Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Who are you, Jason Todd?"

A woman's voice pierces the darkness. My name sits in the silence; a prophecy on what needs to happen here on out.

She smells like lilacs.

The cave reeks of urine, sulfur, and death.

The hemp bag stuffed over my head smells like... well, hemp.

overall not a great combo. But I got nothin left to hurl. Thank you week of torture and starvation at the hands of another Gotham mafia.

A mafia that somehow got their hands on my identity.

My stomach drops.

yay me.

"mmmk mm msk mff nd msee"

I try to growl.

intimidate.

Not really effective when your mouth is duct taped and your tied to a chair.

"Oh silly, you are stubborn." The woman purrs, inches from my ear. I flinch.

Damnit.

"I'll be sure to write that down. Stubborn." heels click against the stone ground. "and jumpy. tsk. The boys really musta done a number on ya."

She brushes her fingers across my back, her nails catching on open wounds and sores as she walks away. I squeeze my eyes shut under the bag, teeth clenched. Blood drips and stains the ropes that wrap around my torso, pooling on the seat of my wooden chair.

This was not in the weekly schedule.

I was supposed to be in Bosnia starting a regime war. Not getting tortured for five days straight by some low rate North American gang. All cause I was snooping for an arms deal tip. and what is this now, a psych eval?

they know my name. How do they know my name? How many know my name? If they know my name..

"Stubborn. Jumpy. hmm. Like a tough front for the shattered, scared shitless kid you still are inside." papers rustle a few yards behind me. "Shattered... too dramatic? No, no it fits."

torture via psych eval. Got it.

"mmis ss mnorgmnl."

Heels click on stone again, coming towards me. Her sigh is audibly closer.

"Honey you gotta stop with the talking while duct taped."

-the hemp bag rips off, a rush of fresh air-

"It does nothing but make you sound pathetic."

The woman grabs my chin, lilac scent matching lilac eyes. Blond hair. Round face, can't tell if she's 20 or 40.

Kinda pretty.

You know.

If she didn't have that special 'I'm crazy' sparkle tinting an over-confident smirk. She's wearing a light purple blazer and skirt set, with a big name tag pinned to the lapel.

'THE THERAPIST'

I roll my eyes.

She smirks.

Her nails dig into my skin, then she lets go. Pats my cheek, and turns away.

"pathetic."

My eyes blink to adjust to the bag off my head, and I look around. LED lights are hammered into the low ceiling of a cave. The damp, rock walls are rough and craggily. A natural cavern feel to it. There's a rotting wood door straight ahead. The place is narrow. 15 feet wide? There's a desk to the side. A light breeze pushes on my back. If its natural, does it connect to Gotham's caves?

The woman reaches for a stool near the desk, her back turned to me; I tilt my head to look behind, casing-

"Not subtle."

-ugh.

walls disappear into darkness.. is this a tunnel or a room?

"Like a moose." she tweets.

I turn and deadpan.

vision dipping to black and nausea clawing up my throat just from the simple head movement. Shit, they did a number on me.

"You are a dumb, slow bird moose." She calls as she drags the stool towards me.

What is this woman even saying?

I try to level a glare at her. Try to hide how my chest is rising and falling like I just ran a sprint, winded from the simplest movement. Try to hide how even now, my ears are ringing and the world has a haze to it. Unfocused, on the edge of consciousness. The blood loss, broken leg, and God knows what other injuries they inflicted over the past five days cumulating.

"you muck mt mnlgies." I muffle out.

"Oh, right. the duct tape. sorry dear," she leans forward- her stool barely a foot from my chair- and rips the tape off.

my eyebrow twitches.

OW.

"What did you say?"

"You suck at analogies." I growl.

She blinks.

sighs.

Licks her finger and looks down as she opens her notebook, pen poised. "Lacks constraint. Subpar comebacks."

I raise an eyebrow.

Maybe this will be easier than the torture. I glance at the door behind her as she writes, flexing my arms against the rope constraints. Easier to escape from too.

"Hm. Regeneration at .15 normal pace. With that, then there.. yes we have about 25 minutes."

She hums, settling on the stool. Legs crossed, notebook on her knee, head tilted as she gives me a perky smile. "Plenty of time! Oh I can't wait."

I smile politely back.


Anyone who's heard my name in this god-forsaken organization must die. 

.

.

.

"Dick we can't wait any longer. That deal is going down with or without us."

Tim's voice echoes in the ear piece. Grayson grunts, one leg hanging over the ledge of the roof as he stares down at the narrow alley below. Fire escape stairs and several dumpsters clutter the view.

"No point in trying to bust a deal if you don't know where it is." he finally responds.

"Well sitting there won't give you the answers."

"He said he'd come."

"That was a week ago. The deal's in 2 hours."

"I know. and we haven't seen him since. Doesn't that concern you?"

"It's Jason. Remember? The psycho one who doesn't actually give a shit about any of us?"

"You know that's not true."

"I've met him maybe 5 times outside of working a case. One of those was him beating me to a pulp. No, Dick. I don't think he cares."

"..."

Grayson couldn't argue.

He also couldn't ignore the fact that in the past 3 months, their 'psycho' had offered help in tough cases. Saved their asses even once or twice. and last week, for the first time, had asked them to take a bust he'd picked up chatter on but couldn't make it too. Some sort of arms deal on the coast.

Jason trigger-happy Todd asked for help.

then vanished.

Tim was right.

For Dick, Jason is a brother. But the others.. Few of them had ever actually been close to the guy. Understandably. Dude was like an adrenaline rushed porcupine all the time since he came back. But..

"Alright. Let's see if any of our leads can fill in the blanks." Grayson stands, tries his best to muffle a sigh so its not too dramatic.

none of them tried to reach past the spikes either.

Dick swallows, the thought a revelation. 

hopefully inaction wouldn't turn to regret.

.

.

.

"Lets start with your childhood."

"pass."

a smart man would keep his mouth shut.

I barely pass as intelligent-enough-to-fight-crime-bat-trained-style on a good day.

Far below the standard when teetering on delirious-from-blood-loss-and-infection.

I'm okay with that though. Makes life Funner.

"Okay. Then lets talk Joker. Crowbars. Ethiopia, right?"

well shit

"Old news. Nap through kinda story. Seriously, all the kidnappers have beat that one to death."

I grin, cheeky.

physically in pain.

how does she know.

like, seriously. Damn. Gotta ask them to swap torture techniques. Before I wring their necks, not after.

"mm. Masking trauma with humor. Expected."

"Wow. really flaunting the psychiatrist expertise there huh. Like I couldn't find that on a Tumblr post."

"Insecure."

"Seriously?"

"Desperate for approval."

I deadpan again.

Her pen keeps scratching.

I flex my arms, testing the ropes.

They rub against open flesh and the stone walls blur as I supress a hiss, vision black on the edges.

I lick cracked lips as the cave comes back to focus.

Okay, I can escape this.

Just need a knife.

or a sharp rock.

kick her, fall over, use room's rough surface to saw through rope, and don't pass out.

easy.

I shift, push a foot back, silent, flex the unmangled leg-

"Did Catherine Todd beat you when tanked on coke?"

like a chandelier crashing

straw house collapsing

brittle like scorched fiberglass

I freeze

Water drips in a corner behind.

drips

drips

"what?"

someone whispers

I whisper

it echoes, too loud

"Did Catherine Todd physically beat you when high on cocaine?"

The lilac woman stares, then slowly grins.

"You haven't heard her name in a while, hm?"

too much

I'm showing too much on

my face stop-

-stop.

stop letting her see

"Catherin Todd. Your mom."

how does she know.

"Oh, but not the biological one. Just a faux imposter."

how does she know.

"Faux imposter? repetitive much?" I snap.

I meant to quip.

I need to quip.

This doesn't matter. None of it matters. I don't care.

"Sad that the faux imposter was better than the real deal. oh, there's that crowbar. Tell me, Jason, how did that feel?"

I glare. Swallow the swallow.

Mind reader?

"Yes, dear. Now tell me. How did it feel to get beat to an inch of your life with a crowbar while your mother lit a smoke and watched?"

oh hell no.

.

.

.

"I still got nothing."

Dick's voice crackles through his earpiece. Tim sighs, checking his watch before walking towards the street. Two of Penguin's lieutenants hang upside down from a fire escape behind him.

"Me neither."

"Damn."

Grayson sighs very dramatically over the channel, 'unintentionally'. Tim rolls his eyes. But still bites the inside of his cheek.

"How can there be a gun sale this big going down and no one knows about it?"

"Maybe he lied."

Damian offers the idea over the coms while audibly munching on Cheetos.

Grayson sighs dramatically. again. This time with a noted emphasis of disapproval. Apparently snacking while the resident family crazy is missing is frowned upon.

"Maybe. but what would he gain from it?" Tim pushes the conversation forward, then pauses. surprised he doesn't have a good answer. "Telling us when but not where... not even knowing who the receiving gang is. With this recon, we're basically running our normal routes.. unless he wanted that? but then why say anything at all..."

shit, maybe the guy was actually in danger.

and yeah he's only met the guy 5 times outside of cases. and yeah the lil [big] shit had tried to pulverize him, but,

he couldn't be dead, right?

It's Jason Todd, the annoyingly resilient asshole.

right?

.

.

.

"Oh hush with the dramatics. I won't tell anyone what I see." the lilac woman waves a hand through the air, dismissing my thought threats. "I can't."

"Can't, or won't."

"Can't. Limits, you see? patient confidentiality prioritized when I was on the receiving end of the lab experiments that gave me this lovely gift. oh but don't worry,"

The woman reaches forward and boops her pen on my nose.

"no protocol against ripping clients apart and never putting them back together again!"

Her laugh has that tint of crazy in it, bouncing off the walls and reverberating through the whole damn tiny chamber.

how much does she know

no ones supposed to know

I grit my teeth,

where'd the damn oxygen go

breathe, damnit.

breathe.

"Yes, do breathe. to stop would be truly detrimental. For me, not you. Your death is an unshaking reality that will come to pass in the next hour. For me though," she tsks, shakes her head. "I need to find just the right words to shatter the Batman. Sorry, Bruce to you."

I freeze.

oh now THAT'S a statement

that's a- HA!

I grin, eyes twitching, eyebrows raised

oh he's gonna kill me for letting identities slip. 

she definitely has to die now.

do I look crazy? 

shatter the batman.

God people are stupid

"I'm done talking." I state. a quiver slips into the words.

fucking serio-

"Well I don't really need you to talk. Just need you to think. about the stuff that hurts the most." she coos.

I snort.

Heart bruised as it keeps slamming against my chest. Slamming and slamming and sla-

"Ah, yes. That would hurt."

She tilts her head, frowning mockingly.

"Poor Jason. Murdered by a clown. Brain dead for 3 1/2 years. Only to wake up and see the closest thing you ever had to a father treated your death like a joke. Doesn't he keep a giant joker card in his cave still? rude."

I hiss.

"Why, I almost agree with you. Biological Willis was a better father! and he abandoned you at the age of 6! Oh and he's dead by coin toss. It does suck, doesn't it? to mourn people we don't even know. To mourn people who never gave a fuck about us. Abandoned by your father. Abandoned by your foster mother. Your biological mother. a bat. oh I definitely agree with you now. It was your own fault for thinking you were worth having around anyways."

no 

I stare at her, stripped and sucker punched. eyes wide, muscles shivering. 

"Worthless Jason Todd."

She grins, showing too much teeth.

"If you look up Jason Todd in the dictionary, its defined as 'Batman's worst failure.'"

"Stop it."

can't hide.

"Your thoughts, not mine."

stop.

"Though I agree. Ha! No worth except being someone else's mistake."

She snorts.

"You're not a person. You're a problem. You have no existence outside of him"

please

she freezes, then leans forward.

no one else knows this stuff, no one's supposed to-

"No it does not matter that you went through hell on the streets before you met him. a life before the batman? That was a kid barely surviving. A kid too busy fighting starvation, predators, cold, a druggie mom. A kid too busy surviving to grieve."

the woman pauses. tilts her head. snorts.

"You grieved Catherine?"

another laugh, then in a humorless tone,

"pathetic."

her eyes level on me.

"alone."

a whisper

"Alone in crime alley. Until you patrolled crime alley. Because training an 11 year old grieving kid to fight criminals is such a loving and caring act. He never cared who filled the 'hole in the nest'. Ah, I see. What's worse? Knowing Batman was ready to abandon you after 1 murderous sin, or knowing that he didn't care about avenging your death– oh, oh your right. my bad. It all just means one thing."

She smiles sweetly.

"Batman never loved you."

leans forward.

"and if he never gave a fuck.. oh... ah, yeah. mhmm."

"Alone."

the word spills from my lips.

"Worthless."

like truth setting free

"Jason Todd."

we whisper my name together.

The lilac woman leans forward

"Who are you, Jason Todd?"

"no one."

I look up. Smile.

"no one."

fuck.

I lunge.

Not like anyone will miss no one if they fail.

.

.

.

The ringing phone echoes through the bat cave, making Damian jump as he drops his switch and scrambles for the volume knob for the bat speakers.

"Whatdya- oh, it's you." the child assassin leans back in the chair, reaching for another handful of cheeseballs, mouth half crammed before he blinks, and slowly stops stuffing. On the bat monitor, it shows the call's audio waves and street cam footage of the payphone Jason's leaning against.

"Yeah. Tell Dick the-"

"Jason?"

Grayson hops on the call from the coms. Damian crosses his legs in the chair, hand resting on his knee, still holding a few cheeseballs. The assassin's eyebrows knit together.

"Heh." the red hood huffs. "Jason."

"What? Why you laughing? Where the f-heck have you been?" Grayson growls.

"You can say Fuck dick." Damian states dryly.

"Yeah Dickie. don't baby the kid."

"Did you find Jason?" Tim hops on finally

"heh." the red hood laughs again. "Jason."

Damian swallows.

not that he cares but.. its a lot of blood. His dumb psycho brother has only been standing at that payphone for a minute and there's already a little puddle.

"Why do you keep– dude what's wrong?" Grayson asks.

"Nothing."

Jason taps the phone by the speaker.

"no one."

the tapping stops.

Jason stands rigid in the booth. Damian frowns. reaches forward, a few clicks and Grayson has the payphone coordinates.

That's a lot of blood.

"..um, Ja-" Tim starts

"Cancelled."

Jason jerks in the phone booth, stumbles, collapses against the side. Rubs his face.

"The drop. deal. whatever. It got cancelled."

"Oh. ... ?"

everyone can hear Tim making a skeptical face.

"Yeah. the goods never came through. I mean they had their fingers on em for a while. But then I got out. Murked a bitch. other fuckers kept it heavy gettin out. They had some dumb plan. oh, me. by the way. I was the goods. Kill me to fuck up Bruce. PFFT."

Jason snorts, then cackles in the phone. Lifts a hand to wipe tears from his eyes as he laughs.

"Like he actually gave a shit about me. God villains are just getting dumber and dumber. ANYWAYS." he lets out a final wheeze, sliding down the Plexiglas wall.

the phone slips from his hand.

Damian crushes the cheeseballs.

"Hope you jackasses didn't waste your whole night on the fake."

Jason's voice crackles, distant and quiet over the line.

"What time is it anyways.. watch.. no watch.. damn... oh there's a clock– 2pm? oh ya'll got time. scare the shit outta some more street trash."

Damian stares at the GPS tracker map.

"Dick, you should hurry. He's-"

"I know Damian. I'm almost there."

".. yeah.. Dickie.. scare em shitless.. 'fore I shoot em dead. Gimme an hour. 'll race ya... ya......."

Chapter Text

6 months previous

The Kansas cornfield was green and tall, full of growth and life and sunshine and lazy summer bugs chirping away in the afternoon.

and a helicopter crash. 

'No, an unplanned landing', Scarlet reminded herself as she parted the corny seas, clutching a brown sack of Taco Bueno lunch specials. 'That's what Jason called it. an unplanned landing due to Batman being a prick and not stocking enough fuel in his machine to even make it halfway across the states.' She remembered he had kicked a side panel which proceeded to fall off before he shouted 'What if we had decided to cross the ocean, heh?!'

Scarlet had stopped listening at that point and had left to go get food. That was two hours ago.

The girl pulled back a final stalk of corn and paused as she looked at the miniature clearing they had created in the middle of the tall field. Her partner in vigilantism stood leaning against the cracked windshield glass of the front of the chopper, staring down at the red helmet he held in his hands. Scarlet waited for his stealth/fugitive 6th sense to kick in and notice her. A minute passed. Jason never looked up. Even after she rustled the stalks around her on purpose. 

That was concerning.

"I got you a bean burrito." the girl finally stepped out of her 'hiding' place– Jason jumped and yeeted the helmet at the ground to a strike a defensive–

..pose.

She walked up to her savior, and stuck her arm out to offer the bag. "Hope you like tasteless mush."

Climbing up to eat on top of the helicopter, five minutes, and some consumed burritos later, Jason spoke.

"It used to belong to him."

The helmet still laid on the ground a few feet away. Scarlet paused her chewing to look at her friend.

"The Red Hood schtick. Then he fell in that acid and went for the whole clown gig."

He– was talking about his past? The joker.. The girl swallowed, wholly curious as she watched him attentively. He never talked about, himself. Funny, that she could trust a person with her life and know nothing about them. Jason stayed silent a second, then stifled a sigh, holding back words as he weighed the wisdom in speaking–

"My entire he-vigilante, identity.. is wrapped up in this psycho obsessive revenge." he stated it, a truth she could tell he did not care for. "Spend three years learning how to kill. Name myself after the guy who murdered me. All to mess up my jackass mentor." he reached and touched a long jagged scar on his neck, his breath hitching, almost imperceivable.

"Couldn't even do that right." he whispered.

Wind whistled through the wreckage they sat on, finding holes and cracks to spin simple melodies on. Scarlet looked away, back at her unfinished burrito. 

"I think you was a wonderful antithesis to Batman. At least when we was partners." she offered, shrugging her shoulders and biting her lips. Jason laughed a little at the sentiment, dropping his hands into his lap. A gentle breeze rustled the stalks around them, surrounding them with a cacophony of nature noises. and She could tell his next words were not offense to her, but a truth necessary to speak outloud.

"I don't want to be that guy anymore." he said it, quiet, testing what it sounded like outside his head. "The revenge obsessed psycho stuck in the past."

 Jason was staring at the helmet again. then he sighed and looked away, wearily rubbing his hand down his face. His shoulders dropped and his legs pulled in tighter as he stared at the windshield's cracked glass he sat on top of.

He looked.. very human.

Not like the big burly figure dressed in a batsuit. The larger than life executioner of justice and death.

For the first time since meeting him, Scarlet wondered how old he was. He always acted, seasoned. and angry and bitter and full of ugly emotions that had simmered for decades. She loved that he used the ugly, dark parts of himself to protect the good in the world. Assumed it must have taken a lifetime to get that calloused.

But right now, he didn't look much past her own short 16 years.

There was hesitancy in his voice as he spoke again. It endeared him to her, this careful honesty. and she leaned in eager to listen to thoughts he had long kept to himself.

"See, I've said that before and nothing changed. No more revenge." he reasoned. Jason could feel Scarlet's eyes on him, but he didn't mind. Actually felt.. needed. To say this stuff outloud to a person, not just a brick wall. Have a witness almost. cause.. "This time's different. I think. that's the scary part. Knowing you wanna change and making it happen are two different things." he straightened, tense. "Cause every time I think I'm over it, I think I'm fine with never getting closure– something else kicks me in the teeth and I'm spiraling again. and I'm sick of that." he lets out a shuttering breath, fists clenched at his side as he glares at the corn.

The cornfield waves back with the wind.

he huffs out a tired smirk.

"I'm tired of staying stuck in the past. Cause that's the crux of it. I got this second shot at life and never once did I think 'gee, what am I gonna do after I kill Batman?'" he gestured sarcastically with one hand to emphasize the point. "Never thought 'what if I just quit it all'. Go coach some peewee league in a tiny town where I work at a factory down the dirt road. Never realized that even if I stopped chasing the big guy life would- keep.. existing."

Jason said the words with doubting wonder.

while he stared at the midday horizon, watching a cloud lazily float far away.

The future.

What a concept.

sounded fake.

but it felt.. possible.

and that was the new thing.

every other time in life he tried to quit on revenge he never actually felt, okay. He was always just stalling.

But now? running a peewee T-ball team and ignoring Batman existed for a few years, maybe forever?

that was okay.

It wasn't what he actually wanted right now, but if he did somehow end up stuck in a life like that tomorrow, just walking away from it all,

he'd be okay.

Cause Batman and the Joker and the sick game the three of them play don't define his life. He's known that. Just usually forgets it.

Not anymore.

"So I'm hoping, that this time, since I get the whole 'life keeps going whether Batman's dead or not' concept, maybe I won't spiral. Maybe I can just kinda, live. Help people. Kick ass. Kill the fuckers who deserve it. Cause I'll never get closure but at least I can help someone else rest at night cause they know the person who hurt them met justice."

he smiled, a little whole.

"I'd like that life."

Then Jason peeked back down at the helmet. The damn helmet. and sighed.

"Which all sounds nice till I think about my current legacy in the vigilante world. and I wonder if I can know I've moved on, when the only reason I picked this gig was for all the crazy revenge stuff?"

"So, your trying to decide if you should do a costume and name change?" Scarlet asked, trying to find a practical aspect to the fascinating rambling she had listened to. Jason turned and gave her a quizzical look, before smirking, then holding back an amused snort. a beat of silence passed, recognition that a lot more than that was just stated, then,

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Well, in that case, you should do what makes you feel true in your role as a masked vigilante."

"Fair point."

"another thing– you said you'll never get closure?"

".. yeah?"

"I think that's dumb."

"oh?"

"Your desire for closure or revenge isn't a problem. It's your obsession with it that steers you wrong. So if you need to tell yourself for now that your okay never getting closure, that's fine. Brave and strong even. But, if in the future, you feel the desire arise again, don't fear it. In fact, you may even be able to attain it. What you must avoid at all costs, is letting it become your center again." Scarlet gave Jason a very serious look as she pointed at his chest. "You have chosen a difficult path. You fear falling into old habits? good. Because it can happen. This time though you are equipped with knowledge, and a new center." Scarlet's serious expression melted into a warm, fond grin as she reached forward and tapped his heart. "A desire to help people. Most honorable, heroic even. and that's coming from just one of the people you've already saved. twice."

Jason stared at the girl with his mouth agape for a whole 10 seconds before he managed to snap his jaw shut. still, all he could manage was a

"damn."

"Yeah, I went to therapy while you were in prison."

"huh"

"You should consi-"

"not happening."

"fair. maybe in a few ye-"

"nope."

"right then. Well, never say I didn't try." Scarlet shrugged.

"Will do."

a few cicadas chirped and some crickets hummed.

"I'm gonna keep the Red Hood schtick."

"oh?"

"yeah." Jason looked out over the bland Kansas horizon and grinned. "Go back to the leather jacket and black armored long johns. I looked badass in that getup"

"That's- I've never heard them called that. That's your only reason?"

"and I'm lazy. and.." his grin turned thoughtful as he tilted his head slightly. "your right. it's all still a part of me. Seeing a future doesn't erase the past. and what matters most is the here and now. so I'm gonna make the Red Hood a name people respect and... count on." he put extra emphasis on the last words, proud of them. Proud of who he was. Who he wanted to be. and with fire in his eye, he jumped off the copter and landed on the dirt, picking up his helmet as he stood. "Joker stole my life. I'll steal his origins, and make them something new. something good."

Scarlet smiled, and took the last bite of her cold burrito.

"something good."

.

.

.

[Present Time]

Dick barely found him in time, propped up all crooked and awkward against the phone booth. Weird. the guy was an inch taller than Grayson and built like a tank but staring at him now the Hood looked.. kiddish. 

weak.

Nightwing patched what he could. Hoisted the guy up and dragged his sorry corpse back to the bat cave. Tim came to help the last half. Blood transfusions, setting rib bones, stitching together jagged lacerations that would someday scar. Alfred expressed disgust that the torturers did not break Master Jason's leg– dislocate a hip or something. God forbid badguys inflict injuries that would actually force his dumb bat children to rest instead of ignoring half-healed wounds. him especially. Master Jason was almost worse than Bruce when it came to stubborn dismissal of medical expertise. 

They were unsettling similar in that way.

The boys took turns keeping watch, Oracle and Spoiler hopping in the rotation too. The Hood wasn't exactly bat cave approved by Bruce. But the bat was away playing Justice League, and what the bat didn't know wouldn't hurt him. According to Alfred at least. Who beat all 4 robins in a hot game of poker 18 hours into the self dubbed 'Jason recovery watch task force duty'. They made jokes about unconscious Jason being much nicer than awake Jason. Took turns going on their normal patrols. Tim spent an hour verbally roasting the Gotham weekend crossword to his captive audience. They all felt a little... unsettled. Sure they wanted him to get better but they were less concerned and more, curious.

Here was a 'brother' lying injured and vulnerable. unmasked. and every time they'd seen him unmasked previously he was pissed, crazy, or trying to kill one of them. but now he just looked... sad. even in sleep. 

if he looked sad in sleep, what had he looked like in death?

They were curious about the answer. They did not really care about the answer.

and that was the unsettling part.

Because they all felt they should care in some way. but the conviction felt cheap. let titles of robin and brother be damned. call it like it is– Why care about a villain who only ever hurt you?  except that wasn't the status quo anymore. He'd, changed. helped over the past few months. But that didn't mean they trusted him.

just meant that yeah, they wanted to care. 

which will never equal actual concern.

just societal politeness.

.

.

.

[6 Months previous, after the cornfield]

A week and some hitchhiking later, Scarlet and Jason split ways in LA. The girl gave a soft smile as she said with quiet confidence that vigilantism was 'not for her'.

and so Jason was alone again. but that wasn't new, and he had a new goal to occupy his time.

Rebuilding a reputation.

No longer would he obsess over revenge. [Maybe just, not think about the Bat and Gotham at all for a while.] All those people he inadvertently helped in his globetrotting days.. they were the ones he would focus on now. People who knew injustice. They are the ones he would see. He'd offer them light, by melting into the dark.

2 days later he was neck deep in a mercenary war in Venezuela. 5 days later both sides were ruined. Word on the street? Neither would hire the Red Hood, and both suffered the cost of making him an enemy. [even the locals, grateful for the rest from bloodshed, had no idea the Red Hood was playing both sides]. Similar instances in South Africa, Dubai, and Hong Kong made the message clear: the Red Hood was a force to be reckoned with, and ready to sell his services. Soon he was welcomed with open arms into all sorts of sorrid criminal organizations.

He spent his days rubbing shoulders with mercenary militias. Joined [and dismantled] all sorts of rings: drugs, slavery, smuggling, sex trafficking. Played chess with terrorists– metaphorically and literally. His methods were efficient, brutal, and smart. He knew when to make a splash; when he wanted his name whispered all across the globe in every grimey alley and filthy bar for some horrendous deed he did. He knew when to keep his betrayals personal, silent; The crime lords, the corrupt politicians, the disgustingly rich– they sought him to expand their dominions, their perceived power. The infamous Red Hood. No clue his presence sealed their end. His timing was always impeccable. His scapegoats masterfully set up. Few lived. None dreamed to trace their demise to him.

He thrived in the dark. and he was okay with that. Reaching people 'heroes' couldn't, cause he embraced the 'villainous' methods others scorned.

Old Habits die hard though.

He spent the first month constantly chasing away unwelcome thoughts. "If only he could see me now, all the people I've saved doing what he was never brave enough to do." "How would old Brucey have handled that?" "I wonder if this group could kill the Batman."

Some of the thoughts he logically dismantled over and over again. "Batman picked his morals, and the people he can save with them. I picked mine. move on."

Some of the thoughts he processed, and let go. "Why compare? Unless I can improve from analyzing methods, I don't care."

Some of the thoughts he buried. 

Old Habits die hard, but they can die.

and when he got word of an attack on Gotham 2 months into his reputation rehabilitation, he steeled his conviction and made contact. At first the Gotham vigilante's were skeptical. By the end they were, still skeptical. Seeing them all sucked. Working with them was even worse. Buried things didn't want to stay buried. Tim asked him bluntly if he still wanted to kill Bruce. Jason snapped back "I don't know" and hated the words. because they were true. and that felt like a self-betrayal and relief all at the same time. He was grateful Tim didn't care to ask "why". Jason didn't know why he didn't know if he wanted to kill the Batman.

Still, at the end of the day, the city was saved from a close nuke call. Jason managed to turn down not 1, but 2 tempting offers of Batman revenge plans. and when he went to bed that night, his thoughts were that of jumbled, emotional exhaustion with anticipation for running away to the next mission– not vindictive, murderous comparisons. 

He counted that as a personal growth win and totally nailed a heroin helicopter hijacking the next day.

Being in Gotham then just, leaving, felt like a conquering. Not long passed before he got the chance to conquer again. The Gotham vigilante's didn't trust him per se, but they did believe his villainous reputation was enough of a ruse that it was worth keeping in contact. Tim would send data requests or ask for potential threat updates. Dick brought him in on several operations if he knew Jason was working the case from the opposite, international end. Bruce was there sometimes. Jason ignored him. Once, he was tracking a group in Siberia and ran into Damian fighting off a hoard of ninjas. They exchanged a single nod and spent the rest of the night fighting back to back in silence [though Jason mentally cussed the kid out the next several days as he concocted reasons why the Red Hood worked with the Son of Batman]. but surely this was freedom from the past- the ability to operate anywhere with anyone and wake up the next day thinking of that day.

not Batman.

Granted by Jason's 6th Gotham caper- compared to 12 London capers, 8.5 Moscow capers, and a whopping 21 Dubai capers, not to mention all the other global nooks and crannies he found himself in throughout a week- a new, irksome problem was arising.

Alfred was packing extra cucumber sandwiches for him on stakeouts. The live jazz on the Crime Alley strip was as raw as the first time he snuck into the bar when he was 6. and Dick asked for dating advice on their last mission. The problem was Gotham still stank of 'home'. and Jason Todd knew better than anyone-

he didn't 'belong' anywhere.

Gotham's streets raised him, sure. He'd always see those grimey alleys as.. his. But claiming a city, knowing it runs in your veins, doesn't mean you belong there. Gotham existed in him, but it did not claim him. no one did.

He'd learned that so many times in 21 years of life.

and so cucumber sandwiches tasted sour, and requests for 'advice to set up safe houses-' were shut down with curt denials the next time he came to town. Because Jason Todd was no one's fool. These people, this place, did not care about him. and he didn't care about them. Not more than the average shmuck he met on the street. [So what if he helped Damian in Siberia? So what if, sometimes, Dick chatting like nothing happened rubbed wrong? and what if Jason felt a little teensy weensy bad sometimes when Tim glared at him cause, well, Jason beat the shit out of him at the Teen Titans base that one time..] No, no. He didn't care. So they could leave 'playing house' at the mansion. He was no one's son. and this new life of freedom felt like guzzling fresh water, lacking nothing.

[right?]

right.

.

.

.

[Jason POV]

I come to in an instant.

Not a slow awakening to awareness. Asleep, then awake. I stare at the cave ceiling, heart racing, freaked out and I can't remember why-

ah,

lilacs.

I close my eyes again, face contorting. Overwhelmed with a blurred wall of my rawest memories and beliefs, wrapped in this gross awareness of violation. Stuff that used to be buried and should've stayed buried. Or at least not been uprooted simultaneously. I lay there, paralyzed in the face of it all, till in a split second a single memory becomes clear against the purple haze.

Catherine.

My breathing goes shallow; I force my eyes open.

Catherine, and this one time she cleaned me up after I got in a fight with her drug dealer. Some of the scrapes and bruises were from her beating that came after I chased the guy away. Yet for the first time in a month she was sober. and she came to me after the fact, with some hot water, stained washcloths, and bandages. and silently dabbed at my cuts, then covered them with dino bandaids. and even though I was 10 and supposed to be too cool for dino bandaids, well, I still thought they were kinda neat. She combed her fingers through my hair, and helped tug a new shirt over my head. sometimes she winced, and I remembered that the cancer hurt. Left her aching and weak. and for the hundredth time I kicked myself for stealing her one source of relief. but still could not forget how miserable and scary and dangerous to herself she was when on crack. so opposite of the woman patting out the wrinkles in the shirt she just helped dress me in. I stared at her, confused. wary. tired. She never said a word the whole ordeal, until she placed a final bandaid on a gash on my chin, then cupped my cheek. I flinched, and she froze. then quickly let her hand drop and stared at the floor. Neither of us said anything for an entire minute. I remember hearing part of the brick wall crumble in the silence. Then,

"I'm sorry, baby. I'll make dinner tonight." she looked up, and studied me. Then forced a smile. "Gotta feed my strong boy."

A rock crumbles somewhere in the distance of the cave- real, not a memory. Tears trickle down my cheeks;

I remember eating dinner alone that night. Mom had found a dealer before lunch, was high by mid afternoon. She locked herself in the bedroom, was slamming herself against the wall. I flinched every time. Then would take another bite of soup. My hands shook. The ramen tasted soggy. A blister rose on my arm where I splashed boiling water on it. I was helpless, betrayed, scared.

I was not strong.

Its a jolt. This unexpected memory, made precious because it was still mine and-... I grimace, tears streaming faster now; a hard lump in my throat that won't go away no matter how many times I swallow it down. Of all the memories..  I lift my arm and bury my face in my elbow. A quiet wind whistles through the cave, cooling the sweat beaded on my skin; ..All these memories..

Water drips somewhere in the catacombs. 

Why is my life so fucked up?

Every muscle in my body tenses as I hold back a release, refuse any acceptance of the truths spilling out of my head; not here. [not ever]. but especially not- ..here. 

I freeze as instinct turns into understanding

"shit." I whisper

especially not here.

I shoot up, sitting straight, wiping my arm across my face and destroying any evidence of-

OW. FUCK.

"AAHHAHAH-" I gasp, doubling over as the grey rock walls blur, vision wavy as I gape at the searing pain.

The batcave. I'm in the- of course i'm in the; OW. OW. AAHHOO READJUSTING MADE IT WORSE. God I hate torture.

A chair scrapes across the stone floor, the sound distorted and distant, and I hear the thumping of footsteps.

fuuuuuuck

I grit my teeth and make one final swipe over my cheeks. One does not cry in the Batcave. To cry is to indicate weakness, trust, or the capacity to feel human emotion; none of which are attributes I want associated with me by ANYONE who might be in here. Turning, I force my eyes open and see a stampede of blurred figures rushing over; black slacks and a vest, purple?, a zigzag of blue on black, primary colors: no all black.

I exhale. barely.

yay me. I get mentally assaulted and wake up in the HQ of the man who inflicted the most trauma on my life, but at least he's not here! Just his hoard of lackeys! Cause that's so much better.

#blessed.

The cave comes into focus as the footsteps get louder- not just the jagged rocks and empty space. All the echos and shadows too, and this chill that lingers in the corners. The one that creeps into your bones if you sit too long at the computer.

I roll onto my back and groan, squeezing my eyes shut to brace for social impact.

"Jason! Buddy!" Grayson skids to a stop and grabs the plastic sides of the gurney, leaning over and I can feel his dumb, golden boy, obnoxiously sincere grin.

since when are we buddies?

"I swear if he tore my stitches- Oh Cmon man! I worked hard on those! Jackass."

I crack an eye open as Stephanie Brown huffs at me, and watch as Damian walks up casually behind her- are those Cheetos?

The demon spawn watches me. Pops a chip in his mouth.

"Welcome back to the land of the living."

Dick smacks him.

My face twitches.

"Thrilled to be here." little shit. "Give me the cheetos and I won't strangle you for saying that."

"Cheetos are not on your approved recovery diet list, Master Jason." Alfred states as he marches up to the crowd and immediately heads for the other side of the gurney to mess with fluids. I try sitting up again, slower this time. Hissing as I straighten up, vision blurring on the edges.

I'm only awake cause they took me off pain meds, arent I?

Tim's the last to arrive, and crosses his arms as he stands close to my head. Just stares a second, skeptical but mostly unreadable, till finally- "You're awake."

good lord.

"You're genius is stupifying." I snap wryly. Tim deadpans with a glare, the others shift, and the space shrinks- 5 people crowded around this tiny ass bed stuffed in some dark corner of an underground cavern. I'm tempted to rub my hand across my face again.. Maybe if I move my arm  v e r y   s l o w l y . .

anything to distract from the anxious knot sitting like an anvil on my chest.

"He means we weren't sure you'd wake up." Dick offers. He gets this sincere, worried look on his face as he bites his lip, studying me with no attempt at subtlety. "They really put you through the wringer."

I roll my eyes. "You say that like you care." I grunt, and carefully reach for a printed medical report lying on a table next to me. Since no one else wants to give me actual useful information;

Dick frowns and a chorus of scoffs ring out all around. Barbara shouts from wherever she's sitting at the bat computer-

"Yeah- unlike you, we care about if people die or not."

I pause in my reaching, suddenly exhausted.

mkay. Yeah. No. I don't want to be here. 

"Aw, saved out of respect for your morality, how touching." I grab the report and roll it up, shoving it in my sweatpants.

Can I go now? I'm gonna go.

"That's not what she-" Dick started,

"It's all just so flowy," I grunt out as I reach for the plastic sides of the gurney and pull myself towards the edge of the bed- hissing as bones crunch and more stitches pop.

"Hey-!" Stephanie starts

"Your altruism leaves me speechless" I seethe, teeth gritted as the world wavers on turning black. Even in that split second, the smell of lilacs wafts in the darkness. "Truly humbling," I force words from my mouth as I start pulling IV tubes out and yank the sheets off. "That blessed saints such as thee should labor over a despicable criminal as myself."

"is he speaking Shakespeare?" Damian whispers.

"I think he's speaking Shakespeare," Tim confirms.

"That is not Shakespeare." Alfred grunts.

I swing my legs off the bed, gripping the plastic sides as everything goes black again. The smell of lilacs is nauseating. My head feels like popcorn fritz on an old TV. and the enemy is too fucking close. everyone is too fucking close.

"I know," I keep rambling, voice raw, anything to keep momentum. "My presence is torturous."

"exceedingly." Damian confirms.

"Thank you."

"Anytime you over dramatic pussy."

"Okay-" Dick interrupts as I slide off the gurney, 

"What? Guy acts like he's the only one who's ever experienced terrible stuff. It gets old." Damian keeps going.

and I can barely register the words cause I'm gripping the bedsides so hard just to stop swaying yet; they do register.

"Always all these excuses for why he's so terrible." Damian turns and stares straight at me. "Just own that you're an evil person and stop blaming father for all your issues."

My jaw clenches. I manage to narrow my eyes at the little shit, even as the cave is starting to blur. I blink away the darkness, focus waning, and suddenly I'm not glaring at Damian, i'm glaring over his shoulder. and there's a T Rex and a giant penny and a 30 foot Joker card leaning against the rock and

-"the closest thing you had to a father treated your death like a joke"-

The words repeat. over and over and over, and I keep thinking i'm gonna see red. That the world'll explode and I'll strangle all of them because i hate him. I hate him so fucking much but

I

don't.

all I see is blue. 

The blue on Catherine's dress, the night she put Dino bandaids on gaping holes.

all your issues

"Jason?"

I don't even know who said it.

"I'm gonna go." my voice is hoarse. Doesn't sound like me. That's dangerous.

"Are you o-"

"No. I feel like shit and you all lost the definition of 'personal space' a while ago." I shake my head clear and shove past Dick and Stephanie, who try to push me back. I shove harder till I break through and walk. Just walk damnit. Every step hurts like hell and the whole place is spinning but I don't care.

"You can't just leave!" Tim yells behind me. I manage to roll my eyes, the action odly grounding. I keep staggering forward. Tim starts to follow. "You have to tell us what happened. Who captured you- what was their motivation."

"Use me as bait to take down Batman." I grab my leather jacket off a coat rack as I limp past. "Killed all of them & the group was local. There's no other leads."

"How did they find a connection between Red Hood and the Batman to start?" Tim shouts after me, and the wary skepticism in his voice is something I'm used to. Respect, even. I stop, and turn to look at Tim. I must look like death cause the guy winces, his harsh glare crumbling.

"Tim, if you play vigilante in Gotham, you have a connection to 'The Batman'. They didn't know anything about my level of connection till they dragged it from my half-dead lips, and then I made sure to kill every soul who might've breathed near the info."

My replacement frowned, disgusted. I shake my head and turn to walk away again, passing the bat computer. 

"hi Barbara."

"hi Jason."

almost there.

I walk to the door. Not the main door that heads up to the mansion. That space is only for those accepted in this batshit crazy family. No, I head for the small sliding door that leads to the catacombs, and eventually the sewers.

The perfect exit for toxic waste such as myself.

"You are going to bleed out, get an infection- you have broken bones!" Stephanie yells from somewhere behind. I ignore her. she yells again. "You're gonna die jackass!"

I flip her off over my shoulder.

Her clothes rustle as she throws her hands in the air in defeat and mutters something to Tim. or maybe she's talking to the demon spawn? Who knows. I don't care. I just need to get ou-

"Jason." Dick comes out of nowhere- grabs my arm, pulling me back.

too fucking close.

I spin to deck him, and he catches my fist. 

"Let me go," I growl.

"I don't even know how you're standing right now."

"Spite."

Dick sighs, and for a second it almost sounds sad- not annoyed. But that's dumb because there's nothing for him to be sad about. Dick's too smart to actually believe in his 'brothers' shit. I try to yank away. Dick doesn't budge. "Stephanie's right. If you leave, your not gonna walk 10 steps out that door before you pass out and we bring you back in here anyways. Just- come and lay down. Get some rest. We'll rediscover the word personal space."

"I'm fine." I growl.

"No. You're gonna crawl halfway to Gotham cause you're a stubborn ass and die in a ditch somewhere."

"Hate for that to weigh on your pretty boy conscience." I snap, yanking away again. It doesn't work. My breathing is harsh, echoing in the silent space. 

"Dude what happened." Dick narrows his eyes, but he's not angry. 

He's calculating. theorizing. Has been the whole time. and the question is proof he can't hook a lead. I clench my jaw, and finally twist my arm out of his grip.

What happened?

Someone ripped open my head and yanked all of my shit out of the darkness into the light. They tore open my chest and now every ugly thing is spilling out and I can't stuff it back in.

The smell of lilacs is getting nauseating.

The entire cave warps in mockery.

I take a step back, stumbling, before I spin and sprint for the door. Skid to a stop, slam the keypad, bolting forward as the metal slides open and-

!WHAP!

Bruce is confused for about .25 seconds as he stares at his son- the one who is not supposed to be in his cave- lying on the ground after running into him when he opened the cave door. He is then immediately concerned at the amount of bloody bandages wrapped around said son's torso. arms. hands- good lord what happened.

but then he looks at his son's face.

and that's a mistake. Cause he's never seen his kid this.. honest. 

Bruce was used to the hate. expected it. deserved it. What he had never seen, was the loss.

His kid looked lost. and for a second- just a second- there was this question of hope in his whole face. Like maybe Bruce had some of the answers, or a map at least. maybe a compass.

but the question was a flicker

and answered with anguish.

before Jason shot to his feet and shoved past Bruce, footsteps slapping against the stone floors as he sprinted down the tunnel.

The batman stared at the now-empty passage, an ache in his chest, and the uneasy sensation that he too is very, very lost.  

All Jason can think, as he stumbles through the catacombs, is the realization that came from the color blue. Over and over and over again.

Hate this visceral has soft roots.

Chapter Text

Rain beat down in sheets, running like miniature rivers in the ruts of the dirt road. Rolling fields kept watch of Gotham River's most northern bank, grass pounded down by the torrent of the storm. a lone figure struggled against the gale, her legs sinking into the muck of the bank road with each step, curses stringing nonstop from her cracked lips. Of all the days to go hunting wildflowers. all to win a bet against Bristol Bert. Carefully, the woman hid a miserable bouquet under her tattered tan jacket, keeping the front flap tented out so as not to crush the fragile, half-wilted daisies.

"Bristol Bert had another thing coming, he thinks I won't survive half a day outside crime alley in the fresh dirt and air. HA!" The woman rambles, voice low and full of gravel, the wind flinging the words away the second she said them.

Felicia Mrrone hated Gotham. All those burning neon lights, weird ass architecture- God the rain. it never stopped raining. When it came to locations to be homeless, she sure picked the suckiest of the bunch. Bet Metropolis soup kitchens actually had soup. Not unrecognizable cauldrons of goop.

Of course the choice was intentional.

The only thing she hated more than Gotham was herself.

A doctor ruined by a bad operation and the following lawsuit, she had skin tanned to leather. Long, matted jet black hair; barely 4'9". and a drinking problem that let her hold liquor better than any 6-foot dime-a-dozen renta thug that roamed her East Gotham streets.

They were, her, streets.

Let batman and every criminal goof be damned. Screw the criminal courts too. 'Not fit to operate'. Bah. These were her streets cause every damn sewer rat that got caught in some crossfire ran to her. If they were lucky, they found her sober.

and so,

"ACK!"

Mrrone flew forward, her foot stuck on something. The world turned slow motion as she screamed-

"n o o o o o o o o !"

her jacket flew open

the flowers exposed

in desperate dedication, she twisted

and landed on her back, the flowers safe-

till a piece of hail 'thwacked' the petals in devastating destruction.

failure.

and now it was hailing.

"Ugh." Felicia collapsed in defeat. Damnit Bristol Bert. Then sat up in a flash.

"ALRIGHT. WHODUNNIT." the doctor shielded her eyes as she searched for the perpetrator in her tragedy, the cursed item she tripped ove-

a leg?

She scrambled up in a flash, short stems still grasped firmly in her fist as she stepped forward.

yup. it's a corpse. Even the dead don't want her to succeed in this-

the corpse coughed.

"YeAAaHh-" Felicia jerked back, balancing on one leg as she cowered.

The rain kept beating down.

Slowly, Felicia uncurled from her defensive pose and stepped forward again, examining the cor-person, closer.

Sweatpants, a brown leather jacket, black hair with a streak of white in the front.

a lot of bandages.

"oh boy." the woman muttered, kneeling down, fingers tracing over the mud soaked wounds. The man's chest quietly moved up and down, up and down with each stubborn breath. anyone else she would have written off as a lost cause. Stayed with them in the rain and held their hand till they passed. Not this fellow. He wanted to live. she didn't have to be a doctor to see that. Just human. "What in tarnation are you doing out here."

She kept whispering silly phrases of wonder as she pulled him up and over her shoulders, staggering as she stood but quickly regaining balance. He was big alright, but no tougher to carry than Giant George after a bad night in Iceberg Lounge.

"Alright son, let's get you back to Gotham. Get some good cracked asphalt under our feet. I've had enough of these fresh fields and dirt roads."

The woman began to trudge towards the bridge that crossed the river a few hundred yards away, Gotham skyscrapers filling the horizon beyond.

a pile of daisy stems lay abandoned on the ground.

and if the woman had looked back, she would have seen the silhouette of a bat fading into the rain.

but Felicia made it a habit to never look back.

only forward.

ever forward

.

.

.

Rain dripped to the floor from the trim of his cape, as he stood on the dias. Staring. Not at anything in particular. Just cave walls and stalagtite sillohettes.

He tended to do that a lot when Jason was involved.

Stare.

inactive. a choice in itself. Never condemning but never supporting. just, staring.

"You are making a puddle, Master Bruce."

Alfred called out the observation as he descended the stairs from the elevator landing. The batman shook himself from the stupor, and turned to face his butler as he began to unfasten his cape.

"I'll clean it up."

"Don't tell fibs. They don't become you." Alfred reprimanded as he strode past his ward to the supply closet tucked behind the computer, in search of a mop. Bruce refrained from rolling his eyes (he was, in fact, a 45-year-old man who should not sass his 'staff') and instead balled up his cape with the intent of wringing any excess water into the mop bucket Alfred successfully acquired. A few minutes later, the mess was dried and Bruce was dumping the mop bucket down a conveniently placed drain. Alfred watched a few steps away.

"..so?"

"Mrrone found him." Bruce didn't need any other context to pinpoint what the Butler was asking. With a final shake, he set the bucket down and placed the mop inside, leaning on the stck as he looked at Alfred.

"You said as much over the comms."

Bruce shrugged.

"You just let her take him?"

"She's one of the best damn Doctors in Gotham." the batman glanced over at the gurney, still stashed in the corner with sheets hanging off the frame. "Seemed better than forcing him to wake up in here again."

Alfred grffed, in ambiguous agreement.

Moments ticked by, neither moving, till Bruce finally stood straight and grabbed the bucket, walking to the computer. The Butler spoke again.

"Do you want to discuss it, sir?"

The batman went rigid, halted mid step for half a second before continuing to the supply closet.

"Discuss what?"

"Jason."

"What about him?"

Alfred rolled his eyes. (unafraid to sass his 'employer').

"Literally anything, sir. You could comment on his hair cut and i'd count it as progress."

Bruce turned at that, eyebrow raised. "Did he get a haircut?"

"I believe a little tighter on the sides, yes." the Butler noted.

"huh."

silence stretched between the two. Cave crickets began to chirp. Bruce sighed, and looked up. Eyes falling on the giant joker card.

Why does he keep that here?

"He looked different." The batman said, still staring at the card. "Not the hair. His whole expression, felt.."

He didn't want to say it out loud. Because saying it out loud made it real. and that was his whole problem, really. When it came to Jason and staring and inaction.

it still felt unreal. Like a suspended situation, frozen in time. and if he ignored it long enough, surely, surely he could finally understand what the right decision was.

Because he didn't know.

What do you do with a son returned from the dead who takes the darker path? When its your fault he died in the first place?

How can you approach him? Dare to express your joys and heartaches and regrets about the whole thing when you're the one who cursed his existence in the first place?

How can you condmen him? Dare to hold him accountable for the pain he's inflicted on strangers and family alike when you have not suffered punishment for your own failures?

"lonely."

Bruce turned away from the giant playing card and looked at Alfred.

"He looked lonely. and abandoned. and-"

His voice catches in his throat. He doesn't cry (he's long past crying over personal weaknesses). He does bury his face in his hand, standing in the doorway of the little supply closet behind the computer.

"This was not supposed to be the outcome." the batman whispered.

He thought inaction was the safest play. That time would clarify the best path forward. He was wrong.

No action hurt just as much as the wrong action.

maybe worse.

Sunlight filtered through windows placed high on the warehouse walls, catching dust in the rays. Warming and softening the edges of the abandoned facility. Chains drooped from metal rafters, and pallets lay scattered against cement pillars. slowly rotting away with cobwebs clinging to their splinters. The floor was covered in debris, but the air smelt like simple sawdust.

he woke up slowly this time. Gently lulled into consciousness by the chirping of a bird echoing in the large space. Its wings flapped as it examined windows for an exit, the sound reminiscent of freedom.

He lay on a pallet covered with suprisingly sterile blankets, bandages fresh and a new pair of sweatpants keeping him warm. The area around him was swept clean, the floor and walls washed near spotless compared to the rest of the warehouse interior. A little lean to covered the makeshift bed,

"protect ya from any filth that might flake off the ceiling."

Mrrone called out, her footsteps loud in the emptiness. Jason shifted, grunting as he pushed up on his elbows as the woman walked into view. Moving hurt, but the pain was dull. Proof he'd healed up decently. He looked up at the woman, eyes squinting against the bright sun shining behind her.

"Doctor." he greets, sitting up fully and rubbing his face. No point pretending he didn't know who she was. It's Gotham Streets 101- Mrrone takes care of any stranger she stumbles across. As long as she doesn't know his alter ego. "How long was I out?"

"5 days."

5 DAYS?! Jason bites back a groan as he collapses [a little dramatically] back on the pallet bed. The past filtering back slowly, in groggy memories. He's basically been MIA on the international scene for 2 weeks now.

"shit." he spits out.

"Oh no you don't." Mrrone kneels down and smacks his head lightly before unzipping a medic bag she brought with.

"Don't what?" 

"Start blaming yourself for not being out there. I know you hero types." Mrrone tsks as she starts cutting bandages off his torso.

Wha- so much for secret identity. Still, the woman clearly doesn't know exactly who he is.

"I'm not a hero." Jason retorts as she motions, and he rolls onto his stomach. Buries his head in his arms as she inspects the half-healed wounds all along his back. Grateful for this quiet banter with a stranger, a distraction to ease him awake. He smiles half heartedly as she lets out a satisfied hum, proud of her handiwork in his recovery. Finally, after jason forgot he said anything at all, she responds.

"Oh quit your lying. You're the Red Hood, right?"

He freezes.

"Said that on the little medical report you had stuffed in your pants." Mrrone says, then something cool presses against his back, jolting him out of the shocked trance. He grits his teeth as she smears ointment gently on tender skin- cause it stings and which batcave idiot put his code name on a medical report?! "The Red Hood's a hero, tride and true. That stunt you pulled for an intro, taking over half of Gotham's drug trade?"

The woman whisltes then laughs.

"That shit was awesome. Had this whole city turned upside down." Mrrone rambles on as she wipes off the last of the ointment then pushes him onto his side and starts wrapping him up again in a single fluid motion; the bandages are stiffer, a makeshift case for still broken ribs. "and all those gory murder stories you get circulatin in the underground? I've looked up every man and woman you've killed. They was all trash." Mrrone tucks the bandage end and rolls him the other way to grab his hand and pull him up; grinning as she gives him a wink. "You may have most the world fooled, but us smart ones know."

All he can do is blink as the doctor starts putting her supplies away, and watching her skilled hands he can't find the energy to be upset that she knows the face under the hood.

Mrrone zips her bag and turns back to him, and as she studies her patient, the amused grin fades to a sad twinkle in her eyes. She licks her thumb and reaches gnarled fingers out to rub a dirt spot off the boys cheek. "Just wished you was older. Unnerving taking off a mask and finding a kid." She laughs as Jason huffs at the comment, but lets her hand cup his face as she continues. "Scares me what you mustve faced in life already to pick such a lonely path."

The sincerity sends him stiff again, kindness from a stranger unfamiliar; but unknowingly craved. So for a second, just a second, he relaxes, and leans into the hand. Mrrone smiles, and pats his cheek. Then pulls away to unzip and rummage through her bag.

"You still got 5 broken ribs. Sprained your left arm and they dislocated yer right shoulder- so take it easy on the physical activity. Internal bleedings' stopped. You lost a lotta blood from those gashes on your back- torture fellas musta really liked barbed whips. Unoriginal if you ask me. Either way they've stopped bleeding, and as long as you slather them in this once a day-" Mrrone slams down a glass jar filled with brown goop, "-they'll heal up alright. Now I know you didn't like it, but you got this far cause I kept you under for so long. So don't throw a hissy fit on being dead to the world for 5 days. Can I hear a thank you Dr. Mrrone?" The woman crosses her arms and waits expectantly. Jason lets out a quiet, amused huff.

"Thank you Dr. Mrrone." he states, with a semi-mocking formal nod of his head.

The old woman snickers and stands up, then peers at him with uncharacteristic softness. "A boy needs friends, Hood. A pal to rub medical goop on your back when you can't reach the hard spots on your own, so to say." She turns and walks out of view, her footsteps echoing once again in the emptiness.

"Your too young to already be living life on your own. Find someone to trust. Doctors orders."

as quick as she came, she was gone. and Jason was left with the debris and the sawdust and the bird, still searching for an open window. The stillness was comforting. safe.

He snorts at the thought.

When was the last time he felt safe?

Wind echoes through the warehouse, whistling through hidden cracks in the concrete walls, brushing stale, warm air in his face.

The past week rushes through his head.

Quietly, he shifts on the pallet bed until he can lean against the wall, hair falling back as he stares at the ceiling through a hole in the lean-to canvas.

safe.

"It's not going away this time, is it?" he whispers to no one.

all his shit.

a tear drips onto his arm,

then his hands, resting in his lap.

and then they don't stop. streaming down his cheeks as his throat chokes and he curls into himself, pulling his knees up to bury his face in as he sobs.

alone.

Chapter Text

[WAYNE MANOR, A WEEK LATER]

Alfred laid the tea plate gently on the wood grained table, turning it ever so slightly to match the other sets. Tuesday mornings, every so often, a wonderfully lovely occurrence took place.

"Mornin Alf!"

"Did you get that jasmine rose tea Kate mentioned last time?"

"GOD there better be scones today I am sTARVING."

his family came home.

As many of them as could make it at least, for Alfred's Tuesday Tea.

Today seemed the majority would be present, as they poured in from the windows and snuck through the doors. 15 minutes later, the meal was in full swing and the butler was maintaining his stoic persona as he soaked in the precious moments. Yet this Tuesday Tea, something weighed heavy on his thoughts.

This was only the majority. 

One family member had been absent at every one of these functions. and recent events had reiterated the wrongness of this fact for Alfred. He'd kept up with the boy as well as he could after the doctor picked him up 2 weeks ago. The kid had runaway to Venezuela for a harrowing drug bust, but had come back to town yesterday. A rarity- especially when he never gave notice to the others. A pattern had emerged in recent months. If the Red Hood operated in Gotham, it was always a cooperative effort. Not that he cooperated well with others, God no, but he at least alerted them of his presence.

Not so this time.

Instead, Alfred had vigilantly kept up with security footage to keep track of the young man. For young man he was, the Butler had to remind himself, even though now more than ever Jason Todd looked.. kiddish. In his sloppy work and lost stumblings. and Alfred knew whatever happened in the week he was missing had taken more of a toll than even the boy- young man would admit.

For it takes a man to acknowledge the harshness of a real past. and Jason wore all the signs of a warrior struggling with the burden.

just not, well.

and this was the root of Alfred's troubled heart at Tuesday Tea. Jason was family. He'd known that since Bruce first brought the boy from Crime Alley. But only now did Alfred realize how foolish it was to casually assign the word to the young man, when the butler had done nothing to act on the belief. For too long he had deferred to Bruce on expectations with each of the wards. Alfred was, after all, simply the help. This one especially was.. sensitive. On all sides. But was it really an excuse to shun one party for so long? Shame burrowed in the Englishman's chest, and conviction in his heart. He watched his other wards twitter over their steaming drinks and delectable pasties [he had assuredly 'nailed' the blueberry muffins this morning].

No more ignoring. He would pay the Red Hood a vis-

"oh my gosh speaking of hot tea, you would not beLIEVE who I saw last night walking away from a murder scene." Stephanie Brown cut through Alfred's thoughts as she shouted with a mouthful of lemon bar.

"An 8 armed monkey?" Tim threw out

"Bane"

"The fires of Mordo-"

"JASON. I saw Jason." Stephanie interrupted the volley of answers, and a chorus of 'ohhhhs' followed; then a volley of groans. Alfred stiffened.

"Really?" Barbara asked dryly.

"Did he look alright?" Dick queried with concern. "I mean he didn't have intestines hanging out his stomach or something, right?"

Tim collapsed back in his chair with a huff. "Why didn't he contact us?"

"Beats me." Stephanie shrugs, going for a second lemon bar. "All I know is I came up on someone beating the shit out of this guy. When I got closer, Hood saw me and ditched the scene. the other guy was dead."

"Alrighty then." Dick blows out air, leaning forward on the table with wide, exasperated eyes. "He's clearly healed up."

"Right. healed." Tim rubbed his temple. "man, I knew that torture stint was gonna crack it."

"Crack what?" Damian asked.

"The whole good guy phesaud. It was just a matter of time till he went psycho again." Tim groaned, cracking his neck.

"Consistently crazy." Barbara muttered as she picked at her egg salad sandwich.

"I think he prefers the term homicidal." Damian corrected as he examined a cherry scone. The quip earned some snickers, and the tension eased from everyones shoulders. With a quiet laugh Barbara shook her head in mild amusement.

"Every family has one, don't they." she mused.

"A dick asshole brother?" Stephanie mused back. More snickers, even a few cackles erupted. Because having a crazy murder brother is stressful and its good to laugh it off every once in a while with the people you know.

"God he really is the worst." Tim enunciated every word with perfect wondered pitch.

"Didn't you say he tried to kill you one time in the Titans HQ?" Barbara asked.

"Yeah- yeah he did."

Stephanie, now on her third lemon bar, "I just never know if he's suddenly gonna snap, ya know? It makes missions just that more stressful."

"He pisses me off." Damian added.

"Everyone pisses you off," Tim checked the assassin. 

"Well Todd especially. I meant what I said last week." the short stack sniffed. "he acts all butthurt all the time. I'm sick of him using his past as an excuse to be a shitty person."

"I think we're the ones who keep giving him excuses." Barbara offers. "He knows what he does is morally wrong. His choices aren't about blind revenge anymore. He is a murderer and he's okay with that." she shifts in her chair, suddenly contemplative.

Stephanie bites her lip, then adds "Shouldn't we, like, arrest him? Have we tried that before?"

"Yeah- didn't work well." Tim sighs.

"So we just.. gave up?"

"I guess?"

"Maybe its a point to revisit though, especially if he's close to cracking again.." Barbara blurts, pensive but burdened with her opinions. "I always thought as family, we owed him some space. But isn't the opposite true? As family, are we not accountable to stop him from hurting others? At some point, second chances run out. He is a criminal. aren't our actions hypocritical- not only to the world, but to him also?"

"You all keep using that word." 

Alfred slowly sips from his teacup, before setting the fine china down. it clinks against the gold-trimmed plate, the butler's fingers still wrapped around the handle. "Family."

he looks up.

"I do not think it means what you think it means."

the room falls silent. Bruce, who sat at the end of the table quietly for the conversation, looks up at the elderly man. Alfred stares stonily back. then speaks.

"You propose some aspects of the word, but only some. Talk of taking responsibility for a wayward child. Labeling him the asshole brother. How many of you actually see him as that? a brother?" Alfred glances around the room, but no one meets his stare.

finally, Dick raises his hand. Then Barbara.

everyone else stays still.

Alfred nods.

"Good. It is a burden one should not take lightly. Family. and I know ours is strange. Chosen, uneven in distribution of time and space shared with each other. unlabeled in many aspects. I would argue some relationships are better left unlabeled. Because once named, Barbara, you are right. It carries responsibility. and when it comes to Jason Todd- I think there is much room for improvement."

Everyone sits still, the accusation hanging in the air. Then the butler continues, lips barely twitching up.

"By all laws of the land, he deserves to rot in a cell. But don't use 'family responsibility' as the reason to put him there. Just admit you want justice. Because the weight of 'family responsibility' to hold accountable can only come if you also carry the 'family responsibility' to love. To know." Alfred pauses.

"How many of you know Jason Todd? He's been reduced to a tragedy in our house. A cautionary tale that can't be trusted so much so, that we forget he is a person." Alfred's lips twitch up. "Does anyone know his favorite book? Is he a dog or cat lover, or perhaps has some other pet preference? Do you know that he prefers tea over coffee? That he has a crush on the girl at the cafe on 10th street- and when she signed his cup with her number yesterday he blushed and stuttered like a fool for 10 seconds before physically sprinting for the door?"

A few members struggle to hide smiles at the story. Alfred's eyes are soft as he looks at each of his grandkids, but then grow serious.

"Stephanie, that man he killed last night." Alfred leaned forward, shoulders heavy. The old man's voice catches in his throat, shaking "That man beat and raped his 11 year old daughter." Alfred lets his face fall into his hand, silent in the gravity of the unspeakable. Finally, he presses on, voice still thin. "Jason came upon the scene late. He knocked the man out and immediately rushed the girl to the hospital but- she died on the way there."

"They couldn't resuscitate." Alfred whispered.

Then looked at Stephanie. "He went back to where he knocked the man out, and that's when you came."

His chair creaks as the butler leans back in his seat, tired. "I was tracking his movements on the cameras since he came back yesterday. I can tell you he'd already had a... rough night. Watched three other innocent people die. Was blaming himself for their loss. I can tell in your movements, the punches you throw, when you're doing that. Blaming yourself." Alfred looks each of them in the eye, ending at Bruce. "He got shot 3 times, stabbed twice. Took a tumble off a 5 story apartment building. and blacked out in a dumpster after running from Stephanie, where I believe he still is now."

Alfred's fingers wrap around a salad fork, silently twisting the cutlery back and forth between his fingers. he swallows.

"When he wakes up, no one will have looked for him. He will limp back to whatever god forsaken sewage pipe he stays at when he's here- where no one will ask him what happened. No one will ask what he needs, or offer silent comfort. Because no one cares."

a tear trickles down Alfred's cheek at the harsh words.

"I have not cared." the butler says, voice hoarse.

Finally, he clears his throat, gently placing the salad fork back on the table.

"My intention is not to burden you all with guilt. Quiet the opposite-" Alfred looks kindly at the newer wards. "I want to release you from unnecessary weight. and this applies to ALL situations and people in this batty group- not just Jason."

"Don't call someone family unless you are ready for the burdens- and joys- that identity brings."

"And to those of us who are Jason's family- we need to talk. Because we are wrong. He's not an easy person to love- God no." Alfred looks heavenward. "He's like a porcupine dipped in poison. But the fact remains- He has no living relatives. The League of Assassins is... a relationship of convenience, not genuine concern. The world of heroes despises him. So does the world of villains. We are the only ones with an iota of reason to care about said porcupine"

"and we have failed miserably."

Chapter Text

JASON:

This really bright, obnoxious thing keeps shining straight in my eyes.

I stir, face contorting as my head pounds at the movement. Slowly, I blink my eyes open.

Oh.

Its the sun.

"I don't think I'm in Gotham anymore, Toto." I mumble, lifting a hand to block the cheery rays as I wince.

The smell of rancid meat and rotting cardboard boxes sits heavy in the air around me, and I gingerly turn my head to examine the dumpster I'm lying in.

yeah no, this is Gotham still.

I look back up, barely moving my fingers so I can glimpse past them at the 3 story buildings towering above me.

There's the ledge I tripped off while running from Stephanie.

I frown.

Then slowly sit up, doubling over in the effort, but grabbing the rim of the dumpster and dragging myself closer to the edge anyways. All the events of last night flooding back. 4 people dead cause I was too slow. or too weak. 5 people dead cause I was pissed at my failure. pissed at them. at the world. at the injustice.

Pissed for the victims.

--the little girl's head lolls forward, blood trickling down her bruised cheek--

A knot catches in my throat, but I swallow it.

failure

I'd say I did it for them, for her, but I don't know all of them would have wanted that level of justice.

So I say I did it for me.

Stephanie's open disgust from last night pops fresh to mind. I snort,

and pull myself out of the dumpster, flopping onto the hard concrete in the alley. that also smells like rancid meat and rotting vegetables. I gasp, eyes wide as I try to catch my breath.

I get why they hate me. I cross lines. Am arrogant enough to execute justice without a judge and jury, when they get fussy if they blow someone's knee caps. Closing my eyes as the sharp pain fades, I let out a shuttering sigh. At least now I'm intentional about when I cross lines. Kills from the past few months usually don't haunt my dreams.

--'was just having some fun,' the man grins as I handcuff him to a rail, craning his neck to look at the girl--

I refuse to regret killing monsters.

--The diplomat's son lies crooked on the sidewalk below--Batman lands on the balcony rail--'I startled him and he fell' I state-- I lie--

Something warm and sticky seeps into my leather jacket, and I wince as I sit up, lifting the fabric and pressing my fingers gingerly against the two bullet grazes and one bullet hole in my side. A rough bandage wrapped around my torso is caked with dirt and dry blood.

Mrrone would kill me if she saw this.

Dropping my jacket, I stand up- and immediatly stumble against the dumpster, leaning on the rusting, green metal as the world flips on its head and nausea claws at my throat. Freaking dumb ass.

"You're gonna die bleeding out on a side street someday." I mumble, lowering my head as the blood pumps heavily behind my eyes. Humidity sits heavy in the narrow alley, choking the air, and me in turn. "That or infection."

not that anyone would care.

I roll my eyes at myself.

dramatic much?

--the diplomat's son lies crooked on the sidewalk below-- and all I know is peace--the world spins a little righter-- until I keep staring-- and a whisper of doubt flits through my soul--

murderer.

why would they ever care?

The pounding in my head eases, and I crack one eye open to gauge the distance to the street. Piles of trash tower over shallow puddles, the walls curving in to squeeze the alley narrow the longer I stare. Just 10 steps. You can take 10 steps. Then 15,000 more to reach your safe house. If Steph chased me North.

I straighten up and limp to the street, stopping to squint at the neon 'OPEN' sign flickering in the window of Mackie's Burgers.

Yup. chased North.

I lean against the graffitied cement wall of the alley. really, really tired.

and really fucking alone.

I breath in sharp, surprised, when a tear traces across my cheek; throat suddenly tight and nose stuffed.

when the-

I quickly lift my wrist and wipe the tears away, rubbing the back of my leather glove across my nose too.

I wish I could stop killing.

Go running home. beg for forgiveness. throw myself on the floor sobbing for all the stolen lives, blubbering as I tell Bruce 'you were right all along you big bat you!' 'killing only leads to more killing' 'it's not our place to decide who lives and who dies'

God, life would be so easy if I just played the part of the prodigal song returned. 'help me mend my ways father! guide me back to the light!'

would they love me then?

My boots scrape against tar stained asphalt, sticky as it sits in the sun. I turn and limp away from the street, one arm wrapped protectively against my torso. Walking straight. Steps heavy with acceptance. Lifted with determination.

It's never right to kill outside self defense?

What a simple, terrifyingly cowardly way to live.

I spit blood in the dumpster as I pass it, the loogie tinking against an empty can.

no, they would not love me.

Because I am a killer. and to abandon that is to abandon part of myself.

and I won't do that.

I refuse to turn away from myself like the rest of the world does. I will not be completely abandoned.

No matter how many parents, how many mentors, how many brothers, sisters, friends, enemies toss me aside for the worthless, murdering nobody I am--

I'll stand whole.

whole and alone.

I blink, taking in the ladder to the narrow aqueduct cut into the cluttered, forgotten city streets. here already? below, soot colored water rushes over slimed rocks. Hurrying towards the cavernous, black hole 100 yards down.

almost home.

the sun catches on tiny choppy waves, twinkling off the edges of the contaminated water.

okay not really almost home. but almost in the blessed dark where I can quit this damn squinting and blame the suffocatingly still, toxic air for my tears and not, you know, emotions.

I grab the handles and stumble to the bottom, glancing up at the street level 10 feet above to do a last surface check before trudging towards the sewers. The water pulling and demanding, making my steps heavier. My exhaustion weightier.

whole and alone

whole and alone

funny, commitment to a sentiment does not make it easy to live. especially on days like this.

My steps fall into a pattern. My lips hum a silent rhythm. My body heavy, but blood loss leaving my head empty. thoughts impulsive. control slipping. and soon a mental beat falls into place, background to soaring pondering. observations. whimsical noticings, of memories meandering lazy as a wide river of death.

killer

killer

killer

how funny, that Bruce never once asked if I lied when the diplomat's son died. just kept offering that disappointed, distant look. 'this is what happens when you kill', he said once, 'actions have consequences, son.' then never spoke of it again.

killer

killer

killer

the night terrors sucked. waking up clawing at my chest cause what MONSTER takes the life of another person? all my fault. all my fault. 4 men dead in a used car junk yard all cause I killed a diplomats son.

killer

killer

killer

I never woke up cause of Felipe though. sure I felt guilt if I thought of him. but soon enough anytime Felipe popped in my thoughts, there were two very distinct notions. The weight, the finality of my actions- a burden not to be chosen or carried lightly. and the surety that I would kill him again if given the choice.

killer

killer

killer

how could I tell Bruce? That I killed a man and would do it again? That I wasn't comfortable with the heaviness, how it made me squirm and buckle, but then eventually would settle. a tiny, hard rock in the flesh of my heart. how could I admit that to Bruce who held me at distance just for suspicion?!

killer

killer

killer

already tried and sentenced in his mind. ruined. a perfectly good pet bird gone to poor execution of training. I knew it was coming. any day. that he would throw me away like all the rest. a failure. worthless to his mission so not worth keeping. because what worth do I hold if I fail to serve others as they please? the streets taught me that. dad taught me that. Catherine taught me that. my own damn birth mom taught me tha-

I slip, stumble. slam into the shallow water. brace my fall too late. spit sewer waste out as I stiffen my arms straight. staring hollow, too raw and wide open eyes at the dark waves splashing against my wrists.

killer

killer

killer

we're talking about how I'm a killer

not about how I'm all alone

(because that's all your worth)

I stand, stagger. Slam against the slimey wall. stare empty eyes straight ahead, rhythm and balance and patterns and beats all askew and tangled in my head.

killer

killer

killer

kille-

that's right, he let me go. he Ross'd me. told me to take a break. perfect imitation when we met up in Lebanon. 'your here to help me find my mom batman!' 'well actually I'm here to find Joker' also translatable to 'well buddy, we were on a break'

did he ever plan on ending the break?

if I had lived, would he have let me be Robin again?

If he had made me swore to never kill again, when I was young enough it wasn't me yet, would he have kept me? made me useful again?

water splashes at my ankles as I stop.

laughter echoes down the tunnel. up and down and round and round, louder and louder and louder

from up ahead.

I freeze, staring as the tunnel echoes the silence of a match striking flint. a flicker of light. a warm glow cascades into the darkness. casting shadows. the narrow walkways along the side of the sewage. the hole a few yards ahead on my right; my next turn. at the subtle curve up ahead, the outlines of three men. their silhouettes dressed in rags and swapping a single bottle between the lot of em as their laughter twists to giggles of glee and hiccups of ignorance.

one of them reaches for the floor,

and a crowbar scrapes across stone.

.

.

..

..

...

...

killer

killer

killer

killer

I race down the tunnel I just turned into, arms pumping at my side, heart beating out of my chest. so, so so far from being stone. full of rocks, but torn wide open and bleeding from hot, lively veins.

alive

I'm so fucking alive.

a laugh rips from my lungs as tears sting my eyes, stream back into my hair as I sprint. face twisted in a grimace as I laugh, and laugh again, and the laugh twists to a sob, and I sob.

killer

Joker killed me and Batman did nothing.

the taste of hope killed sits like a pound of cotton wrapped around my tongue, trailing down my throat, coating the flesh of my lungs. The same taste that stole my grief, sealed my heart, in that hotel room scattered with newspapers and hard drives a day after escaping the pit.

I thought he loved me. Even after all those sleepless nights between Filipe and Ethiopia, fixated on how Bruce would toss me aside. gnawing the inside of my cheeks raw as I ran over strategies to prove I was worth keeping even as a killer;

he loved me when I died.

I did not love Gloria when she killed herself. But I knew killing Filipe was right.

so how could the batman, who was supposed to love me, let my killer live?

"you were supposed to care." I whisper

still sprinting

still sprinting through the sewers as I choke down a sob. open gashes and puss-seeping bullet holes hot with infection.

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO CARE." I scream into the empty tunnels, stumbling to a stop, leaning over and gripping my knees for support as an ugly, ragged sob tears from my throat.

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO GIVE A DAMN" I scream again, hoarse.

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE STRONGER THAN A 13 YEAR OLD KID WILLING TO SHOULDER THE WEIGHT OF KILLING. AND YOU COULDN'T EVEN TAKE THAT ON."

I scream

no words come out

only violence

I scream until there is nothing left but silence

and the sewage water lapping against my boots.

and I whisper again,

"you couldn't even take that on"

before I collapse onto the narrow walk way

and sob until I crumple forward,

asleep.

BRUCE:

I wait until his breathes have been even in sleep for at least 10 minutes.

Then step out from the corner I had stopped at when he began screaming that eternity ago.

I don't bother to wipe the tears from my own cheeks. let them scar reputation. 

at the least I can take that on.

I stop, closing my eyes as the weight of the words settle over me again. The weight of this failure against him. My son who asks for it all as he is willing to give all. no half way point. no compromise.

what a simple, terrifyingly constricting way to love.

I step onto the ledge, careful not to let the sewage splash. Refusing to wake him before I finish the short walk to his side and gently stick his neck with a needle. Push morphine in his veins.

His breathing grows even deeper.

I wait, replaying the terrible scene. over and over. till it soaks in my bones.

how his screams reverberated down every tunnel for miles.

the way he had sloshed methodically through the waste for an hour before that.

when the rats lit that match and scraped a crowbar across stone.

the mad dash. the stumbles. the blood dripping from visible wounds. the heaviness and sorrow and exhaustion of wounds unseen.

I did this to him.

I did this to him.

and I don't know how to fix it.

Squatting down, I go to reach and scoop the kid up in my arms, but pause.

limbs suddenly too heavy.

instead I finish squatting to sit next to him on the ledge.

Letting my head drop forward,

in surrender to the fact,

that I have no idea what I'm doing.

I never set out to be a father. Wasn't in the plans. But then the plans got dark. and Gotham got darker. and vigilance became heavy. Until I saw Dick flying across the sky, fearlessly bright in the face of the dark. and I hoped maybe we could help each other. and we did. hurt each other plenty too. and always eventually found a way to grasp hands again. so naturally that I didn't know I missed it till some kid was stealing my tires. and I didn't care that we were both probably a little too dark to actually offer balance. We both craved family and that was enough.

and it was dumb

so dumb.

one of the worst match ups on all counts; crime fighting partners, teacher and student, father and son. So much heart break and damage could have been avoided if I just recognized he wasn't mentally ready and accepted my loneliness.

"But you know," I whisper, arms resting on my knees, head still drooped until I lift it to watch the reflection of ripples on the moss covered walls. The bat signal on my suit glowing just enough to cast shadows. "I'd still pick you and try it all again if I got the choice. Try better, try different. but still you, kid."

every time.

The truth lends strength in the heaviness of it all. I turn slightly, placing a hand on the back of his red helmet. Letting it rest there for a minute. Before I shift, and reach to pick my so-

big-ass heavy as an oak bookshelf son.

"What do you eat?" I grunt, flopping Jason over one shoulder and pausing to catch my breath.

I need to aim for some new weight goals. age is not treating me well.

"Alfred," I click on the comms. "do you have a training regiment for carrying unconscious idiots to their sleeping quarters?"

"I take it you found him, sir."

"Meet me at his bunker. Bring some medical supplies-- we've got some patching to do."

"We don't know where his bunker is, sir."

I pause, eyebrow raised, and glance over my shoulder at the red helmet barely visible over my back.

impressive.

"A neutral, third party location then. Have Barbara and Dick stick around the mansion. We all need to talk when we get back."

"Should we not take this opportunity to stay by the boy's side?"

"No. an attempt to mend bonds after years of mistakes cannot be haphazardly rushed."

at the least, I can take that on.

Chapter Text

WAYNE MANSION:

Planning to make a plan was much easier than making a plan. 5 hours after Alfred's Tuesday Tea Outburst and 1 hour after bandaging their problem child... the butler, the batman, the first robin, and the batgirl all sat around the table again. There was much silence. Each lost in their own thoughts and guilts and solutions. There was some talk of where they went wrong. Most of it boiled down to the fact a family member came back from the dead and no one in the family had quite.. known.. how to-manage. that.

So they never did.

Skipped straight back to the quips now sharpened with distrust and essentially acting as though Jason was still dead. Treating 'new' Jason like they would any new antagonist on the crime scene. In doing so they never asked as concerned family the how or the why he came back the way he did; full of piss n vinegar. Just treated the motivations like any other psych file.

The realization was a heavy one.

and before they could offer a response, a code red came from India. and Bludhaven suddenly faced a zombie virus. and a hacker was 3 ill placed keystrokes away from hacking the batcave operating system.

life happened. The convenient excuses deemed good enough to justify postponing finding the hard answers. But Alfred decided to give them a break. Asking hard questions was enough to keep the ball turning in the back of their minds.

Later That Evening:

Tim picks the plate up from beside the sink, dunking it in soapy water before attacking it with a scrub brush. The bristles scrape against half dried masala curry and grains of rice. Next to Red Robin, Damian stands, watching silently as Tim's dish scrubbing gets more and more agitated.

"What do you think?" Damian breaks the silence finally, taking the plate Tim hands to him and patting it dry with a towel.

"Of what." Tim grumbles, picking up the next plate.

"Jason."

Tim's ferocious scrubbing pauses for just a second, before he continues. "What about him?"

"I'll adjust my question." Damian opens a cupboard and stands on his tip toes to put the plate away. "What do you think of what Alfred thinks about Jason in relativity to all of us."

"That's- what?"

"Ugh, you're so stupid Drake. Forget it." Damian grabs the still soapy plate from Tim's hands and starts drying with an exasperated huff. How very Grayson, Tim muses to himself before grabbing a dirty bowl.

"I think.. Alfred's right." Tim starts, hand paused for a thoughtful second before he plunges the bowl into the water. "We should be more careful who we label family. and I guess in a perfect world family means accountability AND loving AND knowing someone, and whatever else Alf was rambling about but-"

"-but then what do we call him?" Damian supplies, arms crossed as he leans against the dark wood cabinets and white granite counter. Tim turns with a raised eyebrow at the interruption, but as the words roll around his head a few more seconds, they stick.

"Yeah. That. Guess we don't have to call him anything. Cause when I look at Jason I-" Tim keeps scrubbing, words lost, until he suddenly plops the bowl away and steps back with a huff. hands on his hips, "I don't know what I see. I mean What do you call the guy that you replaced cause he was dead? this kid that was a cautionary tale and a legend all at the same time. The shadow you couldn't escape, cause you reminded your mentor of this dead kid, and you had to be better than the dead kid, but then randomly your best wasn't good enough to match the few redeeming qualities the dead kid DID have. Reflexes, raw power. So you studied endlessly so you never made the same mistakes. and you kinda hated the kid, then felt guilty for hating a dead kid. but then you go and sit in front of his costume case after the bad nights, the Bruce-in-a-mood nights, the flat out weird nights... and ask if you were doing it right. if it was always this hard. Cause he'd be the only one to get it."

Tim trails off for a millisecond, then snorts in disdain.

"and then he came BACK." Tim sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Do you know how weird that was? Getting attacked by a 'stranger'. I had disliked him for ages. He hated me on principal. We had never met, but there was all this- stuff. and God forbid he take the time to talk about it like a normal person. no! He beat the shit out of me in Titan tower, then all the insanity when Bruce died–"

Tim groaned and collapsed back against the counter, flopping his arm over his face.

"I'm just done with it."

He grunts, then shoots back up, slamming one hand on the counter and pointing the other at, well.. the dishes..

"AND the whole helping us out gig he's been on the past while? Don't trust it. Not for a second. Cause the second something kicks his oh so fragile psyche– he'll lose it again." Tim huffs and crosses his arms. "I bet he's already plotting some dumb weird revenge shit after that torture fiasco last week. Who knows what they pulled out of the depths of his dark gross brain."

Tim stands glaring at the sink.

Damian watches him, one eyebrow raised in the silence.

"I didn't ask for your whole life story. jeez." the twat sniffs and motions his towel towards the remaining dirty dishes. Tim rolls his eyes but steps forward and finishes washing the bowl. Damian mumbles while he waits, "All those words and you still don't know what to call him."

Tim pauses before handing the clean bowl to his little brother, staring at him dead-pan. "How about I just call him Jason."

"The only intelligent thought you've had all day." Damian agrees. Tim snorts.

"What about you? I thought everyone was beneath you and insignificant to begin with. Why did you even bother asking about it?" The Red Robin reasons sarcastically.

"That is correct." Damian nods, grabbing the last clean plate. "I asked the question for your sake, not mine."

"Oh?" Tim leans back, smiling smugly. "Is that an admittance you care about me?"

Damian freezes like a rabid chihuahua about to rampage, and slowly turns to glare at his inferior bro- existence in this household.

"Fine." he growls, "I am confused as to how father wants me to view this second eldest imposter."

"suck-up."

"There is no need for childish name calling." Damian sniffs.

Tim shrugs, and waits in silence, washing another bowl.

"It is, different. Upon eavesdropping on Alfred, Dick, Barbara, and Father earlier, it does appear our family is in the wrong on several counts towards Jason. I did not know good guys could... hurt other good guys THAT BADLY, on accident."

"You think Jason is a good guy?" Tim raises his eyebrow.

Damian does not respond, grabbing the last clean dish to dry. A whole 30 seconds passes before,

"if he cannot be a good guy, then I cannot be a good guy." the littlest Robin whispers.

The sober sentiment settles over the kitchen. A beat passes, and Tim steps back from the sink, throwing a towel over his shoulder and crossing his arms as he turns towards Damian.

"You don't kill people."

"Not anymore. but if I did not have Grayson and Father constantly guiding me when I first came;" Damian pauses with a huff. "I understand how Jason can justify the kills. and Alfred is right. The pattern has changed. Jason is not a reckless murderer. His kills are deliberate. I have studied his files. Most deaths in the past 6 months are rapists. the rest are all more than deserving of their fate-- people who enjoy murder, sex traffickers. I am sure to the hundred kids he saved while in Siberia... he is a good guy."

Tim's eyebrows furrow as he processes the data. He'd never bothered to check who The Hood was killing lately. Just knew the number had grown smaller. Still, it didn't make it... right. but.. well, he could mull on it later.

"So, does this mean you like Jason?" Tim pokes, turning his focus back to the kitchen.

"ew, no." Damian gags, going to slide the drying towel back on the oven handle. "I don't like anyone. I am simply, curious. About how the Red Hood got to where he is, and where he wants to go."

The admission stuns Tim, and when he asks his next question, a new worry is planted.

"So, you'd be okay if he started working with us more... if Dick and Alfred act on all this 'knowing family' idea."

Tim purses his lips.

If everyone else pulls Jason back... does he have to accept him too?

DICK POV:

I sit on the ledge of the tallest skyscraper in Bludhaven. One leg bent and tucked up so my chin rests on my knee. the other swinging free over the abyss below.

zombie goop stains making my black and blue uniform glow purple in very random splotches.

I sigh.

Very loudly.

Over the comms.

it only takes a few seconds.

"What is it Dick." Barbara sounds very tired as her voice clicks on in my ear.

I grin sheepishly, tilting my head to the side as I stare at Gotham across the river, lights twinkling in the distance.

"I didn't say anything." I tease, grin growing soft. I can hear her rolling her eyes. She doesn't say anything back. But I know she's still listening. and slowly my smile fades.

There's no easy way to say this out loud for the first time.

"..did.. did I really never tell him I was happy he was alive?"

Alfred had admitted he never told Jason he was 'glad the lad was quite the opposite of dead'. Had looked at the rest of us to receive reprimand, but found 3 sets of stunned eyes staring back in equal guilt.

"Dick.. you can't-" Barbara stops, but trails off. Her silence a confirmation that I've known since Alfred posed the question. Just haven't been willing to face. I bow my head, foolishly hiding the tear slipping down my cheek. Unwilling to wipe it away.

"Just because he was alive didn't mean he was *our* Jason." she breaks through my stricken grief, voice firm in its sadness. "You remember how we spent months researching how he came back. The effects of the Lazarus Pit. having to consider what other factors were at play. If some other entity might be controlling him."

Barbara taks a shakey breath.

"We still don't-.. officially.. know."

I sit up straight, eyebrows knitted together in sympathetic realization.

"Barbara do you still not; you really don't believe its him?" I ask, almost disbelieving.

Her silence stretches too long,

"it's him." she whispers back.

and the comms vibrate with the muffled sound of a choked cry. I wait, arms wrapped around my one leg, shoulders tense.

wait till she's ready.

"He- I; I spent so long doubting. until it just was part of my view of him. Until Alfred described him this morning and-"she pauses, voice tight as she struggles to regain control.

"I pulled up all the old files. and I scanned them all. and there was nothing, nothing to corroborate my doubt. except for the true fringe theories that have no feasible way to test them. which I mean hey, its death! So maybe one of them is still true. but-" her voice stutters one last time, and I can hear her pull her glasses off to wipe the tears from her face. "It's Jason, Dick. It's been Jason this whole time and I discounted him as some cheap trick and never cared enough to even pretend I cared if the real Jason was under it all."

the admittance brings a fresh set of tears and choked cries from us both.

a minute later, I stand up.

"Can you find his bunker?"

[somewhere in outer space]

bleep

bleep

bleep

ble-

a reptilian fist crashes through the blinking red button, unfurling into long claws as the general walks away from the ruined dashboard.

"īčx æß łpøįq"

["We get it, new target acquired."]

Stopping next to another control panel, the beast stares out the curved window for a second, taking in the vastness of space, before it shakes its head in a snapping motion and grunts. Slams a giant claw through another red button then, twitching for a moment as razor teeth curve in a grin, turns and lurches out of the room.

Hydraulic doors hiss close behind the creature, leaving the pilot deck empty and half destroyed. sparks fly from clawed electronic panels, the only sound in suffocating silence. The only light in sealed darkness. Until slowly, somewhere above, gears start to whir. A column in the center of the meager room collapses into the floor, bright pale light flooding the deck.

A clear tube reaches to the ceiling, filled with transaparent liquid gel, and a pulsating heart fused to a neon blue brain.

Quietly, the walls slide open as robots swarm the room, righting all that is wrong in their path. Welding, rewiring, screwing, sanding- until they retreat back to the walls that conceal them. The once half destroyed room sitting in perfect construction. The pulsating heart glows, and a control panel closer to the deck window whirs to life; buttons clacking and sensors beeping as coordinates flash across a projection screen.

"g ø t h æ m    ç ī t ÿ  ;  Ę Æ R T H"