,” he responds.

“It is good to see you!” she says, pulling away to smile at him. Still floating, she grabs his hand and tugs. “Come, meet the others!”

Jason doesn’t have much say in the matter. Violet's already leading him out of the garage, where the others have conglomerated, all dressed for training. He stumbles after her, only to come to an abrupt halt.

“Before we go," she says quietly, turning her odd, orange eyes to him. "I must ask. How are you feeling?”

He hesitates, but he doesn’t have it in him to lie to her. Absently, he rubs at his breastbone. “You gave me a gift,” he says simply.

She regards him for a moment, aura flickering from orange to violet. “Yes, I see,” she observes. Her sunny disposition returns, and she takes his hand again. “Good. Now, come! We’ve been waiting!”  

“We” is compromised of two others. One is a lanky dude with a strong, square chin and auburn sideburns; the other, a bug-like alien. Apparently, both had been present when Dick and the others had found him on Infinity Island. He waits for a flicker of memory, but it’s a dud. He doesn’t recognize them in the least.

This was a bad idea, Jason thinks, a deadweight settling in his gut. He hasn't felt this uncomfortable and out of place since his first day at Gotham Academy.

“Brion, Forager,” Halo calls, pulling Jason to a halt before them. “Look! Dick has brought Jason.”

Resigned to his fate, Jason tells himself to suck it up and offers an awkward smile. “S’up?”

The alien clicks and whistles, pleased. “Forager is glad the Nightwing has brought Jason.” The alien pounds two fists into his other hands. “Forager is eager to face new opponents.”

“Uh,” Jason says intelligently. He looks over his shoulder, where Dick and Conner are conferring. He’s not going to get help from either of them. “I think I’m acting more as...a coach today.”

The other dude—Brion—frowns, tilting his head. Somehow, he manages to make it look good, graceful even, and Jason would find it cute, but something about him reminds Jason of the socialites at Bruce’s parties, the ones who hid their distaste behind willful ignorance and confusion.

“What are we doing today that would require a new mentor?” Brion asks.

Jason bristles, not sure he likes the insinuation behind the words. He definitely doesn’t like the way the guy is sizing him up. His accent grates, and no matter how attractive he is, that doesn’t give him a free pass to be a dick.

He’s not had to defend his abilities in awhile, and he longs to give Brion a demonstration. Instead, he has to make do with drawing himself up to his full height. Brion may be tall, but Jason still has an inch or so on him, and plenty more bulk. “Does it matter?” he asks, attempting to control his tone.

“I mean no offense,” Brion says, in a tone that, to Jason, implies offense. “It is just...the last time we saw you, you were...”

Jason takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. He reminds himself that metas are like this sometimes. He reminds himself of what Dick had told him of Brion’s upbringing.

Yeah, nope. No excuse. 

“What? I was what?” Jason asks. “Half-brain dead? Lacking a sparkling personality? Sure. Whatever. But I could still hold a fucking sword and kick ass. You go into a fight underestimating your opponent, hot-shot, you’re going to lose. Every time. Meta-abilities or otherwise.”

Brion folds his arms, regarding Jason with an unreadable expression. “You are most definitely a Bat,” he comments.

“You bet your tits I am.”

Brion’s nostrils honest-to-God flare at his crudeness, which gives Jason a wicked amount of pleasure. He’s about to capitalize on that when Halo interjects slowly, “Tits? I do not...understand.”

And then she looks down at her chest before using a delicate finger to poke at Brion’s pec.

All of Jason’s anger dissipates in that moment, and he completely loses it, doubling over as he wheezes with laughter.

“Jeez, Jason,” comes Dick’s voice from behind them. “I leave you alone for one second, and you’re already corrupting them?”

The three newbies stand at attention when Dick walks up, and Jason wipes moisture from his eyes. “Clearly you’re not teaching them anything useful.”

“Mmhmm,” Dick hums. Bright blue eyes scan his recruits, and he says, “We’re working on hand-to-hand and reaction time today. No powers. My brother here has a unique perspective—one that’s often overlooked by the classically trained—and he’ll be helping me out today. Sound good?”

They nod, and Dick’s leader-face slips a little. “Sweet. Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“How about a game of tag?”

Jason lights up. He didn’t think he’d actually get to participate. “I’m the target?”

Dick grins. “Usual rules apply.”

No hands allowed. Do not leave the ring. And most importantly: don’t get tagged. Everything else is fair game.

“Alright,” Jason says brightly, turning to face the other three. “Who’s ‘It?’”

Dick points to Brion, and Jason smirks. “Perfect.”

“What is the point of this?” Brion asks, disgruntled. “Tag is a mere child’s game.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Dick says. “It may be a simple exercise, but it teaches you how to move; hones your speed, agility, and ingenuity.”

And your ability to play dirty, Jason supplies inwardly, his grin broadening. Ohhh, is Mr. Princely going to get knocked down a few pegs. Jason is looking forward to it.

“Reading and predicting your opponents’ movements is just as important as reacting to them,” Dick’s saying. “And I don’t need to remind you how important it is to have those skills if you ever find yourself trapped in an inhibitor collar.” Dick waits for the mild chastisement’s weight to settle on them before clapping his hands. “Right, cool. Forager, with me. Let’s set up a ring.”

“I’m sorry, what are the rules to this ‘game?’,” Halo asks as Dick and Forager begin clearing the area. “Dick’s instructions were not clear to me.”

“What?” Jason says. “It’s pretty straightforward. The goal is to tag me. Dick’s already laid down the rules. And there’s only one for whoever is It: you can’t use any powers.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”   

“Oh.” Halo sounds perplexed still. “Sounds like fun?”

Oh, Jason thinks, eyeing Brion, cataloguing and assessing what he believes will be strengths and weaknesses, it will be.

~....~

And it is.

Jason feels refreshed and giddy as he runs a towel through his hair. He was only tagged a few times: by Dick during their demonstrations and once by Forager, who took to the idea of playing dirty faster than the others did.

Absently, he pats Bio-Ship and exits her through her RV door. “Shower’s open,” he announces across the yard to Brion, who was kind enough to let him take first dibs. He’d been waiting on the wooden deck attached to the house, lounging at the picnic table with a tumbler of iced tea and his phone in front of him.

“Thank you,” Brion says quietly, extracting his long legs from underneath the table and rising to his feet.

“Do you happen to know if Dick’s ready to go?” Jason asks.

Brion shrugs in response and uses his thumb to point over his shoulder. “He’s inside.”

“Great, thanks.”

Jason leaps up onto the porch to enter the ranch through the backdoor. His hand is on the doorknob when he hears from behind him, “Jason?”

He turns. Brion is working at his lip, fumbling with his phone. “I wish to ask you something.”

His tone is halting, awkward. It doesn’t bode well for Jason at all. “Okay?”

“I realize this is a long shot, but I couldn’t let you go without asking...” Brion crosses the deck and holds out his phone. “Do you recognize her?”

Jason peers at the screen, where a picture of a blonde girl with laughing caramel brown eyes smiles up at him. He sees a vague resemblance to Brion—they share the same royal brow and bearing—but as he scans her face, his memory is blank. It doesn’t falter, splutter, or nudge him, as it had when he saw Cass or Damian again.

“Sorry,” he says. “I...don’t remember much from...well, after, so I’m not exactly the best source of intel here. Sometimes, it comes back in flickers and flashes. But I don’t think...”

Brion’s fragile hope shatters as Jason trails off. “Oh,” he murmurs, staring down at the girl. “I see.” Abruptly, he locks the phone, and a mask settles over the pain in his expression. “I appreciate it anyway.”

“Sure thing,” Jason says, feeling distinctly unhappy. He knows there’s not much he can do, but he doesn’t like that he can’t do more, even for someone who got under his skin as quickly as Brion did.

He’ll need to talk to Dick about this.

“I hope you’ll come back sometime, by the way,” Brion says, “You and Dick are quite different. I’m not sure I expected that, having both been trained by Batman. It was...fun.”

He leaves a stunned Jason on the porch, disappearing down the steps and into Bio-Ship, her door snicking firmly closed behind him.

Perhaps they had both misjudged each other. It wouldn’t be the first time. Jason’s personality didn’t mesh with everyone’s—it was an unavoidable fact of his life—but he thinks he might be able to tolerate hanging out with Brion again.

When Jason enters the house, his gaze immediately lands on M’gann’s back, and he freezes in the doorway. She’s scrubbing the kitchen sink, an array of cleaning supplies and bottles scattered over the counter. She turns the moment she hears the door open.

“Jason,” she breathes.

Jason can sense the tingle of her mind reaching out to his, her request for entrance nothing but gentle and respectful. There’s been plenty of times he’s denied her, or decided it wasn’t worth the effort of trying to reciprocate, but he remembers her limp form slumped on the floor of Med-Bay One, eyes glassy and frantic.

He’s thought about it. About how much he owes this woman. It always hits him in the dead of night, usually on the tail end of a fight with Bruce, or after snapping at Tim, his guilt reminding him to count his blessings and take stock of what he's doing with his second chance. 

Because if it hadn’t been for M’gann, he wouldn’t have one.

Hey, M’gann, he attempts to project.

She hears him, and her expression blossoms into joyful relief. She exhales a shaky breath, bracing herself on the counter. “I knew you were okay,” she says. The scrub brush in her hand quakes. “Dick and Clark assured me. But I just...”

Jason crosses the kitchen and gently removes the brush from her weak fingers, setting it aside. Thanks to you, he says to her.

He doesn’t know how much of his gratitude passes through their weak mind link, but whatever she senses of it, it must be enough. She clasps his hand when he tries to draw away and gives it a squeeze.

“Hey, Jase! That you? You ready?” Dick yells from somewhere in the house.

Jason slips his hand from M’gann’s. “Just waiting on you, princess!” he calls back.

“Princess? I’m not the one who took thirty-plus minutes in the shower!”

Beside Jason, M’gann snickers. “Aaaand they’re back,” she mutters, mostly to herself.

 Dick pops his head into the kitchen. “Come alive, Jay. We’ve—”

“Don’t you mean ‘look alive?’” Jason interrupts, smirking at the unintentional pun.

“Whatever the saying is,” Dick says dismissively. “We have one more stop.”

Jason’s humor fades, the thought of going anywhere but home distasteful in the extreme. Today wasn’t anywhere near as bad as he thought it would be, even after the stress of meeting new people and reuniting with old friends, but he thinks he’s met his quota for the day. “Ugh, why?”

“Wow, be traught, bro. It’ll just take a second. I have to drop something off at Artie’s. She left a charger here and kinda needs it.”

“Fine,” Jason says, only because it’s Artemis, and Artemis would never forgive him if he went to see Conner and M’gann and neglected her. “See ya, M’gann.”

“Bye,” she says. “Come back soon, okay?” 

You're always welcome here. 

Jason smiles, acknowledging that he heard her loud and clear, and follows Dick out through the garage, where they exchange a casual goodbye with Conner before stepping up to the Zeta.

“You looked good out there today,” Dick says, tapping away at the computer console.

“I felt good.” And it’s the truth. The moment he says it, he realizes he didn’t feel the same pressure he does whenever facing Bruce, or the same struggle whenever he’s going up against Cass. Not once. “Thanks. For today.”

Dick looks up from the keyboard, smug. “I have some good ideas every once in awhile,” he preens as the Zeta whirls up.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Always a critic, Little Wing. I’m wounded.”

Together, they walk up onto the platform, and Jason waits for the pin-and-needles sensation and flash of light to die before he says, “Hey, you think maybe Bruce’ll—"

“SURPRISE!”

The unified shout bowls Jason over the moment he steps into the suburban house, his heart pitching itself straight against his ribcage. The group of people gathered before him breaks into song, discordant but upbeat, and Brucely joins in, too, his barks reverberating through the house.

“—to you!”

The noise swells over him, and Jason stalls, feet rooted to the floor. His brain shorts out, uncomprehensive static fizzling and sparking as the song—the date—finally registers with him.

It’s August 16^th.

“Happy birthday to you!”

It’s...Holy shit, it’s his birthday. He hadn’t known. He hadn't even...

Shit. Fuck, holy motherfucking...His mind scrambles back, the years and simple math slipping through its slick grip.

“Happy birthday, dear Jasoooooon!”

Dick’s hand lands on his shoulder, and Jason comes back to himself, noticing, finally, Artemis standing at the forefront with a cake in her hands and tears in her eyes. The lit wax candles, surrounded by sparklers, proudly declare 19.

“Happy birthday to you!”

Everyone cheers and applauds, and Jason blows out a breath. Thank fuck.

“Holy shit,” he breathes aloud, releasing a somewhat hysterical bark of laughter. “What the hell, guys?”

“We heard someone totally forgot it was his birthday today,” Artemis explains, and she’s laughing too, the smirk in her voice familiar and warm.

Jason’s gaze immediately latches onto Dick and then Tim, who grins at him from the corner, where the rest of his family, plus Stephanie and Barb, have conglomerated, all of whom looking quite pleased with themselves. His eyes pass over the rest of the guests, a growing lump forming in his throat, and...it’s his Team. Gar is here, and Jesus, he’s grown, and so are Mal and Karen, swollen and glowing with pregnancy, and there are Donna and Garth, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder against the counter, and there’s Zatanna and Raquel and Roy, and M’gann and Conner are coming out of the Zeta behind him, bearing wily smiles and a wrapped gift between them.

“Yeah, who forgets their birthday?” Roy asks, tutting. The little girl at his side nods, as though it is a most serious offense. “Seriously, Jason.”

“Seriously,” the little girl mimics, and it makes Jason laugh. “It’s prob’ly because you’re so old, Uncle Jay.”

Something stutters in his chest, and Jason knows, then and there, he’d die for this child. He doesn’t even know her name, even if he can make a few quick assumptions about who she belongs to. “If I’m old, short stack,” Jason says with a wicked grin, nodding at Roy, who, admittedly, looks healthier (and livelier) than Jason had ever seen him, “what does that make your pops over there?”

“Ouch, watch it, little bird,” Roy says, pretending to be wounded when the girl giggles. He covers the girl’s ears. “Don’t listen to him, baby. He may be the birthday boy, but he’s also a Bat.”

 “And I mean, come on. We’ve all heard what they say about Bats,” Zatanna jokes, daring to nudge Bruce.

“All work, no play,” comes a chorus from Raquel, Karen, and, to Jason’s amusement, Stephanie.

Bruce merely rolls his eyes, which sets off the room. Jason takes pity on him and holds up his hands in defeat, interjecting into the chaos, “I honestly have nothing to say in my defense. You got me.” 

“Success!” Donna exclaims, mirth coloring her tone. She slings an arm over Dick's shoulders. “There is no greater achievement than surprising a Bat!”

“Oh, without a doubt,” Artemis agrees. “Now get over here, Jason! The candles are dripping all over.”

He’s ushered forward. Laughter and chatter surrounds him, all poking and teasing. Several voices raise above the others, asking him what he’s going to wish for, and it’s all so normal, so...

For a moment, Jason’s thrown back to his first birthday as Robin. Bruce and Dick had taken him to a ball game that day, and it had been the best day of his life. He’d stuffed his face full of chili dogs and blue raspberry ICEEs, and the Knights had totally wrecked the Monarchs, for once. Alfred had prepared his favorites for dinner, and he hadn’t expected anything when they went to Mount Justice later that night. He’d been new to the Team, Dick had only just come around to the idea of having a little brother, and he’d been half-convinced no one on the Team liked him anyway, being the upstart and foul-mouthed replacement for the first, and previously only, Robin.

The surprise party, as it turned out, had been Wally’s idea.

As the others form a circle around him and the cake, he’s overwhelmed, all over again, by the flood of love and attention he’s receiving. Donna’s voice cracks, Artemis hugs him just a little too tight, and there are some glistening eyes, but all in all, no one tells him welcome home. No one says I’ve missed you. No one asks, no one stares, and no one mentions the fact it’s been years since they’ve seen him.

And that makes all the difference.

He makes eye contact with Tim and Cass, with Dick and Alfred, who he knows, beyond reasonable doubt, had collaborated to orchestrate this entire thing.

He closes his eyes, a delirious happiness welling in him, and he blows out the candles.

Cheers erupt again, and Artemis begins yelling and cutting the cake. Alfred rushes to assist, bringing out platters of appetizers and finger-food that had been stowed away in the oven and fridge. Numerous conversations break out, and Jason stands amongst them all, staring down Roy’s kid, who’d wriggled away from her father. Her pudgy fingers grip the edge of the table, eager little eyes latched onto the first piece of cake, which, as tradition mandates, is actually meant to be his.

The moment Artemis hands him his plate, Jason hands it off to her and revels in her blinding gap-toothed smile.

She rushes off, and Dick comes up behind him, swiping the next slice of cake from him before he can grab it. Artemis glares, swatting at him with her frosting-covered spatula. She misses, but Dick surrenders with a laugh and slides the plate back to Jason. “You thought you were turning twenty for a second there, didn’t you? Earlier?” Dick teases, once Artemis has gone back to the cake.

Heat floods Jason’s face, and he shovels a large bite into his mouth. It’s fucking amazing, as is to be expected of any of Alfred’s masterpieces. “Shut up.”

Dick chuckles. “That’s what you get for always rounding up, Little Wing.”

He’s about to go help Artemis distribute more cake when Jason stops him. “Hey, Dick?” he says softly. Dick halts, raising an eyebrow. “Thanks.”

Dick’s sharp amusement softens into fondness. “Don’t thank me,” he says, eyes dancing. “I just kept you distracted while everyone else pulled this little shindig together. Tim’s the one you really need to thank. I was about to blow it before he stopped me and told me you seriously had no idea what today was.”

“Yeah,” Jason agrees. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it. You two were so not subtle about it.”

“And you’re never going to live it down,” Dick promises.

The next hour passes in a blur. Somehow, Jason manages to strike a conversation with everyone, cycling through the entire room and back again before he realizes just how much time has passed.

He’s enjoying himself. More than he thought he could. He’s high on laughter, on the normalcy of the day, on hearing just how well each of his friends have done for themselves. His cheeks are sore with the force of his smile.

It doesn’t last.

Before long, his returned exhaustion begins to drag at his mood, and he finds himself retreating, far more comfortable with watching than participating, and it’s only after he leaves the room to take a quick bathroom break that he notices something.

Despite all the effort they put into this, despite how much he knows they care...

Nothing is as normal as he wants it to be.

The inside jokes he doesn’t understand. The hint of hesitation in their words. The nearly indiscernible, ice-thin layers of tension in their conversations. The orbits they have around each other that he isn’t—and can’t be—a part of. Jason hovers in the entranceway, not quite ready to return to the party a few rooms over, and through the open threshold, he watches how Dick navigates the room, how much less inhibited they are with him. An old insecurity, soured by a pinprick of jealousy, seeps in the back of his mind.

“They feel like Older Brother’s friends more than they do yours sometimes, right?”

Jason turns. A dude with a buzzed head is toeing off his boots at the front door, and he grins at Jason. It’s crooked and lazy, and it fiercely reminds Jason of someone else entirely. “Sorry I’m late,” the stranger says. “Looks like you all got started just fine without me, though.”

The guy removes his sunglasses, and Jason’s struck by a lightning bolt of immediate recognition. The similarities are uncanny, despite the shaved head and younger, stubbled face. “The OG Roy Harper,” he muses. “They found you then.”

“In the flesh, Zombie-Robin.” Roy Harper shrugs out of his jacket, and Jason’s eyes latch onto the wicked, futuristic prosthetic of his right forearm. It’s clearly not just a functional arm: it’s a goddamn work of art. “Good to meetcha.”

“Likewise, I guess,” Jason says, still distracted.

Roy snorts. “You guess? Gee, thanks.”

Jason snaps back to himself, a little horrified by his lack of manners. When he fully registers the shit-eating grin on Roy’s face a second later, he recovers and rolls his eyes. “Wow, sorry to have damaged your fragile ego. In my defense, your arm is sick. I bet it’s packed full of all sorts of goodies. What’s it like to upkeep?”

Roy’s eyes light up. “You into engineering?”

“Nah, not so much. I’m a little better at gutting, dismantling, and destroying than I am building.” He pauses, considering. “Unless you count cars. And explosives.”

“Who doesn’t count explosives?” Roy scoffs in a dead serious undertone.

Jason doesn’t acknowledge that with anything more than a devious smile. He decides he likes this Roy. He may look exactly like the one Jason knew before his death, but that Roy was always Dick’s friend first, and ever-increasingly consumed by his self-imposed mission. He had treated Jason kindly, even when Dick was being an asshole, but he’d been distant, too. Not keen on letting too many people get close.

This Roy...this Roy is different, somehow.

“Tell me about it,” Jason requests. “I’m curious.”

And that, it seems, is invitation enough for Roy, who launches into a spiel about the arm—tackling everything from what it can do to how he maintains it to the tweaks he’d made and how exactly he’d made them.

Jason listens, feeding into Roy’s energy and enthusiasm with relatively intelligent questions that Jason can tell surprise him. His descriptions get a little technical, but Jason remains engaged, which encourages Roy all the more. He’s brilliant, Jason realizes—the sort of scary smart person who's always ravenous, the type that could be dangerous if left unsatisfied. He wonders why he’d never seen it before in the older Roy.

“So honestly that’s what took me the longest,” Roy is rambling, now on the topic of the arm’s reprogramming, “Making sure that Luthor didn’t—”

“Whoa, Luthor?” Jason interrupts. They’ve since relocated from the entranceway to the ottoman bench in the living room, and he leans forward, pulling a leg up onto the bench. “What does he have to do with this?”

It’s like a dial had been switched: one moment, Roy is brimming with excitement, spewing light, and the next, his light is extinguished entirely, sucked away by the shadow that follows.

“He’s the one who gave it to me,” Roy explains, a little stiffly. “It’s a whole thing. The story’s a bit dark for a birthday party.” When Jason shrugs, unbothered, Roy studies him for a moment before sighing. He digs the heel of his good hand into one of his eyes and drags it across his temple, saying, “Sorry, I’m a dick. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I forgot that you don’t know.”

Me too, Jason thinks.

He shrugs, stinging a little by the abrupt reminder. It had been nice, for the moment, to talk to someone who had no expectations or prior memories of him. “Been a trend,” he mutters, picking at a loose stitch in the fabric beneath him.

“I get that,” Roy says quietly.

Jason looks up sharply, and Roy is avoiding eye contact, jaw muscle twitching as he drops his arms and runs his normal hand over the metal of his prosthetic. It occurs to Jason, in that moment, that Roy’s not merely sympathizing. He’s empathizing.

He’s been there. He understands.

Jason’s mind whirls. He considers the age difference between the clone Roy and the Roy in front of him. He wonders at the implications, wonders exactly when Roy had been kidnapped, and just how many years of his own life he’d lost.

Jason hurts for him. He may have lost a few years with his family, and he may have come home to a replacement, but he had been dead. He’d been gone. Roy, on the other hand...

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Jason blurts. When Roy meets his eyes and shrugs casually, Jason exhales a short breath, lowering his defenses one by one. “How did you deal with it?”

It’s a vague question, but Roy knows exactly what he’s asking. He snorts, self-deprecating. “I didn’t.”

And he rolls up the sleeve of his good arm.

At first, all Jason sees is the tattoo. The scorpion emblazoned on the skin of Roy’s inner forearm is three-dimensional, hyper-realistic, its tail curving up over the crook of his elbow and...

Oh.

“Ollie tried to help. Dinah, Jim, and Will, too,” Roy says, eyes latched onto the track marks littering his inner arm. “They told me to slow down. To take a breath. I didn’t listen. I didn’t care. I saw how they were around Will, how easily he took my place, and I...didn’t believe they were in it for anything but themselves. To make them feel better about what had happened, about having never noticed I was replaced.”

“So you left,” Jason supplies.

“I avoided everyone, took on every case I could,” Roy admits. “To escape. To forget. To stop myself from dwelling. I don’t know. I had a lot of excuses. But then I went undercover, and I got in over my head. It...was so easy. Far too easy.”

Jason thinks of his mom, of unraveling the band around her arm, of maneuvering her into bed. He remembers her clouded gaze, her relieved, blissful sighs, her pain miraculously erased. She had tried, especially at the beginning, to keep Jason from seeing her use, but it had been a slippery slope, one she couldn’t maintain footing on. “Yeah,” he whispers simply.

“Will found me, recognized the signs,” Roy continues. “He battled alcoholism at one point, so he could...he could tell. He kicked my ass right into rehab. I hated him for it at the time. I realize now just how much more time I lost while my head was up my ass.” He pulls a copper coin from his pocket and juggles it between his fingers. He flips it to Jason, who catches it automatically. “Seven months sober.”

“Congratulations,” Jason says, admiring the token. He’s so vehement in his sincerity that, even to his own ears, his voice is embarrassingly close to breaking. “Seriously, dude.”

Roy smiles, and it reaches his eyes. The serious edge in his voice is gone, replaced by the lax drawl he introduced himself with. “So, yup, that’s my sob story. Don’t be like me.”

The humor and casual tone is meant to spin the conversation back into lighter territory, but all Jason can hear is someone who’s in a constant battle with themselves—one of the hardest battles anyone can ever fight—totally discrediting himself, making light of the pain he’d been in and the struggle it was to pull himself out.

He’s not about to let that go.

“We could all do to know a few more people like you,” Jason denies. “I’ve been around addicts. Growing up. My mom was one. They’re selfish bastards, sometimes. They can’t always help it. They’re victims of their disease, and it’s only ever inexcusable when they wallow in it. Or when they drag people down with them.” Jason hands the token back to a stunned Roy, pressing it into his palm. “You’re more than that. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, and if they do, break their nose.”  

That startles Roy into a laugh. “I’ll be sure to tell the officers that come to arrest me for assault that Robin gave me permission,” he teases.

“Not Robin,” Jason says absently. “Tim’s Robin.”

Roy winces. “Yikes. Benched?”

“My choice,” Jason says, eyes flashing. He refuses to let anyone believe that B was playing favorites. Or that his decision was anyone’s but his own. “And, yeah, that’s one way to put it too. I’m...out of shape.”.

Roy hums, a sound of understanding. “Vigilantism is its own drug, I guess. It must be killing you.”

Jason wants to deny it. He doesn’t. “Dick took me out, once,” he says. “Just to parkour around and shit. And we've been training. It...isn't enough.”

“If I were to give you any advice?” Roy pauses, clearly waiting for Jason to tell him to shove it. When he doesn’t, he continues, “I know how tempting it is. I couldn’t get rid of Speedy fast enough. But don’t do what I did. Don’t get back into the field until you’re damn well ready, no matter how much you want to. Get your shit together. Get your head on straight.”

Had it been anyone else, Jason would have scowled, brushed it off. He never took well to being told what to do, and it hadn’t been easy to hear any of his family members suggest the very same thing to him.

His mind wanders to sketches he has hidden in his desk, of the research he’s been doing when the others are gone, of the fights he’s picked with his family. There’s an itch under his skin even now, a rage and impatience he keeps at a low simmer. He thinks of the people that came to the party today, of their success and their growth and the stories they shared with him, of how, in trying to make the day feel as normal as possible, they somehow simultaneously...

They feel like Older Brother’s friends more than they do yours sometimes, right? Roy had said.

“How about this?” Jason suggests. He pulls out his new cell phone, a gift from Bruce. It only has a handful of contacts in it, most of them Bats. He opens up a new contact and shoves it at Roy. “You tell me whenever you’re thinking about doing something stupid, and I will too.”

Roy almost fumbles with the phone, surprised. “I think about doing something stupid a lot,” he says, an odd warning in his voice.

Jason doesn’t even blink. “You’re talking to the kid who ran away from home to meet his biological mother, who he knew next to nothing about, and still told her his secret identity. You know how the story ends. ‘Stupid is as stupid does,’ right?”

Roy’s crooked grin is back in full force, and as he inputs his number into Jason’s phone and Jason sends a text back with his name, he has the sense he’s finally, finally moving forward.

And for the first time since coming home, he doesn’t feel even an inkling of an urge to look back.

Chapter Text

A thick file folder slams across Bruce’s keyboard. He blinks at the folder and then at the scattered keystrokes marring his otherwise pristine report.

“Why didn’t you tell me.”

Bruce turns and finds Jason standing behind him, a laptop and spiralbound book tucked into the crook of his arm. His son’s expression is the calm before the storm, the forced blankness and stillness of his expression doing little to dull the sharp, chilly rage in his eyes.

I dare you to lie to me, Jason’s telling him.

He hadn’t expected this. Not from Jason. Tim, perhaps. Barbara, most definitely. He could have handled their questions and fury and hurt. But Jason’s?

He collects himself. Braces himself. There are many things Bruce keeps to himself, but in light of his renewed vows to Jeff’s vision of the Justice League and the promises he’s made to himself and his family, he doesn’t even consider avoiding the truth.

He knows better than to waste time asking which of those things Jason is referring to, anyway.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Bruce says. “Only the Commissioner knows.” He quirks an eyebrow. “How do you?”

Jason’s glare doesn’t soften. He slides into the chair beside Bruce and opens the laptop. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Bruce hides a smirk. Unbidden pride tempers his irritation at the sass in Jason’s tone. “And you’re avoiding mine.”

“He’s fucking out,” Jason snaps, “And you didn’t think it might be a good idea to let us know?”

“It’s been forty-eight hours,” Bruce explains, tone steady. “We do not want him aware that we’ve discovered his double in Arkham. He thinks he has time. A head start. We’re going to get him before there’s mass panic. Or before he can put anything into motion.”

Jason scowls. “And before any of us have to get involved, right?”

“I’m not catering to his games,” Bruce says, avoiding the root of the question.

“Too late,” Jason says. “Budge over.”

Unable to do much to protest, Bruce makes a space in front of him, and Jason shifts the laptop over. On the screen, Jason has collected several news articles, GCPD reports, and screenshots from social media accounts. Bruce scans the material, drawing connections and trying to follow Jason’s logic.

“You’ve been busy,” Bruce says. It is meant to come out like a compliment, but it falls flat, worry cresting in his chest and frothing at his mouth.

He’s known this day would come. He’s known for weeks. It’s been well over half a year since Jason’s come home, and so it really was only a matter of time. Jason’s healed and grown to such a degree Bruce has no excuse to keep him home now. If these last few months of dedication, patience, and tenacity have proven anything, it's that there is absolutely nothing holding his son back, and Bruce is proud—he is so proud—but...

This is Jason. This is the Joker.

I’m not ready for this, Bruce realizes. I’m not ready. It’s too soon.

He tries to quell the concern hissing like coiled rattlesnakes in his chest and focuses on what’s important: Jason’s brought him a case, and if the color-coded files and numerous computer applications loaded and ready on the computer screen have anything to say about it, this is a case that’s important to Jason.

And anything that’s important to his kids is important to him, regardless of who, exactly, is involved.

(And regardless of why Bruce tastes ashes in his mouth just thinking about that specific who getting anywhere near Jason again).

Bruce refocuses on Jason’s notes. “jEst3r?” he asks slowly, picking out the mangled word highlighted in numerous places on the screen. His nose crinkles. Joker isn’t known for subtlety, but it has been awhile since he’s left tracks so blatant and gaudy. Assuming, of course, Joker has anything to do with it. Bruce is still not convinced. “That’s rather on-the-nose.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jason says. “It’s some new designer drug. Ecstasy cut with some other upper. It hasn’t killed anyone, which is why it hasn’t fallen on anyone’s radar yet, and reports are mostly concentrated in the Narrows and Alley, which is why no one cares yet, but they’re dealing to kids, Bruce,” Jason says, and there’s a growl in his voice now, an angry crevice furrowed between his brows. “It’s starting to make its mark on the streets. It’s a fun trip, from what I gather. Addictive high on top of that. Makes users pretty giddy, too, if you catch my drift.”

Jason gestures at his laptop, and Bruce clicks through several pictures and videos from personal social media accounts, from what looks like CCTV footage, from a rave that happened over the weekend. The pulsing, colorful lights and blurred images from the latter make for poor evidence, but in some of the pictures, he can clearly see unnaturally wide, manic grins. “These predate Joker’s escape,” Bruce muses. “By weeks.” He clicks off, back to some of the other images. There is a particularly disturbing one of a homeless meth user, his rotten smile stretched over gaunt, sallow cheeks. “Months, even.”

“And it isn’t the first time the clown’s been able to pull strings from within his cell, B. Come on. I was looking into it well before he escaped.”

“Circumstantial at best,” Bruce argues, even as suspicion and unease begins to prickle at the back of his neck and run down the length of his arms.

“Not if it’s the False Face Society who’s the sole distributer.”

Jason flips open the file folder. Black Mask’s mugshot leers up at them. “New boss, different M.O., same qualifications for admittance," Jason says, tapping Black Mask's picture. "I realize Joker’s False Face Society was more about anarchy and fuck-the-rules than it was about money and organized crime, but why would Black Mask—rising gang leader, drug trafficking kingpin, and well-known control freak—choose to reuse an old brand for his new gang?”

“Because masks are a part of his psychosis,” Bruce says, and even as he continues to poke holes in Jason’s theory, they start to close around him, the evidence stacking up and Jason’s deductions falling neatly into place. “Because criminals are superstitious, and they take stock in what they consider ‘the classics.’ It’s a fear-mongering tactic.”

“Or,” Jason says, folding his arms, “it’s Gotham, and there’s a connection here.”

“Or there’s a connection here,” Bruce agrees, his mind whirring with several avenues of action. He can have Tim and Barbara do some more digging on Black Mask and his connections; have Dick, Stephanie, and Cass hit the streets, possibly find some dealers and see who’ll squeal. Jason could get his feet wet, start small and stick close to the others. Bruce himself, on the other hand, would have to follow up with Jim. They’d likely have to start at Arkham, see how likely it was that Joker had bribed or manipulated someone into working for him and-or Black Mask. “This is phenomenal work, Jason. Truly.”

The defensive edge in Jason’s posture lapses, and a victorious smile quirks at his lips. “Worth investigating, then?”

“Hmmm,” Bruce hums, already turning to his larger computer screen.

“Hey, no, no, no,” Jason argues. He pushes against Bruce’s shoulder and forces him to turn back to face him. “This is my case. Not yours.”

Bruce studies Jason’s hungry, hopeful expression. The determination in his eyes is unwavering, blazing. It's that very inner fire that had impressed Bruce the night they met, all those years ago. It looks all the more formidable now there’s no longer any baby fat lining the young man's cheeks.

 He’s not Robin anymore, Bruce reminds himself, and his chest aches, as though he’s been deprived of oxygen. He’s grown up.

It’s not as though he hasn’t realized. Jason himself mourned the loss of some of his previous speed and flexibility just as much as he reveled in his newfound strength. They had worked hard to reconcile Jason’s preferred style of fighting with that of Bruce’s, whose was tailored to their now-shared physique.

It’s just...

Those who say it gets easier with every child is a liar. It is not any easier with Jason than it had been with Dick.

“Alright,” Bruce says. “What do you propose?”

“Send me in.”

Bruce is so startled by the request that he cannot control his expression, much less his very automatic urge to say no. The uncompromising syllable comes out in a rush, and his heartbeat roars in his ears, an echo of a bomb exploding with every thud-dud.

Jason’s wounded, furious expression cuts through the rising panic, and he attempts to find some middle ground, explain why he doesn’t think it’s a good idea. Dick and Barbara’s independent advice on the subject is something he’s struggled to put into practice, but he’s not so stupid as to make the same mistakes now.

He can’t lose Jason again.

“I’m not sure that is the best idea,” Bruce tries instead, controlling his tone. “You’re too close to this, Jason.”

Jason levels an unimpressed look at him. “I’m always going to be too close to this, Bruce. You have your mission. This is mine. I want to get him. I need to.”

Attempt fail.

Bruce slams a palm onto the desk. “Then maybe I don’t want you getting hurt again!” 

Silence resounds in the Cave, the bats themselves ceasing their chattering in the wake of Bruce’s outburst. It’s only when they start again that time reboots, and Bruce releases a shuddering breath.

“Who says I’m going to?” Jason says softly. Bruce grits his teeth, withholding a growl. Jason, to Bruce’s surprise, doesn’t fall victim to the rising tension or his frustration, as he had earlier, when he was presenting his case. Part of Bruce wishes he would.

“Just...listen,” Jason suggests in the same tone. “Please, B? This...this isn’t like Ethiopia. I have a plan, and it only works if you’re on board.”

Bruce’s jaw hurts it’s clenched so tightly, but he takes a deep breath, face hot with embarrassment. “It’s the Joker, Jason.”

Jason doesn’t flinch, and his expression is steady. Just a few months ago, any mention of the Joker would have elicited a more visceral, physical reaction.

It’s another sign. Bruce realizes that.

(It still doesn't make this any easier.)

“And like you said earlier, it might not have anything to do with Joker.” Jason sounds almost disappointed to admit it, but Bruce latches onto the string of logic, grateful to be reminded that suspicion did not always lead to indubitable fact. “But Black Mask is an issue, regardless. His power’s growing too much and too fast. Just think about it,” Jason says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “I don’t have an identity right now out there. Gotham doesn’t know me. The criminals don’t know me either. I know them, though. We can use that to our advantage. I grew up in this world, and I’ve studied the changes and fluctuations in gang activity since I’ve been gone. I can be your mole, infiltrate and take them from the inside. And who better to see if Joker’s involved in this new incarnation of the False Face Society—and actually flush him out—than someone new. Someone perhaps...using an old alias of his?”

Flipping open the book he’d brought—a sketchbook, Bruce realizes—Jason presents it to Bruce, eyes trained on his face, waiting for a reaction, tension running like electricity through his hands.

But Bruce can’t react. He is full of white noise, his fierce pride and deep concern rising to clash like two starving wolves. He stares at the sketches, mind racing, clamoring to understand. He's beginning to see the threads come together in his mind's eye, and he isn't sure he likes what it means. “Red Hood,” he ends up muttering to himself.

“Karma,” Jason says definitively, “is a bitch.”

Bruce wonders, then, how long Jason’s had these plans, wonders just how much effort and patience it had taken to develop this new identity into something beyond that of personal vengeance. For Jason to have chosen this... “This puts a target on your back,” Bruce warns.

“That’s the idea.”

Bruce bites his tongue, assessing Jason’s sketch with a critical eye. It is a practical uniform, with gray body armor, thick gloves and combat boots, military-style cargo pants, and red half-face mask that could easily be altered to accommodate an air filter. The layered jackets—one a brown biker jacket, and the other a simple red sweatshirt with identifying hood—holsters, and draped utility belt are aesthetic choices, designed, Bruce imagines, with the pointed intention to give Jason’s Red Hood an image that implies hoodlum.

The red bat emblazoned across the chest, however, says differently.

“You realize,” Bruce says slowly, “that if you do this, if you reinvent yourself with this case, and in this way, you’re sacrificing something else, too.”

“What?” Jason asks. “The chance to be called a hero instead of...I don’t know, an antihero?” He shrugs. “I don’t really care, B. Aren’t you the one who always says that you are who Gotham needs you to be? This is what I can be. I can straddle the line.”

Can you? Bruce wants to demand. The question sticks in his throat, and he swallows it back. It isn’t a matter of trust. He can’t let it become one. He knows Jason’s capable, and as Bruce stares at his son, he’s torn between being the father who says no, this isn’t what I want for you. This is dangerous, and I won’t stand for it, and the one who says I will support you, if this is what you want. If this is really your calling, I will have your back. 

“And if that line starts to shift?” Bruce asks.

Jason’s eyes harden. “It won’t.”

He’s suddenly reminded of the conversation he had with Jason in the dead of night in Damian’s room. What shades of gray can you accept? he’d asked. And which do you condemn? Who are you, where is your line, and what do you believe?”

Jason didn’t have an answer then.

He does now. Bruce can see it.

Bruce takes a deep breath and exhales in a long sigh. Objectively speaking, it’s impossible not to consider the value in what Jason’s offering, and he cannot deny that the tactician in him is inspired by the prospect, opportunities blossoming like flower petals before him. “To ensure our support of Jeff and his direction for the League, and to keep your cover,” he says, his tone implying he hasn’t made a decision one way or another, “you will have to give up your place with the Team.”

“That’s hardly a huge loss,” Jason admits, waving it off. “I don’t need the Team anymore. They don’t need me. Let the kids have a chance to make their mark. Besides, teams are popping up left and right. I can make my own or find another, if I want to.”

“You may have to keep your distance from us as well,” Bruce warns, brushing a fingertip against the bat Jason drew on his sketch. “Do things that will put you in other heroes’ and the GCPD’s crosshairs. It can get dangerous very fast, Jason.”

“I’ve thought of that,” Jason says, and he takes a red felt pen from the desk organizer beside the computer monitor and begins to edge the bat on his sketch with dots and fuzzy, dripping lines, editing the sharp lines into a sloppy graffiti style. “I can spin it into a mockery of you. They’ll get a kick out of it. And so will we. An inside joke for your inside man. It’ll make it that much easier to maintain my cover.”

Bruce’s fists clench in his lap. “That’s not what I meant,” he rumbles. 

Jason frowns and tosses the pen aside. It tumbles across the desk, behind the monitor. Neither make a move to return it to its proper place. “Bruce, I get it, okay?” he says, voice edged with something desperate and irate. “Look, I’ve considered the consequences. I’m fully prepared to accept them. I’ll even compromise with whatever conditions you want to set—rules for extraction, points of contact, the others’ involvement or lack thereof. I’ll even burn this identity when I’m done. Or if it gets too gnarly out there. Whatever.”

“We just promised Jeff there would be no more lies,” Bruce says.

Snorting, Jason leans back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. “I made no such promises. Besides, I’m not leaving Gotham. And Gotham’s ours. Who needs to know, outside of us? This doesn’t involve them.”

Jason must sense Bruce wavering because he presses, “This is something I want to do, Bruce. I’ve thought long and hard about it, and I need to step out of your shadow. Dick’s, too. I can’t go back to what I was before. Not with Joker still out there.”

Bruce swallows. “You don’t have to be who you were before,” he says hoarsely. “I never wanted you to be.”

“Then let me do this,” Jason argues, tone obstinate. “I can pull it off. Can you?”

Jason always liked pushing buttons. It isn’t the first time he’s tried to push boundaries by framing his arguments like this. Bruce doesn’t fall prey.

“I’m...not sure,” he says haltingly, the truth stinging his lips. When Jason opens his mouth, Bruce cuts him off. “That isn’t a no. It isn’t—I can’t...” He hesitates, reluctance clogging his throat. Without a word, he shakes his head and rises to his feet, collecting Jason’s laptop, files, and sketchbook. He crosses the Cave and deposits the material on a free table, spreading it out and plugging an HDMI cord into the laptop so they can see everything on a larger screen.

This isn’t something he hasn’t done a million times before whenever his protégé(e)s were stuck on projects and cases, on their science fairs, research papers, or overly complicated math homework. He’d held conferences at the dinner table, and in his office, and at this very spot, ready to lend a hand, to convince them that, yes, it is okay. I realize it is hard and you are stuck, but I will help you understand. I will help you realize you can do this.

Jason recognizes the routine immediately. He shadows behind Bruce, cautious hope budding, and draws back a chair, gaze dancing across the tabletop, where all the work he’d done was on full display.

“Jason.”

I can’t. Not as things stand, he wants to say. Not when I’m not sure I can stand to let you out of my sight now. Not when I don’t understand. Help me understand.

When Jason looks back up at him, Bruce doesn’t say any of it. He merely pulls out his own chair and takes a seat, rolling up his sleeves and settling his elbows up on the table. He needs to know the plan. In full. He needs the reassurance that this won’t go wrong, that he isn’t going to lose anyone, that he isn’t completely insane for even entertaining an idea that makes him so apprehensive he could vomit.

“Convince me I can.”

 Dick sits on the training mat, legs sprawled into a wide V formation. His thumbs are trapped in the ever-perpetually sticky little fingers of a certain Damian Wayne. The baby is playing one of his favorite games, using his brother as a way to balance as he wobbles on unsteady legs and leans dangerously forward and back again, giggling as Dick catches him from faceplanting or knocking himself out.

“You are going to be so much fun to teach to tumble,” Dick says to Damian conversationally. “If only you were a little older...”

Damian babbles a nonsensical string of syllables, twisting around to grin at Dick. He bounces between Dick’s arms, which he’d left loose and relaxed for the express purpose of allowing Damian to “fall” every which way and that.

“I know, bud. I totally agree,” Dick says. “We have to wait until you’re a little better at walking before we can try any of the fun stuff. Apparently, that’s the practical thing to do.”

Damian releases one of Dick’s thumbs, and he stands pretty well without the additional support. He’s getting better every day. Pointing toward the main floor of the Cave, he calls, “Da!”

Dick follows his finger and sees Bruce in full uniform with the cowl pulled back. He’s chatting with Tim by the Bat Computer, reviewing the plan for the night. Dick grins, a chuckle rising to his lips. He’ll never forget Damian’s reaction to the cowl. Kids his age tend to scream and try to scramble from Batman’s arms. Others stare in awe, immediately reaching up for the pointed ears to give them a tug.

Damian? Damian had laughed.

Because of course he did. The kid is utterly fearless.

“Yeah, there’s Daddy,” Dick agrees. “He’s going out early tonight, so you’re stuck with me and Ace.” Ace is actually back upstairs, probably lying in front of the office door, waiting on His Person. He’d been banned from the Cave when he’d tried to make a toy out of a smoke bomb, and to this day, they still have no idea how he’d gotten to it. Until they did, no dogs in the Cave. “We’ll have fun, though. Promise.”

“Oohh, good luck, gremlin,” comes a slightly muffled voice from behind him. “You’re going to need it.”

Dick contorts backwards so that he can tell Jason bite me, but he stops short, faced with Red Hood in full uniform for the first time.

He hadn’t been sure about this, at first. In fact, he’d been against it. Vehemently. He’d screamed at Bruce for even agreeing to something so dangerous and risky, and then at Tim for not taking his side, and then Cass for not helping talk them all out of it, and then Roy for encouraging it. It wasn’t until he lost it on Barbara for all of the above that he realized he was the only one not on board.

And at that point, he came to an even worse realization: he was pushing Jason away, and if he continued to stand against him, Jason would never forgive him. It’d put them at odds, chisel a chasm between them that Dick wasn’t sure they’d be able to reconcile. And that...Dick couldn’t do that.

So he did what he did best. He adapted and rolled with the momentum. If he couldn’t stop this from happening, then he was going to do his damndest to ensure his fears were unfounded. Come hell or high water.

It helped that there were contingencies upon contingencies, all of which the entire Family'd had a hand in developing. It also helped that Jason, it seemed, had become even more of a conniving genius in his time away from home. It wasn't a risk-free plan, not in the least, but Jason's dedication to his chosen identity and task made it difficult not to think that, maybe, Dick had been a little overbearing and overprotective. 

And so it begins.

Wolf whistling, Dick grins up at Jason, pushing aside his lingering misgivings. “Daaaayummm, you cut an imposing figure in that get-up. You look like you’re about to ‘ject a few heads.”

Jason’s eyes are already covered by his red-lensed black domino, but Dick can tell, from experience, of course, that Jay’s rolling his eyes. He slides around Dick and pops a squat on the mat across from Dick. Damian doesn’t even bat an eye, automatically reaching toward his second eldest brother. Even still, Jason is considerate enough to remove his half-face mask and smile tenderly at Damian, who toddles over to him and fists his hands into Jason’s jacket.

“I take it back,” Dick teases as he watches Jason kiss Damian’s forehead. “You sure you can pull this off, big bad Hood?”

“Can’t a guy have a dangerous rep and a soft spot for kids?” Jason argues petulantly as Damian settles in his lap and plays with Red Hood's removed mask.

Dick barks a laugh. He reaches forward to extricate the mask from Damian’s grasp, replacing it with one part of his stacking toy before Damian can get verbal about the injustice. Jason inches closer to the rest of the stack and dismantles it, giving Damian the opportunity to start again. 

With Damian appropriately distracted, Dick says, “Yeah, no. Not quite, Jaybird.”

“We’ll see.”

Dick’s eyes flick up to Bruce and Tim. They must be waiting on Jason, who agreed to a few light patrols before his Big Plan was put onto motion. Jason, who is currently sitting on the floor with him, stuck on babysitting duty.

Whose hands are busying themselves with the baby, disguising the fine tremor there.

“Nervous?” Dick guesses gently.

Jason shakes his head, not taking his eyes off Damian. “No.”

“Excited, then?”

“Fuck yes,” Jason admits in an undertone. “I need to calm my ass down or I’m going to do something stupid.”

Dick laughs. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

That elicits a reaction from Jason. He doesn’t wince, exactly, but he does look up, staring with his eerie lenses at Dick. “I...never thanked you or Cass for laying the groundwork for me out there.”

Dick leans back, bracing himself on his palms. “Pshh, doing a few little good deeds in a red hoodie is hardly worth thanking us for.”

“Rumor and word-of-mouth is powerful, especially in the Alley,” Jason says. “Batman and Robin started out as urban legend, too, remember?”

Oh, he's well aware. “Good times, those,” Dick agrees. "Easy to see where you got your inspiration."

"Yeah." Jason fidgets at one of the pockets of his belt, popping the latch and snapping it closed again. “But I was thanking you less for the good deeds than for the...other ones. I know it’s not how you like to do things.”

Dick shrugs. He doesn’t want Jason to know how much the show of excessive force unbalanced his conscience, how often the sound of snapping fingers and the crack of skulls against cement followed him into his dreams. He reminds himself that he isn’t entirely blameless in his own crusades. “It was necessary.”

“Not really,” Jason says. “I could have done that part myself. Or Cass could have taken over. You know I’m not against it, and Cass has her own code, but I don’t like that you felt you had to compromise your beliefs for me. Or for my plan, at least.”

“The faster we got the rumors circulating, the easier it’d be for you once you got out there,” Dick says. “I don’t regret it.”

Jason doesn’t look particularly convinced, and Dick’s heart rises in his throat as he surveys his brother. It hits him, every so often, that in another universe, another time, another what-if...he might not have ever had the opportunity to do his brother favors, to support him in his admittedly dumb and stupidly ballsy ideas.

He wouldn’t have any of this. Not Damian. Not Jason. None of it.

It doesn’t matter, who Brion has become. It doesn’t matter, what paths Violet and Forager decide to take now. It doesn’t matter, that Dick believes Jason is sacrificing more than he will ever realize.

Dick will always be grateful to those three for leading him to this.

And he wouldn’t change a thing.

“Jason,” Dick says roughly. He catches and holds Jason’s eyes. “I don’t regret it,” he repeats. “I never will.”

Dick allows the words to sink in, and he hopes Jason receives the message in what he’s leaving unsaid. When Jason shuffles, distinctly uncomfortable by the weight and promise behind his words, Dick is satisfied, and he adopts a lighter tone, whining, “I do regret I can’t go out with you tonight, though. Not that I don’t love our little monster here, but I definitely pulled the short straw.”

“There’s always tomorrow night,” Jason promises, and Dick has the sense he’s not the only one remembering the could-have-beens.

Yeah, I suppose there is. Dick’s heart swells, and he's going to respond with something sappy, probably, but he’s interrupted by a voice from above, calling for Hood.

“My cue,” Jason says, gently coaxing Damian out of his arms and nudging him back toward Dick.

Dick catches the baby, swooping him up into his arms and launching to his feet in such a swift move, Damian is shrieking with laughter, doing his utmost to bend backwards and out of Dick’s hold.

“You ready?” Dick asks Jason, situating Damian and holding a hand out to Jason.

Dick’s rewarded with a wicked smile in response.