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Chapter Text

The bullet pierces through the forehead of the first man and blood splatters everywhere, spurting with the force of the last beats of his heart. The body falls to the floor with a loud thud. A second man dashes for cover, but not fast enough. A bullet grazes his throat, ripping the soft tissue, and blood pours out between the man's fingers as he tries to stop the bleeding. A third bullet finishes the job. The man crumples over the couch he was trying to hide behind like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Jason reloads his gun, the dry, mechanical click of the magazine sliding into place loud in the otherwise silent house. He listens for footsteps while he slides along the wall, guns ready, taking cover among the shadows, darting from one piece of furniture to the other. The house is old. None of those modern open floor plans that make assessing the terrain easier. A lot of space, but all taken up by smaller rooms and doors sprouting from a long corridor that travels from the living room to the backyard.

According to his surveillance there are two more men inside. Jason barred the backyard exit before making his move, a wooden bar keeping the door closed from the outside and a small bomb that will trigger the moment the door opens. He likes to be thorough. No explosions so far, which means either the men are still in the house or he missed a third exit when he was casing the place. He's hoping for the former.

The first door in the corridor leads to a small office with an old computer and a printer. Nice. With some luck, he'll find further evidence in there, or better yet, a link to another child trafficking ring. That's how he got to these assholes in the first place. Guys dealing in children like sharing what they have, advertising it to like minded assholes. They hide well, but once you catch one, unraveling the network is like pulling on a thread that keeps on going.

The guest bathroom is also clear as well as the little storage closet next to it. The third door opens into a small guest room. No cigar. Where are these jerks? Adrenaline pumps through Jason's veins. Senses sharp and ready. Years of training coalescing into this very moment. Him or them. Jason loves a good hunt. The higher the stakes, the better. Oh, how he missed this when he was still playing by Bruce's rules.

Not many good things came out of Bruce beating the crap out of him on that rooftop. Jason spent months bed ridden, unable to follow up the leads on Artemis and Bizarro's disappearance. Roy the only bright spot among days filled with pain and despair. Bruce had done a number on him. But Jason survived it. He can survive anything it seems. Not a particularly comforting thought.

Nevertheless, Jason has always been one to count his blessings. There's been so few of those in his life that he learned to appreciate what little solace he can find. And one good thing did come out of that beating: freedom.

Janis Joplin had been so right: Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. That night Jason lost everything. His friends. His family. His faith that maybe someday, if he tried hard enough, Bruce would accept him again. There's no trying hard enough. He spent months plotting how to put Cobblepot out of commission without actually killing him, all because of the deal he'd made with Bruce. And for what?

Batman still beat him black and blue. In his darkest moments Jason wonders if Bruce would have killed him, had Roy not come to the rescue. He might as well have. If it weren't for Jason's helmet protecting his head, he'd probably be dead. His brain as scrambled by Batman's fists as it had been by Joker's crowbar. How sad.

Jason's life is a fucking mess. But the glass is always half-full, or a quarter full. Maybe it only has three fucking drops left. The point is, the glass is not empty. And now Jason's free to set aside Bruce's rules for good and only follow his own.

In between Jason's death and his resurrection, Bruce spent so much time trying to forget Jason existed that he forgot who Jason was, where he came from. The stick never worked on Jason. People beating him up only makes him come up swinging, no matter how much it hurts. It's the carrot Jason is helpless against; starving little street rat that he's always been. One fucking carrot and up he goes.

Bruce really missed the exit with that beating. Jason had been playing nice before, being a good law-abiding vigilante, dismantling his criminal empire bit by bit, coming back to the fold, running after the dangling carrot of Bruce's eventual acceptance. Ha-fucking-ha. So much for that. News flash, B-man, the beating didn't make Jason heel, it ripped off the leash and set him loose.

Oh, he still works with Batman. Bruce asks for help when he needs it. Jason provides it when he feels like it. They cooperate. Allies as long as Jason plays by Bruce's rules. Or pretends to.

Bruce only cares about two things: Gotham and the Justice League. The world is bigger, though. Much bigger. And Jason isn't as picky as Bruce regarding which people to protect. People in need of saving exist everywhere, not only in Gotham. As long as Jason doesn't don his Red Hood costume and goes in guns blazing, Bruce will never find out what Jason is doing in his spare time. And what Bruce doesn't know, won't hurt Jason.

Red Hood had been a bit of a hubris. Stealing something that had been the Joker's to make it his. A little calling card to Bruce back when Jason was still thirsting for daddy's attention. He made a name for himself, and good or bad, built a reputation that made idiots think twice before coming after him. It made sense to stick to it.

The point is, you don't need a fancy name or a flashy costume to fight for justice. Jason has the training, the resources and the calling. It doesn't matter if he's wearing a bright red hood or a two-dimes-a-dozen ski face mask. As long as he gets to save those who need saving, he counts himself happy.

He ducks seconds before the gun fires. Instincts honed by years of fighting coming through when he needs them. Bingo! Assholes three and four still in the house. Someone up there fucking loves Jason.

"Who do you work for? Who sent you?" asshole number three asks.

"Charon," Jason answers.

"Who the fuck's Charon?"

Obviously basic mythology and classic literature aren't part of a child molester's curriculum. Too bad. "You owe him a danake. He sent me to collect."

"A what now?"

The opening Jason is waiting for. He shoots. Asshole number three collapses. "Greet Charon for me, sucker," Jason mumbles. Three down. One to go.

The fourth man makes it even easier. He keeps shooting in Jason's general direction as he runs towards the back door. Idiot. Jason's almost tempted to let him get blown up, but the explosion is going to garner too much attention. The house is on the outskirts of town, isolated enough that Jason is sure no one has heard the shots. The assholes chose an isolated house for a reason. That's working against them now. The sheriff or his deputy might come looking if someone actually reports an explosion, though.

In the end, it doesn't matter. The click, click, click sound of the empty magazine is like music in Jason's ears. Asshole number four throws the gun away and starts slamming against the jammed door, trying to open it.

Jason rises from his cover slowly, not point is getting cocky at this point. The man slams against the door harder. The hinges whine and the handle rattles.

"Please, please don't! I'll give you anything you want. Please, just tell me what you want," the man begs. It'd be more effective, if Jason hadn't recognized the tattoo on his forearm from one of the child pornography videos that lead him here. In the video the child had begged, too.

Jason pulls the trigger. "Your life," he says to the corpse.

The house's basement has been turned into a prison. Two rows of cells separated by iron bars, each cell barely six feet wide and nine feet deep, just enough space for a small cot, a chamber pot and a basin with dirty water. Animals in the zoo have more space than this.

The smell gets to Jason: humid, stale air mixed in with the rank smell of urine and shit. His skin crawls with disgust and he misses the filtering capabilities of his Red Hood mask.

The cells are empty. Jason doesn't know what to make out of that. This is the place. Jason doesn't make mistakes. Some of the cells even have old, broken toys on top of the unmade cots. Where are the kids?

Bile rises in Jason's stomach and then turns to anger. A cold, dark thing that grows and deepens, taking root into the core of his soul. He wants to kill those assholes again.

A low whimper comes from the far end of the basement. The light from the bulb hanging from the ceiling doesn't reach that far back and Jason can't make up who is there. He readies his gun just in case as he approaches slowly.

Jason's natural night vision is good but even his eyes can't quite penetrate the darkness. He sees a shape cowering towards the far end of the cell, hiding in a small space between the cot and the wall. The cell door is locked, an iron chain looped around the bars of the door and secured with an old, rusty lock.

"Hey, little one," Jason says, trying to sound soothing and non-threatening.

Jason crouches in front of the door, making himself seem smaller than he is, and places his gun on the floor raising his empty hands to where he hopes the child can see them. The kid has no reason to trust Jason or any grown-up coming towards them.

"I know you're afraid, but you don't need to be. I mean you no harm. The bad men are gone. No one will hurt you; I won't let them. You're safe now."

Old, rusty chains clank when the child crawls forward on hands and knees. The jarring noise echoes through the empty basement, raising the hairs on Jason's skin. A girl, Jason realizes once she comes closer, though he still can't quite make out the face.

Thick iron chains trail from her wrists and ankles. Her long hair is a tangled mess with long bangs hiding most of her face. The kid raises her head and sniffs the air loudly, animal-like. "You speak true," she says in a raspy, yet oddly-melodious voice. "Death loves you, and you love them. Will you free me for a boon?"

Jason's spine tingles with foreboding and his heart hammers inside his chest, his instincts screaming at him to back away and run.

Jason doesn't.

"Yes," he says. There's no way he's leaving a child chained in a basement cell, even if it's not a human child. Jason's instincts seldom steer him wrong. He can't pinpoint why, but he's certain that the kid isn't human. Jason is freeing her anyway. No sentient being deserves this fate. Not even aliens.

"Don't be afraid," Jason says. "I'm just getting the key." Slowly he lowers one of his hands and searches for the stolen keys in his pocket. It takes him a couple of tries until he finally gets one of the keys to fit the keyhole. The lock snaps open and Jason pulls the chain around the door free.

"I'm coming in now, okay?" Jason warns her before he pushes the cell door open.

The metal squeaks when the door moves, and the girl-like creature backs away, squeezing herself between the bed and the wall. She raises her thin arms defensively. The chains around her wrists and ankles rattle softly as she quivers and cringes, keening with fear.

"Hey, no, no," Jason tries to calm her. "I mean you no harm. I just need to free you from the chains."

"You speak true?" she asks filled with hope.

"Yes, I do," Jason reassures her, staying still. He doesn't want to corner her more than she already is. "Do you want to try the keys yourself? I don't have to touch you if you don't want me to." He offers the keys to her.

Her trembling intensifies and she cringes farther away.

"It's just the keys to the manacle," Jason explains.

"Poison!" she seethes. "You want my death just like the others."

"What? No! I just want to take off your chains, to free you," Jason reassures her. "You want to be free, don't you?"

"Yes," she sniffs.

"These are the keys to open the chains," Jason repeats slowly. "Open them and you'll be free."

"You open them, and another boon yours shall be," she says.

He wants to tell her that he doesn't need a boon, whatever she means by that, but she's terrified enough as it is. Jason just wants to free her as fast as possible.

"All right. Can you come a bit closer?" he asks. He doesn't want to make her feel like she can't retreat. She's been through so much already. Whatever they do, it has to come from her.

She remains still, waiting, and only begins to move when it's clear that Jason won't. Slowly, she crawls forward, stopping again and again to see what he'll do.

Jason waits patiently, not moving, until she's within arm's reach. "I'm going to free you now. That's all I'll do."

Avoiding any sudden movements, he takes one of the girl's hands in his. Her wrists are gaunt and bony, the proportions odd, much too small for the long, spidery fingers of her hands. The flesh is blistered and charred as though someone branded the skin with a hot iron before putting the manacles on her. It looks unbearably painful.

"Hush," Jason soothes her, keeping his voice calm and reassuring. "It's alright. This will hurt a bit, but it'll be over soon. Then I'll clean the wounds and it won't hurt so much." He has local anesthetic and a well-stocked medical kit in the car. Other rescue missions have taught him to always bring the basics along. He hopes human medicine will work on her.

The manacle opens after Jason finds the right key and he removes it slowly, trying his best not to touch the damaged skin. The moment the manacle is off, the girl's skin begins to heal, the red, infested brand marks fading away to be replaced by pink, healthy-looking flesh.

What the hell?

Jason looks at her, surprised, but he can't make out her expression. Her face is still covered in shadows and the long bangs that come almost to her chin. She's messing with his perception. Sure, the light is dim, but Jason's been working nights for a very long time. His eyes should have adapted by now.

It doesn't matter. Jason's freeing her anyway.

He opens the second manacle and watches carefully. Yes, there it is. The skin begins to heal almost as soon as he takes the manacle off. Were they laced with something? Some kind of kryptonite-like substance that only works on the girl?

"Your foot next," he informs her and she sits, raising one of her legs towards him.

"What's your name?" Jason asks, trying to make conversation.

She snatches her feet away and hisses at him, retreating back into the cell. "Not that boon!" she snarls. "My name shall not be yours! Three boons and your heart's desire if you will it, but never my name."

Jason has the sudden, strong suspicion that he knows exactly what kind of being he's dealing with and it's not an alien.

"You're a fae," he says warily, hoping that he's wrong, afraid that he isn't.

He only knows of fae from books and, until that day he thought they weren't real, but Jason has fought together with Greek gods and aliens. He's traveled to other dimensions. He's died and come back to life. There's magic in the world. So much magic. Why not the fae?

"You remember us," the fae says, backing further away, as far from Jason as the cell allows.

"Humans still tell stories about your kind. Old ones," Jason explains. There's a big divide in literature when it comes to the fae. Some stories claim they're playful but kind, while others talk of cruel, capricious beings, who will destroy you, your life, everything you hold dear and then do it again just for kicks and giggles. With Jason's typical luck it's probably gonna be the latter.

"We have stories about your kind, too," the fae says, voice filled with contempt.

Jason really should cut his losses short, gather his things and go. Leave her there until she can free herself, but he won't. You can beat the life out of the Robin, but never the Robin out of the man.

What's the worst thing that can happen anyway? The fae kills him. So what? Jason stopped fearing death long ago; he's living on borrowed time as it is.

"Look, I mean you no harm," Jason insists.

The fae croons and jumps forward. "Thrice said and bound," she sings in a melodious voice.

The air shifts and sizzles. An invisible hand tightens around Jason's heart and twists, pulling tighter and tighter. Jason's gasps for air, unable to breathe. The chime of bells echoes in his ears and the world vibrates around him as though reality itself is shifting. It feels like a thousand insects are crawling up Jason's body, spidery thin and slimy, working their way into Jason's eyes, ears and mouth until they've borrowed so deep inside of him that he can't say where they end and he starts.

They are everywhere. His body spasms as panic flares and he opens his mouth to scream but even his scream sounds like chiming bells. Just as sudden, the sensation stops, leaving Jason gasping for air. He falls to the floor and dry heaves, trying to stomp the memories of those things crawling into him.

"What did you do to me?" he grits out, wishing he had enough strength to grab his gun and shoot her. His vision wavers and a wave of nausea crashes over him, leaving him weak and trembling.

The fae moves closer. The darkness which had clouded her before fades and her face shines with an otherworldly inner light. Something cruel and ancient and wrong hides behind the childish smile, peeking through the bangs of her hair.

"Bound by your word, you are. Thrice said," she sing-songs, sounding amused. Her voice rings with the echoes of bells, and the air thrums with her power.

"I wasn't going to hurt you, for fucks sake," Jason snarls, seizing his anger and clinging to it. Anger is better than fear.

"Mortals lie. Better this way. Safer. Free me, mortal, and your heart's desire and three boons I shall grant," she promises again.

Jason laughs out loud with disbelief. "You think I'll free you now?"

The smile freezes on her face. Her expression loses the thin veneer of playfulness as she tilts her head, scrutinizing Jason as though he's nothing but a bug whose legs she's about to rip out. Jason's skin prickles and a sensation of useless-insignificant-powerless creeps over him.

"Stop it," he hisses at her.

"You are strong-willed for a mortal," she hums, studying him closer, the corners of her lips twisting into an amused, cold smile and the prickling sensation fades. She sniffs the air. "You are not like the others."

"Damn right I'm not!" He manages to push himself up enough to sit. If she comes at him, he's screwed, even breathing takes too much effort right now. What did she do to him? "Where are the children?" he asks her. "I came here to rescue them. They were here."

Her smile turns crueler and hungrier, lips pulling back to show gleaming sharp teeth that seem to be made of ice. "Gone. They are ours now. You cannot have them."

"You have to bring them back," Jason says.

"Is that the boon you ask?" she asks, cocking her head.

Jason tries frantically to remember what to do, or better yet what not to do, when talking to a fae. Don't talk to them is the big fat number one advice everyone gives, but Jason's life sucks and it doesn't seem as if it'll stop sucking any time soon. Ha-ha. Call the Joker for a good laugh.

Jason lived in Ireland while training with one of Talia's teachers. Over there, even those who don't believe in fae respect them. There are rules they have. Never thank a fae. Never repeat things thrice unless you mean them (that boat sailed on that, but at least Jason had meant it. Silver lining, right?). Never ask for their names (two from three, great going), and never ever ask them for anything. They will grant it, and it'll be everything you asked for and nothing you wanted.

"Where did you take them?" Jason wants to know.

"Away," she says. "Fear not, mortal, we only take those who come willingly. They wanted to go. They bargained for it."

"And you took advantage," Jason spits out angrily.

"Nothing comes without a price, mortal. But our price is always fair. We do not cheat."

Why doesn't Jason believe her? "We have stories that claim otherwise."

"We pay like for like, as it is fair, mortal," she says. "We do not cheat, but your kind always tries to. Who tells your stories?"

She's got him there. "Look, those children have families. Families who miss them. I will free you as I said I would, but you have to bring them back."

"They do not wish to come back. We do not force children, mortal. We are not humans." She says the last word like others would say cockroaches.

"How do I know you aren't lying?" Jason asks.

An invisible force slams Jason against the bars of the cell, dragging him up higher and higher until his head is touching the ceiling. "We. Do. Not. Lie," the fae sneers at him, her face contorting wildly with an uncontrolled, visceral rage.

Jason chokes as the invisible hand squeezes his throat until his vision begins to blur. His feet dangle in the air and he tries uselessly to scrabble away at a hand that isn't even there.

'You need me to free you,' Jason wants to tell her, but the words can't make it through the crushing force around his throat.

Just as sudden, it disappears, and Jason falls to the floor, coughing. His hand goes automatically to his abused neck. Breathing hurts and involuntary tears well up in his eyes as he coughs and wheezes, but Jason forces himself to look up and meet that uncaring, cold gaze.

The fae stares down at him dispassionately, her anger gone like it had never been there, her expression blank. The lack of anything warm or human in her gaze, disturbing and chilling in the face of a child. "They bargained to be taken from here." Her voice slithers like a snake through the room. "I shall not bring them back to this world. A bargain is a bargain. Ask for something else."

"They have families. They--" the words die on Jason's throat and though he moves his lips no sound comes out.

The fae's lips twist, cruel and menacing . "Families who hurt them. Families who do not want them. Families who sold them." She comes closer and crouches. Her icy gaze meets Jason's and she grins, flashing those sharp teeth of hers. "You know it, too. This truth. Who is the liar now, mortal?"

Jason swallows. "It's not always like that. Some of them are missed. Some of them…" he stops on his own accord. He knows that it isn't the case this time. The children he'd tracked here had been orphans, sold by their foster families. A disgusting network of monsters that used the system to traffic children who no one would miss.

The fae sniffs the air, coming closer as she does. Cold air brushes over Jason's neck whenever she breathes out, making his skin prickled with goosebumps.

"Truth hurts, but you do not hide from its pain like your kind does. You seek it out. What an odd mortal you are. No wonder she watches you so closely."

"Who?" Jason asks, confused.

"Death," the fae answers.

Jason shivers, looking around the dark basement as though he'd be able to see her, because sometimes… sometimes Jason thinks he can.

The fae stares at Jason with eerie intensity. "She follows you everywhere, and yet you cannot see her. She is here now, watching me through your eyes. Waiting. She has burrowed into your soul like a tick."

Jason bites down the instinctive desire to tell her that she's lying. His throat throbs with pain and he doesn't want her to attack him again. Besides, a part of Jason suspects that she isn't lying about this. Sometimes he can almost sense her--death--at the edge of his awareness, a secret stalker who's never too far away.

He needs to get out of here and… Jason's eyes catch on the manacles around the fae's ankles. The skin underneath is charred, too. Iron chains. Iron bars. Of course.

"How did they capture you?" he asks. Those goons should never have been able to get the drop of this creature.

"A mistake," she says, following his gaze down to the chains. "Free me, mortal, as you said you would. You who smell of truth and carry death in ye. Free me, and I shall grant you your heart's desire and three more boons, as bargained. Free me."

"Thrice said and bound," Jason says mockingly.

The fae straightens and stills, gasping, and the air in the room fills with power, the same power from before, but this time it's her who is shuddering. It's over in the blink of an eye, and when she looks up at him she laughs out loud. The sound of chiming bells echo in the basement.

"You are a clever one, mortal," she croons at him, sounding oddly proud. "Well bargained. Now, fulfill your part and I shall fulfill mine."

"Right." Jason eyes her distrustingly as she pushes her legs towards him. "Here goes nothing," he mumbles underneath his breath. In the back of his mind, a small voice chants, 'stupid, stupid, stupid.'

Jason takes a deep breath and starts searching for the right key, glancing at the fae every now and then, to see if she will attack again. She stays still, watching his hands test key after key with anticipatory eagerness. Finally, one key slots into the manacle.

Jason turns the key warily. The lock opens with a rusty clank and Jason peels the manacle off, watching the skin around the thin ankle heal. The same key opens the second manacle and when it finally falls off, the fae rises to her feet, and rises and rises, skin rippling and contorting. White light spills from her eyes and mouth like fog, slithering through the basement floor.

The iron bars of all cells rust and crumble to dust as do the chains and manacles, even the keys in Jason's hands become dust and fall like powder from his fingers.

The body of the fae pulses with power as more light spills from her. Threads of it coil and twist around her frame. She loses her child-like shape, growing in front of Jason's eyes until she no longer resembles a child, but a woman, or something that could pass for a woman if it weren't for the fact that she's too other.

The light fades slowly, leaving behind a pale being, whose skin glitters like ice and looks just as hard and unyielding. The color isn't white, but translucent, like a crystal. Underneath the skin, Jason can see the shape of muscles and veins, coiling and twisting whenever she moves, but where a human's body would be filled with warm, red blood, hers seems to be filled with a bluish ice-like liquid. No wonder so many legends name them creatures of winter.

The fae breathes in and out, sighing with obvious pleasure. She turns unnatural white eyes towards Jason. There's no pupil or iris in them, just total white, shining with a cold, malicious light that sends chills up Jason's spine.

"You have fulfilled your side of the bargain, mortal, and I shall fulfill mine. Speak your heart's desire and grant it I shall," she sing-songs in that strange, hypnotic cadence of hers.

Nope. Jason's isn't stupid enough to fall for that one. Never.

"I'm fine," Jason says, backing away slowly. "My life is perfect. I don't need anything. I'm happy as I am. The happiest."

She tilts her head and sniffs the air again. Her face twists with revulsion. "Your words reek of lies."

"The things I want, you can't give to me," Jason says. "And even if you could, I would not ask them of you. I freed you because no one deserves to live in chains. I don't know how you were captured or how long you've been here, but even one minute would be a minute too long. Stopping it was my heart's desire and it's already fulfilled. We're good."

"You lie," she accuses him and her eyes narrow.

The temperature drops so fast that Jason sees puffs of white smoke dancing in front of his face when he breathes out.

"You lie," she insists, "but you know it not. I had wondered, but you are no different from others of your kind. There is a truth in you that you fear to face, for it hurts you so. You yearn, mortal. There is no happiness in you, only hunger. You bargained for my power. Ask!"

"No!" Jason says, biting back the automatic, 'thanks' that wants to get out.

She narrows her eyes and her face twists with anger. "Debts must be repaid, mortal. You seek to trick me, to keep me in your debt. I have been the prisoner of your kind for far too long. I shall not be your prisoner any longer. You bargained for your heart's desire, mortal, and grant it I shall."

Light pours from the fae's eyes and mouth and glides towards Jason. He backs away but the light is faster. It creeps up his legs and torso. Jason tries to push it away, but his hands go through it uselessly. It pulses brighter as it moves up his body.

"No," he snarls. "Make it stop!" The light creeps into his mouth and nose and it’s like before, thousands of insects crawling into him, buzzing in Jason's ears and underneath his skin, unmaking him. Jason wants to scream but can't. It feels like someone punched through his lower back, grabbed his entrails and yanked. Pain swallows everything.

The fae laughs and the world dissolves around Jason with a ringing of chimes.

Chapter Text

He wakes up dizzy and weak in a dirty back alley, still hurting. The pain is a dull throb that pulses with every heartbeat. It takes him three attempts to get to his hands and knees. He feels wrong. No, it's not him, but the world around him. He doesn't belong here. The knowledge is an unshakable certainty that stretches down to the marrow of his bones.

Jason recognizes the alley. He's in Gotham, and not just in Gotham, in Crime Alley. It's not his Crime Alley, though. The changes are subtle, but for someone like Jason, who knows this part of the city like the back of his hand, the differences are glaring. Where the hell is he? And how can he get back to his world?

The sound of breaking glass, followed by a woman's scream startles him. Jason's head snaps up, searching for the source. A man shouts angrily, "Stupid bitch, look what you did!" The woman screams again, followed by the loud crashing of furniture breaking. A baby starts wailing, loud enough to almost drown the woman's terrified pleas.

There, two floors up. Jason sees the silhouettes through the thin curtains on a window. The man is shaking the woman, rattling her back and forth, insulting her. His arm comes up and he slaps the woman's face with so much force that she stumbles back and falls. She screams again, begging the man to stop.

It's Jason's mom screaming for help.

No, not his mom. But this woman sounds just like her. Like every other abused woman Jason has ever heard begging for mercy, for help.

Another slap, followed by a shout.

Jason's anger grows, filling him with purpose. He couldn’t help his mom, but he can help this woman. His own pain is forgotten. All he can hear are the woman's pleas, her terror. Jason can do for her what he couldn't do for Catherine. Make it stop.

He climbs the building using the fire escape in three quick, practiced jumps. The window of the apartment isn't even latched, but wide open, to allow the cool evening air to enter the room and relieve some of the summer heat. Buildings in this part of Gotham seldom have AC and overheat terribly in summer.

"Let her go!" Jason snarls as he slips through the window. He doesn't have his guns with him, but he doesn't need them for this. He won't kill this jerk, just give him a taste of his own medicine. See how he likes being on the receiving end of a good beating.

"Get the fuck out of my house!" The man steps in front of the woman and turns to face Jason, a belt in his hand.

Jason freezes, and takes a step back. A wave of fear washes over him and he presses himself back against the window, paralyzed. He isn't Red Hood, or even Robin, he's just a little boy, terrified of his father's belt, hiding under the kitchen table, clinging to his dog and crying.

His father throws the belt to the floor and picks up a kitchen knife. There's eagerness in his face, a thirst for violence and power, a cruel, shark-like grin contorting his features. Jason's breathing is fast and ragged. He can't move. That's his father. That's his father!

The knife comes at him, and Jason blocks the swing, muscle memory taking over in the last second despite his conscious mind still reeling under the onslaught of memories. Years of training with Bruce and the League pay off. Jason twists the man's arm until the shoulder dislocates with a satisfyingly loud snap. The man screams. A hard kick to his kneecap and the joint gives; soft tissue and ligaments ripping. The scream that follows is even louder.

"Stop it! Stop it! Please! Stop it! You're gonna kill him," Catherine cries, throwing herself at Jason.

Jason lets go at once and backs away, eyes wide, unable to tear his gaze away from her. The wailing of the baby grows louder, and Jason wants nothing more than to cover his ears, crawl in a corner where no one can see him and close his eyes.

What's wrong with him? Jason can't snap out of it. The woman--the woman doesn't only sound like Catherine, she is Catherine. Young and desperate and beautiful. Just like Jason remembers her before the drugs and despair destroyed her mind and her body.

Jason blinks and shakes his head, trying to dispel the memories dragging him under. It's useless. He can't make it stop. She still looks like his mom, exactly like Jason's mom. Jason's eyes flick back and forth between the two of them. What the hell is going on?

"Mo--" Jason stops himself at the last second. "Catherine?" he asks, instead.

Her eyes widen in surprise, but she steels herself just as quickly, placing herself protectively in front of... Jason stares at the sobbing man. This isn't a PTSD induced flashback. The man--the man is Willis.

It's been years since Jason last saw him, and he never bothered to keep pictures. His memories of Willis have faded over time. Jason doesn't recognize him, not really, but the belt... Jason glances at the discarded belt. That memory has not faded at all; Jason knows it too well. The buckle, the color, the width, the length, how it looked bent in two in Willis's hand. How much it hurt.

Jason swallows and moves away, needing to put space between him and it.

"D-do we know each other?" his mom stammers.

"You fucking whore! Are you cheating on me?" Willis snarls, trying to get up. "Wait till I get my hands on you!"

Jason's mom forgets Jason and turns to Willis in fear. "No, Willis, no! I swear, I've never seen him before in my life."

Unbidden, a new memory slams into Jason, crisp and clear, as if it had just happened yesterday. His father's friends are drinking, laughing and smoking. A poker game. Jason is playing with Sparky in a corner, sharing his toys with him. His mom is serving drinks and bringing food to the table. One of his dad's friends slips his hand underneath his mom's skirt and cops a feel, telling Willis she's asking for it with that skirt she's wearing.

The men laughing. Willis's face, red and angry. His father losing the hand, and drinking and losing the next hand and drinking some more. And later, so much later, when they were all gone. The beating. That beating. Jason thought he was going to kill her. Maybe he would have, if Jason hadn't intervened.

It was the first time he was brave enough to get in the way, and Willis's anger turned on him. Jason doesn't know how old he'd been? Five? Six? The belt landed on Jason instead of his mom. It hurt. It hurt so much. Jason remembers the belt, just like he remembers Joker's crowbar, Batman's batarang, Batman's fists.

He's five and terrified, but the belt won't stop. He's fifteen and dying, and the crowbar hits him again and again. Backhand or forehand? He's seventeen and desperate and angry. He's bleeding and bleeding, holding the open wound on his throat and the blood won't stop rushing out. The Joker's laughing, like he was laughing before and Bruce… Bruce… He's nineteen, and there's a rooftop, his helmet is broken, and the blows continue to land one after the other. Everything hurts, but Jason laughs anyway. He knows how the story ends.

Except that Jason isn't five anymore, is he? He isn't helpless. He isn't powerless. Not here. Not today. Not now. He advances on Willis, heart filling with resolve.

"You won't touch her," he seethes. "Not now, not ever."

His mom flinches at whatever she sees in Jason's face. Jason steps easily past her. She pleads with him to let Willis go, but Jason ignores her.

He crouches in front of Willis, watching the man cower and back away. There's fear in his eyes. He looks pathetic. Another pathetic drunk abuser who likes to take out his frustration on those who don't have the power to fight back.

Jason remembers the letters. Those letters Willis wrote them from jail. The ones claiming that he was sorry, that he loved them, that he wanted to become better. But Willis had always been like that. He was always sorry afterwards. He always regretted what he did. He always promised he would never do it again. And he kept his promises, until the first drink.

"You won't ever touch her again," Jason snarls. His hand closes around Willis' neck and he squeezes. Catherine sobs and tries to make him let go, but Jason ignores her.

The baby screams louder. Willis chokes under Jason's hand, scratching at Jason's forearm in a useless attempt to pry his fingers loose, but he was already three quarters past drunk when the fight started. One of his shoulders is dislocated and he isn't strong enough to stop Jason.

Willis might have been fearsome back when Jason was a kid and didn't know how to fight. But now? He's just a useless, weak drunkard. His eyes flutter close and he loses consciousness, muscles going lax under Jason's hand.

Jason stops at once and lets him go, checking for a pulse. Still there, if a bit weak.

"Just take the money and go," Jason's mom sobs, backing away and watching Jason with fear. She points to the top drawer in the kitchen cabinet. "We don't have much, but take it. Take whatever you want and leave. Please just leave. We don't have much. Just leave."

Jason startles, nauseous at the terror on her face. She's trembling, tears running down her cheeks, eyes wide and terrified. She's looking at Jason how she used to look at Willis.

"I'm not--I don't want your money," Jason explains. "I heard you screaming and saw him hitting you through the window. I just--" Jason stops, helpless and desperate, willing her to believe him. Of course she thinks Jason is a thief. Who else climbs through a window in Crime Alley? He's even wearing a ski mask.

"I just wanted to help, M- a'am." He changes the mom that wants to get out in the last minute. "He--he shouldn't treat you like that. You shouldn't let him." He takes off his mask, hoping that seeing his face will help ease some of her fears. She has no reason to trust him, though. Only idiots trust strangers who climb through a window in the middle of the night in Crime Alley.

"He's not that bad," Catherine defends Willis. "He had a bad day at work. That's all. He loves me. He's a good husband. A good father."

"He's not," Jason says in a soft voice. "He's not, and you know it. There's always going to be another bad day at work. There's always going to be another excuse. And sooner or later, it won't just be you. It'll be your son, too."

"No!" she protests with more strength than Jason ever remembers her having. "He'd never do that! Jason is his son. Willis loves him."

"And you're his wife. Doesn't he love you?" Jason asks.

He has to fight the overwhelming desire to go to her, to hug her, to tell her how much Jason loves her. She wouldn't understand. It would just scare her more. If Jason could just convince her that she deserves better.

"You’re the kid's mother. What do you think it'll do to him, to grow up seeing his father treat you like that? Do you truly think he'll let it happen once he's old enough to interfere?"

Catherine shakes her head, still crying. She bites the knuckles of her hand to stop the sounds from escaping. Her face is drenched with tears, eyes red and puffy. The shape of a bruise is starting to form around her broken lip. Jason loves her so much there aren't words for it.

"I can't... I can't leave Willis," she sobs. "He needs me. And even if I--He'll find me and--"

"There are shelters," Jason says. He learned about it while he was Robin. It hurt to realize that there had been an out for them all along, and Jason had never even known it existed. "They help women in... similar situations." Calling it abuse would just start his mom in on her denials. "They'll help you."

"We have a son," she says, which isn't the 'no' Jason had been expecting. "I can't... I can't raise him alone. He needs his father."

"He doesn't!" The conviction in his voice startles even him. "He doesn't," Jason insists. "He needs someone who loves him."

"Willis and I love him," his mom protests.

"Not enough," Jason says. "Willis loves him like he loves you. As long as he doesn't have a bad day or a good drink. And you--" he swallows the words and takes a step back, reeling at the unexpected anger.

What's wrong with him? Jason has never been angry at his mom in his life, not even when he should have been.

Not even when he should have been.

Fuck.

She swallows and raises her head, eyeing him warily. "And me? Tell me! What about me?" she demands to know.

Jason's gaze travels to the crease of her elbows. She's wearing a long-sleeved dress even though it's one of Gotham's hot summer nights. She has already started using, hasn't she?

Catherine reels back and clasps her arms around herself, hands going to her elbows protectively. The fear in her face says it all. She knows that he knows, and that tells Jason everything.

He never really knew when she began using. For as long as Jason can remember mommy needed her medicine and Jason had understood that. It was how things were. Mommy's medicine was important, and Jason... Jason had loved her so much. When things got really bad and she could no longer work, it had been up to Jason to get the money and he had. He'd done things that... He pushes those memories away.

He'd never been angry at her. Not once. Not ever. Why is he angry now? Why?

The baby starts crying again, or maybe he never stopped. Jason's head throbs and he hurts, body and soul. The baby's cries are like a chisel being hammered into his heart again and again and again, pieces of him being carved and ripped out one at a time.

That's him in there. That's him.

Jason knows it then, and that hurts even more. He isn't walking out of this room without this little version of himself, with or without his mom's approval.

He's not letting this baby grow up like Jason did. Fearing Willis's anger, begging to be loved, knowing that nothing he does will ever be good enough, blaming himself for not being strong enough to save his mom when she should have been the one to save him.

It's so easy to see it now, what he never could before. Because this isn't him. This baby is him but it’s not. He's just a tiny, innocent baby who no one will ever love enough.

Willis will love him until the first drink. His mom will love him until the first fix. And Bruce will love him until the first kill. They all will love him, Jason knows that, but only as long as it's easy. As long as it costs them nothing. As long as they don't have to sacrifice their personal vices for that love: alcohol, drugs, justice. What's the fucking difference?

Jason will only ever be second best to all of them. He's fine with that. He's always been fine with that, but he'd rather die five times by Joker's hand and relive six times the nightmare of the Lazarus Pit than let a baby grow up like he did. Not while it's in his power to stop it.

"You're taking him with you, aren't you?" his mom sobs and hiccups. "I failed my promise and you're taking him with you."

What promise? Jason doesn't ask. What's the point? She's right; he's taking the baby. It'll destroy his mom for good, probably sooner than the drugs did, but Jason is taking the baby anyway.

This is it. He feels it. That ruthless coldness in his heart that allows him to be judge, jury and executioner and still go back home, look himself in the mirror and say, 'It had to be done.' That intrinsic failing that Bruce has tried again and again to beat out him. That instant, when his inner judge weighs the life of the innocent against the life of the guilty and waits for the scales to tip.

His mother's happiness or the baby's.

"I'm sorry," Jason says, and to his horror realizes he's crying, too. His voice breaking under the pain of what he's about wreck. "I'm sorry."

"I know," his mom says, shifting closer to him. Maybe she'll take the discarded kitchen knife and ram it in Jason's chest. Jason would let her, it'd be easier to die than to live with the choice he's about to make.

"I promised God I'd stop taking drugs if He gave me a baby," she says, still crying. "And He answered my prayers. He brought this perfect, precious boy into my life, even though I can't have children. My little angel, always shining so bright with light."

My little angel, mommy loves you so much. The memory of those words tear at Jason.

"I didn't keep my promise, and now He's sent you to take him from me," she says.

Is she high right now? She used to talk like that sometimes when she was on the good stuff. Of angels and God and Judgment. Jason vaguely remembers it. As the drugs took more and more from her, she stopped rambling and would just take her fix and lay there, eyes vacant, lost in her inner world.

"You're His, too," she says. "Just like my Jason. I can see it now. You shine with the same light. Will you protect him like I couldn't?"

"Yes," Jason says.

"Promise me," she begs. Her hands clasp his in desperation. "Promise me that you will love him and keep him safe. Promise me!"

"Yes, I promise. I promise, mom," Jason whispers.

She cups his face and kisses him on the forehead. Then she wipes away Jason's tears. She goes to the crib and picks up the crying baby, cooing at him and rocking him. Little Jason continues to wail even as he grabs fistfuls of her hair with his grubby little fingers.

When she hands him over the little guy stinks of shit and piss and unwashed baby. Jason takes him anyway and holds him close, wanting to protect him from the world.

"Take him! Take him and love him," his mom says. Her face is wet with falling tears but her voice doesn't waver. "Take him. Remember your promise. Keep your word like I couldn't keep mine." Her shoulders start shaking and she sobs, stepping back from Jason and the baby. She crumbles to the floor, crying out loud, choking on her tears.

Jason tries to go to her, but her sobs turn into the chimes of bells and in Jason's ear a child's voice sing-songs, "Thrice said and bound."

The overhead lamp begins to shine, burning brighter and brighter. The blinding light swallows everything: Jason's mom, his dad, the room. Everything disappears. Pain slams into Jason and he clutches the baby tighter trying to hold onto him and protect him as the two of them fall.

Chapter Text

Jason wakes up to the ear-splitting screams of the baby. It takes him a moment to push past the confusion and reorient himself. He's in the basement of the house, the baby lying on top of him, wailing and squirming against Jason's chest. Somehow, despite everything, Jason managed to hold on to him as they fell.

The fae's naked, dirty feet are much too close for Jason's comfort, but she doesn't seem to notice Jason at all. Her eerie white eyes are fixed on the baby.

Terror allows Jason to scrape together the last dregs of his strength and move. His gun is still lying on the floor, where he'd left it before opening the cell–back when he stupidly thought the fae was a child Jason needed to rescue. Jason kicks the fae with all his strength and lurches forward to grab it. Caught by surprise, the fae staggers back, away from them. Away from the baby.

It's not much, but it gives Jason enough time to secure his hold on little him and rise to his feet. He points the gun at the fae. "Stay the fuck away from him!" he snarls, holding the baby protectively with his other arm.

Jason's heart is pounding against his chest. "Stay away or I'll shoot you!" he warns when the fae steps closer. Stupid thing to do. Either shoot or don't. Warnings are useless.

He doesn't want a fight with the fae, though. She's more powerful than Jason and he's handicapped by the baby. Even now, the baby keeps thrashing against Jason's hold, screaming as if he's being tortured, but Jason can't stop to check if he's hurt. The helplessness and anger are overwhelming.

He has to protect him. He has to.

The fae's white, luminous eyes narrow to slits. Power rolls from her in waves. The air crackles with it. Flashes of lightning run along her skin and her body glows from within like a storm trapped in human form.

Jason's ears pop and his stomach lurches under the fast shifting pressure. The gun in his hands crumbles to dust. He's so screwed.

"You are bound by your word not to harm me, mortal, thrice said," she sing-songs. The eerily melodious voice sends cold shivers up Jason's spine and makes his skin break out in goosebumps. "But your kind is more fickle than the moon."

"I might be bound not to harm you," Jason hisses at her, "but if you think I'll let you hurt the baby you'll have another thing coming."

If there's one lesson Jason learned in his life it’s that when something terrifies you, you have to stand tall and snarl back. Showing weakness only gets you killed faster.

"You can read the truth, can’t you?" He forces his voice to come out low and soft, as though he's in control of everything that's going on instead of fucked to hell and back. "Then read this truth: I don't care how powerful you are. I won't let you hurt the child. I'll fight you with all I have and more. I'll find a way to kill you if I have to. I. Won't. Let. You. Hurt. Him."

The fae grins, sharp teeth, shining like knives in the eerie light that surrounds her. "Oh," she coos. "She's so close now. Your eyes shine with her power. Will you free her, too? She won't help you against me. What's death to those who cannot die?"

"Everything dies." The words come from deep within Jason. An absolute, unshakable truth rooted in the very core of his being.

The fae stills and her smile falters, but when it returns it's sharper, meaner. "I ought to punish your arrogance, but you fight for the child." Her eyes travel down to the baby and the smile on her face softens. There's wonder on her face and longing, too. When her gaze meets Jason's again, it's less cold, like winter snow thawing under the promise of spring.

"You understand a child's worth," the fae says. "So few of your kind do. For that alone I shall show mercy." She glides closer.

Jason tries to retreat but can't. His heartbeat pounds in his ears like a spooked horse, fast and wild. He can't move. Not to flee, not to fight, not even to speak. He might as well be a statue frozen in place.

Helpless.

The baby is crying so hard he's convulsing, his little frame spasming in Jason's arm. Jason's terrified of dropping him, but the baby is trapped safely between Jason's body and arm. Whatever magic is keeping Jason bound makes it impossible for the baby to slip away from Jason's tight hold.

"Hush, little one," the fae coos. "All is well. You are safe." She moves closer and pushes the sweaty bangs away from the baby's face. "Sleep," she says, placing a kiss on his forehead.

The baby stops crying and slumps in Jason's hold unconscious. The soft puffs of air tickling the skin of Jason's neck are the only indication he's still alive.

Jason pushes against the magic holding him in place. It's useless. His body is not his own; it doesn't answer to him. Rage wars against helplessness like a roaring surf crashing against a wall of rocks.

Something gives. "What did you do to him?" Jason growls. He still can't move but his voice is back.

The fae's face ripples, the illusion wavering for a second, before it settles again. She inhales deeply, her breath cold against Jason's cheek. "There's power in you. More than a mortal can carry, but it isn't yours. It's hers. You don't know yet how to wield it. Shall I teach you, mortal? Will that be your first boon?"

"What did you do to him?" Jason snarls.

"Two rivers cannot run in the same bed without becoming one." Her icy lips brush against the edge of Jason's jaw as she speaks. "For once they converge the tributary is forever gone."

Jason remembers that feeling of displacement–of wrongness–when he was in the other universe. If it was another universe and not some sort of make-belief world created by the fae. Jason has traveled across dimensions before without ever feeling like that.

"Is he going to be alright?"

"We are not mortals," the fae seethes. "We understand the worth of a child's life. I would not harm the little one. The woman did not deserve the child. So few of your kind do, and yet they are gifted to you over and over." Her voice quivers with resentment.

"You still owe me three boons," Jason reminds her, her earlier words coming to mind.

She moves slightly away, just enough that she can stare directly at him, white eyes shining brighter. "And what is it you wish, mortal?"

"You will let us both go, unharmed," Jason demands.

The fae laughs. "So mote it be." She steps away and Jason almost topples over as control of his body slams back into him. He catches himself at the last second and hefts the baby up, securing him protectively against his body and cradling his soft head with one hand.

He studies the fae warily. There's no point in running, but he needs time to think. He has to settle this here, make sure he bargains for the being to truly leave them be. Three boons and Jason's heart's desire. Instinctively, he hugs the baby tighter.

Right.

"The child is mine now," Jason estates. He doesn't want her getting any fucking ideas. "My heart's desire, as bargained."

He used one boon asking for her to let them go unharmed, but he still has two more.

"Thrice said and bound, mortal. Have you already forgotten?" She watches the baby as hungrily and covetous as before.

Jason hates it. "Is he human?" He asks all of a sudden. Is that why she keeps watching him like that? The child might be a changeling for all Jason knows.

The fae tilts her head, the weight of her attention shifting from the baby to Jason. It presses down on him. Prey-mortal-worthless-bug.

"Are you?" she asks sweetly.

"How the fuck should I know?" Jason snaps back. Some days he feels like fate's failed experiment, some odd creature glued together with spite, anger and pain.

"Is he a fae?" Jason clarifies. "We have stories about your kind stealing children and switching them."

"We only take those who are not wanted," the fae replies. Her face hardens. "We have stories of your kind, too. You do not want children who are other. You wish for them not to be born and pray for them to die. We take the ones no one wants, for we want them all." Her smile is sharp and cruel when she adds, "And then we leave a present behind. It's not stolen if we pay for it, is it? This one is wanted." Her eyes go to the baby again, and yes–there it is–that instant softening of her features. "We never take those who are wanted. But if you want him no more..." She looks at Jason almost hopefully. "You only need to wish it, and I shall take him with me."

"I want him!" Jason hurries to say.

Something shifts in her expression. Disappointment? Jason can't read it well. "Of course you do," she says. "You understand the value of a child."

"What else do you want?" Jason demands. "I already freed you."

"The debts must be settled," the fae insists. "Two more boons I owe you. Ask, mortal. Ask, and I shall grant them."

"Then I want you to leave," Jason says. He already bargained for her not to harm them. All that Jason wants is her gone for good.

"So impolite," she admonishes him. "Where should I leave to, mortal? Should I go back to my world?" Her face is eager, a different kind of hunger twisting her features. Her sharp teeth gleam when she grins. "Is that the boon you want?"

Jason knows a trap when he sees it. The way she words and reframes the wish says more than she realizes.

"You're trapped here, aren't you? You can't go back home unless someone wishes it." Like a fucking genie waiting for some poor fucker to set them free.

She recoils from him. "Mortals are greedy beasts. All you do is to take and take without giving back. Walking, talking mistletoe. Pretty to look at, easy to kill but always coming back, and rotten to the core. Ask your boons and be done, mortal. If you will not send me home, another one of your kind will. You are all so easy to fool."

"Says the fae that was trapped with iron chains in a human basement," Jason reminds her pettily.

"The children called and I answered," she says. "Fair bargain made and bound. They are ours now. I will find my way back. I always do."

"I want the children back, that's my boon," Jason demands.

She laughs. "Not that. They bargained, not you. Should I trade your heart's desire to someone else? Let someone else's wish undo yours? What a disgusting mortal habit," she hisses, "destroying the dreams of others so that your own may come true. That is not our way, mortal. Your boon cannot undo that which has already been bargained for. A bargain made is a bargain closed. The children aren't yours to claim. Ask for something else."

Jason closes his eyes and tries to think. It's hard, with the fae so close to him, the cold fog of her breath ghosting against his skin.

It hurts that he can't save the children he came to rescue. It hurts that he doesn't know if they are safe where they are. Can he trust the fae to treat them well? His eyes open, an idea forming. It can all be a trick–fae are well known tricksters–but if it is, there's little Jason can do to stop her. He has to assume that she is bargaining in good faith, for all that the rules that govern them are so different.

"Two more boons you still owe me, and two more boons I demand." Here goes nothing. Jason hopes that the books he's read which mention faes aren't completely wrong. If he makes it out of this one, he's going to catch up on his folklore literature as soon as he can.

"I wish for you to go back to your world."

The startled look on her face is satisfying. "So mote it be," she says slowly, as though she can't quite believe he's offering freely the thing she tried to trick him to get.

"Your third boon," she demands. "I cannot leave before granting it." She frowns. "Is that your trick, mortal? Ye wish to trap me here with an unfulfilled bargain?"

"How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not trying to keep you a prisoner?" he snaps. "I freed you and I'm now using one of my boons so that you can go back to your world. And go back you will, as bargained," Jason says. "But if ever one of the children you took today asks to return here, to our world, you shall make it happen. That's the third boon I demand. They don't need to bargain for their return, for I have already done it. A bargain made is a bargain closed," he repeats her words.

"They will not ask to return," she insists. "Ye are wasting your boon."

"Maybe they won't." Jason shrugs. The fact that she's trying to make him change his wish lets Jason believe that there's hope that they will. "But if they do, I demand that you help them come back. It is my boon to waste."

Her face sours. "So mote it be," she reluctantly agrees. "Well bargained, mortal."

"It's time for you to leave," Jason says.

"So it would seem."

A bright portal opens behind her. Gusts of icy wind shriek and howl, shrouding everything in ice. Frost creeps over the stone floor and up the walls of the basement like an army of white spiders. The cold burrows down to the marrow of Jason's bones. He tries to shield the baby with his body from the howling wind, hiding him beneath his much too thin leather jacket.

"You need to leave now!" he yells over the shrieking of the winter storm raging in the basement. "This temperature will kill him!" The fae cares about the child. That hasn't been fake. "Human babies are fragile."

She waves a hand and the wind stops at once. The frost covering the floor and walls turns into green grass and moss and the temperature rises. On the other side of the portal, there's a green meadow, peppered with wild flowers and colorful butterflies. Sunlight baths the basement in a warm golden light, while birds chirp and sing in the distance.

Jason shivers, teeth chattering, and holds the baby close. The shivering intensifies, despite the sunlight warming his face. He hugs the baby, searching for that rabbit fast heartbeat. It's there, quick and healthy.

"Ye are a strange one indeed, mortal," the fae whispers. "Very few of your kind can see the truth that lies at the core of all things. You so prefer the trappings of illusion. But even now, with my magic clouding all your senses, a part of you still senses the truth underneath."

Jason can't stop his teeth from chattering and he hates it. "G-go! Our bar-bargain is over."

She steps back, still facing Jason, and stops at the edge of the portal, framed by the light streaming through. "One parting boon for when we meet again," the fae sing-songs. "Next time she visits you, open the door and let her in. When death comes, greet her." The chime of bells echo through the basement as she steps through the portal. It closes, swallowing her, leaving the room in darkness.

"Well, fuck," Jason exhales.

The baby stirs against Jason's neck and kicks, slowly blinking his eyes open and starting to fuss, whatever magic the fae had placed on him, gone.

"It's all right, Mini-Me," Jason tells him. "You slept through all the good parts. I bet you're hungry, aren't you?" His mom always forgot to make dinner for Jason when she and his dad fought. Chances were good she hadn't fed the baby yet.

Jason kisses the baby's sweaty head, despite the rank smell of piss, poop and sweat. He closes his eyes and breathes out slowly, rocking the baby in his arms.

There's so much to do still. He needs to go over the evidence in the house, get rid of the bodies so that they can't be tied back to him, and find out if there are new leads to other child trafficking rings. That's at least four or five more hours before he can leave.

The baby fusses and kicks, sucking the thumb of his right hand, a self-soothing gesture that it took Jason years to kick. "You had a rough day today, didn't you, buddy?" He snorts, amused by the understatement. "Welcome to the Jason club, Mini-Me. Not too many perks, but you probably figured that out already. Don't worry, despite everything, somehow we always make do."

Wrapping up the case will have to wait. Right now Jason has more important things to take care of.

Chapter Text

Dr. Miller frowns when she sees the red rash on the baby's buttocks and crotch. Cleaning the little guy had taken a while. The diaper had been horribly dirty by the time Jason managed to get the baby to her.

"You could have stopped on the way here to change him." Dr. Miller glares at Jason accusingly.

In hindsight, it seemed logical. "Right. Of course," Jason acknowledges. "It didn't occur to me." Jason's experience with actual babies is practically non-existent. He's good with kids, for the most part, but babies? He's never been around one before.

Dr. Miller rubs her face, closes her eyes and exhales slowly. Jason feels slightly guilty for waking her up at 3 a.m. but she'd been the closest doctor he could trust not to ask too many questions and still do a good job.

"He's a bit small for his age," Dr. Miller tells Jason, examining the baby carefully. She puts some white, thick cream over the rash, and the baby smacks his lips and gives them a toothless smile while she works. "It's not too bad. He's a bit dehydrated but healthy otherwise. A baby this age will be easy enough to place."

"He's not going into the system," Jason says, the words out before he can even think them over. The idea is like a sucker punch to his gut. No. Never. There's no way he's letting baby him go into foster care.

Been there, done that. Thanks, but no thanks.

Dr. Miller's face softens when she looks at him. "There are many good couples waiting to adopt. He's younger than the children you usually bring me, but he doesn't have the emotional baggage either. He'll be placed well."

"He's not going into the system," Jason repeats.

He trusts Dr. Miller. The two of them have worked together before. Jason met her as Red Hood when he busted his first child trafficking ring and needed someone to help him take care of the traumatized and abused children.

She has a pragmatic attitude that has her looking the other way when it comes to Red Hood's methods. Her words to him that first time had been, "I only care about the children. Bring them to me and I'll make sure they're taken care of. What you do to those who held them, isn't something I want to know. I won't ask and you won't tell me."

A woman after Jason's heart. Someone intelligent enough to understand that the world is a broken vending machine. You either have enough money to pour into it until it gives you what you want, or you have to kick it to make it spit out what you already paid for ten times over.

"He doesn't have to go into the system," Dr. Miller clarifies. "I have a waiting list of vetted prospects who will love to raise a baby. He'll be—"

"I'm keeping him," Jason says. "He's mine."

She stops and looks at Jason, gaping slightly. Her eyes shift to the baby and back to Jason, brow furrowing in thought. "You mean that literally."

"Different eye color," she goes on, attention shifting from Jason to the baby and back, as though she can somehow see the face underneath Jason's sky mask. "But that's not too surprising. True green is very rare, especially that vivid green of yours. You'll have a hard time passing it on."

Jason suppresses the urge to flinch. These days, he doesn't think about the pit much, but the reminder unsettles him.

"His mother..." The memory of Catherine passed out in drugged bliss while Jason cooked and cleaned comes up unbidden, and Jason hates it. Usually, he remembers Catherine reading bed-night stories to him and calling him my sweet angel. He likes to remember the good bits, but now the ugly won't stop coming. "She loved him, but she couldn't…" He stops and tries again, "She didn't have the resources and support to care for him."

"That much is obvious." Dr. Miller tsks. She finishes applying the cream to the baby's rash and puts him in a new diaper. "I don't—It's not my place to say this, but your lifestyle isn't the best to raise a child. Many parents don't have the best lives when they bring children into this world and they manage alright. Still, putting him up for adoption is an option you shouldn't dismiss."

"I was adopted myself," Jason tells her. Three times, if he counts Talia, which he sometimes does. "It wasn't bad, but..." Catherine loved him, more than his own biological mother ever did. And Bruce... Bruce loved him, too. Once upon a time in a far far away universe. It hurts to remember. Sometimes it feels as though Jason imagined it all. "I won't do that to him."

If someone should get a say in how little Jason will be raised that person will be Jason himself. No one else.

Bruce would love this baby with everything he has. Jason knows it, but that love won't stop Bruce from raising the kid to be another Robin. Even if he tries to stop it, which Bruce won't, with the lives they live the kid will grow up dreaming of the day he's old enough to go out there, too.

Jason would rather die again than let another version of himself grow up like that. The instinctual recoil at the mere idea surprises him, because back in the day Jason had believed that being Robin was the best thing that ever happened to him.

He can't risk a future in which little him does something that displeases Bruce and Bruce cuts him off, not from the money, but from his heart. It will destroy him, like it destroyed Jason. He might grow beyond it, as Jason had, but no—Jason's not risking this innocent version of himself like that.

Little him deserves more.

Bruce can't know that this child exists.

And Talia... She had been good to Jason, but Jason saw what she did to Damian with the Heretic. She's no longer the woman she used to be, just like Bruce is no longer the man he'd been before. Maybe they never were, and Jason was too blinded by love and gratefulness to see it before.

Maybe it's just the lives they all live. When you stare too long into the abyss, yada yada.

Who's Jason to criticize? Staring into the abyss—or jumping headfirst into it—sure changed Jason. Maybe that's the difference between them. Jason is self-aware enough to know he's become a monster, but at least he chooses the kind of monster he wants to be. He's not sure Bruce and Talia are aware of how much they both have changed.

Dr. Miller watches him closely. "You're stopping," she says. It's not a question.

Jason realizes that it doesn't need to be. You don't ask the sun if it will rise in the morning. Some things just are.

He looks at the giggling baby, kicking with his little legs, sucking on his own toes with that natural flexibility only babies have.

"Yes." Jason tests the sound of the word out loud. "Yes, I am. I need to tie some loose ends, but after that... Yes."

Jason's plan had always been to die with a mask on, protecting those who needed it. But maybe the true sacrifice isn't to die for all the innocents of this world, but to pick one and live for them. Whatever the price.

He traces his forefinger over the baby's soft cheeks. His hand looks massive against the little face. It seems impossible that this tiny baby will grow up to be as big as Jason one day.

Baby him gurgles and grabs Jason's finger in his little hand. His fist barely reaches around but his grip is breathtakingly strong. Jason's heart skips a beat and a wave of emotions he can't name wash over him like a tsunami, pulling him under. It's like drowning in the pit all over again, feeling himself be rearranged from the inside out, but where the pit filled him with rage all Jason feels now is love. A love as deep as a never ending ocean.

"I can look after him while you tie those loose ends," Dr. Miller offers, studying Jason with a pensive face.

"Why would you offer that?" He can't help but be suspicious.

Her smile is sad when she answers. "It's not a trap, Red Hood. Not everything is. I'm all about second chances, about new starts. I help people who need them. That's my calling." She shrugs. "I've been doing this for a long time. Even with that mask on, I recognize the signs: You want out. I'll help you, the same way I would help a battered spouse or a trafficking victim. It's what I do."

"It's not the same at all," Jason protests.

"The offer stands. You don't have to take me up on it," she says. Then she turns and starts tidying up everything, professional and business like.

Damn it, but she's right. Jason has dangerous enemies and much too clever allies. He doesn't want either of them anywhere near this baby.

Jason can't simply retire. He has to disappear. Red Hood can't just leave; he needs to die. And Jason Todd must die with him, too. For good this time.

His first thought is of Bruce. This will hurt him so much. Or will it? Alfred is dead, which makes everything easier. Jason wouldn't have been able to do that to the old man. Bruce will just have to cope. He managed all right the first time, didn't he?

Dick doesn't even remember who Jason is. Nothing to worry about there. Jason has grown close to Tim, Duke, Damian and the girls over the past years, but they don't have the kind of relationship that will have them shedding tears once the news of Jason's death reaches them.

Kory and Roy are dead. Biz and Artemis are gone and nothing Jason has done so far has gotten him closer to figuring out where they were taken. If they come back, Jason's disappearance will hurt them, but he believes that they would understand his choice.

"I'll need two weeks," he tells Dr. Miller. "Can you... can you look after him for that long? I'm not giving him up. It's just—I need two weeks."

"I know a couple that specializes in short-time fostering. They're really good. Trustworthy. I'll give you the address and you can check them out yourself if you want." Dr. Miller snorts. "I know you will anyway."

She does know Jason well.

"Thank you. I... thank you." The words seem inadequate but it's all Jason has to give.

"You're welcome." Dr. Miller places a hand on Jason's shoulder and squeezes.

Leaving the baby behind with Dr. Miller, even if Jason knows he'll be back, is one of the hardest things he's ever done. It doesn't matter that the baby won't remember it. It feels like a betrayal—another one for someone who despite his very short life has already been abandoned twice: first by Sheila and now by Catherine.

She'd given little Jason up so easily. It was probably the fae's magic, or maybe his mom was just glad for the excuse. It's an ugly, unfair thought. Catherine tried her best, which is more than Sheila and Willis ever did.

The sun is already rising by the time Jason's done disposing of the bodies and going through the computers in the house. The evidence points at a much broader network of traffickers, but instead of the familiar, satisfying sense of 'gotcha', Jason is filled with sudden despair.

This is it, isn't it? The true test. Baby Jason waiting for him with his temporary foster parents or the hunt. Jason rubs his face with his hands. Exhausted.

There are other children out there who need him. Other victims who are being abused, who… Jason can't turn his back on them.

He can't.

He'll just need three weeks to track those bastards down and free the children they have. Add the two weeks to tidy things in Gotham and he'll pick up the baby in a month. One and half tops. Dr. Miller will understand. It's just a bit longer than he'd anticipated. That's all.

Three more weeks don't change anything.

Jason's stomach churns with guilt. He knows how the story goes. It doesn't end. There will be another ring and another. Other victims, other innocents in need of rescue.

It's never going to end. If he goes... if he goes... How is he any better than Catherine and Willis always promising that this time truly is the last time? Is it?

"What the fuck am I doing?" he whispers to himself, but he thumbs over the contacts on his phone searching for Dr. Miller anyway.

He reaches the M and stops, hovering over the names on the display. Only one call. Either to Dr. Miller to tell her he needs more time. Or... Can Jason do for himself what his parents never could? Pull the plug and go cold turkey.

He presses the M.

The phone rings twice, before Midnighter answers. "Red Hood, this is a pleasant surprise. What do you need?"

Right, Jason isn't known for contacting people without reason. "That favor you owe me. I'm calling it."

"Well, well," Midnigher's voice changes, losing the smirk Jason could hear before. "Got into a sticky situation, did you?"

"Yes. No," Jason corrects.

"Very convincing," Midnighter chuckles. "Where are you?"

Jason ignores the question. He doesn't need Midnighter using his portals to come here, see Jason's face and know something's wrong. "Got a lead to a child trafficking ring. I want to clean it up, but something came up in Gotham and I need to go back. Don't want this to wait. Most superheroes wouldn't be..." he searches for the right word, "as thorough as these assholes deserve."

"I know exactly what you mean," Midnighter answers, a dark edge to his voice. "You don't have to waste your favor on this. I'll do it for free. Where are you?"

"Irrelevant," Jason replies. "I'm done with clean-up here. I'll send you the intel I found. Follow the leads and take care of it."

"Red Hood," Midnighter starts and stops. "That thing in Gotham... Do you need help with that?" He must believe that if Jason is giving up this particular hunt, the true problem isn't the traffickers but Gotham itself.

"I got it handled. I need you to find the kids and free them." Jason knows he will. That's why he chose Midnighter.

"Fine. Send me the intel," Midnighter agrees after a brief hesitation.

Most people know that Batman is possessive of Gotham and that he trained his Robins to be the same way. Midnighter won't question Jason's decision to keep him out of Gotham's business too much. It's what they all do.

"Will do. Same server as last time?"

"Yes," Midnighter says. "Red Hood, if you change your mind about Gotham—"

"I won't," Jason cuts him off.

"If you change your mind," Midnighter insists, talking over him. "You've got my number and the favor is still open. This doesn't count."

Jason swallows his protest. None of it matters anyway. Jason Todd will die soon enough and won't be collecting any favors. "Thanks. I'm sending you everything. Call me when you're done," Jason demands. There won't be anyone to call, but he doesn't want Midnighter to be suspicious.

"Sure thing, kid," Midnighter says. "Stay sharp."

"Always."

Even Jason is surprised by how little he needs to do before he disappears—a testament to the fact that he's been cutting himself off from Gotham over the past years without even realizing it.

He'd been dismantling Red Hood's criminal empire for years, destroying the more questionable parts while slowly legalizing his less shady business venues, handing the management over to those who know how to toe the edge of illegality without actually crossing it. With the Iceberg Lounge and other less expensive clubs across the city, Jason created ways for his former street girls and boys to earn a living, protected from abusive pimps and corrupt cops alike.

In the end, it takes Jason less than two weeks to settle everything. A part of him wants to visit Bruce and say his goodbyes, but even a simple visit would raise too many suspicions. Jason only goes to the Cave if Bruce asks him to, and Bruce only calls Jason when he needs something.

There will be no goodbyes between them, just like there weren't any goodbyes last time. Death seldom allows for those. Besides, there isn't much for him to say to Bruce. What little he has to say, a letter will hold.

A bit of poetic justice. What goes around, comes around.

The night of his final act as Red Hood, Jason waits for dawn to break sitting next to his favorite gargoyle in the city. He leans back on its stone body, feet dangling over the edge of the rooftop and watches the skyline of Gotham, committing every last detail to memory.

'This is goodbye, baby-girl,' he thinks to the city. The cold, night breeze ruffles Jason's hair almost like a caress, as if Gotham knows and understands.

Jason's heart twists with a pang of longing and he has to close his eyes to deal with the whirlwind of emotions rushing through him. He has the sudden, strong urge to pull out a cigarette and smoke, even though he quit that particular vice long before he died the first time.

He rests his head on the gargoyle, letting it support his weight, and lets the emotions come and go as they will, not trying to stop them but not particularly eager to engage with them either.

The moon travels across the sky while Jason listens in on the channel chatter of the others. Bruce, Tim and the girls are going after some gangs in the docks, which had used Bane's reign over Gotham to grow in strength. With most of the rogues accounted for, Bruce is focused on bringing the city back into order.

Damian is still on the loose, it seems, and without decades of memories tying him to them, Dick doesn't want much to do with Batman either. No one misses Jason these days, and that makes what it's to come easier.

Dawn is barely two hours away, when Bruce and the others finally call it quits and go back to the Cave. Jason waits until the channel chatter dies down completely and he's confident they have all disconnected.

He stands up slowly, muscles stiff from sitting in the cold night air for so long, but by the time he makes it back to his bike, the stiffness is completely gone.

One final thing to do in Gotham, and then he can leave the city behind and never look back.

Jason doesn't understand why Bruce didn't go after the Joker immediately after getting rid of Bane and gaining back control of the city. Then again, Jason has come to accept that he will never be able to grasp why Bruce always waits until the very last moment to deal with the Joker. There needs to be blood on the ground and bodies layering the streets of Gotham for Batman to actually bother with the clown.

Sure, the Joker is lying low for now, but you don't need to be a genius—let alone a supposedly first class detective—to realize that this is only the calm before the storm. The Joker is lying low because he's getting ready to strike.

It had only taken Jason two days to find Joker's hideout. The slums are filled with rumors because Joker is recruiting again—aka gassing homeless people, pulling them into his madness, and wooing those with the not-so-hidden desire to sow chaos with promises of brutal violence and carte blanche for their crimes.

Jason might have been away from Gotham, but when you're Gothamite born and bred, when you grew up on the street that pays the bodycount of every rogues' escape you learn to recognize the patterns.

A question here, another question there, a bit of stealth, a bit of stalking, and not too long after he has the address he needs. Yet another abandoned house tucked at the end of Amusement Mile. How disappointingly predictable.

The sun has barely begun to rise by the time Jason makes it there: The perfect short window of opportunity tightly squeezed between Batman ending his patrol and the city waking up. Nothing ever happens in Gotham at dawn, something Jason has successfully used in the occasions when he truly didn't want Bruce to know what he was up to.

His heart pounds with anticipation. He's so close. So close. Jason has daydreamed about this day for years. So many times.

He could have killed Joker before—came very close to it once—but the hurt, betrayed child who still wished that Bruce would love him more than he did his mission had waited. Even after Jason accepted that Bruce would never kill the Joker for Jason, he had continued to wait, because maybe, just maybe, one day... Jason wanted to see if there was something Joker could do that would make Bruce say 'Enough!' when Jason's death hadn't.

There's no point in waiting any longer. Joker's death will never be Bruce's gift to Jason, but it will be Jason's parting gift to Gotham. This is something Jason has to do before he can allow himself to retire.

The house is dark from the outside, but there are a handful of guards patrolling the periphery. The dawn hides Jason's approach and the silencer muffles the sounds of the gunshots as he cuts his way through the guards with a sniper's precision. The men fall like flies one after the other, too fast for any of them to raise the alarm and warn their comrades.

Jason ignores the pang of regret as his bullets cut their lives short. Many of them are as much victims of the Joker as Jason himself had been, poor suckers who weren't fast enough or lucky enough to get away before Joker came calling, victims of the Joker's toxin. If Joker had been less intent in hurting Batman and more interested in using Jason, that could have been him. Forever trapped in that laughing madness.

Death seems like a mercy in comparison.

Ten minutes is all it takes him to reach the entrance unnoticed. Jason's sure there will be more surprises once he gets in. This is Joker after all. It's the reason why Jason reactivated his old costume, preferring the protection of a full-head helmet to deal with the madman.

He manages to kill three of the guards inside the house but the fourth sets off the alarm before Jason can incapacitate him and suddenly he's being swarmed. Men dressed in clown costumes and garish outfits come at him from everywhere.

Jason ducks for cover behind a corner. They have the advantage of numbers on him, but Jason doesn't need to be stealthy any longer. That helps. Bullets ricochet all over the house. Joker's goons fire blindly in his direction, and Jason answers with a deadly precision honed over years of training to minimize collateral damage as much as possible.

The goons miss. Jason doesn't.

Fifteen minutes later, Jason's the only man standing. The foyer is layered with corpses and there's blood everywhere. Jason reloads his weapons and moves away from his cover slowly, checking for threats. Adrenaline pumps in his veins and in that instant, even the death toll doesn't phase him—that might come later, if it does—he's here for one person.

Then, Jason sees him.

Joker. Standing in the doorway at the end of the foyer. Alone.

"Oh, the big bad Red Hood has come to visit Uncle J," Joker laughs, moving closer, not bothering to hide. "Does Batsy know that you're here? He's gonna be so angry when he sees how naughty you've been. You know killing makes Batsy cry." He laughs again, loud and shrill.

Jason raises his gun and aims it at Joker's forehead. A burning, searing pain shoots through his arm and his gun falls from nerveless fingers before he can press the trigger. He staggers against the wall, seized by a wave of dizziness and sees a tranquilizer dart piercing the crease of his elbow, the only unprotected part of his Red Hood costume.

A second, silent dart hits him again, just slightly above where the first one did. His forearm burns and Jason has barely enough strength to turn his head and see a tall, pretty woman, dressed in lilac and black, aiming a tranquilizer gun at him. The pleased, cruel grin of her face is the last thing Jason sees before the world fades away.

Jason comes back to a scene so familiar that for a moment he believes he's having another nightmare. He's tied up to a chair, all his weapons stripped, and the Joker is standing in front of him, a crowbar in his right hand. He watches Jason with a ravenous cruel hunger. A mad grin that stretches across his face showing off his too long teeth and the bright red smeared lipstick distorting the shape of his lips.

It's a nightmare, just a nightmare.

The crowbar slams brutally against Jason's upper arm and his mind whites out with the pain. Unwilling tears spring in his eyes—a useless attempt by his body to give the sudden, all-encompassing pain some kind of outlet.

"Waky-waky, Boy Blunder, time to play with Uncle J," the Joker cackles.

Nightmares and reality clash, and the only thought left in Jason is the desperate wailing of a trapped animal. Not again! Not again! Please not again!

The pain is almost a blessing, and Jason clings to it, letting it anchor him back to his body. Jason knows pain. It's an old familiar friend. Physical pain is easy to deal with—been there, done that, so many times.

Jason will choose pain over fear every time. So he clings to the pain, cradles it like a lover, because the alternative is worse. You don't show fear to a monster like Joker. Never.

"Joker," Jason grunts through the waves of pain. His voice comes out weaker than he intends it to be, but still defiant.

The room is empty, except for Joker and the woman that had shot Jason earlier. She's leaning against the far wall, watching them and smoking a cigarette. The position it's a exact replica of where Sheila had stood back in Ethiopia. The parallels make Jason nauseous, his mind spinning wildly between past and present. Not again! Not again! Please not again!

Her expression is avid, but her eyes are only for the Joker. There's an eagerness to her, like a hungry dog who knows is about to get fed. Sheila had refused to watch. Jason remembers that much, she'd smoked cigarette after cigarette with her eyes closed and her face turned away.

That sliver of a difference is the only weapon Jason has to fend off the panic attack clawing at the edges of his consciousness. Not now. Not now! He concentrates on the woman's black and lilac hair, the long ponytail, the perfect fringe framing her face. She's not Sheila. She's not.

Jason's breath comes in quick pants.

Pain slams into his right thigh. "Pay attention, Boy Blunder!" Joker laughs, and suddenly the woman isn't as important. Just Joker. Only Joker. Joker and the crowbar. Another strike on the exact same spot rips a scream out of Jason.

"You were always dumber than the rest," Joker says. The grin on his face widens grotesquely and his eyes gleam with malice. "But when Uncle J is talking to you. You! Pay! Attention!" Every word is followed by a strike. Jason's calf. His left arm. His head.

The helmet holds—it's made to resist stronger impacts—but the force of that last blow makes Jason's head reel, the vertebra of his neck creaking as his head bends at an odd angle.

"Did you miss Uncle J, Boy Blunder?" Joker whispers, leaning closer until his lips brush against the alloy of the helmet. "Got tired of Batsy ignoring you? Can't say I blame him, of all of Batsy's little birds you were always the most pathetic. Do you remember when you cried trying to make him choose between us and he chose me?"

Joker laughs out loud. His words hurt more than the crowbar does. They’re like poison burning Jason from the inside, where the crowbar cannot reach.

"Bruce must have been really desperate when he took you in." Joker chuckles.

Jason freezes. What the...? Since when does Joker know Bruce's identity? The realization is so jarring, so terrifying, that it drowns out everything else. Even Jason's incipient, PTSD-induced panic attack fizzles away like a burst soap bubble.

Joker cannot know who Batman is.

The Joker cackles, gleeful and mad. The sound claws its way up Jason's spine, ripping at his nerves like knives.

"Oh, Boy Blunder, you didn't know I knew who Batsy is?" His wide, red lips contort into a shark-like grin. "Uncle Joker knows everything. I know who you all are, Jason." He claps his hands together and laughs. "I have such great plans for all of you!" His laughter fades and his face twists into a cruel grimace. "Well, for all of them. You, I have no use for. Who needs a bad copycat Robin? Only the original will do, I'm afraid."

Joker trails the edge of the crowbar over Jason's helmet. The claw scratches the alloy with enough force to peel away the red paint. The hairs of Jason's arms prickle with goosebumps at the shrill sound.

"You understand, don't you, Jason?" Joker mock-whispers. "Even Batman agrees with me that you're a waste of space. Not even second-best, really. They’re all better than you." He giggles and taps the crowbar against Jason's helmet. "The only thing you were ever good at is begging. You begged so prettily last time for Uncle J to spare you. Will you beg me again?"

"Shut up!" Jason snarls. "I didn't beg! I don't beg for things I know I won't get. You think you know who I am? You know nothing, you pathetic excuse for a clown!"

The crowbar slams against Jason's helmet, and Joker laughs. He raises his hands, both fists clenched around the crowbar, and strikes again. The blows fall one after the other, fast and brutal, coming from every direction until the alloy of the helmet cracks and the first shattered piece falls to the floor.

Joker laughs gleefully. Pearls of sweat fall down his face, smearing part of his make-up. He laughs harder with every strike, the sound crawls his way into Jason's psyche like maggots, impossible to ignore.

"I didn't kill you right in Ethiopia, Jason, but I'll make sure it sticks this time. I've no use for you. No one does. Bruce will even thank me." He cackles. "Such a disappointment you turned out to be. Always a failure, from the moment you were born."

Jason's powerless anger, his fear, his pain, all of it fizzles away and dies. Like a camera suddenly going into focus, the world around him sharpens, becoming crystal clear.

"You're wrong," Jason says.

It's not a feeble denial. Not even a counterargument. It's absolute certainty. It's the memory of little Jason's weight in his arms, that baby smell of his after they'd cleaned him, innocent and pure, his little baby smile when he grabbed Jason's forefinger and squeezed it.

Jason… Jason might be many things, but baby-him was not born a failure.

Never that.

Never.

Joker cackles. "You tell yourself that, but we all know—"

He never finishes.

Jason's arms and wrists are tied together, but his hands are still free. He opens his fingers wide and the All-Blades appear, drowning the room with their blindingly bright light. They are everywhere. Hundreds, thousands of souls clamoring for revenge. For justice. For peace. Unavenged and forgotten. Loved and missed. Names in obituaries. Gravestones in cemeteries. Children's suits made out of broken dreams forever trapped in empty glass cases.

Of course.

Of course.

This is what Jason hadn't understood before. It's not his soul powering the All-Blades, but the souls of those destroyed by evil. Jason is just the key that opens the doorway to the Underworld.

Next time she visits you, open the door and let her in. When death comes, greet her. The fae's parting boon.

And Jason gets it now, for he is one of them—another one among Joker's thousands of victims. These are the souls of his dead siblings, the lost souls of the unavenged. Jason is them and they are Jason.

He flicks his hand and the All-Blades lurch forward. Thousands of them, bright and sharp, hungry for justice. Restless. They pierce, rip, stab, shred. The light is everywhere. Joker doesn't scream. There's not enough time. The light swallows him whole before he even realizes it's happening.

It's over in an instant.

The power fades away slowly as the last souls are finally put to rest. The light dims and the door to the Underworld closes, but the connection is there, thrumming inside of Jason. More souls wait on the other side, just as restless, just as hungry. There's more than one evil in this world. But despite the hunger, they wait patiently—as only the dead can—for Jason to call upon them again, for the door to open once more.

The place where the Joker stood is empty. There's nothing left of him. Not his body. Not his suit. Not even a single drop of blood. He's gone, as though he never existed.

"What did you do!" the woman shrieks. "What did you do? Where is he?!"

She advances on Jason, her expression twisted into a mad snarl. There's a sharp, long dagger in her hand and the metal gleams as she strides forward.

"What had to be done," Jason answers calmly. He's never felt more at peace in his life. Something has settled in him.

He feels them, at the edge of his awareness, the souls of those she has killed, as restless as the thousands of souls Joker destroyed. There aren't many, less than two dozen. Not enough for her to deserve death. She could still be saved if she got another chance like Harley did. Maybe.

But there's a dagger in her hand and rage in her face. She's a witness Jason can't afford to leave behind. Red Hood needs to die tonight.

He chose to live for baby Jason, and he will kill for him too. Jason's love has never known middle ground.

The deaths at her hands aren't enough to make her irredeemable—Jason has killed so many more—but they are still plenty. Jason flicks his fingers and the door opens, invisible to anyone but him. Twenty-one blades appear, bright and menacing.

She stops and stares at them with fear. They lurch forward at once, ripping through her neck and chest. Blood spurts from her neck and drenches her blouse. She screams, slashing against the air, but her dagger is useless against the All-Blades. They reform again and again, shredding and tearing her body until it crumbles to the floor. Lifeless.

There's blood this time. So much blood. Twenty-one souls aren't nearly enough to drink it all up. It pools underneath her corpse, red and wet, proof that there was still enough goodness in her left to be salvaged.

Jason closes his eyes and waits for the guilt to come. It doesn't.

The Joker is dead.

A part of him still refuses to believe it, even though he knows it's over. Jason always thought he'd feel relief—even happiness—when it finally happened, but he feels nothing.

There's no joy, nor pride. Absolutely nothing. Killing Joker feels like finishing a household chore he's put off for much too long, like taking out old trash that has gone moldy. Nothing to brag about. Nothing special. Something that should have been done long ago.

Just taking out old trash.

Chapter Text

"Here." Tim hands Bruce a package by way of a greeting when Bruce comes to Wayne Enterprises on Wednesday. "I was going to bring it to the Manor later tonight, but since you're here now..." he trails off with a vague gesture, and starts typing away at his computer almost forgetting that Bruce is there.

Bruce frowns at the package. It seems to be some kind of book by the shape of it, ill-wrapped in an old newspaper by someone who didn't bother to put much of an effort. It's a far cry from the kind of presents and packages Brucie Wayne usually becomes.

"Who is this from?" Bruce asks. The shape hints at some kind of paperback book.

"Jason. Suzie Su brought it today," Tim explains, "and asked me to give it to you."

"Jason's partner at the Iceberg Lounge?" Bruce's face furrows further as he studies the package with rising curiosity.

"Yeah," Tim confirms.

Why would Jason use her instead of bringing it personally? Their relationship was a bit strained, but they were at least on speaking terms. Jason was... surprisingly understanding after Alfred's funeral... more than Bruce would have given him credit for. He'd expected Jason to blame Bruce for failing to save Alfred, but Jason hadn't.

Then again, he'd refused to help with Gotham's clean up after the whole Bane ordeal, even though Bruce told him it was an all-hands-on-deck job. Jason didn't even bother to give a proper reason, just told Bruce that there were other matters that needed his attention.

Bruce hadn't insisted. A part of him prefers Jason out of Gotham these days. Bruce fears that Jason is just another Thomas Wayne in the making. Jason's willingness to kill makes him unpredictable. Bruce can't trust him, no matter how much he wants to.

The whole debacle with Thomas has only proven that Bruce is right. Thomas Wayne became Batman after the death of his Bruce to help others, and yet he let violence consume him. He claimed to care for Bruce, but he came here, to Bruce's world, allied himself with Bane and tried to destroy everything Bruce held dear.

Violence only breeds violence. Killing isn't the answer. It can't be the answer. If they become killers, in the end they aren't any better than those they fight against.

If Jason would at least give up his criminal dealings… but here he is, still working with Suzie Su. Jason claims he's changing, and Bruce would love to believe him, but he can't. Jason tried to kill Penguin, and still owns the Iceberg Lounge. Suzie Su is just a stooge.

It doesn't matter if Jason claims he has stopped, Bruce knows better.

He tries to look the other way. If he finds evidence, he'll have to act and… He doesn't know what to do with Jason. Blackgate can't contain him and Arkham is just too… Jason isn't insane. He's just misguided. There has to be a way for Bruce to reach him. Bruce just needs to find it.

He sighs and rips the newspaper wrapping, wanting to see what it is that Jason sent him. His hands freeze with the newspaper still half-torn.

Bruce recognizes the book. He swallows with a suddenly dried throat, a sense of foreboding rising in him.

This isn't just any book. It's Jason's copy of Pride and Prejudice. Not the expensive first edition Bruce got him as a birthday present––that one is still on the bookshelves in Jason's room back at the Manor. This is the battered paperback Jason's mother gave him back when Jason still lived with her.

Bruce is more careful when he finishes ripping off the rest of the newspaper, mindful of the fragile book within. It's not in a good shape. It never was. Jason's mother got it for him when the Gotham local library gave out books that were too damaged for their collection. The pages are loose and yellowing, and at least half of them are wavy from water damage. Bruce remembers that some of the words are barely readable, the water having smeared the cheap ink on the pages beyond recognition.

Jason treasures this book. Bruce opens it and there it is, on the first page, written in Catherine's hand:

For my precious angel, may God always smile upon you. Love, Mom.

Bruce turns the first page and finds Catherine's picture smiling at him, tucked inside. The colors of the photograph have faded some with time, but it's the only picture of his mother Jason has and he treasures it even more than he does the book.

The book and the picture were the only things Jason took from his room at the Manor after he came back––the same two things he took from his childhood home when he left it for the streets.

Why was Jason giving them to Bruce now? And why use Suzie Su to deliver them instead of bringing them himself?

There's a folded piece of paper behind the photo, crisp and new. Its bright white is a sharp contrast against the old pages of the paperback.

An irrational fear gripes Bruce, as he unfolds the paper. A part of him knows what it will say even before he reads the words. He knows.

Jason's handwriting, clear and precise, that beautiful calligraphy Jason and Alfred practiced for months until the teachers at Gotham Academy stopped marking Jason down for bad handwriting.

B,

If you're reading this, I'm dead. Again. I don't have any last requests, except for you to let me go. I don't want to be brought back to life. Been there. Done that. It's best for all if dead people stay dead this time around.

For what it's worth, I no longer expect you to avenge me. If all goes according to plan, I will take care of it myself, as I should have done long before now.

As I sit here writing this, a part of me yearns for that final peace. Hopefully, it will last forever this time around. Don't blame yourself too much. You couldn't have known what I intended. I made sure of it.

I'm tired of this life, B. There's nothing left in it for me. Taking the Joker with me in one final kamikaze strike seems like the perfect ending.

Once, you told me that if I ever left, it was going to be because I chose to. Congratulations, you get to be right. This is me, choosing.

Farewell Bruce.

Jason.

"Bruce, are you all right?" Tim asks.

Bruce looks up at Tim and has to blink a couple of times before his eyes focus enough to see him.

Is he all right? Bruce wants to laugh out loud, a mad cackle that would make the Joker himself proud. No, he's not all right. This can't be true. It can't be true.

It isn't true!

But Bruce is holding Jason's copy of Pride and Prejudice and Catherine's photo in his hands. Jason would never have parted with them if he didn't truly believe that he… It isn't true.

"Bruce, you're scaring me." Tim's voice sounds far away, even though Tim is standing right next to Bruce. "What does the note say? What's going on?"

Bruce wants to answer but he can't. The words won't come. He passes the note to Tim and watches the way his eyes widen and his face twists with disbelief first and then grief. His eyes dart to Bruce.

"Surely we would have known if he…? We would have known. Maybe it’s not too late, maybe he's still..."

"He wouldn't—" Bruce's voice breaks. He tries again. "He wouldn't part with these if…" He hefts the book. "He wouldn't part with this."

"What is it?" Tim frowns at the book.

Bruce realizes then that only he knows. No one but him understands the significance of this battered hand-me-down paperback. Alfred is dead. Jason is… gone. Only Bruce remembers what it meant to him. Not even Dick knew—not that Ric would remember it anyway.

Bruce can't go through this again. He can't. Not so close after Alfred's death. No one can expect him to go through this again. He already lost Jason once. It's not right.

Isn't that what you wanted? A dark, ugly voice asks in his head and it sounds like Jason.

Bruce is sick with guilt when he remembers those fleeting thoughts he sometimes had that it would have been better if Jason had never come back from death. He hadn't meant it. He hadn't meant it.

"Do you think this has anything to do with the explosion in Amusement Mile?" Tim asks.

"What?" Bruce blinks.

"The explosion at that house a week ago," Tim explains. "Not many people have the skill to set up that type of explosion without causing any collateral damage, but Jason does."

Bruce had gone through the evidence as Batman. He'd been almost sure that the place had been Joker's base of operation, but they hadn't found any bodies in the debris. If Joker had been involved there would have been bodies.

Could Jason be the one behind it? Were they dead? Joker and Jason both?

The police hadn't found anything. The timing had been unfortunate, so early in the morning that by the time Batman could go to the scene it had been completely contaminated. Forensics had come and gone, and though they secured what they could, Bruce didn't trust their abilities to see everything.

The timing had not been unfortunate, it had been deliberate.

Jason. It had been Jason.

"It seems likely," Bruce admits.

The fire had burned too hot, powered by a special chemical. A special chemical that would have been strong enough to completely destroy any bodies caught by it. Jason. Jason's MO. Tim is right.

It was not enough collateral for it to be Joker's work. Too clean. But if Jason had been the one behind it… It changed everything.

It takes all of Bruce's self-control not to snarl and tear the book apart in his anger. It's all he has left of Jason now.

Bruce needs to go through the evidence again with this new perspective. He has to contact Suzie Su and figure out what she knows. When did Jason give her the book? What did he tell her? When? When!

Bruce can't bury Jason again. He can't!

There's not even a body to bury, he thinks randomly, and doesn't know if he wants to scream or cry or laugh.

Don't! Don't think about it. He has to find out what happened. That's the important part. It might be a fluke. Maybe Jason failed. Maybe... What if he failed, and the Joker has him? Bruce needs to make sure. He needs to find something.

He clutches the paperback helplessly, before he forces himself to ease his grip. He can't damage the book. It's important to Jason. If he comes back again… Does Bruce want him to come back? What an ugly intrusive thought. Of course Bruce wants him back.

"We'll find out what happened," he promises Tim. Or maybe himself.

Yes. He just needs to figure it out.

This is me, choosing. Jason's words burn.

No. Don't think about them. Just don't. Selina has contacts. She might know more. Bruce will ask her. Bruce just needs to…

Farewell Bruce.

…let Jason go, like he let Alfred go.

He looks at Tim. "I need to, I need to be alone for a moment. I'll––I'll call you later tonight."

"Bruce, if you need—"

"Just leave!" Bruce snarls.

Tim flinches back and moves away, out of Bruce's reach. The memory of the last time Tim tried to comfort him hangs in the air between them. Bruce had hit him. Bruce had hit him. Violence breeds violence.

Bruce hates the man he's becoming. Is he really better than Thomas?

He doesn't kill. Bruce doesn't kill. He has his line and as long as he doesn't cross it, he'll be fine. He's fine. He just needs some time. A little pause. Just a single day when it doesn't feel as if the world is falling to pieces around him and he's the only one left trying to juggle all the broken parts.

"I'll go," Tim says, and there's a harshness in his voice that wasn't there before.

Bruce is losing him, too. Dick. Alfred. Damian. Jason. And now Tim.

The door closes behind Tim and Bruce is left alone. Alone. Always alone. Everyone he loves dies on him. But he still has Batman and his mission. It's enough. It has to be.

Chapter Text

Jason bounces the baby up and down and coos at him in a useless attempt to make him stop crying. People's eyes keep darting to them and away, and Jason's skin prickles with embarrassment.

He feels as though he has a huge sign on his forehead that reads: "Inter-dimensional baby-kidnapper with no idea how to be a parent. Call Batman and the Justice League now!" That, or everyone is just judging him for his poor parenting skills. He doesn't know if that'd be better or worse. How do real parents do it?

He can't even blame Little Jay for crying. If grown-ups were allowed to wail their eyes out Jason would be doing it, too. The flights had been much too long, and even though splurging for business made the 25 plus hours trip bearable, it was still exhausting.

Little Jay had been fantastic during the trip. He slept and ate and played, and charmed all the stewardesses with his overall cuteness. Jason let him crawl along the aisle of the plane, trailing after him until the little one exhausted himself and went back to sleep.

The crying started when the plane descended. Jay loathed it, and once he got started, he refused to stop. Jason didn't know what else to do to calm him down.

"You can go first, Sir," a friendly security guard tells him, signaling Jason to move ahead to the front of the immigration queue instead of waiting in line until it's his turn.

Right. Jason has a small baby now; that gives him certain priority. Or maybe the guard just wants to get the wailing baby outside as soon as possible. Jason doesn't question it. He'll take whatever gets him out of the airport the fastest.

The light on top of the security booth turns green and Jason walks forward, getting the paperwork ready.

"Kia ora," a middle-aged woman greets him with a practiced professional smile, not too friendly but not too unfriendly either.

"Kia ora," Jason says back tentatively, paying attention to the accent. He smiles back at the officer as sincerely as he can. Just a young father going back to his birth country looking for a new start. The paperwork is airtight.

Years of being legally dead forced Jason to become an expert creating fake identities in order to move around. He has a fantastic system set-up that automatically tracks all deaths by accidents of men in his age bracket. Then, it's a matter of researching if they have any close family members. Nine out of ten times are a burst, but every now and then Jason strikes gold.

Jason Petersen had been a godsend. So perfect––down to the name––that Jason had known the moment he saw it, that this was going to be his exit strategy, should he ever need one. The Petersens were New Zealand's expats living in L.A. with their son, who had only been only two years younger than Jason. No other family in the States.

The three of them died in a car crash some years ago and it was easy to hack the records and make it seem as though the son survived. In today's world, it's much easier to steal an identity than to create a new one. It was a matter of slowly exchanging all official and public pictures of Jason Petersen for ones of Jason himself. A bit expensive, but Jason had gone all in at the time, being careful to keep the identity alive through the years. Social media profiles, taxes, the works.

It was paying off now. A perfect identity that would survive any deep probing. More important yet, no one could ever tie it back to Jason Todd or Red Hood. He'd made sure of that.

Jason hands over the passports and documents to the immigration officer, trying at the same time to soothe Jay into quieting down. No luck.

"Sorry, he's cranky from the flight," he apologizes to the officer.

"No worries, cuz," she says with a smile. "Happens a lot." The smile drops a bit when she sees the death certificate of Jason's wife and the official documents granting him sole custody of the baby, though she's professional enough not to comment on it.

She keeps typing on her computer and though Jason knows everything will be fine, he can't help that little underlying worry that something might go wrong at the last minute. He smiles winningly at her to cover his nervousness.

"Visiting family?" she asks conversationally, the way most immigrant officers do to double check what you're up to in their country while making it seem like idle small-talk.

"Not really," Jason says. "I'm not particularly close to my relatives here." The Petersens had left New Zealand seventeen years ago with their five-year-old son and never gone back. She probably has access to the records.

"I just––" Jason makes sure his smile wavers. "I needed a new start after…" he trails off, allowing some of the pain and uncertainty of burning all bridges to his past life to flash through his expression. He makes a vague gesture towards the papers the officer has. "… after Elizabeth's death. We both do. Coming back here seemed like a good idea." He shrugs and gives her a feeble smile.

"You'll like it here," she reassures him. "It's a great place to raise children." That sounds sincere, not whatever rote speech she has to tell to all the visitors coming in.

The rest is standard immigration stuff––foods, animals, seeds, honey. That one takes Jason completely by surprise. Why do they care about importing honey? Not something he's ever been asked before at an airport. He's clean on all accounts, though.

The quick, staccato sounds of the stamps being placed on the documents floods Jason with a sudden sense of relief. The officer closes their passports and hands them back to him with the rest of the documents. "Welcome to New Zealand," she says.

"Mr. Petersen," she calls before he's about to leave.

Jason stops and looks at her questioningly. "Yes?"

She smiles ruefully. "I remember how annoying it was to have total strangers give me advice about how to handle my kids, but for what it's worth, when mine were that age, they loved to sit in the sling facing forward. You should try it; maybe it'll help."

"Thank you," Jason says. It sounds like a great idea, and it's not something he'd have known to do. "I'll try it."

"Bye."

"Bye," Jason waves back, and leaves, following the signs to baggage claim. Almost over now.

The bathroom in the airport has a special, separate room for changing diapers and Jason's glad that he doesn't need to go into the women's bathroom to do it. That always feels a bit awkward.

"Okay, Little Changeling," he tells Jay, "let's see if we can make you a bit more comfortable." He places the baby on the changing mat and opens the pamper. "Urrrgh, that's totally disgusting." He scrunches his nose at the stink. How can such a small body produce that much shit? Jason is kind of impressed.

"No wonder you were so cranky, buddy, I'd be too." The diaper is definitely done for. Jason should have changed it while they were still on the plane but Jay had been asleep and Jason hadn't wanted to wake him. By the time he woke up, they were already preparing to land and Jason could no longer leave his seat.

He cleans Jay up and gets him a new diaper. Changing a squirming baby is still a bit of a challenge. Jason's scared that he might drop or hurt him without meaning to. He's so tiny. Jason clings to Dr. Miller's parting words, 'Most parents don't know what they're doing the first time, and yet here we all are. You'll figure it out as you go.'

Jason might not know what he has to do, but he has a very long list of all the things he will never do, and that's just as useful. Besides, there's always the internet. If Jason learned one thing being Robin and Red Hood is how to do research. If you can find information on how to set up a bomb on the Internet, someone surely has some useful advice on how not to screw up your kids too much.

"Okay, Little Changeling, let's try this again." He hefts Jay up and places him on the sling facing forward. Jason fumbles for a while trying to get the cloth sorted out but he's getting better at it.

After he's done, he dangles the pacifier in front of the baby and Jay automatically tries to reach for it. Jason waits until the last second and pulls the pacifier away.

Jay giggles––a little happy baby sound that shoots straight to Jason's heart––and tries to reach for the pacifier again. He leans forward as far as the sling allows, making happy noises. Jason brings the pacifier a little closer only to move it away again the moment Jay's tiny fingers brush against it. Jay giggles louder, squirming in the sling to get to it.

Jason lets him have it after a couple of more tries, and Jay smacks the pacifier into his mouth immediately, sucking at it with loud, greedy noises.

A wave of emotions washes over Jason and his heart beats faster, warmth spreading inside of his chest. Love. This is what love feels like. Unconditional. Unending. Jason kisses the top of Jay's head, breathing in that perfect baby scent. Jay is so fucking perfect.

"It's you and me now, buddy. Just you and me," Jason tells him, tapping the tiny nose with his forefinger. "Don't worry, Little Changeling. I'll always have your back." After all, for as long as Jason can remember, he's only ever been able to count on himself. This is just more of the same.

Jay grabs Jason's finger and squeezes it tightly. To Jason, it feels like acceptance. A gentlemen's agreement between them. They will make it work.

He wants Jay to grow up healthy and happy, and maybe, with some luck, Jason might find his own version of happiness along the way. This is the closest he's felt to it in a long, long while.

'Ye yearns,' the fae had told him and Jason hadn't believed her.

Jason's heart's desire.

"I love you so much, Little Changeling," Jason says, and knows that given time Jay will love Jason the same way. It's the only way Jason has ever known how to love, totally and unconditionally, even when he should have known better.

He kisses Jay's soft, dark curls again, gathers their things and walks out, ready to face whatever might come. To start this new life the two of them will create for each other.

A family. Just the two of them. Jason and Jason against the world.

He walks out of the airport whistling, a light spring to his step. They have their whole lives ahead of them, and for once, the future seems bright and perfect, filled with promises and dreams of better days.

For the first time since he woke up from his grave that fateful night he doesn't remember, Jason feels alive.