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Chapter Text

He opened his eyes to green.

It was burning, choking, acidic and bitter—laughter was ringing through his ears, high and sharp and malicious—he squeezed his eyes shut and blindly made his way to the surface.

He broke it with a gasp, taking a huge gulp of air—no smoke, nothing burning, no acrid taste of smog—before haphazardly wiping at his eyes.

Assess your surroundings, a low voice rumbled in his mind, accompanied by half-memories of patient lectures and methodical training.  Where are you?  Who is with you?  How did you get there?

He—he didn’t know.  Stone all around him, trapping him—his breaths grew faster and shallower—green light shimmering darkly off the walls.  Green light.  Green pool.

He looked down—he didn’t know what he was looking at, but the instinctive part of his brain told him that anything that bright and glowing was not to be touched.

He grasped for the edge of the pool, stone cold and wet under his fingers—his hands looked weird, too smooth, too big—and he pushed himself out with shaking muscles.

It hurt.  It hurt like an overextended muscle.  It hurt like he hadn’t been moving or walking or reaching for days, like he’d been forced into a body not yet broken in.  He was gasping by the time he got his knees under him, gasping and shivering and shaking.

The room—tomb—cave—was cold.  His clothes—his robes?—were sticking to him, thin cotton plastered to his skin.  He couldn’t stop his heaving gulps of air.

Calm down, the familiar voice said, breathe with me, Jay.

He was trying.

“Come with me,” an impatient voice said—out loud, not in his head, not a half-fragmented memory.  He looked up—hand outstretched, fingernails painted—and instinctively recoiled.

Danger, blared five different parts of his mind, shrieking about betrayal and dread and don’t trust her can’t trust her mom how could you do this to me—before he followed the hand up to an unfamiliar face.

Dark skin.  Green eyes.  Dark hair.  Not blonde and blue-eyed, no cigarette rolled between nonchalant fingers, no hard-eyed look in response to his confusion.

“We must leave,” the woman tutted, frowning, “Quickly.”  Now that he was looking, she did seem familiar—like he’d seen her in a photo, maybe.  Her eyes narrowed imperiously, “We will be found if we do not move.”

Being found was bad.  He knew that very well.

He reached out—that couldn’t be his hand, that couldn’t be his arm—and placed wavering fingers in a callused palm.  She tightened her grip and pulled, and suddenly he was much higher off the ground then he’d been before.

He felt like he was on stilts, stumbling after the woman as she held his wrist and led him through dark, twisting, suffocating tunnels—he remembered screaming, he remembered clawing, he remembered crying out for Bruce—as his skin alternately felt too loose and too tight.

What, he wanted to say, but nothing came out of his throat when he went looking for words, and the world was dizzy and too loud, too cold, too much—

The blast of cold air felt like a crowbar to the face.

He stumbled, instinctively curling away from the breeze—they were outside now, darkness giving way to pinpricks of light in the sky and a roiling, seething mess underneath them.  The tunnel they’d come from was a yawning abyss, and the woman had let go of his hand to fiddle with a bag.

She pressed the bag into his arms—rough, heavy, the seam of the zipper biting into too-soft skin—and regarded him with those cold, fierce green eyes.

He stared back.  He needed—he wanted—he had—his mind was empty and he needed something to hold onto—

“You remain unavenged,” she said softly.

And then she pushed.

He fell.  He hit the water, shuddering as icy ripples pulled at him, tugging at his clothes.  The words swirling in his head, flitting around like butterflies.  Powerful kicks—it hurt, his limbs were cramping and shuddering and weak—propelled him up.

Jason Todd broke the surface with a gasp.

He didn’t know how long he stayed in the water, clutching the bag and remembering how to breathe—remembering how to live—but he eventually realized that he was in a river, and the current was getting stronger.

Jason pushed towards the riverbank, startling himself with the force the simple kick gave him, and caught the rocky edge with his strangely uncallused hands, shifting the sodden bag to one arm as he pulled himself out.

His shaky arms nearly gave out, but he managed to drag himself onto the bank before they collapsed entirely.

He stayed there, rolling over onto his back, and stared up—the sky was brightening slightly, sun rising somewhere beyond the dark mountain ridges, and the stars were fading.

He remembered thinking he would never see a star again.

He—he remembered dying.

He remembered coming back.

He remembered—laughter and pain and screaming and—no.

No.

No.

He had to—he couldn’t—he—he couldn’t—no.  He had to focus on something else.  On the stars.  On the mountains.  On the strange, otherworldly clarity, the way everything felt too jarringly real, from the water freezing on his skin to the weave of the robes pressing against him, to the pebbles digging into his back.

Mountains.  There were no mountains near Gotham.

Where the hell was he?

Jason slowly pushed himself upright, staring at the river—the river, not the ocean, not salty and polluted, not green and acidic—and the barren land around him, no trace of person or animal in sight.  Nothing but the mountains and the stars and the brightening sky.

And the backpack.

Jason dragged it closer to him and fumbled for the zippers—it was a simple bag, only two pockets.  The first was full with water bottles and ration bars—at which point Jason realized he was starving, and tore through five ration bars, not registering the taste, until a stray thought niggled at him about rationing and saving for later, because he didn’t know when he’d eat next.  Jason finished the sixth bar and opened a water bottle, going through two of those before his thirst was sated.

Head slightly clearer, he turned to the other contents of the backpack.  Some strange device, apparently not damaged by its stay in the water—Jason wiped the drops off the surface and pressed the button on the side—immediately, grid lines lit up on the surface, showing two blinking yellow dots, one smaller than the other, about seven grid boxes apart.

The second object was a compass.  The river was behind him, due south, while to the north lay the shrinking peaks of the mountains.

Jason packed up the rest of the bag and pushed himself up onto shaky legs before walking forward.

After walking for about a minute, he could see that the smaller blinking dot had moved towards the larger one.  He looked at the compass, the dot, and changed direction—he needed to go…slightly north-west if he wanted to see whatever was at the second yellow dot.

The woman had given him this bag.  The woman that had put him in the green water.  Jason was not trusting another strange woman, not after what had happened with the last one.

He wanted to go home.  He wanted—he wanted—

Bruce.

Laughter, high and sickening and cruel, the flash of metal and the crunch, the screaming but it was too late, time ticked out, and then—

Pain.  More pain than anything he’d felt before, because it made sense that it hurt to tear a soul out of a body—because he died, because he came back, because—

Deep breaths.  Breathe with me, Jay, the low voice rumbled, and Jason let out a sharp cry, falling to his knees, hands pressed over his ears like that would stop the laughter echoing inside his skull.

Breathe.  In for four, hold for eight, out for seven.  In for four, hold for eight, out for seven.  Again.  Again.

Jason lowered shaking hands.  The air stung the inside of his nose, cold and pure—not dry and hot, not smog-choked, and that was enough to ground him.

He wasn’t in Gotham.  He wasn’t going to trust the woman.  But he had no clue where he was—whether Gotham was east or west, north or south—the woman had an accent, but Jason couldn’t pinpoint it—he didn’t know where to go.

Blinking yellow dot it was.

“You remain unavenged.”

The words niggled at him, like a stray patch of dead skin he couldn’t quite get off.

A watch was not among the contents of the backpack, but the sun was still low in the sky—mid-morning, if Jason had to guess—by the time he neared the spot marked on the locator.  His legs had started cramping halfway through, and his pace had slowed considerably by the end, his muscles sore and aching.

It was frustrating—Jason had spent longer flying through the air, jumping from roofs and—

“I caught a little birdie!”

It was frustrating.  He felt weak, like a newborn foal trying to find his legs, and his mood wasn’t improved by the giant steaming pile of nothing he found when his dot finally intersected with the other one.

“Are you kidding me?” Jason said out loud—his voice was hoarse, and lower than he was used to.  He spent half a minute trying to clear his throat before he realized that the crackling, growly voice was actually his.

Did he get swapped into a new body?  He had a sickening wave of wrong wrong wrong, only arrested by the sudden appearance of someone dressed in dark brown robes.

“Who are you?” Jason demanded, stumbling a step back and wincing at the sound of his voice.

The person narrowed their eyes, and turned on one heel, beckoning him to follow.

“Excuse me?” Jason called out again, “Who are you?”

“I have been sent by Lady Talia,” the stranger said flatly, “Come.”

And who the everloving fuck was Lady Talia?  Jason was done with following strangers, he’d learned that lesson, okay, and he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

“Come,” the stranger beckoned again, their face falling into a frown, and Jason tightened his grip on the bag—the mountains were full of crevices and narrow valleys, if he got a good head start—

Someone coughed behind him, and Jason whirled around to see another person in the same dark brown robes, giving him a cold look.  They raised an eyebrow.  Frowny scowled even harder.

It was only two against one.  Jason had gone against greater odds before.

But not in a strange location.  Not when his whole body was cramping or jittery.  Not confused and lost and alone.

Jason did not hide his glare, but followed the stranger.

They were walking a path with no visible marker—Jason couldn’t tell how this stretch of gravelly scrubland was different from the one ten steps over, but he cursed and stumbled across the uneven terrain, feeling the burn in his lungs as they climbed up and up and up, until they reached a narrow crevice that could charitably be called a mountain pass.

Jason stopped, his legs rooted to the spot, and refused to move.

“Come,” Frowny said, looking impatient.  He couldn’t see Cough Drop, but presumably they were hovering somewhere behind him.

Jason couldn’t move, though.  His legs had locked up and refused to loosen, his throat going dry at the sight of the narrow almost-tunnel between sheer, high cliff faces.

It wasn’t an enclosed space, his mind pointed out rather logically.  There would be nothing above his head.  Unless there was a rockslide.

His body refused to take that on faith.

“Come,” Frowny snarled.

“No,” Jason retorted, stumbling back.  The scowl only grew.

So what?  What could they do to him?  If they wanted him dead, he’d be dead—he’d been dead, and something had brought him back, and he didn’t want to do the whole dance all over again.

It had hurt.  Oh, gods, it had hurt so much.

They could force him through that crevice.  They could, and they would.  And when Jason imagined being manhandled through that narrow space, helpless and vulnerable, his heart rate kicked up, his breaths suddenly too-short, especially when drawing from thin mountain air.

Jason took a wobbly step forward.  And another.  Frowny turned back around and disappeared into the narrow gap.

Another step.  He could hear his harsh breathing echo discordantly against the stone.

Another step.  The shadows fell across his face, as quickly and completely as darkness.  Stone brushed the sides of his arms.  Light narrowed to a thin strip in the distance, the edge of it smudged by the stranger guiding him forward.

Claustrophobia.  Jason added it to the list of things he was discovering about himself.

Green pool.  The woman that pushed him off a fucking cliff.  The mountains.  The strangers.  The—no, he couldn’t remember that, it sent him into screams and sobs.  No remembering.

He felt like he was holding half the pieces to a puzzle he’d chosen to complete blindfolded and, so far, it wasn’t very fun.

His pace was slow.  Glacial.  Which was funny, come to think of it, because these jagged mountain ranges were carved by glaciers, weren’t they?  Some ice-fed mountain stream had chiseled out this narrow crevice, and there wasn’t a single drop of water left to bear it witness.

Focus on glaciers, on rivers, on anything except the way that rough stone was pressing against his upper arms, the way his breathing was too-harsh and too-loud in the shadows—

Gasping, a dying rattle, and it echoed oddly off of broken beams and rubble—

Loud, desperate wheezes, depleting all the oxygen left as the sounds were muffled by cool satin—

There was a sharp throb of pain in his palms, and Jason realized he’d clenched his hands into fists so tightly they’d started bleeding.  He relaxed them, and blood welled up, trailing down his fingers to drip against the ground.

They were shaking.  He was shaking.

Another step.  Another.  Another.  The light was brighter now.  Frowny had already reached the end.  The walls weren’t closing in, they weren’t, Jason’s imagination could stop running wild any second now, thanks.

When he finally made it to the other side, Jason wanted to collapse to his knees in relief.  Maybe cry.  His eyes were prickling and his breathing was still a little too fast, but Frowny only waited for him to appear before starting forward again.  This time downhill.

Jason refused to match their pace.  He was sore and exhausted and aching, he could feel the sharp throbbing of blisters on his feet, the disconnect in his memories was growing glaringly large, a giant shrieking ‘LOOK AT ME’ sign in his brain even as he tried to ignore it, and he just wanted—

“B—Bruce.  Bruce.  Please, I think I’m going to die.”

Fuck what he wanted.  He didn’t know what he wanted.  He didn’t know anything.  He wanted—he wanted quiet.

He wanted a hug, he wanted soft, warm, safe arms wrapping around him in a cocoon of protection and—

No.  Not thinking about that.  Following Frowny it was.

He could tell he’d pissed off his…guide?  Kidnapper?—because when Jason finally caught up to them, the stranger was in a full-grown thunderous scowl, standing next to a mottled dusty brown tarp thrown over what—judging by shape and size—was probably a small truck.

Frowny tugged off the tarp, and it turned out Jason’s guessing skills hadn’t been rusted by death.

They handed Jason a black hood.  “Put that on,” they instructed, and then motioned to the back of the truck.

Jason looked at the hood.  And looked at them.

Cough Drop made a small ahem behind him and Jason nearly jumped out of his skin, jeez, the person was silent.

“Where are you taking me?” Jason snarled, hiding his wince at the rusty growl that was apparently his voice now.

“Where Lady Talia wants you to go,” Frowny said imperiously, “We do not question the lady’s wishes.  Neither do you.  Put the hood on, and get in.”

So this was a kidnapping.  Nice to know.

For a distinct lack of other options, Jason swung himself up into the back of the truck, and tugged on the hood.  One door slammed, which meant that either Cough Drop somehow managed to close doors without a sound, or was currently hanging around in the back with him.

The joke was on these losers anyway.  He’d been taught how to map directions while blindfolded, so he knew how far they were going to go, and which general direction, and how to get back.

…So maybe the joke wasn’t on them.  It turned out that mapping directions in a city—on an actual road, with turns and speed limits and traffic lights—was not the same as mapping directions while the truck bumped along rugged terrain in a random direction for hours.

It was also possible that Jason had fallen asleep despite the jostling, his sore muscles and blistering feet thankful for the rest, and the rocking motion of the truck strangely soothing.  He only realized this when something snapped at his shoulder, jolting him awake as he immediately lashed out—darkness everywhere, cloth against his face—

Cough Drop considerately ripped the hood off of his head before he could work himself up into a panic attack.

The truck was parked in the middle of nowhere, and the only thing that had changed in the scenery was that they were on an actual paved road now.  The sun was tilting closer to the horizon, late afternoon, and Jason took several moments to fully blink himself awake.

“Change,” Frowny ordered, thrusting clothes at him.  He could see that Frowny and Cough Drop had already changed, out of the dark robes and into woolen shirts and thick pants and shawls—Frowny had theirs around their shoulders, while Cough Drop had wound theirs around their head.

Jason glared at them both, but even sun-dried, the robes he was in were stiff and tacky, and he quickly changed out of them and into the clothes he’d been given—the same thick shirt and sturdy pants, but no shawl.

It was only after he’d taken it off that he realized that the robes he’d been wearing were the same material and color as those of his kidnapper-guides.

Interesting.

They didn’t ask him to wear the hood again, and this time he got to sit in the front, the three of them squished together in the cab of the truck.  It was extremely uncomfortable—not because there was no space, but because all three of them were aware that each of them were trained, and the tension chafed.

Jason ignored it as best as he could—they were on an actual road, with road signs, and twinkling lights like a city rising in the distance.  The signs were not in a language he understood, but he did manage to narrow down his geographical location.

Russian.  Which put him in Asia, or Eastern Europe.  Far, far away from Gotham.

His kidnapper-guides made no attempt to ensure his compliance when they pulled up to a building, tipping the scale in the favor of guide—and also stupid—and Jason loitered behind them as they entered a reception room and headed to the desk.

Hotel, Jason was guessing.  He paused near the lounge, darted a quick look around him—Frowny was talking to the desk clerk, Cough Drop next to them, no other guests in sight—and picked up the newspaper on the table, quickly folding it and tucking it under his shirt.

Running out on the street wouldn’t do him any good.  He was guessing that they were pretending to be civilian—hence the change of clothes—but he needed a lot more to work with than in Asia or maybe Europe.  He still had his slightly damp backpack, with ten more ration bars and five more bottles of water, but aside from a garden variety compass, he had nothing of value.

No papers, no money, no documentation—he supposed that he could try to find the US embassy, but even if he could prove that he was American, claiming to be a dead boy was unlikely to go over well.  He didn’t know any Russian superheroes, and he was pretty sure that claiming to be a dead hero was going to go extremely not well.

Frowny had finished their business at the desk and beckoned Jason forward.  Jason pushed down the desire to break those fingers, and managed to regulate his bad mood to only a scowl before stomping over.

Hotel turned out to be correct.  Frowny led them to a room on the second floor—tiny room, two beds and a small ensuite bathroom—before giving perfunctory instructions, “Freshen up.  We are awaiting Lady Talia’s orders.”

Jason gladly took the opportunity to use an actual bathroom.

His first shock came with the mirror.

He…hadn’t been bodyswapped.  Or, if he had, it was into some strange, mutated clone, because Jason could see himself in the mirror, but could also see all the ways the face was just slightly off from how he remembered it.

He was taller, for one.  His scars seemed to have disappeared, along with the calluses on his palms—and his feet too, the way they were complaining.  His eyes seemed brighter than they usually were, more green than blue, though that could definitely be due to the clothes and shitty lighting.

And there was a shock of white hair at the top of his forehead, like he’d dipped a lock into bleach.

“What the fuck happened?” Jason whispered hoarsely.  His voice was just another reminder of the differences.

His hands were shaking again, clenching the edge of the sink so tightly his knuckles had gone white.  He—he needed to—to figure this out.  He needed time.  He needed—he didn’t know what he needed, but it was not being stuck in a tiny bathroom while two trained assassins lurked outside the door.

Wait.

Assassins?

The League of Assassins, came the memory when he poked at the thought, a file spread across a massive set of displays, dark brown robes and fluid movements and that woman was smirking at him and there was green—green—green—

No.  He—he needed information.  He needed a starting point.

He fished the newspaper out from under his shirt.  It was in Russian, which was disappointing but not surprising.  The year, however, was still legible, and Jason had to sit down while the room spun around him.

It had been two years.

Two years.

He—he was seventeen.  He might even be eighteen, he didn’t know what month it was.  He—he couldn’t believe—

Jason scrambled upright again, and started at himself in the mirror.  Seventeen-maybe-eighteen years old.  Yeah, he could believe it.

There was a sharp rap on the door.  “Lady Talia has delivered further instructions,” Frowny said.

“Give me a minute,” Jason rasped back.

The newspaper was fluttering in his shaking hands as he looked over it again.  He couldn’t read the articles, but the pictures might be informative—two people shaking hands, a building, a dog, children arrayed in front of a garden, a still of a soccer match, someone giving a speech on stage, heroes capturing a villain—

Batman.  And Robin.  Standing over the Joker.

Jason stared.

He couldn’t fucking read Russian, no matter how hard he stared, the alphabet itself was incomprehensible, so he had no clue what the caption said, or the article underneath, but there had to be some reason they had put the picture there—in this newspaper, in a country far away, it had to be of some significance, it had to—it—

That wasn’t his Robin suit.

The picture was black and white, but he didn’t need color to know that the design was off and the belt was larger and figure slimmer and holding some sort of staff.  It wasn’t Dick, either.

Which meant.

Which meant.

“You remain unavenged.”

Laughter and shrieking and screaming and begging and the sickening sound of bones crunching under the onslaught of metal, the throbbing, tearing agony, dying, the world going red and then black, fingers scrabbling at wood, crying, please Batman, please Bruce, please Dad—

And.  And what?  And a new Robin and the Joker alive and well and Jason thought he’d meant something and—and the memories were tearing forward too fast for him to stop them and everything was green and everything was red and someone was laughing and someone was screaming and someone was shouting.

“Which hurts more?”

“You’re grounded.”

“I promise.”

“Bruce.  P—please.”

And he didn’t know when he’d left the bathroom but there were two faces in front of him and he was moving on instinct, instinct not made for this new, stronger, faster, taller body, but instinct all the same, and they weren’t expecting an attack—stupid and sloppy, they should’ve taken a crowbar to the face, or maybe ten, and then they’d learn to be on their guard—and finally, Jason was heaving for breath in the middle of a silent, trashed room, knuckles bruised and stinging.

“You remain unavenged.”

Yeah.  Jason had gotten the fucking memo.

Frowny and Cough Drop looked like they were enjoying their impromptu nap.  Jason stepped past them, and towards the bags that hadn’t been there before, presumably dropped off with those instructions.

Jason was done dancing to other people’s tunes.  Now he knew.  It had been two years since he died.

Two years since he was murdered by the Joker, and Batman had done nothing about it.

Two years since he’d been replaced as if Robin was just an empty suit to fill.

Anger solidified into rage and sharpened into fury.

But unfortunately for all those involved, Jason had come back.

One of the bags had papers.  Several sets of IDs and passports for Jason, under different names and ages.  Money.  Clothes and supplies.

Jason let his lips curve into a smile.

“I want the earliest flight out of here,” he told the desk attendant at Khorog International Airport.  She blinked at him, at his attire, and his request.

“I’m sorry, sir, what—”

“The earliest flight.  Whichever one that is.”

She stared at him for another stretching moment before looking down at her screen, “There is a flight to Moscow that departs in forty minutes.”

“Perfect,” Jason said, pulling out the Russian passport.

“Sir, but it has already starting boarding—”

“Not a problem,” he said, handing over the black credit card, “First class, please.”

Huh.  Apparently he was in Tajikistan.  Another country to cross off his list of ‘why do I never end up in these countries when I want to go sightseeing’.

Jason bought a change of clothes in Moscow at an exorbitant price, and added a colorful knit cap to cover the white streak in his hair.  There, after gorging himself, buying several bags of snacks, and another couple sets of clothes that barely managed to fit into his bag, he headed for the ticket counter.

The next flight leaving, which happened to be Istanbul.

A different one to Dubai.

Another to London.

A flight to San Francisco, and Jason was wondering what the limit on the card was.

And one nonstop, direct flight to New York City.

Thank you very much, Talia al Ghul.

The League of Assassins had resources, Jason knew that.  It was kind of impossible not to know that when he exchanged his Russian passport for an American one to board his flight, and tossed the credit card into a trash can with full knowledge of how many stacks of cash lay buried underneath bags of chips and cheap clothes.  But Jason had finally taken off the blindfold and, half the puzzle or not, he was beginning to get a sense of the full picture.

Green pool.  League of Assassins.  The Demon’s Daughter herself, “we will be found if we do not move”, the roundabout circling through the mountains.

He bought a newspaper in English.  The caption for the picture was ‘Batman and Robin foil Joker’s latest plot’.  Jason couldn’t bring himself to read the article, not inside the middle of a bustling airport, not when he wanted to scream and rage and cry.

It didn’t matter how many pieces of the puzzle he had if he was planning on burning the whole fucking thing to the ground.

Batman was going to pay.

Jason remembered every second of that final, awful countdown, he remembered watching the numbers tick down, he remembered thinking ‘this is it, I’m going to die, this is it’, he remembered still believing that Batman was going to come and save him.

He hadn’t.

“You remain unavenged.”

He hadn’t stopped the Joker.

‘Batman and Robin foil the Joker’s latest plot.’

He’d just found someone else to fill those stupid boots.

Jason had died in fire, trapped in a coffin of broken rubble, and he was going to ensure that Batman learned exactly what that felt like.

They passed the dizzying spires of Manhattan on their approach, and Jason could pick out the exact skyscraper that Nightwing and his Titans called home.

Dick had once given him a phone number and told Jason to call if he ever needed him.

Jason had called, before he went to the airport with a list of woman’s names.

Jason had called, but Dick hadn’t picked up.

“One ticket to Gotham, please.”

A hazy skyline.  The faintest scent of salt on the breeze, buried underneath exhaust smoke and city pollution.  The grime and darkness and grit that seemed to seep through his shoes as he took a step out of the airport.

He was home.

Chapter Text

Hobbling to the taxi stand reminded him that his feet were still sore and aching, his muscles had flutters of cramping pains, and a couple of hours dozing in a flight was not the equivalent of a good night’s sleep.

“Where do you want to go?” one of the taxi drivers called out, scanning Jason from head to toe as if he was checking for easy prey.

“Sawyer and 8^th,” Jason responded, Gotham drawl evident in his tone.  The driver drooped slightly at the lack of an easy mark, but beckoned Jason towards his taxi.  Jason hung onto his bag instead of placing it in the trunk—the driver lifted an eyebrow, but made no comment.

Weird was a relative term in Gotham anyway.

Jason’s mouth went dry as they approached the city, and he only let go of his tight grip on the seat when they passed the turnoff to Bristol and headed across the bridge.  The driver made no comment at passing so close to Crime Alley after dark—there was a hole-in-the-wall pizzeria at the address Jason had given, and 8^th Street was pretty lively, despite being two blocks away from the collection of streets that made up Park Row.

In short, a perfectly believable address for a native Gothamite, and an unobtrusive one.  Not that it mattered—Jason wasn’t planning on staying on 8^th Street.

Hotels were out—the fancier ones would balk at accepting payment in cash, and the motels that would accept crumpled bills were meant to be temporary and would draw too much attention to a regular.  And there were no motels in Crime Alley, which was where Jason wanted to stay for the duration of his plot against Batman.

He needed to work on that plot.  He couldn’t beat Batman in a fair fight.  He couldn’t even beat Batman in an unfair fight.  He needed to massively tip the odds in his favor, which meant time and planning and supplies.

His feet were stinging, scraped raw inside his shoes, but he was careful to keep his pace unhurried and hide his limp.  He’d slung the duffel bag over one shoulder, and his stomach muscles were cramping with the effort it took to hide how much the bag weighed—the last thing he needed was for someone to realize he was hauling around cash.

Two blocks in, he was in Crime Alley, and he got off Sawyer to go deeper, emerging onto Westley Avenue and 5^th Street.  There were apartment buildings all around him, and Jason made for the one that had the newest ‘we’re renting’ sign.

There was a notice for office hours and a phone number underneath the sign, but Jason ignored it to press the buzzer for 1-A.

It was rare to see a company-owned apartment building in Crime Alley—company meant liability, meant someone to kick a fuss if the gangs came sniffing around for protection money, and Crime Alley had long been abandoned to the rats.  It certainly made Jason’s job easier, because he couldn’t imagine an office manager agreeing to meet with him at eight in the evening on a Sunday, but a tired landlord showing him in with the brief flash of cash was all too possible.

“Your renter’s agreement,” the landlord—Mrs. Sally West—handed him a pen and concealed her yawn, “I’ll need three hundred dollars as a security deposit up front.  Also an ID for a background check.”

Jason handed her four hundred dollars in twenties.  “I lost my ID,” he said, his pen stuttering over the form as he looked up in apparent hesitation.

Mrs. West looked at him and sighed, “I’d appreciate it if you show me when you find it again.”  He could see her thoughts on her face—he’d hunched his shoulders in to make himself deliberately smaller, and his knit cap was tugged over his ears.  The picture of someone running away from something.

People believed that Crime Alley was filled with cutthroats.  That wasn’t true—there was mercy and kindness, if you knew where to look for it, and if you made it worth their time.  No one helped a charity case, but they’d conceal a teenage runaway for a hundred bucks.

“Of course,” Jason filled out the form with a scrawl and handed it back, taking the key she offered him.

Third floor.  Fire escape.  Small, but Jason had been in smaller, had slept in a cardboard box and squatted in abandoned buildings before he’d been whisked away to a mansion where all his dreams came true and showed him the price of the fantasy.

Batman.  Batman was going to pay for what he did.  Batman was going to pay for failing Jason.

The apartment was decent—small living area and kitchen, separate bedroom leading to bathroom.  Surprisingly, it was clean—not new, not by any means, the building was definitely crumbling, but there was no mold or water damage on the walls, and no draft near the windows.

Strange.

Jason flipped through the packet of information Mrs. West had given him, and saw a Wayne Foundation flyer buried amidst it.  It advertised the refurbishments made to the building to make it hospitable—refurbishments made to numerous other buildings in Crime Alley.

It—that had been one of Jason’s ideas.

Bruce had wanted him to start taking a more active role in the company, so Jason had chosen a cause, and had pointed out the nightmarish living conditions in Crime Alley, and Bruce had started several refurbishment projects aimed at Jason’s hometown.

They hadn’t finished before—before Jason had died.

And yet the projects had apparently continued anyway.

Jason stared at the flyer and, very slowly, crumpled it into a ball.

Jason woke up screaming, struggling against hard, polished wood, the taste of dirt on his tongue, his fingers shrieking in remembered agony, and only the sunlight filtering through the window reminded him where he was.

Jason squeezed his eyes shut and gasped for breath, tugging his hands back away from the wooden floor, and curling up into a ball.

Breathe, said a gentle, firm voice, inhale.  Slowly.

Jason clapped his hand over his ears, like that would stop the fucking voices in his head.  He didn’t need to breathe, he needed to kill Batman—okay, he needed to breathe too, but that wasn’t the point—

Jason glowered at the ceiling.

It was the beginning of April.  One year and eleven months ago, he’d walked into a warehouse and died.  And now he was alive, he was in Gotham, he was seventeen years old, and he was going to kill Batman.

He managed to wash his face and brush his teeth—he needed to buy soap and towels, he desperately wanted a shower—and got all the way to the kitchen before he remembered that the only food he had was exorbitantly priced vending machine chips.

Food.  Another item on the list.  And everything he needed to defeat Batman, starting with a bomb.

But he couldn’t just find a bomb on the streets, he needed to be careful about this.  And careful meant time, meant he needed the basics to outfit his apartment, and new clothes, and better shoes.  A first aid kit, and something to treat his blisters.  A cell phone?

And he needed to catch up on everything he’d missed over the last two years.

His stomach cramped painfully, and Jason headed for the door.  Food first.

The Robinson Market in East End was moderately popular for groceries and essentials and Jason ducked inside, wincing slightly as the door chimed.  The morning rush hadn’t started yet, it was only nine, but the shop was slowly filling up and Jason grabbed a basket, intending to get in and out as quickly as he could.

The airplanes had been bad enough.  Strapped to a seat, trapped in an enclosed space—at least the movies and solicitous flight attendants had distracted him, and there had been plenty of empty seats in first class.

But ducking through narrow aisles as he tried to avoid brushing past people was straining his nerves.  He managed to get the first aid kit, toiletries, and fruits before loitering in the ramen aisle, staring intently at the different flavors and trying to remember how to breathe.

The aisle was empty, but not for long—Jason felt his skin prickle as another shopper turned into it.  A young woman, basket hanging from her arm, purse on the other shoulder.  She’d thankfully stopped at the far end of the aisle, and Jason tried to ignore her as he picked up a couple of vegetable cup noodles and dropped them in his basket.

Someone entered from the other end of the aisle, and Jason nearly bit through his lip.  He pressed closer against the shelf and glared at the packet of cup noodles in front of him as the other shopper slowly, casually strolled down the aisle.

Get your fucking noodles and get out, Jason mentally aimed at the other guy, and exhaled slowly when he passed him.  He stepped back, and hurriedly grabbed another pack of cup noodles before heading away from the two shoppers—he needed to find a different aisle.

He cast a quick glance back, and his movements stuttered.  The second shopper was slowly making his way towards the young woman, his gaze alternating between the noodles and her.  Jason felt a familiar frisson down his spine, an instinct that had never served him wrong, and abruptly changed course.

The man had almost reached the young woman, his gaze fixed on colorful noodle packaging even as he leaned in the direction of her purse, and Jason roughly shouldered between them.

The young woman yelped and pressed closer to the shelf, turning with a scowl already fixed on her face.  The would-be thief pressed back as well, the glint of a blade disappearing back into his sleeve as he frowned.

“Sorry,” Jason muttered, pausing a beat to narrow his eyes at the potential thief, who gulped and stepped away.  Jason spun on his heel and ducked into the next aisle, fighting the urge to ball his hands into fists.

And this was what really pissed Jason off.  Batman liked to pretend that the only crimes worth stopping were the ones that happened under the cover of darkness, or by a freak in a mask, but there were so many everyday things that needed to be stopped.

Muggings, thieves, store hold-ups, sexual harassment, corporate greed—the list went on and on and on.  But no, Batman didn’t care about that, and Bruce Wayne didn’t care about that, and the cops certainly didn’t care about that, and everyone in this city was so focused on the lunatics in Arkham that they’d forgotten about the everyday criminals on the streets.

Jason stopped dead when he realized that the freezer doors were beginning to turn green.

It was like someone had slipped a pair of glasses on him—the green tint was everywhere, and the faster his heart raced, the darker it got, sticking him in a vicious cycle of increasing panic and fury.

Jason clenched his basket tightly, not even registering the pain, and pressed a palm flat against the freezer door—the shock of cold caused the green to stutter, and Jason swung the door open, pretending he was looking for ice cream as he watched the green slowly recede.

“—been lurking around the docks at night.”

“Should take a sick day, man.  Anything that’s caught the Bat’s attention isn’t worth it.”

Fingers tightened on the door handle, knuckles going white.

“He’s showed every night for a week, I’ll get fired if I don’t—”

The voices trailed off as they left the aisle, but Jason could still hear them if he strained, two dockworkers grumbling about the night shift, about their employer, about finding a different job if it turned out that Batman was after them.

Jason let go of the freezer door, and watched it swing shut.

He was moving, and he couldn’t tell where, he couldn’t tell why, he could hear ‘Bat’ echoing in his ears like an out of tune radio—he needed to get out here, too many people, too much damage—

A flash of bright red, and Jason adjusted course.

The color was familiar, soothing, home and safety and aching loss all wrapped up in one, and Jason took heaving breaths as he buried his face in the soft material.  Breaths in, hold, then out, just like he’d been trained, just like he’d practiced for years.

It was terrifying.  That was two times he’d lost control this morning alone, and if Jason managed to take out two trained assassins when he was lost in the howling green, how much more damage could he do to civilians?

He—he needed to figure this out.  He needed help, but finding Talia al Ghul was the absolute last thing he wanted to do.

Jason took a deep breath and let it out shakily.  One step at a time.  First, kill Batman.

He raised his head and realized that he was clutching a bright red hoodie. 

The color was unsubtle, but it was soft and warm.  Not the hoodie that his mother—Catherine—his mother had given him, but it was a connection to her, and Jason seized it.

Not like prancing around in traffic light colors had been subtle, anyway.

And look how that turned out, something in his mind hissed.

Jason set his jaw and headed for the checkout counter.

The hoodie was just as warm and soft as it looked.

Information.  He needed information, and the best place in the city to get it was Gotham City Public Library.

Applying for a card would have to wait until Jason managed to scrounge up a fake ID—neither of which he needed to kill Batman, those went on the after list—but he didn’t need a card to use one of the computers.  He stepped past the front desk—the blond had his nose in a book, and the redhead in a wheelchair was turned away, talking to a group of kids—and towards the computers at the back.

He couldn’t stop the shiver at the tall shelves and colorful covers, the rush of nostalgia both uplifting and heartbreakingly painful.  The library had been his refuge for so many years, a place where Jason could lose himself in a story and forget all about the real world and its problems.  Where it didn’t matter if he was hungry or tired or didn’t have a place to sleep, all that mattered was the next page, and the next, and the next.

He chose a computer closer to the corner, and double-checked to make sure there was no camera in easy sight.  Not that anyone was going to recognize a dead boy, especially when the boy himself couldn’t, but Jason didn’t want anyone to even get an inkling that he was back.  Not until he’d finished what he’d come for.

Jason pulled up the search engine, then hesitated.  With trembling fingers, he typed out ‘Jason Todd’.

The first article was a Wikipedia page, the second was on his death and funeral.  Jason clicked it, and tightened his fingers into a fist at the immediate photo of Bruce and Alfred standing over a closed coffin.

Wood and satin and clawing and tearing and gasping—

Jason hastily scrolled past the photo.  The article was the typical oozing sympathy over a kid they’d all called a charity case, but there were some interesting pieces of information there.

Small funeral.  Bruce, Alfred, Commissioner Gordon.

The article gleefully speculated over the absence of Richard Grayson, and Jason had to fight the urge to scream—Dick had barely cared about him alive, why would he take the time out of his day to visit his failed successor?

No Babs either, and that was a deeper pang—she’d practically been an older sister to him, all those years of tutoring and hanging out as Robin and Batgirl and teaching him the tricks of the trade.  Guess in the end, all he’d been was not good enough.

He hadn’t been buried at the Manor.  The article mentioned a plot at Gotham Hill Cemetery—an expensive graveyard, but a public one.  Making sure to keep the street trash where he belonged.

Jason clicked out of the article, unwilling to read any more reminders of how easily they’d cast him aside, and went back to his digging.  Searching outright for Batman and Robin was too obvious, and he knew that Batgirl had some sort of algorithm running to sniff out anyone who got too close to their identities.  He’d start by checking out if there was anything new happening at the docks.

Jason’s fingers typed, of their own accord, J.

O.

K.

E.

R.

Jason stared at the screen, hovering over enter.  The screen was green.

He hit backspace instead.

Jason had no idea what possessed him to get flowers—it was his own grave, and there wasn’t a body in it.  Flowers were a stupid idea, but he’d shelled out ten bucks for the overpriced bouquets they were selling on the cart outside and shuffled in, drawing his hood up.

He had no idea where exactly he was buried, and he meandered up and down the paths—it was a large cemetery, and people were starting to stop by after work.  The breeze ruffled gently through the trees, drowning out the soft murmurs and sometimes the quiet tears.  It caused goosebumps to rise up, which Jason thought was pretty funny—of all the people in the cemetery, he was the one who had the most right to be here.

The sun was setting by the time he found the right gravestone.  ‘Jason Peter Todd’ the headstone proclaimed, ‘Beloved Son’.

Beloved son.  Not beloved enough to put the ‘Wayne’ up there—his legal name had changed with his adoption, even though Jason had continued to go by ‘Todd’ at school.  Jason—Jason had been thinking about a permanent change as the summer had drawn closer, but before he could ask Bruce, he’d been fired and murdered.

At least he’d avoided the sting of rejection.

Jason crouched in the grass—the scent of fresh dirt filled his mouth, and he suppressed it, he wasn’t going back down there, nothing was going to grab his ankles and pull him under, screaming and clawing and—

Jason hastily stood up and backed up a step.  This was Gotham, after all.  No need to take chances.

He put the bouquet down, and looked around—Catherine Todd wasn’t buried here, there had been no money for a funeral, but Bruce had set up a small marker in the Wayne family graveyard and a beautiful angel statue fountain in the garden to remember her by, and maybe he moved it here, maybe he’d given Jason the chance to be buried next to his mother in spirit.

Jason caught the name on the headstone next to his, and froze.

‘Sheila Haywood’ it proclaimed, ‘Beloved Mother’.

Blonde hair and blue eyes, smiling sweetly, ever so sweetly, crooking a finger and beckoning him inside and he’d followed her like the desperate fool he was, aching for any family that would have him.

And the laughter, and the gun pointed straight at him, and those cold blue eyes watching as the crowbar came down and down and down, puffing a cigarette as Jason screamed and writhed, and the only justice in the world was that the Joker had killed her too.

Beloved mother.

Jason wanted to turn that headstone into rubble with his bare hands.

His father—his real father—had gotten himself locked up and killed.  His mother—his real mother, not this two-faced, conniving, heartless bitch—had died by inches, wasting away in front of his eyes.

Sheila had thrown him to a monster to save her own skin.

And Bruce had washed his hands of the whole affair.

The last, small, flickering hope that maybe he’d cared, maybe there was an explanation, maybe there was something, some reason for why the Joker wasn’t dead, why there was a new Robin, why Bruce hadn’t found him, was extinguished like a smothered flame.

He was just another dead kid in a city full of dead kids.

And Gotham never wept for dead kids.

The green showed up when he was angry.  Not annoyance or irritation, but fear, helpless frustration, the kind of angry that made tears prickle in his eyes and his hands curl into fists.

Robin had once been an outlet for that anger.  A way to help, so he didn’t lose himself in destruction.  That clearly hadn’t worked.

Right now, putting his fist through a wall—or, better yet, a face—was sounding like a pretty good idea.

Jason stuck to the shadows on his way back to his new apartment, knowing that his bright red hoodie was a glaring target, and finding himself incapable of caring.  Let someone try something.  Jason might’ve still been getting used to this new body, to his new center of gravity and longer limbs and muscles stiff and sore, but he had three years of vigilante training, a solid grasp of dirty tactics, and hyperawareness prickling at his skin.

That hyperawareness made him twitch when he saw a shadowed figure duck into an alley.

Jason sped up, turning the corner right when a muffled cry broke the air—two figures were struggling, one pressed flat against the brick wall, trying to twist away, and the other, larger, a knife in their hand.

Jason didn’t bother calling out a warning or yelling for them to back off.  He took five steps forward and drove his elbow into the arm holding the knife, twisting the fist back, ignoring the snap and subsequent howl of pain, and kicking the back of the figure’s knees to send the assailant to the floor.

The other figure twisted free, scraping against the wall as he backed up.  College student, Jason pegged, studying the backpack and travel mug of coffee as the kid gasped for breath.

“You okay?” Jason asked, aiming a vicious kick to the assailant’s ribs before turning away.  The kid nodded, taking a deep, shuddering breath before gripping his backpack tighter.

“Thanks,” he said, edging back out of the alley, scanning Jason’s red sweatshirt and the groaning man on the floor.

“Be careful,” Jason frowned, “It’s not safe to walk around here late at night.”

The kid barked out a harsh, slightly hysterical chuckle.  “Believe me,” he said, “I know.”  He gave a half-shrug, “Not like we have much choice though.”  His voice turned slightly bitter, “Not like Batman ever shows up around here.”

“Relying on Batman is a mistake that’ll get you killed,” Jason said, so quiet that the kid stuttered a step away from him.  “Get some pepper spray, learn how to throw a right hook, and watch your surroundings.”

It was always about Batman.  This city had survived before the Dark Knight showed up, and it would survive after he was gone.

Soon, something in his mind promised.

Chapter Text

It took a full two days before Jason figured out how he was going to do this.

He couldn’t attack Batman head on.  It was a statement of fact.  Jason knew his training, knew that half his muscles ached in new and interesting ways, and running through forms and occasionally snapping the wrists of muggers—Crime Alley was, for some reason, even worse than when Jason had last seen it—was not enough to get him fighting fit, not against Batman.

Nightwing maybe could’ve beaten him.  But Nightwing had years of training on Jason, and was also not trying to get used to limbs a good couple inches longer than they’d been before.

So Jason had to be stealthy.  Unfortunately, nothing short of a rocket launcher was going to punch through Batman’s armor and a) Jason had no idea where to find one, and b) he wouldn’t put it past Batman to have upgraded his armor to stop a tank.

And besides, he wanted to make this personal.  He wanted Batman to feel exactly what Jason felt when that bomb shredded his insides, when he choked on overheated air, when he knew that no one would come in time.

The problem was, he didn’t know where to put the bomb.

Of course, he had to make the bomb too, but that was the next step—the type of explosives and trigger would depend on where he wanted to put it.  Too small, and Batman might live.  Too big, and there would be collateral damage.

No innocent lives were going to die in Batman’s stupid crusade ever again.

If he really wanted to be poetic, he’d rig a warehouse to blow, but there were too many variables he couldn’t control.  It wasn’t worth it.  And he didn’t want to kill Bruce Wayne, even though it would be easier to get to him in his civilian role.

No Cave—he didn’t know where Robin Number Three hung out, but there was absolutely no way he was risking blowing up another bird in the process, even if he hated the kid.  No Manor, for obvious reasons.

And then it hit him—the Batmobile.

Jason knew that thing front to back.  He knew its weaknesses.  Batman might’ve upgraded it in the two years since his death, but Jason knew he could still get close enough to plant a bomb on the car.

Then all he’d have to do was make sure that Robin wasn’t anywhere near it, and then—

Bye-bye Batman.

Supplies were easy enough to pick up.  He walked into a hardware store, forced a smile on his face, and mentioned a school project to build a circuit.  The attendant was overly helpful, but Jason easily waved them off by mentioning that he hadn’t finalized his ideas on what the project should be, but he wanted to get some base components to tinker around with.  He pretended like he knew enough to know what the various components were, but not enough to be overly familiar with them, picking out a large collection of resisters and ICs and wires with a couple of PCBs.

The one thing he made sure he picked up was a remote trigger, one that would work at a good twenty-yard distance.  A timer-controlled bomb wouldn’t be precise enough, especially if someone got in the way, and Jason wanted the satisfaction of triggering the explosion with his own two hands.

He added some other things to his cart while he was there—soldering gun, gloves, pepper spray, a tool kit, batteries.  Voltmeter.  Distilled water.  Some basic lights to sell the idea that he was making a school project.  A collection of magnets.  Duct tape.  Black spray paint, and the standard Gotham gas mask.

He forced a chuckle at the collection of fake plastic domino masks at the counter, and then his hand moved of his own violation and dropped one in his cart.

“Halloween’s still a ways off,” the attendant smiled at him.

Jason’s answering smile was tight.  “Never too early to prank your friends, though.”

She laughed, and rang through his purchases.  He handed over the money—her smile flickered a trace amount when he paid in cash, but Jason didn’t care about her suspicion.  The GCPD were useless, and Batman would be dead by the time anyone tried hunting him down.

Jason had several bags when he was done—the water and the tool kit were the heaviest things, and Jason had to shuffle things around so he could hold them all long enough to get to the bus stop.  He’d chosen a hardware store in the Diamond District, both to avoid the gang-run businesses in Somerset, and to keep any suspicion about his plans squarely in Burnley.  Let them think he was going to blow up a bank or rob a jewelry store, it would keep their attention off of his real goal.

The Diamond District was bustling as the afternoon turned into night, and Jason had to shoulder through the crowds while keeping an eye on his bags.  Dodging a gossiping group not paying attention to their surroundings, he stumbled into a young couple, breaking their handhold and nearly sending them both to the ground.

“Sorry,” Jason muttered, pushing past them and ignoring the murmured conversation behind him.

“Tim.  Tim.  What’re you staring at?”

“I just thought I saw—never mind.  It’s nothing.”

In a turn of events that buoyed his mood even further, the bus arrived after only a minute of waiting, and Jason headed back to his temporary apartment, humming with satisfaction.

He couldn’t buy a bomb off the street.

He could make one, sure, he could probably put together something that exploded from ingredients at a common wholesale store, it wasn’t that difficult to make things go boom.

The problem was that he’d never get the kind of firepower he wanted from bleach or fertilizer.  He needed heavy duty explosives.  And luckily, between the Rogues, the gangs, and the crime families, there were enough explosives in Gotham to blow the city up ten times over.

He could feel the tension jittering through him—things went green at alarming intervals, and though Jason could usually snap out of it before he punched something, it felt like he was screwing the cap on a bottle of shaken soda.

He could feel it inside of him, howling for violence, and he wouldn’t be able to stave it off forever.  He needed to get his revenge.  Get Batman to pay for failing him.  Abandoning him.  Treating him like nothing more than a disposable body to fill a red-green-yellow suit.

Jason didn’t have the time or patience needed to gather information on the major players in Gotham.  Or the inclination—all he needed was a bomb, he didn’t want the whole intricate map of alliances and jobs and deliveries that he had once kept painstakingly updating.  He just needed to find a relatively minor player with a few pounds of C4.

He remembered being Robin, remembered double-checking intel and access to so many resources and planning for every contingency.

He remembered being a street kid, remembered acting because the one rule was to always keep moving, because there was no time to wait.

You didn’t need a Batcomputer to get information in Gotham.  Not if you knew the right people to ask.

Jason paused, sticking to the shadows, observing the different people lined up and down the street.  Some were better dressed than others.  Some had a bouncer lurking behind them, ready to step in to safeguard a pimp’s interests.  Some were younger than others, so young that it sent an edge of tension curling through his jaw, his breathing slow and even as the green haze swelled.

He knew that stalking across the street and punching until bone cracked under his knuckles wouldn’t solve anything—would, in fact, just make things worse—but green obscured everything and Jason managed to claw back rationality by the tips of his fingers.

Batman first.  Then he’d come back for the kids.

He observed the working girls for thirty minutes, tracking the stream of customers, watching who was popular and who was not, narrowing in on money exchanging hands.  He got a reasonable sense of the flow and ebb by the time he made his choice—not the most popular, not too young, not solitary.  Not visibly frustrated or exhausted.  Not too busy.

She saw him approaching when he crossed the street, and she straightened on high heels, blinking at him through long lashes.  “Hello, stranger,” she purred, “Looking for a good time?”

Jason flashed some bills.  “Privacy,” he said simply.

“A man that knows what he wants,” she said, low and throaty, “I’m a fan of that.”   She turned easily on her heels, beckoning him to follow her with slender fingers, and led him up the stairs of the closest apartment building.  In the hallway light, the glitter speckled across her tan skin sparkled, peeking out from cutouts of clothes that may have been skimpy, but were definitely not old.  The colors were eye-catching, but not outrageous.

Her room was on the second floor—empty apartment, clearly for work and not a home—and she swiftly pulled him into the bedroom and closed the door.  She draped her arms around his neck, pressing him against the door, and Jason had to resist the urge to break those hands.

“Where do we start, handsome?”

“Get off of me,” Jason managed a mostly-level tone.

She slipped off, expression shifting to something more amused.  “Shy?” she asked teasingly, “Is this is your first time, handsome?”

“No,” he replied curtly, “I’m not here for a fuck.”

She kept the smirk up, but Jason could see her tense.  Her gaze shifted from his face to his hands, and Jason kept his body language as non-threatening as possible as he reached for the wad of bills in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Information,” Jason said quietly, holding up the roll of bills, “If you have it.”

“Information on what?” she asked lightly, easing a step back, “You want a lesson, honey?  I can teach you things that’ll make your tongue curl.”

Jason couldn’t help the harsh, unamused chuckle.  “I’ve had enough of those lessons to last a lifetime.”

Her expression shifted again, confusion dancing past wariness and slowly curling into realization.  Her gaze skipped up to his face again, observing it, and her eyes eased into something that resembled sympathy.

“Okay,” she said quietly, something sad in her tone, “Okay.”  She crossed the last few steps to the bed and perched on the edge of it before patting the space next to her.  “I don’t know how much I can help you, but tell me what you want to know.”

Jason gave her the money first.  Watched her flip through the bills, eye his clothes—comfortable and loose—and come to her own conclusions.

Not many people realized just how much information in Gotham ended up as pillow talk.  How quickly it spread.  How desperate to brag some people are, how people dolled up in glitter and high heels could sink to their knees and play with clever fingers and listen to every word that was whispered past them.

How much they knew.

How much could be bartered for the right price.

How easy it was to extract the names, locations, dates of a delivery of explosive material to a Narrows gang for the price of two hundred dollars and a promise to break the kneecaps of a red-haired, dragon-tattooed asshole who apparently didn’t like taking no for an answer.

“One last question,” Jason asked, listening to the green seethe just below his skin, “What is Batman doing in Tricorner Yard?”

The delivery was tomorrow.  If Jason attacked in the confusion of the handover, he could steal the explosives and leave his real target up in the air.  Maybe, if he was really lucky, they’d even blame each other and turn on themselves, imploding their little operation.

If Jason worked quickly enough, he’d be able to target Batman in the next couple of days.  There was major movement within the gangs—a new player rising in town, and the older gangs were meeting up in secret to stop them, using some of the warehouses near the Tricorner Docks.  There was going to be a big meeting on Sunday, which was the perfect opportunity—Batman would be occupied for at least an hour, and unless things had drastically changed, Robins weren’t allowed out on Sunday nights save for Arkham breakouts or other all-hands-on-deck situations, and definitely not for a long, boring stakeout.

He was almost in a good mood as he made his way back to home base.  This had been an altogether productive day and the satisfaction was a pleased thrill inside of him.  The green haze was triggered by anger and frustration, he’d figured out that much—as long as he kept advancing in his plan, he could keep it at bay.

He really needed to figure out what the hell was up with that.  Batman, then research into—into however he’d gotten mixed up with the League of Assassins.  He just—

He had so many things to do.

Jason took the last alleyway shortcut and his steps stuttered as he passed the mouth of the alley—there was a small black tag on the brick, like someone had pressed a batarang and painted over it.  It was a common sight in Gotham—the Bat was here.  A warning.  A reassurance.  Someone was watching.

A joke.

Maybe Batman had passed by here once and maybe he’d left a batarang behind, but the Bat didn’t care about Crime Alley.  No one cared about Crime Alley.

Jason shoved the anger aside before his vision could turn green again, and stepped to the side to wait for the two people walking in the opposite direction to pass him.  He needed to stop losing it every time he got angry—what if he couldn’t control the urge for violence?  What if he ended up hurting someone?  What if—

Jason only registered the danger when the second person glanced up at him, eyes sharp, something glinting in their hand.

Jason ducked on instinct.

The attacker behind him—dark clothes, hoodie up—didn’t have enough time to retract their fist before Jason surged up with an elbow—too high, he was taller now, and the elbow meant for their gut ended up in the hollow of their throat.  Oops.

Hoodie collapsed, gasping, and Jason spun back around, foot-first, and drove his shoe into the other attacker’s solar plexus.  They, too, crumpled with a wheeze, knife clattering to the floor.

Jason took several deep breaths, adrenaline singing with nowhere to go, and nudged Hoodie enough to make sure they weren’t dying of a collapsed trachea before glaring at his unfortunate attackers.  “What the hell,” he glowered, “I was actually having a decent night before you decided to ambush me.”

“S—sorry,” Knife stuttered, “Didn’t mean anything by it, man.”

“J—just trying to e—earn a living,” Hoodie wheezed.

“By mugging people?” Jason looked down at them distastefully.  At least they weren’t gang members on an initiation hunt.  “Do it again and I’ll break your fingers.”

“S—sorry,” Hoodie cringed.

Jason scowled, good mood thoroughly ruined.  He remembered the tag at the mouth of the alley—a joke indeed.  Batman hadn’t shown up.  These muggers had clearly not cared.

Green surged, and Jason couldn’t shove it down fast enough.

He crouched next to Knife and picked up the weapon, observing it with a practiced eye.  Cheap, but not half-bad.  And it wasn’t like he cared about the state of the blade when he was done.

Leaving the two groaning muggers on the floor, Jason stalked back to the mouth of the alley, to the outline of the Bat symbol on brick, black and green swirling sickeningly in his vision.  He set the knife to the brick and gouged as hard as he could, dragging the blade across brick and paint.

Again.  And again.  And again and again and again and again, until paint chipped off in black flakes, until heaving breaths broke through the green haze, until the blade snapped off in his hand.

Jason stepped back, still panting.  The tag was mutilated, the design scarred by several slashes.  The design was still visible, but the message was clear.

Batman wasn’t watching.

Jason curled an arm around the rafter, leaning against one of the cross beams as he crouched and observed the deal happening below him.  He’d triple-checked his vantage point for any trace of a shadow too dark to be natural or the vivid colors of a grinning devil-child but he was alone up here.  No one to interfere.  No one to stop him.

Good.

He knew he couldn’t take on Batman toe-to-toe, but the green shading across his vision didn’t seem to care.  It didn’t even like waiting as Jason fidgeted on the rafter beam, waiting for the delivery.  There were seven people milling on the floor below and four guards outside, and Jason counted five guns and six knives so far.  One of them was the redhead that was owed a broken kneecap.

A rumble of a truck.  Finally.

Jason tensed, shifting in place.  The gang members straightened as the truck idled to a stop right outside.  Two of the guards brought the plain, unmarked box inside, escorted by two people with semi-automatics.

Hmm.  Those might be a problem.  Jason narrowed his eyes, watching the handoff.

The box was deposited on the table.  One of the gang members reached out and laid a briefcase beside it.

Box and briefcase were opened at the same time.  In one—stacks of cash.  In the other—enough C4 to blow up this whole block.

Jason waited.

The box was closed as the guy who inspected it nodded to his compatriots.  The briefcase was similarly shut, and the guys with the semi-automatics took it and headed for the door.  The murmur of conversation grew louder as the dealers left, and Jason waited, waited, waited until the guards closed the door shut behind them.

He took a split second to memorize the scene—seven guys, eleven visible weapons, box of C4 on the table—and squeezed his eyes shut.

He yanked on the cord wrapped around his palm—the cord stretching up to where the electrical cables ran down into the ceiling lights.

The warehouse plunged into darkness.

The shouts started as Jason opened his eyes and grinned.  He let go of the cord and swung his way down to the ground floor, landing a little harder than he’d liked.  One of the gang members had switched on the flashlight in their phone, apparently assuming that this was just a consequence of Gotham’s shitty electrical grid.

Too bad for him.

Jason had an arm locked around their throat before they could shout, fierce struggles spasming as the phone dropped from their grasp.  Jason grabbed the back of their hair and slammed them down, pausing to stomp down on the phone as he went for the prize.

Clearly someone had brains in this little group, because there were two indistinct shapes surrounding the box of explosives.  Jason hooked a foot around the closest guy’s ankle and slammed him headfirst into the table—he collapsed with a groan that drew the shouts their way.

“This is a set-up!” someone screamed, and the shouts became louder.

Jason’s questing fingers found the box, and he yanked it towards him, startling the other figure.  Jason ducked on instinct, and the gun went off with a bang.

“Someone’s stealing our shit!”

“Fuck, it’s the Bat!”

“Shoot him!”

“Don’t let him get away!”

If they were too busy looking for a cowled shadow to spot him shoving blocks of C4 into the pockets of his hoodie, then that was fine by him.  Jason ducked under the table when he was done, watching the weaving beams of phone flashlights illuminate haphazard objects as they searched for Batman.

He waited until he spotted the light skitter over red hair and a flash of black on skin before he crept out of his hiding place.  They weren’t looking for a red hoodie, so no one noticed him getting close enough to kick at the back of Dragon Tattoo’s legs.

The guy went down with a shout and flashlights swung their way—Jason didn’t waste any time, he trapped the guy’s left ankle with one foot, and stomped on his knee.

The crack was almost drowned out by the unearthly wail.

Payment rendered in full.

Jason headed for the next closest gang member to avoid the gunfire—the guy stumbled back on instinct, and his path to the shelves was free and clear.  Jason slipped out through the same window he’d entered through, several pounds of C4 heavier.

Behind him, the gang kept shooting at shadows.

The explosives were safe in their casing, far away from the table where he was carefully soldering the circuit together.  It was a simple trigger circuit, and Jason finished wiring the components in place before twisting the free ends around one of the small lightbulbs he’d picked up.

He pressed the trigger.  The bulb lit up.

He walked to the bedroom and pressed the trigger again—the light shone from the kitchen.

Jason felt satisfaction ease through him, the vicious pleasure of a job well done.

Now he just had to tie the circuit to the incendiary, and place it very carefully into the casing with the C4.  The casing was a simple box, a foot long, eight inches wide, three inches high.  Jason had the cords to lash it to the underside of the Batmobile, right next to the fuel tank.

One small push of the button, and Batman would be gone.

Chapter Text

Jason cautiously eased the backpack off his shoulders.  He had been careful not to jostle it too much, keeping the trigger strapped in a box with no chance of accidentally pressing the button—he had no wish to die by fire a second time.

It had hurt.  It had hurt more than anything Jason had ever felt.  The pain was unimaginable—his blood had boiled and fire seared through his skin to burn bone and he’d drowned with every gasp of superheated air and he remembered all of it.  Remembered the agony shrieking in every cell of his body and he didn’t even know what was happening until it all stopped.

Until he sank into the blissful embrace of an unknowing eternity.

Until he’d been dragged back.

Back to a world with the possibility that he might go through that awful experience again because the Joker was alive, because Batman hadn’t killed that fucking clown, because the deaths of a thousand people meant nothing to the Bat, the death of Robin meant nothing to the Bat—

Except Robin was just a suit.  And clearly Jason hadn’t been his son.  So why would his death be any different from the multiple unnamed bystanders that had gotten caught up in Joker’s epic quest to destroy the Bat?

He was just collateral damage.  They were all collateral damage in the game that Batman played with the Rogues, this whole goddamn city, and if the mountain didn’t go.  Well.

Jason removed the bomb and concealed the backpack with the trigger in a hollow between the dumpster and the wall.  The Batmobile was parked across the street—they were near the stadium, a good five blocks from the docks.  Jason had watched Batman leave the Batmobile five minutes ago, no Robin in tow, no one else in the car as far as he was aware.

He took a deep breath and walked forward.  He’d drawn the hood of his red sweatshirt over his hair and darkened the hollows around his eyes with grease before tugging on the plastic domino mask.

He was alone.  No gear, no comms, no backup.  He had no warning system to tell him if Batman was coming back.  All he had on his side were luck and determination—the only two things he had ever needed, the two things that had kept him alive on the streets long before Batman had picked him up and shoved him to the frontlines of a fight that no child should’ve been on.

The Batmobile’s sensors, in theory, stretched ten feet in every direction.  In practice, the sensors were attuned—they couldn’t be setting off alarms at every fire hydrant, streetlight, stray piece of trash, or passing car.  Jason knew how they were attuned, he’d been the one to design it.  He knew the system like the back of his hand.  He knew where the loopholes were, and how to exploit them.

“Okay, how about if an animal falls on the car?”

“What kind of an animal?”

“Hmmm…how about a cat?”

“You planning on heading to Selina’s again, old man?”

He stopped, three feet from the car.  Now was the tricky part.  He jerked forward a step, a jagged movement too fast for a normal walk, and immediately froze.  He counted down from thirteen in his head.

“Why thirteen, Jay?”

“Everyone’s superstitious in this city.”

He jerked forward again and stilled, staring at his reflection in the dark, tinted windows of the Batmobile.  The bomb was heavy in his hands.

“No, B, you gotta clean it until it shines!”

“Son, that isn’t going to stop them from egging it.”

“It would’ve stopped me.”

He crouched in a swift movement, staring at the rear tire.

“How about you change the tires, lad?  You’re quite familiar with them, after all.”

“You’re never gonna let that go, are you, old man.”

Jason swallowed, almost missing the end of the thirteen count, and practically threw himself to the ground, suppressing the heaving breaths he wanted to take as he sprawled, tense, right next to the Batmobile.

He needed to—he had to stop—the memories—

“Why is it called the Batmobile?”

“Dick.”

“Okay, but why did you agree?”

“When’s the last time you said no to Dick’s pouting face, hmm?”

Jason pushed himself along the ground, asphalt digging into his back, until he was half under the car.

A warm arm around his shoulders, a quiet, low voice patiently explaining the different components of the engine—

Curling his fingers around the steering wheel and giggling, because he could see Bruce’s constipated face even under the mask—

Tired and sore and covered in grease but happy, eyeing the gleaming car with pride as a heavy hand ruffled his hair.  “Good job, Jaylad—”

Jason violently yanked himself back to the present.

Bomb in his hands.  Cord looped around his belt buckle.  He was staring up at the undercarriage, fuel tank to his left.  There was a sensor on the tank itself, of course, but there weren’t any right next to it.  Jason skimmed a hand across the pipes, checking for any changes, but there was nothing he could find.

His fingers were trembling.

He remembered working on this car, remembered passing tools back and forth, remembered the flush of warmth when blue eyes landed on him and crinkled into a smile and—

And nothing.

All the hair ruffles in the world hadn’t been enough to save him.  Hadn’t been enough to avenge him.

Jason set his jaw, and pressed the bomb to the undercarriage.  He held it in place with his forehead, uncoiling the corded rope to quickly and efficiently lash it to the pipes, knotting the cords with ease.

He dropped back down, and stared at it.  At the unassuming dark case tied to the Batmobile.  At the instrument of Batman’s destruction.

For a second, he was somewhere else, he was leaning against a wall with his body screaming at him, and there was ticking in his ears and a timer and wires and—and—and—

Jason would be avenged tonight.

He waited on the roof in the opposite direction of the docks, curled up in the corner with the hood up and mask off, like he was just catching a nap.  The trigger was clutched firmly in his hand.

He didn’t care how long he’d have to wait.  This ended tonight.

“Good job, Robin.”

No.  No.  Batman didn’t care.  Batman was tearing this city apart.  If there was no Batman, there was no Robin, there were no dead kids, there was no one to get caught up in a grudge match between a morally idealistic hero and his insane psychopath of a nemesis.

The freaks with costumes and gimmicks had shown up because of Batman.  Remove Batman, and the crazies would melt back into the shadows.

Kill Batman, and this city would be safe.

“Robin.  Did he fall…or was he pushed?”

He’d fallen.  Jason hadn’t—he hadn’t—he had never killed anyone.

Not until now, anyway.

Batman had never trusted him.  Had never cared about him.  Jason had just been the poor deluded street kid that had gotten a scrap of affection and thought that meant something.  Batman didn’t care though—not about him, not about this city, not about anything but his menagerie of villains.

And if Jason had to cross a line to stop him, so be it.

The trigger was shaking in his fingers.  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  It was going to be okay.  Everything was going to be okay.  He was going to kill Batman—

“Jay-lad—”

“How was school today?”

“I bought you some new books.”

“Come on, kiddo, you can do better than that.”

“You made the right choice, Robin.”

“I will never leave you.”

“You’re my son.”

“Jay—”

He was—he was going to—to k—kill his father—

It wasn’t the cowled shadow that appeared in his mind, dark and forbidding, it was warm blue eyes and soft smile and a patient voice and Batman was Batman but Bruce Wayne—Bruce Wayne had been his father.

He didn’t care about you, his mind hissed, not enough to trust you, not enough to save you, not enough to claim you, even in death.

Bruce Wayne was Batman, and he hadn’t avenged his son’s death, and Jason’s head was screaming, a throbbing pulse of pain behind his eyes as memories of a family clashed violently with the sickening sound of a crowbar breaking his bones because it couldn’t be a lie, three years of patience and understanding and love couldn’t be a lie, but it had to be a lie, because if it was true then the clown should be dead, why wasn’t the clown dead.

Because Batman hadn’t cared enough to put his son over the inflexible rules that governed his mission, because he hadn’t trusted Jason enough to take him at his word, and it made sense that Robin’s death wouldn’t have changed his crusade.

Maybe Jason had been worth something.  Maybe not.  But it hadn’t been enough to change anything.

As always, the street kid felt short.

He hadn’t been enough for any of his parents—enough to keep Willis out of jail, enough to stall Catherine’s drug addiction, enough to stop Sheila’s greed.

Maybe the problem wasn’t with Batman.

Maybe it was with him.

The remote trigger almost clattered to the floor.

Maybe it’s you, something echoed in his head, maybe it’s all you, maybe you don’t deserve to be happy, ever think of that?  Maybe you’re just pathetic alley trash, lashing out because you’re being treated exactly the way you should be.

He—he’d thought that Bruce—that Batman—he’d thought he’d meant something, he’d—but he hadn’t always had those expectations.

The street kid, adopted as a wonderful show of charity in the game that rich assholes loved to play, and Bruce must’ve been so relieved that he could finally wash his hands of the whole affair.  Get a new charity case, one that listened, one that cleaned up better, one that wasn’t such a useless waste of space that he couldn’t even die properly.

Was he really going to kill Batman just because Bruce hadn’t done what all three of his other parents hadn’t done?  Nothing about Bruce’s reaction was different enough to inspire outrage, and here Jason was, sitting on a rooftop in the dead of night, planning to blow him up—for what?  For not caring, like everyone else in his life?

No, something else hissed, rage borne of years of frustration, Batman.  Batman is killing this city.  You need to stop him.

That was true.  No Batman, no Rogues.  No Rogues, no mass murderers, no more dead kids.

A flicker of movement.  Jason tensed—the cowled shadow had appeared, a dark wraith fluidly crossing the street to the car.  No indication that anything was wrong.  He didn’t even glance up at the rooftop where Jason was hiding.

No Batman, no Rogues.

The gauntleted hand opened the door of the Batmobile.

No Batman, no Rogues.

…Right?

He went cold.

Batman slid inside the car—no sign of anyone else inside, he was free to push the trigger—and closed the door.

What if—what if the Rogues didn’t go away with Batman?  What if Gotham was left defenseless with no protector?

Fat lot of good his protecting has done, a low voice sneered.

How many people has he saved? another voice countered, how many cases did you solve, how many criminals did you lock away—

For them to be back on the streets in days, the corrupt system—

That’s not Batman’s fault—

His responsibility—what’s the point of catching criminals if half of them just get back out?

At least he’s doing something!  At least he tries!

Not good enough, the sneering voice retorted.

The Batmobile started.  It was beginning to move.

Are you going to kill him for not being good enough? the quiet question resounded in his head, are you going to kill your father for not being good enough?

His heart felt like it was moving through molasses.  He couldn’t breathe.  He couldn’t move.

He could only watch as the Batmobile got further and further away.

He was still holding the trigger.

He didn’t press it.

Are you really going to kill your father for not being good enough?

He’d been about to.  He’d—he’d planned to, he’d bottled up vicious rage and frustration and he’d plotted and he’d—

You remain unavenged.

And for that crime, Jason had been ready to commit murder.

He leaned against brick, texture rough against his trembling fingers, and tried to remember how to breathe.  He—he didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know where he was going, all he knew was the horror coursing through him, washing out any trace of any other emotion.

He’d almost murdered Bruce.  His father.

You were never his son, something screamed at him, but Bruce had still been his father.

Three out of four parents were already dead and Jason had almost made it a matched set.

Dad.  He’d almost killed his dad.

He retched, but there was nothing more to bring up, he’d lost the contents of his stomach along the way as he fled Tricorner Yard, fled that rooftop, fled the very thought of what he’d almost done.

One little button.  That was all.  One little button and Jason would’ve become a murderer.

One little button was all that separated him from a line he’d once sworn never to cross.

It had to be the green.  It had to be—Jason seized the explanation like a drowning man clutching a raft.  Talia—Talia had done something to him.  Talia al Ghul and the League of Assassins.  How had he ended up in Tajikistan if his grave was in Gotham?  How long had they had him?  How much had they twisted up everything inside of him?

The excuse felt hollow to his own ears.  The green came and went.  He knew it did.  The anger—the frustration, the rage, the spite—that was all his own.

In the end, he wasn’t any different from all the other Rogues.

For the good of the city—no, for himself, for the hurting, naïve child that discovered that the world didn’t work the way he wanted it to.

So Batman couldn’t fix Gotham.  Did that mean Jason had to kill him?  Was he going to kill everyone else that didn’t fix this city?  Commissioner Gordon, his hands tied by compromise, the corrupt City Council, every crooked cop in the city, every cop that looked the other way, the gangs, the rich families, the Rogues, everyone who kept their heads down and carried on?

Would Gotham finally be fixed, if there was no one left in it?

If he razed it to the ground and salted the ashes, would the miasma of darkness finally, finally dissolve?

Jason looked up—the dark alley walls, the rickety fire escape, the smog-choked, light-polluted dark gray sky, the sliver of moonlight visible through the clouds.

No.

No, screamed the child that grew up in a dingy apartment in Crime Alley, well acquainted with the city’s filth.

No, screamed the kid that spent two years on the streets, living and stealing and surviving.

No, screamed the teenager that wore a hero’s name to fight against evil, to build hope, to protect the people that deserved it, and the ones that didn’t.

Jason shakily made his way back to Crime Alley, head swirling.  He—the League had done something to him, poisoned him—he needed to—the kids on the streets, hollow-cheeked and dead-eyed—he had to—the gangs and the drugs and the violence that one man could never keep up with, no matter how hard he tried.

He didn’t realize he’d reached familiar streets until he heard the scream split the air.

He was already moving, running towards—an alleyway, two thugs blocking the entrance—another scream, dying to a choked gurgle, and Jason didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, he swept the legs out from under the first goon and slammed the second’s face into the corner of the brick wall, hearing his nose crunch under the impact.

A man and a woman, young twenties, cowered against the wall, surrounded by a gang of teenagers—the man was clutching his stomach, nearly bent double, and the woman had pressed herself as close to the dumpster as possible, shrinking back under the leers.

Five teenagers, hungry looks on their faces, all wearing matching armbands.  Gang initiation—there were different varieties, but mugging and assault were a common theme.

“Get lost,” one of the teens snarled at Jason, flicking out a switchblade, “This isn’t your business.”

Green rushed into his vision so fast he almost felt dizzy.

“I’m making it my business,” Jason snarled.

Switchblade attacked.  Jason leapt back to avoid the swinging blade, grabbing the wrist and twisting—green seethed, and he didn’t stop until he heard the crack.  A howl of pain accompanied the next attack, and Jason caught the kick before wrenching the foot sideways in a sudden jerk that definitely broke something.

“You fucker!” one of them screamed, fumbling a gun out of their waistband, and Jason didn’t give them enough time to go for it.  One kick sent them stumbling back against the wall, head cracking against brick, and the next sent them to the ground, curled up in a fetal position and sobbing.

The woman had retrieved a can of pepper spray and attackers number three and four were screaming as they pawed at their eyes—it didn’t take much to send them both to the ground too.  Teen number five clearly held the brain cell of the group because she raised her hands and started backing away.

Jason took deep, heaving breaths, trying to think past the green clouding his vision, the rage coiling inside of him.  “You okay?” he directly roughly to the man and woman—the woman still had one finger on the pepper spray nozzle, and the man was clutching the edge of the dumpster, mostly upright.

She nodded, and he managed to grunt out a hoarse, “Thank you.”

“This had nothing to do with you!” Switchblade snarled through his tears, “What are you, a Batman wannabe?”

Jason stalked closer and rested a foot on the broken ankle—Switchblade howled in agony.  “I’m not Batman,” Jason growled, “Batman isn’t the only person allowed to give a fuck in this city.”

“Fuck off,” one of the pepper-sprayed idiots groaned, “This is Crime Alley.  Keep your nose out of other people’s business before someone breaks it for you.”

His heart was still pounding.  No, screamed every cell in his body.  These were the streets he grew up on.  These were the streets he’d defended.  This was his home, and Batman couldn’t take that from him.  The Joker couldn’t take that from him.  The League of Assassins couldn’t take that from him.

“No,” Jason said coldly, “I don’t think I will.”

Gotham was a crime-ridden, seething cesspit of humanity.  But it was his.

“You wanna be a hero?” Switchblade laughed wetly, “The new Batman?”  He squinted at Jason’s red hoodie, “The new Robin?”

The pang that shot through his heart was so acutely painful Jason had to pause for a moment to breathe.

“I’m tired of watching the same problems repeat in a vicious cycle,” he said finally, soft and dangerous, “And if I can do something to stop it, I will.”

Jason turned, glancing at the occupants of the alley, letting the weight of his gaze rest on each and every one of them—the five teenagers on the ground, the one holding a bloody nose at the end of the alley, the girl slowly backing away, the man and the woman.

“This is my city,” Jason declared, low and steady, “And I’m taking it back.”

Red sweatshirt, hood up.  Grease to darken that white strip at the front of his hair.  Mask—cheap plastic, but serviceable for now.

Knee and elbow pads under his clothes.  Black fingerless gloves.  Simple holsters snapped onto his belt—a mini flashlight, pepper spray, gauze and antiseptic cream, corded rope, a taser—nowhere near the kind of resources he’d once had, but more than he’d been able to get as a street kid.

Knife tucked into his boots.  Tape under his gloves, and metal caps on the knuckles.

He rested a leg on the edge of the rooftop, and looked down.  One by one, gazes caught sight of red-clad figure at the corner of the rooftop, and looked up.

Crime Alley was his.

It was time he started fighting for it.

Chapter Text

“Private room, handsome?”  The glint in her smile was more knowing than flirtatious.  Jason answered with a flash of a smile of his own, following her up the stairs into the building behind her.  Same skimpy cut, different colors, body glitter replaced with a streak of white running through her hair, temple to root—he’d seen matching styles on more than a few girls as he’d strolled through the street.

“What can I do for you today?” she asked as soon as Jason closed the door behind him, her smile still mischievous, “Mister Hood.”

“Mister what?” Jason chuckled, pausing to lock the door before joining the woman in sitting down on the bed.

“Hood,” she smiled, leaning back against the headboard, “Red Hood.  That’s what everyone is calling you.”

The mirth disappeared in a flash—purple and green, the whistle of a crowbar, ha HA ha HA ha HA—as his stomach turned over.  The woman tensed as Jason tightened his hands into fists, trying to breathe through the panic clutching at his limbs.

“Why?”  He almost didn’t register the hoarse, guttural tone as his own.

“Red Riding Hood, I think?  Because of the hoodie?  People just sorta ran with it,” she said cautiously, knees drawn up, shoulders hunching down into a more defensive posture.  “Not a fan?”

That was one way of putting it.

“You’re probably old enough to know who that name belongs to,” Jason said levelly, echoes of screams still ringing in his ears.  No green, though.  He wanted to get out his notebook and mark it down—he was trying to track the flashes of anger, because he had nothing else to go on—but the woman was still watching him like he was a live grenade and Jason forced his posture to loosen.

“What can I call you, then?” she asked quietly, and that drew him up short.

Jason…hadn’t exactly thought about it.  Most likely because every time he tried, Robin blared on repeat in his head and he got locked back into the seething anger that someone else was walking around in his suit.

“Phoenix?” he tried.  He had come back from death, after all.  The woman’s pinched expression shot that idea flat.

“Maybe workshop it,” she suggested, not unkindly.

Jason took a deep breath.  “Jay,” he said, extending his hand, “My name is Jay.”

She looked at his hand, and back to him, before clasping it with her own manicured one.  “Meera,” she responded with a smile, “It’s nice to meet you.”  She eyed him shrewdly, “Here for more explosives?”

Jason winced—he didn’t want to remember that.  “No,” he said, clearing his throat, “No explosives.  Information.  The kids.”

Meera mouthed ‘the kids’ to herself before her eyes sharpened.  “Just so we’re on the same page,” she said slowly, “Your definition of kid is…?”

Jason forced down the burning before it could blossom into anger.  Children should’ve been allowed to grow up at their own pace, instead of setting arbitrary thresholds for this city to force them to become adults.  “Let’s say sixteen,” Jason forced out through gritted teeth, “For now.”

Not enough.  Definitely not enough.  But Jason knew how the streets worked, and knew that most cops would look the other way if the kids were over the age of consent.  Never mind that they should’ve never been on the streets in the first place—but little option remained when legal businesses chose not to hire so young.

“There’s a couple of girls and boys here and there that I very much doubt are sixteen, but have good fake IDs—”  Another thing Jason had to do, he legally didn’t exist except in a plot in a cemetery—“But the only guy that deals in those under sixteen is Rossi.”

“Rossi,” Jason repeated, rolling the name on his tongue.

“A block down that way,” Meera pointed east, “He’s usually got a couple of the older ones in the alley—they know when to come out and when to stay hidden.”  Her expression twisted, “Local precinct won’t do anything—hell, some of them are his customers.”

And the ones who weren’t would take the payments and keep their mouths shut.  The ones that were actually regretful would attempt to justify it—the kids had a roof over their head, and food, and medical attention, and Gotham’s foster care situation was so overworked.  Whatever would help them sleep at night.

“How many?” Jason asked quietly.  Batman had cleaned up these streets once—built orphanages with Wayne Foundation money to give kids a safe place to go, and ensured that anyone approaching a child on the streets would crawl away with broken bones.

But that was five years ago, and people had remarkably short-term memories when they wanted to.

“Ten?  Fifteen?  I don’t know—I don’t usually go down that way,” she said quietly, her expression a combination of upset and guilt.  Of keeping her head down in the face of something she knew was wrong.  Jason knew how much that feeling could eat at people—the helplessness of a problem too big for you to tackle.

It was the reason Robin had been the perfect outlet.

It was the reason Jason was still protecting this city.

Because he was trained.  Because he could make a plan with the limited information available to him.  Because Jason needed to help, needed it like he needed oxygen and water and food.

One step at a time, he reminded himself.

And the first step was taking down Rossi and his group of child traffickers.

It wasn’t a name he recognized.  Same problem, new face.  It didn’t matter.

It burned at him—it was like holding back the ocean with your bare hands, nothing they’d done was enough, they hadn’t stopped it, as soon as they removed two people, four took their place and this city was a rotting, stinking cesspit—

Green.  Everything was green.  Jason stopped at the edge of the rooftop, fists clutched so tightly he might’ve broken skin if he wasn’t wearing gloves.

Raze the earth and salt the ashes, something crooned at him, wipe this poisonous, putrid mess off the face of the planet, nothing came out of Gotham that wasn’t twisted and wrong and—

Count down from twenty.  Slowly.  Deep breaths.  None of the meditation techniques worked perfectly, but it helped the green recede enough for him to grab at the anger.

Why can’t it all just stop? it screeched at him as he tried to shove it down, why can’t we get rid of the bad until only good is left?

Because that wasn’t the way it worked.  Because people did bad things—they always had, and they always would.  Because the only way to stop it was to control it, to take over the world and bend everyone to his will, and Jason refused to become another Ra’s al Ghul.

One step at a time, he reminded himself as he cleared the edge of the roof.

He couldn’t make the world perfect.

He could make it better.

Jason peered into the alleyway between the building he was on and the next—there was a single, short figure shuffling near the mouth of the alley, pacing in rote boredom. 

He took the fire escape down, careful not to let it squeak.  By the time he wound down the staircase and jumped lightly on top of the nearby dumpster, the silence was broken by a rough voice.

“Been saving up for this,” the man said loudly, counting the bills in his hands, “Dunno why Rossi’s got to be so expensive.”

“If you don’t like it, nothing says you gotta be here,” the kid responded, idly picking at the threadbare hoodie he was wearing.

“You’re a brat,” the man growled, finishing up his tally, “I’m going to enjoy smacking a civil tongue into your—” he gurgled to a stop, finally registering Jason standing on top of the dumpster, looming over them both.

The faint streetlight should be enough to catch the outline of his glower.

The man stumbled back once he remembered how to use his legs, and fled the alleyway with a whimper.  Jason made a mental note of his face—he’d pay a personal visit to him later—and met the kid’s narrowed eyes.

“You cost me a customer, mister,” the kid snapped.

Jason crouched down and held out a couple of folded bills—the kid snatched at them, counted them, and looked up, expression less angry but no less wary.

Jason extended a hand.  The kid chewed on his lip for a couple of seconds before taking it and letting Jason pull him up on top of the closed dumpster.  Jason situated the kid on the other side of the dumpster, keeping himself between the boy and anyone who came sniffing around, before easing back enough to study the kid’s face.

Gaunt, but not starved.  He looked ten, which meant he was probably twelve or thirteen.  No visible bruises, but Jason recognized the hollow look in his eyes.

“You’re the Red Hood,” the kid said, studying his face in turn, “The new vigilante running ‘round the ‘Alley.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jason managed to suppress the flinch.

“What am I supposed to call you, then?”

Nothing came to mind.  “Phoenix?”  The kid laughed in his face, which Jason thought was rude.  “You don’t need to call me anything, kid,” Jason growled.

The kid rolled his eyes at him.  “Says the teenager.  How old are you, anyway?”

“None of your business.”

The kid gave him a challenging stare.  “What’s your name?” Jason asked.

“None of your business,” the kid mimicked, trying and failing at a growl of his own.

“Fine.  I’ll just call you Twerp.  That enough cash to get me some information?” Jason nodded at the fistful of bills.

Twerp scowled, but apparently decided to pick his battles.  He made a show of counting the money again, before stuffing it inside a pocket.  “You get five minutes,” he said, aloof.

Jason had to fight the urge to grin.

“Five minutes it is.  How many kids does Rossi have?  And what’s stopping you from running to the closest orphanage?”

It was clear that those weren’t the questions Twerp had been expecting.  He gaped at Jason for a couple of seconds before his face fell into a suspicious scowl.  “Why do you want to know?”

“You going to answer my questions or not, kid?”

Twerp scowled harder before unconsciously patting the pocket with the money.  He cast a glance around the alleyway and eased closer to Jason, who shifted back, leaning against the wall and stretching his legs out.

“Thirteen,” Twerp said slowly, “And nobody runs because we’re not fucking stupid.  The orphanages will just sell us right back.”

“Not the Wayne Foundation ones,” Jason rejoined—he’d checked the Park Row Memorial Orphanage earlier in the day, and found no hint of anything amiss in the books or amongst the staff.  It was clear that the Wayne Foundation was still taking an active interest in the orphanage—they were in the midst of preparing for some fancy press event, and even if Batman stopped caring about Crime Alley, Jason knew that Bruce took Wayne Foundation projects seriously.

The kid scoffed.  “Even if it is, they can’t stop Rossi,” he huddled further into his hoodie, “Sandy tried once.  And Amy, a day later.  And then after a week they were dragged back, and—and Rossi made it clear what’ll happen to anyone who wants to try running.  The cops aren’t going to stop him.”

The kid had a point.  Anyone snatched from inside the orphanage itself would’ve registered on Batman’s radar, but kids ran away from school all the time, and if two new homeless kids, not yet registered in the system, disappeared on the way to school without a hint of foul play…

It was difficult to track every missing persons case in the city.

Jason would bet that Sandy and Amy didn’t tell the orphanage where they’d come from.  Trying for a fresh start.  But sometimes the only way to get out of the shadows was to shine a light.

“I can stop Rossi,” Jason said quietly, “I can stop him from snatching you back if you get to the orphanage.”

Twerp laughed, high and sharp.  “Man, stick to trying to sell Arkham to the inmates,” the kid scoffed, “You’re a kid dressed in a stupid red hoodie.  Just another Batman-wannabe.  You don’t understand what the Alley’s like.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” the kid responded sharply, “You don’t get it, the saviors and heroes don’t come for—”

“Street rats like us?” Jason finished.  The kid fell silent.  “I grew up on these streets, Twerp.  I was where you were,” Jason raised a sweeping hand to take in the alleyway, “Except the foster care system was ten times the shit it is right now, and there was no trusted orphanages to go to.”

“Yeah?  What happened to you?” Twerp asked, crossing his arms, “How’d you get from whore to vigilante?”  His hard look dared Jason to take offense at his words.

Jason responded with a thin-lipped smile.  He’d heard far worse.

“I found a family.”  And for three years, my life was a dream.  “I got out.  It’s not impossible.”  Twerp started shaking his head, and Jason straightened up, “Look, kid, I’m not asking you to run right now.  I’m going after Rossi.  Soon.  And I can get you an opportunity to run to Park Row Memorial Orphanage—you and all the other kids.  A chance to finally be done with this.”

Twerp opened his mouth again and Jason shook his head as he straightened, “Like I said, I don’t need an answer now.  Think about it, kid.”  He stepped past the kid to get back to the fire escape, and nearly finished crossing the railing when the kid’s voice stopped him.

“Why should I trust you?” Twerp asked, face hard, eyes shadowed.

Jason paused.  He tried to remember when he was twelve, looking up at a monster stepping out of the shadows.  “I can’t tell you that,” Jason said, slow, gentle, “You have to decide if it’s worth the risk.”

6^th and Westley.  Broken, empty flowerpot outside the basement window, just as Meera had described.  Jason knocked on the door and waited.

“Yes?” answered the scowling, bald, dark-skinned middle-aged man, crossing his arms and looking down his nose at Jason.

“Davids?” he confirmed.

“That’s me.”

“I wanted some lamination done,” Jason said.  Davids’ expression sharpened, his gaze flicking past Jason to the morning traffic on the street beyond, before he gestured Jason inside.

“What specifically do you want?” Davids asked, heading down the stairs.  Jason followed him—his heart started pounding at the narrow stairwell and he forced himself to take deep breaths, clutching his fingers as Davids opened the door at the bottom and showed him inside a cramped workspace.

“D—driver’s license,” Jason stuttered as he entered the room.

It’s fine, Jason reminded himself.  The room wasn’t going to collapse on him.  There was no bomb.  Jason was fine.  The shelf poking against his shoulder wasn’t going to swing a crowbar at him.

In for four, hold for eight, out for seven.  Again.  Again.  You’re doing so well, Jay-lad.  Jason would take it.  He didn’t care if it was pathetic to cling to the memory of praise from his former adoptive dad, anything to avoid the feeling of suffocation.

Dad, please, Dad—

“Name?”

Jason forced himself back to the present.  “Jason,” he replied, because it was his name and he wasn’t giving it up, but stalled on the last name.

Todd was too unsubtle, and he didn’t particularly want another reminder of Willis.  He never really had a claim to Wayne.  Haywood was definitely going nowhere near his name, she’d given up rights to him twice over and the second time he’d paid with his life.

“Johnson,” Jason croaked out.  Catherine may not have been his biological mother, but she’d been his mother in every way that counted.

“Jason Johnson,” Davids muttered, casting him an askance glance, “And date of birth?”

Jason gave the date he took a flight out of Tajikistan, and adjusted the year to make himself twenty-two.  Davids didn’t even blink.

“Need to take a photo,” Davids waved him over to a blank stretch of wall and picked up an old camera.  Jason stayed still for the photos, unsmiling, and Davids looked at the camera when he was done and grunted.

“You kids and your trends,” he muttered, going back to his desk.  Jason made a questioning sound.  “The hair,” Davids said flatly, “Latest style is apparently looking like a skunk.  You keep bleaching your hair, it’s going to fall out.”

Jason let his fingers drift to the white stripe in his hair, vaguely indignant.  He hadn’t done this on purpose.

…But now that the guy had mentioned it, he’d seen a lot of people walking around with a bleached stripe.  Mostly younger.  He’d thought it was some new gang sign, but a lot of the sex workers were wearing it too.

“It’ll be ready tomorrow,” Davids said gruffly, “Hundred now, hundred when you come pick it up.”

Jason forked over the cash, and left as quickly as he could without sprinting up the narrow stairs.  He felt the tight sense of pressure lurking for several streets afterwards, and, strangely, the taste of dirt on his tongue.

The plan was falling into place, piece by piece.  The fancy press event was some fundraising drive for the orphanage—attended by reporters from most of the major local newspapers, along with some extra security because this was Crime Alley.  If a bunch of kids burst in, on the run from traffickers—reporters could always scent a story, and hopefully the news would be big enough that it would discourage anyone making an attempt at the kids.

Of course, that would only be a problem if Jason was unsuccessful in his part of the plan, namely, getting Rossi and his gang behind bars and locked away for a long, long time.  The system was rigged—there had to be cops that would arrest them, and lawyers that would prosecute, and a judge that wouldn’t dismiss the case.  Vigilante-gathered evidence meant very little in a court.

It was a good thing that Jason wasn’t planning on gathering evidence.

He’d staked out the building long enough to track the guard patrols, and he dropped into the empty alley behind the building when the two were on their smoke break.  Jason knew he’d have at least ten minutes before they came back.

Jason had made a few forays into the upper floors of the building, but hadn’t found the kids yet.  And then the basement windows had caught his eye—one of them was padlocked from the outside.

The lock was easy enough to open, and Jason slowly creaked the window open and stuck his head inside.

At least eight small heads were turned in his direction, staring with wide eyes.  No guards.  No adults.  Jason ignored the growing murmurs of surprise and crouched flat to wriggle through the opening, hissing under his breath as he tried to maneuver through the small space.  That growth spurt had really hampered his ability to creep through small spaces.

But he made it through, dropping inelegantly inside and straightening to meet eleven half-curious, half-hostile stares.  Twerp had pushed his way into the front—he was probably the oldest kid there.

“You said thirteen kids,” Jason said, double-checking his head count and trying very hard not to mentally estimate some of the kids’ ages.

“There are thirteen, they’re just not all here,” Twerp retorted, arms crossed, “What the hell are you doing here?  How did you get in?”

Jason kept studying the surroundings—single door in and out.  It looked like a bedroom floor plan, with an attached bathroom.  Several thin mattresses covered the floor, blankets arranged semi-neatly over them.  The kids looked moderately clean, all eyeing him suspiciously.

“Lock’s not that difficult to pick,” Jason said, “And I told you you’d be back.”

“And I told you I didn’t trust you,” Twerp snapped back, “You’re a crazy lunatic.  You can’t punch away every problem, and you’re just going to make things worse if you go after Rossi.”

“I told you to think about it, I—”

“I don’t need to think about it,” Twerp snarled, “They blew out Sandy’s kneecap and snapped Amy’s leg.  And when the medicines ran out and they got sick, they didn’t even bother to try and help, they just got rid of them both.”  Some of the younger children were looking wide-eyed.  “We don’t want your help.  We just want you to go away.”

It was terrifying, Jason knew, to be ripped away from your status quo.  To face the threat of change.  To trust when you’d been scarred so many times before.  To push past fear and think rationally.

And they were kids.  Jason understood the anger.  The wavering hint of tears in Twerp’s voice.  The way that hope was choked out by stubbornness.

He understood it, but that wouldn’t stop him.

“Did you think this was only about you?” Jason asked quietly.

Twerp shuffled back a step.  The children looked even more uneasy.

“I’m taking Rossi out whether or not you choose to take this opportunity.  I will do my best to prevent any collateral damage from reaching you if you stay here, but I can’t make any promises.  I don’t care whether or not you want me to stop him—he needs to be stopped.”

“You’re going to make things worse!” Twerp almost shouted, hands balled into fists.  Jason had neither the time nor the inclination to get into a debate with a kid who was desperate to protect what little they had.  “You won’t be helping us!”

“I’ll be helping every kid that he might snatch in the future,” Jason said coldly.  Twerp snapped his mouth shut.  “Or did you think it would stay at thirteen forever?  People like that are greedy—they take and they take and they’ll never stop.  Not unless you stop them.”

Jason hadn’t come here to convince them.  He had a short window, and he intended to use it.

“If you want to take that chance, as terrifying as it is, here’s what you’re going to do.  I’ll be back later, right before it starts getting dark.  The window will be unlocked, I’ll knock on it, you guys are going to climb out—” Jason tugged the coil of rope free from one of his pockets and placed it on the ground.  “—and head to Park Row Memorial Orphanage.  It’s four blocks north, one block west.  They’re holding a fundraising event tonight.  Cameras, reporters.  Extra security.”  Jason met Twerp’s gaze and held it, “You tell everyone what happened to you.  Repeat it over and over.  Rossi won’t be able to get at you after that.”

Something uncertain slipped past the stubbornness.  “And what about Rossi?” Twerp asked, his voice shaky.

“I’ll take care of him.  He’s going to go behind bars.  If you guys don’t leave, then I want you to make sure all thirteen of you are in this room.  I’ll move from the basement up, but I can’t guarantee that no one’s going to get past me.”

Twerp still looked stormy.  “And then what?” he bit out, clipped.

Jason gave a half-shrug, “If you stay?  Then the cops find you.”  A shiver ran through all the children present.  Jason took a deep breath and let it out slowly, dropping into a crouch.  Like this, he had to look up at most of the children.  “I’m giving you an opportunity to get out,” Jason said slowly, “Yes, You have no reason to trust me.  You have no reason to believe that the world is anything but a horrible place.”  He met each and every one of the children’s eyes.  “But there are good people in the world,” Jason said, his words overlapped by a lower, deeper memory-echo, “If you look for them.”

Twerp was staring at him like if he glared hard enough, he’d be able to see past the domino mask.

“Stay safe,” Jason said quietly, and straightened to climb back through the window.  He darted one last glance inside the room before he closed the window—Twerp was holding the coil of rope Jason had left.

Sneaking back into the orphanage was difficult—they had more staff, caterers running around, children shrieking in the frenzy, several frazzled volunteers, and the reporters were beginning to turn up—but Jason managed pull the hoodie further forward to hide the domino mask, grab a box of paper plates, and slip in amidst the volunteers.

It was easy to keep an eye out—anyone paying more attention to the kids than to their jobs, anyone out of place, any suspicious half-heard conversations as he stole through the hallways.  Nothing stuck out to him and Jason took a deep breath to quiet the twisting in his stomach.

The kids would be fine.  Rossi was a small fish—he couldn’t silence an entire group of reporters.  And if anything happened at this orphanage, the case would land squarely on Batman’s radar.  Jason had to admit that certain things were much easier with access to several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of tech and a detailed database.

Jason did a quick circuit, checked that nothing was out of place, and prepared to slip back out.  Luckily, out was easier than in—head to the back door like he was sneaking in a cigarette, and—

“—so glad you could make it!  We weren’t sure, with your busy schedule—”

—and realize that other people would be using the back door for similarly clandestine entrances.  Jason’s steps stuttered.  Anyone coming from the back door had to turn onto this hallway to get to the rest of the orphanage.  But if Jason kept his head down and moved casually, no one should give him a second glance.

“I made time for this,” came a low, smooth, very familiar voice.

Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck fuck.  Shit fucking dammit.

“The Wayne Foundation is very special to me, and of course, so are the orphanages.  For obvious reasons,” Dick Grayson chuckled softly, and the woman with him laughed too.

Doorknob—too small linen closet—not enough space—no choice.

Dick wasn’t supposed to be in Gotham.  Wasn’t supposed to be crossing the hallway in front of Jason’s increasingly claustrophobic hiding place.  Wasn’t supposed to be throwing Jason’s careful composure into dizzying circles, because there was a part of his mind that remembered ice cream with the Titans and hair ruffles and a phone number on a card and ‘Jaybird’ and Jason had no clue whether Dick would even recognize him anymore, but he could not handle seeing the closest thing he’d once had to an older brother.

“Will your father be joining us?”

Jason was going to straight-up puke if Bruce was here.

“No, he had other commitments.  He—ah, hello!”  The shrieking of children cut through the conversation, and Jason was able to breathe as they moved further away.

Wood, under his fingers.  Fingernails ripping and tearing.  Screaming, shrieking, Dad, please, Dick, help, I can’t breathe—

Jason sucked in a lungful of air in the hallway, lights searingly bright.  He had to get it together.  Thirteen kids were depending on him.

Jason staggered out of the orphanage, shoving down the feeling of being off-kilter.

One good thing about Dick being here—Rossi would definitely not be able to attack the orphanage now.

Jason left the two guards tied up and gagged, and crouched down, near the window.  He knocked on it once, and slid it open.

The kids were waiting, clustered underneath the window.  “Coast is clear,” he told them, and straightened, looping back to the front of the building.  The kids needed to run, and run fast—Batman was a loud distraction when he wanted to be, but Jason didn’t have nearly as much armor or tech.  He was doing this silently.

Find a gang member.  Knock them out quietly.  Ziptie their wrists and ankles.  Rinse and repeat.

Jason cleared the first floor and the basement with barely a sound.  The second floor was where he ran into problems—there were three thugs in the same narrow space, which meant that his silent approach was no longer applicable.

Good thing he still had his fists.

Shouts and cries filled the hallway as Jason attacked, swinging an elbow into someone’s chest and kicking out into another, grabbing a punch and twisting until something cracked, sinking his fist into someone’s face with a satisfying crack.

And when they were all flat on the ground, the personal touch.  Stomping down, and making sure that they wouldn’t be able to fuck anyone for a good long time.  If at all.  Jason’s boots were heavy duty, and it was possible that things were beginning to go a little green.

Count down from twenty.  Except the anger didn’t care.  Why shouldn’t he let the green loose?  Everyone in this building deserved it, for being party to keeping fucking children as sex slaves.

By the time he reached Rossi, his gloves were dripping red, and more than one person would need facial reconstruction surgery.  No deaths.  Jason drew out zipties with shaking fingers and pulled them tight, making sure that no one could run.

He kicked the door open to Rossi’s office.  Rossi was standing on the other side of his desk, gun out—Jason ducked immediately, and the bullet cracked through the air.  Unluckily for Rossi, Jason had been trained in dodging gunfire, and it was oh-so-easy to slip into familiar movements, ducking and weaving and a hand on the desk, lunging up, grabbing the gun, forcing it down, foot bracing on the desk and punch landing squarely across the face.

Rossi stumbled back with a shout.  Jason tossed the gun into a corner and straightened up, stalking across the desk to slam a boot into Rossi’s stomach and watch dispassionately as the man went down.

“What the hell,” the man wheezed, struggling to get up, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Justice,” Jason said, leaping off the desk.  He grabbed Rossi by the collar and hauled him up to slam him on the desk, face down.  Rossi shouted again, flailing to try and catch Jason—Jason caught his left hand and twisted it behind his back, pushing his wrist up until Rossi made a high-pitched whine and stopped struggling.

“What are you doing?” Rossi croaked out, “What—you want money?  You—”

“Did you ever wonder,” Jason said quietly, “About all the children you use and abuse—about what they’d do to you if given half the chance?”  Rossi stilled.  “Did you ever wonder about them growing up?  About them coming back, stronger and smarter and so much more dangerous?”

“Who are you?” Rossi said—tried to shout, but his voice cracked halfway through.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not one of your personal demons,” Jason soothed, “They haven’t found you.  Yet.”  He pressed Rossi further against the table.  “I imagine it won’t be too difficult when your name and business is plastered on the news.”

Rossi had a landline.  Perfect.  Jason dragged it closer, and reached down to tug a knife free from its holster.  He settled the knife at the base of Rossi’s spine, digging it in just enough for Rossi to register the blade.

“Now,” Jason said softly, “You’re going to listen very closely, because I don’t like to repeat myself.  I’m going to call the head of the GCPD Human Trafficking Division, and you’re going to confess everything to them.  Any crime you’ve ever committed in your regrettable life, I don’t care how small, I don’t care how stupid.  You’re going to give up every single person you’ve worked with.  If they don’t want to listen to your confession, you’re going to find someone who will.  And if I find out that you skipped a single thing—” Jason dug the blade in further, “I’m going to stab you in the spine.”

“Why—why in God’s name would I do that?” Rossi spat out, struggling harder.

“Because I can sever your spine right now,” Jason said quietly, “Right here—you’ll never be able to feel anything below your waist.”  He traced the knife higher.  “Here, you lose bodily control over your lower half.”  The knife made its way up, all the way to the base of Rossi’s neck.  “Here?  You’ll be paralyzed.  Completely.  Forever.”

“No—please, no—”

“Confess,” Jason said, taking the phone off the hook and dialing the number he’d gotten off the GCPD website, “And I won’t break your spine and leave you for the vultures.”  He put the phone on speaker, and they listened to the line ring.

“Oh, and Rossi?” Jason said, bending down to hiss into the man’s ear, “You ever so much as look at a kid that way again—” the knife pressed flat along the man’s cheekbone, edge tickling at his eyelashes—“I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you ever see.”

The line clicked.  “Hello,” came the cool voice, “This is Detective Espinoza, Human Trafficking.”

“Hel—lo,” Rossi said shakily, “This is—is Marco Rossi.  I—I am calling to—to report a c—crime.”

The street was mainly empty—most of the prostitutes had slipped back to the shadows when the sirens and flashing lights had showed up.  The lights still washed over the scene, but they’d turned off the sirens.

They were mainly collecting evidence—Rossi and his goons had already been escorted away, and Jason had been careful to take pictures of every police officer that showed their face.  If any one of the thugs ended back up on the streets, he’d know who to blame.  He’d taken a detour to check on the orphanage a half-hour ago—all the kids had made it, safe and sound, there were cop cars there as well, and judging by a certain clenched jaw, the kids were definitely on the Bats’ radar now.

Now he was just basking in his victory.  From his vantage point sitting on the roof opposite, he could watch cops scurry in and out of the building, carrying documentation and evidence as several eyes watched from the shadows.

Boots slipping across gravel—landing a little shaky, quiet movements more jerky than fluid.  Jason straightened as the stranger got closer, twisting away from the scene below him to meet the newcomer.

Not Batman or Nightwing or Batgirl, it didn’t sound the same, if they let Robin No.3 out when he was that sloppy, Jason would have stern words with someone, and—

Purple.  Hooded cape and half-mask covering the bottom of a young face.  Short.  “Decided to fight crime in your skateboarding outfit?”  Female.

“Better than a purple blanket,” Jason responded, flat.

“It’s eggplant,” the girl informed him, and jumped up on the ledge next to him.  She observed the flashing lights for a long moment before turning to him.  He couldn’t make out many features, but this was definitely not Robin or Batgirl.  “So, you cause this?”

“Yup.”

“Heard about a new vigilante running around Crime Alley, but I have to say, I didn’t believe it,” the girl huffed out half a laugh, “It sounded like a fairy tale.  No one cares about Crime Alley.”

“Not true anymore.”

“I can see that,” the girl hopped off the ledge, “You certainly know how to raise a little chaos.”  Jason got the sense that she was grinning behind the mask.  “I’m Spoiler.”

Jason met the fist bump she held out.  “I’m…I haven’t picked out a name.”  If one more person laughed at his name suggestions, he was going to lose it.

“Well, Mr. No-Name, remember that branding is everything,” Spoiler said, tone amused, “And from street trash to street trash, a word of warning—the Bat’s looking for you.  This landed you on his radar, and he doesn’t like newcomers in his city.”

Jason almost wanted to laugh.  Yeah, Batman was a control freak, Jason had gotten that particular memo a long, long time ago.

“His city?” Jason said lightly, “I don’t see his name on it.”

Spoiler actually laughed at that, a full-throated chuckle.  “I like you, Mr. No-Name,” she said, raising a hand in farewell as she walked away, “I hope Batman doesn’t scare you away.”

That wasn’t likely.

This was Jason’s home and no one—not even his former family—could take it from him.

Chapter Text

He was being followed.

Jason wasn’t Batman.  Word of the Red Hood—he really needed to come up with a better name—was spreading, but the whole issue with Batman was that he focused on organizations and Rogues.  Sometimes what people needed was a glint of red in every shadow, reminding them that someone was watching.

There was a hunter in the night, and he was out on the prowl.

Jason walked a different patrol every day, expanding his self-proclaimed territory each night.  Sixteen square blocks had become twenty, had become twenty-five—he’d planned to get it to thirty today, but that wasn’t possible if he had rats on his trail.

He paused in the next alley, jumping on top of the dumpster but not continuing up to the fire escape—he was tired of playing mouse.

His stalkers slipped into the alley, as bold as brass, fanning out to surround the dumpster.  Teenagers, gaunt-faced but hard-eyed, and all of them had some manner of weapon or another.  The one at the far right held a crowbar.

A flash of laughter, high and eerie and false.

Jason took several shallow breaths, and curled his hands into fists as he stared down at the six teens.  “Is there a reason you’re following me?” Jason snapped, glad the hoarseness of his voice sounded more like a growl, “Or are you just not particularly attached to your bones?”

The one in the middle stepped forward, tugging off the dark hood of their jacket.  The first thing Jason noticed was the white stripe cutting through their hair.  Dark hair kept short, angular features, sharp eyes.  Judging by the way they were standing, the others confidently arrayed behind them, this was the leader of the little group.

Jason stared coolly down at them.

“Hood,” they said, and Jason suppressed the automatic flinch.  “Thank you.”

That—hadn’t been what Jason was expecting.

He arched an eyebrow, not that they could see it, but his general air of bafflement apparently translated, because the leader made a soft, scornful sound.

“You’re keeping the streets safe.  You’re keeping Crime Alley safe,” the leader crossed their arms, “You think no one’s noticed the first person to care about this part of the city since the goddamn Waynes?”

“I think a lot of people noticed,” Jason said levelly, “And I think a lot of them hate me.”  He made a show of surveying them—dark jackets, silvery design etched on the pockets.  A skull.  “Grey Ghosts, aren’t you?”  A shiver prickled at the back of his neck, an answering ping of green.  “Can’t imagine your boss is pleased with the loss of business.”

“I wasn’t talking about the Ghosts,” the leader narrowed their eyes.  They took a deep breath and uncrossed their arms.  “You saved my sister.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Rossi.”  They were staring fixedly at the alley wall.  “You got her out.  You got all the kids out.  I was saving up for months to try to—and you got all of them to the orphanage.  She’s alive, and she’s safe, and I don’t like debts, Hood.”  They straightened, and Jason couldn’t tell if they were older or younger than him as they met his gaze with fierce determination.  “What do you want?”

Their friends shifted uneasily behind them.  Afraid.  Of him.  Of what—what he was going to ask for.

Because people in Crime Alley never thought that protection came free.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Jason said evenly.

“Yeah, yeah, vigilantes and heroes and I’ve heard the rhetoric before, okay.  If it was Batman, I wouldn’t do shit.  But you’re not Batman.”  Their eyes flashed, and Jason fought the urge to take a step back.  What was with this city and children rising up to fight battles that never should’ve been theirs to fight?

“You’re an Alley kid,” they said quietly, “Like us.  And I want to be square.  What do you want?”

“I’m serious, kid, I don’t want anything,” Jason said shortly.  He could understand where they were coming from—he’d spent months with Bruce terrified of what he had to do to pay back the man’s generosity—but Jason wasn’t going to get into the habit of trading favors.  “I’m just paying it forward.  Someone got me out of trouble a long time ago, and if they hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t be here right now.”

Jason should definitely not be here right now, resurrections and Lazarus Pits aside, but that wasn’t the point.  The point was that someone had kept him safe when he couldn’t do it himself, and asked for nothing in return.

“Pay it forward,” the teenager echoed, their expression twisting to something more thoughtful.

“If that’s all…?  I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it gets a bit difficult to run patrol when I’ve got six kids tagging in my shadow.”

One of the others stepped forward and whispered something in their leader’s ear.  The teen nodded, and looked up at Jason again.

“Fine,” they frowned, “You don’t want payment.  Just a word of friendly advice then—Falcone’s looking for your head.  On a spike.”

“What?”  Falcone and the other Families were Batman’s business, Jason only cared about the Alley.  And the last time he checked, none of the Families gave a shit about the Alley, too lawless for even them.

“Rossi was one of theirs,” the leader shrugged as the teenagers headed back out of the alley, “And the man squealed like a little pig.  They aren’t very happy right now.”

Rossi had been a small fish swimming in a big lake, then.  That…altered his plans.  If Rossi was just going to be replaced by another trafficker—no.  Jason wasn’t trying to take on the entire fucking city.  Rossi, Falcone, the traffickers—they were squarely in Batman’s sights, and if Jason went poking his head in, he’d force a confrontation he definitely didn’t want.

His feelings were too complicated to sort through.  He wasn’t ready.  You’ll never be ready if you keep ignoring them, a quiet voice pointed out in the back of his head and Jason shook it off.

On the other hand, Falcone had been around for years.  And sure, he’d been pretty much a toothless dragon by the time Jason had been Robin, but even toothless dragons breathed fire.

Yet another one of Batman’s mistakes.

It looked like Jason would have to clean up his mess again.

“I’m not surprised,” Meera said, cross-legged against the headboard while Jason sat on the edge, “Falcone oversees a lot of pimps on this street.”

“Back to good old-fashioned prostitution then,” Jason murmured, “Why am I not surprised.”  Snakes always found themselves in the gutters at one point or another.  “When you say ‘a lot’…”

“I mean a lot,” Meera emphasized, “Not mine, Dave’s smart enough to keep his head down, and he recruits the college kids anyway, but at least half the street.  Falcone’s been inching his way to a monopoly.”

Which would be bad, for every sex worker on this street, and the city beyond.

Time to gut the toothless dragon before he grew fangs.

“You’re not going to go after him, are you?” Meera asked, her expression pinched.

“What do you think?” Jason said flatly.

“Jay—Rossi was one thing, he had maybe twenty men.  Falcone—Falcone is a mafia don.  He lives in the Upper West Side, he’s guarded, and he’s dangerous.  You can’t seriously think you stand a chance against him.  Not alone.”

“Trust me, Meera, I’ve gone against people a lot more powerful than Carmine Falcone,” Jason almost laughed.  Monsters and aliens and metahumans, the goddamn Joker—Falcone’s only power was his money.

“It only takes one bullet,” she snapped, fierce concern on her face, and for a second, Jason could see a gun pointed at him, blonde hair and hard blue eyes and a steel-cold expression.

He swallowed.

“You’re right,” he said quietly.  Jason wasn’t Robin anymore.  He had no backup.  And he had no idea what had brought him back to life.  If he died, again, he left this part of the city with no protector.

Jason wasn’t going to make the mistake of underestimating people.  Not again.  He’d learned his lesson on that front.

“I won’t be going after him directly.”  She was right, Falcone had too many men for a frontal assault.  Falcone wouldn’t bow to threats, or confess to the police.  No, it was time for Jason to take a leaf from Batman’s playbook.  Collect the evidence, and give it to the people who’d do something about it.

But he needed to hit Falcone soon, before the man finished hunting him down.  If a group of teenagers could corner him, so could Falcone’s goons.

“How much do you know about Falcone’s operations?” Jason asked.

Meera made a face.  “Not a lot.  Like I said, Dave doesn’t get mixed up in that, and I’ve only spotted him once, at some Diamond District party we were invited to.  I could ask some of the other girls—”

“No,” Jason cut her off.  He didn’t want word getting out, and chances were that he knew more about Falcone from when he was Robin than Meera could amass in a couple of days.  “It’s okay.  I’ll figure it out.”

Meera gave him a slightly rueful look.  “I feel like I gave you nothing for the cash,” she said, ruffling through the bills Jason had handed her.

“Trust me,” Jason rolled his eyes, “There’s plenty more where that came from.”  There had been nearly fifty thousand in the bag he’d stolen from Talia al Ghul, and he’d barely made a dent in it.

“Really?” Meera arched an eyebrow, “What do you even do all day?”

“Sleep,” Jason replied, deadpan, and cracked a smile at Meera’s laugh.  “What about you?” he asked.

“Me?” Meera blinked, confused, “What do I do all day?”  Jason raised an eyebrow at the room—street corners tended to be a nocturnal occupation.  Her smile turned sadder, “Study, study, study.”

Jason looked at her—really looked at her, past the pretty makeup and the wavy hair, the smoky eyes covering dark circles and the sparkle hiding the sallow cheeks.  Early twenties, at a guess.  And this was the kind of work people did when they had no other choice.

“Are you—okay?” Jason asked quietly.  He couldn’t see any bruises on her, but he doubted that Dragon Tattoo had been the only one who wouldn’t take no for an answer, and he was aware of how easily makeup could cover injuries.

“I’m fine,” Meera gave him a crooked smile, “I mean—definitely not my dream job, but medical school doesn’t pay for itself, you know?”

Yet another thing Jason couldn’t fix.

There were so many things—petty crime couldn’t be solved, not unless it had an alternative, some option for work that wasn’t on the streets and Jason had—had been talking with Bruce about this before he died, about hiring preferences and building in the East End and not turning people away for criminal backgrounds and—

But he wasn’t a Wayne anymore.  He didn’t have access to those kind of resources.  He was just a street kid wearing a mask.

Even a street kid wearing a mask could help, though.

“You’re sure?” Jason asked, pausing to pull out his phone and find the number, “I just—here, if you have any problems, anything at all, call me.”

Meera obediently scrawled down the number on a spare page of an empty notebook, but she chewed on her lip when she clicked the pen.  “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer—”

“Do you have anybody else to call?” Jason asked bluntly.

Meera’s face crossed a range of emotions—upset, wary, irritated, and finally quiet resignation.  “How did you know?” she sighed.

“I know what it looks like when someone runs away from home,” Jason half-shrugged, staring down at the bed.

Determination.  Fear.  Hurt.  Watching your whole world collapse around you, and knowing it was your decision.  Tearing out your closest bonds and breathing through the agony and then finding out it had all been for nothing.

She had smiled to his face and led him to his death without a moment’s hesitation.  His own mother.

“I’m sorry,” Meera said softly, “What—can I ask—”

“The stupidest decision of my life,” Jason said quietly.  A fairy tale he’d been naïve enough to chase after, like three years of being Robin hadn’t taught him that magic always came with a price.  “I threw away the family I had for the hope of something better.  Turned out that my birth mother was a drug-dealing piece of shit that sold me out the first chance she got.”

Meera watched him, softly sympathetic.

If it had just been the not caring, fine, Jason had gotten used to no one caring about him, but she—she had sold him out, sold him to the Joker, Jason could’ve protected her, she had a chance—

But she hadn’t taken it.

She’d watched him break, literally and metaphorically, and then she’d died with him.  Her selfishness had been a complete waste.

“What about you?” Jason asked roughly, shoving painful memories away.

“Got caught kissing a girl,” Meera smiled faintly, “That I dared sully myself was bad enough, but being bisexual was beyond the pale.  I didn’t feel like ignoring half of who I was to conform to their bullshit.”

Jason itched, very badly, to make a house call.  Pinpricks of green danced around him, and he had to take a deep breath before he could see clearly.

“It’s fine,” Meera said, stretching as she got off the bed.  Her smile was weak, but it was real.  “I’m over it.”

“It’s not fine,” Jason said hoarsely, “They shouldn’t have—you shouldn’t have to—”

“You can’t change the way people think, Jay,” Meera said sadly, “Some things…some things have to come from within.  Punches and threats and all the shouting in the world won’t change their minds.”

“Might make you feel better, though.”

Meera huffed a laugh, and when she opened her arms, Jason automatically moved forward for the hug.  It felt…it felt like he hadn’t gotten a hug since before he died, which was painfully true.  Jason squeezed tighter, and tried to suppress the ragged gasp as something tore inside of him, a wound he had ignored, the one that had started bleeding when he saw Bruce and turned away.

“You remind me of my little brother,” Meera said softly, before she disengaged and looked up at him, her expression soft in a way that hurt.  “Stay safe, Jay.  Family is who you make it.”

That was the trouble, though, wasn’t it.

Jason had made a family.  And watched it crumble like a house of cards.  And picking up the pieces to try again—it would be far easier to punch Falcone in his stupid, smug face.

Falcone had a townhouse in the Upper West Side, because of course he did.  The address hadn’t changed in the past couple of years—Jason could spot enough bodyguards milling about to confirm that this was still Falcone’s center of operations.

Jason tugged on the rope, confirming that the hook had actually caught—life was so much more difficult without a grapple gun—and tied off the other end of the line.  It was exit plan A, so Jason hoped that no one would spot it.

Swinging down was easy, and Jason landed against the roof with years of practice in not making a sound.  He confirmed that the hook was concealed before pulling himself over the edge of the roof.  He had ten seconds to get to the door before the guard turned the corner—and he ducked into the shadows with two seconds to spare.

Jason stayed where he was, concealed by darkness, watching silently as the guard aimlessly strolled in front of him.  The line was concealed by the edges of the building he’d tied it to, and the guard wasn’t all that attentive.  It was the witching hour, running out the end of Batman’s typical patrol schedule, and everyone in Gotham knew that the city settled down at this time.

Jason wasn’t intending to test that.  This wasn’t a repeat of his offensive against Rossi—if Jason had it his way, he’d be in and out with no one the wiser.  Sneaking was as essential a skill as punching, and Jason had been a thief long before he was a vigilante.

When the guard turned the other corner, Jason moved to the door.  It was alarmed, but popping the cover of the keypad and connecting the right wires was all it took to click it open.  Jason replaced the cover but not the wires—if the guard got spooked, better to leave the door unable to be opened—before slipping inside.

No one on the stairwells, and Jason heard a distant conversation near the front door, but his path forward was clear.  It was easy to muffle his booted footsteps on soft carpet, and Jason crept forward silently, mentally orienting himself against the typical floor plans of these kind of townhouses.  Falcone had clearly done some interior redesigning, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to figure where his office was among the doors that ringed the wide balcony on the second floor.

The first doorknob Jason tried twisted easily, and he eased inside.  A quick scan showed him that it was empty, and Jason stepped fully into the room for a more detailed look.

It was a parlor, a couple of couches and a coffee table, and Jason took a circuit, scanning for any obvious hiding spots.  Something about the room was bugging him, and he finished a full circle before it hit him.

It was too small.  The proportions were all off—for the exterior size of Falcone’s townhouse, this room should be double the width.  And there were no windows.

Jason retreated back to the inner balcony and studied the floor again.  No turn-off, no hallway leading deeper into the house, nothing to indicate a passage to all that missing space.

Nothing obvious anyway.

Jason tried every door along the balcony, and they all led to generic rooms, no concealing doors or hidey-holes that Jason could discover.  He wasn’t exactly pressed for time, but the guards would change for the morning shift in an hour or so, and Jason would prefer to be out of here before more alert eyes came on duty.

Jason retreated back to the balcony, and considered the problem.  If he was a paranoid mafia don, where would he put a hidden door?

The doors were all equally spaced apart, no obvious empty spaces between them, and when Jason had checked them, there was nothing that jumped out at him, no rooms noticeably too short.  But the empty space had to be somewhere, and—

Corners.

Corners were great to conceal a pocket of space between two rooms, and hide from obvious sight.  Jason gently knocked his knuckles against the wallpaper of the closest corner, careful to keep it quiet enough to not alert any of the guards on the ground floor, the distant conversation a background hum in his exploring.

He didn’t hear anything, and he moved to the opposite corner.  This time, he heard something more solid than the usual hollow of knocking against painted wood.

Jackpot.

Jason didn’t move the end table and the potted plant—if this was a regular access point, then it wouldn’t need furniture dragged to and away every time—and tapped along the wall until he got a sense of where it was reinforced.  It was a thin strip, maybe two inches wide, right against the crease of the corner, which—wasn’t right.  There was no way to enter from here.

Jason closed his eyes for a brief moment, pushing down frustration and taking a deep breath.  There was a solution.  He knew that.  He just needed to find it.

He mentally mapped the layout in his head, all the rooms down the hall.  The room next to him…had a bookshelf right about here.  Stretching all the way to the doorframe.  And if he remembered it correctly…

Jason took four steps back, away from the corner, and opened his eyes.

It lined up perfectly with the edge of the design in the wallpaper, and bare fingertips discovered that the line was actually a seam in the wall.  Jason studied the wallpaper for a couple of seconds before drifting his fingertips across the surface of a carefully painted vase of flowers at doorknob height.  Four indents, and Jason pushed his fingertips in and down, until a thin wafer swung out from the wall, revealing a keypad.

Jason couldn’t stop the slow smile spreading across his face.

Clever.  But not clever enough.

This keypad was a little more difficult to reach, being half-hidden in a hollow, but Jason could still fit a screwdriver into the gap, and use it to pry off the cover.  The wires took some finagling to yank out, but it wasn’t anything absurdly complicated, and Jason was halfway through before he felt something prickle along his shoulders.

He stilled.  He couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t feel anything other than slowly rising tension.  He whirled around, but there was no one there.  No guards looking at him.  No one on the stairs.  No one on the balcony.

Jason took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders back before turning back to the keypad.  A couple more seconds, and it buzzed open, the space between the doorframe and the seam swinging slightly out to reveal a sliver of the darkness in the crawl space behind the wall.

Jason caught the edge, and didn’t move.  Prickles still crept down his arms, goosebumps trailing in their wake, and Jason took a measured breath.

And looked up.

Red and green and yellow and green, washing over him without any warning, as swiftly and suddenly as it had in that hotel back in Khorog—one moment, the corridor was dark, and the other it was backlit with vivid, sickening green as a too-high, too-young voice chirped, “Not many people think to look up.”

Hurt him, the green hissed, and Jason’s grip on his self-control was as precarious as his fingertips curled around the hidden door.

Jason chose.

He lunged through the hidden door, yanking it closed behind him, shutting himself in sudden, tight darkness.

No.

He was—scrabbling at wood, the taste of dirt on his tongue, satin under him, a slow, startling realization—wood and satin and wood and satin, and this was a box—no—not a box—

Something in his head screamed, the green roared in response, and Jason didn’t register what was happening until he was in a wider, brighter hallway, nails stinging and blood in his mouth.

Jason looked back—the crawlspace seemed to taunt him, a coffin of darkness, and something was moving in it, and Jason stumbled back before he even registered the bright colors, the domino mask, the uniform so similar to his and that bright, gleaming R.

It hurt.  Jason had—he hadn’t expected it to hurt so much, the vivid, absolute reminder of everything he’d lost.  Everything he’d thrown away.

“That was rude,” Robin said, and Jason snarled wordlessly, taking off down the corridor.  “Also rude!”

Goddamn little shit wasn’t even trying to be quiet—

“Hello?  Judging by the hoodie, I’d say you’re the Red Hood but—”

His patience snapped.  “Would people stop calling me that?” Jason growled, and actually caused Robin to falter a step behind in the chase.

Jason reached the corner and grabbed the wall to redirect his momentum and slow him down.  He twisted sharply on one heel, and lunged back at the corner he’d just passed, going low—and grinning when a little bird flew above him.  Textbook Robin.

It was easy to reach up and grab an ankle and yank down to send the kid crashing against the floor.  I was Robin first, Jason sneered inside his own head as he watched the kid wheeze, the air knocked out of him.

Jason headed the other direction, checking the shadows on old, old habit—every criminal knew that wherever Robin was, Batman wouldn’t be far behind, even a twelve-year-old tire thief—as he slipped down the hallway and checked every door he came upon.

Clearly no guards here, no one alerted by that indiscreet fight, but Jason stayed on his guard.  Most of the rooms opened easily, and Jason got nearly all the way to the other side of the house before his fingers twisted on a knob that didn’t open.

Bingo.

This lock was even easier to pick than the others.  Unfortunately, Robin—it wasn’t his name anymore, he had to get over it, green, green, green—had clearly not taken the hint.  Jason ducked the kick on instinct, and rolled away from the doorway to face the kid.

“Any particular reason you’re breaking and entering?” Robin asked, staying between the door and Jason, bo staff extended.

“What,” Jason said, studying the kid’s form and figure, picking apart weaknesses as surely as the kid was doing to him.  “It’s only okay if you do it?”

“Falcone is a powerful enemy to have,” the kid warned, and Jason had to take a moment—the words were hysterical, coming from a child who was only wearing the fucking pixie boots because Jason had died.

“Trust me, kid,” Jason said softly, “I’ve had worse.”  Robin tensed, and Jason didn’t stop to think—he just moved.

Duck under the staff, kick out, use his longer reach to his advantage and redirect the staff enough to slide up against the door—

The knob turned under his fingers, and Jason was forced to catch a strike on his upper arm, strangling the hiss—that would definitely leave a bruise—as he stumbled back into the dark, deserted office.

The furniture turned it into a favorable environment—Jason had been trained in arenas with obstacle courses—but the kid had the same training, and Jason cursed under his breath as their dance went nowhere.

“Now I’m curious,” Robin ducked under Jason’s punch, and Jason twisted to avoid the follow-up strike.  “Because according to all the intel, the Red Hood’s only been on the streets—sorry,” he added at Jason’s automatic flinch, “But if you don’t want me to call you Hood, you’re going to have to give me another name.”

There was something about the way he said that, expectant and cautious—

Jason ducked under his guard and slammed his elbow into the kid’s sternum, right over the R, where the armor was the weakest.  Robin went down spluttering, and Jason managed to wrench the staff out of his hands, already glancing around the room, because none of the gear he had would keep Robin out—there.

Jason curled a hand into the kid’s collar and dragged him to the large cabinet at the back.  He took two precious seconds to confirm that the content of the cabinet weren’t what he was looking for, before yanking up a stirring Robin and shoving him inside.

The click of the cabinet door slamming shut was very, very satisfying.

“Hey!” Robin’s muffled voice yelled, the doors shuddering with a bang, “Let me out!”  Jason finished tightening a ziptie around the door handles, using the kid’s staff to brace it and ensure he wasn’t getting out any time soon.  “Hood!”

Jason ignored the muffled cursing, and took a moment to look around the office.  Breathe, something in his head demanded, and he did—and realized that the green tinge had vanished somewhere along the way.  Huh.

Jason shoved the mystery aside for now.  He didn’t know where Batman was, but he couldn’t be far away.  Jason was on a timer, and now that Robin knew he was going after Falcone, this was his only chance.

He checked all the drawers in the desk, tapped along the bottom of them for false compartments—the ‘stealth’ portion of the plan had been abandoned when Robin showed up—and checked the books for cut-outs or hollow spines.  Nothing.  The coffee table and sofas had no obvious hidden compartments, and Jason moved on to the walls.

There was a safe hidden behind the third painting he checked.

Figures.  The Families were dramatic and traditional.

Robin had shifted from cursing his lineage to wishing all manner of creative misfortunes on his head, still rattling the cabinet doors, and Jason ignored him as he huddled close to the safe and slowly spun the combination lock, waiting for the click of tumblers disengaging.

It took him seven tries—and way too much time, the hair on the back of his neck was beginning to stand up—before the safe swung open.  There were papers inside, papers and files and photos and tapes.  Old school all the way.

Jason slid the first file off—he didn’t recognize the name, but it looked like Mr. Dennis Fairchild was a judge.  And it looked like Mr. Dennis Fairchild had a fondness for red-haired prostitutes.

This was exactly what Jason had been looking for.

Jason took the whole stack, using a couple of zipties to make the files portable, and headed to the window.  Unfortunately, the whole thing was heavily alarmed, motion sensors blinking on the glass and a latch on the bottom.  And Jason could make out a dark shadow across the rooftops, gaining fast.

“Quit whining,” Jason kicked the cabinet as he passed it, “Looks like Batman’s on his way.”  He didn’t stick around for Robin’s response, he headed out the way he’d come, movements fast but a step away from frantic.

He wasn’t running away.

He wasn’t.

He was just—

He wasn’t ready.

Jason paused on the building across the street, and watched Batman slip through the office window without setting off a single alarm.

And then he cut the rope line, and headed back to Crime Alley.

“You want us to publish this,” the man said blankly, staring at the sheaf of files spread out over the desk.

Jason swung his legs from his perch on the table, “Yup.”

“I—do you have any sources?  Any—any further evidence?”

Jason raised an eyebrow, not that they could see it under his hood.  “Because the Gotham Inquirer is so very concerned with journalistic integrity.”

“Hey!” the man puffed up, even as the couple behind him shrugged where they were sorting through the files.  “We’re doing this to tell the truth—the real truth, not what those fancy newspapers peddle, paid off by anyone with deep pockets.  We’re telling the people what they need to know!”

The headline of the previous day’s copy read ‘Batman—Secret Kryptonian?’.  Jason had leafed through it—it made some interesting points.

“Don’t they deserve to know that?” Jason asked softly, gesturing at the stack of files he’d handed them.  The man and woman flipping through them looked up, and the editor swallowed.  “Doesn’t this city deserve to see the shackles winding around the hands of the rich and powerful?”

Falcone had to have something keeping him out of prison.  A man in his position didn’t stay where he was without both the carrot and the stick, and bribery was unlikely to be effective for very long when your opponent was a man who learnt intimidation with the League of Assassins.

Jason hadn’t realized just how much blackmail Falcone was sitting on, though.  No wonder he’d stayed free even as his power waned.  Too many powerful people wanted the contents of those files locked up forever.

Too bad for them.

“It’s just—that’s—that’s a lot of people,” the editor said slowly, “And—and you’re not telling us where you got this information from.  And—” he looked pale, “Mr. Hood.  Not everyone gets a mask to hide behind.”

“I thought you’re doing this to tell the truth,” Jason said levelly.

The editor’s expression spasmed.  “Please, Mr. Hood.  Do you know what they’ll to us if we print this stuff?  Everyone is going be out for blood.  They’ll burn this office with us still inside it.”

He wasn’t wrong.  Which was why—

“Did you think that you’re the only one I gave this information to?” Jason asked.  The editor gaped at him.  His reporters narrowed their eyes.  “Did you think these were all the files I had?”  The three of them stared at him.  “Never put all your eggs in one basket,” Jason shrugged.

If the courts wouldn’t try Carmine Falcone, he’d find someone who would.  A lot of someones who would.

The problem with blackmail was it was only useful so long as no one knew about it.

“So let me ask you again,” Jason leaned forward, “You want to be the only newspaper in Gotham missing out on a story this big?”

The editor exchanged a quick glance with his reporters.  He still looked uncertain, so Jason hopped off the table and moved to gather up the files, “Okay then, I’ll just be on my way—”

“No.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No,” one of the two reporters repeated, and Jason slowly put the files back down.  “You’re right.  Gotham deserves to know about this.  And the Gazette won’t tell them.  It’s our job to report the truth.”

Jason grinned.  Tabloids might not be trustworthy, but they were a great avenue for getting information out.

That was the thing about the court of public opinion—they didn’t have trials, and they didn’t wait for a verdict.  Falcone had silenced every judge and district attorney he could find dirt on—Jason would love to see him try and blackmail an entire city.

Batman would’ve probably handed the information to the police.  Or tried to convince someone like Vicki Vale to take on the case, to take the time to do it right, to find evidence and follow trails and end up taking weeks longer than necessary.

This might be quick and dirty, but it would be effective.  A secret was only a secret if the world didn’t hear it, and Jason intended to shout it from the rooftops.

The editor shook his head slowly, but it was resignation, not denial.  “You’re going to ruin a lot of people,” he said slowly, “They—everyone in those files is going to be branded a criminal.  Their careers will be over.  You’re destroying them.  And they don’t deserve that, not all of them.”

Jason knew that.  Some of the people in those files had done despicable, despicable things.  Others had done morally dubious things, but things that were technically not crimes.  And others—others’ files only contained humiliating information.  And they’d all be tarred with the same brush.

“No,” Jason said quietly, “You’re right.  Some of those people did nothing wrong.  And their secrets will be plastered everywhere, for everyone to see.”  The editor turned to look at him.  “And you’re wrong,” Jason continued, “Because the people of this city deserve to have those secrets revealed.  To know exactly what altar they were sacrificed on.  Because the moment those people looked the other way to keep their secrets, crimes or not, they did become criminals.”

The truth always came out, sooner or later.  Jason was just advancing the timeline.  Reveal everything, reveal it all at once, and the shame and humiliation would be lessened, the outrage multiplied.  Reveal it all at once, and the chaos would be too absolute for anyone to seize back control.

Jason couldn’t control the story.  And he wasn’t going to even bother trying.  But it was time to shake things up.

“Alright,” the editor sighed, turning to his reporters, “If we just add taglines and print the pictures in their entirety, we should be able to get them out to press in time.”  Jason slipped back, towards the door, and left them dealing with the logistics.

“Oh, and you might want to break your infidelity to your wife,” Jason called out, with one step out the back door, “Before she finds out from the morning papers.”

The editor’s mouth firmed to a thin line, and he darted a glance at the files, but he was smart enough to know that Jason wouldn’t have included it with the others.  Too much temptation.  And it was for his own good—if everyone’s secrets got revealed except one, well, that was a shiny target.

“You might want to go to ground,” the editor retorted, expression narrow-eyed, “Before Falcone guns for your head.”

Jason laughed, “He’s going to have bigger problems soon.”

Falcone was going to wake up powerless, with a lot of furious and powerful people on his doorstep.  A toothless dragon, without flame or claws, and a mob at his cave.

Jason headed for the next tabloid on his list.

Chapter Text

It was possible that Jason had slightly underestimated the effects of releasing decades’ worth of blackmail to the tabloids.

Gotham devolved into chaos rapidly—by midday, the news had hit the Internet, and from there it snowballed so quickly Jason felt like he’d let a genie out of a bottle.  The slightly nervous excitement sustained him through the rest of the day—Falcone was arrested, it was amazing how fast things moved when a group of powerful, furious people turned on you—up until he started his patrol.

Falcone was pissed.

Jason fought off three separate attacks before Crime Alley devolved straight into hostile territory.  When the king fell, everyone on the streets wanted to carve up the kingdom, and gangs scurried out of the shadows all around them to stake a piece in the void Falcone left behind.

That said gangs viewed the red-hooded vigilante as maybe less of a threat than Falcone was possibly the only thing that kept Jason alive the first night.  Either that, or they were more scared of him than they were of a mob boss from the other side of the city.

Jason paused on the rooftop, and scanned the buildings all around him, hunting for a glint of light out of place, or a shadow where there wasn’t supposed to be one.  Everyone that Falcone had sent after him had been small fry, little more than common thugs, and Jason was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Mid-tier snipers and assassins—good enough to get the job done and more discerning in the jobs they took—steered clear of Gotham, and any city with a sizable vigilante presence.  The League of Assassins were banned from Gotham from before Jason’s time as Robin.  And low-tier hit men had enough tells that hopefully, hopefully Jason could spot them before they put a bullet in his head.

If Falcone managed to hire one of the world’s greatest assassins—if Deadshot or Deathstroke were stalking across Gotham to take him out—there was no point running.  Jason was as good as dead.  But Falcone’s star had been on the wane long before Jason delivered the killing blow, and the mob boss simply didn’t have the cash or clout to call in.  Falcone considered himself a gentleman, part of the old-fashioned network of Families all trading favors, and Jason had just bled him dry.

No one was willing to do Falcone a favor right now.  Not when they were trying to manage their own fires.

The court of public opinion.  Ha.  It was little more than a lynch mob in the making, and the tabloids had stirred them up into a frenzy.  The number of well-respected people that had just had their dirty secrets aired to the world was staggering.  It was like Jason had poked an anthill.

Good riddance, something inside him seethed as he finished his check and used the fire escape to descend to the alleyways.  He blinked, and the world was green.  Blinked again, and it wasn’t.  Blinked again, and—

The excitement had soured the third day, when he read the news, read about Gordon putting a watch on the tabloids, read about the protests and calls to resign aimed at a variety of judges, attorneys, public officials—and read between the lines to see where the silence lurked.

Jason had dropped a very, very big stone into a pond.  He’d disrupted the whole system, and sent water sloshing onto shore.

But the waters would settle again.

And most of it would go back to the way it was.

Outrage couldn’t be sustained, and Gotham had had decades to get used to apathy.  The hue and cry would die down, the lynch mob would get bored and wander away, and everyone would settle back to ignoring the corruption choking the very air.  Like they always did.

Jason could stop it.  This instability was an opportunity, a chink in the armor, and if he kept hammering at it, he could hit them where it hurts.  And keep hitting, until it worked, until he delivered a mortal blow, until he could breathe again.

Jason leaned against the corner, arms crossing to prevent them from curling into fists, his vision wavering as he tried to control himself.  Anger seethed just below his skin, stretching him taut as he tried to keep ahold of it without any direction to point it.

The street was teeming with an abnormal amount of people this late at night—the sex workers up and down the street were huddled into larger groups, and people lingered in every shadow, openly fingering guns and watching the street.  The peace was uneasy, but it held.

There was a power vacuum, and half of Crime Alley had jumped at the opportunity.  Falcone’s men had either disappeared or flipped, and the numerous gangs of Crime Alley had seized control.  Jason caught several glances as he slipped through the knots of people, gang members and sex workers alike melting out of his path, but no one tried to stop him.

He had tried to patrol like he used to, but he couldn’t.  He kept returning to this street, anxiety crawling under his skin, making sure he was a visible protector.

Because that was the problem.

He could go after the elite, follow through on the blow he’d given, actually change something in this fucking shithole of a city, do something good for once—

And leave Crime Alley undefended.

Right after he put a target on its back.

Jason breathed out, low and even, and let the murmurs in the street wash over him.  Next to him, the empty building where Rossi’s operation used to be.  Opposite the street, Rin and their Grey Ghosts, watching him as he stalked across the pavement.  Names and sigils he didn’t know, too many of them, patrolling this street like it was their fucking job, and why wouldn’t they pay protection money if the only other option was the goddamn cops?

It wasn’t fair.  It wasn’t fair.  Jason had shoved evidence of this city’s crimes into everyone’s goddamn faces, and it still wouldn’t change anything.  The rats would wriggle their way out of it, like they always did, and things would go right back to the way they were.

No matter how hard he fought, the status quo was a wall in his path.

It didn’t matter how desperately he cheated if he was playing a rigged game.

Jason stopped walking when the sky fractured into green.  Breathe, he told himself, voice hollow and seething and furious, breathe.  Too many people around him, too much collateral damage, he could not afford to lose control of himself, not now—

“Hood?”

That goddamn fucking name.  But the voice was familiar, and Jason was turning before he put it to a face.

Meera was sitting on the steps of the next building, dark eyes scrunched up in concern.  Jason bit down the acid as he moved closer to her, thrumming out of his skin but unable to stop himself from seeking out something, anything that could make him feel better.

“What’s the point,” he asked, hollow and aching and full of so much fury he could taste the green on his tongue, “Of fighting.”  His gloves creaked as he tightened his hands into fists.  “If nothing ever changes.”

Meera looked at him, silent and observant, and he could see wariness in the lines of her face, but it didn’t stop her from leaning forward.  “Have you ever heard the story of the mango tree?” she asked.

The non-sequitur managed to distract him enough to claw back an inch of control.  “What?” he managed, mouth thick.

“The story of the mango tree,” Meera settled more comfortably on the steps, and some of the other women drifted closer when it became apparent he wasn’t going to bite her head off.  “My father told it to me when I was an impatient kid.  Have you heard it before?”

He hadn’t read any story of a mango tree.  “No,” he said, creeping closer but stopping well out of arm’s reach, just in case the green surged forward again.  “What’s the story?”

Meera gave him a quick smile before starting.  “The story starts with a man who wants to plant a mango tree.  A big, beautiful mango tree, with golden, delicious mangoes, so sweet and refreshing and juicy.  A mango tree in his backyard, where he could reach out and pluck one from a branch,” Meera mimed the motion, “Whenever he wanted one.”

Jason didn’t see the relevance, but he kept his mouth shut.

“So he went to his backyard, and began tilling the soil and clearing a space for the mango tree.  And his son, who was a child, asked his father, ‘Papa, what are you doing?’—‘I am planting a mango tree, my son,’ the man replied, and continued to work.”

They even gained a couple of gang members as audience as Meera wove her story.

“After he cleared a space, and made sure that the soil was just right, which took many, many months, he went in search of mango seeds.  One after one, he planted the seeds, and one after one, he watched them be attacked by animals, or wash away in the rain, or fail to sprout at all.  His son, now a young man, watched him and asked, ‘Papa, what are you doing?  You’re just wasting your time.’—‘Patience, my son,’ the man replied, and continued planting.”

Jason flinched slightly at the last line—that sounded like something Bruce would say.  Would’ve said.  Jason shoved down the green and refocused on the story.

“Finally, one of the seeds sprouted, and grew into a plant, and kept growing.  And the man cared for it diligently as it grew into a sapling, and then bigger and bigger and bigger.  His son, who was now married and living on his own, came by and asked, ‘Papa, what are you doing?  That plant won’t bear fruit for another twenty years.  You’ve cared for it and worked so hard, and you may never get to eat a mango from this tree.  Why are you doing this?’”

Meera looked straight at him, eyes resolute and determined, as she finished, “And the man said, ‘Because one day my grandchildren will sit under this tree.  And they will eat the most delicious mangoes in the world.  And that is good enough for me.’”

Jason closed his eyes and breathed out slowly.

‘And that is good enough for me.’

“You’re making the world a better place,” Meera said quietly, and there was nothing but agreement on all the faces around them.  “You’ve given us hope where we had none before.  Screw the rest of the city, or the rest of the country, or the rest of the world.”  She cast an arm to gesture to the street as she straightened up to her feet, “You made this place better.”

Jason felt the anger recede, and leave bone-deep exhaustion behind.  He understood what she was saying, but he still—

“It may take years to bear fruit,” Meera smiled at him, “But it’s worth it.”

That—hit.  It struck at the part of him that had always been a frustrated boy raging against an indifferent world, and he felt like she’d shaken the ground underneath him.  He felt…more stable.

The others drifted slightly away as Meera took the steps down to join him, and Jason leaned against the railing as he scanned the street.  Business was quiet, but at least everyone was safe.  Safe and out of Falcone’s grasp.

He caught sight of that white streak again, and now that he was paying attention, he saw that nearly everyone was sporting one.  No…no, everyone actually had one, and the cut and style and length differed, but they all had a streak of white down the middle of their hair.

Come to think of it, he’d seen it even on his forays to the other parts of Gotham, though a lot of people had changed it up to some other color.

He turned to Meera—who sported the same white streak—and motioned to his hair, where his own easily identifying mark was covered in dark grease, “What’s with the skunk style?  Some new trend?”

“You could say that,” Meera hummed, tossing her back and giving him a sly smile, “You could also say that it makes it far, far more difficult to hunt down a young man with a white streak in dark hair.”

He gaped at her, and her grin widened.  “What—why—” he spluttered in shock, why would anyone—

“You protect us,” Meera nodded to the rest of the street, “This was the least we could do to return the favor.”

Jason couldn’t speak for a long moment.  When he finally regained his voice, he croaked out, hoarse, “This puts a target on your back.  This—it’s not safe—”

“I don’t need a lecture on safety from the boy that dresses up in a red hoodie and a dollar-store mask to fight crime,” Meera said, but her tone was gentle.  “And the best place to hide a tree is in the forest.”

“If anyone decided to retaliate—”

“You must’ve seen how many people are wearing it, Hood,” Meera arched an eyebrow, “It caught on as a trend in the East End, and spiraled, as trends usually do.  Anyone taking offense will have a lot of people to get angry at.”  She turned to face the rest of the street, still smiling softly, “The safest place is in a crowd.”

But he hadn’t—he hadn’t asked for this, for them to put themselves at risk for him—

Pay it forward, he remembered telling Rin, and he exhaled slowly.

It looked like he was changing things after all.

A couple more days, and Crime Alley had more or less settled, the gangs fixing their new boundary lines with minimal violence.  Jason was pretty proud that it only took an appearance to deescalate trouble—it seemed like he’d won a grudging sort of respect from the people in Crime Alley, especially since he hadn’t abandoned his patrols to go on any fancy missions.

There was no sign of the Bats either, though he’d spotted Spoiler a couple of times.  He kept a low profile—no one was talking, which was good, but he knew it wouldn’t last.  Sooner or later, his whereabouts were going to reach Batman’s ears, and then…

And then what?

Jason cautiously nudged the Bruce-Batman-Dad issue in his head, and immediately reared back.

Nope.

Still not unpacking that.

Not unless he found some kind of padded room to control the resultant green-laced explosion.

Avoiding the Bats it remained.

The phone in his pocket started vibrating and Jason paused, ducking into the shadow of a fire escape and fishing it out.  “Hello?” he asked—only a few people had this number, but it wasn’t strange for any of them to call at one in the morning.

“Hood,” a crisp, computerized voice responded, “You’re a hard man to get a hold of.”

Oh fuck.

Jason pulled away from the phone—Gotham area code, which didn’t mean anything, the city was enormous, but that wasn’t a voice he recognized, as either a Rogue or a Bat.

“Some would say that’s by design,” Jason said slowly, “And they’d take the fucking hint.”

“I have a job for you,” the voice said, almost curtly.

“That’s nice,” Jason hummed, “I’m not a mercenary, though, so you have the wrong guy.”

“Aren’t you the Red Hood?” the voice asked, and Jason had to bite down the instinctive recoil at the name.  He’d given up on correcting people for now.  “Or, pardon me, the new Red Hood?”

Jason didn’t know what he was feeling, but he was sure he didn’t like it.  “Who the fuck is this?” he asked, letting a not-so-pleasant edge creep into his tone.

“Oracle,” the voice said, like he was supposed to know who that was.  “Do you go by Red Hood?  Or do you prefer Jason Johnson?”

Jason stopped dead in the middle of the street.

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Excuse me?”  Jason’s voice was too high.  Shit shit shit.  How had they—Jason Johnson wasn’t even real, all he had was an apartment and a goddamn library card, how did they manage to connect that to Hood?

“I’m not going to insult either of our intelligences, Mr. Hood,” Oracle said smoothly, “Suffice to say, I’m very good with computers, and right now, I require your assistance.  There’s something going down on 6^th and Saverts, and you’re currently the closest person there.  Take your next right, please.”

Jason didn’t move, but he did scan a slow circle and spotted two security cameras near him.  His fingers tightened on the phone.

“I’m not a mercenary,” Jason growled, “And that’s not in my territory.”

“I thought all of Crime Alley was your territory.  Or at least that’s what you told Spoiler,” Oracle replied, and Jason mentally updated that particular tidbit.  Still didn’t answer the question of Bat or not, and if Batman was closing in on him, Jason needed to get out.  “And it didn’t stop you from going after Falcone.  Robin was not pleased.”

“Baby birds should stop poking their beaks into other people’s business,” Jason said coldly, “And so should quasi Greek prophetesses.”

“Mm, I’m all-seeing,” Oracle sounded almost amused, “And I have access to a lot of information in this city, Hood.  You help me, I’ll owe you one.”

That was…not a bad deal, actually.  Jason wavered.

“Aren’t there any questions you’d like answered?”

Jason broke.  He had nothing but questions, starting from the green pit he’d been shoved into, and a dearth of anyone who could give him answers.  “I don’t accept payment in riddles,” Jason warned, and a distorted chuckle came through as he headed for the alleyway shortcut to get closer to 6^th.  “So you want me to do—what exactly?  Stop a crime?”

“Recon for the moment.  Four people broke in five minutes ago, but the building is dark, and I have no eyes inside the basement.  Get me my info, you can have your favor.”

Jason mentally pictured the intersection, plotting it out in his head, what building were they talking about—“The library,” Jason said, surprised, “That’s the library.”

“Yup.”

“What’s the chances that it’s a couple of teenagers on a dare?” Jason asked with no real enthusiasm.  This close to Crime Alley, the teenagers on dares didn’t stop at breaking in.

“You get your favor either way, Hood.”

Jason grumbled, and stayed in the alleyways as he got closer, ignoring the couple of stray gang members shooting him side glances when he poked his head out onto Saverts.  He could spot the library in the distance.

It looked…quiet.

Quiet in the way that sent something prickling down his spine.

Jason ducked back into the alleyway.  The three kids were now giving him extremely judgmental looks.  Teenagers, his mind growled, neatly ignoring that they were probably older than him.

Jason muted the phone.

“Hey,” he said, his gaze flicking over the silver detailing on their jackets, “You Rin’s guys?”

The scowls certainly looked familiar.  “What’s it to you?” the shortest Ghost crossed their arms.

“Anyone have a pair of earphones I can borrow?”

The kids exchanged looks amongst themselves, before the girl in the middle sighed and withdrew a knot of wires from her pocket.  “Thanks,” Jason said, and tossed her five dollars, “Insurance.”

“I still want those back.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get them back,” Jason finally managed to untangle the earbuds, and tucked them into his ears, “Also, if you could do me a favor—I’m going into the library.  If I’m not out in thirty minutes, call the cops.”

“The cops?” Short-stack looked particularly insulted.

“Did I stutter?”

“What do you want us to tell them?” Miss Earphones narrowed her eyes, “That an idiot in a red hoodie broke into a library?”

“You all seem very resourceful,” Jason said, plugging the earphones in and poking his head out again, “Tell them whatever you want, I just need sirens and flashing lights.”  Cops made for a very good distraction.

And judging by the dawning realization on the kids’ faces, they hadn’t figured that out until now.  Oops.

Jason stepped out onto the street, and unmuted the phone.  “Are you there yet?” Oracle said waspishly, and Jason ducked around the corner to circle the building.

“You didn’t mention a time limit.”

“Preferably before they leave, Ja—Hood, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Jason didn’t know computerized voices could sound that sarcastic.

“Hold onto your keyboard,” Jason said, finding a cracked window and pulling it open all the way before heaving himself up onto the ledge.  “I’m inside.”

The library was silent and hushed—shelves loomed in the darkness like dark sentinels, and the carpet muffled any sounds.  He felt the weight of the books pressing down like it was a tangible thing.  Like he wasn’t alone.

“I had a little brother who loved the library.”

Jason nearly jumped out of his skin and banged a shin on the nearest shelf.  He cursed silently but fervently, hopping a step forward before resuming his tread to the stairs.  “Oh?” he forced out through gritted teeth.

“Couldn’t drag the kid out.  I used to tutor him here,” Oracle sounded almost nostalgic, “Math.  His older brother was a mathlete, but the kid couldn’t stand him.”

Well.  That was…eerily familiar.

“Really,” Jason said slowly, half his attention now on the tinny voice talking into his ear as he reached the stairs.

“Not that I blamed him,” Oracle sighed, “His older brother could be bit of a dick.”

Jason froze.  He wasn’t imagining the emphasis, was he?  But who—no—it couldn’t be—

“What happened?” he asked, his mouth dry, “To your little brother.”

“Lost him,” Oracle replied, clipped, “Couple of years ago.”  Jason’s mouth moved to make the automatic ‘I’m sorry’, but they continued, “And then it turns out that he came back to Gotham, and never bothered to let me know.”

Jason let out a low, shaky breath, and squeezed his eyes shut, hesitating for a moment.  “Barbie?” he asked quietly.

“I knew it!” came out, no longer Oracle’s mechanized tone but Batgirl’s gleeful voice.  “I knew it—the picture—it had to be you—but you’re dead, Jason, how—”

Jason stared down into the darkness of the stairwell, and fought off the shiver.  “Did you call me here just to reveal that you know who I am?” Jason asked somewhat snappishly—he’d expected the Bats to track down the newest vigilante in Crime Alley, he just didn’t think they’d connect it to him so easily.

“Oh—no, there’s actually something fishy going on the basement, and you should take a look,” Babs said, and Jason fought off the jitters as he headed down the stairs.  At least it isn’t Bruce, something inside him said, but between the darkness and the too-familiar voice in his ear, he was beginning to tremble again.

She knew.  Which meant they would all know.  Which meant—green, someone was screaming, Batman and Robin, the family Jason had thrown away, the family that terrified him, he couldn’t go back, he couldn’t even dream of going back—

“Jason?”

Jason fought to regain control.  “What’s with the whole Oracle thing anyway?” he asked hoarsely, “Weren’t you supposed to be retired?”  He had to distance himself.  He wasn’t Robin anymore.

There was a long pause, and the distorted voice answered, “That’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” Jason said, slowly easing the doors open.  Anything to keep the attention off of him.

“Maybe you should tell me what you’ve been up to.”

Jason took the hint.

The basement seemed to be just a storage space, old files, stray books, dust everywhere—and voices from the far corner.  The only light was what little was shining through the basement windows, and Jason stuck to the shadows as he got closer, gaze skipping from box to shelf to box as he searched for anything out of place.

The voices suddenly raised—“not paid to think!”—and Jason startled, accidentally leaning too hard on the closest box of files.  He winced, already bracing for the noise—

The box didn’t move.

The box was much heavier than a bunch of files would be.  Or even a bunch of books.  But not—Jason brushed aside the top layer of files—a bunch of guns.

“Oracle,” Jason said quietly into the microphone, “They’re using this as a storage space.  Guns.”  Jason moved to the next box—and swallowed thickly.  “And explosives.”

His fingers weren’t trembling.  They weren’t.  He just gently, very gently, exceedingly gently replaced the files on top of the packets of plastic explosives, and resisted the urge to sprint for the doors.

“They?  They who?”

Jason headed towards the far corner—he could make out a couple of silhouettes against the light, but the voices were getting louder, and Jason ducked behind a shelf when one of the figures flung their arms up and twisted around.

“No one I recognize,” Jason murmured into the microphone as he waited for things to settle.  They were oddly dark silhouettes.  “Need some more time.”

Babs hissed.  “You don’t have it,” she said, “Someone called the cops about a disturbance.  Flashing lights and sirens in less than half a minute.  You need to get out.”

Jason narrowed his eyes at the phone.  “It hasn’t been half an hour yet,” he muttered, though he supposed trusting Crime Alley kids to do what they were told was stupid.

“You called the cops?”

“Was I supposed to trust the stranger exhorting me into an abandoned building?” Jason asked—and that came out far, far sharper than he intended.  Babs went silent, and Jason swallowed thickly.  “I’ll hide,” he said finally, “And check out the rest of the place after they leave.”

Babs didn’t say a word, and Jason ducked into a shadowed alcove as the sirens started, faint and distant.  Flashing lights filtered into the room as the sirens got closer, and the arguing figures broke off with curses when it became apparent that the cops had stopped nearby.

They were easily spooked, and soon the basement was dead silent as the intruders quit the vicinity.  They didn’t take anything with them, so this was clearly long-term storage, and Jason would bet that someone working in the library was on their payroll.

He eased out of the shadows when they were gone, careful not to nudge any box or shelf.  If they got a hint that someone had been here, they might move, and without knowing who they were or what they were planning, that would be bad.

There were at least enough explosives here to blow up a city block.

Unfortunately, the intruders had left no plans or schematics or logs behind, the table was nearly empty.  There was an address scrawled on paper, somewhere in the Bowery, near the ocean, and Jason quietly pocketed it.  “Did you find anything?” Babs asked as he prowled around the space.  The only other thing out of place was a…cheap plastic mask.

“Does a black full-face mask mean anything to you?” Jason asked, lifting it and flipping it in his hand.  Clown masks were one thing—a chill shivered down his spine—and Two-Face’s goons had those half-and-half ones, but this was the first time Jason had seen plain black.

“No,” Babs said slowly, clearly thinking the same thing as him.  There was a new player in the game.  And in Gotham, that meant nothing good.

Earphones returned to a gang of snickering teenagers, Jason made it nearly all the way home before the phone started ringing again.  He glared at the number, and then at the nearest security camera, but if Babs really wanted to talk to him, she was going to hunt him down one way or another.

Jason resignedly accepted the call.

“Jason,” Babs said quietly, no trace of the voice distorter.  Her voice was hesitant and soft, which was so unlike her it automatically raised his hackles.  “I just—you’re alive.”

“It sure seems that way,” Jason replied sardonically, not in the mood to engage.  But instead of an equally snippy response, there was just silence on the other end of the line.  After ten seconds of waiting, Jason checked the line to make sure it was still connected.  “…Barbie?”

“Is it really you?” she whispered, her voice cracking oddly.

Jason intended to make another sarcastic response, but his throat had closed up.  “Yeah,” he finally managed to force out, “It’s me.”

There was no mistaking the choked sound for anything other than a sob.

“I missed you so much,” Babs rasped, clearly struggling to keep her voice level, “I—Jason—god, I’m so happy, I—can we meet?  I’m free tomorrow, and I just—I want to see you, Jay.”

Jason didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to see anyone, he’d left them and he’d died and they hadn’t even mourned him, had just replaced him, and the Joker was still alive and—

She didn’t go to the funeral, a voice whispered in his head, and it sounded green.

But…but Jason wasn’t dead.

Jason wasn’t dead.  And Babs had found him.  And she—she said she missed him.  And even if it was a lie, some part of Jason would do anything for it to be true, a part that he thought died in a warehouse in Ethiopia when his birth mother lit up a cigarette and turned away from him—

“Okay,” he replied before he could think better of it.

It was a stupid, stupid, stupid idea, Jason was clearly still the idiot kid that had gotten himself blown up—but he couldn’t take it back.

Gotham was his home.  But home meant nothing without the people in it.

Chapter Text

Jason took a deep breath, checked the time, ignored the prickling at the back of his neck, and crossed the street.

The quaint little café next to the library was one he’d visited often, and he ignored the front entrance for the outdoor seating.  Barbara had texted him the details, and he’d confirmed—outside, where he wouldn’t be penned in, where he would see anyone coming, be they friend or foe or family.

Red hair was easy to spot and Jason tightened his fingers into fists.  Deep breaths.  He could do this.  He could do this.  He’d run from the League of Assassins, he’d put a bomb under the Batmobile, he’d taken down fucking Falcone.  He could have a conversation with his kinda sorta big sister.

Oh fuck, he couldn’t do this.

Before Jason could turn around and flee, Barbara raised her head, clearly looking for him.  She looked…older, older and more tired than he last remembered, but the years vanished from her face when she caught sight of him and smiled, bright and hopeful and overjoyed.

Deep breaths, Jason reminded himself, the sound of traffic and pedestrians drowned out by his own frantic heartbeat.  Deep breaths.  It—it was just Barbie.  Jason took another glance around the café to confirm that there were no Bats hiding in the shadows, and, consequently, got all the way to the table before he realized that Babs wasn’t sitting in a chair.

“Jason,” Babs said warmly, looking up at him with a beaming smile as Jason scanned the wheelchair, noticing the customizations, the lack of obvious casts, the ease with which she was sitting there.

“What happened?” came out in a crackling voice.

Babs looked down at herself in surprise before looking back up with a rueful expression.  “Old injury,” she dismissed, and Jason numbly took a seat, still staring.  “It’s fine, nothing to worry about.  How are you?”

“Was it a job thing?” Jason dropped his voice.  But Batgirl had retired months before Jason had taken that fateful trip to Ethiopia and Batman would’ve never called her back.

Babs blinked at him.  “He didn’t tell you?” she asked softly, sounding surprised.

“Who didn’t tell me?” Jason snapped his gaze back to her face.  He hadn’t had contact with anyone from their nightlife—other than the Replacement, who didn’t count.  “What didn’t they tell me?”

Babs opened her mouth, and closed it just as swiftly.  She appeared to be chewing over her words.  “It happened before you—” her expression twisted—“It happened the night you…left.”  Something cold unfurled in Jason’s chest.  “It wasn’t—it was an attack at my apartment, an attack against my dad,” Barbara said carefully, “Bullet severed my spine.”

Jason wasn’t an idiot, he knew she wasn’t telling him the full story, they were sitting at a table in the middle of a busy street on a warm, sunny spring afternoon and they could never be too careful of eavesdroppers.  But it jarred some pieces loose, fragments of the puzzle that had been the final moments of his life.  Bruce had caught up to him, had come after him, but Jason had always wondered why it had taken so much time for the World’s Greatest Detective to find him.

“No,” Jason said, unable to identify the emotion in his voice, “He didn’t tell me.”

He waited for her to say something placating, the same kind of distant sympathy he’d gotten the last time he’d visited her to complain about Bruce benching him, but she merely pressed her lips into a thin line.

“Well, I can still get around with this thing,” Babs tapped her souped-up wheelchair, “And I found a different line of work.”  Oracle.  A job performed from behind a computer screen.  “But enough about me,” Babs leaned forward, an open hand on the table between them, “I want to hear what you’ve been up to.”

Jason stared at her hand—careful not to touch without permission, like she remembered, like she cared about the fucking street kid that got himself blown up in the middle of the desert, and he didn’t know where the green came from, but his voice was low and acidic as he replied, “What, he didn’t tell you?”

Babs stared at him, taken aback, but before she could say anything, a waitress cut in cheerfully.  “Hello guys, sorry for the wait!” she smiled at both of them, not noticing or ignoring the tension.  The stripe in her hair was colored blue.  “What can I get you two?  Anything to drink?”

“Just water for me, thanks,” Barbara didn’t look away from him for a second, “And a grilled apple cheese sandwich.”

“Sure thing, hon!” the waitress turned to him, still smiling.  Plastic.  Fake.  Jason was gripping the bottom of the table so hard he could hear metal creak.

“The same,” he heard his voice say.

“Alright,” the waitress grabbed the menus, with that rigid smile fixed to her face, “Let me know if you need anything!”  Jason forced himself to breathe slowly, counting in his head, and only untensing when she was out of sight.

Babs had withdrawn her hand and was looking at him with the kind of expression people cast at feral cats.  Wary, but not enough to leave.  “Your eyes,” she said slowly, “They’re…green.”

Yeah, Jason fucking knew that.  “Perks of resurrection,” Jason said flatly.

Barbara’s expression became shadowed.  “Jason, what happened?  Bruce,” she faltered at Jason’s venomous look, but continued, low-voiced, “Bruce said that you—you died and—”

“He’s right,” Jason dropped his gaze to the table, tracing the wire design along the sides, “It wasn’t an elaborate fake-out if that’s what you’re asking.”

The silence stretched, long enough to get the prickles popping back across his skin.  He resisted the urge to itch the back of his neck—it felt like someone was staring straight at him, but no one around them seemed unduly interested in their conversation.

“Then how…how did you come back?” Babs asked finally.

“I don’t know.”  All he remembered was green.  Green everywhere, all around him, filling him up.  “I don’t—I don’t know.”  Jason made a frustrated sound—poking around his memories inevitably led to an upsurge in green.  “I woke up somewhere in Tajikistan.  Talia was there, I think, I don’t remember.”  The newspaper, that goddamn picture of Batman and Robin and the Joker.  “I don’t fucking know, okay!”

That was louder than it had to be, and Jason slunk deeper into his seat as surprised looks darted their way.  Babs sipped at her water, waiting for the external interest to die before she spoke again, “The Lazarus Pit?”

“What?”

“Green eyes,” she motioned to his face, “And I presume you mean Talia al Ghul?”  Something in Barbara’s voice was measured in the way that sent a chill down Jason’s spine.  “Was the Pit involved?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Barbie.”

“How long has it been?” she asked quietly.

“Two weeks,” Jason said, and snapped his mouth shut when the waitress returned with their food.  This time, he didn’t look at her or her smile, merely stared at the sandwich and chips being set down in front of him.  Babs thanked her and Jason heard the crunch of chips before she spoke again.

“You’re the one who put the bomb, aren’t you.”

Jason’s head snapped up.  Barbara’s expression was inscrutable as she took a bite of her sandwich, staring straight at him.  He had done his best to forget about that night.  Forget that he’d planned—that he’d almost—that he’d gotten so very close…

Of course they would’ve found it.  Of course they would’ve checked cameras and surveillance.  No wonder Babs had been so sure that he was alive.

Jason ate a chip, chewing slowly, and swallowed.  He didn’t meet Barbara’s gaze.

“Jason,” Babs said quietly, “Why did you do it?”  He looked up—her expression was somewhere between confused and frustrated.  “The amount of firepower—it would’ve killed him, you know that?  Any accident—”

“Oh.”  Jason felt curiously unmoored.  The green was coiled around him, refusing to let go.  “I was planning on it.”  It seethed inside of him, the mess of issues he hadn’t dared to poke, the unresolved confusion that kept piling up and up and up.  “I was going to do it.  Press the trigger and boom.”

Because underneath the anger, underneath the only shield he had, was a festering pool of hurt.  Was the betrayal that Bruce didn’t believe him, the desperate hope to find any family he had left, the disappointment that had been Sheila Haywood, loss after loss after loss.  Was dying far from home, body beaten and broken, crying out for a father that didn’t come.  Because Jason had believed that Batman would come.  Believed that Bruce would never let him down.

And he’d been wrong.

It was a blow that struck his soul, that cracked something inside him wide open, and dying and coming back and the Pit couldn’t put it back together.  It was agony and Jason felt it flay him from the inside as he sat in the wireframe chair in a quaint café on a sunny afternoon in Gotham.

He was wrong.  One of the fundamental pillars he’d built his world on had crumbled, and Jason was left holding nothing but rubble.  His dad couldn’t save him from everything.

“Why?” Barbara looked shocked.  “Jason, why would you—”

“Because he failed,” Jason replied cuttingly, “He failed.  I fucking died, Barbie, and I don’t know why I’m sitting here right now, but I sure as fuck know that death’s permanent.  The end of the line, fullstop.”  The napkin was slowly shredding under his vice grip.  “And it didn’t matter.”  The words cut him to the bone.  “I died, and it didn’t even matter.”

The Joker was still breathing.  Batman had found a new Robin.  The life Jason had lived had been worth so little that absolutely nothing had changed with his death.

“I didn’t matter,” Jason said hollowly, and the green was gone now.  There was no one to be angry with.  Nothing to be angry about, unless he counted himself.  He couldn’t use rage to hide the fact that Jason Peter Todd had never been worth anything.  Not to anyone he knew.

Just another unfortunate victim of Gotham’s unending war.  A statistic.  A meaningless number on a meaningless report, another tally in the Joker’s count, a murder in a city full of murderers.

From any practical perspective, nothing.

Barbara was looking at him with wide eyes, lines of sadness creasing her expression.  She opened her mouth and Jason couldn’t do it.  Couldn’t hear whatever platitudes she would say, the pity in her voice, the generic soothing-victims voice they all learned.  He stood up abruptly, the chair screeching gratingly loud, and turned away from her.

“Sorry.”

Jason weaved through the tables, going faster and faster until he was nearly jogging down the streets.  He ducked into an alley to get away from the crawling sensation of too many people looking at him.

His arms shook where he braced himself against the brick wall.  He hadn’t admitted it to himself before, had kept trying to plaster over it with anger, but the timer on denial had run out.  Jason had just not been good enough.  And once Batman had recognized that, it was the beginning of the end.

The prickling feeling hadn’t gone away.  Someone was watching him and all of Jason’s usual ways to throw off a tail weren’t working.  It couldn’t be Babs, she was too easy to spot, but she had probably reported back to Batman and any number of people could be following him.

The only saving grace was that it was still daylight and that limited his pursuers’ options.  Jason had no problem causing a scene—he didn’t legally exist—to get away.  But first he had to lure them out.

Jason ducked into the next dead-end alleyway and sidestepped the dumpster to get deeper in.  He had to forcibly suppress the tension at backing himself into a dead-end and reminded himself that there was a fire escape right above him.  The meditation to calm the Pit also helped to calm his anxiety, deep, slow breaths as he settled in for a wait.

It was five minutes before anyone peeked their head in.  Anxious that the dead end wasn’t actually a dead end, or concerned about what Jason was doing in here with the obvious option exhausted.  To Jason’s surprise, it wasn’t who he was expecting.

No hulking figure of Bruce Wayne or smooth grace of Dick Grayson.  There were two of them, both slight, one slightly taller than the other, and Jason blew out an irritated breath when he realized he was being followed by fucking children.

They crept towards the dumpster silently enough, but Jason stepped out to block the path, his best unimpressed glare in place.  “Really?” he sneered, as vicious as he could make it, “I’m being stalked by a couple of kids?”

The one on the left, short and dark-haired—Jason could recognize Robin without the domino mask and traffic light costume—jumped in alarm.  The one on the right, blonde with narrowed eyes—no one that matched Jason’s memories—merely tensed in position.

“Who said anything about stalking?” the blonde said, raising an eyebrow, and the accent was enough to place her.  “It’s a free city.”

“Is it,” Jason said pleasantly, “Spoiler.”

This time the blonde jerked back, eyes wide.  The other kid, however, took the opportunity to jump in.  “Are you really him?” Robin asked.  He looked disconcertingly young out of uniform, and Jason wondered if he had looked that young once too.  “Are you Jason?”

“What’s it to you, kid?” Jason growled, “Being locked in one closet wasn’t enough?”  The kid’s eyes flashed and Jason stepped forward.  “I’d be happy to add dumpster diving to your list of experiences.”

“Hey,” Blondie cut in, offended, “We didn’t do anything to you!”

“Are you sure about that?” Jason dropped his voice into a hiss as he glared at Robin, “Replacement?”

Robin swallowed, face pale.  Spoiler was still bristling, but Jason didn’t care about her.  Only the kid that wore his old suit.

“I didn’t replace you, Jason,” Robin said, slow and even, “Bruce didn’t replace you.  Batman needs a Robin—” Jason growled and the kid talked faster, “But you were missed so much.  By so many people.”

Something in Jason’s stomach clenched tight, a hope he didn’t realize was still alive.

“I swear, they miss you,” Robin continued quietly, “No one replaced you, no one could ever replace you, Jason.”  Jason was frozen to the spot, hardly daring to breathe.  “He didn’t adopt me to replace you, I swear—”

“He adopted you.”

Everything was numb.  Like a shock of cold.

“I—what?  Well, yeah, um, my parents died, but I swear, it had nothing to do with you—”

Someone laughed, harsh and chilling.  Jason realized it was him.  “Really?” he asked sardonically.

“No, I’m serious—I was Robin before I was adopted, it wasn’t—he didn’t—it was me, I found him and I made him—”

Jason took a step back, away from the kids.  Ice was freezing across his limbs, cracking across his bones, a candle flame snuffed out to freeze his blood.  Spoiler was tugging on Robin’s arm like she trying to get him to stop, but Robin was babbling, word after word of all the ways he didn’t replace Jason, except that he did.

This one had a Bristol accent.  This one wasn’t a street kid.  Looked like Bruce had gotten the upgrade this time.

“It was me, okay,” Robin looked slightly desperate, hand outstretched like he wanted to stop Jason from leaving, “I swear, it was all me.  B—B had nothing to do with it.  I chose Robin.”

“You’re not as smart as you think you are,” Jason said, low and jagged, and both the kids flinched back.  “You’re children, playing at a war you don’t realize is real.”

“Trust me,” Spoiler said, voice guarded, “We understand just fine.”

“No, you don’t.”  Something was aching in Jason, a pulsing wave of pain that threatened to tear him apart.  “Robin isn’t a symbol.  It isn’t magic and it isn’t hope.”  He felt cold.  So very cold.  “It’s a fucking target, and one day someone’s aim will be true.”

White face, painted lips, green hair.  And a laugh Jason would never be able to stop hearing.

“Learn this now, or you’ll learn it bloody and broken in a warehouse, praying as you crawl away from a bomb, when all your faith isn’t enough to save you.”

Batman had come too late.  Robin wasn’t enough to save him, and it wouldn’t be enough to save these kids.

Gotham had existed long before Batman and Robin, and it would exist years after they were gone.

“Jason Todd is dead,” Jason said harshly, retreating deeper into the alleyway, back to the fire escape, “And if you don’t stop following me, I’ll make sure you learn just how fallible you are.”

It was easy to haul himself up and clamber out of sight.  The kids remained where he left them, staring after him with expressions he couldn’t read.

Jason kept an eye out for wayward birds as he started his patrol, careful to be more discreet than he usually was.  It wasn’t easy to see Batman coming but Jason was determined not be surprised.  He’d gotten ambushed enough today.

On his sweep down Sawyer Street he boosted himself onto a low-lying wall to sneak along the back alleyway to the Park Row Memorial Orphanage.  The last time he’d checked, the kids had been settling in well, but he wanted to make sure.

The orphanage’s backyard was clean and undisturbed.  The front gate was intact and alarmed, there was a light on in the main office with the tired on-duty staff.  Jason did a slow circuit around the ground floor, careful not to get spotted, before using the drainpipes and windowsills to boost himself to the second floor.

These rooms were all dark, but there was enough ambient light to peer inside.  Most of them had their curtains open and Jason peeked into room after room of quietly sleeping children.  Nothing suspicious in sight.  He nearly finished the full circuit, swinging from windowsill to windowsill to peer inside, when he heard the sound of a window sliding open.

Jason froze.

A head peeked out from the window, looking left and right before angling down and spotting him clinging to a sill two windows away.  Jason checked the ground below—no bushes to cushion his fall—and was about to jump anyway when he realized he recognized that face.

“Twerp,” Jason greeted.

The kid scowled, though whether at the nickname or Jason’s general presence, he wasn’t sure.  “What are you doing?” he said judgingly, like he’d caught Jason dancing wearing feathers in the middle of the street.

Jason boosted himself up enough to brace a forearm on the windowsill.  “Checking up on you guys,” Jason shrugged, “How’s it going?”

Twerp’s expression changed quickly, but Jason still caught that flash of pleased surprise.  “Fine,” Twerp said casually, “This place isn’t too bad.”

“Uh huh,” Jason said dryly, “Any way I can make it better?”

Twerp wrinkled his nose, “Don’t suppose you can get rid of homework?”

Jason laughed, “You’re on your own with that one, kid.”  He dug his boots against the rough wall and swung for the next sill, bringing himself closer.  “But you need anything, let me know, okay?”

This time, Twerp didn’t try to suppress the smile.  “Whatever you say, Phoenix.”

“Oh, shut up,” Jason grumbled.  He’d reached the drain pipes again and began lowering himself down.  “Like you can come up with a better name.”

“What’s wrong with Hood?” the little twerp called out loudly as Jason dropped into the foliage, and he made a rude sign in the kid’s general direction before leaving the orphanage grounds.  At least something was going right.

Jason held on to that happy feeling all the way until he got cornered by the Grey Ghosts one street over.  “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he groaned as Rin pushed their way through the crowd to level him with a flat stare, “What is it this time?”

“You visiting the orphanage?” Rin asked, arching a single, judgmental eyebrow.

“It is in my territory,” Jason pointed out, crossing his arms and glaring at the collection of teenagers surrounding him.  He ignored the fact that at least half of them were older or taller than him.  “You have a problem with that?”

Rin’s expression became pinched and pointed.  “No,” they said, “But Batman might.”

Jason went abruptly still.

“I was talking to my sister,” they said slowly, “Said that the Bats drop by to check on the orphanage.”  Their eyes were hard and cold.  “Said they’re looking for you.”

Jason told himself to breathe.  In and out.  In and out.  They hadn’t caught him yet.  He took an instinctive glance up and everyone around him copied the movement.  The skyline was clear and unobstructed by a shadow silhouette.

“Thanks for the warning,” Jason said hoarsely.

Rin jerked their head in a sharp nod.  “Whatever beef you have with the Bat, keep it out of the Alley,” they warned, “The last time Batman was here…” they made a face, echoed by their friends.  “It wasn’t pretty.”

A snort from their audience, “That’s underselling it.  He was a maniac.”

“A fucking monster.”

“He was terrifying,” someone shuddered.

“When was this?” Jason frowned.  Everyone said that Batman never came to Crime Alley.

“About two years ago, I think,” Rin hummed, “You know, when Robin went missing.”

Chapter Text

You know, when Robin went missing.

Jason barely registered getting changed, exchanging Hood’s gear for his more unassuming civilian wear.

He was a maniac.

It was—too much.  Everything he’d heard today, every conflicting viewpoint he’d gotten, it was all too much.

When Robin went missing.

So he had—it had been noticeable.  Whenever the new kid started, people still knew that Robin had disappeared.  That Jason had disappeared.

It wasn’t pretty.

There had been regular Crime Alley patrols when Jason had been Robin.  And Jason had done his best to make them seem approachable, to get the people of the Alley to believe that they were there to help, that they weren’t the bad guys.

He was terrifying.

He got to the right building but there was no familiar sultry smirk waiting.  “Where’s Meera?” he snapped at the nearest woman, his heart pounding.

“Busy,” she said, before smiling, “I’d love to spend some time with you, if you’re looking for a change.”

“No,” Jason said tightly, “I’ll just wait.”  She laughed and turned away, used to him showing up, and Jason paced in near frenetic movements in front of the stoop, trying to control the desperation clawing him open.

When Robin went missing.

It could be nothing.  It probably was nothing.  Rin and the others would’ve just been kids at that time, repeating rumors they heard from their parents.  It was hardly the most ludicrous tale that spread through Gotham.  Certain sections still believed that Batman was a vampire and Robin his thrall.

Meera emerged after what felt like far too long, and Jason didn’t even let her complete a greeting before shouldering past her and to her room.  Meera entered more slowly, her features fixed in marked confusion.  “Hey, Jay,” she said slowly, “Everything okay?”

Jason paused in the middle of the room, overwhelmed and unsure where to start.

“You don’t usually come this late,” Meera said, crossing the room to sit on the bed.  She looked concerned.  “Did something happen?”

Too many things had happened.  “Information,” Jason seized upon the word, “I wanted information.”

“Well, that is what you pay me for,” Meera smiled, but she still looked worried, “What do you want information on?”

Jason tried to organize his jumble of thoughts and failed.  There were too many things.  Did my dad actually miss me wasn’t a question Meera could answer.

“I heard a story,” Jason said finally, “That Robin went missing a couple years ago.”  He didn’t know how to turn it into a question.

Luckily, Meera didn’t need one.  “Yeah,” she nodded, leaning back, “It was pretty noticeable.  I think there wasn’t a Robin for like half a year.”  Her expression pursed, “Well, some say he went missing and others say he died.”

“Why do they say that?” Jason asked, mouth dry.

“Batman,” Meera said quietly, “Robin’s been gone for stretches before, and there are enough stories about Robin changing physical characteristics that we know it hasn’t just been one person behind that mask.  But Batman two years ago…” she shuddered.  “It was frightening.”

Jason stayed silent as Meera crossed her arms unconsciously, like she was warding off a chill.

“It was like he’d lost it.  He was violent, and not just to the Rogues or the gangs or whatever.  It got to the point where if there was a Batman sighting, people would automatically call an ambulance.  I don’t think the Batsignal was turned on for months.”  She turned to Jason, her face wan, “When Robin appeared again, people actually cried in relief.  I’ll admit, I never believed those stories about supernatural creatures, but back then?  Batman didn’t seem human.”

The silence lingered for a couple of beats, heavy and stretching.

“So that’s why they say that Robin died,” Meera said quietly, “Because it makes sense.  If Batman lost Robin…then I can understand the darkness that was left behind.”

Jason felt like someone had scooped out his insides.  It felt like he was empty.  It felt like he was drowning.  The guttering candle of hope had been lit again, and he couldn’t, it would hurt too much if it was snuffed out again, but he couldn’t stop himself, no matter how hard he tried.  He couldn’t stop himself from clutching at every hint that—that Batman had cared.

If Batman lost Robin, then I can understand the darkness that was left behind.

It was a sign where Jason didn’t want a sign, it was a sign where Jason desperately wanted a sign.  It felt like it was burning him from the inside out and Jason didn’t know whether to fight or surrender.

“Jay?” Meera ventured hesitantly, “Are you okay?”

“No,” Jason said honestly.  Batman hadn’t immediately replaced him with a better model.  Batman had grieved so obviously that Gotham had picked up on it.  Batman had…cared.

“What’s wrong?”

What wasn’t wrong, that was the question.  There were too many pieces of the puzzle to sort out and Jason struggled to grab onto one.

“I—I met a family friend today,” Jason began haltingly, “She was sort of like an older sister to me.  She said she missed me.”  Meera looked at him expectantly.  “And I also found out that my dad adopted another kid after I—after I ran away.”

Meera sat there silently as he gathered his thoughts, poking them to figure out where it was hurting.  “I don’t—I guess I don’t understand how they missed me if they just replaced me,” Jason said in a rush, wincing when his voice cracked.  That had come out a little too raw for his liking.  “And I don’t know why it hurts so much because I was the one who left,” the words spilled out as his eyes began to prickle, “How can I even hope of going back if I’m the one who ran away?”

He ducked his head and blinked furiously, but he couldn’t stop the tears from spilling down his face.  He ended up curling his knees and burying his face against them, shaking with sobs in the corner of the bed.  His hitched breaths were the loudest thing in the room.

“Jay?” Meera’s voice was quiet, “Can I hug you?”  Jason managed to jerk his head in the semblance of a nod, and the smell of Meera’s sharp perfume tickled his nose as she slipped a slim arm around his shoulders.  “Shh,” she said quietly, tucking his head under his chin as she enveloped him in the hug, “It’s okay.  Let it out.  It’s okay to cry, Jay.  Let it all out.”

“It’s pathetic,” Jason got out, choked up.

“It’s not,” Meera said sharply, “Jay—”

“It is,” Jason cut her off, “You—you don’t understand.”  His throat had closed up, his voice painfully hoarse.  “I threw away the—the best thing I ever had.  And I—I lost it all.  I can’t just go crawling back, not when he doesn’t even care,” his voice broke.  “God, I’m pathetic.”

“You are not pathetic,” Meera said firmly.

“I am,” Jason said in a small voice, “I hate him but I just want him to love me.  How is that not pathetic?”

“Oh, Jay,” Meera tugged until she’d forced Jason to meet her gaze, “Look at me.  You are not pathetic.  You are one of the bravest people I know.  You looked at the injustice this world has to offer and decided to do something about it.  You know how many people can say the same?”

Jason stared blankly up at her, vision blurry and cheeks wet.

“And it’s not pathetic to want your family back,” Meera said softly, “I hate my parents, I hate the things they stand for, but a part of me will never stop loving them.  Will never stop wishing they turn up one day and tell me that they love me.  It’s only human, Jay.”

“I want a refund,” he said scratchily and Meera snorted.

“Fresh out of those, kid,” Meera gave him a smile, “But hey, you said your friend was happy to see you, right?”

Yeah, up until he’d revealed his murderous urges and everything had been lost.

“That was before I found out that he adopted a new kid,” Jason muttered.

“Let me guess,” Meera said dryly, “Only child?”

“What?”

“Were you an only child?” she asked, in a tone of voice that suggested she already knew the answer.

Jason scrubbed at his face to wipe away the tears.  “Maybe,” he said, half under his breath.  Dick was certainly supposed to be his older brother, but they hadn’t spent all that much time together and Dick rarely acted like Bruce was his dad.

“Parents can love more than one kid,” Meera said, gentle but firm, “Just because they have a new kid doesn’t mean they love you any less.  Younger siblings aren’t a replacement, or a do-over, or anything like that.  Children aren’t pets.”

Jason was startled into a chuckle at the thought of Bruce with birdcages of robins.

“Does that help?” Meera asked.  The lines of concern on her face hadn’t softened—it made her look much older, kind of like Bruce.  The day Jason realized that Batman was only twenty years older than him had been staggering.

Jason took a deep breath and tried to think.  His chest felt lighter, like a knot wrapped tight had finally began to loosen.  It was draining, but it didn’t feel all bad.  However, it was only now that he was realizing just how many issues he was keeping bottled up.

The new Robin—the new Robin adopted, which was a separate issue.  Barbara knowing about the bomb.  Bruce’s disappointment and suspicion, the catalyst for Jason leaving.  The Joker, still alive.  And—

“I thought he would save me,” Jason whispered.

“Your dad?”

“I—I got into trouble,” Jason said quietly, “After I ran away.”  Stupid mistakes upon stupid mistakes.  “And I thought—I hoped—I thought he’d come.  I thought he’d save me.  I just—” I died thinking he’d save me and he was too late.  “I believed he’d come,” Jason finished, voice small.

Meera was looking at him with something too raw to be pity, too angry to be mere sorrow.  “It hurts, doesn’t it,” she said softly, “To realize that our parents are merely human.”

Jason wanted to argue.  Bruce was Batman, he was the Dark Knight of Gotham, the darkness that even criminals feared, the one-man crusade to turn Gotham on a brighter path.  He wasn’t merely human, he was an idea.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it.  Batman may be an idea, but Bruce was only human.  The mythos of Batman was infinite, but the man under the mask was painfully mortal.

Bruce didn’t save Jason.  Bruce couldn’t save Jason.  Jason had died begging for his dad, and Bruce hadn’t gotten there in time.

It hurt.

“I believed he’d come until the very last moment,” Jason said hoarsely, “Even when it was too late, I thought—he’d have a trick, a plan, something, he’d be there, because he never failed before.”

Because Jason didn’t think he could fail.  Because he’d put his faith in a man that he had always seen as more than just a man.  Batman couldn’t fail.  Batman couldn’t be wrong.  Because if he could—if he could, then that was terrifying.  Gotham rested on the shoulders of a man, just as fallible as the rest of them, and the thought opened a yawning pit of terror inside Jason.

He could all too easily imagine the weight crushing Bruce.  When all it took was one lucky strike, one well-aimed bullet, one misstep.  One of his many, many enemies getting in a single good shot.

What…what if Batman had gotten there?

Jason stopped breathing.  The timer ticking down, achingly slow and yet too fast to disarm, defuse, or deflect.  Batman appearing in front of him with one second left on the clock, and Jason reaching for him, and Bruce enveloping him in a hug.

And then the bomb.  Going off.  Destroying the warehouse.  Killing both of them.

Something inside of him, automatic and visceral, screamed out NO.

“There is no one in the world that has never failed before,” Meera said quietly, “We all have setbacks.  No one’s perfect, Jay.”

Jason knew that.  He’d seen it.  His mom hadn’t been perfect, Bruce hadn’t been perfect, he was well aware that the people who loved him could let him down.  He just hadn’t…he had just held Batman to a higher standard.

He had to stop thinking that his dad was Batman.  His dad was Bruce, and Bruce occasionally wore a furry suit to go beat up criminals, but Bruce had also accidentally tried to eat a decorative fruit, and had taken Jason’s homework to work instead of his paperwork, and had overslept and missed Jason’s first theater performance.  Bruce made a face every time he drank one of his green smoothies and he’d once called Superman ‘Lois’ and he was a blanket hog.

Bruce was only human.

Bruce hadn’t saved Jason, and it hurt, it hurt so fucking much, and Jason didn’t want to let it go.  “I know,” Jason said slowly, “I—I don’t know if I can forgive him for it, not yet, but I know.  It wasn’t his fault.”

Jason didn’t know how Bruce felt.  Didn’t know if he still cared about Jason.  Sure, he had a bunch of anecdotal stories, but Jason didn’t know, and he wasn’t up to facing the man that was half fantasy and half nightmare.

But one person had sought him out, had told him that she missed him, had still wanted to talk to him.  Jason might’ve screwed the whole thing up, but he didn’t know for sure.  He could try.

Jason went to the library the next day.  His heart was pounding so loud he could hear it in his ears, but the green was nowhere to be found.  Too many conflicting emotions to latch onto rage, especially when every beat of Jason’s heart was carved from anxiety.

He headed straight to the front desk when he entered.  The red hair was unmistakable.  It felt like every step was being forced through concrete, a herculean task as he got closer and closer and closer.  Barbara was smiling at a couple of preteens with high stacks of books, and Jason felt his heart catch in his throat as he waited behind them.

Barbara’s gaze flicked up to him—and her smile froze, eyes widening.  Jason swallowed, the sounds of the library strangely muffled, and waited with a churning stomach for Babs to finish with the kids.

“I’m taking my break,” she told the dark-haired man at the other desk as soon as the preteens left.  “Come on.”—that was directed to Jason as she wheeled out from behind the desk and headed for the breakroom.  Jason followed, heart clenched painfully tight.

Babs waited until they were both inside the empty breakroom and the door was closed before turning on Jason.  “Oh thank God,” she said, her tone relieved, “I was so worried after you left!”  She was smiling at Jason, half relief and half hope.  Smiling.  At Jason.  “Are you okay?  Was it the Pit?”

Jason had to take a moment to process her words, too struck by the happiness on her face.  “I—no,” he said haltingly.  The Pit hadn’t come back—since the cafe, actually.  “I was just—I needed some space.”

“That’s okay,” Babs said immediately, gesturing for him to sit down, “You said you came back two weeks ago?  I took a lot longer than that to get adjusted to this.”  She waved at her wheelchair.  “But how are things going?  Do you need any help?”

Jason shook his head.  His eyes were prickling again and he hated it.  It felt like the green, but even worse because he had to blink furiously and clench his jaw to hold it off.  “I’m fine,” Jason said when he was no longer in danger of crying, “I’m—I’m good.  Got a place to stay and all that.”

“That’s great,” Babs said, still watching him carefully, “And Hood?  What’s that about?”

Jason shrugged, a quick up and down, keeping his gaze to the ground.  How was he supposed to explain the yawning, frustrated, desperate desire to do something, to fix things, to help, to someone who’d left the game?

“Someone needs to look out for the Alley,” Jason said simply, “For the people.”  Instead of chasing after Rogues with the whole city as collateral damage.  “I’m not—I’m not going after B, if that’s what you’re asking.”  He forced himself to meet her gaze, to show his sincerity, “The bomb was a mistake.  I won’t do it again.”

Barbara was silent for a moment, studying his face, before she broke out into a soft smile.  “Your heart was always bigger than the rest of you, Jason, no one ever doubted that.”

He bit down on his lip, his cheeks flushing.

“Here,” Babs began rooting around in her purse, “You don’t need to work in plastic masks.  I have a set of comms here, and I can get you more gear, and if you stop by the Cave—”

“No.”  Jason was on his feet and several steps back in a heartbeat.

Babs paused.  “Jason,” she said slowly, evenly, like she was dealing with a spooked horse.

Jason didn’t even realize he was shaking his head.  “I’m not—I don’t want to go back,” he said, firm and edging on vehemence, “I don’t want to see him.”  He was absolutely not prepared for that.

“Okay,” Babs said immediately, “No Cave, and no B.  I promise.  Jason—”

“I don’t—I can’t, Babs.”  The air in the room suddenly felt stifling as he gasped and gasped.  “I can’t see them again, any of them, I—” it hurts too much, I want it too much, I never want to go back, don’t make me, don’t make me, don’t make me—

“No one’s going to make you go back, Jason,” Barbara’s voice was soothing, “I promise.”  Promises could be broken, though.  Bruce had broken his promise to always protect Jason.  “Jason, can you breathe for me, please?  Deep breaths.  You can do it.”

Jason took an automatic inhale and realized he hadn’t been breathing.  One followed the other, over and over, until he was gasping and shuddering.  He realized he was curled up tight, wedged in a corner, with Babs on the ground next to him, wheelchair abandoned.

“Just breathe,” she said steadily, making no move to touch Jason, “Exactly like that.  Good job, Jason.  Keep going.”

It was painful.  It was suffocating.  But with Barbara’s low stream of soft instructions, Jason managed to regain cracked, hoarse breaths, the world bleeding in a little further with every inhale.

“I won’t tell him,” Babs said when she noticed him focusing again, “Or anyone.  Stephanie and Tim won’t either, I’ll make sure of it.  No one will force you to meet him again, I promise.”

Jason took a deep, shuddery breath.

Babs extended her arms in an unspoken gesture and Jason wasn’t thinking, he was only moving, wrapping around his older sister in the third hug he’d gotten since he returned from the dead.  Barbara still smelled of the vaguely fruity scent she’d started using after she broke up with Dick and Jason squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face against her shoulder.  She held him in a firm grip, tight and protective, and Jason let himself shake through the sobs.

“It’s okay,” Barbara’s voice was hoarse, her inhale shuddery like she was crying as well, “It’s okay, you’re back.  Everything will be okay.”

This time, he spotted the Ghosts before they spotted him.

It looked like a meeting of some sort, at least twenty Grey Ghosts in a loose circle in a back alley.  Rin was standing on the dumpster, somehow exuding intimidating vibes even though they were shorter than the two Ghosts standing behind them.  Jason was on the rooftop, too far away to hear clearly, but he could track expressions and emotions.

The Ghosts had significantly benefited from his actions.  Jason knew that the reason they kept reaching out to him was definitely selfish, they were reaping the rewards of the chaos he’d sowed in his wake.  With Falcone gone, the power vacuum in the Alley was calling to all takers, and the Grey Ghosts had taken significant advantage.

Rin was at least a lieutenant with the Ghosts.  Jason had tailed a couple of senior members, making sure that they weren’t involved in any of Gotham’s seedier crimes, before quietly withdrawing.  As much as he hated it, he couldn’t tear out all the organized crime in the Alley.  Not without building a better support structure in its place.

Besides, he liked Rin.

The crowd of black-hoodie-wearing teenagers was intent on whatever Rin was saying, expressions focused.  Jason didn’t trust them, not really, but it was apparent that screwing him over was not in the Ghosts’ best interests.  Not when he was so handily dismantling their competition for them.

Still, it was nice to keep up to date on their plots.  Jason had to be very careful, boots softly tiptoeing down the rusted fire escape, trusting the angles to conceal his descent until he reached a landing with some potted plants.

From here, he could hear what Rin was saying.

“—need the details of those shipments, Marco,” they huffed in irritation as Jason peered through the leaves, “I—”

“I’ll get them, boss, I swear!”

“This is the third time you’ve forgotten to bring them,” Rin’s expression was cold and hard, “Do not forget again.”

Marco hunched over, chastised.  “I won’t, boss, I’m sorry,” he muttered quietly.  Rin kept their gaze on him slightly longer before snapping further in the crowd.

“Sanju,” they called out, “News about the Bats.  Go.”

“Batman and Robin didn’t do any patrols of the Alley yesterday,” an older girl said, tapping through her phone.  Thank you, Babs, Jason mentally whispered.  “Spoiler did their usual weekly circuit of the Bowery.  No one’s seen Hood after he pretty much ran away from us yesterday.”

Jason—didn’t know what part of that to dispute first, he wasn’t a Bat, he hadn’t been running away, why was he stuck with that fucking name—

“He’ll turn up,” Rin snorted, “Guy’s too stubborn to quit.”

Jason glared.  He had a feeling that that was an insult.

“And that’s it,” Sanju said, lowering their phone, “No Rogue activity and Arkham’s quiet by all accounts.”

“The ripples from Falcone’s arrest are finally quieting,” someone drawled from the back, “The fucking balls on that kid, though, to go after the big fish.”

Jason was not a fucking kid.  He was seventeen!  He’d died and come back to life, that had to count for something.

“Yes, yes, fangirl over Hood on your own time,” Rin snapped and Jason almost choked.  “We have one last piece of business.”  They pulled something out from a pocket and shook it out.  “Anyone know anything about this?”

It was difficult to make it out—the object was dark and only when Rin raised it to catch the light could Jason trace the outline.  Oval, with raised bumps, and strangely familiar—

“Is that a mask?” someone asked.

The black full-face mask he’d found in the library.  The shipments.  The guns.  The bombs.

“It’s nothing I’ve seen before,” volunteered one of the older-looking Ghosts, “Not any Rogue symbol I’ve heard of.”

“Export from a different city?”

“No, the Justice League would’ve shown up.”

“If it’s a new Rogue, we’ll never know until they take the city hostage with balloons to draw out Batman or something.”

“They aren’t acting like a Rogue.”  The muttering died down to stare at the speaker.  Sanju was chewing on the end of her braid as she spoke, “Rogues don’t give a shit about the Alley.  They recruit here, sure, they stash stuff here, but their goals are always elsewhere.  East End.  The Diamond District.  Amusement Mile.”

“Yeah,” the Ghost standing next to her backed her up, arms crossed and eyes hard, “These guys are focused on the Alley.  Like they’re staking out territory.”

There was a wave of rippling laughter, along with the usual jokes about what Crime Alley dirt was worth, but Rin’s expression had gone faintly narrowed.  Concerned.

“Alright,” Rin broke up the conversation, “Great work.  You’re dismissed, get back to your stations.”  They hopped down from the dumpster and in ones and twos and groups, the Ghosts filtered out of the Alley, the sounds of conversation following them out.

Jason stayed behind the potted plants, chewing over this new information.  An unknown variable was not a good thing, especially not in the delicate and unstable mixture of chaos that was Gotham.  But Oracle knew about these new goons, which meant it was on Bat radar, which meant it was in Jason’s best interests to stay away.

Before Jason could stretch out of his hiding place, there was a scratching sound from the alleyway.  He ducked back down, watching through the leaves as the dumpster made a low groaning sound.  And opened.

Two people pushed out of the mess of garbage bags and gracefully jumped down.  They didn’t seem pleased about the stink, but the first figure nodded to the second with something approaching satisfaction.

Their faces were nothing but shadows, masks too dark to even make out.

Jason waited until they left the alley, gaze sharp and narrowed.  Turning the puzzle pieces over and over in his head, something wary settling into his gut, an instinct from the years he spent living on these streets.  The gut feeling that never served him wrong whenever shit was about to go down.

It was time to figure out what was going on with the newest players on the scene.

Chapter Text

It was so much easier to fly with a grapple gun in his hands.  Jason hadn’t realized just how much he was missing Bat tech until he was using it again.  Oracle had kept her promise and delivered a whole box of gear to Jason—domino masks, reinforced pads, smoke bombs, grapple guns and gloves, a fully stocked field kit, and so many of the minor pieces of tech that Jason had gotten used to.

No batarangs though.  Those would be a little too blatant.

The comms she’d given him were also great.  They were linked only and directly to her, and she never filled the line with chatter.  Only a check-in at the start and end of patrol, and any stray bits of information she decided to pass along to Jason.  Jason had returned the favor and passed on a few rumors of things going down in other parts of Gotham.

Jason felt only slightly guilty that he’d left the comms at home today.

2^nd Street and Deary.  That was the address he found on the paper in the library, the one piece of information he hadn’t passed onto Oracle.  Strictly speaking, this was the Bowery, several streets outside Jason’s slowly growing territory, but if these assholes were coming into the Alley, that made it Jason’s business.

He’d checked the street out in daylight, out on a casual stroll, and clocked the line of warehouses, most abandoned.  They weren’t far from the water, and docking in Somerset was technically illegal, but there was a standard set of fines to pay and the police didn’t even bother tearing down the makeshift piers anymore.

It wasn’t just the criminals—even with the fines, sneaking boats along the edge of the Bowery was far cheaper than renting a berth at Tricorner.  All sorts of goods made their way ashore here, but most didn’t stay as cargo long enough to need warehouses.

Number 1123 wasn’t more or less rundown than its neighbors.  What it did have, Jason noticed as he circled around it, sticking to the rooftops and making sure he stayed out of sight, was access to a brick-walled back alley that, due to the circuitous nature of Gotham’s older streets, twisted and turned all the way to the water’s edge.

No side streets.  No chances of anything going missing on the route from the boat to the warehouse.  And the alley itself was narrow enough to be overlooked—too narrow for any big cargo, but perfect for surreptitious unloading of supplies, like those by a gang that didn’t want to cause waves until a big reveal.

No guards outside.  No lights inside.  No sign it was occupied from the front, but there were a couple of masked goons entering through the back alley.  Jason tracked the alley in the opposite direction from the water, and it came out near the back of the library Jason had investigated on Oracle’s order.

Technically outside the geographical boundaries of Park Row, but Jason could make an argument for it being part of the Alley.

Jason stood on a rooftop overlooking the junction with the library and tried to see the bigger picture.  What strategic advantage would be gained from a goddamn library?  Like it or not, Jason had been gone too long to know the shifting undercurrents of power in this city, and in any case, he’d upset the whole apple cart with Falcone’s arrest.

And since no one else in the Alley had anything but rumors, it was time for a more personal search.

Jason landed silently on the rooftop and checked all over it.  No rooftop access hatch and no skylight, someone had done their research.  Jason had to walk halfway along the parapet before he found an exterior window high enough that he could reach it from the roof, and he was more than a little annoyed by the time he was crawling through it.

Jason unlatched and hooked his line near the window for his escape, before straightening on the narrow catwalks with a grin.  Always trust Gotham architecture to come through for them.

The warehouse was big, and in the shadows it looked bigger.  The massive hall was bisected by a wall and the catwalks didn’t cut through it.  The only doors to the other side of the warehouse were on the ground floor.

The catwalks were clearly only for the lights and once Jason had finished prowling over them, he unhooked his grapple and slowly lowered himself down.  There was no movement and no sound coming from the piles and piles of crates below him, but Jason wasn’t taking any chances.

He hadn’t forgotten that blindly walking into mysterious warehouses was what’d gotten him killed.

His boots touched the ground with a soft tap.  Pressing a button retracted the grapple’s blades, and another rewound the line in a near-silent hiss.  His mask was already enabled to focus in the low light.  Bat tech was always leagues ahead of anything on the market.

Jason took a deep breath and slipped some of the loose gravel he’d grabbed from the rooftop.  Three stones went skidding into the darkness.  One of them hit something metallic with an echoing plink.

Still no sound.

Jason straightened from his crouch and took another deep breath.  The chilling sensation of dread receded somewhat, and he turned towards the center of the warehouse.  The crates were organized into eight distinct piles and Jason pulled out his knife to crack open the nearest one.

Guns.  Only four crates in this pile, all seemed to be the same make.  The next pile had five crates, and it was all ammunition.  The third—the third pile stretched three times Jason’s height and when he cracked open one he had to fight the urge to set the warehouse on fire.

Drugs.  Of course.  With Falcone gone, and the Ghosts more in the sector of street enforcers than drug traffickers, there was a vacancy for a new drug lord.  Well, it didn’t have to be fire, but Jason definitely had the supplies to ruin the crates and he slapped one of Barbara’s new experimental acid discs on every crate he could reach.

Group number four was masks, number five was guns again, and Jason was working at a crate in the sixth group when the hair stood up on the back of his neck.

Jason didn’t let his hackles rise.  He didn’t twitch or otherwise flinch.  Instead of cracking open the crate, he drew his knife back and held it in a sturdier grip as he tried to pinpoint what had spooked him.

Was it a footfall?

The click of a safety flicking off?

The snick of a knife unsheathing?

The tick tock of a timer counting down, a scream buried in his lungs as he watched the numbers flash down and down and down—

Another whisper.  Jason tensed this time, finally able to identify the sound.  He whirled around, knife first, voice already dropped to a growl, “Would you stop following me?!”

Two short figures were staring at him, capes obscuring their outlines.  Spoiler’s dark purple cloth blended in well with the shadows where she was blocking Jason’s route to the exit, but Robin’s bright red uniform couldn’t be concealed by his dark cape where he was crouched on top of a stack of crates.  Both of them had cocked their heads in the same way, like curious little birds.

“We’re not following you,” Spoiler said, sounding deeply unimpressed, “We had no idea that you would be here.  This is a little outside your territory, isn’t it?”

“This is a Bat case,” Robin said more firmly, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Jason stared at him, struck dumb by the audacity of this kid having the sheer nerve to say that to his face.  “Really,” Jason drawled, low and rolling, “You’re going to tell me that?  Batman’s good little minion, aren’t you.”

Robin bristled.  Oh, looked like Jason had hit a sore spot there.  “No,” he said defiantly, “But it’s dangerous here, Hood.  And you don’t have backup.  O says you didn’t tell her you were going out.”

“O should mind her own business,” Jason snapped, “As should little birds.  Blondie, if you’re trying to cut me off, that isn’t going to work.  Just because I’m wearing a hood doesn’t mean I don’t have peripheral vision.”

Spoiler froze in her tracks, as though hoping to blend into the shadows.

“I don’t care what you two are doing here,” Jason said, already tired.  He felt a sudden jolt of sympathy for Dick—surely he had never been this annoying when he was a kid.  “We can go our separate ways and all get what we came here for.”  Jason would have to hurry it up, though, he didn’t want the kids looking over his shoulder the whole night.  “Capiche?”

Spoiler and Robin exchanged glances.

“Or, I guess we can fight,” Jason shrugged, “If the warehouse isn’t big enough for the three of us.”

“This is our case,” Robin repeated flatly, “It has nothing to do with the Alley.  We don’t want any interference.”

Boy, the kid had not been this sanctimonious last time.  Clearly the whole ‘locking in a cabinet’ had left a sting.

“Too bad I don’t take orders from you,” Jason said as evenly as he could, shifting into a more prepared stance, “So what’s it going to be, Boy Wonder?  Truce?”  He tracked Spoiler shifting closer.  “Or fight?”

Jason did wait for them to make the first move.  Just the first move.

He’d won one on one with Robin before, but the girl was an unknown.  Jason darted out, under Spoiler’s fist and spun out to the side.  Robin had snapped out his staff, but Jason kept dodging, keeping him at range with the lack of a longer weapon to meet the staff.

He hadn’t been lying to Spoiler, he made sure he could see his peripherals even with the hood on, and when he spotted her approach, he changed the direction of his dodge to stumble back towards her.

Trapped neatly between the two of them.

Jason switched strategies and rushed Robin instead of dodging the strike.  The kid was good, but not good enough to avoid the instinctive reaction to attack.  The strike was a decent one and would’ve caught Jason across the hip if he hadn’t ducked and threw himself into a roll.

He straightened behind Robin and watched the results.

There was a sharp shriek as Robin’s staff clipped Spoiler, and Jason threw the weighted net before either could recover.  The kids were too close to each other to dodge and Jason let a slow grin spread across his face at their muffled shouts.  The net twisted tight around them and sent them both toppling to the ground.

“Sorry, what was that?” Jason asked, looming over the two of them, “Something about how dangerous it would be?”

Spoiler wriggled furiously against the net.  Robin made an inarticulate, enraged sound.

“You two really need to learn how to work together as a team,” Jason said judgmentally, bending down to test the net’s structural integrity and attach a grapple line through a knot.  “And seriously, learn how to share.”

Jason took another look at the warehouse and gritted his teeth at missing the other half of crates.  Once the Bats got tangled in something, they made everything ten times more complicated.  Jason let out a slow breath and aimed the grapple at the nearest catwalk before being interrupted by a shout.

“Wait!” Spoiler gasped out, nearly squishing Robin as the boy tried to extract a batarang from his belt, “Oracle wants to talk to you.”

“Tell her I’ll talk when I get home,” Jason dismissed.

“She says it’s urgent.”  Jason merely glowered.  “She’s asking why you’re here.  There’s no connection to Crime Alley.”  There was a beat of silence.  “Unless there is and you haven’t told her.”

His silence was apparently enough proof.

“Wait—why didn’t you tell her, Hood—”

“You all need to get one thing through your thick skulls,” Jason growled, “I’m not a Bat.”

Not anymore.

Before either of the two little shits could retort, Jason pressed the button on the grapple and let go, smiling at the twin shrieks as the net was tugged up to the catwalk.  Then he pressed the button to detonate the acid discs, and headed to the interior doors with the low hiss of acid eating through wood.

This side of the warehouse was populated.  There were several thugs milling about, most of them wearing those black full-face masks, and a set of stairs leading to the upper floors.  Jason stuck to the shadows as he inched towards the stairs, catching snippets of conversations.

“—these things are stifling, why does everyone in Gotham need a gimmick, man—”

“—the next shipment’s going to be delayed, apparently trouble with Luthor—”

“—says Batman’s been poking around—”

“—clue what Hood’s deal is—”

“—fuck’s safe, how many vigilantes does one city—”

“—Ghosts are taking more and more control, how long should we wait—”

“—heard that Falcone’s not getting off easy—”

“—cheating with those dice, I swear—”

“—gimmicks or not, at least Black Mask’s sane, not like those Arkham lunatics—”

“—seen his fucking face?  Skin condition my ass—”

There was no one on the stairs.  Jason carefully crept across the deserted second floor, but he found no clues.  This didn’t look like a permanent base, merely a temporary unloading point, and the third floor was empty too, all but abandoned.

The fourth floor, however, had guards.

Jason used a flashbang on the stairwell and hid in the shadows as the guards stomped forward.  They all came marching down to the third floor, guns raised and situational awareness poor, and Jason silently slipped up the stairs while their backs were still turned.  Where there were guards, there was treasure.

Metaphorically speaking.

Jason grinned when the first door past the landing led into an office.  Jackpot.  There was no need to search for hidden safes, not in a decrepit warehouse on the edge of the Bowery, and Jason quickly rifled through the papers on the desk, looking for something suspicious.

There were a few scattered business cards on the desk.  Jason picked one up and—froze.  There was an imperceptible stillness in the air, an absence of sound that would send a shiver down the spines of anyone up to no good.

The last time Jason had felt it, he’d been twelve years old and hard at work at tire robbery.  The night had been freezing, his fingers nearly numb where they’d clutched the tire iron, dread sinking deep in his gut as he looked up and up and up.

He didn’t have to look so far up anymore.  But the dread was the same.

“Red Hood,” Batman growled, filling the doorway of the room.  Shit.  Jason’s heart was pounding so fast it sounded like drumbeats.  “What are you doing here?”

Jason couldn’t move.  Jason couldn’t speak.  Jason couldn’t breathe.

Batman took a step forward and Jason instinctively flung himself back, fingers clenching tight into wavering fists.  Batman—stopped, the same way he’d stopped for a twelve-year-old street rat that had flinched when cornered, and the hard line of his jaw seemed softer than Jason had built up in his head, and something about that low growl still meant safety to him—

Jason threw the smoke bomb he’d slipped out of his pocket, and ran for it.

The office didn’t have a window but the end of the hallway did and he ducked low and sprinted past Batman to get to the door.  Jason didn’t bother going for his grapple or readying a line, the smoke wouldn’t distract Batman for long, he merely slid through the window and grabbed for the first handhold he saw.

It was not so much a chase as a flight, sprinting across rooftops and hearing the rustle of Batman’s cape.  Jason was once a Robin, these were his old stomping grounds, and so after what felt like an eternity but couldn’t have been more than five minutes, Jason found himself hanging beneath a gargoyle, hands gripping the owl’s feet, feet braced against brick, and body tucked into the shadow of the owl’s half-extended wings.

The hiding spot fit a lot different at seventeen than it had at fifteen.

Jason heard the wind flapping through the cape, heard boots skidding on gravel.  Heard the sounds getting more and more distant.  Heard the silence stretching, the city noise slowly filtering back in over his pounding heartbeat.

When Jason finally managed to crawl back up, shaking from head to toe, he realized the crumpled business card had gotten stuck in the sleeve of his hoodie.  He smoothed it out to read it.

Janus Cosmetics: Roman Sionis, Owner and CEO.

Chapter Text

“Are you okay?” was the first thing he heard when he turned the comm on.  Oracle sounded frazzled.  “What happened, Hood?  I’ve gotten conflicting reports from three different people.”

Jason, sitting in the corner of his bedroom with his elbows braced against his knees, took a deep, shaky breath.  Every light in his apartment was on, as though the shadows wouldn’t be able to find him in the bright, artificial yellow light.

“Hood?” Oracle asked, softer, “What’s going on?”

Another deep breath.  It cracked halfway through.  His mind kept skittering back to the image of Batman looming in the doorway, big and present and right there, close enough to touch.  His nightmares and his dreams, all wrapped up with a cowl and a cape.  Stuck between contradictory responses, Jason had chosen the option he was best at, and fled.

“Jay?” Oracle asked quietly, “Jay, talk to me.”

Jason swallowed.  “Did he follow me?” Jason asked in a small voice.  He was absolutely not prepared for a confrontation.  Not now.

“No,” Oracle said immediately, “He lost your trail after ten minutes and headed back to Robin and Spoiler.  I told him I’d take point on looking for you.”

Jason made a harsh, unamused chuckle, “And he took that lying down?”  Batman was paranoid and controlling, there was no way he wouldn’t hunt Jason down.

“There’s a Justice League emergency,” Oracle said, “He’ll be gone at least through the weekend, and I’ll find something to distract him with when he comes back.  I made you a promise, Hood, and I’m going to keep it.”

Jason exhaled, slow and shaky.  The part of him that was still the street kid shivering in a hidey-hole told him he was stupid to even consider trusting anyone.  The teenager that had died screaming in a warehouse told him that faith wouldn’t save him.

Robin smiled sadly at him, and asked him what he was fighting for, if it wasn’t hope and trust and safety and kindness.

“Okay,” Jason said quietly.  He took a deep breath.  “I used the tech you gave me—he’s going to be suspicious—”

“Robin and Spoiler already told him that you stole that stuff from them,” Oracle cut him off.

Jason blinked.  “What?  Why?”  He knew Batman, knew that the kids were in for some serious lectures with that lie, especially after Jason left them tied up in a net.

Oracle blew out an exasperated breath, “Is it that difficult to believe that we’re on your side, Hood?”

“I’m pretty sure Robin and Spoiler would rather strangle me than save me,” Jason pointed out, “We’re not exactly friendly.”

Oracle was silent for a long, stretching moment, long enough that Jason half-thought she’d gotten disconnected.  “Jay,” she said finally, “I know you’ve been back for almost three weeks.  But for the rest of us, it’s been nearly two years.”  Jason tensed—he didn’t like the reminder, and he didn’t know where Barbara was going with this—“They grew up watching you as Robin,” Oracle said softly, “Annoyed or not, you’re still their hero.  You think they’re going to choose Batman over you?”

Jason didn’t—

Jason—

His face was burning and he knew if he checked it, it would be a flaming red—

Being locked in a cabinet and being yelled at and being tied up in a net hadn’t damped the hopeful tilt to their voices, and it felt like that moment when he realized that people were dyeing their hair for him, to conceal him, to help him without being asked.

He wrestled his emotions down before the hitch to his breath could turn to prickles in his eyes.  “Oh,” Jason cleared his throat.  He had to scramble for something to say, “How are you planning to distract him?”

“I was thinking of throwing him at this new gang, but apparently you’ve staked your claim,” Oracle said dryly.  Jason winced.  “Mind telling me why you didn’t mention they were on your radar?”

“It’s just—rumors,” Jason exhaled, “And I caught them stalking some Alley gang members.  I don’t think this is a Rogue, O.  I think it’s a takeover.”

There was a sharp, tense silence.  “That…makes sense,” Oracle said tersely, accompanied by the sound of keys clacking, “They’ve been going out of their way to hide under Batman’s radar, to stick to the parts of the city that he visits the least, and—the meeting in Tricorner.  This has been going on for a while.”

“And then I got rid of Falcone,” Jason said slowly, “And they ramped up their operations.”

“Yes,” Oracle said, “Taking advantage of the power vacuum.  This is—this isn’t good.”  No shit, Jason bit back.  The Alley was his.  “Did you get anything from the warehouse?”

“They’re smuggling in drugs and guns,” Jason volunteered, “I destroyed some of their supplies, but most has already left the warehouse in my opinion.  Whatever they’re planning, it’s going to happen soon.  In the next couple of weeks.”

“Fantastic,” Oracle sighed.  Her next words were muttered, but they came clear through the comm, “Does this city never fucking stop?”

“I think you’re asking the wrong person,” Jason said dryly.  He let his head thud back against the wall, staring at the opposite wall, strangely comforted by the warm yellow light and Oracle’s voice in his ear.

The business card was still in his hand, creased from how many times he’d crumpled it.

“I found a card in the office,” Jason said quietly, “Roman Sionis, Janus Cosmetics.  Mean anything to you?”

“Roman’s a nasty piece of work,” Oracle replied immediately, “Gotham old money.  Gotham blood money.  And he’s got an interesting skin condition that’s turned his face leathery and dark and oddly skull-like, like he’s wearing a—”

“Black Mask,” Jason finished.  The last piece of the puzzle, fitting neatly into place.

“His company’s been investigated for shady dealings in the past, but this is the first time he’s made an outright play for Gotham drug lord,” Oracle said, “Guess he got tired of playing the middleman.”

“Janus Cosmetics,” Jason pursed his lips, “That sounds like a great place to conceal drugs.  Where are the headquarters?”

“The East End,” Oracle said, before more typing ensued, “Huh.  Between the library and the office building, I’d say Sionis is trying to pincer Crime Alley.”

“Like hell he will,” Jason growled, “Send me the address.  I’ll go figure out what he’s up to tomorrow.”  He stretched up to his feet and double-checked the night sky outside before shuffling through his apartment to turn off the unnecessary lights.

He paused when he realized that the silence had stretched.

“Oracle?”

“I don’t want you looking by yourself,” Oracle said slowly.

“O—”

“We—I just got you back,” Oracle said softly, talking over him, “Jay, please.  You need backup.”

“I am not babysitting a couple of snot-nosed kids,” Jason snapped.

“Not the kids,” Oracle agreed, “B doesn’t let them out when he’s not home.”  So he did learn a lesson, the darker part of Jason’s mind seethed.  “I’ll call someone from out of town.”

“Who?” Jason asked suspiciously.

More silence.

“Oracle, I swear—”

“Just to watch your back—”

“I told you, I don’t want to see them—”

“I won’t tell him who you are!  He doesn’t need to know, Hood, I’ll send you a voice modulator, and he won’t ask questions, I swear.”  Babs sounded desperate.  “Please, Jay.  This is bigger than you can take on by yourself.  Please let me call him in.”

Jason clenched his jaw so tight something popped.  His breaths were low and ragged.  He wanted to—he wanted to scream at her, to shout and rage and do it all by himself because no one in the world could be trusted, he knew that, he’d learned that painful lesson years ago—

“Fine,” Jason ground out, seeing a timer counting down behind his closed eyelids, “Call the birdbrain.  But this is my case and he has to follow my lead.”

“Of course, Hood,” Oracle said, professional again with a hint of satisfaction.  Jason turned off the comm and threw it at the wall with a snarl.

It didn’t even do him the courtesy of breaking.

“I changed my mind,” Jason said into the comm a day later, “I don’t want him here.  Make him go away.”

“Hood,” Oracle’s voice dripped with exasperation, connection echoey and scratchy, “He hasn’t even seen you yet.”

“Yeah, well, I can see him and I don’t want to meet him.”  Nightwing was perched on a rooftop opposite Janus Cosmetics, running through a set of stretching exercises.  The sight of the blue bird splashed across his uniform was making Jason’s stomach churn.

This isn’t going to work, a voice in his head insisted, he’s going to take one look and know it’s you, he’s going to be so disappointed, he’ll hate you.

“Hood,” Oracle said flatly, “Get off your butt and go say hi.”

“But—”

“Hood,” and it was unfair that she could still make him feel like a chastised child.

“Fine,” Jason snapped, aiming his grapple gun at the water tank, “But I’m not going to be nice to him.”

“Trust me,” Oracle said dryly, “I had absolutely no expectations of that.”  Jason growled, which came out nice and satisfyingly rumbly through the voice modulator clipped to his neck.

He took a deep breath and pressed the button.

His stomach churned violently through the short flight, the way it hadn’t done since his very first time using the grapple, and Jason had to take a couple of seconds to not puke when he landed on the rooftop.

“Hey,” came the steady voice, too familiar and too painful, “You must be Hood.”

Jason turned.  From a distance, Nightwing had looked the same as he always did, the untouchable, golden, gleaming ideal that the second generation of heroes tried so desperately to live up to.  Closer, Jason could see that his face had grown older, harder, there was something guarded about his features, a mask behind his mask.

“Nightwing,” Jason said hoarsely, and the voice modulator did its job.  Nightwing didn’t make even the most minute of double-takes as his head tilted, undoubtedly scanning over Jason, the hoodie, the domino mask, the gas mask he retrofitted to conceal the lower half of his face and hide the voice modulator because he was not taking any chances, not with Nightwing.

The kids knew.  Babs knew.  But Jason could take them all in a fight, could outrun them, could disappear if it got to be too much.  But Nightwing?  No, Jason had no illusions about his ability to defeat Nightwing.

“Looks like we don’t need introductions,” Nightwing smiled.

The smile was colder.  No.  Emptier.  No.  It was the difference between the warmth of bright sunlight shining down and the eerie awe of viewing the sun in space, less muted and all the more frightening for it.

“I was surprised to hear of a new vigilante in Gotham,” Nightwing said lightly, “But I suppose they’re crawling out of the brickwork now.”  A deliberate stab for more information.

“If you have an issue working with me, you can leave,” Jason said bitingly, “This isn’t your city, Nightwing.”

That…might’ve come out with more personal bitterness than Jason intended.

Nightwing merely raised his hands, still smiling, “That isn’t what I said.  Can’t blame me for being curious.  The new, mysterious Red Hood.”

“I didn’t chose the fucking name, okay, if that’s what’s got your panties twisted in a bunch,” Jason snapped, “Are we going to go in or do you want to play twenty questions first?”

Nightwing tilted in his head in what could’ve been an apology, stepping aside and turning to look at the building.  Jason took a deep breath, tried to ignore the twisting anxiety inside of him, and stepped up to the ledge.

“I’m assuming Oracle already briefed you,” Jason said gruffly.

“Roman Sionis, Black Mask, takeover of Crime Alley,” Nightwing recited easily, “We’re here to check out the building, find out if he’s hiding something here, plans, gear, all that jazz.  Am I missing anything?”

“No,” Jason said shortly, “You follow my lead.”

“Got it, boss,” Nightwing said with half a laugh, and Jason hated how the sound trickled down his spine.

“Alright,” Jason growled, aiming his grapple gun, “Come on.”

As much as he’d dreaded it, he’d forgotten how easy it was to work with someone who had the same skillsets he did.  To let Nightwing eel down the building with a grace that made it look like he didn’t know what gravity was, to lean down to the now-open window and put his faith in Nightwing’s grip to pull him inside.  To automatically shift into position as both of them crept through the shadows and split up to search down the hallways.

“You know, there’s something about abandoned office buildings that’s always rubbed me the wrong way,” Nightwing hummed through the comms.  Jason was checking the cabinets for any interesting information, “It’s just so creepy and quiet.”

“Did you want to do this in broad daylight, with people around?” Jason asked, slamming the cabinet closed and moving to the next one.

“And give up—crrt—that we’re all vampires?” Nightwing gasped loudly, voice cutting in and out with a crackle, “Of course not!”

Jason rolled his eyes.  “I’m pretty sure vampires aren’t afraid of liminal spaces.”

“…What is that?”

Jason aimed a glare in the general direction of Nightwing, even though he was on the other side of the floor with several closed doors between them.  “Liminal spaces, birdbrain,” Jason snapped, “In-between spaces.  Like empty buildings or abandoned parking lots.”

“I didn’t know—shkt—it had a name.”

Jason made a very familiar wordless sound of frustration.  Dick Grayson had a talent for inspiring it, and his skills hadn’t rusted during Jason’s death.  “Maybe try cracking open a book every now and again,” Jason said snidely, turning back to the files.

Nightwing chuckled, the sound coming out strange and stifled.  “Anything on your end?” he asked, voice quieter.

“Nope,” Jason huffed out sharply, closing the cabinet, “Next floor it is.”

They ran into trouble when they got to the basement.  Jason wasn’t about to trust the comm connection, not when it kept fizzling out, and instead of splitting up they stayed together on the lower floors.  This proved to be a wise decision when they walked around a corner and straight into a pair of startled guards.

“Whoops,” Nightwing said.

“So much for quiet,” Jason grumbled.

Jason had forgotten how Nightwing moved, all show and flips and acrobatic twists that looked pretty until he snapped a kick into a jaw with enough force to knock both men out cold.  “Ah well,” Nightwing said, straightening up from the two quietly whimpering bodies on the ground, “We couldn’t be quiet forever.”

Jason was very glad that his mask covered his gaping mouth.  Jesus fuck he didn’t need the reminder of just why Nightwing was one of the most dangerous vigilantes alive.  He was abruptly very glad they were on the same side.

“Coming?” Nightwing said at the end of the hall, head tilted back with that ever-present smile, and Jason suppressed the part of him that was still a twelve-year-old staring in awe and hurried after him.

Unfortunately, the guards had set off the alarm and there were a lot more people in the basement.

Nightwing took point, leaping into the fray and using shelves and walls and occasionally his own enemies as springboards, escrima sticks lashing out to the sounds of cracking bones and the sizzle of electricity.  Jason brought up the rear, examining the products on the shelves, rifling through stray papers, memorizing chemical names in between punching people in the face.

Something about this purchase order was niggling at him—

There was a low grunt and a harsh shriek as a writhing guard threw Nightwing off.  Nightwing hit the shelf with a crash, one escrima stick skidding across the room to slide against Jason’s boots, and the other guard started for the dazed vigilante.

Jason didn’t think, he moved, entrained to the rhythm of fighting with a Bat.  It took less than a second to snatch the escrima stick off the floor, even less to jab the button twice to engage the taser mode, and Jason darted forward to jam the prongs against the guard’s neck, dropping him before he could reach Nightwing.

The room fell silent.  Jason turned in a slow circle, breathing hard and scanning for more opponents.  The guards were all on the floor, twitching or moaning faintly, and Nightwing was slowly picking himself off the shelf.

His expression was eerily blank.

“Thanks for the assist,” Nightwing said evenly, proffering an empty hand.  Jason stared at it for a stretching moment before he understood.  Flushing, he slapped the escrima stick back into Nightwing’s hand.

“Yeah, whatever,” Jason muttered under his breath, going back to scanning the papers.  Where was that—there.  A shipment for carbogen tanks, supposed to be arriving next week.

“Find anything?” Nightwing said, peering over his shoulder at the papers.

“Maybe.  Know any reason why a cosmetics company needs so much carbogen?”  Jason turned to see Nightwing’s expression go hard.

“Fear toxin,” the vigilante growled.

“Aerosolized fear toxin,” Jason corrected, because carbogen in Gotham meant only one thing.  “But Scarecrow’s still in Arkham, isn’t he?”

“It wouldn’t matter.  There are vats of the stuff all over Gotham, he never keeps all his eggs in one basket,” Nightwing growled, “All Black Mask would’ve had to do is stroll in Arkham and ask nicely.”

Jason stared at the papers.  He remembered the first time Gotham had been blanketed by fear toxin, he remembered clinging to his mom as she made him breathe through a wet towel, hearing the screams and crashes and sounds of people terrified out of their goddamn minds as the whole city devolved into a hallucinatory riot.  He remembered the way the sky was too blue and the sun too bright the morning after, washing everything out until it seemed oddly colorless.

And now Black Mask wanted a rerun with Crime Alley.

On the face of it, it was elegantly simple.  Gas the whole neighborhood—setting off no alerts or alarms, because Crime Alley was rarely patrolled by Bats and cops alike—march in with guns and gas masks, and destroy the opposition while they were too out of their minds to notice.  By the time the gas wore off, Black Mask would be sitting pretty on his throne.

Jason didn’t realize he was crumpling the paper until Nightwing made a sharp sound.  He gripped it harder, watching it tear under the force as green covered his vision.

“No,” came out, heavy and dark, and Jason didn’t recognize the growl, “No.  I won’t let him.  Not my fucking city.”  Nightwing easily moved out of the way as Jason stomped towards the door, expression a slight frown.  “We’re going to find that fear toxin and destroy it.”

He left no room for argument.  Oracle and Nightwing couldn’t stop him.  He was doing this, with or without their help.

“Okay,” Nightwing fell in step with him, voice steady and reassuring, “Where to, Hood?”

There was no way Black Mask would’ve left the fear toxin in that warehouse.  Too unsecured, too much a risk.  He would want it somewhere he controlled, somewhere he would be sure that no one could get it.  And this building really did have a high number of guards.

It took them fifteen minutes to comb the lowest level of the basement and find the trapdoor that led to the underground cavern.  Because nothing in Gotham was complete without a trip to the sewers.

“How original,” Nightwing said, nose wrinkled, as they stared down from the catwalk to the vats of the liquid below them, the laboratory, the vials and boxes and chemicals carefully labelled and packaged.  Jason gave an answering snort to the tune of we’ve been around this block before.  “Seriously, this guy is just picking things out of the playbook.”

“He’s not the first copycat,” Jason said, heading for the stairs, “And he won’t be the last.”  Black Mask needed a lesson in why the Rogues’ plans always failed.

A timer ticked down behind his eyes and Jason missed a step.

Almost always.

“Where are you going?” Nightwing whispered, the spindly stairs groaning slightly as they crept down, “We have to have set off at least twenty alarms.  We know where the fear toxin is, now it’s time to leave.  We’re not prepared for an all-out firefight.”

“They’re going to move the fear toxin,” Jason countered, “You’re right, now they know we’re on to them, and unless we act, we’ve lost the element of surprise.  You can leave if you like, but I’m not going anywhere until I destroy all of this.”

Nightwing made a sharp, frustrated sound.  “The both of us aren’t going to be enough,” he argued, “Look, just wait a couple days, Batman will be back soon—”

“No!”  Jason whirled around to face Nightwing, anger and fear twisted together in equal measure.  “No,” he said, quieter and harsher, watching the surprise on Nightwing’s face harden to cool blankness.  “I’m not going running for help.  And I’m not leaving.”

“Hood—”

“Some of us don’t have the luxury of waiting around for a paranoid asshole in a Batsuit,” Jason hissed, and it crackled through his voice modulator.  Some of us learned that lesson the hard way.

Nightwing’s expression was coldly, carefully controlled.  “Oracle said you needed backup.”

“Oracle is a nosy, interfering busybody,” Jason snapped back, “I don’t need a babysitter, and I certainly don’t need the Bats.”  He turned his back on Nightwing and continued his descent, ending the conversation as sharply as he could.

Nightwing didn’t say anything after that, but Jason heard the shadow of his footsteps following him all the way down the creaky stairs.  The laboratory was clearly makeshift, rolling shelves and dividers to separate areas from each other, and very clearly empty.  There was dim emergency lighting along the dividers but the cavern was dark and gloomy and the air hung heavy.

Jason readjusted his mask and took a deep breath, stale and damp and faintly acidic.

“Do you have any neutralizers?” Jason asked.  There were two huge vats of fear toxin, not counting the vials of the stuff in the middle of being packaged.

“Enough for that much fear toxin?” Nightwing asked skeptically, “Tell me where exactly on my uniform you think I could’ve possibly fit that.”

Jason blew out a sharp breath.  That Gotham’s sewers were contaminated, everyone knew, but Jason didn’t want to dump two vats of this stuff into the water supply.  Destroying the carbogen tanks to prevent this stuff from being aerosolized was the best option, except the carbogen tanks weren’t here yet.

“Okay,” Jason said, “Can you look at this stuff and see if you can synthesize something quick?  If it’s not a new formula, you should be able to come up with something right?”  Nightwing’s expression was still deeply incredulous.  “Anything—even a little bit—would help.”

“There’s no way that the supplies here are enough to neutralize all the fear toxin, but I can try,” Nightwing said finally, “What are you going to do?”

“Destroy the delivery mechanisms.”  Black Mask had to use something to blanket Crime Alley with the toxin, and the stacks of boxes looked incredibly suspicious.  “Work fast,” Jason said before he slipped away, “We don’t know how much time we have.”

The comms had zero connectivity down here and the silence made the whole place creepier.  It was eerie, listening to faint splashes and squelches, the sound of droplets falling, along with faint hisses and quiet clinking from Nightwing’s direction.  Jason crept around the shelves, checking every box he passed, marking down which ones of them had fear toxin vials.

He found the smoke canisters on the third shelf.

These were easy to render useless.  Jason went through each box, meticulous and efficient, removing the pins from each one before putting them back exactly where he found them.  Hopefully, by the time they decided to use them, it would be too late to realize they were defunct.  Maybe they’d even gas themselves if Jason was lucky.

Jason had gotten through all but one box when he heard the echoes of distant shouts and the clatter of boots on metal.  “Hood?” Nightwing called out, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to carry.  Jason cursed under his breath and shoved the box back.

“Tell me you have something,” Jason snarled when he reached the older vigilante’s side.  There was a whole collection of test tubes and beakers in front of him, along with a sheaf of paper with scrawled equations.

“Here,” Nightwing handed him three beakers, all orange-red, all nearly full.  “I’ll take one vat, you take the other.  Drop them as close to the center as possible, this stuff will turn to acid when combined and a leak is the last thing we want right now.”

“Copy that,” Jason grabbed the beakers from Nightwing, careful not to let them slosh over, and headed for the vat closest to the stairs.  From above, there was a shout and a growing uproar—they’d been spotted.

The vat was taller than him and Jason couldn’t climb and hold onto to open beakers at the same time.  Leaving all but one tucked against the bottom, sheltered from view of the catwalks and the thugs pouring down the stairs, Jason jumped for the edge of the vat and hauled himself up one-handed.

He threw the beaker dead center and watched it sink below the surface of the toxin.

“Hey!” came the shouts, getting closer and louder, “Those’re the Bats!”  Excuse him.  “Get them!”

Gunshots echoed wildly, the noise more confusing than the actual fire, and Jason ducked behind the vat before he determined that their aim was wildly off.

Second beaker.  Another one-handed pull-up to the edge of the vat, ignoring the way it shuddered, holding his breath as he threw the beaker.  This time it sloshed a little further away from the center and Jason winced.

The surface of the toxin was beginning to bubble.  He could smell the familiar, astringent, choking sensation as the filters of his gas mask failed and he ripped it off entirely.

“What are they doing?”

“I don’t fucking know!”

“Get them away from that stuff!”

“Get down faster, you idiots!”

Third beaker.  This time, the vat groaned alarmingly as he swung his weight up and Jason hastily let go.  The sound of gunfire was accompanied by the rat-tat-tat of semi-automatic weapons and Jason backed up another two steps, eyed the vat, and threw the beaker.

It swung in a perfect arc to splash in the middle of the vat.

Mission accomplished, he grinned.  Jason glanced at the stairs, their entry and what was to be their exit if it wasn’t absolutely choked with thugs, and ducked when the bullets swung his way.  Crap.  He needed to find Nightwing and find an alternate way out.  Maybe grapple, if he could aim it just right—

Jason, ducked behind a shelf to hide him from the gunfire, jerked back when the bullets pinged off the metal, right next to him, strafing the entire shelf.  He ducked immediately, covering his head, but that didn’t help when the entire thing groaned and swayed and dumped several boxes on top of him.

The sound of shattered glass joined the gunfire as Jason threw caution to the wind and shoved the boxes off, dampness snaking down his face, heading for the last place Nightwing was supposed to be.  He smelled it a second before he saw it, the tiny X mark Jason had scrawled into every box that contained fear toxin vials.

Jason wiped his face off with his hoodie but the damage was already done.  His breaths were getting shorter and higher, he stumbled on his next step as the cavern wavered around him, and curling dread twisted to something sharper and darker and heavier.

He took another choked, strangled breath, and everything went foggy.  Jason tried to keep moving forward but the world was spinning around him now, darkness closing in, his heart beating in his ears, terrified and loud and too much.

He thought he could hear someone screaming his name before the fear swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

He was in a cave.  There was stone, stone everywhere.  His lungs weren’t working, his mouth wouldn’t move, no matter how hard he strained, he couldn’t reach out.

There was a woman.  There was a woman holding his hand.  She had bright blonde hair and gleaming green eyes and she drew him deeper and deeper and deeper.  “It’s okay,” she said, and he believed her.  “You’ll be safe,” she said, and he believed her.  “This is the only way,” she said, and he believed her.

He was drowning.  The green was everywhere, everywhere, filling his nose and trickling down his throat and piercing through his eyes and twisting-turning-remaking.  It hurt.  It burned.  It destroyed him from the outside in and then the inside out and he could feel it rewriting every cell in his body, replacing him completely and utterly.

He woke up.  In a body not his own.  The woman was holding out a hand.  “It’s okay, Jay-lad,” came the soothing voice, and Jason trusted it.

That was when the laughter started.

“No—fuck, wake up, you need to wake up, Little Wing, please, please wake up—”

The world was spinning.  Swinging.

“—don’t know, I don’t have any antidotes on me—”

Gunshots.  Loud and echoey.

“—later, right now I need to get him somewhere safe—no, Jaybird, stop—”

“Mom?”

She was cold.  So, so cold.  He could see the blue veins crisscrossing her pale skin, wriggling like worms come to life.  She smiled at him, and her lips were outlined in red, red blood.  “Jason,” she said, and she was holding a gun, and Jason fled.

Gotham towered above him, dark and monstrous, a sky as black as pitch and roads teeming with death.  Hands snatched at him amidst the gunshots and screams and the cruel, cruel laughter ringing above it all.

There was a light, a dim, battered streetlight, and Jason was standing right underneath it.  His clothes were ripped and too tight and there were hundreds of eyes watching, in the darkness beyond his patchy circle of light.  There were hounds baying in the distance and when Jason looked up, he saw the symbol in the sky, the grotesque bat shining against the heavens.

The streetlight went out.

Smiles popped up around him, one by one by one, wider and wider and wider, and the eyes were green and there was nowhere to run and they were everywhere.

Jason screamed.  It didn’t make them stop.

A swooping sensation curling through his stomach.  Wind against his bare face.

“—shh, Jaybird, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s not real—”

A sickly, roiling feeling crawling up out of his throat and dripping past his lips, hot and wet and awful.

“—we’re almost there, almost home, it’s okay, hold on—”

A steel band wrapped around his chest, and he couldn’t breathe—

The Bat was standing above him.  Jason’s hands were empty and the Batmobile was in pieces and the Bat loomed above him, a monster made of monsters, darkness and destruction.  The Dark Knight of Gotham.

“Did you do it.”

It wasn’t a question.  It was a pronouncement.  It was a verdict and Jason was guilty, there wasn’t going to be a trial, justice had spoken and it didn’t care for what he had to say.

“Did you kill him?”

There was a body hanging from a noose.  There was a body hanging from a noose and it was all wrong, limbs dangling limply and neck broken and dead dead dead.

“Robin, did you do it.”

The end of the noose was in Jason’s hands.  He looked down, and it changed to a tire iron.  He looked up and it was a crowbar.

The judgement in Batman’s gaze stole the breath from his lungs.

“Murderer.”

No matter how far he ran, how quickly, how desperately, he couldn’t escape the crime.  Judgement had been passed and justice was coming.  Jason couldn’t outrun it.  His steps faltered as the sobs started and he dropped to his knees in surrender.

There was sand underneath his fingers.

“—got the antidote—Jason, Jay, please, stop fighting me—”

No.  No needles.  No no no no nononononono—

“I’m sorry, Little Wing.”

A sharp prick and the scream tore from his throat, terror and betrayal and shock.

“Shh.  It’s okay now.  Just breathe.”

There were fingers combing through his hair.  Soft and gentle.  Like his mother—

His mother smiled and extended her hand.  Jason wasn’t a fool, he could see the sharp edges to her face, the glint in her eyes.  He knew she was lying.

Jason was a fool, he followed her anyway.

“It’s okay,” she said, soft and throaty, “He’s gone.  It’s okay, it’s just us.”

He wanted so desperately to believe it was true.

“Ha ha ha ha—” there were too many of them, too many surrounding them, and a figure stepping out of the shadows—“A little bird, far away from his nest.”

She was pointing the gun at him now.  “I’m sorry,” she lied, no remorse on her face, “This was the only way.”

Something in Jason—the last vestiges of hope, of faith, of belief in something better—shattered.

Robin was magic.

But even magic runs out.

The Joker raised the crowbar and Jason felt every fucking blow.  Every lance of pain as the sharp edges scored his skin.  Every explosion of agony as the metal broke bones.  The heavy feeling of suffocation as his rib punctured a lung.  The torture of watching his mother watch him get brutalized, expression blank and cigarette at her lips.

“Which hurts more?”

His heart.  His heart, broken too many times for him to fix.  His heart, lying scattered in pieces.

“A?  Or B?”

He was dying.  He knew he was dying.  He could feel it.  Feel himself slipping away.

“Forehand or backhand?”

The timer was counting down, seconds slipping through Jason’s fingers.  He tried.  He really did.  He tried.  He tried so hard to save himself, to free his mother, to yank at a locked door with broken fingers before he accepted his fate.

It was too late.

“Tell the big man I said hello.”

In that final second, Jason wondered who he meant.  Batman?  Or the Devil?

Did it make a difference?

He felt the fire searing across his skin, boiling him from the inside out with that last gasp of ash-choked air.  He felt the cold, cruel, torturous agony of his soul being ripped from his body.  He felt himself fall.

Everything was black.  Unending.  An expanse that made him feel so enormously insignificant something inside him shriveled when he tried to comprehend it.

“—it’s okay.  It’s not real.  You’re okay.  You’re okay.”

He was choking.  Gasping.  There was no air, his lungs weren’t working, there was no air—his fists hit something that sounded like wood—wait—what was he wearing—where was he—

“You’re alive.”  Tears splattering on his skin.  “Oh, Jaybird, Little Wing, you’re alive.”

That was dirt, beneath his fingers.  That was a box, he was trapped in.  He kicked and punched and fought, panic and desperation and dread, what was going on, what was happening, no, please, make it stop.

“Thank you.”  The words were choked and cracking.  “Thank you so much for coming back.”

He dug himself free, mud squelching between his fingers, rain beating fiercely down.  Lightning cracked across the sky, thunder booming soon after, and in that instant of clarity, he saw the words engraved on smooth, gleaming stone.

Here lies Jason Todd.

The darkness closed in.

Jason woke to the distinct, overwhelming sensation that he’d been run over by a truck.  Every part of his body was sore, his stomach was turned inside out and gnawing on his bones, his chest felt like an elephant was sitting on him, and when he tried to swallow his mouth both tasted like death and felt like someone had sandpapered his throat.

He made an inarticulate groan and tried to move a hand, half expecting to find himself inside a dumpster.  Instead, his arm hit something soft and prying his eyes open netted him a blurry visual of something that looked like a couch.

Jason exhaled and tried to not sound like a dying whale.  Rubbing to clear his eyes took longer than he expected and the world slowly returned to clarity as Jason stared up at a plain white ceiling.

“How are you feeling?” came from the other side of the room in a cool, familiar voice and Jason suppressed his groan as he twisted to look at Nightwing.

“Like crap,” he rasped, sounding like a rusty, broken chainsaw as he squinted at the doorway.  And froze.

The blue-and-black suit was gone, replaced by sweatpants, a tank top, no mask.  And a stern expression.  Jason tried and failed to swallow.  Dick Grayson met his gaze calmly.

Jason reached up to his face and found a lack of his gas mask, domino mask, and voice modulator.  His hoodie was gone too, his belt, his boots, all his gear, even the comm in his ear.  Instead, he was wrapped in a bright blue-and-red Wonder Woman blanket.  Jason squinted at it.  A familiar Wonder Woman blanket, one he distinctly remembered purchasing for a birthday gift.

Jason slowly dragged his gaze back up to Dick.  “Who told you?” he asked hoarsely.

“Did you really think I couldn’t recognize my own brother?” Dick raised an eyebrow.

Jason flushed.  He debated the merits of denying it, but his head was killing him and he didn’t like his chances of escaping the couch for a quick escape.  Goddamnit.  This was exactly the opposite of what he wanted.

“Wait,” Dick narrowed his eyes, “What do you mean, who told me?  Who else knows?”

At this rate, the entire fucking city.  “Babs,” he listed, “The brats.  You.  And no one was supposed to know.”

Dick’s expression crinkled in confusion.  “I don’t understand,” he said quietly, slipping further into the room.  Jason, skin prickling at being at the disadvantage, forced himself upright, muscles groaning, until he was sitting up.  He kept the blanket.  He wanted a shield for this conversation, as paltry as it was.  “Babs told me a little—about the Lazarus Pit, so I could monitor any symptoms, but I don’t—you died, Jason.”  Dick stopped, several steps from Jason, hand outstretched like he wanted to touch Jason to make sure he was still there.  “How did you come back?”

Jason could taste dirt on his tongue.  “No clue,” he snapped, “If you’ve talked to Babs, you know as much as I do.”  His hands ached with the sense-memory of punching wood—a box, underground, his gravestone, and Jason didn’t know if it was real or a nightmare, but the word coffin made something twist unpleasantly in his stomach.  “Can I ask questions too or is this a one-sided interrogation?”

Dick’s expression tightened, a blaze of familiar anger in his eyes, and Jason remembered how easy it was to poke Dick’s buttons, to compress him deeper and deeper into the icy, expressionless vigilante, mouth twisted with the effort it took to suppress his urge to lash out—and Dick’s expression…softened.

Jason blinked.

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking a seat on the coffee table so he was no longer looming over Jason, his tone soft and strangely fragile.  Up close, Jason could spot even more differences—there were deep, dark bruises around Dick’s red-tinged eyes, his skin looked washed-out, exhaustion pressed at the corners of his barely-there smile.  There were splotches of color along Dick’s arms and a deep, vivid red burn scar on his left shoulder.  “It’s not an interrogation,” Dick said quietly, and his smile brightened and faltered, “I—I missed you.”

There was something thick caught in Jason’s throat.

“I—” Dick raised a hand before stuttering, fingers caught in empty space.  His eyes were suspiciously shiny.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t—I didn’t get your call.  I was in space, on a mission with the Titans, and I—” Dick’s voice was cracking and Jason’s eyes were prickling now—“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

Jason reached out to grab Dick’s hand as the first tear slipped down.  He squeezed, desperate to forestall them, but they kept dripping down, Dick drawing in a shuddering breath as he stared at Jason’s hand.

“It’s not your fault,” Jason said, and it was born of a panicked urge to find something to say, but when the words left his mouth he found that it was true.  There was a deep, aching sadness inside him, but he couldn’t watch Dick crying and search for the threads of spiteful rage.

Dick gave him a watery smile.  “I’m so happy that you’re back,” he said, wiping at his face, “Everyone missed you so much.”

Jason tensed completely.  Dick, who was still holding his hand, couldn’t fail to miss it.  In a desperate attempt to redirect, Jason asked, “Wait, what happened with Mask?  And where are we?”

“You got a face full of fear toxin, that’s what happened,” Dick said, making no comment at the abrupt change in topic.  “I got us out of there and called it in to the GCPD, they recovered most of the fear toxin.  Sionis managed to wriggle free by claiming that the cavern isn’t his property and there’s nothing tying him to it, so they had to let him go.  Currently, the cops are trying to see if they can get the goons to flip.”

Well, moving the fear toxin out of his reach was a good thing, but Jason was still wary.  A man that had been planning a takeover for this long had more cards up his sleeve than a warehouse full of fear toxin.  And wolves were always the most dangerous when cornered.

“I brought you here to give you the antidote.  It’s a safehouse in the East End—my safehouse, not Batman’s,” Dick said, correctly interpreting the expression on Jason’s face, “He has no idea that you’re here.  Babs mentioned that you didn’t want to tell anyone.”

Jason let go of Dick’s hand and withdrew it.  There was a leading undertone to Dick’s words, a silent ask for an explanation that Jason didn’t want to give.  “I’m not going back,” Jason said, voice clipped and short.  “I don’t care what you say.  I’m not going back.”

Dick looked at him, expression serious.  Just don’t ask me why, Jason begged inside his head, because he was running out of excuses.  He’d met the kids, Babs, Dick.  He’d heard from multiple people how much his family had missed him, he’d seen how much they missed him.  But the idea of Bruce Wayne was still a looming black hole in his heart and Jason felt like he was holding onto control with his fingertips where Batman was concerned.

If he let go—he didn’t know what would happen if he let go.  He didn’t know how far he’d fall.  He didn’t know if he’d be caught.  He didn’t know which terrified him more.

“Okay,” Dick said quietly.

Jason stared at him.

“I’d be a hypocrite if I told you to go to the Manor and work it out,” Dick quirked his lips, clearly reading Jason’s shock, “I won’t tell anyone, Jaybird.”  Jason narrowed his eyes, waiting for the catch—“But can we still hang out?”

Jason opened his mouth to tell him that he was perfectly fine living on his own, thank you, and if he wanted nosy birds hanging around, he would’ve said so, and—Dick was looking at him, blue eyes wide and pleading, and fuck, Jason had forgotten about the Golden Boy’s puppy-dog eyes.

“Fine,” Jason retorted, crumbling against a weapon with no defense, “But I am not visiting that shithole you call a city, and if you cook, I’m fleeing the country.”

Dick’s smile brightened, like the sun coming out of the clouds, and even his pout couldn’t diminish the happiness.  “What’s wrong with my cooking?”

“Nothing, if I ever wanted to set my mouth on fire,” Jason groused.  Dick’s idea of spice was a whole bottle of red chili powder because apparently the Titans had all gotten far too used to Starfire’s cooking.  “And if you tackle me, I will bite you,” Jason warned, seeing the way Dick had braced himself to jump off the coffee table.

Dick subsided, leaning back against the coffee table and watching Jason.  The intensity of his stare was making Jason’s neck itch.  It was like Dick was afraid to look away, lest Jason disappear.

“Can I still get hugs?” Dick asked, voice light, but the casualness of the question couldn’t disguise the way his breath hitched.

Fuck it all.

Jason levered off the couch and closed the distance between them to half-collapse against Dick’s side and wrap his arms around his big brother.  Dick completed the hug, arms warm and encompassing and tight, and Jason didn’t know which one of them was sobbing but it felt like coming home.

Fuck, but he’d forgotten how much of an octopus Dick Grayson was.  It had taken the rest of the day to escape his clutches, forced to stay under Dick’s smothering overprotectiveness as the older boy checked and rechecked to make sure Jason wasn’t suffering any side effects from the fear toxin.  And then Dick wouldn’t let Jason leave without taking a whole bag of antidotes with him, just in case he had a flare-up.

Jason had drawn the line at being escorted back to his apartment.  That Babs knew where it was was bad enough, he refused to have people climbing through his windows.  Dick was sneaky, but he was very not subtle and Jason had been suspicious of the stories Dick was telling about Tim and Stephanie long before Dick casually asked if they could all meet up.

The whole point of living on his own was to live on his own.  It wasn’t to agree to a movie night at Babs’ place next week so Dick would finally let him leave, no matter how much something inside Jason ached for his family back.

The anger, the burning rage that had fueled his return to Gotham, was gone.  The green had been drained out and Jason wasn’t quite ready to confront what remained.  Without the comforting shield of anger came a whole host of emotions Jason didn’t want to deal with, and his time was running out.

But Jason had trained under the Bat, and emotional repression was something he knew well.  He was suited up for patrol that night.

His comm took a while to focus, buzzing in and out before he could hear Oracle’s voice.  “—suppose there’s no chance—crkk—you to take a night off, is there?” her weary voice said as Jason straightened on his rooftop.

“Come on, O, does that work on anyone?” Jason laughed, running for the edge of the rooftop and jumping off the ledge.  He landed cleanly on the next one and kept running.

“I’d like it to,” she grumbled.

“I’m fine, I got the antidote, I even took a nap.”  He felt so much lighter, running across Gotham’s rooftops with the wind curling around him.  Like he truly was a Bat again.  “You got anything for me?”

“Well, Mask’s not happy, but that’s to be expected.  Cops are—clk—thugs, but doubtful that they’ll get—scrr—much from them.  The Bat’s still out of town, Wing’s back in Bludhaven, and the kids are at home.”

“So I have Gotham all to myself.”

“Don’t let the power go to your head,” Oracle said, before the rest of her voice ended up drowned in static.  Jason took his comm out and tapped it before sliding it back in.  “Hood?”

“Connection’s a bit scratchy,” Jason said, eyeing the threateningly cloudy sky above him, “It’s just a normal patrol for me, I’ll click off and come back on when I’m done.”

“Alright,” Oracle said, “Be safe.”

His good mood seemed to carry.  The working girls smiled when he did a quick jaunt down their street and he spotted a window full of laughing children when he stopped briefly by the orphanage.    Despite the looming threat of a storm, the air felt crackling with energy and rejuvenation.

He was alive.  He was alive.  It was a heady thing to be reminded of, that he’d once been dead but he had come back.  He’d gotten a second chance.  It was a miracle, and he wouldn’t waste it.

Jason completed a circuit of his entire territory before realizing that he hadn’t spotted a single Grey Ghost.

He paused on a high-rise rooftop close to the East End, surveying the streets below him.  Not a single black-and-silver jacket, much less a face he recognized, when the Ghosts claimed at least half the Alley as their own.  And, now that he was thinking about it, actually thinking, the Alley wasn’t in a good mood.  The Alley was quiet.

And that was definitely not the same thing.

The thugs stalking the Ghosts’ meetings.  Mask, humiliated and outraged.  And cornered wolves always lashed out.

Fuck.  Jason might’ve made the situation even worse, given that it was not an uncommon opinion that the Ghosts enjoyed his favor, and Jason had definitely been spotted in the building last night.  He clicked his comm back on as he headed for the arcade that was the Ghosts’ main meeting hall but the burst of static nearly took out his eardrum and he hastily slipped the comm off.

Jason spared a half second to wonder if this was how Batman felt when he realized his actions had consequences, when the web he was holding spiraled beyond his ability to contain.  When he realized he couldn’t control everything.

He heard the screaming before he reached the arcade.  Thugs with black masks had converged on the position and the sound of gunfire was loud enough to clear the block.  Jason didn’t bother with preparation or planning, he dropped down on the first thug he could see and jumped up swinging.

The place was a mess.  Overturned tables and flickering lights and the sparks of broken machines, intermittent gunfire sounding on and off.  The masked goons had clearly not expected anyone else to show up, and Jason used the element of surprise to his advantage, focused on knocking them down and out of the fight.  There were already bodies littering the floor, both the black-and-silver of the Ghosts and the black masks of Sionis’ goons.

This had been a desperate attack, and a foolish one.  Mask clearly didn’t have the numbers for a full-fledged assault, but he tried, what?  A surprise attack?  Either way, the Ghosts hadn’t been unprepared for long and the fighting was dying out.

The screaming hadn’t stopped, earsplitting and heartbreaking.  The bodies on the ground shifted to more masked thugs than gang members as Jason crept closer to the back rooms, but he moved carefully, silently, watching for anyone trying to sneak up on him.

He was met with a gun to the face the moment he pushed through the curtain to the back rooms.  Thankfully, the Ghost on the other side didn’t shoot on sight, taking the second to identify and lowering the gun when he saw the red.

“Hood,” the Ghost said, hard-eyed, “What are you doing here?”  There was still screaming coming from the back, but the Ghost had his back turned in that direction, so he wasn’t expecting an attack.

“Common enemy,” Jason retorted, “What’s going on?”

“Rin got hit by something,” the Ghost said tersely.  Jason remembered the boxes of fear toxin vials, any one of them could’ve been misappropriated in the chaos.  “The situation’s contained.”  Leave, he stopped short of saying.

“Let me through,” Jason said, “I can help.”

The man narrowed his eyes, but before he could respond, someone else stuck their head through the other door and snapped, “Oh, let him through before the cops get here.”

Jason shouldered into the back without resistance.  The Grey Ghosts’ inner circle was here, their lieutenants and their boss—the man had a bullet hole straight through the forehead—and amidst the downed bodies lay one that was writhing, pinned down by four others.

“Rin,” a girl was shouting above the screams, “Rin, please, it’s not real!”  Jason shouldered through the gawking crowd to see Rin pinned to the ground, face twisted and mouth open in a scream that got hoarser and hoarser.

“Here,” Jason said, digging out the prepared syringes he had, “These are antidotes for fear toxin.”  Three of the four gave him wary glances, but the girl just snatched the syringes and stabbed one into Rin’s thigh with a practiced hand.  Rin’s scream, long and drawn out, gradually subsided.

“They’ll be out of it for another hour or so,” Jason said, leaning over the group to check that Rin’s breathing had settled down.  “If they’re having further symptoms, take them to a hospital.  If—”

“I know the spiel, thanks,” the girl said, pushing her hair out of her face, and Jason recognized her as one of the Ghosts under Rin’s command.  Sanju, was it?  She scowled at him, “What are you doing here, kid?”

Jason stared at her blankly.  He was seventeen goddammit, he was pretty sure there were Ghosts younger than him, and he’d eat his boots if Sanju or Rin could legally drink.  He was not a fucking kid.

“Heard the gunshots,” Jason said bitingly, “The Alley’s my territory.”

“Yeah?” Sanju said, narrowing her eyes, “Tell that to those masked weirdos.  Whoever they are and whatever they want.”

“Black Mask,” Jason volunteered, “Roman Sionis.  Thinks he can stroll in and take Falcone’s place.”  A hiss went around the room.  “As you can probably imagine, I’m not the biggest fan.”  He took a glance around the room, at the gang members who were weary but still alive.  “Besides, he’s an idiot.  Half his crew is sitting in jail and he chooses now to attack you guys?  There was no way he was going to win.”

“It wasn’t about winning,” Sanju said flatly, stretching up to her feet.  She tilted her head at the bodies in the room.  “He took out the boss and a couple of our lieutenants.  Not enough people to cause us to break up, or breed in-fighting, but enough that we’re going to have to consolidate.  That takes time.  Time spent focusing inwards and not on expansion.  He didn’t need to get rid of us, he just had to make us withdraw.”

That…was a good point.

“Keep your eyes open, Hood,” Sanju said, voice grave, “Because whatever Mask is planning, he’s going to do it soon.”

Chapter Text

It was a disconcerting feeling, to wake up and know that your deathday was a couple days away.  It had been nearly four weeks since he woke up in a green glowing pit and his world had shifted so much and so many times.

He had died.  And he’d come back.  He had so many unanswered questions—how, why him, why of all the people in the world to get a second chance, it was Jason Todd, street rat, what came next—and it was a startling realization that he had the time to seek out answers.

Jason had spent the last couple days sticking close to the Alley, patrolling both day and night, watching out for any new rumors, for any dark masks, for the spark in the shifting, uneasy dry tinder Crime Alley had become, but today he left the red hoodie at home when he ventured out.

The graveyard looked the same as the last time he visited.  He didn’t come with flowers this time, and he resolutely ignored Sheila Haywood’s grave as he strolled closer to his.  He remembered tearing at satin cloth.  Remembered fingernails cracking along wood splinters.  Remembered the suffocating taste of dirt on his tongue.

Remembered.  It wasn’t a nightmare.  It was too vivid to be one.  Jason had a grave, it stood to reason that he was buried.  It wasn’t a leap to imagine that whatever had brought him back had done so while he was still in the ground.

If he pressed a hand to the grass, would he feel his fingers digging through his roots?  The desperate breathlessness of panic?  Screaming Bruce’s name?

Jason froze.

His grave didn’t look the same as the last time he visited.

Jason couldn’t stop himself from moving forward.  From moving closer, from kneeling on the grass, from reaching out with a shaking hand to the small, woven wreath sitting at the base of his headstone.  Delicate, tiny white flowers were twined around a metal wire, tied off with white ribbon braided through the whole thing and finished with a bow.  His fingers brushed the petals, and the wreath was still there.

Baby’s breath was Martha Wayne’s favorite flower.  The greenhouse at the Manor was full of it.  It was Alfred that had taught him how to make a flower wreath, how to pick and trim the flower, to patiently wind them around the wreath, to hold them in place with clips until he threaded the ribbon in place, to finish with a perfect bow.

Jason’s fingers curled around the wreath.  He blinked and it became a blurry blob of white.  Jason rubbed at his eyes and was startled when they came away wet.  He realized that his breathing had grown hoarse and wet and tears were soaking into his pants.

Today wasn’t the anniversary of his death.  It was the anniversary of the day he’d run away.  The last time he’d seen Alfred.

Jason jerked up to his feet, wreath in numb fingers, desperate to leave before he started sobbing.  He didn’t succeed, but no one paid attention to his hiccupping sobs in the graveyard, and Jason managed to recover some semblance of calm halfway home.  He got all the way back to apartment before he looked at the wreath again.

It was easy to dismantle it, to move with careful, practiced fingers to untwine the whole thing.  To unwind the ribbon in smooth motions, round and round the circle.  To lay each individually picked flower side by side.  To set the metal wire down.

To pick the ribbon back up and wrap it around his wrist, to replicate the feeling of strong, wrinkled hands guiding his as they delicately twisted stems around metal.

He was running out of excuses.

Jason wanted to go home.

Everyone in the Alley was twitchy.  Jason didn’t like it.  Tension like the thinnest stretch of ice over a freezing lake.  All it took was one big crack and what was once stable footing would be nothing more than a death trap.

To make matters worse, Batman was back in Gotham.  Back and on patrol, and Oracle had warned him that the Dark Knight was taking a keen interest in the Red Hood.  She could keep him away, but left unsaid was that she couldn’t do it forever.  There would be a reckoning, either on Jason’s terms or on the Bat’s.

Her warning had cut out halfway through, though, his comm fizzling out in static again, and this time Jason was sure that something was wrong with it.  He’d stopped in the shadow of an alleyway to fiddle with it and see if he could figure out the problem.

He squinted at it in the semidarkness, shaking it, tapping it, shaking it again.  He didn’t have a screwdriver on him, and he absolutely didn’t want to cut patrol short.  Not now.  Not when uneasiness lingered in the air like a bad smell.

Unfortunately, Jason didn’t think there was a better option other than heading back home and picking up his backup comm.  But it would take him at least ten minutes both ways and there was something thrumming in the air, the wind heavy and sibilant and tense and—

That wasn’t the wind.

Jason stepped out of the alleyway, the murmuring getting louder and louder, quickly scanning to gauge the situation.  And then looked up, following the gazes of everyone else on the street.

Something dropped out of the pit of his stomach.  A learned, instinctive reaction, the conditioned response of every Gothamite to the sight of that bright light splayed across the clouds.

The Batsignal was on.

Jason shoved the comm back in.  “Oracle?”  He was met with only static.  “O, tell me what’s going on.”  Nothing.  Jason didn’t have the time to waste.  His apartment was ten minutes away but the Alley’s main street was just one block over and Jason ran.

The muttering was louder here, fragments of high-pitched conversations as people gathered in fearful knots, exchanging glances at the sky and their phones, trying frantically to figure out what was going on.  How bad a threat this was.

Meera found him before he found her.  “Hood!” she shouted loud enough for half the street to hear and Jason stopped in his tracks.  She ran to him, bare feet on gravel, her heels swinging from a hand.  When she got closer, he could see the fear in her eyes.

“What happened?” Jason demanded harshly, ignoring how everyone had turned to stare.  There was something charged in the air and Jason was starkly aware of how little defended the Alley was right now.  The few Grey Ghosts visible had drawn back into the shadows.

“Hood,” Meera repeated, her face taut and eyes wild, “They—they’re gone.”

“Who’s gone?” Jason resisted the urge to shake her, “What’s going on?  What happened?  Is it—is it an Arkham breakout?”

Jason swallowed to hide his voice cracking.  The two things he hadn’t confronted yet, the two deepest, darkest pits in his mind.  Batman.  And the Joker.

“What?” Meera stared at him in confusion, “What—no—I don’t know—” she shook her head, frustrated, “No, it’s Mask.”  Her eyes were shining.  “He raided the orphanage.”

Jason stared at her.  He couldn’t have heard her right.  That—that didn’t make any sense.  What—

“He took the kids, Hood,” Meera said, voice breaking, “He took all of the kids.”

No.  No.  No, he promised them—

“No one knows how long they’ve been missing, we only just realized when someone was walking by and saw that the place was dark—”

“Oracle,” Jason said, cutting Meera off, “Oracle, come in, I’ve got a situation.”  Nothing but crackling static.  “Oracle.  The Park Row Memorial Orphanage was attacked, the children were kidnapped.”

Nothing.

Jason dug the comm out and went for his phone.  Babs’ number was programmed in, but the phone just kept ringing.  Over and over and over until the line clicked and the answering machine came on.

He cursed, low and deep.  “Take this,” Jason shoved the phone at Meera, “Keep calling that number until someone picks up and tell them everything you know.”

Meera took the phone, startled, as Jason started down the street.  “But—wait—where are you going?”

“To find the kids!” Jason called back, jogging to reach the nearest fire escape.  Mask wouldn’t take them back to Janus Cosmetics or the cavern, the cops still had that cordoned off.  But no one had bothered to investigate the warehouse any further.

“Hood, wait!” Meera called after him, voice high and anxious, “It’s a trap!”

Oh, Jason was well aware of that.

If Mask wanted a showdown, Jason would oblige.

Jason hung back, heart racing in his chest, silently surveilling the warehouse.  There were four guys hanging out in front, two by the side entrance, four at the back.  If Mask hadn’t taken the kids here, then this was a carefully plotted red herring.

It was a trap.  He knew it was a trap.  Everyone knew Hood had freed the kids, everyone knew he checked up on them, Mask couldn’t have called him out any louder.  There was a warehouse and there was a trap and this time Jason was walking in with both eyes open.

He touched down on the warehouse roof with a soft thump.  Right now, he’d take any backup he got.  Even Batman.

Jason breathed in and out, slow and deep, and curled trembling fingers into fists.

The entrance he used last time was still there, window sliding up as Jason hung half over the roof, gloved hands sliding down brickwork until he caught the ledge and wriggled inside.  The warehouse was dark and Jason felt something prickle down his spine, darker than fear.

He pulled his shoulders back.  The Alley was his.  And it was time that Black Mask learned that lesson.

Jason could hear low murmuring inside the warehouse, faint footsteps, but he couldn’t tell where they were, or how many there were.  He crept along the catwalks, wincing at every groan as metal creaked, watching for movement.  There was a particularly loud squeak as he crossed to the central walkway for a better look, and he froze, hoping the noise would be dismissed as the wind.

There was no increase in muttering or sound of gunfire and Jason slowly relaxed.  He inched forward, slow steps across the creaky metal, and caught sight of a large shadow on the ground, like the outline of a shipping container—

Screech.

Jason halted in his tracks.  That had been louder.  Too loud.  He shifted to the side, to use the railings instead of the catwalk, and his eyes caught on the cable dangling limply in the air.  Cut cleanly.  Not attached to the catwalk.

His stomach dropped a second before the catwalk did, a groaning, shrieking cacophony of metal bending-wrenching-falling.

There was no time to get his grapple, no time to jump to a safer perch, nothing to do but brace for the twenty-foot fall.  Jason rolled clear of the catwalk as soon as he was able, but he’d heard something crack in his left ankle and when he surged to his feet, the pain nearly left him blind.

The sudden brightness as the warehouse flooded with light definitely did.

By the time Jason finished blinking the spots out of his vision, he realized he was surrounded.  Thugs with black masks, all converging on him, guns out.  Jason twisted in a circle as he slowly raised his hands, clocking ten goons.

Jason tested his bad ankle and swallowed.  Well, he certainly wasn’t running out of here.

Those were shipping containers against the far wall, two of them, and with the bright light came the increase in noise—echoing knocks of small fists beating against metal, crying, indistinct shouts.  Jason turned his attention back to the thugs, calculating the distance between them, trying to figure out how to not get shot and get all the way to the other side of the warehouse.  They all seemed to be…waiting for something.

Loud, clicking footsteps echoed through the warehouse.  “Didn’t I tell you boys?” came the high-pitched voice, “If you want to catch a birdie, you have to look up!”

Jason’s blood turned to ice.

No.

No.

No, it couldn’t—he couldn’t—he wasn’t—

Laughter bounced off the walls of the warehouse, sharp and shrill.

Jason moved on automatic when the first goon reached for him, hands curled into desperate fists, lungs aching as his chest squeezed tight, frantic with the urge to get away.  Unfortunately, there were more of them than there were of him, they had guns, and he had a broken ankle.  It wasn’t long before he was caught and pinned.

Jason’s hands were roughly, tightly bound in front of him, back of hand to back of hand, before the whole mess of rope was hooked to something and he was hauled up.  His shoulders and elbows creaked in protest, his ribs tightened, and his left ankle shrieked viciously as Jason forced himself to balance on the ball of one foot, strung up like a turkey.

But nothing compared to the wrenching feeling when he finally stepped into view, red lips stretched into a grotesque smile, skin a blinding white underneath the floodlights, and eyes shining malevolently.

“Hello, Red Hood,” the Joker grinned, “My, you looked ripe for the plucking!”

Jason.  Jason couldn’t breathe.  He tried, short, high, fluttery breaths that couldn’t get past the constricting in his lungs.  It felt like the walls were closing in.  He felt unbearably exposed.  The only coherent thought in his head was screaming denial.

“I hafta say, I was expecting something a little more impressive,” the Joker’s smile shifted to a pout, “When dear Maskie came and told me that someone was using my old name!”  He was circling Jason in slow steps and Jason jerked in his bonds, desperate to keep the villain in his sight.  “You know, some pizzazz!  Not some random kid in a hoodie.”

He was.  Hyperventilating.  He could recognize it, even if he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Come on, kiddo, what’s the matter?  Bat got your tongue?”  The laughter swelled out, high and loud and sharp, and Jason flinched as much as he was able.

This couldn’t be happening.

He could smell ash, taste blood on his tongue, feel the tearing agony—

This wasn’t happening.

The ghost of every impact of the crowbar slamming down—

Please, please no.

The fire searing across his skin—

He couldn’t do this again.

That awful, sickening laughter.

“Ah, well.  Kids these days,” the Joker dismissed, stepping closer and closer and closer.  Jason inched back as far as he could, but the rope was strong and he was already stretched to the limit, there was nowhere he could go.  “You know,” the Joker said, close enough to squint at his face, “You remind me of some birds.  Just as incessantly annoying.”

He was just inches away from Jason.  Jason couldn’t tear his gaze away from those pale green eyes.  They were the same as the last time he saw them.  Not mad, not crazy, not shining with the violent light of an insane fanatic.

Just cold.  Just cruel.  Just completely in control.

Jason’s throat was closed up.  His head was swimming.  His breaths were too short and too fast and his cheeks were already wet, vision blurry and heart racing.

“Hey,” the Joker tilted his head to one side, close enough that Jason could make out the makeup stretching across his skin.  “You look a little familiar.”

No.

No, please no.

If there was any justice in this world—

Spindly fingers yanked his hood off and Jason couldn’t stop the high, terrified sound, face to face with Gotham’s greatest mass murderer.

NO.

Jason had been wrong.  His rebirth wasn’t a miracle.  Wasn’t a second chance.  It was just reinforcement of a lesson he should’ve learned the first time.

“Robin,” the Joker breathed out, eyes wide.

Life was nothing but torture and torment.

The cackling started, quiet but growing louder and louder and louder, until it was reverberating in Jason’s skull, a smile stretched so wide across plastic-white skin that for a moment, Jason was looking at something inhuman.

“Oh, birdie,” the Joker said breathlessly, eyes alight with an unholy gleam, “This is more excitement than I expected!”

He twirled away from Jason, and Jason couldn’t even use the opportunity to draw in a bigger breath—he was trapped, he was alone, he needed to get out—before the Joker reemerged with a long metal tool in his hand.

Jason didn’t want to recognize it.

Jason didn’t have a choice.

“Whaddya say to round two?”

There had used to be a script.  Jason didn’t know if it was the same, didn’t know if Batman had changed it after he died, but there had been a protocol for kidnappings and captures.

First, try to alert Bruce, the police, Barbara, Dick, any trusted adult, that he’d been captured.

Second, figure out where he was.  Who he was with.  What they wanted.  How he could stall them.

Third, determine what was keeping him here.  What knots did he have to untie, what locks did he have to pick, what defenses did he have to bypass?

Fourth, develop a plan and get out.  If he saw an opportunity, go for it.  Do whatever it took—even if that meant revealing their identities.

Jason had always thought there was a fifth, unsaid step to that protocol.  Batman will come.  It was a fact of the world, as unchangeable as the sun rising in the morning and the waves of the ocean.  Batman would come.  Batman always came.

And then he’d died.

There was no fifth step.

Jason had tried to alert Babs.  He knew where he was and who he was with—Black Mask’s goons had cleared out of the warehouse once it was obvious Jason wasn’t going anywhere—and he had no clue what they wanted, aside from him dead.  Again.

“You know,” the Joker mused, twirling the crowbar as Jason gasped for breath, ribs throbbing fiercely with echoes of pain, “We never did clear up that question.”  Gleeful eyes fixed on him.  “What hurts more?”

Jason couldn’t reach the knots on the rope, not like this.  He was trying to work his wrists enough to twist his hands, but he could barely balance on his one working leg and his ribs shrieked every time he shifted position.

“Forehand?”

He swayed enough to catch the blow on his upper arm instead of his face, biting back the groan as it reverberated through him.

“Or backhand?”

This one came crashing down on his left hip, and Jason couldn’t suppress the gasp.  A wave of fire erupted from the point, cascading down into the ankle that Jason had stupidly shifted onto, and ballooning up into his ribs.

“Oho, looks like we have a winner!” the Joker chuckled, spinning the crowbar between his fingers.

Jason didn’t have a plan.  He didn’t know how to get out.  He could barely keep himself from breaking down, from screaming and crying and begging for it to stop, his head ringing until he couldn’t tell the difference between Gotham and Magdala Valley.

He thought he saw his mother standing in the shadows, cigarette at her lips, and almost opened his mouth to call for help before he blinked and she was gone.  The laughter—that fucking laughter—was a constant soundtrack in his skull, even when he saw the Joker’s lips moving.  He felt the blows before he received them, cringing away from the slightest of movements.

“Don’t tell me that’s all it takes!”  The Joker was pouting again.  He stepped close enough to grab Jason’s hair and pull and Jason hissed at the yank.  “Come on, Robin, you were more fun the first time!”

The Joker was right.  In front.  Of him.  Inches away.  Bright eyes gleaming.  Too close.

Jason wasn’t thinking, wasn’t planning, couldn’t feel anything besides the overwhelming urge to get away.  His shoulders screamed in protest but Jason was already moving, swinging back and letting his wrists take his weight as he kicked up with a knee.

The Joker wheezed and stumbled back.  “Fuck you,” Jason snarled, with terror swirling in his stomach.

The villain straightened with an awful look on his face.  His smile didn’t reach those cold, cold eyes.  His smile didn’t look happy at all.  “There you are,” the Joker said, not a trace of amusement in his tone, “You almost missed the best part!”

There was nowhere to run.  Nowhere to hide.  No chance of freeing himself.  If Jason was going to die again, he refused to do it as a trembling wreck.

“What, the monologue?” Jason sneered.  His voice was cracking.  “Heard it before.  Heard all the jokes.  They’re not funny.”

“Oh?” the Joker began to circle him again, “I’m always up for some constructive criticism.”

“Yeah?” Jason asked, and something inside him was beginning to burn.  A child that died far too young, in a war he should’ve never been fighting, on the battlefield that had been his life.  “Here’s some constructive criticism—you’re a mass murderer.”

The Joker stopped, blinking at him.

“This isn’t a game,” and Jason’s voice was climbing higher, raw and hurt and so very angry, “It’s never been a game!  You’ve destroyed people’s lives, you’ve killed and mutilated hundreds, you’ve tortured more than I can count!”  He stared straight into the Joker’s eyes.  “It’s not a fucking joke.”

The frustration, the resentment, the screaming fury of a child looking at the world and thinking this is not right, the years and years of suppressed rage beginning to crack.

All Jason had ever wanted to do was protect.

“Ooh, kiddo, you’ve been keeping that bottled up for a while,” the Joker threw his head back and laughed, “Ten out of ten.  Great performance!”

Green was swirling in his vision, growing thicker and thicker.

“But here’s where you’re wrong,” the Joker said, lazily swinging the crowbar, “It is a joke.  It’s the best joke in the world!”

The laughter just made him angrier.

“And you?” the Joker pointed the crowbar straight at him, eyes dark and vicious, “You’re just another punchline.”

For the first time since he woke up in a cave, Jason gave in to the Pit.  He let the green consume him, let it swallow him whole, let it set his blood on fire and wipe his mind in a red haze and feast on his anger-terror-disgust until it came alive.

Jason just…let go.

He didn’t know how long he was lost in it.  How long between the ropes scraping against bloody skin, the burst of energy to jump off a broken ankle, the slackness as the hook gave way.  How he caught the swing aimed at his face, how he ignored the snap of bones breaking to curl fingers around cold, bloody metal and yank.  How long between that first flicker of the smile faltering until it was gone forever.

How many times he swung the crowbar before the green burned all the way out.

The first thing he registered was the blood.

There was so much of it.  Too much.  That couldn’t possibly have all come from one person, from the pulpy mass of red and oozing gray and bright white in front of him.  Jason knew what a smashed skull looked like, he remembered staring down from a balcony, caught between shock and glee at the fallen body, but he had never seen one this close.

Jason sucked in a sharp breath and the crowbar dropped from numb fingers.  It made a loud clanging sound and Jason flinched back, breath caught in his throat.

There’s no one left to hurt you, his mind whispered.  It wasn’t a tone of relief.

“No,” Jason whispered, and then, louder, “No.”

Yes, the world hissed back at him, murderer.

He was making a high, sharp sound, but he didn’t recognize it.  Couldn’t figure out what it was.  He scrambled back, away from the blood, away from the bits of brain and broken bone, away from the—from the body.

“No!”

Green hair shimmered discordantly under a film of blood.  Jason gagged, and then threw up, emptying the contents of his stomach as he heaved.  No, he didn’t—he hadn’t—

You did, the voice said, cold and implacable, and it sounded like Batman.

“No, I’m sorry,” Jason begged, unsure of who he was begging, “I didn’t mean—” because that was ever a good enough excuse—“I didn’t—I wasn’t—please—”

It’s the best joke in the world!

The body on the ground did not get up.  The body on the ground did not move.  The body on the ground did not breathe.

And you’re just another punchline.

Jason stared at the irrevocable proof that he was a murderer, and screamed.

It was long and agonized, the sound of a thousand hopes shattering, the terrified futility of scrubbing the darkness clean, the aching knowledge that the blood would never wash out.  Of taking a step that could never be taken back.

Jason was not expecting the walls to scream back.

He raised his head, blinking, swaying on his knees, and twisted to stare around him.  There was no one there.  The only other person in the room lay dead in front of Jason and it certainly wasn’t screaming.  Where was—

The shipping containers.

The kids.

Jason took a deep breath—immediately gagged on the scent of blood and vomit—and stumbled back, breathing through his mouth.  He stared at the corpse for an aching eternity before he could finally tear his gaze away.  He had—he had come here to save the children.  He needed to save the children.

He needed to—his hands were stained—murderer—he had to save the kids.  Jason managed to contort—ribs screaming, heart pounding wildly—to draw the knife out of his boot with his teeth, and pick it up with his fingers—broken and twisted and jagged claws—to saw off the rope.

Jason fell to hands and knees, trembling violently.

He needed to save the kids.  He forced himself to keep moving, step after fumbling step, crawling on hands and knees, ignoring the jolts of pain from the shrieking leg he was dragging behind him, from his throbbing fingers, from the bands of pressure tightening around his chest.

He almost smacked headfirst into the first shipping container before he halted, vision blurry and head aching and shaking too badly to hold it together.  He looked up, at the bolts in three places, at the shiny new locks hanging from each one, and down, at hands crooked and throbbing.

Jason closed his eyes and took a breath that felt like failure.

He couldn’t give up.  He sat up, tilted to one side to avoid weight on his bad leg, and tried to cobble together a plan.  He just needed to get one container open, and then the kids could go for help or get the other container.  He didn’t know.  He was so tired.  He felt like he was moving on automatic, like there was a black hole where his heart used to be and he couldn’t fill it.

Jason didn’t realize how much faith he had, deep down, below all his conflicting feelings, that Bruce would accept him back—until it vanished.

He took a deep breath and tried to focus.  Kids.  Locks.  He needed to—was that ticking?

No, he told himself.  It was just another flashback.  It wasn’t real.  It couldn’t be real.  It wasn’t—

Jason stared at the mess of wires wrapped around carefully packaged plastic explosive, connected to the timer loudly ticking down.  00:09 it proclaimed.

And then he blinked, and it wavered to 15:23.

Jason sucked in a sharp breath.  Okay.  He.  He had time.  He had time.  He forced himself up, biting his lip bloody through the shrieking pain, until he was eye to eye with the bomb in between the two shipping containers.  The ticking was resonating in his ears and Jason ignored it.  Ignored the phantom wash of flames, the memory of his lungs boiling, the desperation of choking on ash.

All he had to do was focus on the wires.

He’d built a bomb just a few weeks ago.  He knew this.  He knew how to do this.  It wasn’t that difficult.  He could do this.

His fingers were trembling.  Jason forced them to work, forced them to curl around the handle of his knife as he delicately brushed past wires, following connections as quickly as he could, untangling the mess to figure out which wires were coming from the timer and which were coming from the trigger and which were the nasty surprises the Joker was sure to include.

The wires kept blurring in and out of his vision.  Jason found the right one, or the one he thought was right, and closed his eyes in a brief, silent prayer to a god he didn’t believe in, before he placed the edge of the knife against the wire and cut.

Jason opened an eye.  Okay.  He wasn’t dead.  At least, he thought so, but his vision was growing dark, pain swelling to an ocean intent on dragging him down.  The clock blinked at him, 09:09.  He closed his eyes and opened them again and it didn’t change.

He heard a quiet clatter and whirled around.  Tried to whirl around.  It took him far too long to look down and realize that the knife had slipped out of his broken fingers.

He blinked again, and the world had twisted around him.  He was—on the floor.  His hip was aching fierce enough to drown out his screaming fingers.  Jason slumped against the side of the shipping container.  Step four.  He—he had to get to step four.  Get out.

The kids.  He needed to—he needed to save the kids.

Everything was going fuzzy.  He thought he could hear the distant sound of breaking glass.  He tried to brace a hand against the container but it slipped down.  His domino mask was itching.  Something fluttered in the air and it sounded like a cape rustling.

The darkness was spreading across his vision.  He thought he saw a shadow looming out of it, familiar and so very painful.

Step five.  Batman will come.

“Dad,” Jason rasped, before it all went black.

Chapter Text

Squeaking chittering rustling.  Familiar.  Relaxing.  Lavender detergent and something soft under his cheek.  Echoing voices.

“—how dare you keep this from me—”

Callused fingers brushed an itchy lock of hair away and the scent of chamomile tea grew stronger.  Indistinct noises melded together.  Something ached in the crook of his elbow but its shape slipped through his fingers.

“—left a goddamn teenager all alone in Gotham—”

“He wasn’t alone!  We had eyes on him, we were handling it—”

“Really?  Really?  Tell me, is this your idea of handling it?!”

Everything was soft and fuzzy but the voices were being too loud.  He tried to cover his ears, but his hands wouldn’t move.  His fingers wouldn’t move.  He dimly thought he should be concerned, but everything around him was too familiar.  Safe.  Home.

“Look.  Look and tell me that you were prepared for the consequences of your collusion to keep secrets like children—”

“He didn’t want to see you!  Do you understand?  Can you get that through your thick skull?  He didn’t want to see you.  He had a goddamn panic attack at the thought of coming back to the Manor.  For once in your fucking life, get off your damn high horse and stop pretending like you’re the only one with any answers—”

“HE’S MY SON!”

He flinched back, or he tried to, but he couldn’t move.  There was anger in the air, in the voice that made it cold and frightening, and he wanted to curl up and hide.  “Shh,” came a soft, clipped tone, a hand rubbing his shoulder, “Shh, lad, it’s okay.”  There was a thin, whimpering sound in the air.  “It’s okay, you’re safe,” the voice promised, but it didn’t feel enough.

There was something inside of him, a knot of tension that wouldn’t ease, a warning he didn’t remember.

“Jay-lad,” a deeper voice said, and he instinctively turned in that direction.  “My son.”  The voice was cracking.  Someone was crying.  “I’m so sorry.”  Fingers brushed through his hair, gentle and soft, a soothing, repetitive pattern.  “So very sorry.”

Don’t cry, he wanted to say, but the gentle strokes were lulling him back down, and Jason slipped into sleep before he could try.

Cracking his eyes open felt like a herculean task.  It was like someone had tied weights to his eyelids, and combined with the taste of death in his mouth, the experience felt all too familiar.  Jason tried to shift and immediately groaned at the flare of pain.  This time, he would swear that he got hit by a truck—

Jason remembered the crowbar crashing down.  He couldn’t stifle the high whine, couldn’t get enough air into his lungs, and the increasing pain as he tried to move only made his desperation worse.  “Jason?” cut neatly through his growing panic and Jason stilled.

He turned his head, blinking out the stickiness in his eyes, and focused on the person sitting by his bedside.

“Bar—bie?” Jason coughed, throat scratchy and voice hoarse.  Barbara winced at the sound of his voice and leaned over with a cup of ice chips.  The first one was a burst of cold on his tongue, and Jason slowly calmed, looking around him.

The Cave, he recognized instantly, familiar and unsettling in the way it felt like everything had been shifted an inch to the left.

The medbay had more beds and more equipment.  The line of costumes seemed longer, and there was an empty glass case outside the line-up and in prominent view.  The Batcomputer setup seemed to have accumulated a few more screens and the weapons cabinet had grown in width.  The place was empty, but Jason could see signs of life in the purple hood tossed over a chair, the bo staff leaning against a cabinet, the chalk left out near Dick’s rope maze.

Babs waited until his gaze wandered back to her before asking, “How are you feeling?”

Sore.  Aching.  Cold.  Tired.  Like he’d been tortured by a madman.  Jason squinted down—fingers on both hands were covered in splints, his wrists wrapped in thick gauze.  His chest was tight in the way that spoke of broken ribs, and there were pillows cushioning his left leg, his ankle raised and foot covered in a plaster cast.

“Jason?  Number?”

He looked up to see her hovering near the IV drip.  “No,” he cleared out his throat, “No, I don’t need more painkillers.”  It was always an instinctive shiver at the thought, even though he knew that Bruce would never give him an incorrect dose—

Bruce.  Batman.  The Joker.  Murderer.

“What’s the damage?” Jason asked quietly, his stomach sinking.  It felt like a storm rolling in when he was too exhausted and vulnerable to stop it.

“Five broken fingers, three broken and two cracked ribs, broken ankle, abraded wrists, and some deep bruising,” Babs listed off.  Jason stared at the bandages and wrappings.  “Hey, it’s okay.  You’re going to make a full recovery.”

That wasn’t what Jason was worried about.  There was something thick in his throat and it was crawling out and no matter how steadily Jason tried to breathe, it couldn’t be stopped.

“Jason?  Jay?”

Jason weakly shook his head.  The tears were already trickling down.  His next inhale was a gasp and he couldn’t stop the sobs after that.

“Oh, Jay,” Babs murmured, fingers curling around his arm, a thumb rubbing softly against his skin.  “It’s okay.  You’re safe.  Everyone’s okay.  It’s all going to be alright.”

But it wasn’t.  There were things in this world that couldn’t be undone.  Jason could hear the laughter, feel the impact of metal, hear that sickening wet crack.  He could feel the dry desert air sucking at his skin, the flames, the ash.  The pain, ripping-tearing-wrenching, flaying him from the inside out.

He was trapped and there was nothing to do but feel.

Babs kept her grip on his arm as Jason shuddered apart, her voice low and soft and soothing, and when the tears all drained out, he gave into the exhaustion with her voice in his ears.

“—can’t touch it, Steph—”

“—it’s homework two years out of date, idiot, I don’t think he’s going to care—”

“—shh, you’ll wake him up!”

“You’re the one that’s yelling!”

“Steph.”

“Tim.”

Jason stared flatly up at the white ceiling and felt all-too-familiar exasperation curling around him.  This whole system of falling asleep and waking up somewhere new was getting old, though, and Jason turned his head to try and figure out where he was now.

He was on a bed, an actual bed, in a big bedroom with a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the window was letting in bright morning sunlight, and there was a pair of squabbling teenagers near the desk.  Jason’s gaze caught and stuck on the photo frames on the desk.

Catherine Todd was looking down, smiling at the kid clinging to her arm.  Dick Grayson had his cheek pressed against a dark-haired teen, a snowy mountain in the background.  Bruce Wayne was reading a book in the library, one hand resting on the head of the child curled up and fast asleep in his lap.

Jason realized that the squabbling had stopped.  “Jason?” came a hesitant voice and Jason turned back to the kids.  The blonde was sitting on the desk, a messy pile of papers to the side, and his dark-haired replacement was in the chair.  “You’re…awake.”

He gave them his best no-shit expression.

“Did we wake you up?”

“No, it was the other group of children screaming in my ears,” Jason said hoarsely.  Steph puffed up in immediate outrage and Tim winced.  “What are you doing?”

“Sorry,” Tim said, “Alfred had to go out and he told us to wait here in case you woke up.”  Both of them were looking at him with expectant expressions, but Jason was still trying to catalogue his surroundings, playing spot-the-difference with his memories and failing.  “Um.  How are you feeling?”

“How do you think?” Jason grumbled, giving up on figuring out whether his eyes were playing tricks on him when his headache worsened.  “Question, is there a reason I feel like I stepped into the past?”

The kids looked at each other and back at him.

“I mean,” Tim said slowly, “This is your bedroom?  I don’t think anyone’s changed anything in here since.  Um.”

“Tim nearly bit my head off when I rearranged the shit on your desk,” Steph informed him.

“Yeah, because it’s rude to touch other people’s stuff, Stephanie!”

“I was just tidying up, Timothy, besides, you stole the chair, where was I supposed to sit?”

“There’s this newfangled invention, it’s called standing, maybe you’ve heard of it—”

“Oh my god,” Jason groaned, long and drawn-out, “Alright, alright, I’m sorry!  Would you two quit it.”

“Sorry?” Steph had the audacity to look confused, “Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for tying the both of you in a net,” Jason forced out through gritted teeth, glowering at both of them.  “Happy now?”

Two angelic smiles beamed at him.

“Great, now get out.”  He would’ve thrown a pillow at the both of him if he could.  As it was, all he could do was glare.  Steph laughed and jumped off the desk, Tim smirked as he straightened from the chair.

“Sure you don’t need anything?” Tim asked with a glittering smile, “Someone told us that we should learn to share, and I’ve been practicing.”

“We’d love to keep you company,” Steph added.

“If I say sorry for the locking you in a cabinet thing, will you leave me alone?” Jason asked the ceiling.

There was a muffled snort with the sound of the doorknob turning.  “Don’t strain yourself,” Tim said, still grinning, before something in his face…softened.  “We’re glad you’re okay,” he said quietly, “And that you’re back home.”

“Yeah,” Steph piped up, “If you need anything, seriously, just let us know.  Alfred’ll be back in like thirty minutes.”

“Peace and quiet,” Jason muttered, covering his face with an arm to try and hide that his cheeks had grown hot.  Thankfully, the kids didn’t push it, and the door clicked shut behind them.  Jason closed his eyes with his head nestled into his pillow, tucked beneath his sheets, in his room, and let out a slow breath.

It was a disconcerting feeling, to achieve a goal built up into something insurmountable, without even trying.  Like taking a step down a staircase only to discover that he was on flat ground all along.

The tension, the worry, the wary voice whispering in his ear that it couldn’t possibly be this easy—none of that could fight the feeling this room gave him.  This was safety, this was protection, this was home, and Jason was too powerless to resist it.

He was fast asleep before anyone else checked on him.

Jason slowly, blearily blinked open his eyes.  The sunlight was more muted now, late afternoon instead of morning, and the room was empty.  He cast his gaze around the room, tired and hazy, focusing on things but not really registering them.  Something was scraping against the window and Jason slowly shifted his gaze up towards it as the scrape turned to a slide.

Jason stared blankly as the window was pulled all the way up and a dark-haired head boosted themselves through.  The last time he checked, his room had been on the second floor.  “What,” Jason said flatly, “The fuck.”

“Jaybird!” Dick spun around, smile lighting up, “You’re awake!”  Jason suffered through the indignity of a forehead kiss.  “Do you want me to help you sit up?”

Jason had had quite enough of sleeping, yes.  He wordlessly outstretched his arms, letting Dick wrap a careful arm around his back and shift him up with minimal strain on his ribs.  Dick held him up easily as he built a pillow pile against the headboard for Jason to sink back into.

“You know there’s a door, right?” Jason checked as he was lowered back against the pillows.  He did a little wriggle to get comfortable and winced when his body throbbed with a deep ache.  “You’re not an actual bird.”

“Ah,” Dick’s smile turned slightly more plastic as he ran a hand through his hair, “Well.  I didn’t feel like using the front door.”

Jason arched an eyebrow.

Dick exhaled, flopping down on Jason’s chair and rolling it closer to the bed.  “Let’s just say I’m not Bruce’s favorite person at the moment, and I didn’t feel like getting glared at.”

“What?”  Something was sinking in Jason’s stomach, a twisting mess of feelings churning violently.  “Why?”

It was Dick’s turn to raise an eyebrow.  “I hid that his son had come back to life, come back to Gotham, and was operating as a vigilante, and you need to ask why?”

That made the twisting feelings squirm harder.  Jason swallowed.  “You weren’t the only one,” he pointed out.

“Well, Babs and I asserted that it was our decision, and he can’t exactly yell at the person controlling three-quarters of his system,” Dick shrugged, “Anyway, it’s fine, he’s just touchy because you’ve been asleep.”

But it wasn’t their decision.  It was Jason’s.  He had—he hadn’t wanted to see Bruce.  To come home.  To—to come back.  He’d been scared and hiding and he never meant to get anyone else in trouble.  “How long?” Jason asked in a small voice.

“It’s been almost two days, you’ve been in and out judging by everyone’s reports,” Dick answered easily.  Two days.  That meant—today—today was the day he’d died.  When he dragged his broken, bleeding body to a warehouse door that wouldn’t open and saw the seconds ticking down on his life.

Jason took a deep breath and winced as it jostled his ribs.

He wasn’t dead.  He was alive.  Whatever else had happened, he was alive.

“What happened?” Jason asked, sifting through his memories before jolting in alarm, “The kids!  What—”

“They’re fine,” Dick soothed instantly, “We got them out, they’re back at the orphanage, there’s a protection detail, they’re okay.  Black Mask has been skulking around but no one’s giving him the time of day, and we’ve made sure our patrols include your territory.  Everyone’s doing just fine.”

That quieted some of the worry, but Jason was still itching to get out and go there and see for himself.  The Alley was his.

“And?”  Jason couldn’t bring himself to say the words.  To point to the lingering dark specter in the room.  “What are they saying about—about me?”

He couldn’t bring it up.  The words wouldn’t come.

Dick’s expression was sharp, like he could hear what Jason almost asked, but he answered the question, “Officially, the Red Hood is missing.  Black Mask is trying to spread that you died, so there’s a lot of rumors swirling.  Batman got you out before we came to help with the kids, so no one knows anything.”  Dick’s expression had become slightly pinched.  “We decided to ask you before we said or did anything.”

Before declaring him alive or keeping him dead, Dick meant.  Because Jason might not go back.  Because after what he did, it might be better if the Red Hood never came back.

“It’s up to you, Jaybird,” Dick said softly, “Whatever you want.”  He nodded at the room, “If you don’t want to stay here, if you want to go back to your apartment, just let me know.  Or if you want to leave Gotham entirely.”  Dick’s expression was solemn.  “If you don’t—if you don’t want to see Bruce,” he said, voice quiet, “I know you didn’t want to come back home—”

Jason shook his head.  He hadn’t wanted to come back home, he had wanted a clean break, he’d wanted to never see his family again.

And now he was here, he was home, and every one of his explanations and excuses felt stale.  His adamant refusal had been concealing his desperate desire, and now that he had it, he couldn’t let go.

“No,” he croaked out, “No, I don’t—I don’t want to leave.”  He didn’t know if he had a choice in the matter, but he didn’t—he wasn’t—he didn’t want to go.

This was his home.

And Jason had spent far too much time away.

“Okay,” Dick said without argument, and opened his mouth again—there was a crinkle in his forehead, expression level, and Jason knew what he was going to bring up—but before he could speak, the door opened.

Jason and Dick both swung their gazes towards the doorway.  The man standing there was both larger and smaller than Jason remembered, hair grayer and face more lined and something guarded in steel-blue eyes as he looked at them.

“Bruce,” Dick said, voice even.

Bruce’s gaze flicked from him to Jason and back again before he stepped fully into the room.  “Alfred will want a count of who’s staying for dinner,” Bruce said levelly, and Jason swallowed at the sound of his voice.

“Right,” Dick said, carefully steady, and leaned over to ruffle Jason’s hair, “I’ll see you later, Little Wing.  Shout if you need me.”

Jason managed a small smile before Dick turned away and he was met with Bruce’s blank expression.  He quickly dropped his gaze to his bandaged hands, staring at them as he heard the door click shut and footsteps get closer.

Prickles were crawling up and down his spine, his stomach had twisted itself into knots, and something was pressing against the edges of his vision, hot and overwhelming.  He could see Bruce out of the corner of his eye, sitting on his chair, and he didn’t, he couldn’t, he didn’t know how to start, what to say—

“Jason,” came out hoarse and cracked and raw.  Jason darted his head up in surprise, and stared, mind blank with shock, at the tears dripping down Bruce’s face.  Bruce’s expression was open and hurt and it made something inside Jason ache, the sight of desperate, wild hope and grief.

“Don’t cry,” Jason whispered, because his own eyes was prickling and the tightness was crawling up his throat, “Please don’t cry.”

Bruce shook his head, jaw clenched and eyes shining, and reached out with a shaking hand.  Jason let it land, curled into the grip, and ducked his head against Bruce’s shoulder when those strong arms enveloped him in a gentle hug.

“Jay-lad,” Bruce whispered to his hair, agonized and broken, and Jason screwed up his face but lost the battle to his own tears.

“Dad,” he whispered back, voice hoarse and raw, and buried his face against Bruce’s shirt, raising an arm to wrap around Bruce and rest splinted fingers against his back.

“I—I missed you s—so much—” the sound of sobbing was the loudest thing in the room and Jason didn’t know which of them it was coming from—“My son.  My m—miracle.”

“I missed you too,” Jason cried, heart splintering and reforming in jagged pieces, “I was—it was—I died and it hurt, B, it hurt so much and I wanted you and I’m sorry, I’m sorry for running away, I’m sorry for not listening, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Bruce rejoined harshly, voice wet, “Do you hear me?  Absolutely nothing—”

“I killed him,” Jason sobbed.  He waited for Bruce to jerk back, for the warmth and caring to disappear.  “I k—killed the Joker.”  Bruce had gone silent.  “I’m a—a—a murderer.”

He couldn’t stop the high, strangled gasp as Bruce unwound his arms.  Bruce leaned back and Jason’s vision was blurry as he tried to grip Bruce’s shirt with splinted fingers—please don’t leave me, echoed in Jason’s head, please, Dad, please—

Warm hands cupped his face, drawing him to meet Bruce’s gaze.  “Look at me,” the man said softly, “Look at me.  You don’t have to be sorry for that.  You never have to be sorry for that.”

“But I—I broke the r—rule,” Jason’s breathing had gone short and fluttery, “No—no killing, that’s what—I didn’t—I didn’t—”

Bruce looked him in the eyes, expression grave and serious.  “My rules—none of my rules—are worth more than your life.”  Jason sucked in a sharp breath and held it, staring at his father.  “Do you understand?  You are the most important thing.”

Jason simply stared, wide-eyed and not breathing.  Bruce let go of his face to pull him back into a hug.  “I don’t care,” Bruce said, voice shuddering, “I don’t care.  About him, about anything.  You’re back, Jay-lad, and nothing else matters to me.”

Something inside Jason, tight and tense and terrified, finally gave way.

“Dad,” he whispered, ribs burning with the force of his sobs, and surrendered to the hug.  It was overwhelming and wet and his insides were shuddering, pain sparked and throbbed along his injuries, it felt like someone had cracked open his heart and laid him bare for the whole world to see, but it didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

Because Bruce had come.

Because Bruce was here.

Because Bruce wasn’t letting go.

Jason saw Alfred the next morning, when the man came in with a breakfast tray and solid food at last.  Consciously aware of how much of a mess he looked, Jason fidgeted with his sheets as Alfred settled the tray on the table before briskly helping Jason into a sitting position.

The silence pressed down.  “I’m sorry,” Jason blurted out when he couldn’t stand it anymore.  Alfred paused in the middle of setting up the lap desk.  “I’m sorry for running away,” Jason said softly.

Alfred looked at him, and Jason realized that the tightness to his jaw wasn’t anger.  “My dear boy,” Alfred said, voice wavering, “You are forgiven.”

Jason swallowed, his throat swelling up again, and tried to breathe out normally—how many times was he going to cry?—before speaking again, “I didn’t mean—I never—”

“Master Jason,” Alfred said, sitting on the side of the bed and reaching for Jason’s hand.  His grip was warm and firm.  “You came back.  I would forgive anything, just for that.”

Jason roughly wiped at his face with his free hand.  “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Jason said lowly, “I just—Bruce thought I was—out of control and I—I just needed some space and I didn’t—I disobeyed him—”

“Master Jason—”

“And then it was just too—too much when I came back, and I was too scared, and—and he was right, in the end, I lost control—”

“Master Jason,” Alfred said sharply, cutting him off, “Look at me, lad.”  Jason slowly dragged his gaze up.  Alfred squeezed his hand, his expression firm, “You do not need to apologize.  You found your way back home.  And no one is faulting you for what happened to that monster.”

Jason knew that, he’d heard it from Bruce, but he couldn’t stop seeing the red staining his hands.

“I killed him,” Jason said quietly, “I killed someone.  How do I come back from that?”

Alfred cupped Jason’s hand in both of his, calluses and wrinkles cleanly visible.  “By remembering that it was necessary.  By remembering that you were protecting those that needed help.  By remembering that it is done.”  Alfred’s hands were warm and strong.  “It is an awful thing, to be in the position of taking someone’s life,” Alfred said, quiet and knowing, “And it is a cruel world, where death can mean justice.  But it is the one we have.”

“I don’t want to be a killer,” Jason confessed softly.

“And you do not have to be,” Alfred rejoined easily, “It is a choice.  And the choices we’ve made in our past do not define our future, Jason Peter Wayne.”

Hearing that from someone with blood on their own hands, someone who had wiped all that clean, who held a kitchen knife in the same hands that had used a shotgun—Jason shuddered and held on tight.

“You are who you choose to be,” Alfred said firmly, “Always.”

Chapter Text

Barbara scanned the room for her target.  When she couldn’t find him, she wheeled out of the ballroom and headed for the library.  She had to dodge a couple of caterers and carefully push past a stack of boxes, but she was soon there, peering between the shelves.

She finally spotted the mop of dark hair in the furthest couch, tucked away in the corner.  He didn’t turn as she approached, even though she knew he could hear her, suit jacket folded over a nearby chair as he curled up under a throw, book in his hands.

For a long moment, Barbara had to stop and remember how to breathe.

It had been the worst week of her life.  Being attacked and shot at her apartment, just hours after hearing about Jason’s disappearance, and then waking up in the hospital to the news that he was dead.  That she would never see him again.  That she’d lost her legs and her little brother to the same monster.

But the monster was dead and her little brother was tucked in a corner with a book, like he always did whenever a gala was too much for him.  “So,” she said, wheeling herself closer, “Was it the crowd or your fingers or that godawful laugh your father makes?”

He didn’t even look up from his book.  He was holding it in both hands, so it wasn’t cramps in still-healing fingers, and he showed no sign of being distressed—though with several overprotective family members hovering close by, especially after the press conference to officially bring him back to life, Barbara didn’t think he’d get the chance to be distressed.

“Selina’s here,” Jason replied.  Barbara had noticed that Bruce seemed more distracted than usual tonight.

“I thought you liked Selina.”

Jason looked up, green eyes vivid and bright.  They were still doing tests to figure out exactly what the effects of the Lazarus Pit were, but meditation seemed to be working to keep Jason’s temper under control.  “She pinched my cheeks,” and Barbara had to resist her urge to pinch his cheeks at Jason’s pout.  He might’ve been taller and broader but he was still a kid.  “Also, no one wants to see them flirting.”

Barbara gave into the urge to laugh and braced a hand to lever out of the wheelchair.  “That’s a good point,” she said, leaning back against the couch.  Jason immediately put his legs across her lap.  “Mind if I join you?”

Jason shrugged nonchalantly, his legs still trapping her in place, but he couldn’t entirely hide his smile behind his book.  Barbara patted his shin—he’s here, a part of her never failed to whisper in awe, he’s here, he’s alive, he’s actually here—and reached for a book from Jason’s pile.

This wasn’t the first gala she spent reading quietly in the library.  And thank God it wouldn’t be the last.

Steph panted, flat on her back, staring up at the darkness that hid the Cave’s ceiling.  She was bruised all over, her lungs were killing her, and she was drenched in sweat.  She felt footsteps reverberate through the mat towards her and hastily squeezed her eyes shut.

No.  No more of this torture.  Please, no.

“Closing your eyes isn’t going to make me go away,” said the amused voice of her tormenter.

She laid as still as she could, hardly daring to breathe.  She could play dead.  It worked for possums, right?  She could be a possum.  The Purple Possum.  Not a half-bad name, actually.

“Steph.”  A foot nudged her hip.  “Steph.”  It nudged harder.  “Ste-pha-nie.”

No one should be able to mimic her mom’s get-over-here-right-now-young-woman tone that goddamn well.

“I give,” she said, cracking open her eyes to meet the brilliantly green gaze of the teenager looming over her.  “I surrender.  Please, please have mercy—”

“Come on,” Jason rolled his eyes and held out a hand to help her up, “You’re the one that wanted me to train with you.”

Steph weakly flung her hand out and let herself be pulled up in a strong, smooth motion.  Yes, she had.  Mainly to help Jason recover and partly because he was Robin—there were some kinds of hero worship that didn’t die out.

At least until the second training session.

“Alright,” he said when she was on her feet and regretting her entire existence, “Now, who wants to do the ropes course again?”

Tim, on the other side of Jason, made a sound like a dying whale.  “No.  Nope.  Never.  You’re a monster and I hate you and I deeply regret knowing you.”

“Aw, kiddo,” Jason made a shark-toothed grin and pulled Tim into a headlock to ruffle his hair.  Tim yelped but submitted to the indignity.  “It’s tradition for the older Robin to train the newer one!  You don’t want to mess with tradition, do you?”

Tim, hanging limply from Jason’s grasp, looked willing to commit first-degree murder on tradition.  “Lies,” he croaked out weakly, “Dick never trained with you like this.”

Jason laughed, bright and clear, and despite herself, Steph felt a smile twitching at her lips.  Dick drew you into his orbit like a moon orbiting the sun, but Jason?  Jason felt like magic.  “Oh, baby bird,” Jason crooned, “Dick was ten times worse.  At least I’m not forcing you to train on a tightrope twenty feet off the ground.”  Oh god, that sounded like torture and she dearly hoped Jason was not getting ideas.  “Now come on.  Ropes course as a cooldown.  You guys can do it!”

Steph and Tim groaned in unison but allowed themselves to be shuffled over to the ropes course.  Jason went first, easily hauling himself up the first rope to reach for the latticework of netting, moving fluidly and gracefully.

“You wanna escape while he’s not paying attention?” she whispered to Tim.

“Last one to finish is in charge of clean-up!” Jason called down.

They both stared at each other, unblinking.  Steph moved first, breaking the stare and scrabbling up the rope as fast as she could as Tim cursed and followed.

Dick eyed the remote, sitting exactly where it should be, on the coffee table a few feet away, and calculated his chances of leaning over to reach it.  The movie had long since ended, the credits rolling across the screen in the dark, quiet room, but the remote was just slightly out of reach.

Mainly because Dick wasn’t willing to do more than stretch his arm out and wiggle his fingers.  He was neatly trapped in place, more efficiently and smoothly than any Rogue had ever managed.

To be fair, the threat of waking up a sleeping little brother half-slumped across his lap was far, far worse than what any Rogue could do.

Dick stretched his arm, attempting to get the remote again, but Jason’s breathing changed as soon as he tensed, and Dick forced himself to relax, sinking back against the couch and resigning himself to his fate.  There were worse ways to go.

He gently stroked through Jason’s hair, amusing himself by twining that single white lock with the remaining black.  He’d seen some people in Bludhaven sporting the same striped look, it was becoming quite the fad.  Jason, of course, turned pink any time anyone pointed that out.

Dick was so absorbed in combing through Jason’s hair and his soft, whistling breaths, that he didn’t notice anyone else was in the room until the light of the TV cut out completely.  Dick looked up, identifying the newcomer based on body shape.  “Thanks,” he said lightly.

“Hn.”  Oh, so it was one of those nights.  “How is he doing?”

Dick of two years ago would’ve snapped back.  Lashed out.  Sneered that he wasn’t Bruce’s spy, and he wasn’t going to do his dirty work for him.  “Fine,” Dick answered, “He was tired, he fell asleep halfway through the movie.”

He could see Bruce studying Jason, as though trying to assess the accuracy of Dick’s statement.  Dick just sighed.  It had taken him a long time to accept that he had a paranoid asshole for a father and there was nothing he could do about it.

“How are you doing?” came the next question, softer, and Dick blinked in surprise.

“Tired,” he answered honestly, compelled by the lateness of the hour and the way he couldn’t see Bruce’s expression.  “It’s just—it’s been a long couple of months.”  Jason coming back had eclipsed everything else in his life, but that didn’t mean his other problems had gone away.  “I’m thinking of quitting my job,” Dick admitted softly.

Bruce was silent and unmoving.

“I’m stretched too thin,” Dick said slowly, the truth tearing at him, “And I can’t—I can’t be Nightwing and a cop at the same time.  It—it’s not working out.”  It galled him to admit weakness to the man who’d made a career out of being an unmovable rock, but the facts were inescapable.  He’d spent more time in Gotham over the past couple of months, popping in to check up on Jason, and his work was slipping.  “I can’t do it all.”

Bruce moved closer and Dick squeezed his eyes shut.  He was met with a warm hand on his cheek and a soft kiss to his hairline.  “You are always welcome here,” his dad said softly, and Dick had to bite his lip to suppress the prickling urge to cry.

The weight on his lap shifted and warm arms wrapped around his waist as Jason cuddled closer.  “Stay,” he murmured sleepily, and Dick felt his breath hitch in his throat.

He smoothed the hair back from Jason’s forehead and took a shaky breath.  “Of course, Little Wing,” he said softly.

Bruce made for the rooftop of Wayne Enterprises, flying through Gotham without anyone getting in his way.  He was alone tonight—everyone had wanted to come along for a variety of reasons and he had vetoed each one.  This was a confrontation he was going into solo.

Mere seconds after his boots hit the roof, a slender shadow detached itself from the far wall and slunk closer.  “Talia,” Bruce growled, hands curling into fists so tight his gauntlets creaked.  He’d been demanding answers from her for weeks, ever since Jason had told him the whole story of what happened, and he’d been met with nothing but radio silence until her abrupt request to meet.

“Beloved,” she said, and the night couldn’t disguise the faint rasp to her tone.  Every other part of her was perfect, from her form-fitting outfit to her makeup to that sultry smile, but even a tell that small was enough to let him know that something was off.  “It’s so nice to see you again.”

“I can’t say the same,” Bruce growled.  She had had his son.  She had his son for god knows how long and she’d never told him.  “What are you doing here?”

“You wanted answers, Beloved,” Talia said softly, “So here I am.”

It was uncharacteristic.  Getting answers from an al Ghul was like prying blood from a stone.  Talia’s compliance was not to be trusted.  But still, he had to ask.

“You had Jason.”

“For a couple of months,” Talia confirmed, “My agents found him wandering around Gotham, mind damaged.”  Bruce didn’t make any visible tell, but Barbara, listening in on his comm, inhaled sharply.

“And then you threw him in a Lazarus Pit.”

“I had no choice,” Talia said, “My father was growing displeased with his lack of progress.  He would’ve used Jason as a lesson.  The Pit was the only way to protect him.”

Bruce’s fists creaked tighter.

“You told him he remained unavenged,” Bruce spat out, because that was the very worst of betrayals, Talia’s attempt to poison Jason against him.  Jason had escaped her agents, but what if he hadn’t?  What if he’d gone back to League?  How much more would she have twisted him up inside?

Talia arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.  “I told him nothing but the truth, Beloved,” she said, “And he needed the fight.”

“No,” Bruce ground out, furious, “What he needed was his family.  What he needed was to come home.  You could’ve protected him at any time, any moment, by just calling me and telling me the truth!”

Talia’s expression twisted, so he knew the words landed.  He waited for her to deny them, to snap back, to twist the topic like she was so very good at doing, but she just…sighed.

“I am aware of that,” she said quietly, before meeting his gaze again, rueful smile in place, “But I do learn from my mistakes, Beloved.”

Bruce frowned.  What was that supposed to mean—

“Damian,” Talia called out lightly, “Please come out.”  Bruce immediately tensed when a second shadow sprung out from the hiding place, only to stare in confusion when it was…smaller than he expected.  Much smaller.  “Damian,” Talia said, settling her arm around the—the child’s shoulders, their features covered by their dark hood.  “This is Batman.”

If Bruce didn’t know any better, he’d say her tone was maternal.

“Beloved,” Talia looked at him, expression roiling before it firmed to something soft and vulnerable.  “This is Damian.  Your son.”

Bruce stared.  The child made a twitch that would’ve been a nervous fidget on anyone else.  A handful of eavesdroppers erupted into shouts and curses and a particularly vehement what the everloving fuck, B coming out tinny through his comm.

“It is no longer safe for him with the League,” Talia said, and Bruce realized that the emotion she was concealing was desperation.  “All I ask is that you protect him as you do your other children.”

“Of course,” Bruce said, voice hoarse.  There were a hundred other things he wanted to say to her, like you told me you lost the child and how could you do this to me and what’s going on, Talia, what’s happening with Ra’s and do you need any help, but what he did was drop to a knee to better look at the child.

He had Talia’s coloring, dark skin and green eyes, but something about his jaw reminded Bruce of his own.  “Hello, Damian,” Bruce said softly, no longer using the Batman growl, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Rin sighed as they paused in the shadows of a nearby alleyway.  Running a gang full time was more work than they thought, even if Mask’s actions gave them the perfect opportunity to climb the ladder.

Rin had always been ambitious.  And now they were the youngest gang leader in Gotham, with a territory that touched both East End and the Bowery.  At the age of twenty, that was impressive.

It was exhausting work.  They were run off their feet, especially with Mask skulking around, a wounded wolf waiting for an opportunity, and even their breaks to go and check on their sister felt like work.  Rin had made sure that there were a couple of Ghosts on protection detail, watching the cops as much as the kids, but still.  They worried.

And the Alley was restless.  It felt…uncertain, like they were all just waiting for the other shoe to drop.  There had been more reported sightings of Bats here in the past few months than there had been in years, and it was making everyone antsy.  They didn’t want vigilantes in their part of town.

With everything that was going on, Rin needed the moment.  Their guards were waiting on the street, waiting for Rin to come back out and get back to leading, and they’d only managed that concession because it was a dead-end alleyway, who the fuck could attack them here—

“How are the kids?”

Rin did not scream.  Rin did not shriek.  Rin did not jump, no matter the amused smile on the kid crouched on top of the dumpster or their guards rushing in and looking for a threat.

“You’re alive,” Rin said flatly, trying hard for disappointed and failing miserably.  The teenager grinned wider, still crouched casually and ignoring their guards’ guns.  “You went missing.”

“Eh,” Hood waved a hand, “Thought I deserved a nice vacation after the clown kicked it.”  A vacation and an upgrade, Rin could clearly make out the differences in the teen’s costume.

Before, his outfit had clearly been homemade.  Hoodie and hand-sown metal plates on his gloves and knee pads under his pants and a plastic domino mask.  Trained, definitely, very dangerous and funded, but a solo act.

Now they could see the hint of sleek body armor under the hoodie and the fancy new belt and the tactical pants tucked into high quality boots.  He looked like he’d been outfitted by someone who knew what they were doing, who had experience in decking out a vigilante with everything they needed.

Rin suspected that if they looked up, they’d catch a glimpse of a cowled shadow.

“The kids are fine,” Rin said, finally answering his question, “They were worried about you.  Guess they can finally know that you’re okay.”

Hood’s lips quirked as he straightened, “That’s good to hear.  And congrats on the promotion, by the way.”  He unhooked a grapple gun and aimed it up, “Stay clean, Rin.  I don’t want to come after you.”

Rin narrowed their eyes.  “So you’re planning to stay?” they called out, as the grapple launched and hooked somewhere above them.

“The Alley’s mine,” Hood grinned down at them, bright and possessive, ascending sharply upwards, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Rin watched him disappear, suspicions dancing tantalizingly close to the surface.  There was something about that smile…

“Boss?” Marco was hovering nervously behind them, “Is Hood going to be a problem?”

“Oh,” Rin said softly, “I think we can work something out.”

“Meera?” Scarlet called out when Meera was in the middle of changing, sticky and sore and tired.  Her midterms were next week and she needed the later nights so she could afford to take the week off.

“I’m leaving, Scar,” Meera called back, pulling her shirt on and reaching for her jacket, “I don’t care who it is, I’m not taking another client.”

Scarlet poked her head into the room without knocking.  “Not a client,” she said, “A message.  Something’s waiting for you on the roof.”

Meera paused, staring at her.  “What,” she said flatly.  There was absolutely no reason for her to get any packages delivered here, much less to the roof.  “Why would there be something for me on the roof?”

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” Scarlet raised her arms in surrender.  Meera knew that she’d gotten more snappish over the past several weeks, she just—she couldn’t turn it off.  The jolt of fear and worry as she saw Hood leave, the franticness in the voice on the other end of the line when Meera finally connected, the news that the Joker had broken out…

The grim reality that the Joker was dead and the Red Hood was missing and Jay was nowhere to be found.

“I’m sorry,” Meera sighed, pulling her jacket on, “Thanks, Scar, I’ll check it out.”  It was probably some idiot playing pranks, but Meera was too exhausted to care.  By the time she reached the rooftop access door, she was dreaming of her bed and not leaving it even if she had a morning class in seven hours.

The air was chilly this high up and Meera drew her jacket tighter as she scanned around her.  On the roof was a very unspecific descriptor, what, was she supposed to search the entire place—

There was a figure standing in the middle, not ten paces away, outlined in red.  Meera stopped and stared.

“Hey,” they awkwardly raised a hand and waved, and that was Jay’s voice.  Meera didn’t realize she was moving until she practically plowed into him, arms wrapping tight around him and shaking at the confirmation that he was alive.  “Oof,” the Red Hood wheezed, “I was not expecting that.”

“I thought you died!” Meera said, high and shrill, “I thought you—I thought I—I thought you walked into a trap and died, so do not give me that, Hood, you’re lucky I didn’t punch you.”  It had felt like losing her little brother all over again.

“Okay,” Hood said, gingerly patting her on the shoulder, “That’s fair.  Sorry I didn’t check in, I was recovering.”

Recovering implied he’d been hurt and Meera disengaged to step back and look him over.  He looked…different.  He had actual armor under that hoodie, and his costume had become more streamlined, and he seemed steadier.  Less jagged edges and desperate energy, more stability and determination.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, and when he smiled, it was brighter than anything she’d seen before.

“Yeah,” he said, and he sounded happy.  “I—I went home.  And it was—it was great, my family was great.”

“That’s fantastic,” she smiled, ignoring the personal pang of bitterness.  Some days she thought she’d come to terms with her family, and some days it hurt like a fresh wound.  “I’m thrilled for you!”

“Thanks,” Hood ducked his head, before reaching into a pocket and drawing out an envelope.  “I mean, seriously Meera, thanks.  For everything, for the information and the help and the support.”  He proffered the envelope.  “There’s nothing in the world that would be enough to show how much it meant to me, but I want you to have this.”

“What is this?” Meera asked suspiciously, taking the envelope and tearing it open.  She didn’t know what Hood considered an appropriate gift, but she was sick and tired of exchanging services for money, she hadn’t helped him because of the cash—

It wasn’t money.  It was an application letter.  No, it was an acceptance letter, congratulating her on receiving the Gotham First Higher Education Scholarship from the Wayne Foundation, covering tuition, miscellaneous school expenses, and a living stipend.  It was an acceptance letter to a scholarship she had never applied for, because she’d been kicked out and living on a friend’s couch when the application deadline passed and she was no longer eligible for it.

“What.”

“I know someone in the office.  I pulled some strings,” Hood shrugged.  Meera stared at him—he’d done a lot more than pull some strings, he would’ve had to get all the application materials, fill them all out in her name, have access to her records, and probably broken a hundred laws in the process.

Meera stepped forward and hugged him again, squeezing tight.  This time, he hugged back.

“Thank you,” she said hoarsely.

“It was the least I could do,” Hood murmured.

Meera pulled back, wiping at her face as she began to sniffle—her mascara was a lost cause—and stared at the letter again.  It felt too good to be real.  “You could’ve definitely done a whole lot less,” Meera said, taking a shuddering breath, “So thank you.”  She carefully tucked the acceptance letter back in the envelope and aimed a watery smile at Hood.

He smiled back.

“But if you ever let me think you’re dead again, I will punch you.”

Hood laughed wetly, “Would you believe that you’re not the first person I’ve heard that from?”

Roman groaned and resisted the urge to slam his head against his desk.  Was it too much to ask for some basic fucking competence from the people under his command?  He definitely needed a better personal assistant, someone who wouldn’t keep rearranging his files and then forgetting to tell him about it!

He snarled as he ripped open the drawers.  The GCPD was still keeping an annoyingly close look on him and he needed to find the fake manifest detailing the cosmetics products in his shipment, and not the actual manifest with the guns and ammunition.  His plan to take over the Alley in a single swoop hadn’t worked, but that wouldn’t stop him.  If the Ghosts and the Bats wanted a war of attrition, that was what they’d fucking get.

It wasn’t in the first drawer, and it wasn’t in the second, but it was in the third, and Roman slammed it on the desk, his hand twitching for his gun.  He wanted—no, he needed to shoot something right now, get through the burning rage.  He’d had a plan, a perfect fucking plan, and one snot-nosed brat of a vigilante had fucked it all up and then hadn’t even had the decency to leave behind a cooling corpse.

If Roman ever got his hands on that kid—

He noticed the eerie silence of the office a split second before he looked up and saw the figure standing in the middle of his office.

There had been no sound.

No alert from his guards.

Not even a whisper.

The figure was tall with wide shoulders, dark red sharply contrasted against black.  His face was hidden in shadow, under the hood, and there were twin batons in his hands.  And a dark, solid black bat emblazoned across that red hoodie.

“Hello, Mask,” he growled, “I have a bone to pick with you.”

“You’re supposed to be dead!” Roman snarled, springing up and going for the gun.

“I get that a lot,” he said with a hint of amusement, “Don’t worry.  It doesn’t seem to stick.”

Roman raised the gun.  Before he could press the trigger, something whistled through the air, loud and sharp, and Roman dropped the gun with a sharp cry as the baton impacted his hand.

Fuck.  Something was definitely broken.  Roman glared at the approaching figure, clutching his hand to his chest.  “Who are you?” Roman snapped.  He’d done all his research on the Bats when he decided to move forward, and this goddamn bastard had not been on the list.

The figure twirled the other baton before catching it in a sharp grip and grinning.

“I’m the Red Hood.”