Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

– from Macbeth

i. to wish impossible things– 

Once upon a dark and fateful night, not really so long ago, Batman catches a scrawny street kid jacking his tires in Crime Alley. Regardless of what would become of the two after this night, Jason can’t ever help but look back at it with tongue-in-cheek fondness. The memory, simmering low and warm in his chest these handful of years, goes something like this: 

Batman, for all his silent bravado and feared reputation, returns to his parked Batmobile to find missing two tires. Nobody, in all his eight years of being Batman, had ever dared to attempt anything like this. A bit bewildered, he rounds the car, where the offender is currently halfway through removing the back right tire. The kid–who appears no more than eleven or twelve–scrambles backward upon his approach, attempting to hide the tire iron behind him. His face contorts awkwardly between fear and agitation before settling on a wavering glower. 

“You’re going to give me back my tires,” Batman informs him, evenly. 

The edge of the boy’s mouth curls into a more confident sneer as he instantly rises to the challenge. “Who says I took ‘em?” 

The Dark Knight, with presumably the patience of a hundred saints and the pursed lips and tone of a practiced father, settles a hand on his hip and stares him down. “What else is the tire iron for?”

Unexpectedly, the kid swings the object in question with all his might. It strikes home right between Batman’s fifth and sixth ribs, knocking the patience and wind right out of him. He wheezes openly in pain and surprise, and the boy takes this as his golden window of opportunity to high-tail it out of there. 

(Coincidentally and unbeknownst to either of them at the time, Batman would carve out a home for the tire thief in his chest. The boy would settle there like he owned the fragile cavity, filling Batman’s life with magic and untempered Crime Alley mettle. And on another fateful day far less beneficent as this one, when that magic was cruelly snuffed out through torture and flame, Batman would feel the tender and unending ache between his fifth and sixth ribs for years to come.) 

“You little son of a gun–” Batman grates through clenched teeth, holding his spasming and bruising side. 

The boy is halfway down the alley, a quick little thing. “Try and catch me now, you big boob!” 

The story goes that Batman had indeed caught him, despite his valiant escape efforts, but it had ended in Bruce Wayne taking in Jason Todd (the little thieving badass) as his ward, then as his son, and it had been great, until–

“You did call me a big boob,” Batman wheezes out, and though he seems to be laughing, Red Hood is decidedly not. “Thankfully, Dick never found out. I think he would have come home just to laugh at me.” 

Jason’s hands tremble as he presses down to apply pressure to the wound, his father’s blood quickly seeping through the leather of his gloves and staining his skin. His teeth chatter against his wishes. “This was stupid. Reckless. We would all be getting at least a two-hour-long lecture from you on safety and smart field decisions if this was one of us.”

Beneath him, Batman hums noncommittally. 

“What were you thinking , B?” Jason demands. 

Bruce huffs weakly. “I was thinking …I couldn’t let my son die again.”

“Will you cut it out,” Jason snipes. “You don’t do sentimentality. Not like this.” 

Bruce smiles, a small and private thing reserved for his children. It does nothing to soothe Jason’s anxiety. In fact, considering the faraway look in Bruce’s eyes, it only serves to further his agonizing. “I should. I’m sorry for worrying you, Jay.” 

And Jason hates him for that sometimes, because Bruce has always been able to see right through Jason after he’d gotten to know him. “Who says I’m worried about you?”

He knows that he’s always tended to show his upset through anger, the two emotions often being shaken up inside him like some kind of freak Molotov cocktail of fervor. Right about now, he’s got nothing but a tenuous grip on those explosive feelings. Bruce shouldn’t fault him for it too harshly considering the situation at hand. 

“Yeah, well,” he replies with no heat, “worrying about you is my job, old man.” 

“Now who’s being sentimental?” 

“No, I’m upset because you made me listen to Enya earlier when I specifically requested Cheap Trick. You led me astray with delusions of music grandeur,” Jason sniffs derisively. “It felt like punishment. Tim is the one who likes Enya.” 

Bruce is still smiling that wistful smile. “You also like Enya.” 

Jason does. Instead of agreeing, he says, “What happened to the intransigent Batman that used to argue with me about everything? You’re not even rising to the occasion despite the numerous opportunities I’ve granted you to yell at me.” 

“Not in the mood tonight,” his father replies, eyes fluttering. Then he mutters, “Don’t yell at you that much…”

Jason’s voice shakes, and he doesn’t know if he can even do anything to stop it. “I have a long list of grievances, and you need to stay awake and hear them all out.” 

“Okay,” Bruce agrees and opens his eyes a little more. 

Clearing his throat, the former infamous crime lord continues. “Like I said, I’m mad that you ignored my request to listen to that Cheap Trick album that came out in 2009. I missed that one for obvious reasons.” 

“Nothing beats their first album,” Bruce deigns to respond, with great difficulty. 

He’s inclined to agree. The wild and controversial song themes crafted with a twisted sense of humor tend to appeal to him. “‘Don’t Be Cruel’ is on every karaoke list ever, for some unknown reason. That’s from ‘88, mind you. I thought you liked Rockford the best?” 

“Hn, you like the ‘77 release,” his father informs him slowly, as if it’s the obvious answer. 

A bit mystified, he checks the ETA of their medevac–Nightwing driving like a bat out of hell in the Batmobile with Robin in tow. They’d been on some boring stake-out in Tricorner, but Batman had insisted on accompanying Red Hood tonight in the Bowery. Nightwing and Robin were still ten minutes out, and Red Robin was home on comms with a broken arm, Black Bat and Spoiler had been out doing something for Oracle, and Batman is bleeding out after taking a bullet meant for Red Hood. 

See, herein lies the problem–his father with his unshakable no killing rule, which Jason had found himself falling back into like a second skin over a year ago, was the very reason any of this was happening. If Red Hood had just killed Black Mask like he had originally intended instead of royally pissing him off and invoking a deep-rooted and sanguinary grudge, they wouldn’t even be here right now. 

Jason doesn’t dare take his hands away to mute all the yelling over his comm line, so he does his best to ignore it. It’s not going so well. 

“Cheap Trick and double cheeseburgers was my promise,” Jason reminds him. “Like…like the night we met.” 

“So glad you never wanted a mullet,” Bruce mutters, his gaze faraway again, on some train of thought he hasn’t deemed necessary to share with the audience. 

Jason scoffs. “Uh, no. Hard pass. Besides, ‘Wing did it first, remember? That’s another thing–I really think we should never let that embarrassing era die. I propose we bring it up every fourteen to sixteen business days. Also in front of anyone whose approval he vies for every chance we get.” 

Worse than the hair itself had been Dick’s maddening ability to pull it off. Not that Jason had ever—or would ever–confess this to him. 

Bruce’s eyes are fluttering, again–dangerous, dangerous –and Jason’s gloves and knees are soaked through. His father who’s always been larger than life since the night Jason whacked him with a tire iron is now pale and eerily still. He’d had to know how this would end. The two of them would always end in tragedy, one way or another.  

“Listen here,” Jason falters, “you don’t get to die on me and then crawl back out of your grave later or something. Been there, done that. We all know how much I hate sequels. No need for you to be a follow-up act to me, because we all know I did it best.” 

Bruce touches him, a ghost of a thing, between his fifth and sixth ribs. Jason is going to be sick. “I’d do it again.” 

He says it as if he’s summing up all their years now twice cut-short together. It sounds too much like goodbye to be a comfort. I’d do it all again. Jason never got to say goodbye when he’d died, but this doesn’t make him feel any better. 

“Do it now,” Jason chokes, pleading, begging. “Goddammit, Bruce.” 

And then– 

Then–

Jason’s hands are still shaking when Nightwing and Robin arrive on scene. He wants to tell Dick to keep Damian away so he doesn't have to see his beloved Father like this. Faintly, he recognizes gasping, heaving breaths. It sounds like someone crying without actually crying. The comm chatter is nothing but buzzing and static in his ears. Dick is trying to gently pull Jason away from Bruce. He’s murmuring something– oh, Jay, here –but Jason barely even registers his older brother’s words. 

It’s all his fault. 

It’s all his fault. 

Bruce is dead for real this time–not lost in the timestream. He’s dead because of Jason. It should be Jason lying there, again. Everything begins to fall apart around him. 

“ Breathe , Jason,” Dick is pleading with him, voice wavering but alarmed. “Just– oh my god , you’re hit–” 

And oh, it’s him that’s heaving. 

Time. He needs more time. Even five minutes more. If he’d had five minutes more, he could have fixed this somehow. Five more minutes, dad , he’d begged through his teenage years until the ripe age of fifteen. Please dad, just five more minutes. 

Jason doesn’t know what to do with that eternal missing even though it’s only just begun. Grief feels too much like fear, and it’s washing over him like waves trying to drown him. That darkness wrenches through him, cleaving his chest open and leaving his heart a gaping wound. It aches like none other. The space between his fifth and sixth ribs burns where Bruce had touched it. His stomach is fluttering, soul already restless. He feels concussed. He can’t focus. Maybe he is afraid. He can’t seem to catch his breath because his lungs feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves. 

I need more time. 

He gasps, reaching for Bruce again. 

Just five more fucking minutes, goddammit. Let me have just– 

The last thing he registers is Dick’s panic. “ Jas– ”

“–on?”

Jason wakes up, heart in his throat. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. Had Dick tranqed him so they could get him back to the Cave? He looks around his room at Wayne Manor and feels like he’s going to vomit. It must have taken his family quite the herculean effort to get him settled in bed. Stranger still is the way that the room looks inhabited. The cherry red electric Fender that Bruce got him for his birthday sits in the corner, surrounded by books on how to play guitar. His old baseball glove, which looks significantly less used, lies discarded on the floor–as if he’d carelessly tossed it there after a game of catch with Bruce. It isn’t Alfred-tidy. It’s Jason lived-in. The most damning evidence of all is the lamp with the thatched shade sitting innocently atop his nightstand. He and Dick had accidentally knocked it off one night during an unbrotherly wrestling match when Jason had come off patrol and found his older brother passed out in his bed. The lamp had shattered into five and thirty-seven pieces, and much to Alfred’s dismay, could not be salvaged. 

The edge of a book peeks at him from behind the covers he’d thrown back. Jason carefully pulls out a worn copy of Jack London’s The Call of the Wild and his notes for the book report due on it. He’s read it all, of course, but he’s read it all at this very moment, too. 

He vividly remembers this day. Outside his door, Bruce is knocking, trying to rouse him because later this afternoon they’re heading to a Gotham Knights game. Jason Todd is thirteen-years-old, it is Saturday, and he is late to breakfast, which has prompted his father to come check on him. Patrol the night before had been rather uneventful, and Jason had gotten a little too into his school reading, and had stayed up finishing the book, which had in turn caused him to oversleep. 

He will wear a mustard-colored sweater that Alfred had deemed suitable for the weather over a white button-down, and a red baseball cap. The media will capture a photo of him juggling a chili dog, a bucket of popcorn, and a soda–cheeks packed full of chili dog and turned to Bruce, who is intently watching the game. Bruce had also extended an invitation to Dick, and had hopefully bought him a ticket, but the older boy had basically screened Bruce’s call. At the time, Jason hadn’t really minded–it was his first Knights game, after all, and he’d been far too excited. Looking back now, he wishes that Dick could have put his and Bruce’s differences aside for a handful of hours and tagged along. 

No, Jason could never forget this day–not when it’s one of his most cherished memories. 

What he doesn’t understand is how he can be here. This is an eight-year-old memory of happier times–before he died and came back as the worst parts of himself, before Bruce died–where he is thirteen instead of twenty-one. It all feels too realistic. He can feel the sheets beneath his fingers, smell the comforting scent of Alfred’s choice of laundry detergent emanating from his pajamas and bedding, and even breathe in that old Wayne Manor redolence. 

Bruce gently opens the door and peeks through. He’s even in that old magenta housecoat with the dark velvet floral print. It had been his favorite, once. Jason can’t recall seeing it in years. 

(“A dressing gown ,” his father had grumbled, when Jason had prodded him about it.

Jason had proceeded to ask if Bruce was aware it wasn’t the fifties anymore, to which Bruce had only rolled his eyes.) 

He’s aware that grief is a cycle. Jason has heard it all before. The only conclusion that he comes to is that he must be in extreme denial. Perhaps he’s finally snapped and rejected reality altogether, and he’s actually locked up in Arkham. That, or he’s died again somehow and is reliving his best hits. He doesn’t quite remember that from the first go-round with death, and he’d definitely been more deserving of heaven then–if it even existed. All he can do is stare at his father who had just bled out beneath his hands about ten minutes ago, alive and well and around thirty-five in his ghastly pink dressing gown. 

He still feels the phantom sensation of Bruce’s blood–warm and criminal–staining his hands. 

“Are you feeling alright, Jay?” Bruce queries, brow furrowing. 

He has foamed milk stuck in the five o’clock scruff above his upper lip. Jason does not stop staring. His throat feels uncharacteristically hoarse when he responds. “Uh, yeah. Just…just had a…a weird dream, is all.” 

Bruce eases into the room and settles on the foot of Jason’s bed, sweeping his housecoat behind him. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

He never did, not even back then–or now? Whenever, or wherever, he is. However, this never stopped Bruce from asking. 

Jason can only shake his head and attempt to swallow down the lump in his throat. 

“Who do you think will win today?” Bruce asks him instead of pressing the matter. 

“The Knights, of course. Duh, Bruce. They’re top in the Eastern Division for the American League right now. ‘Get out the rye bread and the mustard, grandma. It’s grand salami time!” Jason replies, citing himself from years ago. He knows that the Knights lose 9-8 to the Star City Rockets. Bruce will be crabby over it because Green Arrow will needle him about it at the next Justice League meeting. He also still seemed to care more about sports when Jason was thirteen as opposed to when he’s twenty-one. 

Bruce smiles–an easy thing. He smiles that Real Bruce Smile, the very one specifically reserved for his children. It’s full of amusement and maybe even a little pride, if Jason can be so bold as to claim. He'd seen it only a few minutes prior before Bruce died beneath his hands. Jason knows the words that are coming next, but still they bring a smile to his own face. “Don’t lose your marbles, Niehaus.” He reaches over and ruffles Jason’s bed head curls. “Now that I know you’re awake, why don’t you accompany me downstairs for pancakes? Alfred is worried about you.” 

Somewhat warily, Jason extricates himself from his covers and follows his father further into the memory. 

“‘ But behind’s behind, the worst you can do is set me back a little more behind. I sha’n’t catch up in this world, anyway. I’d rather you’d not go unless you must ,’” Jason mutters, tentatively in step behind Bruce. 

“What was that, Jay-lad?” 

Jason swallows, out of script with the anamnesis. “Nothing, B.” 

He says the best way out is always through. 

And I agree to that, or in so far, as that I can see no way out but through.

He goes through. 

Chapter Text

And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,

To the wide world and all her fading sweets;

But I forbid thee one more heinous crime:

– from Sonnet 19

ii. need i beg you for one more day– 

Throughout the day, Jason comes to the working conclusion that yes, somehow, he really had died again. He vaguely remembers Dick saying something about how he was hit, and chalks it up to that. Jason recalls reading something once over breakfast about what happens to the brain when people die. Recently, there had been a new study published about brain oscillations involved in memory retrieval and how they’re altered when someone dies, suggesting that the brain really does replay someone’s best memories in their final moments. 

Alfred doesn’t even drive them to the game. Bruce lets Jason choose the car they take to the stadium. It’s just a day between the two of them–something special, something precious. It’s the type of memory that one handles with extreme gentleness, held between tender fingers and tucked close to Jason’s heart. 

Bruce is confident the entire game that the Knights will win. Jason plays along, because he’d also believed that once before he’d known the outcome. He gets his chili dog, his bucket of popcorn, and his Soder Cola . The paparazzi still get that picture of him carefully balancing all three and looking at Bruce. He still wishes Dick had come along. Or that his dying brain could conjure up all his family there instead of just him and Bruce. 

Regardless, it’s a beautiful fall day. 

It’s everything he remembers. 

It’s everything. It’s perfect. 

Because he can, and because he has convinced himself this is just a memory, Jason leans into Bruce’s side. His father throws an arm around him like it’s the easiest thing in the world as one of the Knights’ star hitters steps up to bat. He hits a home run, just like Jason remembers. 

Unlike he remembers, Jason catches the home run ball that ties the Knights and Rockets 8-8. Bruce blinks at him in surprise before breaking into a wide smile. They show it on the jumbotron, too–Jason, choking back his heart, mouth dry, the caught ball in hand. He looks like a deer in the headlights, Soder Cola cup dropped to the bleachers and splattered all over the bottom of his pants. Alfred will hem and haw over this later, he thinks, but doesn’t know, because–

Because this never happened before. 

The ninth inning begins, but Jason spends the rest of the game in a daze. The Knights still lose to the Rockets, but Bruce takes him down to the dugout, and the star hitter–Jason’s favorite player, mind you–even signs the ball for him. 

“You’re a great catch, kid,” the player praises but gives him a weird look. “Not to brag or anything but, that sure was one heck of a hit. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the replay of that catch on the screen. Is your hand okay? I’ve never seen anything like that.” 

It could be broken, for all Jason knows. He can’t even feel it. What he does feel is completely unmoored, and it’s not because he’s meeting the Gotham Knights. “Uh, yeah. I think.” 

Truthfully, he’d caught the ball on reflex. He hadn’t even been thinking–he’d just simply seen something small and fast flying toward him, reached out, and caught it. He hadn’t thought about the consequences. It had been easy thanks to all his years of combined training. 

“Mr. Wayne,” his favorite player says, a bit awed, “you really ought to think about getting him into baseball. That kid has something special .” 

Bruce smiles that real smile and pulls Jason close. “Thanks. I think so, too.” 

Jason can’t be too sure, but he doesn’t think that Bruce is talking about baseball. 

This is not a memory anymore. 

Jason stares at the signed baseball in his hand, and it looks a lot like a second chance. 

Jason wakes up from bed that night and finds himself asleep in one of the chairs in the Batcave instead. Mouth dry, slightly sweaty, and dazed from what could only be an impromptu nap, he attempts to orient himself to his surroundings. He feels a bit dizzy, and there’s an odd buzzing reverberating in his ears.  

He’s wearing the Robin suit instead of his plaid pajamas, which is not helpful in his mission to discover when he is–not where , but when . As Jason makes a lethargic attempt to investigate his loss of time, Bruce abruptly stands from his place at the Batcomputer, causing Jason to jump. 

“I was right ,” Bruce announces. “This is a chemical used exclusively by the Scarecrow. Background on him, Jay?” 

Blearily, rubbing stars from his eyes, Jason does his best to recount his knowledge. His brain feels foggy, and it’s like he’s a kid trying to reach the memories on the top shelf of the cupboard without a stool. “Uhh,” he grasps, “Let’s see…real name’s Craig. No, Crane . Jonathan Crane…he was a psychology professor. He was talented, but didn’t have a lotta friends.” 

He shrugs. “People made fun of him–called him funny-looking, laughed because he liked to spend money on books instead of other popular stuff. He got real into the psychology of fear, and Crane’s been at it ever since.” Jason pauses, distantly recalling something he’d said in the past. It was still somewhat true. “But I feel sorry for him, Bruce. I mean, nobody likes to be laughed at.” 

Bruce, in a bathrobe and slippers for some reason Jason cannot remember, looks stern. “I know, Jay. But I can’t allow him to take his humiliation out on society.” 

Alfred descends the stairs to the Cave, carrying pieces of the Batsuit. “Your new costume, Master Bruce. I’m afraid the old one was past saving.” 

“Fortunes of war, Alfred.” 

This is starting to feel somewhat familiar, but it also feels like Jason is dreaming. Almost operating on muscle memory, he puts his domino mask back on while Bruce dips away for a costume change. 

“I hope when all this night is over,” he says, re-emerging and pulling on his last gauntlet, “a uniform is all we’ve lost. It might be a long night, Alfred. Don’t wait up.”

Jason has no idea what’s happening. There’s not much about this night that stands out to him from his time as Robin. Bruce had obviously not caught onto the fact that something was off about him, and sent him off with vague instructions that did not help Jason’s cause. When he was with Batman bugging some guy’s room in Gotham General, he’d seen the wall calendar, which simply told him that he’s now in the month of February 2003. Somehow, he went to sleep in his own bed in September of 2002 and then proceeded to wake up five months later. He still remembers those five missing months, but there are no new memories. 

However, he feels more awake now than he did before. 

Borrrrrring . Waiting for the bad guy to show up is duller’n watching paint dry. 

He squints at the city skyline from his spot on the roof of Gotham General as the winter wind whips his cape around. But Batman figures the Scarecrow might try something tonight, so I monitor the bug he planted in Hogan’s room, and– 

Uh oh , Jason’s memories remind him, just as he thinks oh hell. 

Immediately, he remembers exactly what’s happening. Bruce had taken Jason to a racetrack earlier that day and explained that there had been several recent accidents involving major sports figures. Something about a famous high-diver nearly breaking his back after attempting a stunt no one had ever done before, and the death of a famous hang-glider after he swept too low. The athletes were too good to make those mistakes, Bruce had said, and he believed it couldn’t be a coincidence. 

They’d then noticed that one of the racecar drivers, Jack Hogan, had been taking dangerous chances and not wearing his safety harness. Bruce had urged Jason out of the stands and off for them to change into Batman and Robin, arriving back on scene just as Hogan had gotten into a fiery car wreck. Batman had instructed Robin to hose him down while he ran directly into the blaze to drag Hogan out. At the time, Jason hadn’t been sure he could do it, and had seen a fearfully conjured vision of Batman burning alive. However, he had done it, and Batman had saved Hogan. The driver was then taken to the hospital, where he, and Jason is quoting verbatim here, he’d do it again, in a minute ! 

Mystified, Batman and Robin had returned to the Cave, where Bruce had changed out of his burned Batsuit into the robe and slippers Jason had seen. He’d also tested Hogan’s blood and discovered traces of fear toxin. Weirdly enough, Jason does not ever remember falling asleep in the Cave on this night. There honestly hadn’t been enough time for him to nap. He doesn’t have much time to ponder this fact, though. 

“And how are we feeling tonight, Hogan?” A familiar voice rasps over the bug. 

“Not bad, doc. But I want outta here so I can race again!” 

“That’s good, Hogan. You’re doing exactly as I planned.” 

A horrified gasp. “You ain't’ no doctor!” 

“Brilliant diagnosis, Hogan,” Scarecrow snivels. “A minor attack of pathophobia–fear of disease–scattered the dear and glorious physicians, leaving us alone!” 

“You!” Hogan screeches. “You got me into this mess! You gotta get me out!” 

“Yes, yes. I made you take my new drug, the one which removes fear from the brain,” Crane preens. 

This does nothing to appease Hogan. “You didn’t tell me it’d make me take chances, or take away my common sense!” 

Scarecrow sniffs indignantly. “But what, after all, is common sense but a form of fear? Now you’ll pay dearly for the antidote, Hogan. Fifty-thousand, or–eh?” 

Crane turns to where Hogan is blankly staring out the hospital window instead of paying attention to his highway robbery demands. 

“It’s me , baggy pants,” Jason hollers, entering the room boots first, shattering the glass around him. “Now, are you gonna come quietly, or do I have to fuck you up?” 

Scarecrow looks relieved even through layers of ugly ass burlap. “Phew. For a moment I feared both you and your mentor were present. But since it’s just the junior member of the firm–” 

Jason suddenly has a distinct feeling he’s forgotten something else important about this night just as Crane breaks a long and slender white tube in half. “–I’ll simply draw straws!” 

The noxious fumes of fear gas quickly envelop him, leaving Jason scrambling backwards. He reaches for his rebreather only to realize he doesn’t have one. 

Oh shit , he thinks. 

“Shouldn’t’ve tried to tackle him alone ,” he wheezes, frantically trying to cover his face with his cape. He distantly recalls saying these words before. There’s that sense of deja vu again, but he’s got bigger problems to deal with this time. “Should’ve called Batman.” 

He should have. He should have . They were Batman and Robin here, not Batman and Red Hood. Jason, just like he had the first time he’d found himself in this situation, had thought he could take Scarecrow alone. It shouldn’t have even been a problem. It is absolutely not an issue of skill here, he attempts to console himself. He blames it on an equipment issue. Jason at thirteen does not have the resources that Jason at twenty-one does. 

Very suddenly, there is a horrific visage of Batman stumbling out of a roaring fire. The flames lick at Jason’s feet, hot and wicked, and the sheer heat causes him to stumble back.

“Batman?” he asks, tentatively. “Batman, what are–”

Batman is nothing but gruesome charred flesh, black and hot and burning. His cape billows behind him, more fire than material, and only the pointed ears of his cowl remain. Batman’s face is a blackened skull, jaw working haphazardly as tendons and sinew sizzle and melt off like bacon fat on a grill. The stench of burning flesh makes Jason’s stomach curdle. His father continues to stagger toward him, his typical Batman growl nothing but a shredded, agonizing wail. 

“You…you failed me, Robin.” Bruce rasps. “You were supposed to save me…” 

Jason jerks back in fear, gasping in horror. “ No! ”

“...and you failed ,” his father delivers the finishing blow. 

Batman wavers before his eyes, caught between a nightmare of calcine flesh and bleached bones and bullet holes seeping fatal amounts of blood over the floor. The red ichor splatters to the ground in great drops, and the room echoes with a sickening shlop, shlop, shlop . Jason’s eyes water with tears, both from the fetor of decay and scorched flesh, and the sight before him. 

“Why, Robin?” Batman gurgles, crashing skull-first into the tiled floor. “Why did you fail me?” 

Jason collapses to his knees, banging them hard against the floor. He reaches out to his father. “Batman? Batman! No ! No,” his voice cracks on a sob, gloves slick and soaked with Bruce’s blood. He cradles his face in his hands and shakes. “ No …” 

He is so distraught that he does not even see Scarecrow scoop him up in a burlap sack like some kind of cartoon villain. Jason barely registers the creepy hacking cackle echoing through the hospital walls as Scarecrow drags him to a secondary location. He curls into himself and hides his face away in his knees, the vision of a twice-dead Bruce still there even when Jason closes his eyes. 

“HEE HO HA HO HEE HAA !” 

Honestly, Jason isn’t privy to most of the events of this night. He only knows of them from Bruce’s accounts after the fact. Apparently, after kidnapping Robin, Scarecrow had dared Jack Hogan to see if he could survive leaping out the window of his room at Gotham General. Hogan had happily jumped to his death. Bruce had deduced that Crane’s next intended victim would be daredevil Alvin Kenner and proceeded to disguise himself as the man. Scarecrow had figured out Batman’s ploy and shot him full of drugged darts in response, then left him a clue to where he was holding Robin. The drugs had left Batman under the influence, making him fearless and overconfident. Jason would later argue, in a point of contention, that Bruce was always at least a little overconfident. Tim would roll his eyes, but Dick would make a weird, stricken expression that seemed like he wanted to agree but also wanted to keep the peace. He digresses. Batman would deduce from the clue that Scarecrow was holding Robin at a factory named Atlas Concrete. 

This is where Jason’s memories and current situation seem to reconvene with Bruce’s account of the night. Crane hadn’t developed a stronger fear toxin yet, so thankfully, he’s come down from the standard dosage. However, Scarecrow had always been particularly adept at tying knots, so he’s stuck, impatiently waiting in the factory while the fruit loop former psychologist monologues to him. 

“He isn’t here yet, but he will be! And then–”

Jason struggles against the ropes around him. Unfortunately, Crane has divested him of his utility belt. “ Then Batman will put you away, you sick straw-filled creepy fuck!” 

This gives Scarecrow pause, and he eyes Jason weirdly through his burlap mask. “You’re awfully rude, much more so than usual. Will he? I fear you’re wrong, dear boy! This factory is both fully automated and quite thoroughly guarded, as well! And I’ve added a few devices of my own!” 

To his credit, Crane does not seem affected by Robin sneering up at him. “So what ? Batman’s escaped traps before. You think you’re something special. I’ve got some news for you, you goddamned headcase–” 

Scarecrow cuts him off, presumably before Jason can insult him again. “But not while under the influence of my new drug!” he chortles. “It removes the normal inhibitors– fears –from the mind, making men careless and overconfident!” he rubs his hands together in a particularly villainous move. “Batman will find he’s bitten off more than he can chew, and find he’s eating his last meal! Hee ha ho HEEEE –” 

Just as disturbed as he’d been the first time he found himself in this situation, Jason leans away from Crane as he guffaws and breaks off into hacking coughs. Crane throws himself against the security monitor as Batman appears on screen. 

“I can almost hear him trying to fight down the influence of my little potion! Don’t, Batman! Succumb to it! Give in… go out in style!” 

Rolling his eyes, Jason scoots himself closer in a move that he would rather leave in the past. Both villain and vigilante watch with rapt attention as Batman dodges trucks with excessive flourish and flair as they try to run him over. Frankly, Jason has seen this show before, and other than his little toxin-induced hallucination, nothing has broken the pattern. Batman puts on a little show for Scarecrow, then escapes as trucks crash into each other and explode like some kind of action movie high-budget scene. 

“You see?” he prods, smugly grinning up at Scarecrow. “Batman can take anything you can dish out.” 

“Dear boy,” Scarecrow admonishes and pulls some ominous-looking lever, “that’s exactly what I want him to think! One false step is all he has to take and I’ve won .” 

Robin and Scarecrow proceed to watch live footage of the worst episode of Survivor and Scooby Doo’s foul booby trap horror child for the next several minutes. Robin despairs when appropriate, and rubs it into Scarecrow’s raggedy mug when Batman beats his traps. They watch Batman blow up grinders blocking the air vent entrance and dodge the meat tenderizer from spiked hell before diving into a suspiciously-placed pit in the floor filled with water. 

“No, Batman!” Jason gasps, acting his heart out, recalling that he truly had been frightened for Bruce’s life the first time around. Now, he knows how this night ends. 

When the hidden machine guns emerge from the walls, nearly deafening the audience with their constant brrrtttttt and ten-minute punishing barrage, he does feel a sliver of concern. Back in the day, he’d thought this was the end of Batman. 

What in the fucking world. 

Now, Jason is of the opinion that if Scarecrow spent a little less money on elaborate death traps and put a little more into savings, he could save himself the trouble of crime once in a while. For the first time, in retrospect, he’s realizing how ridiculous all of this is, even if it’s constant life-and-death situations. They do say hindsight is 20-20. 

“That’s the end of him!” Scarecrow announces, shutting the screen off and turning to Jason. “Either he leaks like a sieve, or he drowned minutes ago!” 

Jason has seen Batman leak like a sieve, but it was not this night. 

“Batman,” he chokes out, a little real and stuck in his chest, “it…it can’t be…” 

“ It’s not ,” Batman declares, throwing the door to the room open. Looking back on the night, Jason had always found this funny. And people called him dramatic. 

Scarecrow staggers backward in shock. “But…my trap…how did you escape ?” 

Batman knocks him out ice cold with one uppercut. “You’ll never know.” 

Jason watches Crane crumble to the floor as Batman rushes over to untie him. Seriously, he had to know if Jonathan Crane had been in the Boy Scouts or something growing up, what with the way he tied these impossible knots. “Are you all right, Robin?” 

“ Me ?” Jason finds himself asking again. “What about you ?” 

Batman places his hands on Robin’s shoulders. “I’m fine–or I will be, once we’ve found the antidote to Crane’s drug in his laboratory. His other victims will sleep easier, too.” Then, Bruce says, “Hey, it’s okay, chum.” 

Jason finds himself still sniffling regardless. It’s been a long night…months? He doesn’t even know. Apparently he still has the emotional regulation that his thirteen-year-old self has. “I…I know. I just thought that, for a minute there…How did you escape anyway?

“Well,” Batman begins thoughtfully, “the main risks were being shot, or drowning. The bullets were fairly easy to avoid by wedging myself into a corner of the pit, and waiting until Scarecrow ran out of ammunition.” 

Jason, now familiar with the cost of ammunition, again thinks of the thousands of dollars Crane had spent on his bizarre traps. 

“Yeah, but you can’t hold your breath for ten minutes ,” he says instead. In the moment, he’d been bewildered as to how Bruce had survived. He’s in on the secret now, but doesn’t want to spoil it. 

“I didn’t have to. When I went under, I drew some air with me that had been trapped by my cape. That, with controlled breath, did the trick.” 

Jason props a hand on his hip and waves his finger at Bruce. “So far, so good. But, how about Scarecrow’s drug? How’d you overcome that ?” 

Batman isn’t even looking at him as he ties an unconscious Crane up. It’s a funny sight–one of his arms is looped through Scarecrow’s belt as the other has wrenched the man’s arms behind him and is pulling the rope taught. “By replacing the fears the drug nullified with a different fear–the most terrible fear I could conceive.” 

Bruce looks off into the distance, as if reliving this most terrible fear that Jason is not privy to. This is something that Bruce had never chosen to divulge. It had bothered Jason for years. He tries again, out of years of genuine curiosity. 

“Oh yeah? What was that?” 

Batman places a hand on his shoulder and gently guides him toward the door. Jason casts a cursory glance to the way he’s dragging Scarecrow by his collar, knees probably painfully sliding across the concrete floor. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you, chum. Maybe someday.” 

Spoiler alert old man, Jason thinks. Someday never comes. 

Jason then spends the better half of the next hour attempting to convince Bruce to let him drive the Batmobile. He’d done it before, too–tried to talk Bruce into handing him the keys. He hadn’t been convincing enough back then, but he knows where to apply pressure now. 

“You’re under the influence, B,” Jason asserts, blocking the driver’s door. 

Batman had already tossed the unconscious Crane into the back. Now he’s giving Jason a rather unimpressed look. 

Jason does not relent. “Arrive alive, don’t toxin and drive. You’ve trained me to drive the Batmobile in emergencies, B. I think this counts as an emergency.” 

“You’re thirteen,” Bruce monotones, as they’ve had this conversation many times before. 

Sniffing indignantly, Jason tosses his nose into the air. “And don’t you forget it. I’m thirteen, and I can reach both the gas and the brake pedals, and I know traffic laws.” 

He also has many years of experience, not that his father knows. 

Bruce does something weird with his face. Jason thinks he may be winning him over here. He decides to go for the proverbial achilles’ tendon. “You’re still on that drug. I know you said that you’ve replaced the fears that it canceled out, but how can we be so sure? Not like we can ask Hogan or the others about it. What if you turn into some kind of wild Evil Knievel out there and we land in Gotham Bay, or go out in a blaze of glory, or something?” 

Bruce’s fingers twitch. It would be missed by most people, but Jason is not most people. He’s well aware that his own personal safety (or Dick’s, for that matter) is a pressure point for Bruce at this time of his life. 

Jason goes in for the kill. “B, isn’t driving in your condition child endangerment? What would Agent A say?” 

Very slowly, and very reluctantly, Bruce holds out his hand. The keys to the Batmobile dangle from his fingers. “Remember to take the turns carefully ,” he all but pleads, tone somber but filled with underlying. “You always turn at a ninety-degree angle. Cars are not made for that, Robin.” 

Gleefully, Jason throws himself around the car, almost tripping over his own feet in excitement. This had not happened before. Bruce had turned him down, and truthfully, they’d both been just fine. But he doesn’t need to know that. “Oh fucking boy .” 

Once he’s safely in the driver’s seat (which he did not have to adjust that much to compensate for his height, honest) and Bruce is buckled in, Jason throws the Batmobile in drive. “Hey B, you don’t have to worry. I’ve seen The Fast and the Furious like seven times. I’ve got this. You know Limp Bizkit, right?” He raises a hand in the air and pretends to egg on a captive and imaginary audience with his best Fred Durst impression. “‘ Are you ready? Now when we roll, you motherfuckers–’ ” 

“Robin!” Batman visibly pales in the passenger’s seat. 

Jason just throws his head back and laughs. 

Jason lays awake in bed that night, a lot on his mind for a thirteen-twenty-one-year-old. He squints across the darkness of his room to the damning 2003 inked across his wall calendar. He can barely make out the distinct colors and fuselages of the P-51C and YAK-3 spread for February. GHOSTS, A TIME REMEMBERED, he recalls the calendar’s slogan from years ago and now. It includes 12 air-to-air color photographs of combat aircraft from World War II and a chronological history of the aviation events of the war. To this day, Jason isn’t totally sure why Alfred decided to go out one dreary morning and purchase it for his bedroom. Perhaps it had been a sentimental callback to the butler’s time in the Circus. Maybe Alfred had thought twelve-year-old boys were just really into planes. The thought makes him chuckle. 

He thinks about how Tim is ten and just out of reach, (hopefully) safely tucked away in bed next door. Although, being neighbors in Crest Hill is not like being neighbors in Crime Alley. Cass is…somewhere, likely highly unpleasant. Jason doesn’t want to think too much about that one–it makes him feel a little ill. Damian is halfway across the world in Nanda Parbat, 3-years-old and already a downright terror, Jason is sure. Duke is still with his family in Gotham, where he will remain for several years yet. 

Jason is home–for the first time in years, he’s really, truly, home. There is no denying this fact. Well, 21-year-old Jason is home in 13-year-old Jason’s body. It’s not any less weird than the first time he thought about it. But, at the same time, it doesn’t feel like home anymore. The family that he’s come to know has no idea who he is. Well, maybe Tim. He’s surely figured out that Dick was the first Robin by now, and yes, Bruce is actually Batman, and that makes Jason the second Robin by proxy. But they aren’t brothers. Not for several years, actually. Jason is home, securely in his own bed and room at Wayne Manor, and yet he’s homesick. 

He spends several minutes tossing and turning in bed, mindful of his tender injury, and trying to distract himself from the sinking feeling in his stomach and the aching cold seeping into his bones. Jason squeezes his eyes shut and thinks about the P-51C and how it was one of the first P-51 production models equipped with the Rolls-Royce Merlin engine, which significantly improved its high-altitude performance due to its two-stage supercharger in conjunction with a new Rotol four-blade propeller. After Alfred had told him this fact over tea once, he’d tried to picture the engine in Bruce’s Rolls-Royce in the Batplane instead whenever they took it somewhere. This was, of course, before he was informed that the Merlin had been specifically designed for aircraft, and had not, in fact, been used in cars. 

His thoughts drift back to the nightmare hallucination of Bruce both burning alive and bleeding out before him against his will. Jason tells himself that obviously it wasn’t real, it was all psychological, and that he needs to be sensible and get over it. The only problem is that’s only partially true. He is 21-years-old. He is thirteen. He is twenty-one-thirteen. He needs to get over himself. Instead, Jason yanks his comforter over his head, squeezes his eyes shut, and trembles. Jason has never been good at getting over things. Sue him–it’s a character flaw he’s well aware of, by this point. He holds his breath, teeth ground together, in a valiant effort to keep from crying. Silent tears escape anyway, much to his dismay. 

Jason is used to nightmares, and he’s used to waking up alone. 

He is not used to mourning the death of the only father he’s ever really cared about, or dare he even think it, loved. Because despite his little time travel adventure, or whatever the hell this is shaping up to be, he doesn’t even fucking know–Bruce had died. He had died. His dad had died in his arms, and then Dick had been yelling, and then he woke up as a kid again. 

If there’s one thing Jason can do, it’s face the facts–even if he has to run from them for a little while. The fact of the matter is that he has no idea what’s going on, he’s thirteen with his 21-year-old memories, and he’s very recently lost his father…who is somehow also right down the hall.

Jason swallows his pride, misery outweighing anything else, and throws his covers off. As soon as his feet hit the floor, he’s breaking into a run straight to Bruce’s room. He’s well aware that it’s like 4 am, and they’ve only been back for a tortuous two hours or so. Jason doesn’t care. He throws open the door to Bruce’s room, takes one long look at his stirring and confused father, and throws himself across the space between them and into Bruce’s arms. 

In his memories of this night, this never happened. 

He can’t really bring himself to care. 

Jason wraps his arms around Bruce, buries his face into his dad’s neck, and sobs. He’s always been a silent crier, for the most part. It’s something he learned to do growing up in Crime Alley. Tonight, he wails–heaving, gasping cries that violently wrack his body as he falls apart in his father’s arms. 

Bruce is immediately alarmed. “Jason? Jay ?” 

He must cry so loud that Alfred even comes to the door, looking extremely worried. Bruce cradles Jason with one arm, fingers planted firmly but gently at the base of his neck, and furtively waves the butler away with his other. This is uncharted territory for Bruce, Jason is sure. He’s never done this before at this point. In fact, he’s never come undone like this in front of Bruce ever. 

Bruce gently cards his fingers through Jason’s curls. “What’s going on, lad? You can talk to me.” 

Jason opens his mouth to say something , but has gotten himself so worked up that he can do nothing but cry. Bruce’s tender expression cracks before him into something painful and worried. “It’s okay, Jay. Let it out. It’s okay.” 

And does Jason ever. 

He cries for the better half of the hour before his sobs fade to sniffles. Bruce holds him the whole time. Jason might feel embarrassed if he didn’t have a splitting headache and his throat didn’t feel like the desert. Alfred, bless him, comes in with chamomile tea before retreating once more. Finally, feeling all cried out but still somewhat miserable, Jason leans against the headboard, tea in his hands. He watches the honey residue swirls float lazily in a circle, exceedingly glum. 

Bruce doesn’t seem to dare disturb the heavy silence, so Jason does it for him. 

“I saw you die,” he confesses, voice hoarse and broken. “It…it was awful , Bruce. It was my fault. And…and there wasn’t anything I could do to save you.” 

He feels tears welling in his eyes again, his bottom lip trembling. “I tried , Bruce. I promise you I fucking tried my hardest, and it wasn’t enough. I failed. I failed you. ” 

It’s never enough. 

I’m never enough. 

“Jay,” Bruce begins quietly, gently pulling him into his side, “I’m sure you did everything you could. It’s okay. It wasn’t real. It was Scarecrow’s toxin. I’m right here. You’re my son , Jason. You will always be enough. I’m so sorry, son. You’re more than enough.” 

It was real. You’re here but not there. I won’t be enough one day. I won’t ever be enough again. I failed and keep failing and I never get it right. It’s never going to be alright. 

Jason doesn’t say a word. Instead, in an effort to keep from crying, he bites the inside of his cheek so hard it bleeds. He sucks in a shuddering breath and turns back into his father’s shoulder, heart and eyelids heavy. Jason doesn’t even register when Bruce carefully takes the teacup from his hands or tucks him in.

In the morning, finding himself still in Bruce’s bed, he rallies. 

Despite his lasting and utter bewilderment, it is still February 2003. 

Dick Grayson is the closest thing to a brother Jason has. 

He makes a decision. 

Jason calls Dick. 

Chapter Text

ORESTES: And what do you think your brother feels for you?

ELECTRA: We love each other, but he’s far away. 

– from Euripides’ Electra,  translated 

iii. i’m the next act waiting in the wings 

What Jason Todd does not know is that in the universe, there exists a handful of reasons that Dick Grayson is no longer Robin. Sometimes, Dick outgrows the role. Then comes the firings–Dick gets shot by the Joker ( my, how shocking, Jason would scoff at this revelation when he found out) and things quickly take a turn for the worst with the Dynamic Duo. Bruce, obviously, is concerned for Dick’s safety. This is kind of hypocritical, if you ask Jason, as he’s previously let Dick run buckwild in green hot pants around one of the most dangerous cities in the world for years. Now Dick is grown and wearing actual pants, but this so-called ‘lucky shot’ does not dissuade Bruce. Sometimes, he fires Dick from being Robin because of this earth-shattering revelation that involving children in vigilantism is dangerous. Gasp. This makes Dick understandably angry. They fight. Dick storms out and doesn’t come back for a long, long time. Sometimes Bruce is the one who gets irrationally angry that Dick got shot (he’s terrible at expressing his feelings when his children and fear are mixed, some might say), and then Dick gets angry, and Bruce fires him from being Robin. Dick storms out and doesn’t come back for a long time. There are different iterations of the same event, which all end more or less the same. So on and so forth. 

For some reason, no matter the timeline, fairly consistently, Bruce does not tell Dick about Jason. He’s never been completely sure if it was a miscommunication on both parties’ ends or what. Dick hadn’t exactly been on amicable terms with their father at the time, so it’s not like he was calling every weekend. Or at all. Ever. Notwithstanding, Dick finds out about Jason very suddenly, after he’s been at the Manor for a good many months, and is never quite sure what to do with that information. 

In this life, it goes something like this:

It seemed that, despite Bruce’s best efforts, sometimes he fell woefully short of his mark. This would be a trend that continued many years into the future, and both disappointed but did not surprise anyone. This had been one of those instances that then snowballed into bigger issues. Instead of simply putting a hand on his eldest son’s shoulder and saying, hey Dick, it’s been a great run with you by my side, but I can see you’ve grown into your own man , he had apparently schemed up some convoluted plan to nudge Dick to make the choice to move on by himself. It had then proceeded to work a little too well. Dick had totally left the Manor and kind of vanished from Bruce’s life aside from the ghost of him in pictures around the house or coverage of Nightwing and the Titans’ works on the news. 

Jason becomes Robin without knowing the history of the role. Dick had been the first Robin, and the best. He was always going to be the role model for everyone that picked up the mantle after. He would grin and offer the role that everyone and their brother knew belonged to him. Dick was the reason Robin even existed in the first place–the role forged from a child’s grief and a strong desire for justice, slowly molded over time into being a protector, to the being that tempered Batman, to brighten his dark side. 

Jason had both resented Dick and longed for him at the same time. He had idolized Dick when he was younger while also trying to emulate and outdo him. Dick…probably just hadn’t known what to do with him, back then. He had been angry with Bruce, and trying to find his way in life on his own version of Eat Pray Love or something, and hadn’t known how to handle the overeager and overachiever that he was supposed to call brother. 

Do you know what it’s like to follow in the footsteps of the Golden Boy? Do you know how many times Bruce brings you up? Do you know how he compares me to you? How he tells me you’d do it better? 

He understood it now–the cold shock of discovering your father had replaced you with someone else. Granted, it had certainly been under different circumstances, but the sentiment remained the same. Dick would tell him that Tim was never meant to replace Jason, just as Jason was never meant to replace Dick. The mantle had been passed on by Bruce, though really it was supposed to be a Robin thing. Robin, when grown out of the role, would choose a worthy candidate to pass the mantle onto. 

However. 

Jason Todd was no mind reader. His life would be infinitely easier if he were like J’onn J’onzz. But he isn’t, so he’s left with mostly speculation. Also maybe Dick’s once-in-a-blue-moon kind of weird late-night drunken confessions (or as Dick liked to call it, brotherly man-chats ). Dick would always be Robin, really. Not in name, so much, not anymore. Rather, he would be at the core of Robin’s very existence, no matter who wore the costume. Robin was an ideal carefully crafted by Dick Grayson, an honor to his parents' memory. Dick had influenced all of the following Robins in one way or another. The mantle of Robin would always be his to pass on, regardless of anyone else’s personal feelings over the matter, and especially regardless of Bruce’s choice. 

Dick had done it for Jason before, eventually. 

He thinks back to that night, not so long ago here, clutches the torn piece of paper in his hands and swallows hard. There is a phone number written on it. Just ten digits between him and something he wants. It feels insurmountable. 

There’s going to be times when you’re going to want to talk to someone. Call me at this number. I’ve been where you’re at and I’m a good listener. 

Thanks, his past self says. Bruce isn’t much of a talker. 

I know, the Nightwing in his memory huffs. That’s his biggest problem. Don’t let it be yours. 

Everything’s simple before you do it, he’d said that once himself. 

Dick had, in his own way, taught Jason some valuable life lessons in their short time together as Nightwing and Robin. Lesson one: Improvise. Leap first and figure it all out on the way down. Bruce has told him once that actions speak louder than words, chum. Jason has never been that great at expressing his love for others through words. He figures this has to be pretty close, though. Not that Dick knows it yet. 

Jason looks back down the hall where Bruce is still soundly asleep for at least another hour or so. Then, he picks up the house phone and dials the number. 

It rings ominously several times. 

He is about to lose hope when the other line clicks on. 

“Hello?” a sleepy-sounding voice asks. 

Jason sucks in a rushed breath. “Dick, it’s me–Jason. Can we…talk?” 

The line is silent for a moment. 

“Well, go for it,” Dick finally says. 

Embarrassed, Jason clears his throat. “Uh, sorry. I mean like…can we talk in person? You don’t have to come ho– to the Manor ,” he corrects, hurriedly, wondering how Manor and home had suddenly become second nature synonymous to him. “Just uh…if we could meet in Gotham somewhere. Or I can take the bus to Bludhaven, or something?” 

“Yeah,” Dick says after another long minute. “Okay. I’ll come get you. Bruce would throw a fit if I let you take the bus over here.” 

Dick takes him to Bat Burger . Jason might find this funny if he wasn’t so damn nervous. They’d been here before, though he remembers Bruce, Duke, and Damian being with them most vividly. Damian had (falsely, thank you very much) tried to convince Jason that he was experiencing early male pattern baldness of the receding hairline variety. The thought leaves him fighting a smile. 

“Uh,” Dick begins eloquently, seemingly assessing the situation like it’s a hostage situation more than anything, “I hope this is okay.” 

Jason would have eaten mottled banana peels and soured tuna poisoned with mercury that had been in Killer Croc’s jowls out of a dumpster in Park Row if it meant that Dick would have listened to him. “Yeah, it’s fine. It’s…it’s great.” 

They order their respective meals and then proceed to sit in awkward silence as Jason fiddles uselessly with the paper wrapper to his milkshake straw. Jason is busy thinking about the weight of the world and death and the enigma of Dick Grayson while mourning the lack of Jokerized seasoning for his fries. Typical 13-year-old things to be thinking about. Dick seems to be occupying himself by restlessly bouncing his leg (whether out of nerves or the inability to sit still, Jason doesn’t know), looking out the window, or staring almost imperceptibly at Jason. Dick Grayson, multitasker that he is, even does all three things at once. 

Their food comes, delivered by a waitress dressed like Catwoman, who eyes them both weirdly. Probably because they’re sitting in dead silence and avoiding eye contact with each other. Jason decides that if there was an award for World’s Most Awkward Dinner with Your Brother , it should go to them fair and square. They eat in relative silence too, which is now almost bordering on painful. 

There exists, in the future, a Dick Grayson who always seems to know exactly what to say or do in just about any given situation. But Jason has always been Jason, and he’s consistently been able to throw Dick off-kilter the whole time they’ve known each other. This Dick Grayson, Jason already knows, does not know what to do with or say to him. 

Regardless, it soothes an aching wound–years festering and deep, unhealed and raw–that Dick would come if he called. He’d known that, in the future, Dick would always come if he called. But here they are just thirteen and nineteen, Robin and Nightwing, who have barely interacted with one another. In the future, Dick has been trying to make amends for a long time. Jason just hadn’t let him for half that time. Now, that what he’s been starving for is within his grasp, Jason wants and wants and wants. 

Why is this so hard? Just tell him. Tell him that he’s been a hero to you even before you met. When you were just a kid whose screwup father lifted two tickets off an elderly couple in the parking lot– 

Jason had never uttered a word about this to another soul after the fact. One night, when Jason had been about five-years-old, Willis Todd had apparently come to a rare paternal epiphany and decided he and Jason needed some quality father-son bonding. So, in his own Willis way, he had taken Jason to Haly’s Circus after pickpocketing a poor elderly couple in the parking lot outside the big top. And Jason, armed with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and about four different holes in the knees of his jeans, had sat in awed wonder next to his alcoholic father. Willis had been drinking even then, beer hidden away in a subtle brown paper bag, but Jason remembers him smiling. For everything Willis had been and would be until he died, that had been a good night. 

He had sat, wide-eyed, and watched the Flying Graysons pull off death-defying moves beneath the bright lights of the circus tent. At the time, he couldn’t even begin to fathom how people could move in such a way. There was an obvious complete and total trust between the father, mother, and son that comprised the act. There hadn’t been an ounce of fear on any of their faces–even the face of the boy. In fact, Dick Grayson had flown and flipped through the air with such grace, a smile on his face and a dazzling light in his eyes. He had made it look as easy as anything. 

He was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. He was everything I had always wanted to be. He was free. He was happy.  

For years, Dick Grayson had been the idea of an older brother–barely tangible and just out of reach. Jason’s death had apparently been the kick in the ass that Dick had needed to realize he needed to do better, be better, be a brother. Or something. Jason doesn’t really know. Dick had clearly been working through some issues when Bruce had plucked Jason off the streets and put him in private school and real cashmere and merino knitwear. They’d had kind of a weird relationship for those four-ish years before Jason had died, but something had clearly galvanized Dick into taking a more proactive approach with Tim. 

Nowadays, he was grateful that Dick had been there for Tim over the years. The kid had very clearly needed it, all things in his life considered. Still, there was that annoying, niggling little feeling rooted deep within his heart that burned like a brand–a wish that never went away that Dick had been there for him, too. 

Why couldn’t it be me? 

“Did something happen, Jason?” Dick’s voice finally breaks him out of his reverie. He is looking on with visible teenage concern. “Was it Bruce? Did you two get into a fight? Are you…did you get hurt, or something?” 

“Nope,” Jason finds himself saying for some bizarre reason in response to Dick and his twenty questions. Something definitely did happen with Bruce, just not what Dick thought. “I’m as sound as a dollar–probably sounder , considering the economy.” 

Dick stares at him. A nervous laugh escapes Jason. 

Lesson three: Smile. 

Jason does. 

He was apparently just saying what-the-fuck-ever. Dick would probably get up and walk right out the door and become unreachable as ever like he had been the first time. 

“Ok ay ,” he drags the vowel out instead, looking uneasy. “What do you want, Jason?” 

What do you want, Jason? Nightwing had asked him once, years in the future, under much less ideal circumstances. Well, he’s had a long time to mull it over. There are no guns or bloody revenge plots involved this time. Maybe…maybe this had been the real issue all along. It hurts too much to think about, so he compartmentalizes that and decides to confess, for once. 

“I want,” Jason says, slowly, “to be brothers.” 

He’d never truly lost Dick. Jason thought they all had, once–not that long ago, even. It was the first time he had admitted to himself out loud that Dick had been his brother. He had gone to Dick’s funeral, and it had been one of the worst experiences of his life–and he’s had a lot of awful experiences. And maybe he had cried once–or twice, or more than that–in the terrible wake of his older brother’s death. But that was between him and his weird neighbor with brain damage who claimed Elvis lived in her head. Crazy, eavesdropping Elvis Lady aside, he had wished for more time with Dick then, too. Dick Grayson had defied death on so many occasions that probably only Bruce’s obsessive-compulsive files on the Batcomputer kept count. He had the gall to look death in the face and laugh about it, even. 

And, okay, technically Dick had died–Lex Luthor had stopped his heart and everything. It had been Bruce’s call to keep Dick dead in name. And Dick had…let everyone else in his life believe he was dead for the greater good . Gotta tack that on there, in their line of work and lot in life, of course. 

You don’t do that to your–to another Robin. 

But what he’d almost said, and what he’d meant to say but couldn’t quite speak the words before they choked him, was you don’t do that to your brothers. Because goddammit, Dick was his brother. Just like Tim was his brother, and Damian, the little shits that they were, and Duke, who he had decided was not a little shit. 

Dick stares. 

Jason plows on, too worried that if he doesn’t say his piece now, he may never get the chance again. Whether it’s from very obvious and mysterious time constraints only known to him, or because he’s Gotham’s biggest chickenshit when it comes to talking about his feelings. Maybe both. “Like, real brothers. Where you…I dunno…beat my ass at video games I’m not even allowed to play yet because they’re rated ‘M For Mature, Jason, and you’re Thirteen, Jason’ as if I haven’t seen worse than whatever is going on in the low graphicsland of GTA III. And…and play catch with me, or get milkshakes on patrol, or milkshakes off patrol, and talk shit about Bruce because only we get it, or have you in the audience at my school plays, or give me girl advice, or do dumb brother stuff together. You don’t even have to be around Bruce if you don’t want to be. I don’t know.” 

“I just,” he says, quietly and eyes downcast, “I want you to be there. I want you to be my brother.” 

Well, there it is, out in the open for the first time in the history of ever. Jason has finally laid his heart bare and raw. The ball is in Dick’s court. He expects a blowout game, and feels that all the bets are against him. 

(In the future, Dick would claim that Jason wasn’t as much of a mystery as he portrayed himself to be. Sure, his intentions may be convoluted and difficult to ascertain, but Dick would argue that Jason was always the easiest to figure out. His secret? Jason always wore his heart on his sleeve for all to see, if you knew how to look. Jason would try and shoot him, then. Rubber bullets, of course, like…in the knee or something. Dick would simply laugh it off and cartwheel away like the annoying acrobat he was. Jason would find he wasn’t as irritated as he thought he should be.) 

Jason likes to think that he is good at rejection because he’s experienced it so often. Yet, he’s waiting with bated breath, fingers gripping the fabric of his pants so hard he thinks that they might not be able to unfurl for a while. His entire body feels rigid, and he can’t bring himself to look Dick in the eye. Sure, he can take a I don’t think so, Jason or an I don’t really want to be brothers with you, Jason , but he can’t take it if he has to see the expression on Dick’s face. Actually, he might be about to have a heart attack with the way the internal organ is slamming against his ribcage at what he thinks is a thousand beats per minute. 

“Okay,” Dick says instead, after what seems like forever and a day. “Okay. Brothers. We can be brothers.” 

What. 

“What?” 

Dick’s face is doing something weird. “Why are you surprised? You’re the one that asked me .” 

Jason swallows, the tangy flavor of ketchup and the lack of Jokerized seasoning still on his tongue. “I…I didn’t think…” 

Dick’s face falls a bit. He looks upset. “You didn’t think I’d say yes.” 

Because they’ve been here before. Because they say those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Jason had felt doomed anyway. Because before, Dick had been more like the step-brother whom you met late in life and never really had a solid connection with because he lived so far away. Dick had only lived thirty-three minutes away. Jason had checked the distance on MapQuest only about a dozen times when he was a kid. Dick had been doing things, had his own life and whatever. Jason got it. He just wished–and didn’t he always wish–that Dick would choose him, sometimes. 

Jason just shrugs because he doesn’t know how to say you didn’t really the first time around, but then again I guess I never asked. 

Now for the most important lesson: ignore your mentor. Do what you do best. Be you, Jason. 

Dick Grayson and upset were not words that belonged together in Jason’s vernacular anymore. He shoots for something he does best–deflection and distraction. 

“Dibs,” Jason calls, smacking Dick’s hand away from the last fry. 

Dick startles and his voice pitches high. It almost cracks. Jason could laugh. “What?” 

“Dibs,” Jason replies, breezily. “I just called dibs. This is my french fry now. Dibs.” 

“No, it isn’t,” Dick tries arguing. “It was in my basket. I paid for it.” 

Jason squints at the individual grains of salt on the fry. “Yeah, but you didn’t call dibs. I did. Dibs . See?” 

Right now Jason is the brother expert. It makes him feel stupidly and childishly giddy because for a long time, it had felt like Dick held the monopoly on brother-ing. Jason, however, has had years of experience, unbeknownst to Dick. He bats his eyelashes in the picture of serene 13-year-old innocence and readies himself to brief his brother on the ways of the world. 

“Look, Dickie, there is a sacred law of the universe that reigns above all else– yes, even Batman’s staunch No Killing rule. ” Jason waves the fry around in infinite wisdom. “It’s a basic rule of humanity that separates us from animals. This law is dibs , defined under the International Dibs Protocol. And that protocol states that should an item or position not inherently be owned by an individual, one may call dibs and assume ownership. Contrary to popular belief, seniority is not a counter to the IDP. Sorry, bro.” 

Dick sputters. “You’re making that up. There is no International Dibs Protocol.” 

“Uhhh,” Jason drawls, a slow smirk growing on his face, “yeah, there totally is. Everybody knows about the International Dibs Protocol. Why don’t you ask the Titans? I’m sure they’ll agree with me. Let me guess–you don’t know about the No Take Backs Accord either?” 

Dick had once described Jason as the one who looks like he tattoos out of the back of a laundromat. Maybe this is a backward form of revenge. It tastes infinitely sweeter than anything he had ever planned on his Lazarus Pit Comeback Tour. There is no anger this time, no starving hostility, there is only a lightness in his chest and a smile he doesn’t fight to keep off his face. 

“Do you think,” he says around a mouthful of lukewarm french fry, “we could pitch a Joker-themed seasoning to the head honchos over there at Bat Burger ? I have this funny feeling it would sell.” 

Dick’s face does that funny thing again, where it looks like he’s wavering between two strong emotions before he finally laughs in disbelief. "Whatever you say, Jay." 

Jason sets his chin in his palm and smiles. 

Chapter Text

Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,

And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,

Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,

Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find

The Hanged Man.

– from The Waste Land by T.S. Eliot

iv. forgo the parable-

There are protocols for things like this. If you were to look up the words catastrophize and contingency in the dictionary, you would find a picture of Bruce Wayne there. He means this literally. In a bout of pettiness, Jason had once clipped photos of Brucie Wayne from the day’s paper and taped them in the Merriam-Webster in the Manor’s library. 

Jason has been to space. He’s even poked his head into alternate worlds. Time-travel-magic-whatever is a bit new to him, though. At least...whatever this is. 

He reflects on everything he knows on the topic, and comes up (not very helpfully) with episodes of The X-Files. There are five episodes about time travel in the series. The question is whether Jason has found himself in a Synchrony, Redrum, 4-D, Triangle, or Monday situation. 

His days do not seem to be repeating, so he can safely rule out the Groundhog Day scenario. No Monday for him. 

Synchrony, 4-D, and Triangle all include the characters finding themselves inexplicably backward in time, which he is experiencing. He’s not come back as his adult self visiting his past self, so maybe it’s not so much a Synchrony thing. Sort of. Maybe. 4-D is more of a complicated parallel universe sort of thing where two versions of the same person cannot exist within the same universe. It’s possible that somehow, because it is Gotham, Jason entered into a cursed version of the Bermuda Triangle, and like Mulder, has gone back in time, but in a dimension running parallel to his own. If that’s the case, then he has completely disappeared from his own timeline and is now in this one. This means that not only have Dick, Tim, Damian, Cass, and Duke lost their father, but they’ve also lost him for a second time. Mulder had made it back. Jason isn’t sure he knows how. 

Jason is his own Mulder here without anyone to play his Scully. He gets why they were their own dynamic duo. 

He thinks hard, back to that night. 

Jason doesn’t think he’ll ever forget Bruce bleeding out in his arms. However, in his state of grief, there is an impossible knife of memory he does seem to have forgotten. 

Bruce’s watch. 

More specifically, Bruce’s father’s watch. The one that Jason had fixed for him when he was a kid. The automatic watch which needed to be constantly worn or wound. In the end, Jason had lost the automatic part like he’d mentioned as a kid. He’d found a workaround. It had just taken death and a few extra years to get it to Bruce. For some bewildering reason beyond all logic, Bruce had the watch on him as Batman. Jason had seen it–the crack in the glass, obscuring the face of the moon. It must have broken in the fight. 

Even weirder, if his memory serves him, is that the hands on the watch had begun to turn backward. 

He thinks about Martin Wells in Redrum, and about how when he died, he saw the hands on Scully’s watch stop and turn backward too. Wells’ perception of time regressed backward, day by day. Jason is experiencing similar lapses in time–seemingly waking up and losing significant amounts of time–but has gone back to almost the beginning of his past with Bruce, and is progressing in time via weird bouts of unconsciousness. In the episode, Wells experienced an unexplained phenomenon that seemingly reached its conclusion when he saved his wife. Perhaps Jason is going through something similar. 

(Could he save Bruce?) 

Jason goes to the Gotham City Public Library and checks out every single book about time travel that he can find there. He scours everything he can on the limited internet. His brain is filled with words like cosmic strings, traversable wormholes, and Alcubierre drives. 

From what Jason can tell, three distinct and irreconcilable theories regarding time travel have coexisted. They are as follows: 

The theory of Fixed Time states that the past cannot be changed. Events will conspire to prevent any meaningful changes to history. In some cases, a time traveler is forced to be a part of the very event they were to observe and make sure it plays out as intended and recorded. In other scenarios, the time traveler will become a phantom that is unable to interact with events, only bear witness to them. 

Theory two, which has been deemed Plastic Time, states that history can be changed, but consequences may arise. One of these is the notion of Chaotic Time, where the smallest of changes can have mammoth effects on the timeline. 

The last theory is that of Parallel Universes. This theory states that time travel to your own actual past or future is impossible, and all time travel does is either shift you to a parallel universe, or into an alternate timeline. In some cases, travel to “the future” was actually travel to a parallel earth with a similar, but different, history. 

Bruce, in a valiant effort to avoid creating paradoxes, parallel timelines, altering history both past and future, or god knows what else, had created some guidelines for himself, his family, and their associates. Look, Jason has seen Back to the Future. He decided to cope with the trilogy’s discrepancies by both wholeheartedly embracing suspension of disbelief and understanding the limitations of Hollywood. However, the vigilante in him still tries to rationalize the impossible. It’s what Bruce would do, and he has thus ingrained this into his children. Back to the Future is for the casual time travel enjoyer.​​ 

Apparently this is Jason’s life now, so he needs to get a bit weirder. 

(Frankly, he could use a bit of Tim’s deranged genius right now. He sighs.) 

There are many philosophical theories and poetic takes on the topic of time. 

Jason, for some bizarre reason, has found it seemingly bent to his will. 

The universe, it seems, has never quite known what to do with Jason Todd. The world had broken him, crushed and flailed him until there was nothing left but exposed muscle, burnt sinew, and a whisper of dying breath, then delivered him into Death’s gentle embrace. He doesn’t remember dying in Bruce’s arms at fifteen. He does remember fleeting moments of happiness, pure and raw, no more pain, and swinging around someplace bright. Then–darkness, an ugly and horrifying snap back to life (or half-life), and the suffocating stench of rot and wet earth cloying on his tongue and threatening to swallow him whole. He very distinctly remembers clawing his way out of his own grave–the sharp and shooting pains of wood splintering into his hands, blood dripping down and staining his musty white cuffs, the crumbling earth filling his nostrils and mouth as he wept in desperate agony and gasped for fresh breath. Death had relinquished him from her gentle embrace back into the waiting arms of Life, and Jason had not gone quietly. He’d come back screaming, come back in anguish, come back haunted. He’d been a ghost possessing his own barely conscious body for almost a year. 

No one had ever quite been able to ascertain just how he had cheated death after being dead for six months. Talia had spun him for a quick dip into the Lazarus Pit, sure, but that didn’t bring people back to life. Jason had become an anomaly in the universe. Perhaps it was the sheer incongruity of him that led to the events that had transpired. He’d become a piece of the complicated jigsaw of time and space that didn’t quite fit–like that one extra piece from a different puzzle that had been put into the wrong box. 

The universe, for some other unknown reason, has apparently allowed Jason Todd to dip the toe of his boot into time itself and muddle it like disastrous ingredients for a potential paradox cocktail. Fill with ice and serve. Cheers. 

Jason sits in the study, a cup of long-cooled chai in hand as he mulls over his notes. Time travel is serious business for brooding, and Alfred’s chai is the closest he can get to hard liquor around here right now. Thirteen-year-old Jason dipping into Bruce’s rare and stowed Macallan single-malt Scotch or bottle of Blanton’s bourbon would definitely raise some rightfully furious and also concerned questions. 

He decides to ask one of the foremost experts in the bizarre and impossible at his disposal. Lowering his notes, he heaves a sigh. “B…what do you think about time travel?” 

Bruce peers over the desk at him. His second son is sprawled on the chaise lounge that Dick had moved into Bruce’s study years ago, back when he’d actually liked to be near Bruce. He’s surrounded by serious-looking books and messily scrawled notes. “Time travel? Whatever for?” 

Jason gives a lazy wave of his hand. “Like…in general.” 

Bruce’s nose scrunches in a show of emotion that Jason almost never sees anymore. “Well,” he starts slowly, “there are theories about time travel. You know, the theory of general relativity does suggest a scientific basis for the possibility of backward time travel in certain unusual scenarios. Science says it’s possible. Some of Einstein's field equations could be applied and a proposed time-travel machine using a traversable wormhole would hypothetically work.” 

Yes, Jason has studied these. He’s aware. 

“If you’re talking quantum physics,” he squints at his 13-year-old son, “there’s the no communication theorem or the interacting many-worlds interpretation. Time travel isn’t a new concept by any means. It’s been a philosophical conversation starter for thousands of years–at least since ancient Greece. As I’m sure you know, Parmenides presented the view that time is an illusion. If temporal thoughts are inherently contradictory then reality cannot be temporal. To him, reality–or “being”–is One and Eternal.” 

Jason nods along, though Bruce is beginning to lose him a bit. “If we think about theory and reality, however, we know that the aim of physical theory is to represent reality. A basic assumption of science we can make is that there are things in the world and that things have properties. When properties of things change, we call this an event–which is specified by an ordered pair of states of a thing. The succession of events that occur to a thing forms its history.” 

Bruce hums. “I’m not an expert on the subject myself, but space-time can be represented by the C-infinity function differentiable, 4-dimensional, real manifold. A 4-D, if you will. Then–”

Jason’s eyes are glazing over, so he holds his hands up in the universal stop please for the love of god motion. Perhaps he’d been too broad with his question. He needs to narrow it down. “Okay, okay. I guess…if you had the power to go back in time and change certain events in your history…would you do it?” 

Bruce’s brow furrows and he stares at Jason like he’s trying to solve a complex mystery. Thankfully, Bruce has never totally figured him out. It’s a heavily weighted question with a stack of implications that Bruce doesn’t even know about or fully understand, yet. He’s likely thinking about the night his parents died, or perhaps about his falling out with Dick, or something else that Bruce would agonize over. 

“Even if it changed the future,” Jason presses on, a sudden and eager hunger fraying at his nerves, “would you do it? Like if…if something happened to Dick...or me?” 

Bruce hasn’t stopped trying to psychoanalyze him, but his eyes soften. “You and Dick are my sons, Jay. I’ll always come for you.” 

Jason doesn’t know how to reply to that, and instead scratches at a deformed t in his notes on string theory. He feels choked up for some alien reason that’s truthfully not as alien as he wishes. Leave it to Bruce to completely dodge a yes or no question. 

“This is all hypothetical of course,” Jason sniffs derisively. 

“Of course,” Bruce readily agrees in an easygoing tone. 

He focuses on his notes, halfheartedly drawing a doodle of the bird insignia from Red Robin’s suit. “It’s for a report. For school. I was just wondering. You know.” 

Bruce looks skeptical of the idea that Gotham Academy is having seventh graders write reports on the theory of time travel but apparently decides not to comment. He casts an apprehensive glance at the advanced reading materials around his son. “Jason, initiative is one thing, but I wish you’d stop taking on such grand schemes for yourself. You don’t have to prove your worth to me, son. I’m sold.” 

“What?” Jason asks, confused.

“You look like you’re trying to invent time travel yourself over there,” Bruce nods at him. “I know you like to apply yourself and give academia your all, Jay, but…is it such a serious assignment? Where did you even get some of those books?” 

Jason blinks, startled, jostling some guy’s thesis on the impossibility of time travel that he’d manage to dredge up. “Oh. Oh. Yeah, I–uh. I just wanted to be thorough. It’s interesting stuff, I guess. I’m not that worried about my grade.” 

His fake grade for his fake report that Bruce didn’t need to know about. See, Tim was the time travel expert in their family (next to Bruce from the future), and while he had definitely briefed them on the topic, Jason hadn’t been paying much attention. Tim would roll his eyes and call him a dumbass if he knew. Then maybe laugh about the headaches Jason had given himself trying to figure this whole ordeal out. 

“So…what’s the League’s take on time travel?” Jason asks, out of genuine curiosity. “Uh, off the record. You know, the report and all. But inquiring minds want to know.” 

Look, Jason is well aware there’s that weird thing with the Speed Force and Barry and Wally. He also knows that Bart is from the future future. The Justice League isn’t fooling anybody, and Bruce has definitely bounced around in time before the whole Omega beam incident with Darkseid. 

Bruce, ever the elusive smartass, simply smirks and averts his gaze to the work before him. It had never occurred to Jason that he simply would not answer the question. 

Jason huffs. “You’re telling me not to invent time travel–not that that’s what I was doing–because you guys have already done it, or something.” 

“Now, whatever makes you think that?” Bruce manages with a barely serious expression. 

He rolls his eyes. “Gee pops, I do wonder.” 

Jason does wonder if Bruce knows anything about a person’s consciousness being sent back in time, but not their body. He’d thought (and understandably so, if he might add) that he’d simply died. However, his choices seem to directly change his previously concrete past and have a ripple effect on his future so far. At least, as far as he can tell. Jason decides to keep his cards close to his chest, though. 

He’s reminded of Mulder prodding Scully with a statement from her thesis in that fateful episode of Synchrony. ‘Although multidimensionality suggests infinite outcomes in an infinite number of universes, each universe can produce only one outcome.’

Right. Protocols. 

He thinks of the Prime Directive. Jason used to watch Star Trek reruns with Bruce back in the day. He thinks of lazy, late Sunday mornings in the den of the Manor, or twilight summer evenings before patrol. They hadn’t finished the last season of the Original Series before Jason had died. He still doesn’t know how it ends. He hadn’t found it in him to ever try picking the series up again after everything. It wouldn’t be the same without Bruce. 

He had, however, begun watching The Next Generation with his nerd of a little brother. One night after a particularly rough brawl on patrol, Red Robin and Red Hood had found themselves in the same safehouse in New Gotham. Neither of them had been able to sleep, so Tim turned on the Syfy channel.​​ The series just so happened to be on, and Jason had kind of gotten into it. Tim had tentatively suggested that they start it from the beginning, together. Jason, much to his brother’s surprise, had agreed. It’s been a thing between them, ever since–watching sci-fi shows and eating take-out. 

In one of those episodes, he remembers Picard comparing the Prime Directive to a possible Temporal Prime Directive–a fictional guideline for time travelers (from the past or future) from interfering with the natural development of a timeline. 

‘Of course,’ Picard had said on screen, ‘you know of the Prime Directive, which tells us that we have no right to interfere with the natural evolution of alien worlds. Now I have sworn to uphold it, but nevertheless I have disregarded that directive on more than one occasion because I thought it was the right thing to do. Now, if you are holding on to some temporal equivalent of that directive, then isn't it possible that you have an occasion here to make an exception, to help me to choose, because it's the right thing to do?’

Amending his previous speculations on the incident, Jason has now decided (after doing his due diligence) that he’s been X-Filed into the past–his own past, as far as he can tell–and he apparently has the influence to change it. Maybe it’s only minutely, though Bruce would certainly argue the minutiae was of it all. The devil is in the details, Jay. Well, he ignores the totally sound logic of being an observer of his own life and makes another decision. So, here Jason is the devil, and if he can alter the details that led to Bruce’s death, or change the outcome of anything else he deems unpleasant, he’s going to do it. He’ll be all up in those details. 

He’s going to Captain James T. Kirk (aka, wing) his way out of this one, (Temporal) Prime Directive be damned. 

“My time with Bruce,” Jason mutters, staring at nothing, “the Final Frontier. ”

Bruce stirs from whatever reports from Wayne Enterprises that he’s reviewing. “What was that, Jay?” 

Jason slams the cover to 101 Basic Computer Games– an old school attempt to understand time and space at a subatomic level that made sense of physics of time and space in earth’s particular configuration in a more innate way–shut and tosses it aside. Expression grim, he turns to his father. “I’m boldly going where no one has gone before.” 

Fuck Bruce’s protocol. Jason is doing his own thing. 

He nudges A Brief History of Time with his sock foot. Bruce shuts his laptop and stands from his desk. “Come on, chum. Why don’t we go for a piece of Alfred’s chocolate cake?” 

Jason stands, shoving his young-adult’s life work aside. “Okay. Hey, d’you think I could maybe talk to Flash about, like, closed timelike curves? I’ll be very businesslike with him. The pinnacle of propriety. If you let me go to the Watchtower, I’ll be all like, ‘Excuse me Mr. Flash, I suppose you know a lot about general relativity and Gödel spacetime, if ya nasty?’” 

“Do not call the Flash nasty.” 

“Chocolate cake, B.​ Think of the chocolate cake. Creation–of my hypothetical time travel method–is an inviolate act, and those searching for the divine need not descend to Hell for fuel. If you are nasty.” 

Bruce sighs, longsuffering. 

He calls Dick up that night. 

Or more like 3 am post-patrol. 

“Jason,” his older brother greets, groggily. “To what do I owe the pleasure at this very respectable hour?” 

Jason sits on the edge of his bed in his pajamas, gripping the house phone in hand. Sue him. He’s nervous about everything again. “Dick. I have…a question.” 

There’s a weary sigh over the line. 

“Okay, here we go.” Dick accepts, and Jason hears some rustling in the background and the muffled sound of Kory’s voice asking if everything is okay. “Why not. Shoot.” 

He doesn’t really need the reassurance, but he wants to hear it from his brother anyway. “I’m going to take you on a hypothetical journey here, briefly. Let’s say, for instance–and bear with me here–time travel is real. I’m pretty sure it is real, but Bruce will neither confirm or deny. So we’re talking hypothetically theoretically here.” 

Dick doesn’t even bother to hide his groan. 

Jason has never once in his lives let Dick’s annoyance deter him. He presses on, remorseless. “Now, and here’s the part where you might get maybe a little mad at me. But don’t hang up, ‘kay? Let’s say–again, very hypothetically–something happened to Bruce. I know you guys are like, giving each other the silent treatment right now–” 

Dick sputters indignantly. 

“– which is why I’m asking. You’re mad at him. You’re mad at him because of how he’s treated you. He’s been an asshole about things. He doesn’t seem to understand the underlying issues even though they’re right before his eyes. It’s also incredibly hard to hold a conversation with him about it–like pulling teeth with tweezers while also being on fire. You gotta go your own way and be your own man. Stand up for your own ideals independently of him while also indirectly seeking his support. I get it. But what if– what if –he like…got really hurt? I guess? And what if you had the miraculous ability to like, fix things? Do the Titans have official guidelines on time travel and stuff? Would you adhere to those, or go rogue?” 

Dick is silent on the other end of the line. Jason fiddles nervously with a loose thread end on his pajama sleeve. In the future, Dick does not believe Tim about Bruce being alive after a very obvious death (in their defense) and it leads to problems for everybody. But right now, Dick doesn’t know what Jason knows, and it’s a different situation altogether. 

“Did something happen to Bruce?” his brother asks, a bit cautiously. 

Yes, Jason does not say. “No,” he lies instead. It is very convincing. “This is a hypothetical scenario. I’m writing a report for school. Don’t older brothers help their younger brothers with homework?” 

Dick mutters something nasty under his breath about the middle of the goddamned night and what the hell, sure . Jason smiles despite himself. “ Look ,” the prodigal son finally grumbles, “if something did happen to Bruce, and if I had the chance to change the outcome, despite our… differences , I would take it.” 

“Even if it totally fucked the timeline?” 

“Even if it totally fucked the timeline,” Dick confirms, 3 am monotone but with conviction. 

Because it’s Bruce, because he’s our dad, he does not say. Because, despite everything, it’s still him. 

“Right, okay, thanks. Peace and love. Bye,” Jason ends the call abruptly.

Dick is so bewildered that he doesn’t even think to ask Jason how he profoundly knows so much about his ongoing fight with Bruce. He thinks that he has what is possibly the weirdest little brother in the world. Perchance. 

Jason tucks himself back into bed and rubs his hands together in a cartoonish villainy way. If tomorrow is still tomorrow for him (he’s a little wary after the months’ worth of lost time), then there is a charity gala happening. Bruce has asked him to go. He has a three-piece suit and everything, that has been tailored just for him. He remembers that night and remembers what he did and did not do. 

Tomorrow night, if all goes according to plan, he’s going to institute further change and introduce himself to Timothy Drake.

Chapter Text

I would like to give you the silver 

branch, the small white flower, the one 

word that will protect you 

from the grief at the center 

of your dream, from the grief 

at the center.

– Variation on the Word Sleep

v. believe, believe in me, believe–

Jason adjusts his bowtie–solid silk and bone white to match his button-up and Bruce–and smooths out the red plaid waistcoat that Alfred had laid out for him. Bruce had even helped him gel back his hair, something that adult Jason is well practiced in but 13-year-old Jason is not. He huffs one of the stubborn curls that refuses to stay slicked back out of his eyes and catches sight of Bruce smiling at him fondly. His hair had always annoyed him when it refused to cooperate, but Bruce had always found it endearing, or something along those lines. 

(“That’s too much , Jay,” Bruce chastised, unsure hands flitting around Jason’s shiny dark hair in an effort to fix it. Jason had just wanted those curls to stay in place. 

Jason waggled his eyebrows and shook the jar of product at his father. “What,” he intoned, smiling that patented Brucie Wayne smile. “I don’t look like you?” 

Bruce rolled his eyes, impossibly fond. “It’s going to solidify. You’ll look like a child beauty pageant contestant.” 

“Uh,” Jason shrugged, sly, “so yeah. You.”

He tugged his fingers through the drying gel and Bruce watched in poorly-hid horror as the slicked back hair turned to spikes sticking out in every direction. “This is serious, Jason. You look like Derek Zoolander.” 

Jason hit his best blue steel. “No, I’m Bruce Wayne–billionaire playboy philanthropist by day, and the Caped Crusader of Gotham by night.”) 

Sometimes, after a nightmare or a particularly bad night on patrol, Jason would crawl into Bruce’s bed before the sun woke. Bruce would welcome him with open arms and run his fingers through those stupid, obstinate curls and whisper gentle platitudes that still somehow always worked to ease Jason’s hurt. Once, he’d looked at Jason like he’d been his entire world. It was then and then not but also now. The memory doesn’t leave a bitter taste in his mouth at all. 

All in all, Jason looks a bit like something out of a Saks Fifth Avenue Christmas ad, but that was Alfred for you, he supposes. 

He stands there, rocking back and forth on the heels of his leather oxfords, hands shoved unceremoniously into his pockets. Bruce is shaking hands and faking that posh chuckle to the tune of tinkling champagne flutes and heels against marble flooring, and Jason is–

Jason is reflecting on everything he knows about Timothy Jackson Drake back in the year 2003. 

He hadn’t really known that much about him back then (or now, he guesses), and had learned everything in retrospect. His dossier on Timothy Jackson Drake had been meticulously crafted through intense research on his part, and the gaps filled in later by whatever he learned from Tim himself or Dick after a few drinks. Well, once they had all been on better terms, anyway. 

(He thinks of the first time Stephanie and Tim truly met as Spoiler and Robin, respectively, as told to him by Steph. Who had whacked Tim in the head with a brick in an alley one night. Jason snorts.) 

There is an extremely complicated and convoluted history between Bruce Wayne and Tim Drake. From his patchwork crazy quilt of cold, hard facts stitched together with firsthand accounts from his brothers, it goes a little something like this: 

Timothy Jackson Drake was born to Janet and Jack Drake of Drake Manor in Crest Hill on July 19th, 1994. He was a healthy baby boy with all his internal organs (cough cough no missing spleen cough cough) with a bright and wealthy future. He had been a single child. Jack and Janet had–presumably–been around for the first few years of Tim’s life, at which point, they had taken him to Haly’s Circus. Tim’s mother had been worried that little Tim would be very scared of his time at the circus, and had asked the Flying Graysons to please take a picture of their darling boy (“They did not call me that, Jason.”) to show that they were, in fact, human. You know, in a cast full of colorful clowns and other circus characters in costumes.

An addendum from Tim on this point: it was just his mother’s worry because Tim was actually having the time of his little toddler life. 

Twelve-year-old Dick Grayson would ruffle Tim’s hair for the first of many times and dedicate his trapeze act to Tim and thereby cement himself in little Timmy’s eyes and heart forever and ever, amen. 

The Flying Graysons would go on to die before Dick and Tim’s very eyes that night, traumatizing both boys and giving them significant PTSD for life. Put a pin in this moment in time, and we will return to it later. 

At face level, the Drakes had been a typical, happy, American upper-crust family. But if you tapped at that solid, brittle creme brulee crust then you’d quickly discover the truth. It was no secret to anyone who looked a little too long that Tim’s parents were inattentive and neglectful. Jason suspected that perhaps they had loved Tim in their own weird and distant way, but it hadn’t been enough to make them stay at home often and spend time with him, or to take him around the world with them. One might argue that they had been incredibly wealthy individuals with a large company to run, but so was Bruce. And Bruce had always made time for his kids, even while he moonlighted as a vigilante. Now, Bruce had a questionable history as a father, even though all his children knew that he tried. However, absentees Jack and Janet Drake still didn’t hold a candle to Bruce as a parental figure for Tim. 

So. Tim had neglectful parents. This is news to no one. 

Jason died at fifteen in Ethiopia. This is also a fact. 

Much to Jason’s initial disbelief, Batman had gone on a violent rampage–the likes of which Gotham had never seen. However, after this had been confirmed by Dick, Tim, Barabara, and some light backreading of the Gotham Gazette, Jason had chosen to believe it. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming…Tim Drake’s haunted nightmares. Not many people remember being 3-years-old, but the traumatic death of the Flying Graysons had left its mark on little Timmy. It would also lead him to discovering the true identities of Batman and Robin–Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson, and then Jason himself. Batman and Robin were Tim’s heroes. There is no disputing this fact. 

Per Dick’s account of everything, Tim had had a much more black-and-white worldview back in his childhood. He’d been more naive almost to the point of danger back then, but in an innocent way. He conducted himself in a socially oblivious way, though not intentionally, but because he genuinely didn’t know any better. He had a very big brain and was too smart for his own good, but still followed his heart. He was brave (is still brave) and fought (and still fights) for what he believed to be right. He put his heart into anything he cared about. He also proved himself very early on to be quite the little detective. 

Tim, the little dumbass, had gone from Gotham City in New Jersey to New York City via his bike and bus to do research on Dick. The poor kid had just wanted Batman to return to the version of the hero he remembered and thought that he needed a Robin to do so. It had been an insanely naive and unrealistic pipe dream. But Tim, the unhinged and determined little pistol he was, made it work. 

His plan had been to locate Dick Grayson, who had apparently gone to ground, and convince him to be Robin again. Jason sleeps better at night these days knowing that Timothy Drake has not, for one singular moment since he met Dick Grayson, given their older brother peace. He finally found Dick at Haly’s Circus, helped him solve a murder (go figure), and then presented his case. Dick had taken Tim back to Wayne Manor, where he’d explained all this to Alfred as well. Now, obviously Dick had no desire to be Robin again and took off after Tim accidentally offended him. Except that Nightwing and Batman proceeded to get themselves into some trouble, and Tim had decided that fine, if Dick wouldn’t be Robin again, Tim would have to do it out of his own moral obligation and civil duty. He had been thirteen. 

One night, he had decided to tell Jason that, despite fantasizing about what being Robin would be like, he’d never truly wanted the name or role for himself. He had done it because no one else would. Bizarrely, the kid armed with only some karate training had actually saved Bruce and Dick (with some aid from Alfred). Tim had then given his speech, poured his little heart out in an appeal to Bruce, and earned both a place at Bruce’s side and Alfred and Dick’s approval in the process. 

He became Robin for real and began to bond with Bruce. Dick would also step up and be an older brother and mentor to him. Tim’s parents, however, went on their long trips for work and left Tim behind with a nanny and the housekeeper. They would be gone for extended periods of time for the duration of Tim’s training as Robin and would only keep in touch with their son through postcards and promises to call real soon . Jack and Janet also had a nasty habit of extending their trips or leaving without notice. It got so bad that Bruce even became suspicious about their neglect.  

Some time into Tim’s stint as Robin, but really not that long, his parents were poisoned by the Obeah Man. Janet died and Jack fell into a coma. Tim was left grieving his mother, hoping his father would awaken from his coma, and under Bruce’s care. 

Jack apparently eventually woke from a coma and had a life-changing epiphany that he needed to be a better father starting tomorrow then lapse into neglect. Jack Drake had apparently been incredibly insecure about his own place in Tim’s life, became extremely jealous of Bruce, and tried to endear himself to Tim as a better father. Jason suspects that Tim and Jack had wanted to be father and son for real, but the odds had been against them and had kept them from that distant dream. 

Tim, the little shit he was, had even run away from home, which led to Jack enrolling him in boarding school literally in Gotham. This is some next-level pettiness in Jason’s eyes, but whatever, okay. He’s familiar with Brentwood Academy, thank you. Things get weirder from there, because this father-son relationship was founded on a lack of communication, and Jack called Tim to inform him that he and Dana Winters, his physical therapist, were getting married over the phone. What. Jason thinks, by the way, this has to be a violation of some healthcare ethical code of conduct.

Shortly after this, Drake Industries would go bankrupt for whatever reason (Jason had never really bothered to look into this), Tim was freed from his boarding school bonds, and Jack once again tried to be a good father. Or something. But Jack quickly fell into depression over the loss of his fortune and continued his reputation of becoming aggressive when Tim acted out. Tim, with his bleeding heart of gold, had forgiven him every time. And didn’t that beat all. 

Dana, however, ended up being a good stepmother to Tim. He speaks of her fondly often enough, anyway. It appeared that the good moments Tim remembers with his father stemmed from Dana’s influence, which curbed Jack from being such an asshole. Tim and Jack tried to mend what was broken between them, but Jack could not accept that Tim was his own person. Similarly, Tim could not risk compromising his position as Robin and also risk Bruce’s secret. There would be tentative peace between them for a while. 

Then Jack caught Tim in a lie about joining the football team (and isn’t that a funny thought) and decided to ransack his room for clues about his son’s evident delinquency. He found Tim’s Robin gear stashed in his closet. This is where things get batshit ( ha ) crazy. Instead of simply asking Tim about it, Jack had a stroke of brilliance that led him to trek to Wayne Manor and proceed to point a gun in the face of Bruce Wayne, demanding he return Tim to his loving arms. He’d done this knowing full well that Bruce was Batman. 

The balls of sheer gumption and dumbass on this guy. Truly. Color Jason impressed. 

Jack continued his crazed breakdown by threatening to expose everyone’s identities and ruin their lives forever. Tim, freaking the fuck out, had agreed to give up the mantle of Robin to keep the peace and his dad quiet. Weirdly enough, this had apparently led to a better relationship between Tim and Jack. Tim lived a totally normal civilian life until a gang war broke out in Gotham and he’d once again become Robin to help out. Tim hadn’t given up the name and mission for the sake of his father that time, either. And, in a bizarre turn of events, Jack had actually listened to him. 

They came to an understanding and, for the first time in Tim’s life, had an honest and loving relationship. 

For an entire week. Then, Jack Drake was murdered by Captain Boomerang. 

Tim had been so reasonably distraught over losing his father that he had even invented a fake uncle so Bruce wouldn’t adopt him. It would be hilarious if it weren’t so incredibly sad. Bruce would eventually adopt Tim, though. 

Much later, enter Jason, fresh from hell and quite literally gunning for revenge. 

Jason carries a lot of regrets with him, personal and private, tucked into bleeding crevices in his wounded heart. His treatment of Tim after waking from the dead and being driven into Talia-lies-spurred Lazarus Pit psychosis is one of these deep regrets. Tim has forgiven him, he knows this. They’re okay now. Still, if Jason can save Tim from himself, then he’s damn sure going to try. 

For now, Tim is eleven-years-old and nothing truly bad has happened to him yet. 

(“So,” Jason says, a memory from the future, “that was fun. Who wants a drink?” 

Tim sighs. “I’m sixteen , Jason.” 

He smiles. “It’s Gotham City, Tim. I can find a place.”) 

Jason spares a glance to Bruce, who is thoroughly caught up in a discussion about boring business matters, and sneaks away to get Tim that drink. He meanders up to the bar, all cute 13-year-old charm, and flashes a smile. “Hi. Can I get two Shirley Temples? Light ice. And one with lots of cherries. Please.” 

The bartender gives him an amused look and gets to work on making the drinks. It really is as easy as all that. Jason is probably an easier customer than some of the people this guy has to deal with all night. It takes no time at all to make the drinks, and soon enough the bartender slides them across the counter. He feels like he’s in an episode of Cheers , but it’s more Back to the Future where George McFly asks for chocolate milk in the diner. He plays it cool anyway and sets off to find Tim. 

It’s not that difficult. Ever the little man, Tim is standing in his father’s shadow. Jason gets the drop on him. 

“Hey,” he says and watches as Tim nearly jumps out of his skin. “You look bored. Want one? The guy at the bar gave me two of these and I can’t finish them all by myself.” 

Tim looks up at him, all wide-eyed wonder. “What?” he asks, intelligibly. 

Jason presses the one with about seven cherries into Tim’s hand. “Here. I don’t even like maraschino cherries.” He scrunches his nose. “Too sweet.”

But Tim has a hell of a sweet tooth. He knows. Jason wonders if it resulted from a lack of actual parental supervision, if he somehow ungenetically inherited it from Dick, or a mixture of both. 

“Uhhh,” Tim is still staring at him, “thank you, Jason.” 

He blinks. “You know my name?” 

“Well, yeah,” Tim gets a bit defensive. “I–your adoption by Bruce Wayne was in the paper a while back.” 

Hm. Jason taps the side of his nose in thought. “You read the paper?” 

Tim shrinks back from him. “I like to stay up-to-date on the news.” 

This kid. 

Jason sighs and smiles. “Sorry. I’ve just never met a kid who reads the paper. I think it’s just fine, Timothy. That’s your name, right? Timothy Drake? You’re our neighbor.” 

Tim runs a finger over the rim of his glass, unsure. “It’s Tim. I mean, you can call me Tim. Yes. I live in Crest Hill, next door to Wayne Manor.” 

Jason squints. “Cool. We should be friends.” 

And then brothers, one day. 

Tim looks awestruck again. Jason kind of gets it, he guesses. When Tim was nine, he figured out that Bruce Wayne was Batman and Dick Grayson was Robin because Robin could do a quadruple somersault, which was a rare maneuver that only the Flying Graysons could do. Dick had been the sole Flying Grayson left. Jason has now succeeded Dick as Robin, which Tim also knows. He’s no Dick Grayson and he never will be. It doesn’t change the fact that Tim’s hero is asking to be his friend. 

“I mean…” Jason coughs when Tim doesn’t say a word and simply gawks at him. “If you want? I just thought, since we’re neighbors and all?” 

Tim blinks and then breaks out into a tentative smile. “Yeah! I mean, yes. That would…that would be really nice.” 

He ducks his head bashfully and fiddles with a stem on one of the cherries Jason had ordered for him. Jason snorts and knocks his shoulder lightly into Tim’s. “Right. Then we should ditch this snooze fest and eat our weight in hors d’oeuvres. There’s a whole tray of brie and prosciutto shortbread calling my name. You strike me as a tuna man yourself, and I think I see the brochetas de pescado circulating over there.” 

Jason taps Tim right over his honest little heart. “Bruce always tells me to focus on what I want to achieve. Right now, I want to achieve gorging myself on all this fancy food. You in?” 

Tim smiles true and wide this time. “I’m in.” 

Jason sips on his Shirley Temple as he and Tim make their way to the catering staff. He thinks they must look like quite the little men, reminiscent of their fathers, talking business over drinks. Bruce catches his eye and smiles. Jason honest-to-god winks at him. It’s his I’m up to no good old man, try and stop me wink. But Bruce doesn’t know that, yet. 

“So, Tim,” Jason says, swirling the ice in his glass, “as friends, we should get to know each other. Tell me about yourself, dude.” 

Tim very carefully lifts a brocheta de pescado from the tray and examines it. “I like photography and skateboarding. I um, take some…some karate lessons. It’s cool and fun. I like that, too.” 

Jason smiles into his drink. “Wow. You must be a real kick ass.” 

Tim, to his delight, goes beet red. “No,” he mutters. “I’m not.” 

He places a hand on his shoulder. “But you will be, one day. Heck, I bet you can even break a cement block in half, or whatever it is they have you do. I don’t know. Bruce doesn’t let me take martial arts. He says it’s ‘ too violent .’ He tried to convince me that I’d be a real ace at piano, though. Said I could ‘ easily pick up any stringed instrument ’ if I learned that first. Big whoop. Like he plays any instrument.” Except the general public like a fiddle. “I say guys like us need some action in our lives, not just Beethoven.” 

Tim doesn’t look like he believes a word Jason says, knowing full well he gives Gotham’s rogues gallery the beatdown every night, but is valiantly trying to hide it. “My parents wanted me to take violin lessons.” 

“Oh boy,” Jason snickers. “You can play me Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. We could even do a duet. I’m sure everybody here would love it. Would beat the Boccherini and really liven up the place.” 

His would-be-will-be younger brother chokes on the bite of tuna he’s just taken in a laugh. Some snooty old lady in a dress far too young for her turns to give them the stink eye. Tim claps a hand over his mouth in horror as bits of half-chewed tuna and bell pepper fall onto the floor. Jason discreetly steps on it and then cleans the toe of his oxford by wiping it on the back hem of the woman’s dress.

Jason gives her a beatific smile and raises his Shirley Temple at her. She moves away from them in disgust, none the wiser about how her gown will begin to stink like fish tomorrow. 

“ Well ,” he begins scandalously, “I like to read, myself. Not great at photography, but I like school. I like music, too.” 

Tim nods. “I like The Clash, Depeche Mode, Oasis, the Dead Kennedys, and Green Day.” 

“Wow,” Jason shakes his head in amusement at the confession. “The Dead Kennedys are kind of dark, dude. You’re a real rebel, Tim Drake. Aren’t you like, nine?” 

“I’m eleven ,” he protests. “And I also happen to like Enya.” 

Jason hands him a pancetta and pear puff. “You’re the most punk rock kid I’ve ever known,” he says solemnly. “Can you teach me how to skate? I don’t know how, and I think it’s cool.” 

Tim meekly picks at the puff. He looks uncharacteristically nervous. Jason has never had the chance to see him like this. “Really? You want to hang out with me? You’re sure? You’re older than me.” 

Don’t look back in anger, sings Noel Gallagher in his head. 

He slings an arm over Tim’s startled shoulders and feels something warm stir in his chest. “Yeah, Timmy. I’m older and wiser in the ways of the world by a whole two years. And in my lifetime of knowledge and infinite wisdom, I know there’s no one I’d rather hang out with than you.” 

Jason intends to hold onto his soul with an iron grip that could rival Superman, and he’s reaching for Tim’s soul too. 

Tim is lonely. 

Jason can fix that. 

Or he can at least try.

Chapter Text

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

– from my father moved through dooms of love

vi. i split my heart in two (and it follows you)–

Slinking back to his shadowed sanctum after a very long night patrol, the Batman feels like a candle burnt at both ends with little remaining in the middle and all of it sagging. Nothing unusual about spending four consecutively enervating nights cowled as the Bat, but he also endured three straight days in which, for one picayune reason or another, Bruce Wayne has had to show his bright-eyed face with no yawns or nod-outs allowed. 

Bruce tunes up the Batmobile (his nose bumps the carburetor three times) and programs the night’s crime reports into the computer. And, blessedly, a mussy eternity later, he changes into his favorite and dastardly pink robe and heads up to bed.  

It’s finally time for my reward, the blessed relief of Bruce Wayne…carefree playboy, bon vivant, and notorious day-sleeper. And it’s my sacred duty to reinforce that image, lest people think I’ve turned responsible. After all those recent nuisance appearances, this is one day Bruce Wayne will be unavailable for anything but sleep. 

Alfred heads him off at the old clock, spruce and spiffy as ever, carrying a tray of steaming hot coffee. “Good morning, sir!” he says, a bit too loudly. “The painting and repair contractors have arrived early to tender their estimates.” 

Bruce reacts to the news physically, shoulders dropping in utter defeat. “Aw, no , Alfred–” he whines, sounding more like a child than a 35-year-old man, “it’s already three hours past dawn. Past my bedtime. ” 

If Alfred spares him any pity in his heart, his expression does not reflect it one bit. “Then perhaps they’re not so early, sir.” He sniffs. “But they are nevertheless here, and awaiting you. ” 

Bruce slips out from behind the grandfather clock fully, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. Lead me to the haggling.” 

The butler turns on his heel and begins to walk back in the direction from which he had come. “The kitchen, sir. And the painter wants you to decide on the color schemes. It seems you put it off on the phone the other day, and–”

Bruce groans. “That coffee had better be strong, Alfred.” 

The contractor, a balding man with two matching tufts of hair hanging on by a prayer and encircling his head like a laurel wreath, and a potbelly nearly poking out of his red sweater vest, is banging on the walls. There is a pipe hanging from his mouth and the kitchen is ripe with the smell of cheap Backwoods tobacco. He speaks around it. “Fine old manor you got here, Mr. Wayne. Sturdy construction, not like they slap ‘em up these days…” 

He turns to look at Bruce, apparently seeking some sort of humored understanding. Bruce loudly sips on his coffee instead, toeing the kitchen tile with a horrendous pink slipper to match his robe. The contractor coughs, rolling his eyes. 

“But still, some weakening after all these years is only to be expected, after all, and–” 

Bruce raises a hand. “Just do whatever’s necessary, okay?” 

The contractor scratches his mustache–looks like he was shooting for Tom Selleck in Magnum, P.I. but fell short–and clears his throat. “Uh, sure thing, Mr. Wayne.” 

“Now,” the painter pulls out a sample book, “on the color, you got your basic off-white and then you got your basic eggshell white, and here’s your basic emory white, and then there’s your–” 

Bruce busies himself with draining his coffee cup (perhaps he needed to ask Alfred to buy a set of deeper ones) down to the very last drop. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just take your basic flip-the-coin white.” 

Jason, who has secretly been listening into the entire morning’s events from the landing with a nostalgic smile on his face, lifts his cheek from the press of his arm. As he hears Bruce padding toward him, he chooses to come flying down the bannister, vaulting over it like he had been the boy from the circus. “Guess what, Bruce? The school bus broke down, so I need a ride–and now you can quiz me for my test on the way!” 

He looks like the fun size version of Bruce–black turtleneck sweater, gray leather jacket, and jeans. The jacket is worn just right to a comfortable fit, a hand-me-down from Dick, no doubt. It’s very nineties, and much more fashionable than anything Dick Grayson has worn since being out from under Bruce and Alfred’s watchful and tasteful eyes. It had been Jason’s first leather jacket, and he’d worn it until he’d grown out of it. Perhaps it had even been what had inspired him to incorporate a leather jacket into the Red Hood look. 

“Oh joy,” Bruce mutters dryly. 

His father is slumped over in defeat, hands jammed into the pockets of that hideous well-loved robe. Bruce’s hair is a disheveled mess, his eyes are heavy and bloodshot, he is sporting five o’clock shadow, and is also not wearing pants. For some reason? Had he just talked to the contractor and painters with no pants on? Bruce, to his credit, seems to be mustering up some sort of positive emotion for Jason this dastardly (for him) morning, but the exhaustion outweighs it. 

Jason feels incredibly fond, but presses his lips together tightly in an attempt to quash the laugh threatening to spill out. “Gee, Bruce, you look a little gray around the gills.” 

Bruce cradles his head in one hand and says nothing. 

Jason distantly recalls this day. Bruce will try to catch some shut-eye while Jason is away at school, only to be interrupted by Jason’s principal asking to speak with him about Jason yawning so much in class, a flat tire, Lucius visiting the Manor on urgent Wayne Enterprises matters, and someone asking him to an Itzhak Perlman concert. Then, Vicki Vale will call him in a huff and demand to see him, the contractor will drop part of the roof on his bed due to a water leak in the attic, which will cause Bruce to step in paint while trying to escape to Jason’s room to sleep, but will be interrupted by Vicki Vale showing up to Wayne Manor and breaking up with Bruce (which, where they even dating?) unless he agreed to pick her up the next night, and then he will have to pick up Jason from school. 

Alfred hums. “I’d be glad to motor the lad to school, sir…if the painters and repairmen didn’t require supervision, and–”

Bruce sighs heavily. “Enough. Get your books, Jason.” 

Jason flashes him a megawatt smile. “Like lightning , ace.” 

He talks Bruce’s ear off the entire way to school, making him quiz him over colonialism. Jason already knows all the answers, just as he had the first time. It’s still nice. Then, he climbs out of the car when they pull up to the school, bids Bruce goodbye, and leaves him to his fate. 

Bruce shows up in pajamas when he picks Jason up that afternoon. Like, honest-to-God blue silk pajamas, and a yellow and black silk robe. The pink monstrosity is strictly for the Manor, it seems. 

“The bathrobe is a Pierre Cardin original.” 

“What?” Jason asks, just as confused as the first time Bruce had said this to him. 

Bruce pays him no mind. “Jason, there’s something I must–” he yawns, lashes flitting and mouth stretching so wide Jason thinks it must hurt, “–discuss with you.” 

“Yeah?” Jason settles back into his seat, already knowing where this is going. “Fire away, Bruce.” 

His father squints hard in concentration. Surely not at the road, because it doesn’t seem like he’s actually paying much attention to the road. “At what? Oh, yes…our discussion…very well, let’s see…when you–” 

He stops. Bruce squints harder. “No, if you wish to continue playing the role of Robin, you really must start getting more re sssst –”

Bruce is looking at him in the rearview mirror, maybe , but really he’s falling asleep at the wheel. Jason’s heart ricochets from his stomach to his throat and back again and he lurches forward to grab the wheel as they veer into the grass at an unreasonable speed. “LOOK OUT , BRUCE!” 

This seems to scare the shit out of his father enough that Bruce comes back to his senses and corrects the direction of the Pagani Zonda. The tires skreeee against the pavement in a move that could rival Dale Earnheardt’s driving. Jason ragdolls around as the seatbelt kicks in and snaps him back into place. There were only 40 of the Pagani Zonda C12-S Roadsters ever produced, and Jason would hate to see it crash in the dead grass along the road to Bristol. He sinks back into his seat and breathes a sigh of relief. “Really bushed, huh B? Want me to drive?” 

Bruce grips the steering wheel with both hands, positioned respectfully at like 11:55 and 12:05 like a psychopath. It’s a terrible driving position. Jason does not feel the least bit reassured about their safety on the road. Bruce is looking at him with wide eyes in the rearview. “Don’t be ridiculous, Alfred. Just talk to me and keep me asleep.” 

Jason makes a face. “Um, o -kay. So, how’s Vicki Vale doing these days?” 

Bruce has had a long and convoluted history of romantic trysts that could honestly rival King Solomon of the Bible. Jason isn’t really sure how, but he supposed Bruce would find a way. Brucie Wayne sure picked better women than Batman did, that was for certain. Though, he supposes, he’s a bit partial to Selina. Still, for the most part in Jason’s actual time in the future, they all knew not to try and even approach their father’s dating life (or whatever one wanted to call it) with a 39-and-a-half-foot pole. However, Damian had once warned Bruce to use protection , which Dick always recounts fondly with tears of laughter in his eyes. Maybe he was the bravest of them all. 

Jason talks to Bruce the rest of the drive home, getting mostly-coherent answers in return. He is still trying to needle his father into letting him out at night when they are climbing out of the car. Jason has to support Bruce as they walk into the Manor, but he barely comes up to Bruce’s chest these days, so it’s an extremely awkward position. 

“Absolutely not, Jason. No Robin tonight,” Bruce yawns. “I’d rather face the Joker than your principal again. You’re getting a full night’s sleep tonight and the Batman can take care of Gotham on his own and does your principal know the Joker, or did I just dream that?” 

Jason swallows hard as they limp through the front door. Acid roils in his stomach. No, but my mother does. However, Alfred meets them shortly, pointer finger held over his mouth and opposite thumb jammed in the direction of the den. 

“Shh, Ms. Amanda Groscz to see you, sir.” 

Bruce groans. Loudly. “Ohhh… no. ” 

Oh yes. Amanda Groscz had been Jason’s caseworker back when Bruce had become his legal guardian, then adopted him. Jason had forgotten that she’d made the first of many house calls on this day. 

Bruce braces himself on an end table in the entry, rattling the floral arrangement placed on it. Jason finally notices that he is wearing house shoes , and that he wore them out to drive. Amanda meets him in the entry, coat slung over her arm. “Now that Jason has been legally adopted–and as Jason’s former caseworker–it is my duty, Mr. Wayne, to check on his welfare for the next six months.” 

“Six months ?” Bruce says, in disbelief. 

“But don’t worry, Mr. Wayne” Amanda continues, as if she hadn’t even heard him. “This visit should take no more than a few hours.” 

“Few hours ?” Bruce echoes again, as Alfred ushers Jason up the stairs. 

It actually would be five hours, during which time Jason would complete all his homework, read for fun, and sneak away to catch a smoke. He’d smoked back in the Alley because it had helped curb his hunger. Bruce had strictly forbidden it when he’d moved in with him, and had been rather horrified that Jason had been smoking at the ripe age of twelve in the first place. That’ll stunt your growth, kid. Amongst other things. 

Jason, however, had stashed a pack of Camel Lights under a floorboard he had jimmied up under his bed when he’d moved into the Manor. For old time’s sake, he argued. Just in case. Really, it’s more of a comfort thing, now. A terrible habit and coping mechanism, certainly. But never let it be said that the Wayne family were pillars of great mental health. He fetches the pack and the hidden, worn Bic and sneaks up to the attic. As a kid, he’d never actually touched his stash, but he figured that the attic would be a more discreet place to smoke. He could open one of the windows up there, perch on some old chest or something, have his moment, and then change and brush his teeth. Alfred and Bruce would be none the wiser. 

Except that Jason hadn’t ever really known the extent of apparent water damage that the contractor had been called in to fix. As he makes his way to his window of choice, his foot is suddenly going through the floor, the rest of him following soon after. He collapses to the carpeted hallway in a heap, mostly undamaged thanks to the fall training he’s had as Robin. Stunned, Jason raises his hands and looks down at the broken pieces of flooring beneath him in disbelief. Alfred is staring at him in similar shock, having dropped the tray of chai and cookies he’d brought for him. 

“You better call that contractor guy back here, Alf.” 

He doesn’t get that cigarette. The pack was crushed beneath him in the fall. 

The school bus is back up and running the next day, so Jason takes it in just as Bruce finally collapses into bed. He remembers this day as relatively uneventful. That is...until he overhears dickbag Billy Flass shit-talking Dick to his friend in the hallway when he’s on his way to English. 

“Bruce Wayne always takes in outcasts of society,” Billy is saying down the hall. “Remember that ward of his before street rat Jason Todd? Richard Grayson? My dad says he was just some dirty circus gypsy before Bruce Wayne took him in. Like, he was totally the guy’s little sideshow charity freak. That Bruce Wayne only took him in to help his image, or something. Or God knows what. Like? Who adopts a kid like that ? Have you met people from the circus? Maybe the circus boy lied his way into the family so he can just steal the fortune. Who really knows what goes on in that creepy old place.” 

Now, Richard John Grayson was and is a lot of things. World’s best acrobat, certified asshole (at times), friend, boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, leader, loser, dead, walking fashion disaster, world’s unhealthiest eater, college dropout, alive, hero–

Someone who thinks that the Michael Bolton style mullet should be brought back from the 80s. Like, unironically. Jason shivers in fear. 

But he’s also Jason’s brother, and nobody gets away with talking shit about his brother. 

(Any of them). 

There have been long-held and deeply entrenched stereotypes and misnomers about the Roma. Jason is well aware that the word gypsy is a racial slur and people often see it as synonymous with words like dirty, deceitful, lazy, and prone to theft. It reeks of deep-seated suspicion and generational hostility often wielded under the guise of ignorance. It’s distinctly discriminatory.

And here was this absolute little asshole, perpetuating these hateful and disgusting stereotypes in a private education institution of prestige. 

He doesn’t care what these little idiots say about him, but he’ll be damned if they besmirch Dick’s name and heritage. 

Dick would probably take this all in a stride. Jason takes it in three–right over to the boys talking shit about his older brother. He throws his arms around them in faux friendliness and sends them a beatific grin, interrupting the continued shit talk. “Fellas…whatcha talkin’ about?” 

He lays on that Crime Alley drawl thick. It makes the boys squirm, but Jason holds firm. 

“Surely not slandering my brother’s name, right?” 

The boys begin to look nervous.  

“Well, my father said–”

“Your father,” Jason bats his lashes, his tone caustic, “is a cheap tool that not even anyone in Crime Alley would touch, except for maybe his wallet. He sounds like a real bag of dicks.”

Billy bristles in anger. “ Look, you–you thug–”

“ Ooh, sick burn. Are you going to call me a scamp or rapscallion next?” 

“You don’t scare me! I see right through you–I do! All the teachers here love Jason Todd! Oh he’s such a good student this, he’s such a nice boy that, but I know the truth! You’re just some criminal that was bound for juvie before Bruce Wayne took you in! His other kid grew up so he had to get you! Two boys that no one else would miss or fight for or would listen to if they started making accusations.” 

Now, in the past (not now, but before), Jason had definitely maybe overheard these guys talking but moved on too quickly to really pay attention to what they’d been saying. Sure, he’d heard them discrediting Dick, but he also hadn’t really gotten to know Dick much back then. At least, not now-then. Whatever. It hadn’t set right with him then, either, but he also hadn’t intervened. He’d regretted this when he’d gotten older, but it took dying and a blazing vendetta against Batman and co. to get there. 

He also didn’t realize that people had some wildly incorrect notions about who he and Dick were to Bruce. And that just wouldn’t do, because it was not and would never be true. 

Jason had never, not once, gotten into a fight at school before he died. 

School had been extremely important to him back in those days. He’d loved being Robin, sure, but he had also loved learning. He’d been planning to go to college. Some big Ivy League one, maybe. He’d entertained ideas of Princetown, Harvard, Yale, Brown, the works. He hadn’t wanted to go far from home, back when he’d been so happy with Bruce, so he’d really had his heart set on Princeton because it was still in New Jersey. Fights went down on school records, and Jason never caused any issues (aside from the nodding off in class thing). 

Anyway, Jason has been mapping uncharted territory as of late, so he decides to give it a whirl. He can also say that he made this decision of sound and well-rested mind after the early night Bruce forced on him last night. Jason licks his lips and decks the little jerk right in the nose. To his credit (because come on, Bruce), he does pull his punch and does not break the racist twerp’s nose. But the kid staggers back with a cry, blood spurting from his not-broken nose. He eyes Jason with wild, fear-filled eyes, and Jason only smiles and waves his fingers in return. 

“That’s how thugs do it when you start talking shit about their families, asshole. Now, why don’t you go cry to daddy about it. And don’t you ever say any bullshit like any of that again, or else I’ll break your nose, and then your arm.” Jason’s smile turns malicious. “Do I scare you yet?” 

Jason is not so gentle-hearted as he was when he was actually thirteen. He knows that sometimes actions speak louder than words. And boohoo teacher, Billy is a raging racist saying mean things about my brother is not going to remedy the situation. 

(Good Lord, he thinks with a sinking stomach, he is going to get an earful from Bruce.) 

Billy really does start to cry. Jason thinks he should just take the hit like a man considering how he’d handled him with kid gloves. Curious faces peek out of classroom windows and the nearest teacher comes running. Jason inspects a very interesting crack turning riveted crevice in the hallway floor tile. 

“What is going on here?” their history teacher demands. Just two periods prior, Jason had gotten back his test marked with a neat 100%. Now, Mr. Finkbeiner is looking between the three boys warily. 

Billy points an accusatory finger as he attempts to stifle the blood flowing from his nose. “He hit me! Look what he did to me!” he hollers as big, fat tears roll down his angry-red cheeks. 

Mr. Finkbeiner, apparently not believing the statement that Jason Todd, every teacher’s dream student, just punched another student, turns to him for his account of the events. Innocent until proven guilty, and all that. 

Jason, a man of pride to his core, shrugs his shoulders. He takes credit for his work. He’d told Dick this once. “I did.” 

Mr. Finkbeiner’s jaw drops in disbelief as his eyes flit between the boys. Then, he sighs in surrender. “Boys, I’m going to escort you to the principal’s office. Let’s go.” 

Jason willingly lets himself be marched down to the principal’s office alongside Billy and his friend in crime. He then proceeds to sit in dead silence as Billy recounts his altered story to the principal, with his friend backing him. He only admits to hitting Billy. 

“I’m going to call your father,” Principal Davenport tells him. She has this interesting bowl cut which always made Jason wonder if she cut her hair herself, or if her hairdresser hated her. “I’m very disappointed in you, Jason.​​ This behavior is incredibly uncharacteristic of you.” 

Just yesterday she’d been singing his praises to Bruce about how he is a very bright boy. Now, Jason sits in mounting and uncomfortable silence as he waits for the hour of his judgment. The quiet is only broken by Billy’s alligator tears, the blood flow staunched minutes ago, as he gives Jason a stink eye from across the room. The fucker. 

Jason is counting the ceiling tiles for the fifth time when Bruce finally shows up. He’s in some bright red leather trench coat and a green sweater. He looks like Christmas, but there is no joy found on his face. He also looks like he recently rolled out of bed. Jason feels a bit worse about that. 

“What,” Bruce begins slowly, looking between the boys and Principal Davenport, “is the meaning of this?” 

Principal Davenport folds her hands on her desk. “Mr. Wayne, it seems that Jason hit Billy here in the hallway. His friend corroborates his story, and Jason even confessed to it.” 

Bruce’s expression does something complicated before he turns to Jason. “Is this true, Jay?” 

Jason sits up from his intense study of the ceiling tiles and taps his finger on the arm of his chair. “Oh,” he says, darkly, “I hit him, alright. And I’d like the chance to tell my side of the story, now, if you please.” 

Bruce knows Jason. At least, he knows 13-year-old Jason, who keeps his punches and kicks and whatever else curtailed to Robin-related activities. “Okay, Jason. What happened?” 

He breathes a sigh of relief, a thready and hopeful thing. “Imagine this: I’m on my merry way to class when I get thirsty and decide to stop at the water fountain. I’ve got two minutes to kill, so I think, ‘why not?’ Then I overhear Billy and his friend here saying all this horrible stuff about Dick–calling him a gypsy, B. A dirty circus kid. Your little sideshow charity case freak. Other nasty stuff I’m not even gonna repeat, Bruce. God. Which,” he raises a finger in the universal motion of uh duh, “is super racist, one. Two, they started talking trash about you. Then they tried to bully me. I’ve seen them messing with other kids, too. Nobody has done anything about it.” 

Jason runs his thumb over the leather of his jacket. “What? Was I just supposed to let them say all that stuff about Dick?” 

Principal Davenport looks abashed at this information, and Bruce is just short of furious. Despite his somewhat tumultuous relationship with his oldest son, he loves Dick. 

“Look,” Jason confesses, in all honesty, “they can say whatever they want about me. I don’t care. Sticks and stones. But I’m not gonna sit by and listen to them say that kind of stuff about you or Dick, okay? I have a conscience, unlike some people in this world.” 

Bruce turns to Principal Davenport. She’s looking a little pale, like the matching pearl set she’s wearing. “Excuse me,” he says, shortly. “I’m just going to take Jason home.” 

“W-well,” she stammers, “there’s the discussion about the appropriate punishment. He did hit another student, Mr. Wayne. I’m sure you understand–” 

Bruce turns to eye the wounded with a frighteningly shrewd eye. “Oh. I certainly do. While we’re on the topic of punishment, let’s discuss the discipline of those two gentlemen over there. Tell me, Principal Davenport, what’s the school’s stance on racial discrimination and bullying? 

“There’s a no tolerance policy in effect for such matters,” Principal Davenport smoothes back her bowl cut in an attempt to rally. “It’s not allowed.” 

“Is that so.” Bruce deadpans, then his voice twinges into scathing. “Clearly it is. I don’t know what kind of parents you have enrolling their children into your school, Mrs. Davenport, but I for one do not tolerate what are, frankly, bullshit prejudices, especially when it comes to my sons. I’ve told Dick that he never has to be ashamed for who he is, and neither does Jason, for that matter. It’s you, Mrs. Davenport, who should be ashamed for allowing such racism and insult to flourish in a learning environment that is supposed to be a safe space. It’s wholly unacceptable and unbecoming, especially when a child has to step in and try to remedy the situation.” 

Jason’s jaw drops. Principal Davenport leans away from Bruce’s harsh tone. 

“I also understand that this school has a no tolerance policy for fighting. It wasn’t the best course of action. I do not condone violence.” Yeah, right. “I will make sure that this does not become a habit in the future. Let’s go, Jason.” 

Jason is on his feet in less than a second. 

Principal Davenport is still stammering. “Now–now, Mr. Wayne, please–” 

Bruce huffs, haughty, and holds up a hand. He doesn't even look back over his shoulder. Again, Jason is stunned. “I’m familiar with the problem. Rest assured I will speak with Jason further. Now, I have some business to attend to, so we’ll be going.” 

Numbly, Jason follows Bruce out of the office, down the hall, and out the door. He climbs into the backseat, afraid to make eye contact with his father. It is dead silent in the car. Bruce makes no effort to drive away. Instead, he puts his hands at that wacky 11:55 and 12:05 position again, and lets his head thunk against the steering wheel, drained. 

Jason, feeling every bit thirteen instead of an adult, stammers. “Bruce…I–I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad. I won’t do it again. It’s just–you should have heard them, B. He had it coming.” 

Bruce sighs, weary and forlorn. “I’m not mad, Jason.” 

Just disappointed. 

But the words never come. Instead, Bruce’s shoulders begin to shake. Then, he begins to laugh outright. Jason responds in kind by beginning to freak the fuck out. 

“Did you know,” Bruce manages in between chuckles, “Dick got into a few scrapes at school himself?” 

Jason squints. He did not know this. “Uh, no?” 

Bruce looks at him in the rearview again, very much awake this time. There’s unhidden mirth in his eyes. It makes him look younger than he really is. Not that thirty-five is that old. “Over bullying. Go figure. They suspended him.” 

“Am I suspended?” Jason feels the dread pooling in his gut. He's never been suspended from school. 

Bruce shrugs, half smile still on his face. “I don’t know. I’m sure Principal Davenport will be calling me when she recovers. Or perhaps she’ll leave a message with Alfred. I doubt it, though. You may be facing some detention–which,” he sends Jason a stern look, “is somewhat deserved. I was serious about this not becoming a habit, Jay. You shouldn’t fight at school. They will kick you out. There’s only so much I can do. Seriously. I would know.” 

Jason sags with relief. “Okay, okay. I get it. I was also serious when I said it won’t happen again. Think I scared that little asshole enough anyway. Wait– how do you know? Dick never got kicked out of school?” 

Bruce clears his throat. “No, but I did. Right out of Gotham Academy. Alfred never told you this story?” 

“Shut up !” Jason exclaims, clambering into the front passenger’s seat. “You did not ! Bruce, you got expelled ?” 

This is, in fact, totally new information that he did not, in any way, know about. But he’d also never gotten into a fight at school before either. So. The world is his oyster. 

His father looks affronted. “You don’t have to sound so gleeful about it, Jay. Here, buckle up, and maybe I can tell you the story over burgers. I pulled you out before lunch. God knows Dick got a kick out of it when I told him the first time.” 

Chapter Text

Your children are not your children
They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself
They come through you but not from you
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you

You may give them your love but not your thoughts
For they have their own thoughts
You may house their bodies but not their souls
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow

- On Children

vii. morphine city slippin’ dues, down to see–

Timothy Jackson Drake is a child playing at being a grown-up, and Jason Peter Todd is a grown-up playing at being a child. Both were forced, through no actions of their own, to grow up much too fast. They are two sides of the same terrible coin, flipped into the air off a careless thumb and pointer finger, suspended in time until fate sees fit for them to crash land. When they hit the ground, it will be hard, like splitting concrete. It will hurt, and even time will not be enough to soothe the aching. 

Jason has never been good with apologies. The words always feel restless inside him and get stuck to the roof of his mouth like peanut butter. It’s too difficult for him to choke them out when it counts. He’s more of a man of action, and tends to show his remorse through various acts of service or by not doing something. Right now Tim doesn’t even know that Jason has done anything wrong, or that he’s retroactively trying to apologize for a future that might not even come to pass, now that he’s here. Maybe it’s also making up for lost time. Before, he’d never really known Tim as more than a shy face in a sea of privileged fish. 

Jason takes Tim to the arcade in the city. Or, well, Alfred drives them one Saturday while Bruce is busy. It’s in the mall, which is great, because Tim insisted that Jason also needed to pick out a skateboard and there was a specialized shop in the mall. Tim leads him there through the late-morning crowd, effortlessly weaving through the mass like he’s been here many times before. Jason wonders whether anyone accompanied Tim before, or if he always comes by himself. 

They spend a decent amount of time perusing the skate decks on display. There are different types to choose from with many various designs, and a wide price range. Jason is torn between a Powell Skateboards design with a skull holding a sword and one from the Darkstar Battalion series. Sue him. He thinks it looks sick. He goes with the Powell anyway, because it sort of reminds him of Hamlet. 

“Alas, poor Yorick,” Jason sighs, holding the deck out for Tim to see while they pick out suitable wheels. 

Tim rolls his eyes, a show of emotion that Jason is all-too familiar with. “Does that make me Horatio?” 

Tim Drake, the only brother who never died. 

Jason swallows and finds himself drawing Tim into a noogie so the younger boy doesn’t see the look on his face. “‘If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, absent thee from felicity a while, and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain to tell my story,’” he quotes. 

Tim waggles a finger at him as he tries to wriggle out of Jason’s hold. “I’m not talking to any ghosts for you, just so you know.” 

They almost feel like brothers again, like this. The shop worker attaching the wheels to Jason’s deck gives them a funny look, but they pay him no mind. 

“You’re a survivor, Tim. You’ll be fine. Ghosts notwithstanding.” 

Tim wrinkles his nose and eyes Jason oddly. “And what are you?” 

“Me?” Jason queries, squinting at something further down the hall. “‘To be, or not to be, that is the question.’” 

“Yeah,” Tim prods as Jason tugs him along. “That is my question.” 

Jason jams a finger at the arcade doors. “Well, Timmy, I’m the guy that’s gonna smoke your ass at DDR. Obviously.” 

The arcade has a first edition CRT-based cabinet of Dance Dance Revolution that also runs 4thMIX as of 2003. He hasn’t been here since he was like fourteen–or, well, in the future, anyway. Tim, dubious, follows him through the doors and inside. Jason leads him to the game as the younger boy watches on nervously. 

“I’ve never played this game before,” Tim admits sheepishly. 

Jason raps the machine with the back of his knuckles, smirk on his face. “Don’t worry, Tim. I promise I’ll go easy on you. Well, for the first round at least.” 

Tim does teach him how to skateboard that afternoon. 

Jason has always loved Gotham, but secretly thought that the city had seemed just a little better in his childhood memories. Some might claim it was because the echoes of a better life were tinted with nostalgia. Some might say he was just sentimental. Maybe it had simply been the magic of childhood that had made the years so special–at least, before he died, anyway. Bruce had, in a way, attempted somewhat to preserve what little innocence was left for Jason. He’d read once that the word nostalgia was derived from the Greek words nostos (returning home) and algos (pain). Psychologists claim it serves as a form of emotional regulation–offering solace and comfort during times of stress, as well as a potent tool for fostering resilience and psychological well-being. Supposedly, it provides people with a sense of continuity and stability in life’s uncertainties. 

However, Jason has a feeling that it hasn’t been nostalgia providing the rose-tinted backdrop for his memories–not completely. The spring air feels crisper, the trees a little greener, Alfred’s crocuses bloom a richer purple, and the sun feels a little warmer. Jason feels content for the first time in a while, and perhaps that’s the kicker–it’s the magic of little, everyday moments. Tim still has that childhood innocence about him, and Jason hopes it will stick to him like a second skin for years to come. 

“Okay,” Tim says, “we’re going to start with the most basic basics. You have to figure out which foot you’re going to put forward. If you were going to run and slide on ice or something, which foot would you put forward?” 

Jason is right-handed, though he’s trained himself to be ambidextrous. However, the right foot feels right, so he goes with that one. 

Tim nods and does some fancy thing with his toe where he flips the board–griptape side down–onto its wheels. “Now, I’m going to teach you how to push. It’s pretty much like walking. You just put your front foot forward, step up to the board, and give it a push.” He pauses his instructions to demonstrate. “When you push, your front foot is straight, but when you’re riding, it’s sideways. When you push, your front foot will be straight like this, then your back foot will go up like this, then you’ll push like this with your back foot so you can ride. All your tricks will be done in the riding position, though.” 

Tim watches from his own board as Jason practices. It’s not so difficult, honestly. It’s easier like this–with this 13-year-old body that hasn’t been beaten to death. He doesn’t feel the chronic aches and pains that the Pit couldn’t quite separate from them, even if he wakes every morning expecting them to be there. Tim makes Jason do several laps around the drive until he’s satisfied that Jason isn’t going to fall on his ass or something. 

“Okay, now we’ll work on turns. This is called a kick turn.” Tim does it so fast that Jason would miss it if he weren’t paying close attention. “There are two basic ways to turn on your skateboard. One is called a kickturn, where you lift the front two wheels off the ground. The other is a carving turn, where you actually lean into the board and turn from side-to-side.” Tim shrugs. “I like leaning side to side best ‘cause it’s more fun. But, you need the trucks of your board looser for that. I loosened mine because that’s how I like to ride. For the kick turn, you have to apply pressure on your back foot and lift your front trucks up and then turn.” 

Tim shows him the kickturn again, slower this time, just as he’d instructed. Then, he loosens the trucks of Jason’s board with a skate tool he pulled from somewhere. He shows Jason how to do it for future reference. “Here. This is your kingpin,” he taps a metal part of the truck. “It’s the largest nut on the truck. Just turn it clockwise to tighten, and counter-clockwise to loosen it. When you adjust your trucks, do it like a quarter turn at a time.” 

“When we get into tricks, it’s going to be a very specific order. It’s going to be ollie, frontside 180, backside 180, pop shove, front shove, heel flip, and then a kick flip.”

Tim makes a fist as if he’s about to make some great speech. Jason listens, a captive audience. “I think I can say that ollies are the foundation of skateboarding. But it can also be kind of hard to do. You just have to learn how to roll your ankle with the board and then pick up the board. But we’ll work on it.” 

“Okay,” the younger boy hops onto his board. “The first thing is foot placement. Make sure your feet are in the right position. Your back foot goes in the middle of the tail, and your front foot goes either in the middle of the board or a little closer to the top bolt. Line your toes up with the edge of the board,” he demonstrates the proper foot placement. “Now you just need good balance with the back truck because the next step is snapping the tail on the ground.” 

He makes Jason get comfortable with the balance aspect by having him repeatedly snap the tail on the ground. After about a dozen times, Tim moves on. “You have to snap the tail and jump at the same time. You have to do everything at the same time for the ollie to work. Timing is everything when it comes to an ollie. Right when your tail hits the ground, you’re going to jump up, and while you’re jumping you need to roll your foot up to the nose of the board to pick the board up off the ground. Remember, Jason, you have to do this all at the same time.” 

Tim shows him a perfect ollie. He does it like it’s nothing. He does it like it’s as simple as backflips are to Jason these days. “Okay. Your turn.” 

It’s fine, Jason thinks. Time is totally my bitch.  

Jason eats shit. 

Like totally goes lurching across the pavement, face first, directly into the ground. Tim hollers in alarm, but Jason knows how to fall (again, Robin training), so his pride is hurt more than anything. Alfred had also insisted they wear helmets to protect your bright minds, young sirs , so he’s honestly fine. Tim rushes over anyway, hands flitting but never touching. 

“Jason, are you okay? Should we stop for the day? I’m sorry, maybe this is too much–”

Jason holds up a hand to stop him. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Let’s do it again. I think.” 

Bruce pulls into his driveway late that afternoon to find Jason and the neighbor boy, Timothy Drake, blasting The Clash on a boombox and flying around on their skateboards. Alfred is sitting in a lawn chair, peacefully sipping tea and reading an Agatha Christie novel, but solemnly clapping as Jason executes a perfect ollie. He slides to a stop and bows with flourish, earning a laugh from Tim and a small smile from Alfred. 

Jason watches his father climb out of the Bentley. Tim strategically places himself behind Jason but peeks around him. “So? You repair things with Vicki Vale, or will I be seeing blatant slander across the front pages of the Gotham Gazette ? I feel as though she likes to turn it into her own gossip rag sometimes. Especially if it’s regarding you.” 

Bruce looks weary at the thought. “It was…something.” 

“Oh, I’m sure. ” Jason wheedles, rudely nudging Tim out from behind him by way of elbow prodding. “Considering that brunch turned into an all-day affair. By the way, this is Tim Drake. He lives next door. We’re friends.” 

Bruce extends a hand, which Tim shyly takes. They shake. “Nice to meet you, Tim. Jason’s never brought a friend over before. You must be quite special.” 

Tim goes cherry red. Jason is delighted. 

“What are you boys listening to?” Bruce spares a glance over to Alfred, who seems to be deeply entrenched in Crooked House and wholefully unaffected by the rap song now blasting from Jason’s Panasonic. 

“Obviously this is Nas, Bruce,” Jason says, like Bruce follows the hip hop scene. “It’s Tim’s mixtape. Very cool, so you probably wouldn’t understand. You know, youths. Engelbert Humperdinck is probably more your speed, old man.” 

He skates in a circle around his father, one hand over his heart and the other backhand against his forehead. “Every day I wake up, then I start to break up, lonely as a man without love,” Jason belts while Tim laughs into his hands. 

Bruce mutters something suspiciously like I am not that old but can’t seem to keep the smile off his face regardless. 

Jason leans against Tim, using his head as an armrest. Tim takes it like a man. “So, B, Tim has never once in his life had Mulligatawny. Alfred already has it cooking inside. Would it be okay if he stays for dinner?” 

Bruce, amused, turns to Tim. “Would you like to stay for dinner, Tim? Is that alright with your parents?” 

Jason rolls his eyes. Tim’s parents are in Cambodia on some archeological hobby dig. He’d already checked that out. 

Tim, to his credit, does not seem as awestruck as Jason is sure he must be feeling on the inside. “Uh, yes, sir, Mr. Wayne.” 

“You can call me Bruce, Tim, it’s okay.” 

Tim, who is now on a first-name basis with one of his greatest heroes and is about to have dinner with him, nods. There’s some wild fervor in those blue eyes. “Right, sir. Yes, Bruce, sir.” 

Jason snorts. 

“What’s the deal with the king-sized coin, anyway? I mean, I’ve heard of inflation, but this is a little ridiculous, don’t you think?” Jason asks later that evening, decked out in his gi for practice with Bruce. He taps his foot against the mats a bit impatiently considering he already knows what his father is going to say. 

Bruce is already half suited up for the night. “Just a little memento, Jason. A certain party tried to crush Robin and me under it, but we double-crossed him.” 

Jason rolls his eyes and huffs sweaty curls out of his face. His smile is smug as he reflects on all he knows, but that Bruce doesn’t know that he knows. “By a ‘certain party,’ you mean Two-Face, don’t you? Isn’t that thing a giant replica of the coin that loon’s always flippin’?” 

“Well,” Bruce looks amused, “yes on both counts.” 

He moseys off the mats and across the cave. “Bruce, we went over your rogues’ gallery for months when you were training me to be Robin. ‘Til my head was swimming with crime statistics and ugly mugs.” 

Jason presses a key on the Batcomputer and watches passively as the Joker’s face pops up. “And I heard plenty of war stories about how you and Dick made suckers outta these would-be masterminds , but you’ve never mentioned Two-Face. We’ve never gone over his file. Why?” 

Are you going to tell me this time? Will you be honest about how you’ve been hiding the fact that my own father was really a flunky for Two-Face, who murdered him after Willis crossed him? That you told Alfred I would have likely followed in the criminal footsteps of Willis to an early death if you’d never found me in that alley? Do you know, dad, that I follow your path instead, right to the Joker? That I do die, slow and brutal? Do you know that he breaks almost every bone in my body? That I just had to accept that I was going to die? 

No. Not yet. 

Bruce takes a clean towel from Alfred’s outstretched hand. “Oh, no special reason. Just an oversight, really.” 

Jason does not call bullshit, even if he’s tempted to do so. “Well, fill me in, then. I’ve been Robin for a while now, in case you forgot. You want my education to be complete, don’t you?” 

His father crosses his arms and regards Jason with a critical eye. “Yes, I do–and you should be familiar with Two-Face’s case. He is still at large, and he’s been keeping a low profile lately. He’s a dangerous and demented opponent. Two-Face is a tragic villain. Greed isn’t the root of his evil. He’s motivated by madness in every sense of the word. His real name is Harvey Dent. He was, not so long ago, the district attorney of Gotham City–a high office where he served honorably. He and I were friends. Allies.” 

Bruce squints and looks into the distance, seemingly recalling better days. “Dent was the youngest D.A. in the city’s history, and no prior prosecutor remotely rivaled his conviction record. The D.A. took on underworld figures who’d gone untouched under the corrupt administration that preceded him. Though, critics dismissed him as vain and ambitious. Few witnesses could stand up under Dent’s corrosive cross-examination, and finally one struck back with his own acid test.” 

Jason is all-too familiar with the story of Harvey Dent. He’d heard about the gangster on trial, how his lucky coin had been found at the scene of a murder, and how he’d retaliated by throwing acid at Dent in a court session. It had later come out that the district attorney, Vernon Fields, had been bribed by Carmine Falcone to provide the acid to his lieutenant, Sal Maroni. Maroni had not only done some serious physical, but also psychological damage that day. He’d known all that even before being taken in by Bruce. 

“Suddenly the handsome young prosecutor, whose political future had seemed so bright, was a hideously disfigured self-parody.” 

Jason pulls a face at Bruce’s weirdly verbose version of the story. “What about plastic surgery? That seems like it would be a viable option. They do skin grafts and stuff, right?” 

They both turn to look at Two-Face’s picture on the Batcomputer. Bruce hums thoughtfully. “Perhaps a series of operations, over a period of years, would have gradually improved his condition. But Dent’s scars ran deeper than that. And he became obsessed with that gangster’s ‘lucky’ silver dollar. He carved a crude cross on one side of the coin. In his mind, the pristine side represented good, and the scarred side evil.” 

Bruce sighs. “And so, he flipped it, and when the coin landed marred side up, he made a decision–”

“Evil won,” Jason cuts him off. “He made crime his life’s work.”

His father holds up a finger in caution. “Yes, but he frequently flips the coin to decide whether to commit a crime or not.” 

“How can you deal with a guy that unpredictable?” Jason cradles his chin in mock thoughtfulness. Truthfully, he’s had more experience fighting Dent than Bruce, now. 

Alfred interrupts by bringing Bruce the rest of the suit and his cape. Bruce takes the top of the armor plating and begins to pull it on. “Actually, Jason, he’s very predictable. His M.O. is the most specific in our files. Two-Face always commits crimes based somehow on the number two.” 

Jason waves a dismissive hand. “That doesn’t sound like much to go on.” 

Bruce gets this wistful look of remembrance in his eye. He’s seen it before. It’s very specific to his older brother. “A lot of times I didn’t see the pattern right away, but Dick could always pick up on it.” 

Ah, yes. This. Bruce did have a habit of bringing up the original Robin. Alfred would likely refer to it as placing the lad’s predecessor in the way of his path. It had always grated on Jason’s nerves when he was younger. Now, he only rolls his eyes and heads off to change into his own Robin suit. 

Once, back on his first night as Robin, Gordon had been shocked to see him. 

“You swore you’d never pair up with a child again.” The Commissioner had said lowly, thinking only Batman had heard him. 

Batman had taken it in stride. “This child is older than both of us–not to mention tougher.” 

Bruce really had been clueless. 

Tonight, the Batsignal beckons once more, and a quiet night turns into Commissioner Gordon handing Batman an envelope addressed to him. It contains a hand of playing cards, specifically a hand of poker–two pair. Gordon shows them photographs of four petty criminals–two sets of twins–the Dopple brothers and the Rorrim boys, parole violators, all spotted in Gotham the very week. 

All signs lead to Two-Face announcing his intention to get back in the game. They go to Atlantic City. Batman and Robin stow away inside one of the armored cars on standby after taking down the Dopple brothers who’d been left to man it. Jason leaves Bruce to deal with Two-Face and goes after the Rorrim twins, who have decided to split. 

He pops up between them, a wide smile on his face. “Well, well. If it isn’t Huey and Dewey. Looking for Louie?” 

Jason delivers double devastating gut punches, and, when the brothers crumple, takes the advantage to grab them by the backs of their heads and slam their faces together. They’re out like a light, falling face-first to the ground. He puts one foot on one of the twins’ backs and braces his hands on his hips, smug. “Hurt?”  

“How did you figure this out?” Two-Face is howling in outrage, as if he hadn’t sent them clues. “You don’t prowl this turf.” 

Batman, for once, actually looks smug. Perhaps it’s the thrill of operating outside of immediate Gotham. “Ask Robin–the hunch was his.” 

“Your poker-hand message suggested a gambling motif for your score.” Jason points an accusing finger as the local authorities attempt to arrest Dent. “And this is the biggest casino this side of Vegas–the “Lucky Dollar.” Made it worth a look.” 

Two-Face sniffs in indignation. “Well thought-out, gentlemen, but you’ve overlooked one thing…” 

He slips a single-stack 9 mm pocket pistol off of his suit sleeve. “I always carry two guns!” 

Two-Face grabs some poor woman in a pink two pants suit in a mocking embrace. “Now everyone step aside. I’m just looking for an excuse to shoot for a second time, tonight!” 

Batman’s hands fly into the air in surrender. “Take me as your hostage, Two Face! Let her go!” 

Two-Face presses the pistol to the woman’s cheek. She shrieks in response. “You make a poor hostage, Batman. Too strong, too smart.” 

“Then take me,” Jason suggests, hands also held high. “I’m just a kid. You can handle me. Besides,” he says, conspiratorially, “think of the power you’d have over Batman.”

But he’s still not done. Jason is never one to half-ass anything. He’s going to really sell this proposal. He holds up two gloved fingers. “And better still–I’m the second Robin. Think of it! It’s so fitting.” 

Two-Face tightens his grip on the woman before shoving her away and grabbing Jason by the cape and tugging him over. “Yes, it’s almost too ironic.” 

He presses the barrel to Jason’s temple. “Clear a path for me, Batman. I’ve got the perfect hostage now. And if you or the cops follow us, I’ll put a bullet in his red chest.” 

Batman looks truly terrifying as the crowd around them gasps. The lenses of the cowl hide his eyes, but Jason has no doubt that they’re trained on the gun against his head. His father is still as death itself–shrouded in shadow, jaw set into a grim line. His cape conceals his form, built for unimaginable violence, hiding trembling hands. He makes no move other than to step out of the way as Two-Face shoves past. 

Two-Face marches Jason, gun at his back, away from the Lucky Dollar and a few alleys down to where he’s apparently stashed his get-away car. It’s a gaudy split of tangerine and plum, straight down the center. The hidden headlamp on the plum side is up, but the one on the tangerine side is down. It’s quite something to behold. Jason pities the poor guy either hired or forced at gunpoint to do this body work. 

Two-Face nudges him with the pistol. “Here’s my customized two-door. How do you like it?” 

Jason puts a hand over his mouth and decides to share his true feelings on penalty of death. He really lets the childish tone bleed into his words. “It’s too much.” 

Dent does nothing more than look highly offended and mutters something under his breath about youths don’t understand good taste these days , and instructs Jason to get in. He dutifully climbs into the passenger’s seat and sits there patiently while Two-Face gets in and starts the engine. He has apparently decided to drive with one hand on the wheel and use the other to continue pointing the gun at Jason. They drive in tense silence until they reach the outer limits of the city. Jason is beginning to wonder just where exactly Dent plans on taking him. 

“Now, I’m warning you–I’m not a nice man.” Two-Face eventually speaks up as Jason is squinting out at the darkness in an effort to pinpoint their location. “If you try anything at all, you’re a dead bird.” 

Jason isn’t the least bit afraid of him, and is feeling rather underwhelmed over the whole ordeal. He’s sure that Batman is already in hot pursuit. And probably driving like a crazy person, if his expression before had been any indication of the distress he’d been in over his son volunteering to be a hostage at gunpoint. 

He turns to look at Two-Face. “I understand. Like you wouldn’t want me to hit the brakes or anything.” 

“Huh?” is the intelligent response he gets. 

Jason throws his leg over and slams on the brakes. Two-Face’s head slams against the steering wheel and the gun in his hand goes off, the bullet flying through the windshield. Jason pushes the passenger door to the car open and vaults into the grass, arms and head first, as Two-Face hits the gas again. He’s left choking on dust as the rogue speeds away into the night. A bit disoriented and a little sore, he drags himself up to lean back against a tree, elbow propped against his knee and cheek pressed to a closed fist in contemplation. 

It’s not long after that a civilian car slows to a stop, stirring Jason from his thoughts. 

“Huh?” 

The driver’s door is thrown open, and his father emerges from the car. Batman leans an arm against the roof in visible relief. “ Robin ! Thank god.” 

Amused, Jason rises from the grass. “That doesn’t look like the Batmobile.” 

“I commandeered a civilian car. If Two-Face had spotted the Batmobile in his rearview mirror, well…” Batman trails off, looking much like the picturesque version of consternation at the thought. “Anyway, come along. There’s work to do.” 

Bruce fusses over him on the ride back, but Jason assures him that yes, I’m really honestly fine, no I’m not hurt anywhere other than a few scrapes and bruises I brought upon myself. Oh my god, look at the road, Bruce. He tries to turn the radio on to distract his father but no dice. It seems to be busted. Instead, he switches the media output to the CD function. They are immediately assaulted with the twang of the Gaither Vocal Band. 

Jason immediately switches the whole stereo off. “Did you commandeer this car from a grandma ?” 

Bruce mutters something that sounds suspiciously like it was inconspicuous while Jason laughs in disbelief. 

The ride back to the Cave is relatively uneventful. Alfred is there to meet them when they return. He’s carrying a tray of his cucumber sandwiches and a delightful surprise of chocolate chip cookies. It makes Jason smile. Getting kidnapped always had worked up his appetite. 

Alfred clears his throat. “Master Jason did well. Almost as well as Master Dick. Speaking of Master Dick, sir–” 

“He’s in New York. Maybe we’ll talk…after things have cooled off a bit.” Bruce removes his cowl. 

Jason peels off his own domino. “Have the state police found Two-Face?” 

“Not yet. They’re not having any better luck tracking him than we did.” Bruce looks troubled at the thought. 

Jason shoots a finger gun at him and attempts to make his hasty escape. “We’ll get that lunatic, Batman.” 

Bruce grabs him by the edge of his cape and raises a scolding finger, looking every bit the concerned father. “Yes, we will. But that hostage exchange tonight was reckless.” 

As if he hadn’t tried to do the same thing. “Did I flunk the test? Am I washed up as Robin?” Jason huffs, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He already knows where this is going. 

“Hardly. The other Robin would have done the same thing.” Bruce sighs, long and loud, as if the years of being a father have worn and wearied him. “You really are two of a kind.”

“Bruce,” Jason says, slowly. He says his father’s name like it’s the first time–sounds out every syllable, all heavy on his tongue. “If something…if something ever did, you know, happen to me…you’d tell Dick, right?” 

Bruce looks stricken at the thought. “Jason…that’s…” 

“I’m serious, B. There’s…I mean, it has to be an occupational hazard, right? I know you two aren’t exactly talking ,” he clears his throat. “But it’s important. Dick is my brother. I want him to know if I…you know. Die, or something. Be kind of lame if my own brother didn’t come to my funeral.” 

The words come out more stilted than he’d like. He’s had a few years to get over it, but really– who can get over dying so brutally and a surprise resurrection? Bruce doesn’t tell Dick in the future. He holds the funeral without him, while Dick is up in space with the Titans. Jason has no doubt that Bruce could have reached Dick, if he’d really wanted to. He was the goddamn Batman. He had a plan for everything. Jason and Dick hadn’t been close, per se, but they’d still been brothers–or on the way to that. 

He feels resolute. “Promise me, Bruce. Promise me that if I die, you’ll tell Dick. I’ll haunt the kitchen cupboards forever if you don’t.” 

If Jason has anything to say about it then nobody will be dying in the future, especially him. 

Bruce still looks like someone has kicked Ace, who he doesn’t even have yet. He swallows, though Jason’s words must be difficult for him to digest. “I won’t.” 

Jason’s brows shoot to his hairline. “You won’t call Dick?” 

“I won’t allow you to die. ” Bruce says, instead. “You’re not going to die, Jay. I won’t let it happen. I’ll be there.” 

Too late for that, old man. It’s already happened. You weren’t there. 

Jason, heart heavy, soldiers on. He rolls his eyes. “Geez, you really don’t wanna talk to Dick, huh. You two have some serious issues, B. Alfred is right. You better call him sooner than later. If you let things ‘cool off’ too long, they’ll turn frigid. If I want to take a trip to Antarctica, I’ll book one of those sight-seeing cruises with my allowance. I don’t need to experience it in my own home. Or you better get me a penguin to suffer with me.” 

Bruce, to his credit, is trying to hide his shock. It appears as if Jason has left him speechless. He silently congratulates himself on this. 

“Mind if I stay up and do some homework?” 

Clearing his throat, his father rallies. “Go ahead, you’re bound to be a little wired after all that…but do get some rest.” 

Bruce retreats to the showers and then likely to bed. Jason turns his attention to the Batcomputer, bringing up the previously viewed file. He digs deeper into the file, though it’s not as if Bruce has actually hidden what he’s looking for. 

Willis Todd. Petty criminal. Presumed dead. Two-Face believed responsible. For further info press Return. 

He doesn’t even bother to hit the Return key this time. Jason is more than familiar with the case of Willis Todd. The face of his biological father stares back at him, and if the screen were more reflective, Jason would look like a younger version of the man, down to the constant scowl and all. He’d inherited those stupid curls from Willis, too. 

The first time he’d discovered this shocking piece of information, he’d spent the following day in bed. Bruce had been bewildered, and Alfred had been worried. Jason had been stewing in the darkness. Bruce had eventually showed up at his door, dressed for the night in the middle of the day except for the cowl. Bruce had talked him into going out to stop Two-Face, who had apparently decided to hit up a baseball game. Jason lost it in his anger and also lost Two-Face in the process. The rogue scored a homerun off Batman in the middle of a broadcasted game of the Gotham Knights versus the Metropolis Twins, and then escaped. Batman and Robin rode back to the Cave in strained silence before Bruce descended on him in the privacy of their home. 

(Though, sometimes, when he’d been really angry at Bruce, he would go back and watch that clip of Two-Face hitting a homerun off his father and laugh.) 

“Alright, Jason. It’s time you explained yourself.”

He’d ripped the domino mask off and turned away from his father. “I answer to nobody but me!”

“Spare me the tough street kid routine. I invested time in you–”

Jason had crossed his arms and sneered. “Yeah, yeah.” 

“You blew it back there! Everything I taught you went out the window! You completely lost your cool. Months of training, physical and mental. I took you into my home, my world, to share a secret, sacred trust–” 

Jason cried, which was a bit embarrassing. He did tend to cry when he got angry, at least when it came to Bruce. This never quite went away, even when he grew up, so it’s not like he could blame it on childish emotions. “Trust! Don’t make me laugh! I looked up Two-Face in your fancy computer–that’s something else you taught me how to do! And I saw how my father died! Two-Face murdered him! I had a right to know! Why did you keep it from me?!” 

Bruce had the good sense to look ashamed, and also surprised when Jason decided to wail on him with his fists. There’d been no real heat in the hits, though. He put his hands on Jason’s shoulders. “No wonder you lost it. Jason…I was wrong. But I was trying to protect you.” 

“Protect me? You’ve taken me into combat but you spare me this?” Jason was still crying.

“This is harder than combat, son. Fighting comes easily to the young. Learning how to temper revenge into justice, well…that’s hard even for an adult.” 

Somehow, Bruce’s concept of protecting his children always seemed to end up with them getting hurt in the end, anyway. Sometimes it hurt even more than whatever he’d been trying to protect them from. It started with Dick, then Jason, carried onto Tim, and over to Damian. Probably with Cassandra, too. Jason knows that it probably comes from a genuine place, but also marvels at Bruce’s ability to somehow choose the same wrong course of action for over 15 years. 

He stares at the computer for a long time before shutting it off and heading to the shower. When he’s in pajamas, he heads upstairs and makes a detour to Bruce’s room. The Manor is quiet at night, save for the occasional old house noises he’s long since become accustomed to. Jason quietly slips inside and stares at the still body of his father in the large bed, backlit by a sliver of moonlight escaping the heavy drapes. 

“Dad?” he says, very quietly. 

Bruce stirs. “Jason?” 

His voice is sleep heavy. Jason wonders if he’s woken him from a dream. His father’s eyes seem far away, though clarity seems to be returning to them. He’s looking more concerned by the second. 

Slowly, Jason crosses the roof and sits on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t look at Bruce. His eyes are focused on his hands, clasped in his lap. “Why didn’t you tell me that Two-Face murdered my father?” 

Bruce, who had been reaching out to him, stills. He hears a controlled exhale of breath. “You saw.” 

“Well,” Jason says, tone lighter than he really feels, “you did teach me how to use the Batcomputer. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that hard. You might need to up the ante of your coding skills and password protections if you don’t want me seeing stuff.” 

“Jason,” Bruce does reach for him, then. “I’m sorry. I was trying to protect you. I was wrong. I should have told you. You had a right to know.” 

Jason inclines his head in Bruce’s direction. “Yeah, I did. Were you worried that I was going to try and get revenge or something?” 

Bruce’s fingers tighten minutely on his shoulder. He knows that he’s hit the nail on the head because Bruce had told him exactly that, before, in so many words. He’s been around the block a few times, Bruce. Give him some credit where it’s due. “Jason, I…losing both your parents…it’s…a very lonely thing. It can make you feel hopeless and lost, or even extremely angry. Time doesn’t always heal that hurt, either. I wanted to spare you that grief for as long as I could.” 

Jason drops his shoulders and leans into Bruce’s touch. “Well, I’m not alone. I’ve got you, don’t I?” 

It doesn’t really hurt that much anymore, knowing Willis is dead. Not like it had the first time. And it’s true, Bruce is still here. He will always come when he calls during this time in their lives. Still, he wonders. 

“My mom,” he swallows, because that grief still chokes him sometimes, “used to say I made facial expressions just like him. And that I had his shoulders and chin. Do you think that I look like him?” 

Bruce is silent for a moment. “I think,” he says, very carefully, “that you look like your mother.” 

Jason clenches his jaw and averts his eyes. 

“In the pictures you have of her, she always looks like she has kind eyes. You have her eyes, Jason, and her nose, and her smile. It’s a wonderful smile that you share with her, and I feel privileged every time I get to witness it. I think, most importantly, that you have her heart, Jay.” 

“I miss her,” he confesses, because the ache for the love of a mother is what had gotten him killed in the first place. 

Bruce pulls him into a hug. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

They stay like that for a while, letting time pass.

Chapter Text

And there was something 'bout you that now I can't remember

It's the same damn thing that made my heart surrender

And I miss you on a train, I miss you in the morning

I never know what to think about–

I think about you

– About You

viii. been picking scabs again–

Jason knows Bruce well enough to know what he must have been thinking that night. 

No matter what I say, Robin likes to go it on his own whenever he gets the chance. The trouble is that he’s nowhere near as good as he thinks he is. He’s new at this dangerous game. There are still a lot of tricks he’s yet to learn. That’s how he ended up in that mess. 

Indeed, back when he truly had been new to the game, Jason had taken a solo flight from his mentor after trailing a dealer to a coke lab. He’d been more pleased than a prized Georgia peach in the summertime with his discovery, and it had made him careless. It’s more than a little embarrassing to reflect on, but he supposed more experiences where one got kicked off the learning curve and onto their ass were never a walk in the park. Jason should have known that a setup such as the one he’d stumbled upon would have guards posted up outside–especially on the roof. 

Back in the day, one had snuck up on him and sent him hurtling down through the skylight to the cold, hard, concrete floor. He’d been sloppy. Very sloppy. The other men inside had been all-too happy to pull their weapons–switchblades, brass knuckles, even nunchucks –but they had been halted from beating him to a pathetic pulp by the appearance of the one, the only, Nightwing. 

Or, Discowing, Jason thinks with a snort. 

Nightwing had sent the guy responsible for throwing Jason through the roof ass over piss-dyed head right into the group about to descend on Robin. He’d crashed headfirst into a guy in a hideous green suit and brandishing a baseball bat, allowing Jason to escape immediate harm. Everybody in the room, including himself, had been bewildered to see some guy in various shades of blue and yellow and a domino mask leap from the heavens instead of Batman. 

“My name’s Nightwing! I may not be the gent you were expecting, but let me assure you–like him, I’m the stuff of nightmares!” 

Dramatic ass. Dick always had been born for the spotlight in the center of the ring. 

Even weirder still, Nightwing had pulled a wad of cash from… somewhere and tossed it to the nunchuck guy to pay for any damages. This had been after that man had accused Robin of trespassing, confident that there was no actual cocaine on site. Nightwing had all but dragged Robin out of the warehouse, called him shorty, and given him quite the dressing down. The men inside the warehouse had been waiting for the unrefined coca paste, which hadn’t been scheduled to arrive until the following night. Jason hadn’t known who the hell Nightwing was at the time and had been shocked by the later revelation that he was, in fact, saved by his prodigal older brother. Well, he’d be the prodigal son if he actually returned to the house. Dick would make his homecoming the next morning, but it would not be repentant by any means. 

It had been a strange turn of events back then. Jason had never even thought to ask what had called Dick back to Gotham after such a long radio silence with their father. 

Tonight is that same fateful night, both eight years ago and not, and Jason has already shaken the hourglass and changed the sands of time. He’s perched on the same rooftop, away from the guard he now knows is stationed there, cheek resting on his arm. The city is quieter tonight than usual, which has allowed him to slip away from Batman. After their conversation a few days ago, Bruce had seemed especially concerned about Jason and his whereabouts. It had been nice, but having your father–the goddamn Batman–breathing down your back in thinly veiled worry for days was also stifling. Jason is glad for a few moments away. No doubt Bruce could locate him if he tried, but Jason is also much better at not being found than he had been when he was actually thirteen. 

He can also taste it in the cool Gotham air–something is different. There’s a restless feeling inside him, and he wonders if he’ll be hurtled through the months again soon. Summer is waiting in the wings already, so he knows that he’s teetering on the precipice of change. Bruce will take him on a camping trip this summer, just the two of them. There will be some survival training involved, but it will also be a father-son bonding trip. Bruce will teach him how to make s’mores and they will argue the merits of a marshmallow cooked to a perfect golden brown or charred black. Jason will teach Bruce how to make chili dogs and they will eat enough junk food to give Alfred nightmares for a month. 

Jason is thinking about a waitress flirting with Bruce in a diner on their trip when he hears the telltale near-silent footfalls of someone landing from a grapple. He eyes the guard, positioned across the roof, fishing a crushed pack of Pall Malls out of his pocket. Then, Jason languidly looks up into the openly curious face of Nightwing. 

Or, more specifically, Nightwing’s ridiculously deep vee-neckline and his David Lee Murphy mullet. Perhaps he should set about bullying Dick out of this getup. He hadn’t seen his brother much back in the day, but he had no doubt that had a horrendous taste in clothing. Vigilante uniforms included. 

“Can I help you, Hasselhoff?” 

Nightwing startles. “What are you doing here?” 

“Uh,” Jason drawls. “It’s Gotham. The night belongs to Batman and Robin. Haven’t you heard?” 

Nightwing braces his hands on his hips. This is a stance that Jason is extremely familiar with. “Well, I don’t see the Dark Knight anywhere. Where’s your shadow?” 

Jason shrugs one shoulder. “Dunno. Had to lose him for a bit. He’s been cramping my style lately. You may not know this, but he has a bad habit of hovering. He’s gotta be worse than any government agency. I didn’t even do anything wrong. Well,” he pauses, “other than getting kidnapped.” 

Nightwing drops down beside him, arm slung lazily over his knee, but his posture is tense. “Kidnapped?” 

“Two-Face. Hostage exchange. No big deal. I got away, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Nightwing repeats, dryly. “You should be more careful, shorty. That was reckless.” 

Jason turns to look at him, expression knowing. “Wow. Haven’t heard that one before. You sound just like Batman. Know him well, or something?” 

Nightwing stiffens. 

Jason settles back to let that one marinate. “Anyway, I had to blow him off for a bit. I asked him some questions I don’t think he was ready to hear, or that he knows how to handle. Important stuff, y’know. I think it freaked him the hell out, though. He probably thinks something is going to happen to me. Real funny, if you’re askin’ me.” He leans over, holding up his hand to shield his mouth as if he’s about to share a great secret. “He’s the one that gave me this position.” 

Nightwing is still, looking away from him, toward the smoking guard. His jaw looks taut, as if he’s grinding his teeth. “How hypocritical of him.” 

“Hey pal, you’re preaching to the choir. You should hear him talk about the original Robin. I’m just the follow-up act, you know.” Jason props his chin in his palm and side-eyes his brother. “He’s always holding me to the first Robin’s standards. If I were that guy, I’d probably be a little pissed that Batman gave away something that was mine without asking after ousting me. Or something. I don’t know what really happened.” Lie, but Jason has always been great at lying. “He never comes around. Heard he was in New York, or something. You set the precedent, bounce, and still get used. Go figure.” 

Nightwing is uncharacteristically silent. 

“But,” he sighs dramatically, “I need a break to breathe from the old man sometimes. He thinks he saved my life in his own way or something. Batman thinks he can save my soul too.” 

“I’m not,” Nightwing says, suddenly. “I’m not…mad. Not at you.” 

Jason turns his mouth inside his hand to hide his coy smile. 

“I had to learn about you from the newspaper ,” Nightwing continues, his tone so acidic that it would feel corrosive if Jason knew it wasn’t aimed at him. “How did he find you, anyway? You never said.” 

“Surprise, it’s a boy.” Jason grouses. Leaning back, he heaves a fond sigh. “He caught me boosting the wheels off the Batmobile. I hit him with a tire iron and he followed me back to my place. Good times.” 

He thinks back to that shitty little hole-in-the-wall. The plaster had quite literally been falling off the walls, paint peeling, and he’d been using a beat-up camping lantern hanging from the main light’s electric hardware for lighting. The single window had been long boarded up. But, he’d done the best to make a home of it. He’d had a raggedy old mattress with some sheets, an old pillow, and blankets. He’d had old bookshelves put out on the curb to be taken to the trash, which he’d picked up and piled high with books. Jason had dragged a broken armchair into the place and propped it up with pieces of a forklift transfer pallet and used a box as a side table. He’d even found a semi-working boombox, which he’d tinkered with until he fixed it. There had been his Eric Peters, Rebel Kind, and Poison Idea posters spread over the worst holes in the walls. Of course, his prized possession had been a photo of his mother–Catherine, that is–taken before Willis had gone to jail and everything had fallen apart. 

And, most important of all had been several jacked tires–including Batman’s whitewalls–stacked in the room. 

“Son,” the Batman in his memory recites, bewildered, “do you… live here?” 

He’d seemed almost hesitant to ask. 

“Yeah! What of it? It’s mine and I like it!” 

Jason is brought back to the present by the shaking of Nightwing’s shoulders, as if he’s trying to hold in laughter. “So, you know, I was all like, ‘ hey MTV, welcome to my crib’ and he was horrified at what he saw. That’s the gist of it–at least, you won’t get that from the papers.” 

“I came here thinking I’d have to bail you out of trouble,” his older brother confesses after composing himself. “I saw you and thought you were going to try and bust them.” 

Smug, he flicks Nightwing in the shoulder. “Nah, rookie mistake. I’m not that green, you know. I followed a dealer here, so I know something is going down. But those thugs are just waiting for the raw materials, and they’re not getting a shipment tonight. No point in going in there now and spooking them. They’d just change locations, and that would be a headache.” 

Nightwing looks surprised. “How did you know that?” 

Jason smiles, private and slow, like he’s got a great secret. “‘Cause I’m magic. Being Robin gives me magic, didn’t you know? Sure saw you through the years, old timer.” 

Dick’s jaw drops in disbelief before he’s pulling Jason in for a noogie. “You little son of a gun,” he mutters. 

Jason shakes his head, pleased. “You still sound like him. That’s what he said when I hit him with a tire iron and called him a big boob.” 

“He is the biggest boob,” Dick agrees. “But he’s got you to keep him in line.” 

“He has you, too.” Jason points out. “What brings you to Gotham, anyway?” 

Nightwing releases him and sits back. “There’s been a rise in cocaine dealing in Bludhaven. Dunno if you’ve been there, but it’s a rough city–I’d say it’s like Gotham, only with no Batman…or Robin. Kids are even getting their hands on the stuff. I can’t stand that. I tracked their operation back here, to Gotham. I was planning to bust them tomorrow night.” His jaw ticks. “And…tell Bruce we have to talk. I’ll stop by the Cave tomorrow.” 

Dick rises from the cold rooftop and sends him a two-fingered salute as he walks off. 

Jason rolls his eyes and heads back to Batman, expecting an earful. 

“Nightwing was the original Robin, Jason,” Bruce informs him from the bench press the next morning. He’s decked out in a white muscle tank and frankly, horrifying little blue shorts. It’s too much. The press would have a field day with this outfit, only they would not be sharing Jason’s horror. “I never told you about Dick’s other identity because I felt it was his secret.” 

Their conversation is no different from the one in his memories, apart from the fact that he never had to mention his failure to Batman, but only because he hadn’t failed this time around. It feels a bit like cheating, in a way. 

“Discowing should have stayed a secret,” Jason mutters. 

Bruce doesn’t hear him. “But it looks like Mr. Grayson has decided to spill the beans, so…” 

He trails off, uncertain. Jason looks over from his own reps and raises a brow. Bruce has no idea that he’s met Dick a few times prior to this, or called him, either. That first time had even been as Nightwing, and though Dick hadn’t seemed too pleased to see him, he had given Jason his number. “Got any idea what he wants?” 

“Maybe,” Bruce answers cryptically, then stares very intensely at the bar. 

It weirds Jason out. He eyes his father from across the mats. “He doesn’t…like maybe…want his old job back, does he?” 

No, that wasn’t it. This really wouldn’t be about Jason at all. In a way, yes, but Dick already knew about Jason and had agreed to be brothers, and even answered his phone calls at all hours of the night. This would be about Dick and Bruce, and the unfinished business between them that would actually remain unfinished for years, until after Jason died that one time. They would attempt to repair their distinctly rocky relationship for Tim’s sake, and maybe finally their own. 

They would not, however, attempt to do so for Jason. 

He swallows, an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, and Bruce exhales. “No,” his father answers. He hefts himself from the bench and throws a towel over his shoulder. Bruce is turned away from Jason, likely to hide his expression. “Dick’s tour of duty as Robin is a thing of the past. He’s got a new life and destiny. I imagine what he wants to talk about is personal .” 

Jason watches him as he towels off himself, the distance between them suddenly seeming so very far. 

Bruce still isn’t looking at him. “You better get showered and off to school. I’ll see you tonight.” 

Jason heads for the stairs, heart unexpectedly heavy. This is new for him this time around. He pauses on the first step, fingers trailing absentmindedly along the cave wall. He’s sure that if he could see Bruce’s face, he’d find a hell of a scowl there. “Just…” he sighs, weary. “Just remember what I said before. About talking to him. Frigid , Bruce. He’ll pull in like his car belongs here, and you’ll get all annoyed. I know you will. You were his life, Bruce. You were all he had, and you turned around and really hurt him. I know you were freaked out, Bruce, but damn. He thinks you don’t care about him anymore, B. And I know that’s not true. For once in your life, don’t be obtuse. Just tell him the truth. Just tell your son that you miss him. Don’t push him away.” 

He stares at the taut muscles of his father’s back as Bruce stands, unmoving. By the time he turns around to say something to Jason, his son is long gone. 

That night, Nightwing is waiting for him a few roofs away. Jason leaps over a great crevice between buildings as his brother turns to him. “I’ve been waiting for you.” 

“You have?” 

Dick turns from where he’s leaned against a crumbling chimney. “Yeah, I figured you’d come back here tonight. What do you say about busting it together?” 

“Sure,” Jason agrees, easy. Truthfully, he misses fighting by Dick’s side. It’s long been something familiar, and he craves that taste of normalcy. 

In Dick’s hands there rests a rather large white gift box. He holds it out to Jason. “But before we do that, why don’t you open this?” 

Carefully, Jason takes the box from his brother’s hands. “What is it?” 

Dick crosses his arms and studies him with an expression he can’t decipher. “Something that belongs to you. I don’t need it any longer. Look, Jason, I’m my own man now as Nightwing. You’ve…you’ve done the name of Robin proud, and I’m glad it’s you. I think you’re bullheaded enough to pull the enormous stick out of Batman’s ass. You’re good for him. Maybe more than I ever was.” 

Jason’s heart does a backflip into his throat. “Don’t say–” he chokes. “Don’t say that.” 

I ruin him. I turn him into something so terrible that Tim Drake has to step in and bully him into taking care of himself again. I come back and somehow make things even worse. I’m not good. Not like you. 

He clears his throat. “Nightwing, you’re…you mean a lot to him. You know he isn’t good with emotions. You said yourself that communication is his biggest problem.” 

Bruce misses you. I miss you. 

Jason feels desperate, all of a sudden. He wishes they could be a real family, not the dysfunctional one he’d lived a life with already. They’d been that way when he died, too. “I can talk to him. I’ll try and reason with him.” 

Nightwing presses his lips into a very stern, very thin line. Ah. So perhaps that talk this morning hadn’t gone the way Jason had hoped. “Look…that stuff between B and me…it’s complicated. I don’t even know how it got so bad. It can’t be fixed overnight. I think it would take some sort of miracle.” He laughs, but it’s more hurt than humor that leaks through. “But…it doesn’t have to be that way between us. It’s not fair to make you the middleman in our war. I’m angry, he’s angry, and you don’t deserve the fallout from that.” 

Jason feels all of thirteen instead of twenty-one. This is entirely new. Dick had never said all this to him before. He’d given him a bigger size Robin outfit, a brief speech, and that had been that. 

Dick places a hand on his shoulder. “I’m officially passing the mantle of Robin to you, little brother. I’ve made some modifications to the uniform in that box that I think will suit you. More reinforcements in areas that need it. You’ll grow into it in a few years. You’re your own man, too. I was mad at Batman for a while for taking on someone after me. He is a hypocrite, but he needs you.” 

He needs you too. I need you. Come home. 

“And,” Nightwing puts Robin into a friendly headlock, “Gotham needs you.” 

Jason feels oddly shy. He doesn’t know how to be genuine in this fragile moment. “Thought you were big into showmanship.” 

“What?” his brother laughs. “You want fireworks? Maybe a man shooting out of a canon? Will you settle for a team-up between brothers? Make it real official, y’know?” 

Jason inclines his head. “I guess that’ll do.” 

Nightwing vaults over the rooftop. “So how about we go roust some bad guys?” 

Robin follows, because of course he does. “Right behind you!” 

They descend on the drug lab lackeys who are none the wiser. They’re far too busy inspecting the bulk delivery of coca paste that has just rolled in. Some guy in a brown coat is inside the truck, lifting a sheet to survey the situation. “Looks like the shipment’s all here. Let’s unload it and get it cooking.” 

“Don’t bother,” Nightwing calls from where he’s leaning against the warehouse bay door. “It’ll be a lot easier to transport it all down to the police impound if you just leave it in the truck.” 

This immediately puts the gang of criminals on edge. They’re drawing their haphazard  assortment of weapons at the mere sight of him. 

“Who is this guy?!” 

“Doesn’t matter–waste him!” 

And here comes Robin with a side kick! Jason plants a firm and heavy foot into the one wielding a gun and also that weirdo nunchuck dude. “These guys are in need of some attitude adjustment, Mr. Nightwing! Shall we oblige them?” 

The men go flying backwards with dual cries of pain. Jason delivers a kick in the jaw to some other guy trying to take him down from behind while Dick dodges a bullet and decks the shooter. “Adjust away, Mr. Robin!” 

The fight doesn’t last long. Truthfully, the guys are lightweights, and Nightwing and Robin just have that much more experience on them. All in all, the brawl only lasts about 120 seconds before all the cronies are down for the count. 

Nightwing stands and surveys the pile of bodies with his hands on his hips. “Not bad for a beginner, kid.” 

Robin dusts off his gloves. “Duly noted, old-timer.” 

“Your side kick could use some work, Little Wing.” 

Jason’s head turns so fast that he nearly gives himself whiplash. “‘ Little Wing ’?” he repeats in barely breathed disbelief. “What…and shut up! It does not! You’re nitpicking!” 

He’s just not totally adjusted to fighting in his 13-year-old body, damnit. He’s used to a lot more brute force and bulk at his disposal. 

Dick looks too pleased with himself. “Hm, Little Wing. I like it. Cute nickname for a cute kid. I’ve been workshopping it.” 

“I am not cute!” 

“I’m getting an apartment in Bludhaven,” Dick tells him, suddenly, as if Jason hadn’t just been yelling at him. He says it casually, but Jason knows him well enough to tell that his older brother must have practiced this in front of the mirror about a dozen times. Dick holds his wrist and rubs his thumb over his pulse point–another telltale sign that he’s nervous. “I think they need me there. I…I want to be there. You could come visit, if you want. Brothers visit each other, right?” 

Jason knocks his shoulder against Dick’s. “Yeah. You know that’s right. Bludhaven is lucky to have you.” 

A thought occurs to him, then. He fishes something out of his many utility belt pockets. “Here. I brought you something too.” 

He extends a small container of something very precious , which Dick takes with a gasp. “Are these…are these Alfred’s chocolate chip cookies?” 

Jason sniffs in disdain. “Something tells me you’ve been living off the store-bought kind since you made your grand exit. You know, before my time.” 

Dick opens the lid to the tupperware and stares in wonder. “Nestle Tollhouse and Chips Ahoy could never compare. It’s like Alf’s got this…this secret touch. It’s like…” 

He shoves one into his mouth, whole. Jason is a bit appalled, though he understands the sentiment. He watches Dick take several out of the container and pack them away in a bag. 

“Magic?” Jason offers, snatching one for himself. He’d brought them to share, after all. “I figured you didn’t get any today when you were there. By the way,” he pulls himself up on a crate and kicks his feet, “I call dibs on the last chocolate chip cookie. Forever.” 

“For– forever ?” Dick’s voice cracks without his permission. He looks highly offended. 

 Jason throws his head back and laughs, carefree and wild. 

“No! That’s not fair! You can’t call forever dibs! What the hell is that?!” 

He eyes the white box resting next to them, his future packed away inside. “Uh, I totally can. Need I remind you of the International Dibs Protocol?” He reaches into the container and picks up the last cookie. “Besides, I’ve got it in my hand. Possession is like nine-tenths of the law, bro.” 

Dick sputters in incredulity as sirens wail in the distance, drawing ever closer. 

(He never had grown into the Robin costume Dick had given him. Jason had never had the chance.)

The next Saturday finds Jason outside Wayne Manor practicing skateboarding with Tim again. It’s a chillier day, despite the promise of spring break on the horizon, as if winter doesn’t quite want to let them go just yet. The season has blown them one last kiss by way of an unexpected cold front with a crisp breeze to boot. 

Jason blinks away stray wisps of hair as the wind nips at his face and peers up at the swirling clouds above them. Looks like rain. Typical. 

“Tim…what do you think of time travel?” 

Tim spares him a withering glance. “Uh, it’s a fun sci-fi concept? It’s in a lot of media. You mean as a whole, or like…a specific scenario? ‘Cause there’s different takes on it. Also all the theories.” 

Jason idly pushes his skateboard back and forth with his foot. “Hm. Okay, have you ever seen 12 Monkeys ?” 

Tim shakes his head, a bit in awe. “That movie is rated R. Does Mr. W– Bruce let you watch rated R movies?” 

“Nah,” Jason snorts and does a frontside 180 like Tim had taught him earlier. “They barely let me watch PG-13 movies. Bruce has this theory that the ratings don’t always match up to the content of the movies. He told me that they only started really applying them after Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom came out and mothers were horrified that their kids were witnessing men’s hearts being ripped from their chests.” Jason scoffs. “Please. It’s not that graphic. It was the 80s.” 

Tim nods, taking it all in, looking unsure. 

It had always struck him as an odd rule considering he witnessed way worse during his time as Robin than most of what came out and was deemed fit for media consumption. He digresses. 

“Okay, well, here’s the main plot. Bruce Willis plays the main guy. Somebody released a deadly virus in 1996 that wiped out almost all of humanity. Scary stuff. Everybody thinks this group, the Army of the Twelve Monkeys, is responsible for releasing the virus. In 2035, Bruce Willis is a prisoner living in this underground compound, and he’s chosen to be sent back in time to find a sample of the original virus to help the scientists develop a cure.” 

Tim is still nodding, showing he’s following along. 

Jason carries on. “Right, well, he ends up in 1990 instead. He’s arrested and put into a mental hospital. Willis explains to these doctors that the virus already happened and it can’t be stopped. They think he’s looney tunes. He also meets this guy with like…some real extremist environmental views–that’s Brad Pitt. Anyway, a lot of stuff happens, he gets sent back to 2035, and then weirdly to World War I for a hot second. But then he finally gets to 1996. Brad Pitt actually ended up founding the Twelve Monkeys, but he denies involvement and claims that Willis actually perpetuated the idea of wiping out humanity with a virus stolen from Pitt’s dad.” 

Tim squints. “Uh, okay.” 

“Willis has this whole mental breakdown, you know, from traveling between the future and the past, because he can’t tell what’s real anymore. He’s also haunted by these dreams of a foot chase and a man dying in an airport. He believes that he’s crazy and just imagining he’s from the future. He also kidnaps this doctor lady who had originally diagnosed him in 1990, so she’s along for this whole ride in 1996. But she finds evidence of his time travel to World War I, go figure, and she’s all like, ‘no Bruce Willis, you are sane and this is totally real.’ They have like this romance side plot.” 

Jason pauses to look at Tim. “Anyway, Willis goes rogue from the future scientists to try and save humanity and stop the scientist guy who actually released the virus. The rogue scientist guy was actually an assistant to Brad Pitt’s father, and the Army of the Twelve Monkeys actually had nothing to do with the plague at all, it was purely coincidence. Willis chases the assistant through the airport and pulls a gun out, but is shot by airport security. He dies, and the doctor lady sees a young version of Willis in the crowd, witnessing his own death. Those were the visions he was haunted by. They were actually memories.” 

“That’s it ?” Tim questions. “That’s how it ends?” 

Jason nods. 

The younger boy makes a face. “I don’t like this one. It’s scary and sad. Bruce Willis doesn’t even succeed in any of the things he was trying to do. What’s the point?” 

Jason ponders this. “It’s like…perception versus reality. The point of the film is that you can go back and change something in the past, because Willis did change the past, but it’s already happened, because he went back and changed it.” 

“So like a paradox,” Tim decides. “So…Bruce Willis is stuck?” 

“It’s a paradox, and a time loop, and a bunch of other things.” 

Tim fiddles with the straps of his helmet. It’s covered in stickers. Very fun. “Yeah, but…it’s also just a movie. So you don’t have to worry about that kind of thing. I like the time travel depicted in Star Trek better. It doesn’t seem so scary,” he adds, as an afterthought.  

“You’re so right, Timmy,” Jason hums. “I’m watching The Original Series with B right now because he told me I have to see it. It’s a classic, or something. We should totally go inside and watch The Next Generation instead, though. I haven’t seen it, but it looks cool. Wanna? We got a whole movie theater room and everything. Alfred can even make you chocolate-covered popcorn.” 

Tim is staring at him with stupidly perceptive eyes as if he can figure Jason out. Perhaps, in a few years, he could. He’s seen that look before over the years, when Tim has been faced with a mystery he finds particularly interesting. Now, though, it makes Jason nervous. “Uh, you do like The Next Generation, right?” 

“Yeah,” the boy responds slowly. “How’d you know? But I’ve only seen a couple episodes. We should probably start from the beginning.” 

Jason winks at him, smug. “Lucky guess. And lucky you, because Bruce is a big nerd and he has all the boxed seasons. Come on, let’s go. It looks like the sky is about to break.” 

Tim looks up at the sky, now ominously dark and threatening to open upon them at any moment. He shivers at the drop in temperature and heads for the Manor. “Okay. It sounds fun.” 

Jason spares one last look out the front door of the Manor and out into Bristol and Gotham City proper. He swallows and turns to follow Tim, hoping he isn’t stuck. 

That evening Jason fetches an empty composition book and a pen and sits down at his desk with a very serious task in mind. He taps the capped end of the pen against his desk and chews on his lip nervously. He knows that Bruce has created a version of this very thing, in a way, which he’s updated over the years (at least, in Jason’s real time). He'd woken up 13-years-old again before he ever got to view the in the event of my death video addressed to him. Might as well follow in his father’s footsteps here. 

Tim, he writes, thinking of the right words. Because if anyone were to believe him, it would be Timothy Jackson Drake, who somehow had more faith than the rest of them. It's something that only Jason knows, now. 

If you’re reading this, then something has happened to me. I’m writing this now as a precaution, and because I feel bad that I won’t be there for you in the future. Don’t ask me how I know that Bruce has taken you in, or how I knew exactly what room Alfred would put you up in, or that you’d eventually find this. I know that you’ll become Robin, too. I told Bruce and Dick once that I was magic, and I’m telling you that now. I just know. 

Speaking of Dick and Bruce, I’m trying to do damage control, but I don’t know how much I’ll accomplish. The two of them are a nightmare, and I fear you’ll get the worst of it. Sorry about that, even if they never apologize to you for it. They’re both gonna fuck up a lot, but bear with them, for me. And for them. They need you, whether they want to admit it or not. 

They’ll train you, too. Maybe they’ve already started before you find this. I don’t know all the specifics of what’s going to happen. But I want to put my two cents into your training too, even if it’s from beyond the grave. I got a lifetime of knowledge, little bro. Think of it as my part of the Robin Manual, which is totally something we should compile. If I were alive, I would ask you to be my Robin. In a way, I'm passing the mantle onto you officially now. Dick did it for me, too, once upon a time. I want you to know that I'm proud of you, and that no matter what happens, I'll always be proud of you. I'm saying it now, real and in writing, in case you never hear it from me again. I know you'll be great. You're my Horatio, remember? You'll carry on the legacy and do it proud - more than I ever did. Chances are that you're going to get into some real deep shit in the future, which comes with the territory I'm afraid, so I want you to remember that. Yes, I'm serious. 

Anyway, I digress. Let’s start off with what you really need to know…

Just in case, Jason thinks. 

Just in case.

Chapter Text

Not wondering at the present nor the past;

For thy records and what we see doth lie,

Made more or less by that continual haste.

   This I do vow, and this shall ever be:

   I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.

– Sonnet 123

ix. so what somehow somewhere we dared–

Jason feels, for lack of a better term, like total shit. He feels like Bane had grabbed him and squeezed until he almost popped. His chest aches, ribs smarting and stabbing as he gasps for air. He feels like he hasn’t breathed in decades. His vision is black with light spots fading in, ears ringing. He’s dying again, or almost dying. He has to be. 

“Robin!” 

Bruce’s desperate voice pulls him from his dream. Everything is disorienting. Last night he’d gone to bed post-patrol and after manically writing letters to Tim. He did not remember suiting up again, or going through anything that would make him feel like he’d been passed through a trash compactor. 

“Uhhhhh,” he moans, sucking in desperate breaths of air. 

Batman is bracing him up, gently but firmly holding his shoulders. “Jay,” he pleads, eyes searching, “are you alright?” 

“I think so.” Jason blinks, woozy. “But it feels like I went ten rounds with a boa constrictor.” 

Bruce clenches his jaw. “The Joker got away with Selina.” 

Jason’s blood runs cold. 

“But not for long,” Batman vows as he rises from the floor and heads for the door.

He remembers this night. Selina, in what she had called “an attempt to do something decent” with her life, had accompanied them to bust the Joker at the library. She had decided to take on Joker alone while Batman and Robin had been taking care of the goons, which in Jason’s personal experience, never ended well. It had resulted in her capture at the hands of the Joker and subsequent electroshock torture under the watchful treatment of Doctor Moon. Man is nothing more than an animal, an utter slave to the demands of his carnal cage, and all that bullshit. 

Batman and Robin, meanwhile, had been caught in Joker’s deadly Chinese finger traps, which had squeezed and choked the living life out of them. 

Bruce leads him across the city under the cover of darkness to a very familiar sight. 

Jason eyes the members only entrance of McSurley’s with growing unease. He’s lost time again–sure, he’d lived it, just as thirteen and not twenty-one–and found himself waking up on a night he’d forgotten about. 

McSurley’s is an establishment of pure class. Scumbag class, mostly. It’s still around even in Jason’s adult years, by some sheer chance from hell. Definitely not miracle-based business longevity. He squints at the peeling sign hung over the back door– GOOD FOOD and COLD BEER, but someone has warningly spray painted BAD and WARM over the first word of each phrase, respectively. There seems to have been a back window, once, but it’s long since been busted out and bricked over. Several of the bulbs on the MCSURLYS (no possessive apostrophe) are burned out. One busts over their heads, as if that isn’t ominous enough. The back alley smells like hot vomit, week-old garbage, and buckets of piss. 

Very slowly, though he’s said this before (and not, at the same time), Jason turns to Batman. “We’re going in there ?” 

Batman puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Just follow my lead, Robin.” 

It is not reassuring at all, actually, and the dread growing inside Jason turns near chthonic. He couldn’t give a damn about McSurley’s and its clientele. His issue lies with the Clown Prince of Crime and the memories of this night that are all suddenly flooding back. It makes his blood turn to slush, freezing and painful as it courses through his veins. His limbs feel like they’re weighted with lead. Jason as thirteen is not supposed to be this rattled by the Joker. 

But Jason is not just thirteen. 

(He’s every bit thirteen, and fifteen, and dead-alive. He feels those phantom aches, the ones that don’t exist here and now but in his head, burning and tearing through his sinew, through his flesh. The feel of a crowbar slamming into him– gotta give it all you’ve got! Joker cries gleefully in his memory–over and over and over. Ribs cracking, puncturing his lungs as he fights to breathe, but every breath feels like it’s killing him. The Joker is killing him–) 

“Holjer water, Mac,” a lumbering voice slurs from the other side of the door. “I’m comin’.” 

Batman takes the opportunity to reach through the peephole door as soon as it’s unlatched. 

“Holy Jesus!” the guy hollers, staggering back. “It’s–” 

He doesn’t get a chance to finish before Batman has a fistful of his godawful orange vest and is pulling him through the unlatched door, headfirst. The bouncer ends up jammed through there, broad shoulders blocking him from being completely pulled through and tossed aside. Batman kicks the door in, leaving the bald bouncer speechless and vibrating back and forth from the impact. The strong stench of liquor, sweat, sex, and smoke immediately comes pouring out of the dingy room inside. Batman brushes the splinters off his hands and motions for Robin to follow him in. 

“Sorry about your bouncer, McSurley,” Batman announces to the gasping crowd. “But you know how I hate to make an entrance.” 

Jason’s gaze flits from a redheaded woman whose live anaconda is very tastefully covering her extremely naked chest, to a frightened and miserable-looking employee that is dressed in a giant chicken costume. He quickly concludes that he just wants to go home. 

McSurley is a squat balding man with a beer gut bulging from a hot pink silk shirt. He looks like the dollar store version of Tony Soprano, but shorter and greasier, and reeking of cheap Avon cologne. He has enough body hair to donate to charity to make about thirteen toupees. One of the buttons of his shirt bursts free from its prison and flies across the crowded room at mach jesus, hitting Jason in the forehead and giving him a horrific view of a faded I Love Lucy tattoo, vague but scandalous outlines of a woman’s bare figure and all. McSurley is puffing away on what Jason is sure is a very illegally imported Cuban cigar, nonplussed. 

He ambles over. “I allus said you should drop in more often, Batman! Like a table?” 

“You know what I want, McSurley. Where’s Profile?” 

McSurley begins to sweat as he puffs nervously at his cigar. “Uh, he ain’t in t‘night, Batman, he–” 

Batman throws the solid 3 ball over his shoulder and makes direct contact with a guy trying to whack him over the cowl with a pool stick. It clunks loudly in the unnatural stillness of the room, and the man falls backward, out cold. “I’ll see for myself, thanks.” 

“Hiya Bats,” a woman at the bar calls over. 

Batman slows in his purposeful stride and turns to give her a wide smile. “Hello Rhonda. Staying out of trouble?” 

Rhonda, who is nursing something bright yellow with a fun little paper umbrella, looks amused. “Not hardly.” 

She’s a beautiful woman–dressed in a red leather miniskirt and jacket set, yellow fishnets, white snakeskin boots, and lots of chunky jewelry. 

Batman is already moving through the crowd, following a grumbling McSurley. “I won’t be long. You mind the store, chum.” 

Right. Batman will do what he does best and go scare the shit out of Profile–an information broker working out of a backroom office. He’s the real reason they’d come to McSurley’s. Batman will threaten to plant Profile’s prints at the scene of a bank robbery at the Kroft Diamond Exchange, and Profile will sing like a kids’ choir on Christmas. 

Jason suddenly finds himself alone at the bar amidst some of Gotham’s wildest. “O- kay , Batman.” 

The bartender, who looks like Hulk Hogan with a buzzcut and an eyepatch, slams his palms down on the counter. There’s a faded LOVE MOM tattoo on his arm. “What’ll it be, kid? We’re all outta birdseed.” 

“Milk,” Jason recites the memory he’s currently living, pulling himself back onto a stool at the bar and giving a particularly rough patch of crowd a foul stink eye. 

“Milk?” Eyepatch repeats incredulously. 

Rhonda slides onto the stool beside him with a conspiratorial smirk and a two-finger salute. “Make that a double.” 

‘Every Breath You Take’ is blasting from the jukebox in the dive bar, filtered by the nervous or agitated chatter that’s resumed around them. One-eyed Willy sniffs loud and disgustingly, but pulls a half-empty gallon of milk from a refrigerator under the bar. He makes a grumpy show of pouring them their drinks, but slides them across the counter regardless. Jason catches it with a gloved hand, definitely feeling like George McFly in Back to the Future this time . 

“Might have some chocolate syrup around here somewhere,” the bartender mutters to himself. 

Jason feels a little alarmed. Rhonda chuckles. “He’s not so tough once you get to know him,” she winks. 

The bartender does produce a bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup. Jason eyes it with some trepidation because it looks about twelve years old and counting. He leans over and squirts a good two tablespoons into his milk and aggressively stirs it with a metal stick before Jason can even speak a word. He does the same for Rhonda, who looks amused at the whole ordeal. 

“I like your cape,” Rhonda tells him. “I like yellow. It’s one of my favorite colors.” 

Jason takes in her yellow fishnets, yellow jewelry, yellow scarf, and yellow lipstick (that’s a new one). “Thanks. More of a green guy myself. Yellow is really your color though. You sure bring some light to this dingy place. Not much else to look at around here.” 

“Why, you little charmer. Learn that from the big, bad Bat?” 

“As if ,” Jason rolls his eyes. 

Nervously, he sweeps the room with a weary gaze. Assessing the threat, the Batman in his mind tells him. 

“Don't worry your curly little head, Robin.” Rhonda assures him. “Nobody in here will bother you beyond giving dirty looks.” 

“Why? Because they’re afraid of Batman?” 

“Nah,” Rhonda winks at him and pinches his cheek. “Because you’re with me, little man. Want a snack?” 

She pulls a bowl of pretzels over to offer him, always on the house at McSurley’s. They both stare at the broken odds and ends and occasional full stale pretzel in the bowl. There’s a smashed cigarette butt in the mix and ashes seasoning the actual pretzel pieces in the bowl, as if someone had used it as an ashtray. Rhonda’s lip curls back in disgust and she shoves the dish at some guy with a mohawk at the other end of the bar who is sending Robin death glares. 

“Murph!” She hails the bartender. “Get the kid something to eat.” 

Murph narrows his one eye at them but disappears to the kitchen to find something edible to serve to the child vigilante seated at his bar. 

“Thanks,” Jason tells her, kicking his foot against the bar. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Oh please ,” Rhonda drawls, fluttering her lashes and smiling coyly over her milk. “And deprive you of the infamous bar food of the great McSurley’s? Mr. Robin, I would be doing you a disservice. Actually, I heard they hired a new line cook last week–right out of Blackgate. Apparently he makes great fried food.” 

“You can serve anything if it’s deep fried. It’ll taste good.” 

Rhonda clinks her glass against his. “I’ll drink to that.” 

She pauses and turns a critical eye on him, as if sizing him up for the first time since he creeped in under Batman’s shadow. Rhonda must be pleased with whatever she finds, because she settles back and flicks a peanut shell at some guy’s back, content.

“The big man treating you alright, kid?” 

Jason shrugs. “Can’t complain. He’s a little much, sometimes. You know, overbearing. You get used to it. I’m okay, though. He takes care of me.” 

Murphy chooses then to return through a smoky haze, brandishing a paperboard tray of disco fries. He deposits it roughly in front of Robin. “Here,” he grunts. “On the house.”

Jason slides the tray between them with his knuckles and inclines his head in the universal nonverbal language of let’s share. If it’s on the house, as Murph claimed, then no one will be paying but McSurley. Both parties at the bar have no issue with this fact. 

Rhonda points a perfectly manicured nail at him and narrows her eyes. “He’d better. I’ll beat his armored ass if he doesn’t. You come tell me first thing, and I’ll take care of him for you. You gotta know your worth in this world, honey. And from our happenstance meeting tonight, I can already tell you’re too good for it.” 

“You deserve the world, y’know,” Jason points a fry at her, cheese and gravy dripping off and splattering hot grease into the paper tray. He hopes that it distracts from the hot flush creeping up his neck and heading for his ears. 

“Aw sugar,” Rhonda nudges him with her shoulder. “Aren’t you a breath of fresh air. You make me wanna be a better woman than I really am.” 

Jason watches as the hot gravy saturates their fries. “Nah, you’re the best. I got your back too. Whether it’s Batman or whoever.” 

“My goodness,” Rhonda gives a good-natured roll of her eyes and sips her milk. “I could just eat you right up. Sweet little thing, aren’t you? Now I know you don’t get that from Batman, charmer that he is. That’s au-naturel. Real rare in these parts.” She taps the R on his chestplate. “All heart, ain’t ya, Robin?” 

His heart is exposed if you know how to look–Dick is right. It’s bared open and raw in a shitty dive bar, and it’s bleeding all over the floor. He’s long since given up trying to recover from blood loss, but surprisingly hasn’t died from exsanguination yet. It has been the death of him, though. Maybe it will be again. 

Jason holds his glass between both hands and stares down at his milk. “Can I tell you a secret, Rhonda?”

She waves a hand, amused. “Oh honey, many men less worthy than you have dared to share. I’ll keep it close to my heart. What’s on your mind?” 

He rubs a thumb over a chip in the glass. Back and forth, until he nearly breaks skin. “Sometimes Batman doesn’t let me out on school nights. I’ll watch out for you the best I can, but…can you do something for me? Stay away from South Heights.” 

Flashes of a horrific crime scene snuck after Bruce had gone to bed pass through his mind. Victim of many connected but senseless slasher murders. Mutilated, butchered, disposed of like a sack of garbage and left in a dumpster. Brutal. Anonymous. Women abused and then cut to ribbons, discarded like nothing. The kind of crime that happens a lot more often than anyone would like to admit. 

Jason, at thirteen, seeing Rhonda for the first and last time. 

The milk curdles in his stomach. 

“Hey now,” Rhonda puts her hand over his, gentle. “Wipe that haunted look off your face. I’ll stay clear of South Heights. Don’t worry about it, Robin.”

The crowd around the, grows restless again and parts like the Red Sea to allow Batman through. Jason is staring very intently at a half-bitten peanut on the filthy bar counter when Batman nods to him. 

“Let’s go, Robin.” 

“Okay, Batman.” 

Rhonda pats his hand, rises from her stool, and winks. “C’mon, I’ll see you two out there.” 

The two of them hurry after Batman, who has already vacated the premises and is waiting for Jason outside. He misses the long strides he’s been so used to for the last several years, instead nearly running to hurry back to his father. Rhonda doesn’t hurry for anyone, let alone the feared Batman. 

“He’s cute, Batman.” She ruffles Jason’s hair with a fond smile. “Bring him back when he’s a little older.” 

Batman sends her a bemused smile. It’s genuine. “We’ll see.” 

“That Rhonda’s pretty neat, Batman.” Jason sighs as they grapple away. He’s singing the same tune he had years ago in his time because it bears repeating. “She sure knows how to make a guy feel good.” 

“That’s what she’s best at, chum,” Bruce reasons. 

“She’s a lady , B,” Jason recalls his father telling him tonight and years ago at once. He spares a glance back at Rhonda, who is tweaking the nose of the bouncer, still stuck in the door. “Obviously.” 

“That’s right,” Bruce tells him. “Just like Selina.” His expression turns serious. “I only hope we’re not too late.” 

Predictably, Profile’s intel leads them to an abandoned toy factory–Jester Novelties. How very typical. 

Doctor Moon’s ‘ treatment ’ would work, alright. They wouldn’t make it to the factory in enough time to stop him from frying her brain. Recalibration, Moon had called it. Yeah fucking right. It would be enough to turn Selina against them again, however, if for a brief while. When Jason and Bruce arrived to save Selina, the Joker had left with her, and in the ensuing scuffle, also both greatly wounded Bruce’s feelings and royally pissed him off. The Joker had managed to convince Selina (with the aid of Moon’s treatment ) that Batman had hurt her and abandoned her, and she had attacked Bruce for the Joker, thereby letting the two of them escape. 

It is not even a little bit ironic. Not at all. 

Batman had deduced (accurately) that the Joker was setting Selina up to slip back into her old ways, and so he’d also be searching for a cat-theme crime. There’d been a story in the papers, one that Jason had seen in Gordon’s office, about the Benson heiress being stuck in some weird cataleptic state. Jason had suggested it back in the day (or now) because of the cat angle, and he’d been right on the money both times. 

They descend through the skylight–angels of mercy to some, paragons of divine retribution to others. 

Batman, of course, wastes no time living up to the former. “I knew I wasn’t too late, Selina!” 

The Joker freezes, a look of abhorrent shock on his face. “ You ?!” 

“Yeah,” Jason grinds his teeth. “ Us. ”

Joker throws himself at Robin, wielding his flower filled with acid. “I don’t care how many of you there are! I’ll kill you all!” He sends a volatile spritz sailing through the air, disintegrating whatever it touches. “Smell my flower, brat!” 

Jason drops to the floor, peeling wallpaper and exposed wall studs above his head. “No thanks, Joker.” 

He tucks into a roll and sends Joker flying headfirst into a wall via a double-footed firm kick to the ass. Literally. “You don’t have a permit for that pistil, motherfucker .” 

It’s easy to fall back into the role of Robin, and he uses it like a security blanket. There had always been a magic to being Robin, it was true. Some might argue that, much like beauty, the magic was in the eye of the beholder. Robin could throw around puns so unique (read also: so terrible) that Batman would use them to tell a real Robin from a fake. Robin could fight like a trickster, a real master of deceit–a child trained in the ways of war, deadlier than he (or she, if you were Stephanie, for about two whole weeks) looked. Robin could look at a 15-against-1 scenario and find the fun, and do it all with a smile. 

(Dick Grayson still fights like this, sometimes. He set the precedent, after all.) 

“It’s not too late, Selina,” his father is across the room, busy appealing. “The damage can be undone. You can be made normal.” 

Selina sniffs. “I am normal, lover.”

She cracks her whip against the face of one of Joker’s cronies who’d been attempting to take Batman out with a sledgehammer. “And I like it!” 

Jason sets to work cutting Mr. Benson and his son down from Joker’s deadly Chinese finger traps. He’s sawing through the material as the Benson boy looks on in awe. “Wow. You’re Robin! Can I have your autograph?” 

“I think that can be arranged.” Jason sends him a reassuring smile. 

The kid’s eyes blow wide. “Robin! Look out!” 

Jason, pulling out all the classic Dick Grayson acrobatics, falls to the floor and propels a lunging Joker feet-over-head into the floor. “Thanks kid! If I ever need an assistant, you’re it!” 

In a bizarre stroke of luck, the electrified buzzer that the Joker had been aiming to use on Robin instead wakes the catatonic Benson heiress. She opens her eyes with a start and looks around in confusion as her father and brother rush over to her in joy. 

“Bah!” The Joker howls. “When I’m contributing to the happy ending, I know I’m bombing! And speaking of which,” he rockets something at the ground, “this smoke bomb will give us a clean getaway! Coming, children?” 

“Right with you, Joker,” Selina calls somewhere through the smoke. “My catgut ladder will give us a leg up on our pursuers.” 

Jason attempts to filter out the smoke by shielding his face with his cape. Batman is pushing his way through the gloom toward the voices. 

“‘Tomorrow,’” the Joker cackles, “as a great philosopher put it, ‘is another day!’”

Batman looms at the bottom of the ladder as they ascend through the skylight. “Maybe so, Joker. But they all look the same from behind bars.” 

Jason reaches up and yanks, tugging one of Joker’s men down hard to the ground. He braces both hands on the man’s head and slams his jaw directly into the floor, using it as a base for leapfrog. “Not so fast, shorty. I haven’t punched your ticket yet.” 

“Hurry up , Joker!” Selina shouts from the rooftop, patience wearing thin. 

The Joker is currently trying to escape the vicious reach of Batman, who happens to be climbing the ladder below him. “Don’t be catty, Selina! It’s–”

He cuts off with a wheeze as Batman grabs a fistful of his tailcoat and yanks. “It’s over, Joker! You’re going down!” 

“That makes two of you, handsome!” Selina warns, right before she cuts the rope of the ladder. 

Batman and the Joker go tumbling to the floor in a heap as she waves from above. 

“You’d be a lot more fun if you weren’t so straight ,” she huffs. “See you around!” 

“Selina,” Batman–Bruce–pleads, “this isn’t you. This is Moon’s treatment!” 

Through the fading clouds of smoke, Jason can see that it doesn’t even matter. Selina is gone. This does not sit well with Batman one bit. 

The Joker, however, thinks it’s the funniest fucking thing since sitcom television. “Lost your little kitten, Batman? Too bad! Hahaha ha –” 

The Joker’s cackle is cut off by a vicious suckerpunch that sends his head flying sideways. Blood spurts from his mouth and splatters onto the wall. “Maybe,” he wheezes, undeterred, “an ad in the lost and found will– UNGHH !” 

“Stop laughing!” Batman roars, delivering merciless hit after brutal hit. “Do you hear me, Joker?! For years you’ve sneered and laughed at everything decent, but no more ! Do you hear me?!” 

The Joker is still laughing even as Batman descends upon him. Blood is leaking from his mouth and pouring from his nose, staining his nauseating yellow teeth. The cartilage is bent at a hideous angle and is definitely broken, split near the bridge and weeping. His breathing sounds strained, more of a breathy wheeze than anything, and it echoes hollowly in his cackling. One of his eyes is already swelling shut, leaking a disgusting mixture of tears and blood.
The Joker doesn’t even fight back. 

“No more!” Batman is still yelling, voice ragged and raging, as he beats the Joker into unconsciousness. 

The laughter finally stops, leaving the apartment hauntingly silent save for the sound of his father beating a man to death. Save for the sound of his father beating Jason’s murderer to death with his bare hands. 

Batman is heaving, holding the Joker’s limp body up by a fistful of his jacket, and he isn’t stopping. Every solid hit, every gush of blood, every thud of raging fists is like a symphony to his ears. It makes him feel so very goddamned alive , alive, alive. 

He could do it. 

Jason could let Bruce put a stop to everything, to all the suffering the Joker had caused and would cause, right in this very moment. It would be easy. It would be nothing. He could just stand there in silence and witness the moment he’s hopelessly waited for, both for years and no time at all. All the sinking fear he’t felt earlier, the anxiety gnawing away on his exposed nerves, it turns to live wires. He feels like Moon has run electric shock through him, and his heart is slamming against his ribcage like it’s trying to leap out. Jason clenches and unclenches his fists, green leather feeling more like a bed of nails. His breaths are labored, sucked in through once-but-not-punctured lungs and exhaled through all his teeth. He can taste the tangy metal of blood on his tongue. He doesn’t remember biting it. 

I’m not talking about killing Penguin, or Scarecrow, or Dent. I’m talking about him. Just him. And doing it because…because he took me away from you. I don’t know what clouds your judgment worse, your guilt or your antiquated sense of morality. Bruce, I forgive you for not saving me. But why, why on God’s earth is he still alive? 

Jason could let it all end. 

He could change it, once and for all. For the better. 

He could–

This is what it’s all been about. You, me, and him! Now is the time you decide! If you won’t kill this psychotic piece of filth, I will! If you want to stop me, you’re going to have to–

Killing the Joker would destroy Bruce. 

He’d never come back from that. He’d never stop, not like Jason. It would never end, except in blood. He’d be far too driven, far too obsessive, and the darkness would eat him alive and never give him back. 

You managed to find a way to win, the Joker laughs in his memory, and everybody still loses! 

He could –

Jason throws himself at Batman, and his voice shakes. “Batman, stop! Stop,” his voice breaks, cracks, falling into nothing. He struggles to find it again. “You’ll kill him!” 

He wraps his arms around the one Bruce has been using to throw hit after relentless hit. Joker’s blood drips from the gauntlet and smears against Jason’s costume. It makes for a slick hold. His father is nearly shaking apart in his grasp. 

“He took her from me, Robin! Every woman I love, something always takes her from me!” 

The Joker takes, and takes, and never stops taking. As if Jason, of all people, doesn’t know that. 

Despite the venom in his voice, Batman isn’t fighting him so much anymore. Jason trembles, and he hates himself for it. “You lost Catwoman, yeah…” he desperately tries to remember what he’d said before in this situation. “But you caught the Joker, and you saved the Bensons. You saved their lives. That’s…that’s something.” 

Batman drops the Joker and lets his arms fall slack. Jason hesitantly lets go and watches him turn to the relieved father hugging his son and daughter. The fight seems to have left him all at once, and left him drained. “No, Robin. That’s everything.” 

He turns to Jason and offers a blood-free hand. 

“Come on, chum. Let’s go home.” 

Jason’s own hands are shaking and he thinks he’s going to throw up. Personally, he feels like he’s just run an entire marathon in two minutes. 

He only wants what he can never have. 

Everything. It’s not enough.

Instead, he takes his father’s hand. 

Once upon a time, Jason had inherited a hand-me-down hoodie from Dick. It’s oversized on him still at thirteen, the bottom hem barely dusting the tops of his thighs, sleeves hanging loose at his side. It’s ‘90s White Zombie merch, the real deal, which had shocked Jason at the time. Perhaps it had been a gift from the Titans or something, or it had been a purchase he’d made on his own. Jason can’t imagine Alfred or Bruce buying it for Dick. His older brother had cut thumb holes in the sleeves with scissors. It had been worn-in, in a way that had made it just right. 

It had been something that he secretly cherished–a look into a part of Dick Grayson that not many got to see. Sure, Jason had plenty of other new sweaters and hoodies, but those didn’t carry the same sentiment. Damian had once accused him of being the most emotional in the family (very funny, considering they were all familiar with their older brother). Perhaps he had been correct. Alfred and Bruce always looked twice at him when he wore it around the house, but that never stopped him. 

When Jason had left for Ethiopia, that hoodie had been carelessly tossed onto his bed. Bruce had kept his childhood bedroom a perfect museum-mausoleum (depending on who you asked), with not a thing out of place. Everything was kept exactly how Jason had left it at fifteen, aside from the mussed comforter and sheets where Bruce had finally, finally forced himself to confront his son’s ghost–or lack thereof. 

A funny thing, in an unassuming way, considering that Dick had confessed, late one night, that when he had come home from space after Jason’s death, the Manor held no other trace of him. There had been no pictures of him hanging on the old walls or placed in ornate frames around flat-surfaced furniture worth a fortune. The only initial trace of Jason that Dick had found at all was that godawful memorial in the Cave. After what had surely been an emotional scream fest, Dick had fled to Jason’s room–which he’d found preserved, a moment stuck forever in time. 

(“One of my hand-me-downs was there on your bed,” Dick had told him, subdued. “I held it and cried. I kept thinking you’d walk in and yell at me for violating your privacy and getting snot all over your stuff. You never did.”) 

Look at me. Just look at me Bruce. Why can’t you look at me? 

Jason chases cold ghosts that have both haunted him and not away by digging around in his dresser for that White Zombie hoodie. He feels almost relieved when the stark azure face of the zombie printed on the front peeks up at him. The comfort he feels when he pulls it over his head is almost childish in a way that the Joker failed to beat out of him. 

Bruce has to leave town for actual, legitimate Wayne Enterprises business the next day. He isn’t happy about it in the least, but Alfred says it’s good for him. Jason, oddly, feels relieved. He’s home, and isn’t that great, but suddenly it’s all too much. Bruce doesn’t live with the weight of a previous life on his shoulders, but Jason does–twice over, and he’s carrying everyone else’s eidolons too. He needs a clean break, and he knows just where to go. 

A slightly bewildered Dick Grayson picks Jason up at the bus depot in Bludhaven later that afternoon. Alfred had tried to bring him, but Jason had politely refused and boarded a Greyhound in Gotham. Dick had invited him over, after all, Jason reminds him several times on the drive from the depot to Dick’s apartment. No point in reneging now. His older brother executes one of the worst parallel parking jobs Jason has ever seen and assures him that he isn’t trying to turn Jason down. 

(“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to pull forward and then back up,” Jason points out, politely. Perfectly politely. The pinnacle of innocence. 

Dick shoots him a nasty side-eye and spins the wheel like he’s sailing a ship instead of parking a car. “Do you have a driver’s license?” 

“Do you ?”) 

His older brother, the one they all look to to hold them together (even Bruce, whether he admits it or not), cannot know that Jason has come seeking him for just that purpose. Dick Grayson will always answer his family’s calls, will always offer his help even with an unhushed groan, and will always try to catch them when they fall. He’s loyal to a fault, a safety net that rarely fails to catch those dangerously teetering on the precipice. Even if they fall and break into five and thirty-seven pieces, he will scoop up the shards and try to glue them back together. 

He both is and isn’t that brother now. 

Dick’s downstairs neighbor is some woman who chainsmokes outside on one of those folding metal chairs and eyes Jason suspiciously when he and Dick round the building. He has this niggling feeling about her worming its way around in his memory as he passes her beady eyes. 

She takes a drag of her Marlboro Red and sends Jason a scathing look. “Your guests walk like elephants, boy.” 

Dick laughs very nervously and practically shoves Jason into the building. “Now, you know that’s not true, Mrs…missus…ma’am.” 

He sends Jason a scandalized glance while he hastily unlocks the apartment. “She keeps telling me that she sees Elvis in her brain,” Dick whispers. “I think she’s been hit by a semi like three times and has suffered like, massive brain damage to the point of hallucinations. Namely Elvis, for some reason.” 

Jason’s draw drops in utter disbelief. He turns back to get a better look because no way is this fucking woman his neighbor from the future but Dick grabs him by the sleeve and pulls him inside. 

Dick’s apartment is a small thing. Jason had never visited when he’d been alive the first time around. His back left burner doesn’t work because he can’t get the coil shoved back in the hole it’s supposed to fit into. There’s like seven different boxes of cereal out in the open in the kitchen. The windows of the entire place are booby-trapped, obviously. Photos of his friends–Donna, Roy, Wally, Rachel, Kory–are framed or stuck up on the walls and refrigerator. Jason is sure he has other photos of the Titans around somewhere as well. Dick’s couch is some horrendous plaid and well-loved (or well-worn) thing, likely from a secondhand store. He has a stack of CDs that looks akin to the Leaning Tower of Pisa in the corner of the living room, which also opens into the kitchen and dining room space. Open floor plan. The carpet, once what would probably be described as a groovy orange, now looks a rotten, soupy brown. It is also shag. Nothing matches at all, and it looks like an idea of an apartment drawn by an 8-year-old. 

Bruce would probably be appalled. 

Jason finds it distinctly Dick Grayson. 

Dick does, however, have a television. Jason also spies a dusty PS2 console and a stack of discarded games in the corner. His eyes light up at the sight of one in particular– Grand Theft Auto III. A slow and devious smile spread across his face. 

“We should totally plug that in and you can be the irresponsible older brother that lets me play video games that are rated M.” Jason snaps at Dick in a display of pure class. “I’m very mature. Like, you wouldn’t even know. And I have real life experience in grand theft auto.” 

Dick rolls his eyes from where he’s fishing around through a pile of take-out menus. “More like juvenile larceny,” he mutters. 

“Come on , Dick.” Jason goads. “I know you have it in you. Where is that sense of rebellion? We gotta band together and stick it to the man. Batman. What, you think I’ll tell dad on you?” 

Dick sends him A Look. “There’s five years between you and maturity.” 

“Wow,” Jason drawls, throwing himself down onto the plaid couch. It groans, which alarms him. “Actually, science says men reach maturity at the ripe age of twenty-five, so it looks like you’re not there either. Frontal lobe development and all. But…you’re sounding awfully responsible over there. Almost like…oh my god…Bruce, is that you?” 

There’s a slam in the kitchen and Dick rounds the corner brandishing the landline as far as it will go, considering the cord is linked to the wall. It’s stretched taut, the tight coil ready to spring back on Dick if he lets go. “You know what? Plug that thing in. I’m about to humble you after I order us pizza.” 

Jason, for once, follows Dick’s orders without so much as a word. 

He wakes later that night from a nightmare, heart hammering in his chest and blood rushing in his ears. The Joker’s laugh resounds in the still air, then fades into nothingness. The horrific spell has been broken. 

The apartment is dark and cool, and he begins to settle once he remembers his surroundings. The soothing tones of the PS2 system menu echo through the room, and the violent thrum of his heart begins to slow to match the rhythm. In the kitchen, the refrigerator hums, holding their leftovers. The oven clock reads a blindingly neon green 3:32. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep. 

Jason blearily stares at the glowing white lights dancing in their automated rhythmic motion across the tv screen. Dick is soundly asleep next to him, arm hanging off the couch, controller long forgotten and off in his lap. Half of a wildly colored afghan is draped over him, and the other half tucked carefully in around Jason. One of Dick’s sock feet rests in Jason’s lap, his other arm resting on Jason’s hand, the one still grasping his controller. Something like peace settles over him, slow and gentle, pulling him back into sleep’s warm embrace. 

The Joker is not here. 

Jason is safe.

Chapter Text

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens, 

I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go, 

I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them, 

I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)

– Song of the Open Road

x. belief is not to notice, belief is just some faith–

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Tim Drake’s favorite food is pizza–well, and donuts. He’s got that sweet tooth, after all. 

Pizza with pineapple and Canadian bacon is Tim’s preferred poison of choice. Once, he’d staunchly told Jason that people who didn’t like pineapple on pizza had no sense of whimsy. This category of people included Bruce Wayne, who steadfastly believed that fruit had no business as a pizza topping about as much as Tim believed it did. Tim would counter that Bruce could always pick the pineapple off if he didn’t like it, and Bruce would argue it was the principle of the matter, sounding more like a petulant child than a grown ass man and father of multiple children. They would reach a stalemate, which would not matter in the end because if anybody could outstubborn or outargue Bruce, it was Tim Drake. They would get pizza with pineapple at the end of the day and Bruce would somehow find it in himself to endure. 

Jason knows this because he knows Tim, and Tim is none the wiser. 

He also knows that Giordano’s Pizza not only has the best slices in the city, but that it’s also Tim’s preferred choice for a pie. Tim just doesn’t know that yet, because he doesn’t get around to that side of town until a few years into the future. Alfred both used to and will order from there on occasion, and if it’s Alfred-approved, then it has t o be good. 

(This does not include waffles, because Alfred’s waffles taste like paste and that is all, and waffles from Waffle House made while the line cook is actively brawling with a customer are better than his. This is a closely guarded secret amongst the Waynes, and they have sworn never to tell and to choke down the paste waffles whenever he serves them. It’s a suffering in silence type situation that has become a generational burden to bear. It’s a good thing they’re all great at acting. Somebody nominate them for the Oscar.) 

 In the future, Tim will meet Jason at Giordano’s sometimes. They offer a wide variety of toppings, including pineapple. It’s one of those old-style pizza joints that has forest green walls with matching booths and chair covers, red-and-white checkered tablecloths, random antique-looking pictures of the Italian countryside, and stained glass light fixtures that look like they haven’t been dusted in ten years with dim bulbs screwed into them. The floors are that ugly brown and tan speckled linoleum and the cooks’ aprons have twenty-year grease stains that not even magic could scrub out. They have the crushed ice, similar to what’s served as hospitals, and Jason would straight up stab somebody for their buttery, garlicky breadsticks. 

Now, they are eleven and thirteen, and Jason is introducing him to the restaurant for the first time. A little extra cheese and grease a few years earlier in life wouldn’t kill Tim. Jason is sure of that much. 

It’s the late dregs of June, only two weeks into their summer break. The heat has settled an oppressive fist over the city already, pushing window air conditioners and box fans to their limit and keeping the majority of the people inside where it’s cool. The sun’s hot brass has already left Jason tanned, revealing a smattering of freckles that he turns his nose up at every morning in the mirror. The balmy afternoons leave him feeling drowsy and listless, and Alfred has found him half-asleep on a settee more often than not the past few days. Alfred has plans for them to go berry picking and has blithely passed along stories of young Master Bruce who once stuffed himself so full of strawberries that he made himself sick for three days. For Jason, the live-long light is like a honeyed dream. 

The nights are easier, the summer moonlight soft, still, and fair as it blankets Gotham. There’s often a sweet breeze felt through the city, and midnight dew that steeps the flowers and trees. Gotham only comes more alive than ever during the night, but crime has been at an all-time low due to the weather. Bruce is entirely suspicious and feels that this is indicative of larger things at play. Alfred tells him that the heat is getting to him and he’s overly paranoid. 

Tim’s birthday is quickly approaching and will be upon them in less than a month’s time. Bad Boys II is releasing the day before he turns twelve, and Jason has been plotting to maybe sneak them both into the movie theater. It’s his right as an older brother (though Tim is unaware of this at the moment) to expose him to totally inappropriate forms of media for his age. That is, movies that contain mature content. It’s just for rude humor, coarse language, some sexual content (contained), and like a lot of over-the-top violence. 

“Anyway,” Jason takes a sip of his ice-cold soda, “you should totally come over on Friday. Alfred said we’re making ice cream for this ice cream social thing that Bruce is throwing on Saturday. It’s like this garden party fundraiser that involves heaps of melting ice cream, boring adult conversations about finances and intellectual property protection, and lawn games. I bet I could crush you in a game of croquet.” 

Tim picks up his third slice of pizza. “I’m more of a bocce guy.” 

“Horseshoes it is,” Jason declares and settles back into his booth. 

“You just want to freak the ladies out by purposefully tossing one too close to them.” Tim accurately points out. “I’ve seen your throw. A game of horseshoes is not discus, Jason.” 

“I hope they wear those crazy hats,” Jason says. “You know, the ones they color coordinate with their dresses or pantsuits like they’re at the Kentucky Derby. We should totally try and find who’s wearing the most bananas hat.” 

“Bananas,” Tim echoes in disbelief. 

“Zany, if you will. Hideous, some might say.” Jason waves a dismissive hand. “The higher and more ostentatious the hat, the closer to gaining Bruce Wayne’s attention and wallet.”

Tim stirs his root beer with his straw, eyes narrowed in critical thought. “I thought the saying was the higher the hair, the closer to God.” 

“It’s Gotham,” Jason shakes his head. “Bruce Wayne, White Knight and infamous billionaire playboy philanthropist, might as well be God. Although I don’t think Jesus wore an ugly pink housecoat or had a tenuous grasp of interpersonal relationships. It’s funny to see Gotham’s elite falling all over themselves to get to him. It’s even more hilarious to watch him try and make an innocuous escape. It’s like my own personal sitcom.” 

Their waitress, an older woman named Sandra, stops by their table. Alfred apparently knew her from Gotham’s Community Amatuer Theatre Club where she played Miranda in Picnic at Hanging Rock like twenty years ago, and had left the two boys under her watchful eye while he’d gone to run errands. “Do you gentlemen need anything?” 

Jason throws an arm over the back of the booth and sinks into the forest green pleather. There’s a tear in the far side near the wall, ugly ocre insulation blossoming out for all to see. “No thanks, ma’am. We’re all good.” 

Sandra eyes Tim’s drained soda and smiles, amused. “I’ll be right back with some refills, boys.”

“They got those good mints here,” Jason points a slice of pizza at Tim. “In that bowl over there by the door. Y’know, the kind that melts in your mouth like a stick of butter.” 

Tim blushes furiously and aggressively stabs his straw into the melting hunk of ice in his cup. “I told you I ate a stick of butter one time just to see what it tastes like—“ 

“It’s butter, Tim.” Jason replies incredulously. “What else would it taste like? Are you trying to give yourself cardiovascular disease before you’re thirty?”  

The younger boy sniffs derisively and flicks a pineapple chunk at him. It hits Jason squarely in the chest. “Who are you, the National Institute of Health?” 

Jason shudders. “It’s grossing me out just thinking about it, dude.” 

Both boys turn at the sound of the ancient rusted bell hung above the door dinging, signaling the arrival of a patron to the hostess. She’s on her unsanctioned smoke break. Both Jason and Tim saw her sneak out back five minutes ago. 

Instead of waiting, the new arrival makes his way to a booth by the door and slides in. It looks to be a man, head down, hood up, and fidgeting uncomfortably. Jason finds this a little weird considering it’s probably 85 degrees at 7 pm outside, but it’s Gotham. The city has its weirdos. After a few seconds, the man digs around for something in his jacket, and then smoke begins to filter into the air. 

Tim shares a look with Jason and rolls his eyes. Giordano’s has been a non-smoking establishment since 2000. Apparently this guy didn’t get the memo or see the very helpful posted sign. 

Sandra returns to their table with a pitcher of root beer, huffing in disgust. “I’ll have Georgie go talk to that guy,” she mutters, topping off Tim’s drink. “Maybe even throw him out on his ass. What? He not pass the third-grade reading level or somethin’?”

Tim and Jason turn to each other and mouth the words ‘Georgie’ and ‘third-grade reading level,’ respectively. 

She clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth in irritation. “Now I know cigarette smoke ain’t good for you growing youths. They put out all those public announcements about secondhand smoke and all. Don’t worry about it. I’ll go fix him up.” 

Jason, who has been occasionally smoking since the age of eleven, nods sagely. Sandra bustles off toward the kitchen, yelling for whoever the hell Georgie is just as Jason’s cell phone rings. He recognizes the name and hits talk. 

“Jason,” Bruce’s voice is breathless over the line but he can get a word in edgewise. It sounds like he’s been sprinting. “Jason, where are you?” 

“What’s up, B?” Jason drawls around a mouthful of cheese and pineapple. “I’m with Tim. We’re at Giordano’s having a couple of drinks,” he jokes. 

“You’re in Somerset? Jason, listen to me. You two need to get out of there and get to the GCPD right now . Do not stop.” 

A  big bear of a man in a hairnet, presumably Georgie, comes lumbering out of the kitchen and straight for the smoking man. Jason taps Tim and points at the scene. Looks like they’re about to get dinner and a show. Georgie is yelling about his beloved nona in stage 3 lung cancer and not being a Grade A Asshole in family establishments. 

Jason covers the receiver with a hand to block out some of the hollering. “Hold on, B, there’s some guy–” 

He squints across the room. Now that he thinks about it, that’s an awful lot of smoke coming from one cigarette. It looks more like a canister, which is extremely unsettling. In fact, Jason feels very unsettled and even inexplicably fearful. 

“Jason! Scarecrow escaped Arkham last night, and he’s been planning–” 

Suddenly, Giordano’s erupts into complete chaos. People are screaming—animalistic screams, the kind that tear out of the throat like they hurt, raw and warbled blood-curdling shrieks that make the hair on your arm stand on end. Some of the patrons are clawing at their eyes and skin, leaving bleeding scratches that deepen with each pass of nails rending flesh. Others are writhing on the ground in abnormal, jerky movements, wailing at the top of their lungs. The rest are attacking each other—brutally, as if they’re fighting for their lives. 

Jason grabs Tim by the arm and drags him under the table, scrambling back until they’re both tucked deep into the booth. His sympathetic nervous system is in overdrive, heart rate accelerated and gooseflesh prickling across his skin. His breaths come fast and shallow as he desperately tries to get them under control. 

He doesn’t know what to do. This has never happened before. Or maybe it had? Bruce had said something about Scarecrow on the phone. There’d been the suspicious guy with that jar-like canister at the booth near the entrance.  It hadn’t been smoke, but some nasty new strain of fear toxin. He tries to clear his mind and think back to his first time being thirteen.      

Jason can’t remember. He was never here with Tim before, not during this point in their lives. Something has changed for the worst, and he doesn’t have the foresight on how to handle it. 

Tim is holding onto his arms for dear life, fingers digging almost painfully into his skin. “Jason,” he starts, voice low and wavering, bordering on hysterical. “What do we do?” 

Jason puts a hand on the back on Tim’s neck and pulls the younger boy’s face into his chest. He curls around him, shifting so that his back is to the outside of the booth and Tim is mostly hidden away. “Don’t look, Timmy. Cover your ears. Don’t listen to it. Whatever you think you’re seeing, it’s not real.” 

But the petrified screams around them are painfully real, a symphony of terror and ferocity ripping through the restaurant as patrons fight invisible demons and each other. 

“I don’t want to die,” Tim sniffs, tone watery, and Jason can feel tears beginning to stain his shirt. 

Jason holds him tighter as the screams around them reach a horrifying crescendo. “You’re not going to die,” he promises. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Batman is coming.” 

Someone slams into their table, knocking their drinks over. A fountain of cola and root beer spills over the side and soaks into their clothes. Some guy is trying to strangle an off-duty cop above them. The officer pulls out his service weapon as the man tackles him to the floor, barely aims, and fires. Brain matter and other viscera splatter from the linoleum to the ceiling, the shot reverberating at a deafening level around them. Something bloody lands squarely on Jason’s back as Tim shakes apart in his hold. The man falls limply onto the officer, lifeless, blood instantly pooling from the massive hole blown into his head. 

The sudden gunshot sends the rest of the drugged patrons into an even worse frenzy around them. Jason watches warily as the cop heaves the dead man’s body off of him, and it thumps to the floor next to their table. 

This is all Jason’s fault. It had been his idea to take Tim out, because the other boy had been spending their summer days cooped up in his house. They should have just ordered delivery, but he’d had this whole idea about an evening on the town. Now, they’re in imminent danger with a very real threat hidden amongst hallucinations, and Jason is not Robin. He has no rebreather to filter the toxin out, no antidote to help anyone, and two lives’ worth of real nightmares to fuel the imaginary ones running rampant around them. 

He’s just Jason Todd, adopted son of Bruce Wayne, thirteen and out with his next-door-neighbor. 

The officer locks eyes with a terrified Jason under the table. 

Behind him, Jason can see the Joker laughing as he drags Batman’s limp and bleeding body behind him by the cape. His father gives a death rattle. “You can’t save him,” Batman gasps, dying again and again and again. “You can’t save me. You can’t even save yourself.” 

Jason looks into the gaunt face of his father and sees his own terror reflected in vacant and dead eyes. Failure, failure, failure. It tastes acrid on his tongue and burns like wildfire all the way down to his heart. 

“Oh, sonny,” Joker sings, right as the officer warily raises his gun at Jason’s back. “What hurts more? A: your daddy dying, B: Robin III dying, or C: both of them dying, and you watching it all happen? How does it feel to be so helpless again? I love a good sequel. Or this is the prequel? A three-for-one special!” 

“Jason?” Tim questions fearfully, holding his shirt in a death grip. 

Very slowly and very carefully, Jason peels the younger boy’s fingers from him. “Tim, don’t look. Whatever happens, don’t look. I want you to run for the back door. Don’t look at me, and run. Don’t stop.” 

Tim’s eyes fly open in panic. “Wha–”

Jason holds a hand over them. “You can do it. Batman is coming. He’ll help you.” 

“No!” Tim protests, but Jason is already lunging for the officer. 

The cop starts, yelling, as Jason throws himself forward. He manages to knock the gun away right as the man pulls the trigger. It discharges harmlessly into the ceiling, blowing out a light. Glass rains down on them as Jason struggles for control, ignoring the Joker laughing in the background. 

“ Go , Tim!” 

He sees a blur of movement as Tim rushes from under the table, only to immediately trip over the dead guy next to them. This is turning into a highly traumatic experience for everyone involved, and if Jason survives this, it’s going to haunt him for weeks. Tim’s abrupt fall pulls the attention of the officer, which just won’t do. 

Jason bites his arm with everything he’s got, which causes the man to howl in pain. He’s not sure what exactly the officer is seeing instead of Jason, but it’s enough for him to kill one man and try to follow up with two children. Tim staggers to his feet, staring down at his blood-soaked palms, looking extremely pale. Jason, who would like to see him live to be twelve, kicks the gun out of the officer’s hand. It goes skittering across the floor, stopping right at the Joker’s feet. 

“Lookie lookie,” the Joker cackles, wrapping an arm around Tim’s shoulders. “Got him right where I want him.” 

Tim turns terrified eyes onto Jason as the officer slams him to the linoleum floor and attempts to strangle him. Jason raises a hand from where he’s attempting to pry the cop’s fingers from his throat and weakly waves him away. The back exit is right there; Tim just has to move. He can make it while Jason is still conscious to ensure his safety if he just turns and runs. Jason kicks his legs wildly in an effort to gain leverage against his assailant, but his shoes do nothing more than scrape and squeak against the floor. The officer doesn’t relent, only squeezes harder, and Jason’s vision begins to darken as he gasps and claws at the hands around his throat. In a stuttered heartbeat he’s back in that warehouse in Ethiopia, only this time he’s got another victim for company. 

Unfortunately for Jason, Tim Drake has never been one to run away. 

Instead, Tim spins wildly to the table next to them, picks up a pitcher full of water, and then smashes it over the officer’s head. It drenches the stunned cop and Jason in ice water, as if Jason’s veins weren’t already frozen enough, and causes the officer to loosen his grip. Jason immediately breaks free from his grasp and scrambles away to place himself in front of Tim, shoving him backward. 

The younger boy is shaking like a leaf in the wind, taking in the very real brutality before them, along with whatever fear-induced hallucination he’s seeing. Jason has no idea what it is, but he would really appreciate it if Tim just tucked tail and ran for the hills for once in his fucking life. Tim Drake is eleven, a regular rich kid from Bristol, and does not need to be a hero in the year of 2003. 

Jason, however, has just learned that Tim has always had it in him. He wonders, briefly, if this is how Bruce and Dick felt in the future that he’s from. 

“Timothy Jackson Drake,” he orders with as much authority as he can muster, voice bordering on hysterical. “If you don’t get your ass out that door –” 

The officer springs for the gun, abandoned next to Jason’s foot. 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me , Jason thinks in wild panic as he kicks at the piece. Unfortunately, the cop still gets his hands on the weapon, and very deftly takes aim at Jason from his prone position. Then, suddenly, it’s Joker’s finger on the trigger, and his smile is wide, wide, wide. 

“ Tim ,” Jason warns, voice catching in his throat as his lives flash before his eyes. 

The Joker pulls the trigger, but his shaking hand affects his aim. The bullet misses most of Jason but grazes his arm, skin exposed, tearing through the flesh and embedding itself into the wall behind them. Tim startles badly and begins to freak out at the sight of blood pouring from Jason’s arm. It’s a flesh wound, and though it stings, Jason is far more preoccupied with other worries to care. 

He’s too busy watching Tim’s life–eleven years and counting up to nineteen, forwards then backwards and rebound–fly past his eyes. The movie abruptly ends with his not-yet-younger-brother dead on the floor of his favorite pizza place in about three years, at this moment. Glassy eyes stare back at him, unseeing, Horatio slaughtered for their father’s lifelong feud with a demented murderer. Tim is reaching out for Jason, and Jason…Jason could have ended it. 

“Oh goody,” the Joker croons, spinning the gun around his finger like a roulette wheel before stopping on the younger boy. “You’re going to watch little Timmy’s brains get turned into ambrosia salad by Gotham’s finest! One little bullet and it’s nighty-night for the little squirt!” 

In a desperate act, Jason shoves Tim down and braces himself for the shot. 

It never happens. 

The glass above them blows out as Batman comes crashing through the window. He tackles the officer, using what Jason knows is excessive force, and Jason pulls Tim out of the way and back under a table. His heart is pounding so hard that he can hear it in his head. Tim collapses into him easily, like it’s second nature, and crumbles in Jason’s arms. 

“I thought,” he chokes on a near wail, “I thought he was going to kill you!” 

“Oh my god,” Jason breathes, patting him on the back and trying to catch his breath. “You’re so fucking stupid.”  

“Don’t be a bitch,” Tim is sobbing against him, the reality of the situation slamming into him as full force after the fact. “You’re stupid …stupid. You really think I was going to let you die?” 

Jason closes his eyes and lets the back of his head thunk against the wall as the GCPD storm into the pizza parlor. “It’s my job to–” 

“To what?” Tim challenges him. “ Die ? I don’t think so. Just because you’re–” 

Whatever he’s about to say catches in his throat and his teeth clack together loudly as he abruptly closes his mouth. Jason is astutely aware that it probably had something to do with him being Robin. 

“We both agree I’m a terrible person,” Jason assures him. “But because I’m older than you, it’s part of my job to keep you safe.” 

“That’s my job,” Batman interrupts gruffly. He kneels down next to their makeshift shelter, purposefully blocking out the view of the guy whose brains got blown out only a few minutes prior. He extends a hand. “You can come out now, boys. Everything is going to be okay. The situation is under control. I have the fear toxin antidote right here.” 

Tim holds Jason’s hand tightly and sniffs, trying to gather his 11-year-old sense of dignity about him. That’s just fine with Jason, though, because suddenly he finds himself too afraid to let Tim go. 

Jesus Christ. He needs a cigarette. 

He crawls out from underneath the table with Tim in tow. Batman is meticulously cataloging their injuries from behind the lenses of his cowl, jaw tight. Tim has little shards of glass embedded in his palms, and he’s a horrific sight covered in blood, but most of it belongs to the dead guy or Jason. Most of his wounds are probably mental. Jason is the worst for wear–obvious bruising handprints circling his neck and visible above the collar of his shirt, various scrapes from the shattered glass he’d been dragged through, bumps and bruises from the struggle, and the weeping wound in his shoulder. But he’s not dead. So he’s counting that as a win. 

Batman withdraws two syringes from one of the many compartments of his utility belt while Tim wipes the snot dripping from his nose on the back of his arm. “Here, hold your arm out,” the vigilante gently instructs. 

Jason jerks his head in Tim’s direction. “Get him first. I’m okay.” 

He’s totally not okay, and the look Batman sends him is nearly omniscient, but he attends to Tim anyway. “It’s just going to feel like a little poke.” 

“It’s okay, Batman.” Tim reassures him and offers his arm. “You don’t have to lie. The nurses always tell me the same thing when I get my shots, but we all know it’s not true.” 

Batman looks amused as he quickly administers the antidote, and Tim only scrunches up his nose a little at the needle slipping into his skin. “Done. Not too bad, right? You’ll start feeling better soon.” 

Jason holds his arm out soundlessly and with little fanfare. Batman is absurdly gentle with the way he handles his arm, carefully avoiding cuts as he innoculates his son. Jason reminds himself that the Joker is in Arkham and hasn’t broken out–he knows because he’s been secretly checking the live feed and logs like a man obsessed. He may be alive, but he is not here with them in this moment. 

Batman puts one sturdy arm around Tim and hefts him up. Jason stands to follow both of them out but lets out an exclamation of surprise as the vigilante uses his free arm to do the same to Jason. He lifts both boys like they weigh nothing and turns to make his way through the crowd of GCPD officers and patrons being administered the antidote. Jason feels the back of his neck grow hot at the thought of being carried like a little kid out of Giordano's and sends a scandalized glance to Tim, who looks both spooked and bewildered at the same time.  

Jason wants to open his mouth and protest that excuse the fuck out of me, I’m a grown man and I can walk on my own when Batman’s arm tightens around him. Not just Batman, but Bruce–his father–who had exploded into Giordano’s to the sight of his son and the neighbor kid hurt and being held at gunpoint by a police officer high off fear toxin. He shuts his mouth and relaxes into Bruce’s hold. 

Batman carries the two boys over to a waiting ambulance, where medical personnel scramble at the sight of them. He stays to guarantee their treatment (entirely unnecessary) with a critical eye as the EMTs wrap each boy in a shock blanket and check over their injuries, before bidding them farewell and disappearing back into the night. 

Commissioner Gordon himself, followed closely by Detective Bullock, approaches them next. He looks weary of the crime scene already, expression grim, and necktie loosened as if he’d pulled a finger through the knot and messed with the fabric. His features soften at the sight of Jason and Tim sweating under the silver metallic of the shock blankets. There’s a touch of fatherly concern there that Jason has only seen a handful of times, though he knows it runs ever-present through the Commissioner’s veins. 

“Gentlemen,” Gordon greets them kindly. “Batman has left you in my care. We’re already working to contact your families. Bullock himself called Mr. Wayne to inform him of the situation and he’s on his way. You’ll be on your way home in no time at all, Jason.” 

Gordon turns his attention to Tim. “It seems attempts to reach your parents have been unsuccessful so far, Timothy. Is there someone else we can call for you?” 

Tim stiffens and has apparently found a pothole in the pavement entirely fascinating. “Um,” he supplies, helpfully. 

“It’s okay,” Jason answers for him. “He’s staying with us while his parents are out of town.” 

Not entirely true, but Tim’s nanny was on a date in Atlantic City for the evening or something while Tim was supposed to be hanging out with Jason. The casinos don’t always have great cell service, and the woman is sure to be in for a hell of a surprise when she listens to her voicemails later. 

Gordon nods. “Good, good. We’re working to get you boys out of here as fast as possible, I promise. I know this might be difficult, but if you could tell us anything about what you saw in there tonight, it would be helpful.” 

Jason and Tim watch as the officer who attacked them is dragged out of the pizza parlor. His nose looks broken and is sluggishly oozing blood. His eyes are still wild, be it from the lingering traces of fear toxin or the reality of his actions setting in. The gnarly bite mark Jason left in his forearm is red and raw. 

Both boys give their accounts of the night while Gordon and Bullock record their statements. They both purposefully leave out whatever horrific phantoms that the fear toxin brought on and somehow manage to mostly separate fiction from fact. Tim shies closer to Jason’s side at the sight of multiple gurneys topped with body bags being wheeled inside, accompanied by staff from the coroner’s office. Apparently there were more deaths than the one they witnessed. 

“I always wanted to meet Batman,” Tim contemplates in misery several minutes later, sat next to Jason on a gurney. “Not really how I imagined it going, though.” 

Jason snorts as one of the EMTs wraps his shoulder. “Yeah, he’s alright.” 

Tim sends him a shy look over the head of the EMT that’s picking shards of glass out of his hands with a pair of tweezers. “I dunno though. Robin is pretty cool.” 

“Damn straight,” Jason agrees. His face falls and he begins to choke on whatever emotions he’s been trying to shove deep down into the recesses of the black hole inside him. The frigid thorns of terror that were constricting his heart are now clawing their way into his lungs and out of his mouth. He grinds his teeth to fight them back, afraid of what will leak out if he doesn’t. “If Robin were here, he would have saved you.” 

Tim leans into his side. “Shut up, Jason. You did save me. It’s my fault that I didn’t listen.” 

“Oh,” he says, humorlessly. “You’re right. Didn’t anybody ever tell you to listen to your elders?” 

The younger boy picks at the gauze dressing wrapped around his palms. “You said you wouldn’t let anything happen to me. I believed you. I still believe you. It didn’t matter what I was seeing or that the officer had a gun pointed at us. I knew you could get us out somehow.” 

“Miracles never end,” Jason coughs as he subtly brushes away traitorous wetness from his eyes. “You’ve got some faith there, wonder boy.” 

Tim doesn’t meet his gaze, instead turning to fish around in his backpack. He pulls out something greasy, hastily wrapped into a napkin. “Here. I grabbed the rest of our breadsticks. Sorry they’re a little squished.” 

Jason drops his face into his hands, shoulders shaking as he huffs out incredulous laughter. “You…I can’t believe this.” 

Tim kicks his legs back and forth and is trying to keep his expression nonchalant. “I did it while Batman was giving you the antidote. These ones didn’t have any…” His face does something complicated. “...anything gross on them.” 

Jason reaches over and picks one up by the squished end. “I like the way you think, Timmy. They’ll still taste the same, anyway.” 

“Where is my son?!” 

Both boys jump at the extremely loud and alarmed voice of Bruce Wayne from somewhere nearby. There’s some sort of clamor from the other side of the crime scene barricade tape, and Jason thinks he recognizes whatever alarmingly fast sportscare Bruce had chosen to race over in. Murmurs break out amongst the police and emergency personnel at his appearance. 

Commissioner Gordon leads an unnerved Bruce through the crowd. From his white button down and suit jacket slung over his arm, one might assume he’d just been spending a late night at the office. His hair is tousled from running and from the cowl, and he’s made little effort to slick it back to acceptable. No one except Jason and Tim are aware that he was already amongst them, a phantom in the midst of mortal men. 

Bruce throws himself forward and gathers Jason and Tim in his arms. The relief is palpable even under the street lights, real and unhidden. It’s that same safe comfort, an embrace of a father’s unflinching love, which cradles them and protects them from the outside world. Bruce is the type of father that his children can anchor themselves to and trust to hold them steady when they are in peril. He is stalwart and unyielding, a ward for all fears, both puerile and veridical. Or at least, he used to be. Jason had forgotten that in his later years. He finds himself hugging Bruce back, tension easing out of his muscles as the last dregs of fear toxin melt away. 

“I’m sorry,” Jason finds the words spilling out of his mouth and into his father’s shoulder before he can stop them. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who suggested we come here.” 

Tim seems to be putting up a valiant front of holding it together in front of Bruce Wayne and Batman, but the hug seems to be doing him in again. His chest is doing that little thing that kids do when they’re upset sometimes–a rapid inhale and triple tremor that will soon be followed by gasps of breath and then tears. He looks mortified and upset all at once. 

“I should have known,” Jason mutters lamely. 

Bruce threads his fingers through Jason’s curls and pulls him closer. “No,” he presses a kiss to Jason’s forehead. It would be embarrassing in almost any other context. “This isn’t on you, Jason. None of this is your fault. You couldn’t have known, Jay. How were you supposed to know? It’s not your fault. I am so sorry.” He swallows roughly. “Good God, boys. I am so sorry.” 

“Can we go home, dad?” Jason closes his eyes and pretends everything is fine. “I just want to go home.” 

Bruce gets clearance from Gordon and the medical personnel on site to take the boys home. Then, he carries them both away from the news crews arriving on scene to safety. Jason clings to his father, feeling more like a frightened child than the adult he actually is, and attempts to forget how he’s changed the trajectory of Tim Drake’s life for the worst. 

Chapter Text

I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all free poems also, 

I think I could stop here myself and do miracles, 

I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me, 

I think whoever I see must be happy. 

– Song of the Open Road

xi. softly stolen under blanket skies–

Bruce signs Jason up for Little League. 

Apparently he had taken Martin Baxter’s (Jason’s favorite Knights’ player) advice to heart, and had decided to get him into baseball. This is how Jason finds himself playing shortstop for the 2003 Gotham Junior League season. 

Simply put, the position works as follows: the shortstop covers the area between the second and third baseman. The shortstop is often the best defensive player on the team. When it comes to the major leagues, many teams will choose their shortstop primarily for defense. If you were like Jason, who happened to be a good hitting shortstop, it’s a bonus. In regard to Little League, the shortstop is often the best athlete on the team and often the team leader. In order to play shortstop, the individual must be a strong and well-rounded defensive player. A shortstop must field well, have good speed and range, and one hell of a strong arm. 

To effectively play the position of shortstop, someone needs to see everything that goes on in the midfield. The player in the position of shortstop arguably has the most power to change the game in the infield. They also need to make quick decisions, as they have the most ground to cover and balls are frequently hit their way, especially from right-handed batters. Confidence is also key when playing the position of shortstop. People expect the shortstop to be the best fielder on the diamond, and any errors they make are often magnified. Thick skin is also needed because if there are mistakes on the field, the shortstop will get the most flak if there’s a bad play out there. Game awareness is another essential quality because there are many responsibilities and so much ground to cover as shortstop. It is absolutely necessary for a shortstop to know where the base runners are, how fast they are, how many outs there are, where to go if a runner steals, and more. 

When the shortstop fields the ball on a double play, they need to make the decision whether to run to second and make the throw, or throw to the second baseman. Jason is used to making split second decisions that often teeter precariously between life and death, so a double play is practically a cake walk. His coach has also tasked him with covering all stolen base attempts instead of just the ones that result from left-handed batters. He also has the advantage of psychologically profiling the players on the opposing team and knows whether little Bobby is going to try and steal second or sit sweetly on first base. 

His other responsibilities include acting as a cutoff player for plays at third base and home plate when the opposing batters hit balls to the left and center field, covering second base pickoff attempts, and covering all pop-ups on the left side of the infield and shallow outfield. 

It’s fine. Jason is a multifaceted and refined man of unpronounced skills. He’s had many years’ worth of experience playing defense and being a top athlete. Additionally, he’s a master of surveillance, is extremely detail-oriented to an almost neurotic degree, can be a team player when he wants to be, and is used to being criticised for any and all mistakes. 

He is also the best shortstop that the Gotham Junior League has seen since 1975, allegedly. His coach thinks that they might finally have a chance at the Junior League Baseball World Series. The man gets a near manic glint in his eyes any time he talks to Bruce after a game. It’s a tad concerning. 

Jason’s coach is what some might call a dreamer. He also chews a disturbing amount of chewing tobacco and hocks the globs into a jerry-rigged spit bottle, which is a brittle and sawed off Mountain Dew bottle that looks three years old. His name is Lewis Buttermaker (tough life), and he looks like Billy Bob Thornton with a history of alcoholism. He is also constantly hitting on the center fielder’s mom, who looks like Farah Fawcett in the ‘70s. Like Jason said–the man is a fantast. 

“Look,” his coach had pulled Bruce to the side after their last game, “that kid’s got a real bright future in baseball. I’m talking the big leagues, Mr. Wayne–the majors. He’s got some kind of freak natural talent or something. He’s not like some of these other boys. Practice is just refinement work for him. I don’t even think he needs to hone his skills. If it weren’t for the damn summer heat, I don’t think he’d even break a sweat. I’m telling you, Mr. Wayne, your boy could go pro one day.” 

Jason goes home that night and has a good laugh about it. Wouldn’t it be something if he were to grow up and become a major league baseball star instead of Bruce Wayne’s greatest failure? He could finally be a son that his father could be proud of, a different kind of all-American man–not the one from the future, molded by a different past, tucked away and secret. It’s not so funny when he thinks of it that way. In fact, the flitting dream pushes a clawed hand through his chest, splits his ribcage open, finds his heart, and squeezes. 

Tonight though, he’s under the softening blanket of Gotham’s twilight sky and the stark lights of the baseball field. Gotham is playing against Atlantic City and they’re 8-7. It is the 7th and final inning. Atlantic City is up to bat, they have one out, and a runner on first base. Bruce is in the stands watching like he’s at a Knights game, cheap concession popcorn long forgotten in his lap. The people around him have spent the game looking between the field and their sons to the local celebrity in almost reverence. 

(Bruce comes to all of Jason’s games. He hasn’t missed a single one, even in spite of Batman-related activities. He also flirts with all the single mothers and yells nothing but encouragement at an almost deafening sound level. It is embarrassing beyond words. It also ignites something warm and comfortable in Jason’s chest cavity. It is a soothing balm to old heartaches that have never healed.) 

Jason chews his bubblegum and wiggles his fingers in his glove. The early July heat has begun to recede for the night, but its touch still lingers, leaving a fine sheen of sweat clinging to his skin and dampening his curls, mostly tucked away under his hat. The field they use for the Junior League team is more suburban than urban. The cicadas are serenading players and attendees alike with their song, the soundtrack for the dog days of summer—a never ending sizzle, like bacon on a skillet. As one chorus whines to an end, another section starts up, and carries on past civilian and sensible bedtimes.

Their pitcher, a kid who looks an awful lot like Benny Rodriguez from The Sandlot (go figure), throws a sinker down the center. The pissant third baseman for Atlantic City, whom Jason is fairly certain he observed picking his nose and sticking his crusty boogers all over the ball last inning, hits a grounder. It heads straight for their first baseman, who steps onto first to force Booger Boy out. The kid Atlantic City has on first base makes a break for second, but their first baseman throws the ball to Jason. He catches it easily, pops the bubble he’d blown, and puts out the runner with a simple tag to the chest. Reverse force double play. Two outs. Gotham wins 8-7. 

The crowd of parents and siblings for the Gotham team bursts into cheers. In a real mature show of good sportsmanship, Booger Boy stomps his foot on the ground. The boys of the Gotham Junior League hoot and holler in victory, and Jason is almost certain that their coach is plotting his way to the World Series at this very moment. Jason adjusts his cap and lines up single file for the procedural Good Game Team (and the We’ll Get ‘Em Next Time) high-fives. Then, after some friendly hits to the back amongst teammates, he’s off to the dugout to gather his gear bag. 

“Well, well, well,” Bruce says, meeting him there on home team ground. There is Costco cheese sauce on his polo collar and a wide, genuine smile on his face. “Go crazy folks, go crazy. If it isn’t The Wizard.” 

Jason scoffs, embarrassed, taking his cap off and running a hand through his damp curls. “I’m not Ozzie Smith, Bruce. He was one of the greatest to ever play the game. This is Gotham, not St. Louis.” 

Bruce throws an arm around him and pulls him close. “Still, Jay, incredible glove work as always. Do a backflip or two on the field and you might make a similar name for yourself.” 

“Maybe if I was from a family of acrobats,” Jason rolls his eyes, feeling timid under the gaze of his father. “And had a Cousin Oliver style bowl cut and red hair.” 

Bruce mouths the words ‘Cousin Oliver’ with furrowed brows. In the future, they are like his own melange version of The Brady Bunch, but Jason has always been part of the original cast. He carries on in Bruce’s silence. 

“You’ve been letting Coach Buttermaker talk to you too much. He’s got some real Field of Dreams stuff going on. Anyway, don’t you think it’d be a little suspicious that the street kid Bruce Wayne took in can just do backflips like it’s nothing?” 

Bruce rolls his eyes and takes Jason’s gear bag from his hand, tossing it over his shoulder and turning in the direction of the car. “All I’m saying is that there was something magical about Ozzie Smith, and I think you have that magic in you, too.”

Jason kicks at the dry dirt and watches it cumulate as a dust cloud. “You are the most embarrassing dad in the world. I hope you know that.”  

Jason will never know how Bruce’s heart jumps every time he calls him ‘dad.’ “I do. It’s a burden I happily bear.”

“I see how it is,” Jason grouses. “You won’t let me invent time travel, but encourage me to pursue other matters, like the Major Leagues. Literally. Justice not included. No, this is your dream, not mine! Can’t you see that? But daddy,” he whines in his best impression of a valley girl voice, “I love him! And insert other generic teenage drama lines for cinema here.”

Bruce pales as they walk to the car. He had insisted on bringing the Jaguar because it was a convertible and they could ‘enjoy the summer evening air’ after the game or some nonsense. Jason stares at it sitting amongst the minivans and sedans and can only heave the heaviest sigh in the world. 

“No dating until you’re sixteen,” his father mutters, eyes faraway. He’s likely having war flashbacks to Dick’s romantic endeavors. “I’m setting a new precedent. I can’t go through that again. I’ll go gray. Maybe even bald.” 

He does not know that Jason will not be his greatest source of grief when it comes to Bruce’s children’s love lives. There will be additional heaps of stress because none of his children will date normal people, so the whole vigilante or hero thing will always be a factor. This will keep Bruce up for extra hours at night for years to come.  

Jason sends him a dispassionate look. “You’re not balding, Bruce.” 

“I might be,” Bruce threatens as he buckles himself in. “You don’t know the toll that the teenage years take on a man.” 

“So you’re saying Alfred is balding because of you?” 

Bruce staunchly ignores him and starts the engine. “If you’ve got a girl over, I want you to leave the door open.” He pauses. “Or boy. If you’re interested in anyone beyond the level of strict friendship, that door stays open.” 

“What about if we’re best friends ?” Jason says, all saccharine sweetness, just to irritate him. 

Bruce makes a face. “That’s always how it starts. Now that I think about it, we should probably have The Talk.” 

“ Eugh ,” Jason gags loudly. He mimics throwing up. “I don’t want to talk about this. It’s mortifying.” He tries to redirect, because it is mortifying. He’s not lying. Jason does not need Bruce explaining the birds and the bees to him when they’re stuck in the car for a 30 minute drive plus evening traffic. It sounds like hell on earth. “The only ‘ Talk’ we should have is about how all the other parents of my teammates are taking their sons for ice cream.” 

Blessedly, this seems to do the trick. “Well, I suppose you do deserve a reward,” Bruce contemplates, checking both ways before pulling the Jag out of the parking lot. 

“Right, ‘cause I’m a fuckin’ winner, and winners get ice cream.” 

“Jay,” Bruce tries to scold, but it falls flat. “Language.” 

He smiles nicely and bats his lashes, a picture of innocence preserved. “Sorry. Do I get a pass because I’m a freakin’ winner…who gets ice cream?” 

Jason has plans, okay? There’s a retro-style soda fountain–the sort of place you’d find tucked away into a corner of an old mom and pop pharmacy–in downtown Gotham City. Bruce’s parents used to take him there when he was a kid. It holds special and precious memories for him, all wrapped up in worn red leather booths and black, white tiled floors, and stained glass window installations. He’d chosen on a few occasions to take Dick, Jason, and Tim there (respectively) before it closed down. 

Amazingly, they offer a five scoop waffle cone. It’s no small cone, either, and they don’t skimp on the scoops. It’s the kind of thing one might see portrayed in a cartoon brought to life for the taking, and for an unbelievable price of only seven dollars. Jason, in both childish gluttony and somewhat misplaced confidence, had always wanted to down one. He had died before he’d gotten the chance, and the soda fountain had closed down sometime in the duration of his lost years. 

Jason plans to fulfill this lifelong ambition of gorging himself on ice cream tonight. He is not above manipulation, although Bruce has already probably made the decision to reroute them. “ Puh-lease, dad?”

Hook, line, and sunk. Bruce sighs and signals to change lanes for the exit for downtown. “I think we can do that.” 

Pleased, Jason settles back into his seat and enjoys the cool evening breeze of Gotham whipping around them. Bruce really had been onto something. “Fu– freakin’ A, B-Man.” 

Jason gets this dream, and it tastes like buttermilk, chocolate fudge brownie, neapolitan, cookie dough, and cherry vanilla. 

For the rest of his life he will maintain the story that it was Bruce’s hazardous driving that caused him to throw up on the way home— not because he ate ice cream until he made himself sick. 

It’s only a night or two later that finds Batman and Robin enjoying the kind of greasy, heart-clogging fast food that would leave Alfred aghast. They’re perched on a rooftop overlooking Crime Alley, a place that has changed both of their lives. Batman is holding a half-eaten cheeseburger, and his ketchup is getting just about everywhere. Jason is not even bothering to hide his laughter as Bruce attempts to fling sauce from his gauntlet. 

In this tender, fragile moment of perfect stillness, Jason almost wants to lean against Bruce. He tells himself that it’s okay, that he's thirteen and still green, and above this city of sin they call home, Batman would let him seek solace. He tells himself to soak it all up now before it’s gone in an instant, a flashbang into nothingness, because it will never be within his grasp again.

In the future, Jason always wills Bruce to see past the front he puts up. He wills him to use those keen fucking detective skills and see past the eyes of a fallen angel, past the eyes of a teenage tragedy turned hardened man through innumerable vicissitudes, to the soul bared beneath. He always expects just a little bit, but perhaps time has wounded them both too much beyond true repair. Jason, however, sees right through Bruce. 

(At the end of the day, Jason wants his dad. He wants to be a family again. A childish wish immortalized in the carefully guarded heart of a wounded man. What could be more simple than that? Once, he’d wanted to be the greatest. No man, nor wind, nor waterfall could stop him. And then came that fateful night at fifteen when the stars turned deep to dust and he would sleep in the dregs of a wooden and soil bed. Bruce would leave no trace of grace–no trace of Jason–just in his honor. Jason’s ghost would not haunt his home because Bruce would not give him a chance to do so. He would be lowered down to the culprit south, and in a way, to Bruce, perhaps he would never crawl back out. Jason went through hell for Bruce and clawed his way back out from the great grip of death and his own goddamned father couldn’t even look at him.) 

But Bruce has always been some kind of blind when it comes to his children. If he were like Clark and had some kind of weakness, his children would be it–a double edged sword, held to his jugular. Dick and Damian would tell Jason that he wears a thin disguise, but it’s only because he’s hiding from himself. 

Look at me, Bruce. Look at me. 

Batman swings his arm a little too wide and accidentally knocks their bag of fries to the ground below. It startles Jason from his dark reverie, and he stands in an instant, wrapping his second chili dog up and tucking it away. 

“I’ll get it.” 

He drops down from the abandoned building where they’ve set up camp and into the alley, soundlessly. Jason finds the bag of fries, bottom soaked with oil, and he also finds a surprise. When Robin does not reemerge from the darkness, Batman follows him down. 

“Robin, wh–” 

Jason holds up a hand to shush him and points at the ground a few feet away. Sure enough, there’s their untouched bag of fries, spilled open. Or more accurately, it’s been torn open. There, gobbling up their midnight meal side, is a German shepherd puppy. It looks to be only about 6-months-old, and is furiously licking up salt and grease from the pavement. It’s a long-haired breed, brown and black coat matted with something indiscernible, and it seems to be favoring its left hind leg. The hair on the puppy’s face has grown in such a way that it looks like the little thing has eyebrows. Jason recognizes the dog instantly.  

Jason motions to the animal. “He’s hurt, B.” 

Batman makes a thoughtful noise, though he looks thoroughly displeased. “Gordon mentioned to me that they were tracking a dog fighting ring near here. It looks like our suspicious friend here escaped his captors.” 

He takes a step forward toward the dog, who suddenly seems to notice and acknowledge their presence. The little guy backs up a few hesitant steps, body shaking all over. Jason slowly advances to get closer to the dog. The puppy snaps his little jaws at Jason, ears pinned back in fear and anxiety. Jason slowly crouches to the cracked alley pavement and tries to make himself as unthreatening as possible. 

“Now, see,” Jason says, gently, arms outstretched and inviting, “you bite because it’s all you’ve ever known until now. But you’re a little rebel. They tried to turn you into a monster and you got away. Now some rich guy is going to sweep you up off the street and spoil you rotten. Just look at him with your sweet ol' eyes. He won’t even put up a fight about it. How about that? Sound like a nice life to you?” 

Very slowly, the puppy takes uncertain steps toward him. Even more slowly, Jason offers up his chili dog. The little guy ambles over, trying to growl but falling short at more of a high-pitched whine. He regards Jason with great suspicion before tentatively sniffing the chili dog. Then, the puppy devours the offering in great big bites, little jowls snapping as chili drips onto the ground. Once Jason’s midnight snack is safely stowed away in his belly, he licks his chops and plops down, tail wagging. It seems like Jason has made a best friend forever, as the puppy nudges his outstretched hand with his cold and wet nose before licking chili sauce off his gloved fingers. 

Snorting, Jason scoops the little fellow into his arms in one motion, little hungry belly up to the sky. He cradles the wary puppy carefully and proudly displays him to Batman. “Look at that, B. He’d be a great guard dog, don’t you think?” 

Now, Bruce would never admit it in the future or else Damian would have his own zoo (arguably, he’s already working on this), but he has a soft spot for animals. Also strays, which is new to no one, and which Stephanie likes to point out in the most patronizing ways she can think of while Bruce rolls his eyes. 

He lightly taps the puppy on the nose, whispering. “You and me, we’re made of the same stuff, kid.” 

Jason passes the puppy over to Batman, who takes him with extreme gentleness. The little guy sniffs him inquisitively before apparently deeming him acceptable and settling down into his arms. He yaps excitedly, which brings a smile to Batman’s serious face. “Well…I suppose we could use a guard dog. And we certainly can’t leave him here. I think I’ll call you Ace. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again, boy.” 

(It’s true. In the future where Jason is from, Ace lives the good life in Wayne Manor. Sure, his actual title is “guard dog,” but he’s really just another member of the family. Stephanie even put a bowtie on him for pictures because he’s (in her words) ‘a very classy gentleman.’ True to his word, Bruce never lets anyone hurt him again. 

The same does not apply to Jason.) 

Jason is holed up in the den a few days later, deeply entrenched in The Count of Monte Cristo. Ace is curled up on the rug next to him, pulled into slumber by the bone-weary sort of tiredness that only puppies seem to experience. He’s actually gotten to the part where Dantès has reappeared as the mysterious and fabulously wealthy Count and has befriended Viscount Albert de Morcerf. Jason admires Dantès’ commitment to justice and vengeance. He respects someone who can play the long game. 

“Master Jason,” Alfred knocks on the doorframe, interrupting Albert’s capture by the bandit Luigi Vampa, “I require your assistance in the kitchen.” 

Jason bookmarks his spot and rises from his position on the rug, leaving the book on an end table. Ace only stirs to roll over and snuggle into the phantom warmth that Jason had left in his wake. He rolls his eyes fondly. 

“I was not aware that you were fond of Dumas.” Alfred comments as he leads Jason down the hall. 

He shrugs. “I like high adventure. What can I say? I’ve read it before, but I like to revisit my favorites.” 

Alfred looks a bit perplexed at Jason’s slip of tongue. He’s never seen Jason read Dumas before. Bruce had randomly selected The Count of Monte Cristo to read aloud to Jason one winter day when he’d fallen terribly sick. If his life were still on relatively the same track and events he has already experienced are going to play out the same way, this will not happen until he is fourteen-and-a-half. 

(He can still remember Bruce’s quiet but steady voice filtering through his fevered haze in bursts of consciousness those miserable days. His father sat bedside vigil until Jason got through the worst of it. Bruce even did different voices for the characters.
“‘Dantès? Did I know poor dear Edmond? Why, Edmond Dantès and myself were intimate friends!” exclaimed Caderousse, whose countenance flushed darkly as he caught the penetrating gaze of the abbé fixed on him, while the clear, calm eye of the questioner seemed to dilate with feverish scrutiny.”

The soft turn of a page and an exhale of breath.
“‘You remind me,” said the priest, “that the young man concerning whom I asked you was said to bear the name of Edmond.’”) 

“Then you know how it ends,” Alfred tells him, handing Jason a stack of well-loved recipes to sort through. 

Jason squints at the faded looped cursive writing of an author unknown. “ L'humaine sagesse était tout entière dans ces deux mots: attendre et espérer! ” 

Alfred ties the strings of his apron behind him and drops a similar one over Jason’s head. “‘All human wisdom is contained in these two words: wait and hope.’ The simple moral of the story, Master Jason, is that revenge does not solve the problem. Rather, it details the experience of resilience, transformation, and the enduring power of the human spirit.” 

Jason scrapes a mystery fleck of something old and dried off a recipe for spiced plum pie. He does not look Alfred in the eye. “Dantès finds salvation in the end.” 

“Yes,” the butler agrees as he pulls out the dry ingredients for pie crust from the cupboards. “He does.” 

He supposes, surrounded in the kitchen of his teenage home, with the one person he’s always felt safe around, it would do no harm to ask. “Do you think that he would have found salvation if he’d gone through with his whole revenge plan?” 

“My dear boy,” Alfred says, not unkindly, “his life has been defined by injustice, and he believes that he must create his own justice through revenge. Dantès is truly transformed, not when he achieves his revenge, but when he realizes the fullness of what he has already been given. He surrendered his lifestyle of bitterness and learned to forgive. This freed him.” 

Jason swallows, throat feeling peculiarly dry all of a sudden. “Oh. Right. Okay,” he says, because he does not know what else to say. “What do you think about that? Forgiveness?” 

Alfred appears thoughtful. “If you want an old butler’s opinion, then I will say this on the matter. One might not necessarily always need to forgive, but they should also not hold onto bitterness. Forgiveness is certainly crucial to reconciliation. However, if you do not wish to reconcile with the individual, then I simply recommend letting go. Holding onto that resentment may give you the feeling of control over a situation where you may otherwise have none, but it will be more damaging to you in the long run.” 

He leans over to tie the strings on Jason’s apron which are limp at his sides, neglected. “Resentment, in a way, is a form of avoidance. If you hold onto it, you may also ruminate on the fantasy that you can somehow change the past. It is like craving justice which may never come. Sometimes, Master Jason, we must unfortunately face the reality of our situation, but we do not have to let it keep hurting us.” 

Alfred lightly taps Jason on the cheek. It is a painfully grandfatherly action. “However, it is not always easy to let go. Your anger and resentment toward someone may be completely justified as opposed to a simple grudge. My advice is to focus on living a better life than the individual who wronged you will ever have. ‘Living well is the best revenge,’ as the saying goes. Live well for yourself and realize that if you are still angry, that individual is still living inside your head. You need not forgive them for hurting you, but you certainly do not have to let them run your life.”  

Clearing his throat, the butler smooths his own apron. “Well, easier said than done, right? I will give you a much easier task to think about. Why don’t you pick a pie recipe to make for Master Richard? I wanted to make some things for you to take to him when you visit tomorrow.” 

“Dick likes chips and cereal,” Jason deadpans, tucking Alfred’s wisdom away deep inside himself. “I look in his fridge and cupboards and it’s enough to make Anthony Bourdain cry.” He pauses. “Then again, he did say that your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park.” 

Alfred huffs. “I agree that Master Richard has questionable taste when it comes to matters of adequate nutrition. However, his favorite food is crab-stuffed mushrooms.”

“Is what,” Jason replies, tone flat. 

The butler smiles. “I will teach you how to make them after we make the pie. They’re not as good when they’re reheated, but I’m sure that Master Richard will be appreciative regardless.” 

Jason peers down at the stack of recipes in his hands. Most of the handwriting seems to be Alfred’s, but there are many scripts that he does not recognize. The cards are an array of colors–faded pinks, crisp white long turned yellow from age and wear, stained sky blue, and there are even some with little designs like roosters dancing across the top. “Why pie?” 

Alfred bends down to rifle through the cupboards for the pans and dishes they’ll need. “Pie is a metaphor for life,” he announces around the clanging. “Pie is imperfect. Every crust behaves differently, even if you make it using the same recipe. The crust can be affected by your mood, the weather, the temperature of your kitchen, and so on and so forth. It can also be affected by Master Bruce stomping in here, which he has frequently done almost the entire time I have known him. Do not stomp, Master Jason.” 

“Uh, right,” Jason awkwardly says in response. He has not stomped once yet, but he recalls doing it quite a bit in the near future–never in the kitchen, though. 

The butler stands and hands him a fancy glass 9-inch pie dish. “Pie fillings are often determined by season, be it savory or sweet, and reflect the mood of the calendar. Peach pies, for example, are the harbingers of summer. A cake, Master Jason, is just a cake no matter the type or the season. All pies are good. A homemade pie, however, is better than any pie on earth. Pie is made to share with others.” 

Jason watches as Alfred withdraws eggs from a carton he’d pulled from the fridge. Alfred can hold one egg and grab another with the same hand, and crack them together. The first time around, Jason had been enthralled with this skill, and had worked to do the same. It was not something he had perfected until he’d become an adult. 

 “Pies embody effort, love, and care like no other food,” Alfred explains. “The mere act of making it is valuable. When you make a pie with a person in mind and take it to them, it is a way of letting them know that you are thinking of them. It is a way of sharing a taste of home with others. We all wish for a home, after all.” 

“To eat pie is to be human,” Alfred tells him, as if it is so simple. Perhaps it is. “And we are all human at the end of the day, are we not?” 

He turns to Jason. “Well? Have you given it some thought? Did you find anything in that stack?” 

Jason considers making coconut cream pie just to be annoying because he knows that Dick hates coconuts. However, he decides to take Alfred’s words to heart. “Hey Alf, you got any recipes for mint chocolate chip pie? Or something? I know you were thinking about pie with fruit, but…well, Dick likes mint chocolate chip more than anyone I’ve ever known. It might be nice. You know. To do something like that.” 

He clears his throat, embarrassed. “I mean, if all else fails, I’m pretty sure he eats blueberries.” 

Alfred, however, breaks into a sly smile, eyes twinkling. “Why, Master Jason, what a perfectly wonderful idea. I have just the thing.” 

The next afternoon finds Jason standing at his brother’s doorstep, apparently award-winning pie in hand. Well, award-winning according to Bruce’s declaration. Jason had spent quite a while the day before painstakingly trying to master a chocolate pie crust while Alfred coached him. The result is a perfectly even and crisp chewy chocolate crust with inches of light, mint green cream with a crushed chocolate mint garnish and wreath of homemade whipped cream. He’d made it mile high, and Bruce had declared it looked like something out of a movie or perhaps a commercial to sell you something through enticing imagery. 

(Bruce did not know where the pie was headed and had probably assumed it would still be at home when he returned from work in the evening.) 

He tells himself that it’s fine. It’s just Dick. He has crab-stuffed mushrooms and some other cooked things packed away in tupperware to stick in the fridge for his older brother. It’s just a stupid pie, no big deal. He can always chicken out last minute and say Alfred sent it, too. 

Stomach churning in childish nervousness, he knocks on Dick’s door. Blessedly, his weirdo neighbor lady had been absent from the building entrance, though her cigarette smoke lingered like an ominous token of her presence. 

There’s the sound of footsteps before he hears the click of a lock, and then the door swings open. 

Jason stares and finds Roy Harper blinking down at him in confusion. 

“Uh,” Roy says, looking around the hallway, “who are you?”

Chapter Text

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay…

– Remember Me 

xii. carve out your heart for keeps in an old oak tree–

See, Roy Harper is the closest thing that Jason Todd has ever had to a best friend. Okay, they totally are best friends. In the future, but not now. He’d been Dick’s friend first, for a long time. 

Roy Harper is one of the original members and founders of the Titans. Formerly known as Speedy, sidekick of Green Arrow, he’s fought and will continue to fight a host of evils, including the demons that live inside him. He hasn’t succumbed to addiction and depression yet, or recovered from them. He’s not a father this year, and his daughter’s crayon drawings are not hung from Jason’s fridge at this time. Here, he’s still Speedy, live and in the flesh from Star City, still ready to deliver justice to the world, like always. 

In a different life, the one Jason has lived before, they meet when Donna Troy recruits Robin to assist the Titans when they’re…going through some things. In that not-so-distant past and larger-than-life future, Jason was thirteen and cocksure, and Roy had been focused on keeping him alive. They would be on friendly terms, but not actually become good friends until much later, after Jason was on his second life and years past thirteen. 

One of the reasons Jason had been able to come back from the darkness had been Roy Harper–now Arsenal. He’d been the one guy in Jason’s life who wouldn’t ever take “screw off” for an answer. Roy had made it clear that he would always be in Jason’s corner, if only Jason would allow him. 

But in the here and now, their first encounter has changed.

Jason is still staring, fingers digging painfully into the glass of the pie dish. 

Roy scratches at his unshaved five o’clock shadow, brows furrowed, before a thought seems to occur to him. Jason witnesses the actual thought process on his face. Roy throws a quick glance over his shoulder at something and then turns back to Jason, stepping aside. 

“Sorry, man. You must be Dick’s brother. Never seen you outside pictures before.” 

Jason adjusts his hold on the pie and moves into the actual apartment. He searches for whatever it was that Roy had been looking back at and finds a framed picture of Dick and himself on an end table near the couch. In the photograph, Dick has him locked into a friendly headlock. He’s smiling brightly while Jason is caught mid-yell, forever immortalized trying to get out of his older brother’s hold. 

He gently places the pie onto the kitchen table and turns to Roy, who is nervously shifting from foot to foot. 

“Remember that voice in your head?” Roy from the future asks him. “‘Don’t do it, dummy!’ That was me.” 

Jason squints in judgment at the ripped jeans and brown flip flops combo. Roy is also sporting the classic lethal double polo look, popped collar and all, and wearing a thin leather necklace of some sort. There’s fresh green ink on his right arm, a tattoo still healing. He’s got some baseball cap on backwards, strands of red bangs sticking haphazardly out the back panel. It’s black with an embroidered green dragon and red lettering. Jason is pretty sure it’s Dio merch, maybe from their Killing the Dragon Tour the previous year. The whole look is so painfully Roy that it pulls on his heartstrings. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed him until now. 

“Jason,” he introduces himself. “Never seen you outside pictures before either. Let me guess…you’re Wally West?” 

Roy starts, a wounded sound stuck in his throat but not making it past his teeth. However, his indignation fades at the sight of the scheming look on Jason’s face. He huffs. “You think you’re funny, huh, kid?” 

Shrugging, Jason shoulders his backpack off his back and onto the table. “I think I’m hilarious. I’ve made even Batman laugh, y’know. Don’t worry about it, Red.” 

“‘Red,’” Roy repeats, faintly. “What–oh. It’s a hair thing. You’re saying it because of my hair.” 

Jason begins to pull the tupperware containers that he and Alfred had packed from his bag. “You’re speedy, Speedy . Nice to meet you too, Roy Harper.” 

Roy groans. “I should have known. All of you are exactly the same–big bunch of know-it-alls.” 

“It’s part of our charm,” Jason drawls over his shoulder. “Not Batman’s, though. It’s strictly a Robin thing. B will argue it makes him the World’s Greatest Detective, but it also makes him an asshole.” 

He turns to say something else to Roy but gets distracted by the apparent lunch spread on Dick’s countertop. Jason looks at the seven hotdogs split between two plates with half an avocado placed carefully against the dogs, respectively. “Is the avocado like a chaser? What happens with that?” 

Roy appears thoughtful. “It’s more of a garnish. You know, just adds some color to the plate. The mayo is there too. I think it’s supposed to really balance out the meal.” 

Scoffing in disbelief, Jason bullies past him to the refrigerator and places the carefully prepared meals from Alfred inside. “Good lord,” he intones. “He’s hopeless.” 

“I think he’s going for one of those high-protein diets,” Roy muses, watching him at his task. He’s leaned up against the back of a kitchen chair, slumped casually. 

Jason sends him a withering look that ages him far beyond his years. 

Roy throws up his hands in surrender, an easy smile on his face, far too amused. “Kidding, kidding. He actually ran out to the store. I kind of threw off his groove by crashing here for a couple days. He went to make lunch and started freaking out at the sad state of his fridge–claimed you were going to hold it over him for months.” 

Rolling his eyes but knowing that Roy is totally correct, he busies himself with searching through the sparse fridge for something to drink. There’s two glass bottles of root beer crammed into the back amongst like two half-empty bottles of ranch and a pickle jar with a singular, solitary wedge floating around inside. Perturbed, Jason pulls the bottles out, shuts the door, and heads to the counter. He stares at the hotdogs and avocado in repugnance before attending to his task at hand. 

He takes both bottles in one hand, with one bottlecap overlapping the other, and lightly slams them onto the counter. The cap flies off into the air, landing right in one half of the split avocado. For the second bottle, he places the bottom rim of the cap directly on the edge of the counter, holds the bottle firmly with one hand, and then brings the heel of his other hand down with a good amount of force. The cap pops off and flies onto the counter with a plink! and Jason casually shakes the oozing foam of the root beer off his hand. 

Jason heads in the direction of the couch, handing one of the opened bottles to Roy as he goes. He sits back against the couch, in the weird sunken spot where the previous owner seems to have spent a good majority of their time, root beer in hand and feet on the coffee table like he owns the place. “So. Roy. Tell me about yourself.” 

Roy frowns like this puzzles him. “What do you mean?” 

“You know, like…you’re an Aquarius. You enjoy sunsets and long, romantic walks on the beach. You have tattoos you don’t remember getting. You hate reading poetry and fiction, but you like reading engineering manuals. You like fishing and frisky women.”

He eyes Jason somewhat warily. “How do you know all that? Wait, frisky women–?” 

“Didn’t Dick tell you?” Jason asks with a gasp, voice hushed. “Being Robin gives me magic.” 

Roy stares at him, flabbergasted, and then breaks into laughter–real, holding his stomach, chest-heaving laughter. “ Woo , boy. Ain’t you a trip. But you’re wrong,” Roy shakes his head. “I’m a Scorpio.” 

Jason tuts, though he already knew this and had intentionally said the wrong thing. “Well damn. Can’t win ‘em all. The magic only does so much, you see.”  

 Roy narrows his eyes in contemplation. “Dick tells me you tried to jack the tires from the Batmobile.” 

“And I succeeded,” Jason tips the root beer bottle in his direction, brows raised in a challenge. “I just got greedy. If I hadn’t gone back for the last of Batman’s whitewalls, I would have gotten away with it.” 

Roy nods along. “Right. And now you’re one of Batman’s meddling kids.” 

“Do the Titans have a whole ‘let’s split up and search for clues, gang’ schtick?” 

“Sometimes,” Roy admits sheepishly. “What can I say? It’s a classic move.”

“And since we are apparently basing our decisions on what does and does not happen in Scooby Doo,” Jason ponders, “which one of you is Fred?” 

“Well, Dick could rock the ascot, and he’s got that whole vee neck window thing going on,” Roy gestures to his upper chest, reminiscent of the Discowing suit. “But I’d argue the point that I make the traps. Been working on different types of trick arrows lately. I’ve been experimenting with more modern enhancements for my bow too.” 

Jason wrinkles his nose at the thought of Roy’s experiments. He’s been privy to the creation and results of many. “Speaking of the seventies vee–you really let him go out like that? Saturday Night Fever ?” 

Roy’s face does something complicated, as if he’s trying very hard not to laugh at one of his best friends. “I mean,” he tries helplessly to apparently defend what is left of Dick’s dignity, “nobody is laughing at him when he’s beating the shit out of them.” 

“Sorry,” Jason shakes his head. “I can’t hear you over the sound of the Bee Gees. Disco’s dead, Roy. Sometimes dead things shouldn’t be brought back.” 

He pauses and swallows. “We should, however, bring back bullying. The Titans can put a stop to this madness. He looks like a 19-year-old Italian-American boy from Brooklyn trying to escape the harsh reality of his bleak family life by dominating the floor at the local disco.” 

Roy stares at him. 

Jason narrows his eyes. “Well, you know…now that I think about it…if we change the Italian part and the disco thing…” 

“We all kind of figured it was some sort of creative outlet for him after the whole thing with…” Roy gestures weakly, “...you know. He was pretty excited about this whole Nightwing identity, and I get that. We all do. I mean he went from a traffic light target–no offense to present company–to that. We’re kind of thinking he’ll come to his senses soon enough and go for a more subtle approach.” 

Jason thinks of all the terrible things that he knows happen to Dick Grayson in the years to come, and even the ones he doesn’t know about. It sobers him. “Thanks for looking out for him,” he says, genuine. “He gets himself into some real shit sometimes.” 

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Roy snorts. 

Jason absentmindedly runs a thumb over the finish of his drink. “He doesn’t always ask for help when he’s dealing with something and needs support. He’s got some kind of martyr complex. You’ll still be there for him in the future, right? Like…if something really bad happens?” 

“ Ah’duh ,” Roy rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Has Dick never told you our whole motto? It’s disgustingly Hallmark and straight-to-the-point, so I expect you to remember it. ‘Titans together.’” There’s an uncomfortably familiar and mischievous glint in his eyes that always spells trouble for Jason in the future. “But what does he need us for? Clearly he’s got a little brother that’s perfectly capable of looking out for him. Word on the street is that he even hit Batman with a tire iron. Kid’s got balls of fuckin’ steel if you ask me. What more could a guy ask for?” 

Jason scoffs and crosses his arms, embarrassed. “Bet you think you’re funny.” 

Roy places a hand on his chest and laughs lightly. “Oh buddy, I’m hilarious.” He parrots Jason’s earlier words back at him. “If you ever find yourself in Star City, look for me at open mic night.” 

“Seriously, don’t tell him I said anything.”

Roy sends him a sly smile that also typically means nothing but trouble for Jason. “Wild horses, dude. Wouldn’t want Dickie Boy to know you worry about him, right?” 

Jason makes a throaty noise of indignation and moves to shove at Roy when the sound of a struggle of a key trying to find a lock has them turning to the door. Dick Grayson emerges, juggling several paper bags of groceries and closing the door with his foot. He stops dead in his tracks at the sight of his younger brother and long-time friend staring at him. 

Roy snorts and places his untouched root beer on the coffee table in favor of picking up a packed duffle bag. “Okay, okay. I’ll leave you two to the brotherly bonding. With my keen eye–which you need to have for archery, I’ll have you know–I can clearly see you two have missed each other.” 

“Roy!” Dick and Jason yell in unison, equally abashed. 

He smiles evilly and approaches the hotdog banquet in the kitchen. Roy sloppily packs two away into a paper towel and sticks them in his front jeans pocket. Jason all but gags at the sight. “I’m taking some of these hotdogs with me for the road.” 

“Don’t worry about this mission coming up.” He pats a disgruntled Dick on the cheek as he passes by. “It’s a chump job, honey. They’re no match for us, I swear.” 

Roy takes the Dio cap off his head and places it the right way onto Jason, pulling the brim down over his eyes. “Be seein’ ya, Jaybird.”

He throws a two-fingered wave over his shoulder as he opens the door and disappears into the hallway. Jason finds that any semblance of a goodbye is caught in his throat as his chest warms at the sound of the familiar nickname. In the guise of helping his brother instead of letting the full weight of the situation wash over him, he rises from the couch and heads to the kitchen. 

“What was all that about?” Dick asks, dropping bags of groceries on the table. 

Jason catches a handful of apples as one of the paper bags tears, spilling its content to the table and the floor while Dick watches in abject distress. “Nothin.’” He smirks, secret. “Just a feeling that Roy and I are gonna get along real great one day.” 

“Okay, whatever you say…Jaybird.” 

Jason lightly hits him in the arm. “Nah. No. You only get one embarrassing nickname and you’ve already met your quota. Only Roy gets to call me that.” 

“Now that doesn’t seem fair, Little Wing,” Dick accuses as he pulls out random ingredients and at least three boxes of cereal. “As my god-given right as your older brother, I think that I–”

There’s a sharp gasp, and Jason turns in alarm. “Wh–” 

“Is that PIE ?!” 

July 19th, 2003 is a Saturday and also Tim Drake’s twelfth birthday. 

His parents were supposed to fly in the night before from Florence but their plane had experienced unexpected mechanical delays, and they would not make it until that night. Janet Drake had been exceedingly apologetic over the phone while Tim had reassured her that everything was fine, even if he’d looked crestfallen while doing so. 

Jason has long since labored over what exactly to get Tim. It was the younger boy that seemingly had a knack for matching people with the perfect gift. Tim had once told him that once you hang out with people long enough, you get an idea of who they really are and what they like–the little things that give their lives some joy. And even though you might not hit the mark every time, it never hurts to try. 

Here he faces the seemingly age-old conundrum–what to get the boy who has everything. 

Jason chooses to give him the gift of time, which he seems to have in spades these days. He’s always been practical and caters to the meaningful twinges of memory, and that’s one thing he can give Tim Drake–memories. 

The morning of July 19th, already blanketing him with its early-day heat, finds Jason pouding on the front door of Drake Manor. He could ring the doorbell, or he could have called ahead, but he enjoys the drama of it all too much. He is holding neatly wrapped new editions of the revised 3rd edition of Warlocks and Warriors–the Player’s Handbook, Dungeon Master’s Guide, and Monster Manual, all core rulebooks for the 3.5 edition. 

They had just been released the past week, and Tim had been extremely excited. However, he’d fallen victim to the summer flu, and been bedridden at the time, during which all of the books had sold out. Jason knows that he’s been extremely disappointed over the whole ordeal. It’s perfectly fine, however, because unbeknownst to Tim, he’d gotten up at the asscrack of dawn that day and asked Alfred to drive him into the city. Jason had waited in an agonizing line–with, frankly, a wide variety of individuals, some of whom gave him the heebie jeebies–to get his hands on the manuals. 

The Player’s Handbook has an ornate cover designed to look like leather, encased with gold hardware and encrusted with beautiful multi-colored gems. There’s a fantasy-type script with the name of the book and the game etched into gold plates. The Monster Manual v. 3.5 is equally as intricate. It’s decorated with alternating gold and silver hardware and mock rubies, with a giant, reptilian-looking eyeball fixed in the center, all attached over some kind of leather monster skin. Finally, the Dungeon Master’s Guide v. 3.5 cover is some dyed blue leather with Norse-inspired engravings, different gold and silver hardware around the edges, and a golden globe fixed in a circular center groove. 

It had been a deliberate gift anyway, as he’d known Tim was sick and wouldn’t be able to get the books himself. If Jason remembers correctly, it would take a while for them to be back in stock. He has ulterior motives, however. 

Tim answers the door, hair disheveled and still in his pajamas. He looks like he’s been awake for a while but the weariness of the night still clings to him, refusing to let go. He blinks in surprise at the sight of Jason standing at his door. 

“Happy birthday,” Jason announces, shoving the wrapped books into Tim’s arms. 

Tim buckles a little under the expected weight. “Jason?” 

“I’m here to cordially invite you to the Manor for the day. You’re going to want to open that up, though. I plan on putting them to use, and we’re going to drag Bruce into it. It’s Saturday and he’s still in bed, but because it’s Saturday, he has no excuse for getting out of the day I have planned.” 

Mystified, Tim turns his attention to the carefully wrapped package. He peels back a corner of brightly-colored paper and tape like he’s on the bomb squad. Jason rolls his eyes. 

“It’s okay, Tim. Just tear into it.” 

So he does. A short moment later finds Tim gasping at the books in his hands. He looks a bit like he’s on the verge of tears. “What! How did you–?” 

He gently places the books on a table by the front door before launching himself across the threshold and throws his arms around Jason. He catches Tim in muted shock, arms awkwardly encircling the kid who’d become his younger brother in a handful of years. Now that he thinks about it, he and Tim had never really hugged that much. 

Just as suddenly as he’d embraced him, Tim is pulling back, looking awkward and embarrassed. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just–this is like the best birthday ever.” 

“I doubt that,” Jason says dryly. “Seriously, though. You have to teach Bruce and me how to play,” he tells him. “I have to know what all the excitement was about.” 

Tim nods in excitement, fighting to keep a wide smile off on his face. “Here, come in while I go change. It’s getting hot out there.” 

Jason steps inside Drake Manor and closes the door behind him as Tim clambers off up the stairs, taking each step in twos. He takes in the stale surroundings of a house clean but barely lived in, though he’s sure Tim’s nanny is somewhere about. The interior design is different from the gothic tones of Wayne Manor. Drake Manor has a warmer architecture style, but it falls flat in the absence of its important occupants. There are various archeological finds, certainly almost priceless, tastefully situated around the rooms that Jason can see. He wonders if Janet Drake ever displayed Tim’s childhood drawings on the refrigerator, truly priceless works of art, like Bruce does with Damian’s in the future. 

He’s not waiting long before Tim comes haphazardly flying down the stairs again. He has a backpack with him–likely filled with his Warlocks and Warriors paraphernalia. He scoops up the books by the door and tosses a ‘goodbye, see you later’ to his nanny somewhere in the house. Then Jason and Tim are out the door and headed to Wayne Manor. 

Jason feels inexplicably shy all of a sudden. “Uh, also,” he coughs, catching Tim’s attention. “Alfred and I may have been up early getting the other thing ready.” 

Tim’s brows furrow. “What other thing?” 

Awkwardly, Jason runs a hand over the back of his neck. “So,” he begins, stilted, “I know how you like donuts. And, well, Alfred makes these really good ones from some recipe he has or something. I don’t know. He doesn’t do it very often, but he can be persuaded.” 

Recognition alights in Tim’s eyes and he lightly elbows Jason. “You sweet-talked Alfred into making donuts for my birthday?” 

There’s a wide smile on his face that he doesn’t bother hiding this time. Jason clears his throat and looks away. “I mean…it didn’t take much. He was happy to do it for you. But he thought you’d probably want to help form and fry them. After that you can frost them.” 

“Oh,” Tim says, terribly pleased. “And we have to use lots of sprinkles, of course.” 

“Right,” Jason agrees. “Of course.” 

By the time they reach the Manor, Alfred informs them that the dough has risen and is ready to be rolled and cut into donuts. He even lets Tim punch the dough ball to release the air, which the boy does with great delight. Jason and Tim take turns rolling the dough out with a rolling pin, and then use the donut cutter to shape the pastries. Alfred has already prepared baking sheets for them to place the cut donut dough on to rest while the oil heats in a great big pot on the stovetop. 

The dough needs another half hour to rest, so they take this time to wake a confused Bruce from his deep slumber and set up Warlocks and Warriors in the den. Tim carefully explains various aspects of the game to Jason as they unpack his backpack–miniatures, the different dice and what they’re used for, etcetera. They barely scratch the surface before Alfred calls them back into the kitchen. 

Alfred has thoughtfully prepared a variety of glazes for them to choose from–plain, chocolate, and strawberry. They are set aside in bowls for the boys to dip the donuts in, but first, they must be deep fried. Alfred hands Tim a strainer and advises him to carefully lower two to three donuts into the bubbling oil, where they will remain for a minute before needing to be flipped. There are many donuts to fry, so he switches off the duty with Jason to take turns glazing the finished product. 

Tim dips a donut into the glaze and then flicks the sticky, sugary remnants on his fingers–the little shit. It hits Jason squarely on the cheek, and he retaliates by smacking a glaze-covered hand on Tim’s forehead. Alfred has to intervene and staunchly remind them both that this is a kitchen, young sirs . There is, much to Tim’s great elation, many options for colorful sprinkles. 

Bruce ambles into the kitchen when they’ve worked about halfway through the batch. He makes himself a cup of hot coffee and leans back against the counter, watching the obviously very skilled cooks in the process of magic, a soft smile on his face. He’s in that ridiculous housecoat, and barely even flinches when strawberry glaze comes flying his way. 

Jason makes everybody pause and produces a candle from somewhere, placing it in a chocolate-frosted donut with about one hundred sprinkles coating it. He holds it out to an embarrassed Tim, menacing smile on his face. “Okay. You know what time it is,” he threatens. 

“You don’t have to sing–” 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY,” Jason belts, effectively cutting Tim off. Nobody in the family can really carry a tune, save for Dick, and Bruce if he so wished. Rumor has it he sang the blues as Batman once. Jason would have loved to see that. 

Alfred and Bruce join in for the yearly serenade as Tim awkwardly stands and takes it. He turns a bright red and doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself, like just about everybody else in the world during the happy birthday song. 

“It’s tradition, Timmy.” Jason shakes his head. “You just don’t mess with tradition. Now, blow out your candle and make a wish.” 

Tim’s eyes narrow into thin slits, but he doesn’t look mad. Instead, he seemingly thinks very hard before blowing out his candle, eyes closed in reverence to the tradition. Jason solemnly passes him the birthday donut and nods. 

“Okay, what’d you wish for?” 

Tim takes a bite of the donut. “Uh, Jason,” he rolls his eyes. “I can’t tell you, or else it won’t come true. Duh . It’s tradition. You don’t mess with tradition.” 

Jason sighs and shakes his head, loading about a dozen donuts onto a plate. “Whatever shall I do with you, young Timothy. Come on, B. Tim is about to regale us with all the rules and red tape for Warlocks and Warriors. I bet you totally want to be a bard. You should sing us the blues. Tim, please make him sing anything he tries to cast. You gotta commit to the bit.” 

Several hours and donuts later finds them holed up in the den, finishing up a quick game of Warlocks and Warriors. Bruce had chosen to play a rogue, which surprised absolutely no one. They’d even gotten Alfred to stop and play for a while, and the butler had surprisingly been very into the game. After Tim has put them through a quick dungeon and had them fight against a variety of nasty fantasy monsters, it is late afternoon. Alfred has insisted on making some sort of actual birthday dinner for Tim after a quick lunch, and has retreated into the kitchen. Bruce has also disappeared, never actually having changed from his striped pajamas. 

Jason and Tim are packing up the Warlocks and Warriors pieces and safely tucking them away inside Tim’s backpack for later use. Tim pauses, thumb pressed into the edge of the Monster Manual book he’d received earlier in the day. He clears his throat, making Jason pause in his job of gathering up minifigures. 

“Jason,” Tim begins, quietly, “thanks for today. Seriously. It means…it means a lot to me. You didn’t have to, y’know, have me over or anything.” 

He heaves the world’s loudest sigh and stands a goblin on the table. “Tim. Please. You’re…” he pauses, searching for the right words. My brother. “It’s your birthday, and it would totally suck to spend it alone. I’m doing like, my civic duty. I like having you around. I want you around. Besides, you give Bruce a run for his money. I have to bring Alfred joy somehow.” 

Tim laughs, seemingly relieved. “It’s…it was nice. Today. I think it’s probably one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had.” 

In the future, Tim will be so busy that he doesn’t even remember his own sixteenth birthday. Or so Jason has heard. He can give Tim this. 

“Well,” Jason tells him, “that’s good to know, considering we’re all very boring around here. Had to get B out of bed somehow. He likes to sleep until noon and then catnap. You know him, billionaire playboy problems.” 

Tim looks like he doesn’t believe a word of it. Jason knows he doesn’t. “Yeah, I guess. Boring.” 

He knocks into Jason’s side, purposefully avoiding eye contact. “Thank you, Jason.”  

It’s a quiet evening later that week that finds Jason playing with Ace in the Wayne Manor gardens. 

Jason makes a mistake and overshoots his throw of the tennis ball he’s been tossing for Ace. The puppy disappears to the far end of the gardens and doesn’t return, so Jason goes looking for him. He finds him happily gnawing on the tennis ball by something he’d forgotten about in his later years. 

There’s an old oak tree standing stately and unfaltering at the end of the gardens. An aged iron bench of intricate designs and curved armrests sits under the swaying leafy canopy, evergreen paint chipped and fading. A patch of daffodil greens, flowers long gone since the spring season, sit untended next to the legs of the bench. It seems forgotten, this sanctuary of gentle silence and scenic peace. Jason recalls a time when Bruce had told him that it had been a favorite spot of his mother’s, and then a favorite hideaway for a young Bruce. 

An arborglyph, a symbol carved into the bark of a living tree. Trees live decades longer than humans do, sometimes even thousands of years beyond a mortal lifespan. Since the earliest of days, trees have defied the molding hands of time–anchored in the earth and stretched towards heaven. The practice of tree carving dates back to Callimachus and the writings of Virgil. There’s a verse in Eclogues in which Virgil writes, ‘Resolved am I in the woods, rather, with wild beasts to couch, and bear my doom, and character my love upon the tender tree-trunks: they will grow, and you, my love, grow with them.’ In modern times, it’s a practice amongst lovers to solidify and immortalize themselves in time, but before, it had been a tool to tell a story. 

It’s a symbol of permanence in this fleeting world–a desire, a desperation to belong and feel remembered. Cogito, ergo sum , and all that. A gentle reminder to open your eyes and remember. Jason has already long been afflicted with that touching and terrible impulse to memorialize oneself by any means.

Trees tell us something about being human while also serenading the dream of immortality. Trees withstand the years that slake humanity into nothing but dust and long-forgotten dreams, and then compress entire lifetimes into just several rings. Jason wonders what he would look like if cleaved in two and studied under the method of dendrochronology. Would someone be able to visualize what each year of his life—his lives—had been like? Would they see when he was felled the first time, still a young human sapling that hadn’t made it to his sixteenth calendar year? Would there still be earlywood and then nothing? Would they be able to ascertain his environmental conditions from the bloody viscera of his bisected corpse? Would they see a marked difference from his childhood to his youth, then a tragic death? Then, a false life spliced together under mysterious conditions that neither science nor faith could seem to explain? 

He thinks about the line from The Twelfth Night– ’in nature there’s no blemish but the mind; none can be called deformed but the unkind.’ Jason has already come back blemished and deformed. He thinks that maybe his own family has thought so. It wouldn’t be that far of a reach.

Oak trees, Jason knows from reading one of Alfred’s old arboretum guides, can live for 1,000 years, though their lifespan is typically around 600 years. It is said that an oak tree spends 300 years growing, 300 years living, and 300 years in slow decline. Jason feels that his years of growing were cut short, and his years of living barely reached four, and he’s spent the rest of the time in slow decline. This oak tree is old in human years but still in its youth according to tree years. It will do nicely for his epitaph, his still-alive but once-dead commemoration. Here he was, a once-loved bud, lately made of flesh and blood. 

Jason withdraws a pocketknife that he keeps on him and flips it open. He then carefully carves JASON TODD WAS HERE into the old oak tree. 

Read it, weep, and remember. 

If, in the future, something happens to him that once again cuts his time on earth short, he will leave his tangible mark on the Manor. If Bruce is to remove all traces of him from the inside of their home, then Jason will still find a way to preserve his presence on the grounds. In nature, engraved deep into the bark of this tree which is a global symbol of wisdom, strength, and endurance, he will forever remain unblemished. 

Ace brushes against his leg, tail wagging and big, brown eyes inquisitive in that puppy way. Jason absentmindedly reaches down to scratch Ace behind his ears. 

“Master Jason!” The faint echoes of Alfred’s voice beckon him from the back great porch of the Manor. 

He runs his fingers over the fresh and deep grooves in the tree, touch lingering. 

Jason knows with condign certainty that he will not completely disappear, there is an unfaltering connection between his home and himself. He turns to head back to the Manor. At this point in his life, there will always be someone waiting for him. 

Chapter Text

Between the dark and the daylight, 

 When the night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 

      That is known as the Children's Hour... 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 

      Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old mustache as I am 

   Is not a match for you all! 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

     And will not let you depart, 

But put you down into the dungeon 

      In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 

  Yes, forever and a day, 

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

      And moulder in dust away! 

– The Children’s Hour

xiii. build a house of dream and domino–

Jason wakes up at fourteen. 

The months lost between the summer and winter are hazy in his memory, as if he’s lost between dream and fact. He blinks and rubs his eyes in an attempt to drag himself and those recollections into reality. The clock in the den tick-tick-ticks away in rhythm to his heart as he takes in his surroundings. He doesn’t remember taking a midday nap, rather he last recalls falling asleep in the Batcave, still in his Robin getup. This was always the strangest part–time lost that he’s clearly lived but not as his adult self. It’s a comfort to know that his life continues after he’s rearranged the track it will run on. 

Outside, there’s a soft snow falling, blanketing Gotham in a gentle white and softening the sharp edges of the city beyond. From the palladian windows, the world outside feels like a picturesque scene out of a snowglobe. It’s the first snow of the year, and Ace will surely want to go and roll around in it. Jason can almost picture the look on Alfred’s face when the German shepherd tracks muddy prints all over his floors and rugs. 

A Christmas tree towers over him from the other side of the den. It’s an enormous fresh Fraser fir with full fanned branches that leaves the room smelling of earthly, slightly sweetness with citrus overtones. Of course, that could also be the dried orange, cranberry garlands, and cinnamon stick garlands that Alfred insisted they make every year. He even roped Bruce into the whole ordeal. They’d decided to forgo the popcorn strands this year in favor of Ace, or more accurately, in hope that the puppy wouldn’t pull down the tree in the process of trying to get an afternoon snack. The branches droop heavy, laden with colorful glass ornaments both antique and tasteful, and he even spots a few of what he knows to be Dick’s Christmas crafts from school hanging there. 

There’s a pile of neatly-wrapped gifts sitting beneath the fir branches, addressed to and from the various inhabitants of the house. The twinkling lights cast a soft glow over the entire room in the late afternoon gloom. Ace is resting quietly on the floor beside him, curled up with an almost destroyed bone he’s seemingly been gnawing on for the past few days. His head doesn’t lift from its spot on the floor, but his tail does begin to thump excitedly against the rug.  

“Wow. Been burning the midnight oil, brother dearest?”

He also, apparently, has woken from his nap in the den to a Christmas miracle. 

Dick has come home for the holidays. 

Jason raises a hand and squints up at his older brother. “Yeah, and I must still be dreaming. Richard John Grayson back in his childhood home under the thumb of his oppressive and emotionally stunted father after running away to New York and then Bludhaven? Also, his father is Batman. Someone call Wes Anderson. I must be dreaming of the premise for the next Royal Tenenbaums .” 

Dick launches a throw pillow with tassels at him. One of them smacks him in the corner of his eye. It does sting a little. The asshole did it on purpose. Jason smirks anyway and pushes the pillow away. 

“Stow your tracksuit dreams, little brother. Alfred told me to come wake you. It’s like four o’clock.” 

Jason idly scratches Ace behind the ears. “Yeah. So what?” 

“‘So what’?” Dick parrots, leaning back and interlocking his fingers behind his head. “Sleep so long you forget what day it is?” 

Jason’s blank stare invokes a loud groan from Dick. “It’s only the late afternoon before the Christmas event of the year!” Dick gasps in a mock posh accent. “The Wayne Christmas Charity Gala? On Christmas Eve? Hello ?” 

“‘Crime doesn’t take a holiday, and neither do I.’” Jason says in a very convincing Batman growl. 

Dick rolls his eyes. “That does sound like him. Thank you. Come on, up and at ‘em. You know there are guests that will start arriving earlier than the invitation said. And you look like you got into a fight with the Sandman and lost. Badly.” 

This time it’s Jason that hurls a throw pillow at him. 

An hour and a half later and this gala finds Jason dressed to match Bruce for the evening–tailored black suit, crisp white button up, white vest, and white bowtie. He still feels like he belongs in a Saks Fifth Avenue Christmas ad, or perhaps Bergdorf Goodman. Dick, ever the rebel at this stage in his life, had apparently packed some deep jeweled tone suit, and is off flitting around the ballroom like he belongs there. 

The entire room has been decorated for the occasion. There is a massive Christmas tree–much like the one in their den–covered in glittering baubles and garland. There are real candles set carefully into the branches, lit by the combined team of Dick, Jason, and Alfred only a short time prior. Typically, there’s staff for these sorts of things involved in setup, but Alfred is always extra cautious when open flame is involved, and Bruce is staunchly banned from helping. Red and white poinsettias are arranged tastefully throughout the ballroom, and fresh boughs of cypress and pine decorated with glittering lights and holly hang from the ceiling. There’s even a live orchestra playing all the Christmas classics–Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suites, ‘Run Rudolph Run,’ ‘O Tannenbaum,’ ‘Jingle Bells,’ the works. It's nice. Jason is not immune to holiday cheer, even now. 

The food spread is extensive this year. Jason supposes he should know, because he apparently helped Alfred pick it. He wiggles his fingers in anticipatory delight as he runs reconnaissance on the gala floor. There are platters rotating the room, all full of cranberry brie tartlets, crab-stuffed mushrooms, crostini with wine-poached figs and goat cheese, braised lamb shanks, and gougères with smoked salmon, caviar, and prosciutto. The desserts are persimmon pie with pecan streusel, rose pavlovas cakes, miniature ginger spice cakes, and orange-anise croquembouche with white chocolate. Jason isn’t much of a fan of chocolate and orange, but the towers of cream puffs surrounded by wreaths of freshly picked and bunched cypress are quite nice to look at. 

The child-friendly drink of the night is some kind of luscious red punch with heaping scoops of sorbet floating around in cut crystal punch bowls. There are matching cut crystal glasses, and if he eyeballs it correctly, an entire scoop of sorbet will sit nicely on top. Jason pours himself a glass and another for a special guest and jives his way through the crowd toward his target to the tune of ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’ He bobs his head and gives a little shake of his shoulders to Vicki Vale, Bruce’s on-again, off-again girlfriend of the year. She rolls her eyes in response and returns to sipping at her flute of champagne. 

His mark is standing stately over by Brook Courtland, President of the Gotham City Stock Exchange. He’s there, a silent and small sentinel, because his parents are talking casual business with Courtland. He has also apparently found himself victim to Mrs. Frontonac, who looks about 20 minutes into one of her infamous stories of Hammert’s Antique Shop and her diamond jewelry finds. She’s always been kind to Jason, if not long-winded, so he really has no qualms with her. 

 Tim had hit a growth spurt during those nebulous months of Jason’s memory, shooting up like a skinny stalk of summer corn. His hair is slicked back like a gentleman’s, but several pieces have been knocked loose already. He’s fiddling with his cufflinks, an anxious tell that never quite goes away as he grows older. There is a stiff but polite smile plastered to his face. He locks desperate eyes with Jason as he nears. 

“So terribly sorry, Mrs. Frontonac,” Jason says, offering a glass of punch to Tim. “I need to borrow Tim for a few minutes.” 

The older woman’s face lights up in delight. “Why, Jason Todd! How are you? Look at you, so handsome, the both of you! Yes, yes, of course. I was just telling dear Timothy here about this antique old European cut diamond ring set in platinum I found last month. It’s from the 1920s, you see, and–” 

“You know ,” Jason cuts her off in a conspiratorial tone before the story gets out of hand, “I know someone here tonight that would love to hear about this ring. Dick is back in town. He’s right over there, in fact. I hear you two go way back.” 

Mrs. Frontonac gasps, gloved hands flying to her mouth and evening bag haphazardly flying up on its strap from its place on her wrist. “Oh, Richard ? Why, it’s been–” 

Gently, Jason dodges vintage Cartier and guides her in the direction of his unassuming older brother. “A long time, I’m sure. Why don’t you go over there and say hello? Always lovely seeing you, Mrs. Frontonac.” 

Jason and Tim watch her move across the room with an alarming amount of sprite for an older woman before the younger boy slumps in relief. The ice cream in his punch nearly splashes onto the ballroom floor. 

“Thanks,” Tim breathes. “Whew. That woman can talk. I can’t believe you offered up your brother as a sacrifice.” 

“She’s lonely,” Jason observes. “And Dick won’t mind. At least…not too much. She’s not trying to touch his butt or anything, and she’ll run all the other girls off with her antiquing stories. Really, this is like me saving him from a night of harassment.” 

Tim doesn’t look convinced, but follows Jason through the crowd, out of the ballroom and to one of the sitting rooms nearby. Typically, the main house where the family lived was off limits to gala guests, but Tim has the privilege of being the only friend that Jason has ever brought over. As they sneak out the door, Jason throws one last glance over his shoulder and sees Vicki Vale descending upon Bruce. They’re off again right now, if he remembers correctly. He really has no interest in having anything to do with that on this fine evening, and urges Tim out the door a little faster. 

Jason’s typical modus operandi for these events runs a thorough and predictable course for the duration of the evening. He mixes and mingles beside Bruce as the rosy-cheeked son of the city’s White Knight and resident playboy. He lets doting elderly women in glittering gold and silver pleats and unrestricted access to a hot curling iron pinch his cheeks. Jason watches as the young and hungry women of Gotham’s elite fawn over and flirt with Bruce and tell Jason how handsome he looks–just like his father. As if he isn’t adopted. 

His other job is to discreetly pull Bruce away when he’s had too much–not too much champagne that’s been floating around the room, no, Bruce hardly drinks. It’s to intervene when Bruce has had too much socialization, or if he can’t shake a particularly clingy conversationalist. Rumor has it that Bruce used to do that part himself with a little extra effort, but that had changed when Dick came along, the little charmer. Charming much? Jason isn’t, never has been. But he’s been known to provide a good distraction every now and then. 

However. 

Jason and Tim have developed a system for these sorts of events ever since Jason had turned the hourglass of time on its side. Tim also learns that Jason has sticky fingers when he starts bringing back entire silver platters of hors d’oeuvres. See, after the two of them have made their presence good and known amongst the Gotham elite populace, they have taken to slipping away into the background and often a different part of the event entirely. 

Tonight, Jason has snuck their well-used deck of cards and several handfuls of poker chips into the sitting room. The location is far enough away that they shouldn’t be bothered by any guests, but close enough that they’ll be able to hear the gala winding down. The two have slowly been working their way through two player card games. They’d started with crazy eights and quickly delved into war, gin rummy, blackjack, and poker. Jason had taught Tim seven-card stud and Texas hold ‘em. Truthfully, neither game was really fit for two people, though poker could be played heads up but still needed a dealer. Jason acts as a ghost dealer, and they do their best with what they have. It’s better than double Solitaire, that’s for sure. Tim has also seemed to develop a frighteningly good grasp of poker, as of late. 

Jason briefly leaves Tim to set up the game while he sneaks back in and talks his way into being handed two trays of various hors d’oeuvres. He returns to their hideaway undetected, and much to Tim’s delight. They fluctuate between playing hands and talking about what’s new since they’ve last seen each other–which has been a long time for Jason, but not that long for Tim. 

They are discussing whether or not Jason will play Junior League and the future of the team (as they had apparently not made it to the World Series this season, though they had come close) when the door opens. Both of them turn to find none other than Dick Grayson, looking a little desperate and loosening his bowtie with the crook of a finger. 

He pauses and stares at the sight before him before his expression turns accusatory. “What is this?” 

Jason carefully plucks a crostini off a tray and tosses it into his mouth. “What?” he snarks. “Poker night. We always do it at these things.” 

“And you didn’t invite me ?” Dick whines, loud and put-upon. 

Jason turns to Tim, expression deadpan. “Tim, this is my brother, Dick. You may have heard of him. His dramatics, however, are probably new to you. Dickie, this is Tim Drake, our next door neighbor. Please try not to chase him away.” 

Dick sniffs in indignation. “Don’t be fu– freaking rude, Jason.” He coughs and smiles, all Dick Grayson genuine charm. “Hi Tim. It’s nice to meet you. Don’t listen to Jay here. He’s still learning manners.” 

“Hello, Mr. Grayson,” Tim squawks. 

Dick laughs. “Please, call me Dick. Mr. Grayson was my father.” 

“Manners maketh man,” Jason quotes Alfred and cuts the deck. “My manners are fine.” 

Dick huffs and places a hand over his heart. “Clearly not. You left me out of poker night. You wound me, Jay. However will I recover from this great backstab?” 

“It’s pay to play,” Jason tells him, settled comfortably into his spot on the fur rug. “We’re short handed, so I guess we can let you in.” 

He turns to Tim for confirmation. “What do you say, Timmy?” 

Tim looks like he has stars in his eyes simply at being in the presence of Dick Grayson. “Okay.” 

Jason taps the deck against the floor as a substitute gavel. “Okay. The Wayne Manor Poker Club has decided to let you in. As a club member, you’ll have exclusive benefits. Go bring something back and buy your way into the game. And it had better not be only crab-stuffed mushrooms. I saw you stuffing your face with like, seven of them. Take it easy, man, seriously.”

 Dick looks abashed at his younger brother outing him but points a threatening finger at him nonetheless. “You wait right there and deal me in.” 

He turns and hastily makes his way back to the ballroom, muttering something about I’ll show you some stuffed– as Jason lays down two cards for his brother. Jason shakes his head and deals his brother in, then returns to his glass of melting punch. The sitting room has a fireplace, which Alfred had apparently lit in preparation for their little hideaway, and it has turned Tim and Jason’s drinks into thick fruity slush. 

Dick returns with a plate stacked high with several dessert choices. Jason deems this an acceptable buy-in and they proceed to give Dick a run for his money. After several rounds of the game, Jason and Tim have split the winnings between them, leaving Dick in the dust and lost down the river. His older brother gapes at the two younger boys in incredulity after his fifth loss of the night. 

He throws his cards down in defeat. “I don’t understand,” Dick mutters. 

“Uh,” Jason begins, eloquently, collecting the cards and performing a quick riffle shuffle with the deck, “some words of wisdom. If you’re gonna play the game, you got to learn to play it right. You got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away, and know when to run.” 

“That’s not wisdom, that’s Kenny Rogers,” Dick counters, thoroughly unimpressed. 

“Did you ever hear of Kenny Rogers getting his ass whooped at poker by children?” Jason asks, dealing out the hands. “No. You’re a sad man, Dick Grayson.” 

After another round that leaves Dick brandishing three of a kind in sevens, Tim with a full house, and Jason with four of a kind, Dick is at his breaking point. He tosses his losing hand down in a fit of great despair and rounds on the two younger boys. Jason is greedily raking in the chips he’s won. Between Tim and himself, they’ve almost cleaned house–Dick only has 800 left in chips, considering he has lost every single game so far. 

“You–” Dick splutters in disbelief, “you two are hustling me!” 

Jason presses his palms to Tim’s cheeks and squishes them together, totally disregarding Tim’s personal comfort. “Look at this face. Look at it, Richard. Timmy still has baby fat. You’re accusing him of running a con on you? He’s new to poker. You’ve claim that you’ve been tricked, you’ve been backstabbed, and you’ve been–oh my goodness gracious–quite possibly, bamboozled?” 

“Personally I’m a fan of hornswoggled,” Tim chimes in. 

Jason points to him in contemplation. “Nice one, Tim. Look, I’m thinking of a business pitch. Think Scrabble on the go and with simultaneous play. It’s a race to the finish. The packaging could be fruit-themed. We could also work it into the name. You might think it tacky, but I think it could sell. Get this–the winner is crowned ‘Top Banana.’” 

“Who are we pitching it to?” 

“Actually, I’m thinking we go independent.” Jason muses. “You know, BYOB–Be Your Own Boss. You strike me as the young CEO type. The middle school ladies will love you. Maybe we can get you a cover on Forbes. I, myself, will be a silent partner.” 

“Naturally,” Tim says dryly. 

Jason turns back to Dick, who is studiously fixated on his cards in an attempt to rectify his rotten luck. “And you, accusing your own brother of swindling you? That’s low. Have you been sneaking champagne when daddy-o isn’t looking?” 

“Empty your sleeves,” Dick demands, ignoring him. “You must be hiding cards in them.”

Rolling his eyes so hard he could bowl a strike, Jason offers up his sleeves. “What is this? House of Games ? Listen to this guy, Tim. Picking fights with children. A sad man indeed, Dick. You’re just upset that you weren’t crowned Top Banana.” 

His cufflinks–which were ridiculously expensive, yet Bruce had insisted upon them–wink back behind the fabric of his suit coat as his brother inspects him for traces of a rigged game. Dick awkwardly wiggles his fingers around in Jason’s sleeves and lifts his arms to peer up into the clothed darkness, but ultimately comes up empty. This doesn’t seem to placate him one bit, and only serves to further his frustration. 

Jason shakes his arms as he turns the hems of his suit jacket right side out. “There. You happy now, Burgermeister? Is all well in Sombertown? Maybe I don’t need to cheat. Maybe I just know you. They do say everyone has a tell.” 

“You do not know my tell,” Dick scoffs in disbelief. “We’ve never played poker together before.” 

Jason smiles. “What can I say–I’m perceptive.” 

Dick sets his pleading sights on Tim. “Tim, I don’t have a tell, do I? You don’t know what it is, right? Like, it’s not blatantly noticeable after only six games or so?” 

The truth is that Dick Grayson totally has a tell. Jason can always distinguish when his older brother has a good hand or whether he has something like a seven-two offsuit. Dick is a good poker player. He’s a great actor. The only flaw is that Jason knows him all too well, and knows just when and where to look for that tiny twinge of muscle in his jaw when Dick gets a hand he doesn’t like. Jason honestly has no need for cheating because he can read Dick Grayson like an open book. 

Tim, on the other hand, is totally hustling Dick–his childhood hero. Jason couldn’t be more proud. Disgruntled at finding no literal aces hidden up his brother’s sleeve, Dick returns to his own hand of cards. 

“Don’t worry about it, short stack.” Jason attempts to appease him. Sort of. “You’re a whale. Just don’t ever go to a casino. You look like you’re this close to being on tilt.” 

Dick sends him a scathing look in response. 

“Every gambler knows that the secret to surviving is knowing what to throw away and knowing what to keep,” Tim chimes in, the little rascal. 

“Oh, my god,” Dick groans. “Not you too, Tim.” 

Jason reaches a clenched fist out, which Tim knocks into his own in a celebratory fist bump. “I think we should totally stay up and try to catch Santa. What do you say?” 

Tim makes a face. “Santa isn’t real, Jason.” 

Santa is totally real. Jason has met him. It was a weird night for the both of them. They all meet Santa in the future, actually. Santa Claus also personally delivers a lump of coal to Darkseid every Christmas. Bruce has even trained with Santa–as insane as that sounds, and it’s a statement that’s really up there, in Jason’s book. He learned how to be an infiltration expert from Santa Claus, of all people. Just thinking about it gives Jason a headache. 

“Bruce used to tell me stories about Santa,” Dick says, amused. “You know, like really play it up. I think he was trying to preserve the magic of childhood for me or something. Alfred would help me bake cookies to put out for Santa on Christmas Eve. I didn’t really think about how they were Bruce’s favorite cookies until years later.” 

“Santa is real,” Bruce interrupts, peeking into the sitting room and startling the three of them. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you.”

Dick is instantly on edge in the presence of their father. Jason watches his posture go rigid. “I’m almost twenty-one ,” he scoffs. “As if I’m going to believe that.” 

Bruce sighs. “If you can’t trust Santa, whom can you trust? Just watch. There will be gifts for all of you under the tree from Santa.” 

Jason cannot believe he is hearing this conversation right now. Dick looks disgusted at the thought of his father infantilizing him, which Jason finds incredibly funny. He also knows that this is a hill Bruce has chosen to die on, and there will still be presents from Santa under the tree addressed to Dick years down the road. 

“What are you three up to?” Bruce questions, slipping inside and letting the door shut softly behind him. 

“Crushing Dick at poker,” Jason informs him, much to his brother’s dismay. “What are you doing here?” 

Bruce appears a little spooked at the question and casts a cautious glance around the room. “Hiding from Vicki Vale.” 

“This is your party.” Dick points out haughtily. 

Jason takes pity on his old man. “It’s pay to play,” he recites. “If you get us more punch, we’ll let you buy into the game.” 

Christmas morning finds the atmosphere in Wayne Manor a little tense. 

It mostly stems from the uncomfortable friction sparking between Bruce and Dick, and also between Alfred and Bruce over the tension between Bruce and Dick. Father and oldest son are a loaded gun waiting to go off in a spectacular misfire, but they seem to be trying for Jason’s sake. He appreciates it, really, despite the stiff demeanor and deafening silence at the breakfast table. 

Thankfully, the silent antagonism ebbs when it comes time to open presents. 

Jason waits nervously, heart in his throat, as Dick tears into his gift with great gusto. 

First comes a nice, solid-colored cashmere sweater. Alfred had assured him that one could never go wrong with quality knitwear. Coincidentally, quality fashion pieces were also something that Dick needed in his closet. Jason has nightmares about the horrendous polka dot shirt he’d seen his brother wearing this past summer. However, there is also something else in the box. 

Now, let it be known forevermore that he’s never been Tim Drake in any capacity. Jason does not claim to have superior photography skills, but he does know how to capture a moment. This is something he’d tried to do back in what feels like lifetimes ago now, when Willis had snuck them both in to see Haly’s Circus. 

The second gift is a photograph of a young Dick Grayson with his parents. 

The picture is candid, just something that Jason had snapped at the moment, using up the last of the film slots on the disposable Kodak he’d brought with him. He’d taken it after the show, during the curtain call. John, Mary, and Dick Grayson all stand under the big top spotlight, forever immortalized in a never-before-seen snapshot. But the Graysons are not looking out at the audience–no, rather, they’re both looking down at their son, pride and gentle love on display for all to see. In the picture, Dick isn’t paying them any attention. He’s waving at the audience and flashing them a million watt dazzling smile. John and Mary both have a hand on his shoulders. They are looking at Dick like he is their entire world. 

Jason had done his best to clean up the shot using whatever software he could get his hands on. However, one can still tell by looking at it that the photo was taken by an amateur. The angle is a bit off, and the disposable Kodak only offered so much picture quality, giving the photograph a slightly fuzzy look in one squinted. It feels, in a way, like a memory lost that has been captured in time. He’d taken that memory and carefully placed it into a nice frame that Alfred had helped him pick out one afternoon. 

Dick peels back the paper to find the carefully preserved photograph. Slowly, he lifts it out of the wrapping and rubs a thumb along the edge of the frame. 

“I saw you once. I don’t think I ever told you that,” Jason coughs awkwardly. “Sorry, it’s not like…professional or anything. I didn’t even think I’d ever meet you at the time. Maybe a picture is a dumb gift. I just thought–” 

Dick swallows. “No!” He cuts Jason off. “No, it’s..it’s really nice. Really, really nice. Thank you, Jason.” 

Dick, eyes looking a little watery, hands him a nondescript envelope. It’s not even sealed. Jason raises a skeptical brow as he flips the flap up, but does not question his brother. Inside are two tickets to what appears to be a ski resort. Jason stares. 

“I thought you and I could go on a trip,” Dick tells him, by way of explanation. “When you have a long weekend off school. You know, if you want.”

He throws a challenging look over his shoulder to Bruce, who says nothing in response. In fact, if Jason dares to say it, Bruce even looks proud. 

“Yeah,” Jason replies, tucking the tickets back into the envelope. “Okay. I’d like that. Thanks, Dick.” 

Everyone takes turns opening the rest of their gifts–even ones from Santa, much to Dick’s irritation–and the rest of the afternoon is spent decorating sugar cookies and playing with Ace in the snow, followed by a few tense board games such as chess and Parcheesi. Jason smokes both Bruce and Dick at Scrabble, to no one’s surprise, and then it is time for Christmas dinner. The spread this year is Alfred’s pot roast–Jason’s favorite–garlic roasted asparagus, duchess potatoes, and homemade rolls. Really, Jason is a fan of anything bread, and digs into the meal like Bruce and Dick aren’t holding Alfred and himself hostage with their thinly-veiled hostility. 

By some other Christmas miracle, Bruce and Dick make it to the evening before they blow up at each other. Seven o’clock rolls around and ends with Dick storming out the front door, slamming it loudly behind him. Jason, however, is attempting to cram another roll into his stuffed stomach, and counts this as a win toward progress between his older brother and father. 

Dick does make good on his Christmas gift and takes Jason on the ski trip in late January. They drive to upper New York to hit the slopes–apparently to some ski resort that Bruce used to take Dick to back in the day. January offered the most reliable snow conditions, with frequent powder days. One drawback is that it would be frigid outside and there might be little sun exposure, but they could both work with that. 

Bruce and Alfred had made sure that Jason was outfitted with the best ski gear–good base layers, midlayers, and outerwear. Bruce had gone a little overboard at first when making sure that Jason was warm enough by making him stand outside on one of the coldest days in Gotham so far, dressed head to toe in his gear. It had been too much, and left Jason waddling around like an actual penguin more than the rogue of the same namesake. He’d argued with Bruce that he’d actually need mobility, or he’d be rolling down the slopes instead of riding them. 

Presumably, Dick’s plan had been to teach him to ski or possibly snowboard. Little did he know that Jason could already do both, and preferred snowboarding, which had been something he’d pitched to Bruce. Skeptically, his father had taken him out one day after Christmas–secretly delighted that while Dick still seemed to hold great animosity toward him, he was making an effort for Jason–and let Jason pick out a snowboard. They’d also gotten all his winter gear on that outing, and Jason had learned that Bruce could really fuss over his kids if he wanted to. 

The ride to New York is relatively uneventful. Jason leaves all talk of Bruce at the doorstep. Instead, they talk about school, what the Titans have been up to lately, Jason wheedles Dick about Kory, and an assortment of other unimportant things. 

“You know,” Jason says when they’re only about an hour away from their destination, “I’m turning fifteen this year.” 

“And?” Dick prompts, eyes still on the road. 

Jason pops a handful of M&Ms into his mouth and smacks Dick’s hand away, palm up and waiting for a share. “ And you could teach me to drive.” 

Dick eyes him suspiciously. “You don’t want Bruce to teach you?” 

Jason has a flashback to that afternoon when Bruce had picked him up from school and nearly driven them off the road. That was just the start of an onslaught of questionable driving which Jason had borne witness to. “I don’t want to know what his insurance bill looks like. If only his agent rode in the car with him.”

Dick snorts. “I guess, if you really want me to teach you.” 

“Wow,” Jason drawls. “My very own driver’s license. I can’t wait.” 

“Something tells me you’re going to be more of a menace than Bruce on the road.” 

Jason shakes a finger. “Not so. I’m very responsible. I’ll have Bruce teach me to parallel park though. You’re complete ass at it. No offense. I don’t know how someone hasn’t hit your car yet.” 

Dick makes a noise of despair but doesn’t dispute the claim. 

Fifteen will come and go, but Jason cannot wait to be sixteen. 

He doesn’t remember his first time—months lost to him, spent comatose. Jason tells himself that this time it will be different. This time, he will not die. He has the knowledge to avoid the situation. Hindsight becoming foresight and all that. Jason has his whole life ahead of him. He’s changed things. He is not going to die. 

They spend the remainder of the trip discussing the bike that Jason has been rebuilding. It’s a 1987 Harley Heritage Softail with a Revtech engine that incorporates S&S components and Axtell cylinder blocks. He’s hit a snag in finding the Wiwo swingarm part he wants, though. Dick whistles, impressed, and offers to help him. 

The resort is incredibly nice–he’s not sure what else he expected. They have a two bed room that overlooks the Black Diamond run, which Jason unsuccessfully tries to convince Dick to take him on. There’s still time to hit the slopes, so they gear up and head outside. Dick had initially been surprised at Jason’s choice of snowboarding over skiing, but attempts to teach him the basics nonetheless. 

Jason lets him have this one, because it’s nice, and it’s even funnier to watch Dick’s face as he flawlessly sails down the bunny hill. Dick had insisted that they start there, lest Jason go flying off into the trees, either breaking his arm or never to be seen again. Dick makes him run the bunny hill a few more times before allowing him to progress to the blue slopes. 

“Remember,” Dick tells him, gloved hands on his shoulders, “always look forward and watch where you want to go. Classic object fixation. Bend your knees, but not at a 90-degree angle.” 

Jason rolls his eyes, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his bib overalls. “Yes, mother dear.” 

In his defense, when he later crashes and burns (the only time he does so on this trip, mind you), it’s because he only strayed from Dick’s advice for a hot second to look back at his brother as he passed him up on the slopes. It is so not his fault that one of the skiers in front of him had forgotten to pizza and face-planted into the snow, causing Jason to maneuver at the last minute and lose his center of balance. He had lain there in embarrassment more than pain, but it had freaked Dick out regardless. 

That night finds them both curled up by a fireplace on one of the lodge’s great porches. Dick had grabbed them both steaming mugs of hot chocolate full of heaping helpings of whipped cream. Jason cradles the mug between his hands and sits in companionable silence with his brother, who looks only a few minutes away from falling asleep. Something has been gnawing at him lately, leaving him restless and uncomfortable. 

“Hey,” Jason begins awkwardly, fingers turning near ghostly white from how hard he’s gripping his mug of steaming cocoa. “Uh, I don’t know if I’ve ever said this…but…” 

Now Dick looks intrigued, blinking away any tiredness. He turns to Jason, backlit by the crackling fireplace in the lodge, hat hair something awful and sticking up every which way. “Yeah?” 

And really, had he ever said it before? Jason thinks back (or forward) on their years together. Despite his love of reading and fondness for words, Jason has always been more of a man of action than verbal expression. He’s never needed prose to get his intentions across. In fact, it often leaves him feeling terribly embarrassed. There’s always been that lingering feeling of rejection that starts to slowly eat away at his heart and constrict his trachea any time he tries to speak the feelings he harbors safely inside. 

He stares down into the whipped cream melting away into his hot cocoa and clears his throat. “Love you,” he mutters, with all the effort in the world. It’s about all he can get out. It doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of everything he wants to say. 

But Dick doesn’t laugh, and he doesn’t scorn him. Rather, something warmer than the flickering blaze behind them spreads across his older brother’s face. It’s a peek into the person Dick Grayson will become in a few years–a softness and deep affection not quelled by all the terrible things he’s seen or been through over time. He’s good at putting on a flawless mask of his emotions, sure, but he never hides his fondness. 

Dick is like Bruce in some ways, but will never be him in others. There are secrets of his heart, certainly, but there are some that he never tries to hide away. They’re too important, and must be shared.

He reaches over and ruffles Jason’s hair. “I love you too, Jay.”

Chapter Text

From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines, 

Going where I list, my own master total and absolute, 

Listening to others, considering well what they say, 

Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, 

Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me. 

I inhale great draughts of space, 

The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine. 

I am larger, better than I thought, 

I did not know I held so much goodness.

– Song of the Open Road

xiv. living in the land of make-believe–

The summer of 2005 creeps upon them like a thief in the night. 

Well, at least this is the case for 21-year-old Jason, as it all but whacks him over the head in surprise. He is barely present for the spring months, only picking up a day or two here and there before June bleeds into July, and July into August. His adult consciousness, the one with all the knowledge of past and future events, flits between days, losing weeks at a time. The lost days leave him grasping at new memories and falling into step with old ones, and racing to meet the ever changing future. 

He splits his time between Gotham and Bludhaven–as Jason, as Robin, as Tim’s next door neighbor and friend. There is school, and skateboarding with Tim, cases handled between Batman and Robin, waking up on Saturday mornings to Dick singing 80s power ballads and burning pancakes, hours spent with Alfred in the kitchen or the garden or for tea. There are memories of two pasts hemorrhaging together–what is, what was, and looking toward what could be. 

For example, Bruce does sign him up for Junior League again, and through a summer season that Jason mostly (newly) remembers playing and against many odds, the Gotham Junior League makes it to the World Series. 

This is apparently a major deal, because New Jersey has never once won a championship or runner-up title. The Junior League World Series has twelve regions, which are divided into two pools–United States and International. The two best teams from each pool will advance to the semi-finals to determine the US champion and the International champion. Then, the semi-final winners play for the World Series Championship. The losing teams face off in classification games. The baseball tournament is a week long and held at Heritage Park in Taylor, Michigan. The trip from New Jersey to Michigan is over two hours on a nonstop flight. 

A week. Hours away from Gotham. 

Unbeknownst to Jason’s Little League team, Robin is their star shortstop, and Batman is his father. 

Unless Jason fakes a bad case of the summer flu, he will not be getting out of this commitment. Jason’s coach would throw a colossal bitch fit, the likes of which the city has never seen and would put any rogue to shame. Gotham will have to make do without Robin for a week, but the same is not expected from Batman. He tells Bruce as much, and that he understands that Bruce cannot be there for the tournament, and that it’s honestly fine–even if maybe, not that deep down, he wants him to be there more than anything. 

Bruce continues to surprise him, however, by insisting on coming to Michigan. Jason feels all of fourteen in that particular moment, nothing of twenty-one. Bruce is known for putting the mission first, perhaps despite his best efforts at being a father. Batman never really took nights off unless he was forced (by extreme injury or by Alfred) to do so. It was just the way their world worked, and Jason understood that just as well as his brothers and sister. So, yes, it had come as a genuine shock that Bruce so willingly came along–resolute in his decision, as if it was a simple answer. There had been no war about it. 

So, his father is there, sitting in the stands amongst other parents and siblings and Little League enthusiasts. Bruce Wayne isn’t such a celebrity in Taylor, Michigan like he is in Gotham, but people still know who he is. And he very avidly lets everyone know that he is here to support his son, Jason Todd, the shortstop for Gotham City’s Junior League team. 

There he is! That’s my boy, my Jason! 

Jason will feel his entire body warm with embarrassment and duck his head, shying away from the attention. He’s never been one for the spotlight, not truly. In the past (or rather, future) it’s always been a carefully crafted and conducted show, mostly to get Bruce’s attention. Now that he has it, and in a much more positive light, he isn’t sure how to handle it. 

Gotham City advances through the bracket daily, knocking team after team out of the running for the semi-finals. Finally, after hours upon hours of playing under the hot summer sun, it comes down to a final game between Gotham and Metropolis for the U.S. World Series title. Jason’s coach is so ecstatic that his team of thirteen and fourteen-year-olds think he might go into cardiac arrest or something just from the excitement. 

Bruce has booked them adjoining rooms at a nearby hotel, the nicest one he could find. However, more often than not, the evenings finds Jason falling asleep in Bruce’s hotel bed while they watch exactly the type of movies you’d find playing late into the night on HBO– Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines , Lethal Weapon, Minority Report, etcetera etcetera. It’s nice, pretending to be just father and son for a handful of days. Jason only needles him a little over the choice of material (and channel, if he’s being honest) and the TV parental guidelines rating system attached to it all. 

(Jason had made a general disclaimer on the first night of their movie fest, however. 

“If they start totally getting it on in any of these movies, I’m changing the channel.” He deadpans. “I ain’t watching that with you. It’ll be awkward as hell. It’s HBO, so you just never know.” 

Bruce makes an offended grunt. “I would rather you not watch it at all. Wait. How do you know what plays on this channel?” 

“Have you ever thought about growing a mustache like Danny Glover?” Jason asks, redirecting and biting into his take-out burger. He purposefully flicks a few sesame seeds from the bun to Bruce’s side of the bed. “I mean, Dick’s got the Mel Gibson mullet thing down…” 

“Jason, be nice to your brother.” 

“He isn’t even here! He can’t even hear me! It could be a compliment , B. What do you know?” 

“That was not a complimentary tone,” Bruce says, sparing him a side eye. 

Jason sniffs in indignation and flicks another sesame seed at him. “God, you are such a dad. I’m just saying. I can’t even grow facial hair yet, so it’s going to have to be you. You and Gordon could be twins.”

Bruce makes a face. 

“One day you’ll be graying,” Jason warns, wagging a finger. “I think a mustache could be mysterious. You’ll need something when you start going all salt and pepper.” 

“Good lord,” Bruce mutters, rolling his eyes. Despite it all, he’s obviously fighting a smile, and roughly ruffles Jason’s hair. 

“ How the hell should I know?” Captain Murphy scoffs on screen. “Take him to Disneyland.”

Jason narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Hey…why haven’t you ever taken Dick and me to Disneyland?”) 

The day of the game between Gotham City and Metropolis finds the teams in their respective dugouts, receiving variations of so-called motivational speeches from their coaches. Coach Buttermaker basically tells his team of Jersey boys to get out there and kick some pansy ass and that he’s proud of them (in so many words). He’s always been a man of few inspiring words, and Jason’s personal opinion is that he should speak even less. He is contemplating this philosophy in life and leaning against a baseball bat while their pitcher recounts how Metropolis has played in past games this week when he hears the rattle of the fence behind him. 

“Yo, Jay.” 

Jason’s head snaps to the side with a crack in his neck, startling his teammates. 

There is Dick Grayson, cool as anything, fingers curled into the holes of the chain link fence. He pushes his aviators up to look his younger brother in the eyes. There is a melting ice cream cone in his other hand–some obnoxiously bright and colored monstrosity of blue, red, and yellow. It’s Superman flavored. Typical. His brother had always been Clark’s alter ego’s biggest fan, only beaten out of first place by Lois Lane. 

He gapes at the scene, and the obvious ice cream stains on his brother’s white tee shirt. “ Dick ? What– what are you doing here?” 

Dick rolls his eyes, as if the answer should be obvious. It’s not. Jason hopes that he knows that it’s not. “Like I was going to miss your debut on the world stage.” 

“This is Michigan, Dick. Not the world. When did you even get here?” 

His older brother waves a dismissive hand–the one holding the ice cream cone. Melted globs of Blue Moon fly at Jason. “Uh, they totally televise this thing, Jay. And here they always said that I was the media darling.” 

“Who is ‘ they’ ?” Jason asks in bewilderment. “What do you mean ‘ they ’? Also, it’s not that big of a deal, seriously.” 

Dick sighs loudly and dramatically–for no reason, Jason might add. “Shut up, Jason. Seriously ,” he mocks him. Then, his expression turns to one of total jackass euphoria. This can spell nothing but trouble for Jason. “I w-u-v you so mu-uch ,” Dick sings, gliding the l in love into a w and embarrassing him in front of the entire team. “Go get ‘em, killer. I will be screaming your name from the stands. Oh my god, please sign my shirt . I even brought a Sharpie.” 

“Dick,” Jason hisses, more as an insult than his brother’s actual name. He feels like his face is on fire, and not just because of the relentless summer sun. “You’re so not funny.” 

He also notices, very belatedly, that Dick has let go of the chain links and has produced a handheld video camera from somewhere. Jason shies away from the lens, but Dick all but chases him like he’s the cameraman on The Maury Show. 

And see, this is the thing about Dick Grayson. 

He has failed Jason. He will fail Jason. Jason has failed Dick. Jason will fail Dick. 

There were many sins between them, and they were their father’s sons. 

(Bruce had failed them first. Lessons from a father learned. Core values, as it were. You will let your loved ones down. It’s a promise. It’s a fact. It’s practically gospel.) 

Wounds inflicted, both unintentional and not, gone untreated and turned into blossoming bruises in a vile garden of myiasis. It’s a wild, overgrown thing–watered with lifetimes’ worth of bitter and sorrowful tears, fertilized by youthful insecurities worn like a second skin and never quite shed, wilting and withering and carefully cultivated by the gauche hands of a gardener, a father, who only knew rot. Two roads diverged in a diseased wood wherein lay bleeding, hungry, and overripe hearts. 

Jason was buried in it, beneath that festering abomination of brotherhood long before he had actually died. He’d clawed his way through the maggots and the mud, a lost boy, taken in heaping and desperate lungfuls of damp air as the hardened vines licked at his ankles and threatened to pull him back under. He’d been a sapling, destroyed in a senseless act, never growing tall at all. Never growing up to be anything, not gold, like his brother. 

He wonders if, maybe, they still get under each other’s skin. He knows it to be true. 

Jason will grow taller than him, one day, in the not-so-distant future. He has grown taller than him already, in another life. Jason wonders if he will always stay small to Dick. 

In another life, in the past, in a truth that Jason has already lived, Dick Grayson did not fight for him until it was too late. Jason had already been long dead, and Bruce had been trying to forget his face, and Dick might always be a step behind in that life. Jason had kept him there, wanted him there, even, after. 

Jason is older than any of them know, two lifetimes cut at the quick and then sloppily sewed together, all wrapped up in his 14-year-old body. He’s always wanted this, brotherhood real and true despite it all. 

He flushes the wound. He never lets it progress to infection. It’s different. It’s changed. 

In a show of great maturity, Jason turns and gives his older brother the finger. There is a wide grin on his face as those old thorns untangle themselves from their home around his capillaries and the crawling under his skin stills. Someone somewhere had once said that half the time, when brothers wrestle, it was truthfully just an excuse to hug each other, minus the transparency. 

Dick smiles, easy as all that, unperturbed by it all. “So, Jason Todd, tell us how you do it. Gotham wants to know your strategy for securing the World Series title and beating Metropolis today.” 

“If you build it, they will come,” Jason quotes cryptically. 

“Uh,” Dick says, “thank you, Kevin Costner. You’re a little shorter than I remember.” 

He flicks the brim of his baseball cap with his thumb and forefinger. “Someday, when you come back from Bludhaven, and you’re unemployed and have no place to live, you can come stay at my mansion I bought with my Major League money.” 

Dick sends him an unimpressed look from over the camera. “Thanks, twerp,” he says dryly. 

Jason snaps and points at him from behind the fence. “You remember that every time you see 2005 Junior League World Series Champions on the welcoming sign when you drive to Gotham. Are you on there at all? No? Didn’t think so.” 

This is Dick Grayson, their very own Atlas, who carries the world that is constantly trying to drag him to Tartarus on his shoulders and still finds a way to dance under the stars. This is Dick Grayson, his goddamn older brother. Jason isn’t much of a praying man, but he would fall on his knees in any church, hands clasped in fervent supplication that he will not fail Dick so miserably this time, right at the altar so that God might hear him. 

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my brother to keep. And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord his soul to save. 

(He wonders if Dick has ever looked at him in the past-future and thought my brother, the devil, a hellish vision. He’d been an angel once, torn from heaven and fallen through a sky that wasn’t black or blue but a sickly acid dying green of night. His wings had burned to ashes upon reentrance to the waking world, on a night when stars had closed their eyes and sheathed their knives, turning away from the abomination he’d become.) 

Dick just rolls his eyes, a classic older brother show of annoyance, but he’s smiling anyway. “Seriously, Jay. I want that autograph.” 

Jason gives the camera and his brother a full salute. “Sir, yes, sir. Anything for my adoring fans. Hey, maybe Kory will let me sign the back of her shirt too. They do say girls love a man in uniform.” 

“ What –” Dick yells, but is cut off by Jason jogging away from him. 

“Sorry, Dickie! I hear my name being called!” 

“No one is calling you except me! Jason! Get back here!” 

The game for the US bracket championship is at 6 pm. Truthfully, Jason never once in his lives expected to find himself on the diamond, and especially not here. It’s been a dry late summer week, and the tapering humidity of the day still hangs heavy in the air and settles on his skin. His teammates buzz around him, anxious about the game that will decide their fate. 

Bruce and Dick are in the stands, putting on the world’s best performance of civility as loving father and son. (They do love each other; Jason knows this to be true, for better or for worse.) Today they have put aside their monumental differences to be here for Jason. It’s such a miracle that he doesn’t even give a damn about the World Series title because his world is right there on the benches. 

There is a regulation of six innings for Little League games, including the Junior League World Series. Metropolis bats first, and they are good. There’s a reason that they’ve come this far. Their pitcher is a tricky little bastard, too. Not that this is acceptable language for the Junior League World Series, or good sportsmanship, but it’s still the truth. By the sixth inning, the teams are only 5-3, with Metropolis leading. Okay, forget what he’d said earlier. Maybe Jason does care about this stupid championship title, at least a little bit. It’s Gotham’s turn at bat, they have runners on first and second, and two outs. It is Jason’s turn to bat. 

He saunters up to home plate, hovering there under the watchful eyes of everyone present in the stadium and whoever has decided to tune into ABC and ESPN. Jason taps the tip of the bat against the toe of his cleats, before bringing it up in an arc, twirling it in a show of ostentation that leaves the pitcher squinting at him. It’s okay. He can be a tricky bastard too. 

Jason sends a cursory glance to the stands and sees Dick gripping Bruce’s shoulder, leaned forward and eyes wide. His popcorn has spilled all over his shorts, the bench, and even over into Bruce’s lap. It will no doubt leave grease stains. The hand that is not gripping Bruce’s shoulder is clutching that damn camera, predictably focused right on him.  

It’s enough, Jason thinks. 

It’s enough to have the two of them here, see the two of them here, just for him. No Batman, no Nightwing, no Robin. Just Bruce, Dick, and Jason. 

Jason blinks beads of sweat out of his eyes and returns his gaze to the pitcher, who’s winding up for the throw. He’d been trying to pitch to the low outside corner of the strike zone these two innings or so. However, this time he decides to throw a slider. 

Huffing, Jason swings, and the ball makes contact with the bat in a loud thwack! that echoes through the stadium. The Metropolis boys in the outfield immediately begin to scramble, but it’s all in vain. The ball goes sailing into the stands, long gone. His teammates flee across the plates, whooping with glee because he’s gotten them both safely home. 

He has just hit the homerun that wins Gotham City the World Series title. 

Winner, winner, chicken dinner. 

The crowd erupts into cheers as his teammates run out from the dugout to surround him, jumping up and down and tugging him into hugs, clapping him on the back, or punching him in the shoulder. Somehow, over the clamor of the Gotham Junior League team, he can hear Bruce and Dick cheering the loudest from the stands. 

Once, he’d wanted vengeance. It had been a hunger so awful, grown and born deep inside Jason, a monster so hideous that it had done everything to claw its bloody and violent way out of him. He’d fed it, let it, hid behind it, because it had been easier than accepting total reality. His father had made him an effigy, a good soldier , goddamn worshipped that false likeness and forgotten his true self. His father had crossed fingers that Jason would never come back and lit votive candles in forgotten cathedrals so he would have a safe return. He’d come back a devil incarnate, rotten and withered summer honeysuckle under a blackened summer sun, full of fury so sanguine and anguish running so deep it was a sinkhole in his chest. Jason had wanted to carve out their hearts and wave the shaking organs in his sin-stained fists, gorge himself on them until his mouth was stained crimson, until that emptiness inside him had been quelled. It had felt like a breath held, his lungs years-long starved of precious oxygen as he asphyxiated over and over and over. 

It’s just Jason. 

It’s always been Jason. 

It’s a difficult thing, to love a family so dysfunctional, especially when you have both kicked that emaciated dog, and when you are that starved and wild dog begging for scraps. There is a fierce, forever love that is, of course, a given when it comes to his family. A longing so deep it had tethered him to them even when comatose. It’s always been Bruce who reaches into Jason’s chest, whose fingers clamp onto his sternum and spread his ribs apart until they splinter, who rips Jason’s heart from his chest. Bruce (and Dick sometimes, too) who has squeezed and squeezed, rupturing his aorta, wringing all blood from the chambers. Bruce who has left Jason to gather what was left of his body and collapse in on himself, back into that gaping and raw sinkhole. What does it say about Jason, then, that his heart keeps growing back? 

(It’s Bruce who had taught him that it was easier to hurt than be hurt. Jason doesn’t think he wants to hurt anymore.) 

He lets Bruce wrap him in a tight hug, knocking his baseball cap off his head, and finally, finally exhales. Dick follows suit, brandishing that stupid black permanent marker and a bright smile. He signs his older brother’s ice cream stained shirt anyway, rolling his eyes all the while. 

I’ll cherish this forever, Dick tells him. 

Jason loves them. 

That's all he can say. 

Perhaps that’s all there is to it. 

A few days after they return from the World Series tournament is August 16. 

It’s Jason’s fifteenth birthday. 

(In the future, Bruce takes Cassandra to Jason’s grave to meet him on his eighteenth birthday. He tells her that Jason loved cars and girls, getting into fights, neapolitan ice cream, and the color green. But most of all, he loved the thrill of being Robin. Jason doesn’t know this, not even now.) 

Alfred bakes him a cake, the biggest he’s ever seen. It’s round with three layers, pristine white buttercream frosting with perfect pink shell borders piped around each layer. There are fifteen candles flickering as Alfred carries the monster over, looking more like a fire hazard than a cake. It’s fucking neapolitan flavored, each layer being a separate chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry, because Alfred is the best there ever was. Jason is treated to an incredibly off-key rendition of the happy birthday song, barely held together by Dick–the only one of them that can actually carry a tune worth hearing. His father and brother don’t even fight those hours that Dick spends at the Manor. At least, not in front of Jason. 

To his utter amazement, Dick gets him Halo 2. 

Jason holds the wrapped plastic case in his hands and gasps, delighted. “Blood and gore. Dismembered body parts and crumpled carcasses littering battlefields. Violence and coarse language. Rated M for mature. Dick, this is everything I’ve ever wanted and more.” 

Dick rolls his eyes, arms crossed. “Never say I wasn’t irresponsible. Anyway, it’s not like those graphics are very realistic.” 

Holding the game against his chest like it’s something precious, Jason shakes his head. “Shut up, man. The graphics are fine. Maybe not cutting edge , but they get the job done.” He sniffs. “What happened to those five years between me and maturity?” 

“Well,” Dick drawls, drawing out the l, “maybe it’s not about the years. Maybe it’s about the mileage. But you’re two years closer to maturity than you were before, so.” 

Jason picks at the fold of the protective plastic with a fingernail. “Tim will tell you that time is a flat circle. Really gives voice to pessimism, there. But,” he pauses, “I think we’re just getting started,” Jason quotes, voice gruff. It cracks, since he is apparently reliving puberty, and makes Dick laugh. 

“Eternal recurrence,” his older brother whistles. “Wow. Very Schopenhauer and Nietzeche, Master Chief.” 

“Well,” Jason thinks back to a conversation he’d had with 12-year-old Tim and lazily spins a finger around for demonstration, “more like he said that time is not made out of lines. It’s made out of circles, and that’s why clocks are round.” 

Dick snorts. “Right. Okay.” 

It’s the type of insane comment that would have Damian shooting Tim one of the most lethal side-eyed looks that the Earth has ever known. Normally, it would also draw a similar reaction from Jason. The two of them were a bit alike in that way. 

(The future, a memory, just out of reach. Damian is holding the Red Hood action figure he’d gotten in his Batburger meal that Dick had ordered him. He had protested loudly and made his displeasure known to everyone at the table, and perhaps even the booth behind them. Bruce had eaten his burger with a fork and knife , like some kind of freak. Duke had stared and wondered how this could be his real life. 

Now, they are in the Batcave, meeting about a collaborative case. 

“This is my pocket Red Hood,” Damian is telling Dick, who is listening patiently and fighting to keep his face neutral. “When I need advice and you or Father are not available, I ask myself, ‘WWJD?’” 

Dick looks confused. “You’re religious? Since when?” 

“What Would Jason Do?” Damian recites, fixing him with a stern expression. “The religious figure known as Jesus has nothing to do with what I am asking Todd, Grayson. I just saw the abbreviation on some rubber wristband and thought it fitting.” 

Bruce turns to them, alarmed. 

Jason just laughs.) 

Still, Tim had said it like it was obvious. 

The sky is blue. The Earth is round. Bruce can’t cook. Time is made out of circles. Duh, Jason. Get with the program. 

Tim is wicked smart, always has been. He tends to pick up on details that the other members of his family might overlook or miss, including Bruce. Jason isn’t lost in time like Bruce had been, like Tim had been so adamant, so insistent upon. But what if…what if–

Jason’s brows furrow as Dick watches him, lost in thought. “Hey…circles are closed loops. How do you escape from a closed loop?”

“O- kay ,” Dick laughs, patting him on the back. “Dude. Tim is…what? Thirteen? When he becomes an expert in physics or aerospace engineering, you let me know. Then we can worry about time being round. Come on, it’s your birthday.” 

Later that evening, Jason is in the garage, still working on his bike before patrol. 

He’d filched a new pack of Camels off a perp the other night and has been itching to smoke one. It’s been a long, long time, and the old poor comfort has been calling his name. 

Jason quickly wipes some of the grease from his hands with an old rag and tosses it onto the handlebars. His past hour of work has left his skin stained a spotty black, grease pooling into the grooves of his hands, dark river currents running through his palm lines. He withdraws the hidden pack of Camel Lights and nestles it between his thumb and pinky, turning it upside down and tapping on it twice with his pointer finger. It’s a comforting gesture, familiar. 

Once a cigarette has loosed itself from the pack, he pulls it out and tucks the container away once more. He rolls the cigarette between his fingers before slipping it into his mouth, leaning down to cradle the lighter to it. It’s almost a gesture of prayer, the way his thumb flicks the fork of the lighter, flame dancing to life in his cupped palms. When the tobacco glows a dim and cancerous halo, he releases the fork and makes the lighter disappear, too. 

Jason sits there, twentyonefifteen , leaning against the frame of the garage and listening to the evening serenade of crickets, staring out into the sunset blanketing Bristol and beyond. He does not know that Bruce is watching him from the shadows of the garage, committing this scene to memory. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t care. When he has taken so many drags and the butt is burning low, he tosses it to the ground and rubs it out with the toe of his Converse. 

“Those things will kill you,” Bruce finally says, stepping out from the darkness and into the soft evening twilight. 

He leans his head back and looks at his father. Jason wonders what Bruce sees in his eyes. “Haven’t gotten me yet. Bruce, I’m not going to die. I’m fifteen.” 

Bruce huffs, hands tucked away into the pockets of his slacks. “And so you can’t die?” 

Jason smirks, lashes fluttering against freckled cheeks. “I just don’t see it happening.” 

“What am I going to do with you?” Bruce groans, dropping gracefully to the ground beside him and placing a hand on Jason’s head. 

Jason lets himself be pulled into Bruce’s chest. “I think the better question is what would you do without me?” 

Bruce makes a wounded sound, something that comes from deep within his chest. Jason can feel the unsettling buzz of it. “Okay, enough talk about dying.” 

“ You were the one who brought it up,” Jason rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry Bruce. The D.A.R.E. people came to Gotham Academy last year. I’m off the drugs. Never started. Or at least, I will try to limit my cocaine and strippers to every third Saturday night. Cross my heart.” He really does physically cross his heart and everything. “Hey. Want to know what I wished for when I blew out my candles?” 

Bruce laughs, a quiet thing, shoulders shaking against him. “What?” 

“For Dick to change that godawful Nightwing costume. But, alas,” he sighs loudly, forlorn, “now that I’ve said it aloud, it won’t come true.” 

Shaking his head, Bruce only pulls him closer. “Happy birthday, Jay. I’m proud of you.” 

Jason sighs, content, and lets himself say the words he’s been thinking of for a long, long time. “Thanks. I love you, dad.” 

Chapter Text

Here is realization, 

Here is a man tallied—he realizes here what he has in him, 

The past, the future, majesty, love—if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them. 

Camerado, I give you my hand! 

I give you my love more precious than money, 

I give you myself before preaching or law; 

Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? 

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

– Song of the Open Road 

xv. lead-fill the hole in me–

Jason is rudely awakened to the sound of Dick’s rendition of ‘Hysteria.’ 

He last remembers falling asleep in the Batmobile. Jason recalls Alfred snapping a picture of Bruce and himself before patrol that night. It’s the one he still keeps, or will keep, even now, after everything. 

(“So,” Robin leans against Batman’s shoulder, cool as all that, “how are we doing this–spontaneous?” 

“Serious,” Batman says.  

Robin smiles, wide and sly. “Sexy?”

“ Serious ,” Batman emphasizes.

But they are both smiling in that photograph, forever immortalized as Bruce and Jason, as Batman and Robin, as father and son.) 

“I GOTTA KNOW TONIGHT,” Dick belts, voice warbling through the thin walls of the apartment. Jason can hear the distinct sound of running water. “IF YOU’RE ALONE TONIGHT. CAN’T STOP THIS FEELING, CAN’T STOP THIS FIRE.” 

He rolls over and buries his face in the back of the couch, cradling his pillow around his ears and trying to muffle his brother’s enthusiastic rendition of Def Leppard. 

“You are not alone in this apartment!” Jason hollers across the room and through the bathroom door. 

There is the squeak of what is presumably the faucet turning and a few brief minutes of blessed silence before the door opens and Dick emerges. He hears a deep gasp of breath. 

“OH, I GET HYSTERICAL–” 

Jason launches a throw pillow–some unsightly handmade cross stitched thing Dick got from god-knows-where–across the room. His older brother dodges the harmless shot and retaliates by whipping him with the wet towel, lightning fast. The snap of the damp material echoes throughout the room, along with Jason’s pained yelp. “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.” 

“That isn’t fair,” Jason grouses, sending him the most evil look he can muster. “I’m unarmed. Also, that was a shot in the back. No honor amongst men, I see.” 

Dick scoffs. “Wow. Never knew you were such a wimp. Taken out by a damp towel. The Robin legacy, sullied by wet cotton.” 

“ Muemuemueh ,” Jason mocks in an astounding show of maturity, nose scrunched up and voice pitched high. “Uh, wrong. I’m a fuckin’ maverick, okay? You just take cheap shots.” 

Dick braces his hands on his hips and motions toward the kitchen. “Breakfast?” 

“Bacon and eggs?” Jason asks, one part hopeful and one part suspicious. “Pancakes?” 

His older brother hums in contemplation and scratches idly at his jaw. “Hm. Think I’m out of eggs.” 

Jason rolls himself off the couch with years of grace. “I’m saying this out of fraternity, man. Not so much concern for your wellbeing. Please go buy groceries.” 

Dick averts his gaze and encircles his wrist with his thumb and forefinger. It’s a nervous habit, and Jason is instantly all parts suspicious. “I’ve just been busy. There’s…there’s cereal. Your choice.” 

Jason narrows his eyes and tosses a look over his shoulder as he moseys his way into the kitchen. “I’m going to tell Alfred,” he threatens. “You make a grocery stop on your way home and buy yourself some goddamn eggs or something. I don’t need to hear about Nightwing found half-dead on a fire escape on the news or something. You’re still a growing boy because you haven’t reached full maturity yet. You need your protein, young man. Look, we gotta stick together. I need you with me, here.” 

He opens the cupboard and stares at the boxes on display before him. A wide variety of off brand cereals awaits him. There are Fruit Rounds, Marshmallows and Stars, Apple Wheels, Pranks –that’s a new one, and more. 

“Dick? What the hell is this?”

“Well, Jason,” Dick begins patiently, “there’s this thing called cereal–” 

 “Oh shut up.” Jason snaps. “Where are you even finding these? How do you not have a single brand name box in here? Look, not that I’m a cereal snob or anything, but…” 

His older brother decides not to dignify that question with a response, instead choosing to wander to his room in search of more clothes than just a pair of sweats. Cautiously, he decides that Apple Wheels are probably his best bet for normalcy and grabs the box from the cupboard. He wants to get a balanced breakfast of sketchy sugary cereal before he commences his reign of terror for the day. Dick has apparently made good on his previous agreement to help Jason learn to drive. Jason wonders how long he can keep the charade up before Dick realizes that he’s been had. 

After a quick off brand cereal breakfast and changing out of his pajamas, the later morning finds Jason loading his weekend bag into the car. Dick has a convertible. It’s a laser red tinted clearcoat 1996 Ford Mustang. Jason had only ever seen it a handful of times during his initial go-round at life. He thinks that maybe it must have been destroyed when Chemo was dropped on Bludhaven or something. In this life, he’s now been in the passenger seat multiple times. 

Dick drives them to a rather suspicious-looking empty lot for Jason to practice in, turns the car off, and gets out to switch seats. If Dick is feeling any semblance of regret over agreeing to teach Jason how to drive or letting him behind the wheel of his Mustang, he doesn’t show it. Maybe he’s internalizing and putting on a brave face, or masking his feelings with that carefully crafted composure of Nightwing. 

Let it be known forevermore that Jason knows perfectly well how to drive. It’s true that he never quite got his license–not as Jason Todd, at least, but he has one under several aliases and fake IDs. New Jersey requires new drivers to complete a driver’s education course with 30 hours of classroom instruction and 6 hours of behind-the-wheel training. Bruce had already signed him up for the training back in the fall after he turned fifteen at the end of the summer. However, he still needs to get the remainder of his 50 hours of driving time in before he’s granted his license. In the meantime, Dick is operating under the impression that Jason has no idea how to drive a car with a manual transmission, and has apparently decided he will be the one to teach him to drive stick. 

“Okay,” Dick kicks off their lesson, sounding more like Nightwing giving mission instructions, “push the clutch down and then step on the brake.” When Jason does as he’s told, Dick continues. “Then you can start the car. Don’t move your feet but shift the car into neutral, then you can take your foot off the clutch.” 

Jason goes through the motions like it’s the first time, as if his older brother truly is teaching him how to drive stick shift. When he has Dick’s approval, his older brother carries on with his directions. 

“Press the clutch all the way, then you can shift into first gear.”

Jason has never driven a Ford Mustang with a manual transmission, but it doesn’t seem that different from a standard 5-speed. He’s able to shift into first gear, no problem. It’s the years of experience kicking in. 

Dick has a tendency to talk with his hands, which is what he’s doing now. “Okay, we’re on a flat surface, so you can take your foot off the brake and press the gas to get the RPM up to about 1500. Then,” he holds up a finger, “ slowly release the clutch. Once the clutch is released you can press the brake.” 

“Let’s talk about shifting into second, or third, or whatever.” Dick counts off the gears on his fingers. “Clutch goes in with the left foot, gear selector goes into first gear, take your foot off the brake, push the gas and bring the car to about 1500 RPMs, and slowly release the clutch. When you’re ready to shift into the next gear, press the clutch in, take your foot off the gas, shift into second gear, push the gas just a little bit and release the clutch slowly.”

“This is a criminal amount of steps,” Jason comments. 

“It’s okay.” Dick assures him. “You’ll practice so much that it’ll become like second nature. You won’t even think about it eventually,” Dick smiles kindly. “I brought you to this empty lot so you can practice without worrying about hitting anything or anyone.” 

Jason shoots him A Look. “This is a secondary location where you would bring someone to get kidnapped.” 

“Okay, smartass,” Dick rolls his eyes. “I also brought you here to get schooled, so pay attention. Downshifting–release the gas, push the clutch in, downshift one gear, and then slowly release the clutch. You’ll feel the transmission catch. That’s how you know you can totally ease off the gas.” 

He pauses for a moment, clearly thinking through the driving process. “If you let go of the clutch too fast and don’t give it enough gas, the car will stall.” 

Jason knows this. He can totally drive a car with a manual transmission, no problem. He decides to mess with Dick anyway. Jason’s got to make this believable, after all, because Dick doesn’t know that he knows. He quickly releases the clutch to purposefully stall the car, knowing good and well that he needs to brace himself. 

Jason watches the (mild) whiplash from his peripheral vision as Dick snaps forward when the car stops suddenly, the seatbelt catching him and throwing him back into the seat. He blinks innocently as Dick attempts to reorient himself. “Oh, sorry,” he says, not feeling the least bit remorseful. “Like I said–it’s a lot of steps to remember.” 

He licks his lips, plotting, and grins widely. “But, like you said, practice makes perfect .” 

There is a brief flash of fear on Dick’s face– there . He tries to hide it, but Jason knows him too well. “It’s…it’s okay. Just uh…just go through the process of starting the car again.”

Jason puts his foot on the brake, presses the clutch all the way in, shifts back into neutral, restarts the engine, and shifts back into first gear. The next hour consists of him sporadically stalling the car and driving around the lot and empty streets around it. Dick also has him practice parallel parking, even though it’s a skill that Dick himself seems to struggle with executing properly. 

“You always hit the curb,” Jason says, backing perfectly into a faded parking space. “Then you say, ‘hello curb.’ Or you park too far away from the curb.” 

Dick rolls his eyes. “It’s not every time .”

“Uh, well, most of the time.” 

Jason takes this opportunity to critique other aspects of his brother’s driving. “You also hesitate too much when you drive. Like, I’m talking in general. You gotta be on the defensive. Give them like four seconds after you turn on your blinker to merge, then you’re getting over.” 

“Isn’t that aggressive?” Dick questions, sounding unsure. 

“No.” Jason says. “Assert your dominance on the road. You just gotta do it. ” 

Dick is still firmly gripping the door handle after Jason stalled the car for the fourth time earlier. “Well, you tend to turn at a–“

“Ninety-degree angle.” Jason cuts him off. “Trust me. I’ve heard. I got places to be, Dick.” 

Dick sighs, indulgent. “Alright. Here, why don’t you pull over and we’ll switch. I probably need to get you back to Gotham anyway.” 

Jason reaches over and places a hand on his older brother’s shoulder. “You’re a brave man, Dick Grayson. Like, to your core. Not just all the Nightwing bravado stuff.” 

“It’s not bravado ,” Dick mutters grumpily. 

“Which is why you’re going to let me drive the thirty-three-ish minutes, not accounting for traffic, back to Gotham.” Jason barrels on. “You know, because I need those daytime driving hours to get my licence.” 

Dick balks. “On the interstate ? You just started today! You’ve–you keep stalling the car! You can’t just full stop on the road with other drivers!” 

Jason fishes his permit out of his wallet and flashes both the piece of flimsy paper and a big grin. “Not to worry. I’ve got a learner’s permit. I can do what I want.” 

“That’s not what that means!” 

“I’ve even driven the Batmobile. Re- lax , man. You’re in good hands.” 

Dick gasps, betrayed. “Bruce let you drive the Batmobile?!” 

“Well, I sort of held the threat of child endangerment over his head–the child being me.” Jason recounts the particular night with Scarecrow and how he’d cozened his way into driving the Batmobile. “You know how he is about that. Pressure points, Dick. You play your hand right and jackpot.” 

“You are the worst kind of person.” 

Jason waves a dismissive hand. “Listen and learn from the younger generation, brother. We get away with things you aged folk can only dream of.” 

“I am not aged ,” Dick bristles from the passenger’s seat of his own car. “Don’t be fucking rude.” 

Jason sighs, deciding it’s time to finally come clean and confess. “Listen, here’s the crux of the matter: I already know how to drive. Bruce taught me how to drive stick a while ago.” 

A while amounts to more than 6 years ago, but Dick doesn’t need to know that. He's barely known Bruce and Dick here for three. 

Dick splutters. “ Wha– ” 

“Watch and learn.” Jason announces, pulling out onto the road and heading toward the on-ramp for the interstate. “Hang on, Dickie. And witness a true master merge.” 

“Jason! JASON ?!” 

Dick maybe screams, but that is a detail that will later be debated and squabbled over. Jason proves that he can most definitely drive what Dick has so lovingly dubbed the ‘Stang (Jason cringes) like a pro, and they are back to Gotham in no time, safe and sound. Dick does not fall out of the passenger’s seat and kneel over the grass in sheer relief, but he might have been thinking about it. 

Bruce meets them at the door as Jason exits the driver’s side, smug. He and Dick stand, watching Ace tackle Jason to the ground and attempt to lick him to death after a weekend away. Jason and Ace roll around in the grass as he laughs openly into the air, carefree. 

“He pulled a fast one on me,” Dick laughs and shakes his head. "Look…Jason’s a good kid,” Dick tells his father. “He’s a little twerp, but…just…look out for him, Bruce.” 

Their father watches Jason finally gain the upper hand over their dog, a smile on his face. “I think it’s Jason that looks out for all of us.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dick coughs, unwilling to outright agree with Bruce, “just do it anyway, okay?” 

Okay, so he totally contracted something nasty from somewhere. Most likely Dick, who picked up something from the kids he taught at the gym, and well–sharing is caring, isn’t it? He manages to very slowly and painstakingly change into his Robin gear, only slightly deterred. Jason does not remember this night at all. 

A precursory check in the mirror confirms what he already knows–he looks like total shit. His nose is so red and raw that he looks like Rudolph on an 80s coke bender. His body aches like he’s been thrown around by Bane, he feels both clammy and cold, and it’s a little difficult to stay upright. There is a headache building behind his eyes, sharp and stabbing and irritated by bright lights and loud sounds. His throat feels like ground beef, and he has the sort of wet cough that both barely wheezes its way out of his lungs and punches the breath out of him. 

Jason decides he will power through, because he’s a fucking maverick, okay? 

Alfred, however, is not impressed in the least. 

“Master Bruce, might I have a little assistance?” The ever faithful butler requests, having left Jason to his own devices while he tries to get his ill and failing body to function properly. “Master Jason is sick with the flu. It wouldn’t be prudent at all to allow him to join you on patrol tonight.” 

Bruce is already in full suit and cowl for the night’s activities. He does not even turn to look at them from his seat at the Batcomputer. “He’s a smart kid, Alfred. He knows if he’s well enough.” 

“That’s telling him,” Jason agrees, and then promptly proceeds to hack up a lung. “Ready?” He manages to wheeze in between alternating coughs and gasps for air. 

Bruce whirls on him and his haggard appearance. Apparently his crisp toddler-esque cough was not helping his case and has caused his father to perform an about face with his decision. “Alfred is right, Robin. You’re sidelined until you get better.” 

Alfred places a gentle and guiding hand on his back while Jason continues to struggle through his coughing fit. “Yes, sir. Hmph .” 

“Now, Master Jason,” Alfred soothes and proceeds to march him right back up the stairs to the den, “let us get you some soup and medicine. I do believe you have a fever.” 

Jason manages to begrudgingly drag himself after Alfred and sits on the settee, knees pulled tightly to his chest and hands clasped. He sits in dejected and ailing silence, feeling incredibly grouchy, until Alfred returns with a steaming bowl of soup. 

He sets the tray on the coffee table and reaches for the remote. “Let us see what’s on the telly tonight.” 

“I’m not a baby, Alfred.” Jason manages to croak. “I can take care of myself.” 

Alfred sniffs, dissatisfied. “Then I wish you would, Master Jason.” 

“Taking a night off once in a while isn’t a crime, Jason.” Bruce suddenly announces, leaning an arm (gauntlet and all) over the back of the settee. “So, what are we watching?” 

Jason stares up at him in wonder. Bruce is still in the Batman suit, cowl gone, but his cape is draped over his arm. He rounds the settee and takes a seat next to Jason. This is definitely new. Jason would have remembered something like this. In fact, it would likely be one of his favorite memories. 

They end up watching Pretty Woman, because Bruce apparently secretly has a thing for romcoms. Alfred brings them an enormous bowl of popcorn to share and Bruce ensures that Jason downs both the cold medicine and soup that had been served to him. At some point during the movie, probably around the time where Edward takes Vivian as his date to a polo match, Jason finds himself huddled closer to Bruce. His father doesn’t say a word, rather he throws an arm around Jason and pulls him closer. He also grabs Jason’s discarded cape and draws it over him like a blanket.

“When you think about it,” Jason speaks up, voice colored with exhaustion, “you rescued me.” 

Bruce huffs what he presumes is a chuckle. He feels it more than he hears it. “You think so?” 

“I’m gonna rescue you right back,” Jason mumbles, valiantly fighting to stay awake. 

But Bruce’s shoulder is too comfortable even despite the armor, and his medicine is really kicking in. If his father says something in response, he doesn’t hear it. 

So, here’s the thing–a truth universally acknowledged by the entire Wayne family and extensions. Bruce cannot cook for shit. Now, he can throw together a salad if the ingredients have been laid out beforehand. Then again, that’s not setting the bar particularly high, because even a toddler can throw some greens and cut vegetables into a bowl with dressing. Maybe even a handful of nuts and various fruits, depending. 

Supposedly, once, Alfred had tried to push independence in the kitchen upon Bruce. It had ended with the fire alarm going off because Bruce had put a pot of water on to boil and forgot about it. Who burns water? As in, leaves it on the burner unattended so anywhere between 3 to 5 quarts evaporates out of the pot? Bruce Wayne, that’s who. 

He has one meal that he can make specifically for each kid when Alfred is out running errands or away for a short time. Bruce makes pancakes for Dick, sometimes. This had apparently stemmed from a rather frightening endeavor in the kitchen where Bruce had been trying. It had been the most frightening for Alfred, who was well aware that Bruce had never made (nor even made an attempt) at making breakfast before. But there’s a first time for everything, and there’s no time like the present. So he makes pancakes for Dick, and a cup of tea. Dick’s favorite is earl grey, and Bruce could definitely make a cup of tea. 

(Dick had once confided in him, in one of the rare moments that he’d been around when Bruce had brought his older brother a cup of earl grey. It’s not as good as Alfred’s, but it’s still my favorite way to take it. It’s never the same if anyone else makes it. Bruce’s earl grey is the best .) 

For Tim, it’s tuna sandwiches. Bruce had insisted that it was simple enough to spread prepared cold tuna salad over bread and call it lunch. Tim, bless his heart, never once complained. Jason is of the firm belief that Tim set the bar too low and that Bruce kind of shadily sidestepped over it, and maybe even accidentally kicked it in the process. 

Jason honestly doesn’t know if Bruce has a meal that he makes for Cass and Damian. He hopes that Bruce does. 

For Jason, it’s something simple–a box of Hamburger Helper. 

Truthfully, Jason will eat just about anything. He’s never been particularly picky, and his stomach and palette have been strengthened by past desperation of simply having food to eat. They say hunger is the best sauce, after all. Jason most definitely knows that to be true. Anything is better than the hollow ache and insatiable gnawing in his stomach. 

Since his initial move to the Manor, both Alfred and Bruce had assured him that Jason could request even something like wagyu for every meal and they would provide it. Money was of no issue, no consequence, and if Jason was happy, then they were happy. Bruce absolutely could not cook wagyu, but he had been willing to try. Jason hadn’t even known what it was at the time. 

Hamburger Helper cost like $1.79 a box, and it was something that his mom used to make, back when she was sober enough to cook. In an entirely cheap sense, it felt and tasted like home. For some reason, at the Manor, it was the stroganoff flavor, which he partially attributed to Bruce’s ripe old age of 38. Jason liked the philly cheesesteak kind better, but he would eat this too. He had a feeling that Alfred may have been secretly disgusted every time he put a box (for emergencies) into the shopping cart, but the butler never voiced a word.  

All Bruce has to do is cook some ground beef in a skillet over medium-high heat for 6 to 8 minutes. Then, drain the meat, return it to the skillet, and stir in the called-for amount of water, milk, sauce mix, and pasta. Reduce the heat of the burner to a simmer and stir occasionally for about 7 minutes until the pasta is tender. Then you have a meal meant to be 5 servings, fit for two. 

Bruce had fretted over him while he took his medicine a few minutes ago, and Jason is waiting for it to kick in so he feels more like a human and less like complete crap. So he sits on a stool in the kitchen, still in his pajamas, and watches Bruce toil away over a pot on the stove to make them both lunch. His father has lovingly prepared a cup of ginger tea for him with too much honey, and it rests at his elbow, steaming. 

“It even has real dairy ,” Bruce comments dryly, idly reading off the Hamburger Helper box while he stirs the cooking beef. 

Jason attempts to clear his congestion with the steam from his tea. “Oh great. I was worried about imitation dairy products. Those fake bitches. Got milk? We sure do.” 

Bruce stills and slowly inclines his head toward Jason. He appears somewhat concerned. “Did I give you too much cold medicine?” 

“No,” he replies, though it sounds more like ‘bo.’ “I’m just exercising my right to free speech. This is New Jersey. I can say what I want.” 

“I think I gave you too much cold medicine,” Bruce decides under his breath, and turns to re-read the bells and whistles on the back of the medicine box. “Are you feeling funny? Maybe I should call Poison Control.” 

“I’m always feeling hilarious,” Jason insists, tone flat. “Chill out, B. You gave me the age-appropriate dosage.” He pauses, processing. “Aren’t you Batman? What the hell do you need to call Poison Control for?” 

Bruce mutters something about never being too careful and returns to stirring his suspiciously darkening skillet of ground beef. After several thankfully uneventful minutes and no kitchen nightmare disasters, his father has combined the noodles, burger, and other ingredients and let it all cook for the required time. He ladles a hearty amount into a bowl and places it on the counter in front of Jason. 

Jason has no real appetite but spoons hot noodles and beef and real dairy into his mouth, regardless. It’s the best meal he’s ever had. He understands what Dick meant–or will mean one day–about how it’s not the same if anyone else makes it. He had tried to replicate the meal several times after coming back to Gotham, on nights when he’d felt so hollow and insatiable, and not from hunger. It had never once been the same as when Bruce had cooked lunch for him. Jason had even tried burning the bottom layer of ground beef like Bruce did half the time. Nothing had mattered–it just tasted like regular stroganoff Hamburger Helper, and a bit like ash in his mouth. 

After lunch, Jason is thoroughly worn out. He feels like he has been awake for 72 hours after running around the entirety of Gotham on foot. Bruce basically tucks him into bed, fussing with the blankets and pillows to make sure Jason is as comfortable as he can be. Jason wonders if he was ever this much of a worry wart with Dick. He’s a grown man–sort of. Not really, right now, but also yes. Regardless, he’s fifteen, and teenagers don’t get tucked into bed by their parents. But…he’s so exhausted, and he doesn’t feel very good, and he has his father’s undivided and somewhat overbearing attention. It’s nice, not having to take care of himself, just this once. What can he say? The flu is kicking his ass into next week. 

“B,” he moans pathetically, deciding he doesn’t give a fuck at all, “I don’t feel so good.” 

Bruce leans over and brushes his bangs from his forehead. “I know, son. We’re going to try and break that fever, and then you’ll start to feel better.” 

Jason shivers, freezing cold despite the blankets piled on him. “Who’s ‘we?’ It’s my body doing all the work. And that whole body feels like I went ten rounds with Killer Croc. I think I might be dying.” 

“You’re not dying,” Bruce says, sounding a bit too amused for Jason’s taste. “It’s just the flu.” 

As if Bruce of all people would know. Jason is actually the expert on dying. He knows what he’s about, thank you very fucking much. 

Bruce pulls an armchair over by the bed. “Here, Jay. How about I read to you? Would that take your mind off of things? Make you feel less miserable?” 

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Jason sniffs, and then breaks into a nasty coughing fit. 

His father picks up the book on Jason’s nightstand and thumbs through the pages until he finds where they last left off. “Are you sure that you want me to read Emma ? We can always do something else.” 

“Yes, Bruce, I’m sure. It’s a compelling story,” Jason argues, congested, as he settles back into his pillows. “Are you gonna do the voices?” 

Bruce eyes him shrewdly over the book. “Do you want me to do the voices?” 

Jason sends him a look as if he’s committed a criminally offensive act. “ Yes ,” he says, scandalized. “Obviously.” 

His father sighs, longsuffering, and returns his attention to Jane Austen. “ Only four-and-twenty. That is too young to settle. His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it. Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable.” 

He switches to the voice he does for Harriet Smith. "Six years hence! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!” 

Bruce falls back to Emma, or his approximation of her. “Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an independence–” 

“Are you listening to this, Bruce?” Jason interrupts. “Maybe taking notes?” 

Bruce levels him with an unamused stare. “Should I be taking notes from the wise Miss Woodhouse?” 

“Badly done, Bruce,” Jason quotes, eyes closed. “Badly done. You are Emma Woodhouse. Handsome– according to the media , clever, and exceedingly rich. You’re always in everybody’s business. I think you are quite vexed, though.” 

“Quite,” Bruce agrees, bordering on sarcastic. 

Jason hums noncommittally. 

Bruce huffs that quiet laugh, more of a breath of air than anything, and clears his throat. “Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make–cannot be at all beforehand with the world. Whatever money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing yet.” 

“Have you ever thought about that?” Jason murmurs. “Being rich in time?” 

He feels Bruce’s fingers carding through his hair again. “It’s the most precious commodity of all. It’s priceless. It’s the one thing that I wish I had more of. You don’t have to worry about that, Jay. You’re fifteen. You have your whole life ahead of you.” 

Jason wakes suddenly from what he thinks must have been a pleasant dream. Despite his best efforts, he can’t seem to hold onto it. 

Dick has woken him up again.

There’s no Def Leppard this time, though. Jason only hears sobbing. 

He’s only heard Dick weep like that on a handful of extremely grim occasions. Dick cries, gasping and heart wrenching sobs that leave him nearly gagging, chest heaving. It leaves him uncomfortable. There’s a certain wrongness that an individual feels deep in their soul to hear Dick Grayson cry like that. He wants to reach out because Dick sounds close by, but he finds that he cannot really move anything at all. Everything feels heavy. 

Someone is holding his hand though. There is a smaller one slipped into his. It feels awkward, like the hand of a child unused to showing physical affection. However, whoever it is also seems like they are holding onto Jason so hard that it might hurt if he could actually feel it. It reminds him of Damian. Wouldn’t that be the day. 

Time is a flat circle , says the ghost of kid-Tim from the deep recesses of his conscience. Something-something about clocks being round and loops. He doesn’t know. It’s too much to think about right now. 

There’s a distorted beep. It sounds suspiciously like the ECG of a vital sounds monitor. One can barely hear it over Dick’s loud crying. 

There’s a gasp to his left. It sounds like Tim. 

“There’s a pulse!” 

Definitely Tim. 

“Bruce! Bruce, get –” 

Jason fades away again. For some reason, he feels like he’s fallen asleep to the sound of Tim’s panicked yelling before. Then, nothing.

Chapter Text

Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future

And time future contained in time past.

If all time is eternally present

All time is unredeemable.

What might have been is an abstraction

Remaining a perpetual possibility

Only in a world of speculation.

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present.

Footfalls echo in the memory

Down the passage which we did not take

Towards the door we never opened

Into the rose-garden. My words echo

Thus, in your mind.

                      But to what purpose

Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves

I do not know.

                      Other echoes

Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?

– Burnt Norton

xvi. if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills, the landslide bring it down–

Jason Todd–Robin–hears the scream and his instincts take over. 

He has no way of foreseeing the mess he’s swinging himself into. Jason is about to experience the real downside of fighting crime, about to learn that the good guys don’t always win, and is about to meet the diplomat’s son. 

He lands, just the way Batman taught him, balanced and ready for trouble. The only trouble is that there doesn’t seem to be anyone home. But then Felipe Garzonas comes out of the bedroom. He spots Robin and attacks on sight. 

Felipe has both size and strength over Jason, but the lad has Garzonas beat hands-down in skill and speed. He calls for his bodyguard, Juan, to kill Robin, and Juan is all too happy to comply. Juan’s good with that bowie knife–too good for Robin to handle on his own. Fortunately, the lad isn’t alone. Batman is with him, and puts Juan through a wall. 

“You shouldn’t have allowed yourself to be forced into a corner like that, lad.” Batman admonishes. “Next time I might not see where you go. By the way, what brought you in here?”

Jason heads for the direction of a cracked door. “A woman’s scream. I think it came from the bedroom.” 

In the darkened bedroom, they find Gloria Stanson, eye busted near shut, curled up in the duvet and trying to make herself appear small. She’s already small enough. She begs them not to hurt her. They take her to police headquarters where she reports that Juan kidnapped her after she got off work and Felipe both sexually and physically assaulted her. It’s the second time this has happened. She hadn’t reported the attack because she'd been ashamed, that she’d just wanted it all to go away so she could forget it. 

Robin assures her that he won’t get away with it this time, that they caught him dead to rights on kidnapping, assault, and resisting arrest. But he’s wrong. Felipe Garzonas is the son of a diplomat, the ambassador from Bogatago, who not only contests her report, but also has diplomatic immunity. They’d have to let him walk regardless. 

They have to sedate Gloria Stanson. She spends the night at the hospital. Felipe’s high-priced legal talent has him out on the street 45 minutes after Batman and Robin brought him in. He’s never even booked. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out the way it should. Jason refuses to accept this. 

Batman and Robin stand watch high above the street as Felipe and his lawyer walk to their waiting limousine. 

Jason clenches his fists, leather creaking under the pressure. “I want this guy, Batman.” 

Batman crosses his arms. “Well, you can’t have him…at least not for what he did to Gloria Stanson. But, that doesn’t mean we’re done with that little creep.” 

“What did you have in mind?” 

Bruce explains that their country and Felipe’s have a well-publicized anti-drug operation taking place down in Bogatago. The States has sent Federal Marshals to help Bogatago eradicate the coca fields that grow everywhere out in the countryside and jungle. He also points out that Felipe is very blatantly using cocaine–he’s got all the signs: hyperactivity, shaky hands, and pinpoint pupils. Bruce goes on to explain that if they can catch him holding, then the State Department will request Felipe’s recall to Bogatago. He’ll have to return home in disgrace with no hope of ever following his father into the diplomatic corps. He says it’s the best they can do. 

Bruce hacks the CIA and discovers that Jose Garzonas, Felipe’s father, is a powerful right-wing politician down in Bogatago, and that the CIA suspects him of smuggling coke into the United States. It also seems as though Felipe has been sampling some of his father’s wares. 

They keep an eye on little Felipe. He lives a life of the truly idle rich. Felipe does absolutely nothing useful with his time. His days start late and consist of nothing but long lunches and getting high. At night, he parties and gets still higher. 

Jason, personally, finds it disgusting. “This guy spends money like he has a tree it grows on.” 

Bruce sympathizes with him. “Not a tree, Robin. It’s a plant. A coca plant.” 

Over the next three days, Batman and Robin have a dozen opportunities to bust Felipe when he’s holding, but they hold off. Bruce wants to take a part out of Senior Garzonas’ operation when Felipe takes his fall from diplomatic immunity grace. Jason doesn’t like this idea. He hasn’t yet learned that ninety percent of crime-fighting is waiting. 

Robin paces the rooftop in directionless circles. “He’s going to get away if we don’t pop him now! I don’t care about his father! I want Felipe! I just can’t stand sitting around like this! When’s Felipe going to make his move?!” 

It happens then. 

Felipe heads out with his two bodyguards, and Batman and Robin trail them to a dilapidated and condemned apartment building to catch him skimming from his father’s operation. They bust the whole damn setup, bringing down everyone inside. Felipe’s lawyer still springs him from custody within the hour, but he’s booked this time. The GCPD must once again release him, but Washington’s already got the word. Felipe’s recall is only days away. He asks to make a quick phone call before they go, only for Batman and Robin to discover he’s called to threaten Gloria over the phone. 

Commissioner Gordon rushes to get her address from the arrest records, and once armed with it, Batman and Robin are off. Gloria’s doorman doesn’t report having seen her leave within the past hour, but she also isn’t answering her phone. They are too late. Jason finds Gloria hanging from a pipe in her bedroom. 

Gloria had been like cracked crystal, still beautiful but someone you’d be afraid to touch for fear of shattering her. She was too fragile for a world inhabited by monsters like Felipe Garzonas. I should have seen it. I should have…so many shoulds but didn’ts. All lines Bruce would later log in his files on the case–personal notes, a reminder to be better, for victims like Gloria. 

Batman calls for an ambulance to take Gloria’s body to the morgue, but when he gets off the line, Robin is gone. He has to be heading for Felipe’s apartment. He arrives at Felipe’s apartment just in time to find Jason watching the sparse late-night crowd gather around Felipe’s body, skull and abdomen burst and oozing into the concrete. Jason’s expression is impassive, stance denoting nothing. The horrified screams echo from far down below, but it’s as if the two of them are in their own private world. 

Batman stalks toward him. “Robin! What happened?!” 

Jason doesn’t meet his eyes, only sets his jaw and turns away. 

“Robin, did Felipe fall…or was he pushed ?” 

Jason says, “I guess I spooked him. He slipped.” 

And without even looking back, he fires his grapple and disappears into the night. 

Pause the tape. Be kind, rewind—back, back, back, and there. Pause. Hit play. 

Jason Todd–Robin–hears the scream and his instincts take over. 

He has foreseen the mess he’s swinging himself into. Jason knows the real downside of fighting crime like the back of his scarred hand, knows good and well that the good guys don’t always win, and is about to meet the diplomat’s son again. 

He lands, just the way Batman taught him years ago, balanced and ready for trouble that he already expects. The only trouble is that there doesn’t seem to be anyone home, though he knows better. And then Felipe Garzonas comes out of the bedroom. 

Felipe has both size and strength over Jason, but he has Garzonas beat hands-down in skill and speed. He remembers this night so clearly–has thought through every punch Felipe had thrown or tried to throw. He has spent years training with Bruce, with all the best teachers Talia could find, with the All Caste, and others. Jason has Felipe flat on his ass faster than the man could threaten him. Juan’s good with that bowie knife and he comes charging in when Felipe calls him, just like clockwork. Jason, however, is better. Unfortunately, he isn’t alone. Batman is with him, and he puts Juan through a wall, also just like Jason remembers. 

In the darkened bedroom, they find Gloria Stanson, eye busted near shut, curled up in the duvet and trying to make herself appear small. She’s already small enough. She begs them not to hurt her. They take her to police headquarters where she reports that Juan kidnapped her after she got off work and Felipe both sexually and physically assaulted her. It’s the second time this has happened. She hadn’t reported the attack because she'd been ashamed, that she’d just wanted it all to go away so she could forget it. 

Robin is oddly silent, but Batman assures her that he won’t get away with it this time, that they caught him dead to rights on kidnapping, assault, and resisting arrest. But he’s wrong. Felipe Garzonas is the son of a diplomat, the ambassador from Bogatago, who not only contests her report, but also has diplomatic immunity. They’d have to let him walk regardless. 

They have to sedate Gloria Stanson. She spends the night at the hospital. Felipe’s high-priced legal talent has him out on the street 45 minutes after Batman and Robin brought him in. He’s never even booked. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out the way it should. Jason refuses to accept this for a second time. He still wants Felipe, even more so than he did the first time around. 

Victims like Gloria deserved justice. They deserved to know that they could report attacks and know that something real was going to happen, that something real was going to be done about their attackers. They deserved to feel safe again, to know that their attackers were never going to hurt them again. They deserved to know that they’d never have to feel that agony, that disempowerment, those blameless feelings of humiliation, shame, and embarrassment that came with it, ever again. They deserved to know that their attacker would be held accountable, that it wasn’t their fault. 

He goes along with Bruce’s little sting operation to buy himself time. The State Department requests to recall Felipe to Bogatago, with the diplomat’s son returning home in disgrace with no hope of ever following his father into the diplomatic corps, but it’s not enough of a punishment for Jason. It’s not the best they can do. Legally, maybe. But legality is naught but smoke and mirrors for the vigilantes of Gotham–certainly in the case of Red Hood, anyway. It’s not like they exactly operate within the law. Their existence alone is a blatant violation of the law. Jason likes to sink his teeth into the concept of jurisprudence and chew it like a well-done steak. 

So, Bruce hacks the CIA. Typical. They again discover that Felipe’s father is running coke into the States. And they wait. They keep an eye on Felipe over the course of the next few days, which play out exactly as Jason remembers–a whole lot of nothing amounting to anything (Felipe, id est) and many, many lines of white powder. 

Back then, Jason hadn’t been very good at waiting. 

Now, though, he’s learned. Patience is a craft best honed with time, and he’s had that in spades these days. Felipe heads out with his two bodyguards, and Batman and Robin trail them to that same dilapidated and condemned apartment building to catch him skimming from his father’s operation. They bust the whole damn setup, bringing down everyone inside. Jason even gets to execute a corkscrew on a guy in an intense yellow vee-neck and hurls him into another guy trying to take Robin out with a stool. And here comes Robin with a drug runner goon! 

Felipe’s lawyer still springs him from custody within the hour, but he’s booked this time. The GCPD must once again release him, but Washington’s already got the word. Felipe’s recall is only days away. When he asks to make a quick phone call before they go, Jason is ready. He already knows what’s coming next. 

Jason remembers Gloria’s address. He’s thought of it often over the years. It’s something that’s always haunted him, a memory that never goes away. He doesn’t need Gordon to pull it from the arrest records. When Batman and the good Commissioner turn to look for him, he’s already gone, flying through the city to reach her. 

Before, it was Bruce who didn’t see just how affected Gloria had been by a monster like Felipe Garzonas. Jason hadn’t known what to look for back then. It’s okay. He knows now, and he can see it all better than Bruce ever did. 

Batman arrives at Gloria’s apartment too late, just like he and Robin had the first time, but instead of a hanged corpse who’s just barely left this earth, he finds Gloria alive. She’s crying, wrapped in a blanket and looking like she’s been through hell–and she has –but she’s alive. 

There’s a felled rope, cleaved clean in two with a discarded batarang, laying forgotten on the carpet. Gloria doesn’t look at it, and is bodily turned from the scene of her almost-death. The chair is still upright, never toppled by her stepping off of it. It seems like Robin had been fast enough to intervene before anything could happen. 

She sniffs, eyes downcast. “Robin saved me. He told me that things aren’t okay right now, and that I might feel like they never will be, but also that Felipe will never hurt me again. He promised me.” 

“Robin is right,” Batman finds himself saying. “It’s true. Felipe is being recalled to Bogatago. We’ll make sure he never hurts you again.” 

“He stayed with me,” Gloria confesses. “Right until you walked in. He said that you’d…you’d help me. I was so afraid, and it felt like such an impossible situation. But…he told me that I wasn’t alone, and that he would sit with me, and we talked about where to get the best goddamned chili dogs in this stupid city, and he said we’d have the best ones together tomorrow.” Her voice breaks on the last word. “So…so I need to get through the night and see him tomorrow. I have to prove that Coney Island dogs are the best.” 

Bruce’s throat feels dry as Gloria throws herself into his arms, already waiting to offer comfort if needed. Jason saved her. Jason was here first. Jason left. Jason is gone. 

Gloria allows for Batman to call for an ambulance, and he stays with her until they take her. Logically, he knows that Jason will have headed for Felipe’s apartment, and has a hell of a head start on him. Bruce knows that Jason likely would have stayed with Gloria himself the whole time, would have preferred it actually, had he not had something else in mind. 

He arrives at Felipe’s apartment just in time to find Jason watching the sparse late-night crowd gather around Felipe’s body, skull and abdomen burst and oozing into the concrete. Jason’s expression is impassive, stance denoting nothing. The horrified screams echo from far down below, but it’s as if the two of them are in their own private world. 

Batman stalks toward him. “Robin! What happened?!” 

Jason doesn’t meet his eyes, only sets his jaw and turns away. 

“Robin, did Felipe fall…or was he pushed ?” 

He answers the same thing he did a lifetime that hasn’t happened ago. “I guess I spooked him. He slipped.” 

Jason could not know that this night always ends with Felipe taking a twenty story nosedive onto Fifth Avenue. There are events in life that are immutable, destined by fate and untouchable by mortal hands. Life is made up of moments, small flecks of glittering mica in a vast stretch of cement rolling across the urban expanse. You can try and hold onto them, but ultimately, they’ll disappear and dull with time—slipping through a white-knuckled grip and into forever, into a permanent past. Cracks will rupture the pavement, and one can easily fall in if they’re not careful of their step, lost forever in a moment that is cemented in the long and winding road of time. 

Step on a crack, break your father’s back. 

It’s Jason who feels like he just fell twenty stories. “You don’t believe me,” he chokes, the words lodging themselves in his throat like daggers. The accusation is something painful, shoddily but steadily crafted with bitter disappointment and heartbreak. He feels like Bruce has just suckerpunched him in the gut, the words nothing but a cracked whisper carried by the wind. 

Batman says nothing. It confirms everything he suspected and more. The cold silence condemns Jason more than words ever could. Here it is, this moment he knows so well, just like an old friend. His father is tearing through his flesh, fingers painfully weaving between ribs and sinking into his chest cavity. Here is Bruce grabbing his heart and squeezing it with that Batman strength–the strength that causes others to think he’s inhuman. 

“You know,” Jason laughs, empty and mirthless, “I thought I could change things. Real change this time–something this family and this city lacks. I thought I’d done it.” 

There are no stars in the sky that are visible from the city limits of Gotham. Jason reaches up and out toward them anyway, in blind faith that they still hang in the heavens. It feels like abandonment under an empty counterfeit sky of luminescence. 

He balances on the railing of Felipe Garzonas’ balcony, a perfect acrobat imitation, a pastiche of Robin, a travesty of a son. “I was so fucking stupid .” 

Batman adjusts his stance minutely. A tell that he’s nervous. “Robin—”  

“If it had been Nightwing, what would you say then? Would you question him, too?” No answer. Jason grinds his teeth, feels age-old grief well up inside him. “Your silence is suffocating. Don’t you know that? The quiet disapproval is always worse than you yelling at me. I hate it. Nightwing hates it. Why do you think he yells at you so much?” 

“It doesn’t matter if Garzonas fell or if I pushed him. You’ve already made up your mind that I killed him.” Jason takes a sure step back, closer to where Felipe had been only minutes before. Bruce’s eyes follow him. “I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry that bastard is dead. He deserved it. You know he deserved it. He was a fucking scumbag . He had Gloria so terrorized, so backed into a corner, that she thought the only way out was to–” 

He swallows. 

“His life or death wasn’t ours to decide,” Batman says. He means it. He always means it. “We don’t get to decide who lives or dies. We don’t get to play God. That’s not our judgment call to make.” 

“And if it had been me?” Jason asks, leaning back. He’s teetering on the precipice. “If it had been me that fell instead of Garzonas? What would you do? What if he had pushed me and I hadn’t been able to save myself? What would his diplomatic immunity mean to you then?” 

There it is–the flash of pain across his father’s face. It doesn’t soothe Jason’s heart one bit, but old dogs often resort to old tricks. He wants Bruce to feel even a semblance of the anguish that he’s feeling right now. It’s a vicious and miserable practice, but it’s once he’s well versed in. This savage cycle, where both parties will scream and yell and it will deteriorate beyond repair, into being brutal and spiteful for the sake of it. Jason has danced this old dance with Bruce many times, but this Bruce doesn’t know that yet. He’s not prepared. 

And it’s there–god, is it ever there. The venom and acid roils in his chest, waiting to be used, ready to inflict agony that will never truly heal. Sticks and stones may break bones but words will cut deep, a wound beyond repair, are ghosts that forever haunt. And Jason…Jason clenches his jaw instead, so hard it sends a dull ache through his mandible and into his cheeks. He swallows the hateful and spiteful fight within himself and lets it simmer. It will burn hot and bright, then out, leaving ash in its wake. They’ve been fighting and going at each other’s throats for years, and it’s never gotten them anywhere except straight to miserable. 

He clenches and unclenches his fists. “What do you see when you look at me? Are you even really looking?” 

Jason hears Bruce’s breath catch at the unexpected questions. He knows that Bruce loves him. Bruce died for him, to save him. Bruce has been tentatively trying to rebuild a relationship between them in his own way. Yes, his father loves him. That only makes this hurt so much worse. 

Bruce’s jaw works, lit by the moonlight, as if he’s searching for the words to say. It won’t matter. Jason already knows the answer, and even if Bruce were to lie, it wouldn’t be what he wishes so desperately to hear. Bruce being taciturn. What else is new? It’s like the man invented and championed the term. Color Jason totally surprised.

Batman reaches out for him, but Jason jerks out of the way. In the blink of an eye, he topples over the balcony into a free fall, leaving Batman terrified and scrambling above him. When he looks for his plummeting son, Jason is gone, caught himself with a grapple line and is flying through the skies, away from him. Bruce can’t catch up to him. He can never hope to, because Jason will always slip away through his fingers. 

Jason excels in the act of disappearing. He’s been expertly trained in the craft and has only honed it further. After all, he spent a long time dodging the watchful eye of his father. 

Tonight, though, Jason just wishes to be found. 

There is a certain comfort in solitude, but there’s also a difference between being alone and being lonely. Jason has been lonely for so long. Perhaps Bruce will look for him, hoping to find him perched next to his favorite gargoyle–his childhood best friend, the strong and silent type. A behemoth grotesque carved from granite, toothy maw pulled back into a sneer, ears pinned and wings fanned toward Gotham’s dark heavens. By definition, the stone beast was created to serve a functional purpose of diverting water from the building. By mythos, his gargoyle has the power to ward off evil spirits, therefore guarding the building it occupies and protecting the inhabitants inside. Bruce may hope to find him there, protected from evil. 

Or…perhaps Bruce isn’t looking and hoping to find him at all. 

He’s discovered that these collections of days in the past that he’s been granted have changed his perspective. Or, perhaps they’ve only served to embolden him further. Jason escapes Gotham and heads to Bludhaven. A bewildered Dick, fresh out of his Nightwing suit and changed into pajamas, opens the door for him. 

Dick makes him some off-brand hot chocolate and serves it to him in a baby blue plastic mug. Jason has never seen a plastic mug before. Dick doesn’t even ask him what’s wrong, and instead decides to brief him–or warn him–about his upcoming mission to Tamaran. Just in case you decide to drop in in the middle of the night and I don’t answer the door, that’s where I’ll be for the next…couple of months? 

Jason…Jason goes in for the Hail Mary pass. 

“What if you stayed? What if you didn’t go to Tamaran?” 

Maybe if he asks, Dick will listen. Maybe if Dick stays, if he asks him to stay, things will be different. Time past, unredeemable, but possibly preventable in time future. 

Something bad is going to happen. I don’t think I can stop it. Maybe you can help. Help. Help me. Dick, please. I don’t know what else to do. It’s all playing out like it did before. I can’t seem to stop it. I’ve tried. I need you. 

Maybe it’s the fear of being vulnerable, or the fierce independence he’d learned from a young age, or the fear of losing control, or the fear of rejection that kept him from asking. If they call, Jason will come. But if Jason calls…if Jason asks…would they? What if they don’t come in his time of need? What if they turn him away when it really counts? The fear creeps into his throat and chokes him. It’s a paralyzing thing. 

Dick barks out a laugh. “What? I have to go.”

“Yeah but…but what if you didn’t?” Jason presses his thumb into the melted plastic joining line of the mug. “Go, that is.” 

Time is a flat circle. Round and round and round Jason goes, where he stops, well— 

He rubs his finger over a drop of spilled store-bought cocoa sitting atop the laminate of Dick’s kitchen tabletop. “What if you just…came home…instead?” 

Jason sees the look dawning on Dick’s face and he doesn’t like it. It’s not a good indicator of what’s to come. Maybe he should drop it. 

“There’s this case,” he explains in a rush. It’s technically true. “I think it might go south. Really south, and I—“ he swallows, trying to fight back the taste of bile at the memories, “—I think you could help. I think you could make a difference. I think lives are at stake, and…and–” 

“Why don’t you just ask Bruce?” 

“We’re not on good terms right now,” Jason mutters, fingers clamping around his mug. “I don’t…I don’t think it’s a good idea. This thing…I think it’s inevitable.”

Dick doesn’t say anything, just watches him. His expression is almost unreadable, save for the telltale beginnings of a fight in the slight pinch of his brows and downturn at the corner of his mouth. He knows it well. 

“It’s my mom, Dick.” Jason admits quietly, voice nearly drowned by the loud hum of the refrigerator. “She’s in Ethiopia. My birth mom. I think…I have to go meet her.”

“That’s great!” Dick throws his hands in the air, exasperation bordering on irritation. “Then go meet her! Nobody is stopping you!” 

“Like I said ,” Jason snaps, “it’s dangerous . People could die.” 

Their tenuous grasp of peace between them is slipping as the conversation devolves into an argument. 

“You face danger all the time without even batting an eye,” Dick bites back. “People's lives are at stake every single night you go out. Your life is at stake, and you still go.” 

Now that hurts a little bit, even though it’s true. “What? So you don’t care?” 

That only serves to antagonize Dick more. It’s fine. Jason knows his pressure points just like he knows Bruce’s. “Of course I fucking care,” Dick scoffs, predictably. “And I also care about the mission that I’m going on with the Titans.” 

Well, he tried asking nicely. Perhaps emotional manipulation will get him a little farther. Dick does have a tendency to become burdened with overwhelming guilt to an alarming degree. Maybe Jason is a little evil for this, dipping back into his days of villainy and malfeasance, but he’s also a little desperate. “If it were you coming to me about your mom, I would stay. I came to you because I trust you, Dick.” 

Manipulation…potentially, but it’s also the truth. He isn’t lying for the sake of his cause. 

However, Dick’s expression clouds, looking nigh unto thunderous. Not good. “If you’re so desperate, then go fucking ask Bruce. I don’t need you guilting me.” 

Jason is losing him. Like, badly. He opens his mouth to say something, perhaps to try and mitigate the rapidly escalating situation, but Dick seems to be on a roll suddenly. 

“You’re his darling little boy. You’re the epitome of perfection in his eyes! You can do no wrong! It’s always ‘my Jason’ this and ‘my Jason’ that.” 

And that– that sparks a hot fury within Jason. “Shut up,” he says darkly. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t know anything about it.” 

“You’re all he cares about!” Dick yells. “He tries for you! He adopted you!” 

Jason grinds his teeth, feels his palms begin to sweat. “What? You jealous or something? Been holding all this in since day one? He’d probably do the same for you , if you asked him to do it.” Dick looks like he wants to protest– loudly and meanly –but Jason barrels on. “Whatever, asshole. He’s always holding me up to your standards. ‘ That’s not how Dick would do it, Jason ’ or ‘ Dick would have done it better and in less time, Jason .’ You’re the gold standard. Maybe you’d see that if you could actually manage to be home for an hour without throwing a temper tantrum.” 

“A ‘ temper tantrum ,’” Dick cries in outrage. “God, and you accused me of sounding like Bruce?! You should hear yourself! You’re just a kid! You don’t get to tell me how to run my life!” 

Okay. He may have overstepped there a little bit in his irritation. Although he didn’t say anything that isn’t true, necessarily. Maybe the one thing about jealousy, but that may also be true. Like he’s said before–it would be easier if he was Martian Manhunter. 

“Right,” Jason scoffs under his breath, “and they said Nightwing is reliable. Goes to show you can’t trust hearsay.” 

Dick shoots him a look so hateful that if looks could kill, Jason would be dead again. “Big talk coming from someone who must have screwed up as Robin so badly that he had to escape Batman and take refuge here in the middle of the night. Tarnishing the mantle tonight, are you, Robin?” 

“ You chose me to be your successor,” Jason argues, curling in on himself. “ You chose me and—”

“Yeah, well,” Dick says, and it sounds too much like finality, “maybe I regret it. Maybe I regret choosing you. Right now, I sure feel that way.”  

As if you never messed up. Maybe not this badly. God, never this badly. Not good enough. Never good enough. Failure. FAILURE—

Jason presses the palms of his hands into his eye sockets, hard. He breathes in, out, and shudders, tries to let it all roll off his back, but it sticks and sears into him like hot black tar.  “Look, I know the mission to Tamaran is important, okay ? I get that. All I’m asking is that you just—”

Dick huffs a disbelieving laugh, no humor coloring his tone. It’s more mockery than anything. “And the answer is no ! Wake up, Jason! The universe doesn’t revolve around you! I’m going to Tamaran! I’m not going back to the Manor! So why don’t you go wallow back and bother Bruce and leave me alone ?!” 

It’s vile in his mouth, the burning and violent taste of rejection. It sears into him like a brand, causing his heart to constrict and tears to burn behind his eyes. He tries to blink them away. His fear, realized, hanging there between them in the thick air of the apartment. It’s all over Dick’s enraged face, slowly dissolving into a valiant effort of covered regret. 

The silence in the apartment is stifling. 

Dick Grayson lets the sun set on his anger and carries it into the next week like leftovers for lunch. He wraps himself in his hostility like a blanket, like a second skin, and he wears it comfortably. Jason cannot hope to pry it from his grasp, cannot hope to ease Dick’s temper. 

He doesn’t want to burn this fragile bridge between them. Brothers fight, sure. Sibling rivalry and conflict is normal in any family. Maybe it would be better for Dick to hate him, if what Jason fears will soon transpire actually comes to pass. Perhaps it would be better to die hated rather than loved by his older brother, if only to spare Dick the added weight of grief. Perhaps it would be better for him to completely ostracize himself from the relationship he’s worked so hard to build here. 

But he cannot do it. He’s too selfish, and he finds that he cannot let this go. 

Jason swallows the hurt, a monument now erected to his fears, crafted by his brother from his own bone and entrails, though it gets stuck in his throat. He chokes on it, forces it down to force words out. 

“Whatever. Don’t die up there,” Jason mutters, voice watery, as he quietly takes his jacket and leaves. “I don’t want to have to go to your fucking funeral.” 

Jason wraps himself in the ache of rejection like a burial shroud of scorched flesh and disappears into the dawn. Dick stands there, left in the suffocating silence of his own apartment, and watches him go. He does not feel relieved in the least, rather like he’s about to toss his post-patrol cereal all over the linoleum in his kitchen. 

He should chase after him, say that he’s sorry right now, but the argument is still too fresh of a wound. Dick is notorious for letting arguments with his father fester and rot into repugnance. The thing between them is like an ulcer, advancing more and more towards a stage IV categorization–exposed bone, tendon, or muscle–and heading in the direction of unstageable. Within the family there is undermining–a bigger area of tissue destruction than that which can be seen. One on the outside has to poke and prod, but the calamity is there if you look beneath the surface. Dick has been content to let it turn into necrotic tissue, a disgusting darkness that adheres to whatever it touches within the wound, only to stain and trap it there. Maybe it has adhered to Jason already. Maybe that’s Dick’s fault. 

It’s okay, he tells himself. 

He will just apologize to Jason later.  

Chapter Text

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;

Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,

But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,

Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,

Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,

There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.

And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.

And the old made explicit, understood

In the completion of its partial ecstasy,

The resolution of its partial horror.

Yet the enchainment of past and future

Woven in the weakness of the changing body,

Protects mankind from heaven and damnation

Which flesh cannot endure.

– Burnt Norton

xvii. open up your skull, i’ll be there, climbing up the walls— 

Children born of every generation face the same unending problem: misconceptions of parents, who have their own perceived notions and expectations about their progeny. One of Bruce’s particular idiosyncratic traits involves seeing the world, including his children, through his own perceptions and not accounting for actions or feelings that contradict his value system. He seems to struggle, like many other parents, with finding footing on the middle ground where he heads the family but realizes that his children are fully-formed independent people in their own rights. Subjective view is in the eye of the beholder and whatnot. None of them expect Bruce to be perfect, but there are times when they feel that he holds them to impossible standards. Can a parent really ever fully know their child? Likely not. 

Sometimes Jason is certain that if Bruce were a potter and his children the clay, that he would try and smooth out all the grooves and edges of them in order to create them in his own image. But he doesn’t realize that they already are , molded by him, put through hellfire in the kiln of the harsh world and cooled by Gotham’s constant rainfall. Brothers and a sister, not carbon copies of each other or Batman, but raised by a father who truly does have their best interests at heart. Dick’s hotfire temper, Cass’s unwavering sense of right and wrong that baffles even Batman, Jason’s blatant mistrust of others, Tim’s steadfast stubbornness in the face of adversity, and Damian’s tendency to act like a jaded old man are all attributes that make them unique. All things their father isn’t sure exactly what to do with or how to handle, that makes them…well, them. They’re his children, despite all the imperfections and difficult aspects of their personalities. Bruce himself is no saint either. 

They’re all heart, just like their father. All of them, deeply ingrained with a love for Gotham and her people, the unflinching desire for justice cut into their blood and flowing constant through their veins. In a way, the dripping blood of Gotham’s rogues and mottled flesh has been their holy communion in which they nightly partake to soothe that both inherited and taught restlessness that lurks beneath their skin. A nightly baptism of Gotham’s air under a starless but coruscant sky, led by the city’s Dark Knight, to cleanse her of the wickedness that poisons her very soul. 

Jason thought that, upon finding himself inexplicably back in time, he could simply play along. He had been prepared to play the role of rectifier–he would set right what had gone wrong. Jason didn’t set out on some journey to understand the metaphysical opus of his life, yet he’s found himself deep in it anyway. The philosophy of broad concepts to help define reality and our understanding of it: the care and keeping of you and yours in an uncertain universe! 

He hadn’t been prepared to fulfill the role of reckoner–knowing who he really is, aware of the experience of being aware, and the experience being awareness’s knowledge of itself, thereby being the one who reckons. In a way, through this experience, it could be argued that he’s reached enlightenment–the recognition of his essential nature of this ever-present, unlimited awareness. Jason now understands non-duality, or “not two” or “one undivided without the second,” which primarily refers to a mature state of consciousness. Here the dichotomy of I-other is transcended, and awareness is described as “centerless” or “without dichotomies.” He’s always wondered if Bruce has seen him that way–a dichotomy, a mortal disjunction between Jason before his death and Jason after his death. 

I, Jason. 

Is there a Hallmark card for something along the lines of congratulations on the mess you’ve made of things ? Jason has reached across time and space for absolution only to topple when it was right there and cut himself on his own broken heart instead. Jagged and sharp for something so delicate, ruined again–one part by himself, but one part by his father. 

Jason understands the enormity of his actions. An initial disturbance that propagates outward to disturb an increasingly larger portion of the system. Colloquially, like ripples expanding across the water when an object is dropped into it. It’s begun to feel like the long-winded blues of the never, stretching on into the belly of an empty night. 

Nostalgia had softened that sharp, impossible knife of memory. Jason thinks now that maybe there is a reason people weren’t made, weren’t meant, to go back. Once bitten, twice shy, and all that. This had all started with Bruce, as most things that have occurred in the past several years of his life have begun. A desperate wish for five more minutes, dad had apparently somehow rippled across time and resulted in waking old wounds. Jason had set out, whether initially intentionally or not, to save his father. So why the hell did it hurt so damn much? 

He’s not sorry about Felipe Garzonas, not even a second time around. The dirtbag had gotten what was coming to him. The fallout of Felipe’s death plays out basically exactly as he remembers. It’s just that this time, Jason sees it coming. One morning during breakfast the following week, Bruce opens an envelope that he picked up from police headquarters the night before. It had been addressed for Batman’s Eyes Only . Inside, he finds a photograph of Commissioner Gordon tied to the door handle of a car in a junkyard. There is a letter accompanying the photo. It reads as follows: 

Batman, come without police or Gordon will die. Bring the boy with you.

It is signed A Bereaved Father , and it is not hard to figure out who the bereaved father is. Bruce never pressed the matter of Felipe’s death the first time around, and he didn’t the second time either. He didn’t know how to continue on with Jason as his partner during their first dance, nor did he the second time. Felipe’s death was reported as an accident and the authorities accepted it as such. Felipe’s father, Jose, apparently did not buy the verdict either time. Jose augments his income as a diplomat by running a large-scale cocaine smuggling operation. Such a man doesn’t take the death of his son lightly. Bruce initially insisted he would handle the case alone, and he does so this time, too. 

Jason called bullshit the first time around, and he calls it again. He skips school and sneaks along with Batman right into the trap set for them by stashing himself in the trunk of the Batmobile, just as he’d done before. Jason bides his time for a few minutes before he pops the trunk and crawls out into the evening air. The metal graveyard looms before him, and he hauls ass over the fence and silently sneaks his way through, retracing the steps of Batman through a path of felled goons. 

“Where is the boy?” He hears Jose ask, voice angry and rough. 

“Left him at home.” Batman replies. “Your fight’s with me .” 

“Very well,” Jose scoffs, pointing a handgun straight at him. “Have it your way.” 

Jason arrives at the familiar scene of Batman flanked by two men armed with uzis and facing Jose Garzonas. Jim Gordon is tied to the handle of a car behind Jose. Batman is tense, ready to spring into action and likely prepared to take a bullet or two. Jason has seen enough of that to last him a lifetime, and decides to act. During their initial junkyard encounter years ago, he’d only thrown a batarang to take out Jose’s gun and announced his presence. He does something similar this time around, but keeps to the shadows. 

Jose howls in pain and Batman takes the opportunity to knock around the goons flanking him. Jason is already prepared for his hits to not connect hard enough, and as Batman throws a desperate batarang to free Gordon, Robin makes his move. He’s prepared for the tan suit gunman to fire wild, and barrels into him before that can happen. Gordon had been shot the first time, and had barely escaped the gunfire. This time, Jason buys him extra time to get away. Batman is able to take down the other gunman with little to no issue. 

That leaves Jose Garzonas, who is scrambling for one of the dropped uzis. Batman will figure that Jose is trying to gun him down, but that isn’t the case–he’s aiming for Robin. It’s fine, though, because Jason is too fast for him and has the foreknowledge to get out of the way. Originally, Bruce’s life had been in jeopardy because of the second gunman, but he’s of little consequence now. Batman doesn’t need to scramble up a leaning tower of crushed cars to get away from Garzonas. In fact, the diplomat turned drug lord barely even gets the chance to turn his attention back to Batman. Jason has knocked him out cold before he realizes what’s happening. 

He doesn’t have to ask what goes on here, because he already knows. Jose Garzonas, a small army equipped with automatic guns, and a desperate act of righteous fatherly anger. A son for a son, or something like that. Previously on The Life and Times of Jason Todd, Jose Garzonas had been crushed by the tower of cars that Batman had climbed. Now, he lays unconscious at their feet. Gordon has escaped unscathed and likely called for backup, and that leaves Batman and Robin and a small army of mostly alive bodies. 

Echoes of a past not lived here ring through his mind. Bruce’s stern words over strewn bodies. For every action in this universe, there is an opposite and equal reaction. Consequences, Robin. There’s no escaping them. Bruce gives him the lecture anyway, regardless, as if Jason isn’t aware. Time is a flat circle, and Jason is a 2D figure strung along by some mysterious force that must find itself pretty fucking funny, and he already knows a thing or twelve about consequences. He knows a thing or two about no escape. 

Then comes a doldrum of days that seem to blur together, memory and reality and new memory combined. He isn’t himself (and wouldn’t Bruce agree to that thought) when Batman and Robin go after the child pornography ring, but he remembers it well enough. Jason at fifteen doesn’t listen to Batman’s instructions to hold up , even if there are only eight guys. He wonders if he would have just listened to Bruce and spared himself the lecture if he had been his 21-year-old self in his 15-year-old body. There’s that patience factor again. 

What’s worse is you nearly got yourself killed doing it. 

Near misses don’t count , he remembers saying. 

Bruce had been furious. What do you think we’re doing here?! Playing some game?! 

Of course, Jason had replied. All life’s a game. 

Despite his good intentions, Bruce has grossly misread the situation, has completely missed the mark when it comes to Jason. Misconceptions and expectations and slipping and sliding instead of firm footing on the middle ground. For being someone commonly known as the World’s Best Detective, Bruce never seems to ask the right questions. Instead, he just assumes, and you know what they say about assuming. 

I think I’ve made a terrible mistake, Alfred. The kid’s losing it. He dived into those thugs like someone looking to die. I’ve come upon him several times, looking at that battered old photograph of his mother and father, and crying. When he’s seen me, he’s hidden the picture and left the room, refusing to talk. In other words, I may have started Jason as Robin before he had a chance to come to grips with his parents’ deaths. 

He overhears this conversation again, has replayed it over and over in his own head like a scratched record forever stuck since the first time he heard it. Jason has always thought Bruce unfairly hypocritical for those statements. There’s acceptance in the nonlinear cycle of grief, but coming to grips is dealing, and you deal with the absence of someone for the rest of your life after they die. It’s not something you just get over. Jason understands that Catherine and Willis are dead. He always has. It’s certainly not a crime to miss somebody. If Bruce were to look in the mirror and ask himself if he’s come to grips with the death of his parents in that alleyway so many years ago, he does not have the right to say yes. Clearly. 

Alfred stepped and again steps in as the voice of reason. Being your partner is not exactly the best situation for a teenager adjusting to such a loss. 

Then I must try to rectify the situation. Jason’s going off active duty immediately. 

If Bruce had never benched him, then Jason would likely have never walked for hours and found himself in Crime Alley. He would have never even seen or spoken with Mrs. Walker in the first place, and she would never have given him the box containing memories of a past life. He would have never found his birth certificate or Willis’s address book, and he would have never gone searching for his birth mother. At least, not when he and Bruce were on such ill terms. 

Guess you know what they say the path to hell is paved with. 

April, come she will and does, streams ripe and swelled with rain. April showers bring May flowers and existential dread. He wakes up in the middle of the month and spends some time locked away in his room in deep self-introspection. 

Jason has always ached for the love of a mother. He probably won’t even live again to see Mother’s Day. It’s a never-ending, insatiable cavity that resides within his chest, waiting to be filled. Destined to shove Jason’s soul to ghost. Then, he ached and still aches for the love of a father. And he had it– he has it, it’s just…

Sixteen always held such better days, but sixteen is forever a far-off, unreachable fever dream. He’s already concluded that there must be some sort of cognitive dissonance between his actual 15-year-old self and the times where his adult consciousness inhabits his body. This is further proved when he finds the information on the three possibilities of his birth mother, including Sheila Haywood, and a ticket out of the country to begin his Middle Eastern tour in search of his long-lost mother.  

There is a possibility that he could attempt to stay awake for the duration of the next handful of days. He always finds himself losing time after he’s fallen asleep. It may be worth a shot. However, there’s an overwhelming sense of doom that lingers over him. He’s felt it once before, in a warehouse in Ethiopia. They say that towards the end, dying people will often breathe only periodically, with an intake of breath followed by no breath for several seconds. There might be two or so last gasps a minute or so following what seemed like the last breath, before the breathing eventually stops. Jason wonders if these last moments are his own metaphorical agonal breathing–already damned but going through the motions regardless. 

He thinks of the Hanged Man card in a deck of tarot cards. It depicts a pittura infamante,  a shameful image of a traitor being punished in a manner common at the time for traitors in Italy. The man is being hanged upside down by one ankle. There is often a halo depicted as burning around his head, signifying a higher learning or an enlightenment. There are many meanings to tarot cards, he’s learned, when used in game playing and divination. It’s a card that suggests ultimate surrender, sacrifice, or being suspended in time. A reversed card denotes egotism, inability to change, and missing an opportunity. The upright card could mean breaking old patterns, circumspection, letting go, metamorphosis, and suspension. 

The next card? Death. 

He’s not sure how much credence he puts in the Major Arcana, but if his lives are any indication…he might as well bank on the cards, no matter the hand he’s dealt. He certainly feels condemned, and the connotations are a little too on the nose for him, if he’s being honest. Apropos of nothing, Jason is personally subscribing to the suspension of disbelief that everything will somehow work out in the end. If not, he hopes that he’s done some good here during his second (third?) run at teenage life. 

Jason is the original traitor of his family–the first to defy Bruce’s no-kill creed, the first to let treachery run like blood through his legacy. It hadn’t started with Felipe Garzonas, not for Jason—but it had started there for Bruce. He’s different now; he’s changed. But when Jason closes his eyes he can still see it–kicking Bruce out of his own company and taking the entire R&D branch, severed heads of gang lieutenants shoved into a duffel bag, Bludhaven blowing skyhigh (okay, so that hadn’t been him, to be fair) and rubbing Dick’s apparent death in their father’s face, etcetera etcetera. Once, he’d enjoyed it. He’d wanted Bruce to know it was him–had given him the evidence to prove it. Hurt people hurt people or something like that. Now the memories roil within him like stomach acid and heartburn. 

That doesn’t really matter much, does it? Not to me. Here. That’s fingerprints, and here’s blood, and even tissue…Oh my god…is Nightwing there? Imagine that. One son returns from the grave as another enters it. What a fitting ending this has become. I’m not talking about killing Cobblepot and Scarecrow or Clayface. Not Riddler, or Dent…I’m talking about him. Just him. And doing it because…because he took me away from you.  

He had been the first to introduce the topos of mundus inversus, only there was no real comedy to be found, but there had been plenty of humiliation and agony. Jason had returned from death to turn Bruce’s entire world upside down, and he’d relished in it. It hadn’t mattered to him, because he’d already suffered character assassination from his own father. He’d had nothing left to lose. Bruce had treated the memory of him like an animal trapped in a hot car, like all the days he’d chosen to ignore. He’d packed everything left of Jason up in boxes, removed him from the walls, and hidden his ghost away. Bruce had compartmentalized him, or at least poorly attempted to do so. 

Jason considers sparing the Joker the trouble–not that the sick bastard would be bothered by it all. He’d probably feel bereaved of the chance to torture and torch Robin, to make Batman truly squirm. There are plenty of ways to end his own life and speed things along, to save himself the pain. It could be quick, even. He has access to guns, and he knows how to use those well enough. He could just overdose on pills like his mom and go to sleep for good, no more slipping through time. He could just jump from a tall building somewhere, fall twenty stories like Felipe Garzonas and stain the pavement. All of these routes would lead to the same outcome, and Bruce would never even likely find himself on that rooftop in the future, where he met his end. And Bruce…he isn’t sure Bruce would survive that–knowing that his son took his own life. 

Going after Sheila a second time is suicide enough anyway. 

Not like he made it out the first time. 

Dying breaths or not, Jason decides to take advantage of these precious hours he’s been mysteriously granted. He will be settling his affairs and getting his estate in order, as it were. He doesn’t have a will at fifteen, but that doesn’t really matter. All his stuff will remain, largely untouched, hidden away in the Manor and his room. 

Dick’s apartment feels like a haunted house. The air is stagnant, the lingering bitterness of their last interaction still tainting the atmosphere. His brother is gone, left for space for an indeterminate amount of time that Jason knows will actually amount to months. Jason has made him another pie to leave as an attempt at reconciliation. He feels even more nervous than the first time he’d stopped by the apartment with a pie, and Dick isn’t even here. 

Something on the counter catches his eye. It’s a prize from a box of cereal, a lightsaber spoon that attaches together and lights up in one of three colors. Collect them all for the real Star Wars breakfast experience. The ghost of a memory fills the silent kitchen, save for the hum of the refrigerator. 

(Jason pulls a brand new box of Fruit Loops from the cupboard and breathes a sigh of relief. Recently, Dick has been caving and going name brand for breakfast. Even better, there’s the promise of a prize hidden somewhere in the bag of Fruit Loops. He stands the box upright and shakes it until the prize falls out, protected in a little sealed plastic bag. 

He wiggles his fingers in delight and rips the thing open, extracting a red web shooter water squirter. It even has a wrist attachment for kids to be like the real deal. He fills it with water from the kitchen faucet and slips it on, the web shooter being mostly hidden by the sleeve of his hoodie. 

“Yo, Dick.” Jason whistles to catch his older brother’s attention. “Check it out. I’m Spider-Man. ‘With great power comes great responsibility,’” he quotes solemnly, displaying his hard-earned prize. 

Due to the possibility of Dick being a total child at heart and also a poor loser, he looks offended at Jason snatching the prize from the cereal box out from under his nose. He lunges. “Hey! I was saving that! You got the prize last time! I wanted that Star Wars lightsaber spoon! It was Nightwing blue!” 

Jason aims the web shooter at him and squeezes a steady stream of water straight into Dick’s open eyeball. “It’s in your kitchen drawer, genius.” He scoffs as Dick frantically rubs chlorinated tap water out of his eye. “Any way , it’s Jedi blue, which indicates the Jedi is more combat-focused–y’know, guardian. It’s not Nightwing blue. Also, you’re 21-years-old?” 

Dick puts Jason into a headlock and pulls him into his side with ease. “You can’t terrorize me in my own home.” 

Jason retorts by again squirting him in the eye with water from the web shooter. “I’m doing it right now.” 

“But not without repercussions,” Dick warns ominously, and then gives him the nastiest wet willy of his life. 

He feels the warm and slick disgustingness of saliva ooze into and out of his ear. Jason shrieks and writhes in his older brother’s hold, but Dick refuses to relent–firm but gentle. “This is torture!” Jason hollers. “This is inhumane!”

“This is also revenge for you spilling an entire cup of apple juice in the hall.” 

“Hey!” Jason struggles for naught. “You bumped into me! It’s not my fault! Also, it’s a sign that you need to replace this godawful shag carpeting. Otherwise you can deal with the apple juice stain that looks like Abraham Lincoln forever.” 

Dick clears his throat. “Four score and twenty years ago someone installed the shag carpeting that adds character to my apartment. That’s history, pal.” 

“ Eugh ,” Jason gags. “They say it’s hair that holds memories, Dick. Not carpet.” He pauses. “But…you may be right. I think this shag holds too much history. We should burn it.”

He manages to wiggle free and contort himself enough to totally empty the web shooter in the near vicinity of Dick’s jeans. Unfortunately, it leaves Dick looking more like he peed himself than anything. Jason howls with laughter and dances toward the apple juice Abraham Lincoln stain, scooping up the lightsaber spoon on his way, as his older brother chases after him.

“And this is my spoon! Property of Jason Todd! You gotta keep it where I can find it so I can use it to eat my cereal with whenever I come over.”)

There is an unswallowable lump in his throat as Jason reverently opens the freezer door and places the pie inside. It sits nicely, a last offering and gift left in an altar of freezer burn, atop a bag of burritos and an opened box of spring rolls. He closes the door and lets his fingers rest on the uneven finish of the textured plastic. A moment of silence for everything that was, and for what could have been, he supposes. 

Then, before it gets to be too much, he fishes a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. Jason leaves it on the table, right in the open, no way to miss it. It holds another sad attempt at reconciliation, but he finds that as much as he’s read over his life, words seem to fail him at vital moments. 

Dick, the note reads. 

I’m sorry. You were right. I shouldn’t have tried to tell you how to live your life. You were needed elsewhere. It’s fine. I get it. I’m not mad. I shouldn’t have been such an asshole.

Maybe I’ve never said this out loud, but I want you to know that I look up to you. I guess I just felt doomed, and you have this uncanny way of inspiring hope in people. I thought I needed some of that. (Do NOT tell Roy I said this. He will never let me live it down.) This is going to sound stupidly corny, but you’re my big brother, and I know that you’ll be there for me in the future, but that other people count on you too. It’s okay. The duality of man or whatever. Sorry I pushed.  

I left something for you in the freezer. It’s not much of an apology. You can even have the lightsaber spoon–my prized possession. Just don’t be mad at me forever. Truce? Come find me when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting. 

Ps. Don’t be so hard on yourself. I can hear you beating yourself up over that fight. I’ve already forgiven you. So don’t worry about it. 

He's signed it with his name and a ridiculous drawing of a domino mask.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jason takes a last look at the empty apartment and bids the ghost of his older brother goodbye one last time. 

Bruce’s home office is dark and untouched. He has already shed his civilian skin and slipped out for the night. Batman is likely prowling the rooftops somewhere, brooding, and Alfred is busy with something. It leaves the office open for nightly intruders. 

There are various items placed neatly on top of his father’s desk–pictures of Dick and Jason, one of Alfred, even a knickknack or two. Bruce’s laptop is there, shut, next to a stack of reports from Wayne Enterprises that he had apparently been perusing at some point recently. There’s also a half-used tablet of Post-Its and a pen, which he swipes as he rounds the desk. 

Jason stashes a baseball–the one with which he'd hit a homerun and secured Gotham’s first Junior League title–in a drawer in Bruce’s desk. Dick had really gone wild with his autograph requests and insisted that Jason also sign the baseball, that maybe it would sell for a ton of money on Ebay one day. Jason had rolled his eyes but acquiesced to the ridiculous request regardless, partially because it had fueled his ego at the time. 

He scrawls a note on one of the Post-Its. 

Dad, he begins, and it seems right. His handwriting is distinct. Bruce will know that it’s from him with all the randomly thrown-in uppercase letters. He has a certain scrawl that maybe only Damian has ever truly been able to copy. Jason chalks that up to his League training, like how he can perfectly mimic voices. 

Thanks for the hope. Thanks for believing in me, even if for a little while. Thank you for trying to make it better, in your own way. 

You’re a creature of logic and science. You’ll have to know what I am, Bruce. This is about you–what you are, and what I’ll be. So, I want you to know that I take that hope with me, and that belief. I know you care. I want you to know that I care too. 

No matter what happens, you’ll always be my dad. They say baseball is a metaphor for life. There are no time limits like other sports–no timed periods where the clock runs out. Like baseball, there are no artificial time limits in life. Sometimes there are circumstances that can cut a game short, and the same goes for life. I want you to know that even if my game ends, and someday it will, that I will die your son. If I’m playing shortstop, then you’re like my third baseman. You’re responsible for the hot corner of life, fielding the sharply hit challenges and crises with a rocket arm response and steady throw to extinguish the threat and save the day. You even taught me how to throw a ball in the first place. In baseball, as in life, all important things happen at home. 

Thanks for giving me a home. 

Ps. Hold onto this for me, will you? Dick claims it’ll be priceless someday or something. 

– Jason

He peels the note from the pad and sticks it awkwardly onto the baseball before closing the drawer. It will be there for Bruce even when he is not. His gaze strays from the handle to the pen and the remainder of the sticky notes still on the desk, and a thought formulates in his mind. 

Jason writes note after note, addressed to both Bruce and Dick, until he uses up the entire pad of Post-Its. They aren’t notes like the one he’d just written for Bruce, but they are notes to hide around the office, and Bruce and Dick’s respective rooms. Jason knows that one day Dick will return to stay at the Manor—not full time, but for long enough. So he will be the totally annoying younger brother that invades Dick’s privacy and hides notes all around his room, so that Dick might one day find them. He does the same for Bruce. They’re more like the types of notes mothers might write and put in their children’s lunch boxes, even though he’s not signed them xoxo, Jason. A way for him to say I’m thinking of you—are you thinking of me? The real me, and not the pseudo ghost of me that seems to haunt you both? I would know, I’ve seen him too. 

He recalls something that Bruce told him, once. As Alfred would say, who we really are can never be concealed by mere masks. And bitter as it may be, that’s one truth we must learn to face.

Come find me. Look for me. Look at me. Face the truth, look past your debt to human guile. You’ll have to know what I am, Bruce. You’ll have to know who I am. That’s where you’ll find me. I just want you to know who I am. 

It’s late at night when he clambers up the tree next to Drake Manor–one that leads right to Tim’s room. In the future, Tim might tell him stories of how he used to sneak in and out during his days as Robin when Jack Drake was home. Jason uses it now for a similar purpose: not to be detected. He raps lightly at the window and is not surprised when Tim shows, dressed in his pajamas but with a comic book in hand. 

Tim stares before opening the window. “Uh…Jason?” 

“Hey,” Jason returns his greeting with a wave. “Mind if I come in?” 

Tim stands aside to let him in through the window. He slips from the branch to the sill with ease. 

“I’m going on a trip,” he tells Tim abruptly, “for a little while. I uh, I don’t know when I’ll be back. But,” he pauses, thinking for a minute, “I will be back.” 

“Okay?” Tim says in response, like he’s asking a question. 

And what does Tim know about it all? Nothing. He knows that Jason is Robin and that Bruce is Batman. He knows vaguely that Bruce and Dick do not get along at this point in time, but doesn’t know why. Tim at almost thirteen hasn’t yet seen their knockdown dragout arguments that used to make Jason want to crawl into a hole in the ground just to hide from. 

“I think I fucked up,” he confesses anyway. “Look, Tim, sometimes you should listen to Bruce, and sometimes you shouldn’t. Sometimes he thinks that he knows what’s best, but that isn’t actually what’s best. Sometimes you’ll think you know best, but you’re wrong, too. Moral of the story is…I don’t know…don’t let the man get you down. Sometimes you gotta stick it to him, but also he’s not always wrong.” 

Jason feels hollow–like a child’s jack-o-lantern, gutted, everything important discarded as scrap. The viscera and life of him, carved out with little care and treated as nothing more than slop, tossed to the side and forgotten. Only the skin and rind left, true image disfigured, doomed to rot and collapse in on itself and fade away with the season. 

“I thought I could fix things,” Jason confesses. “I think I made things worse instead.” 

Tim looks like he’s bursting at the seams to say something, but isn’t quite sure how to start. Jason stonewalls him instead. Diversion, diversion, diversion. Life advice…he may not be so good at that. But he’s great when it comes to providing a distraction. Jason likes to talk. It’s not ego. It’s all a distraction. 

“Here,” Jason says, rummaging in his backpack. His heart is hammering all the way into his throat. He manages to speak around it. “I have something for you.” 

He pulls out a folded hoodie. It’s the White Zombie hoodie that he inherited from Dick. It will be oversized on Tim at almost thirteen, the bottom hem will barely dust the tops of his thighs, and the sleeves will hang loose at his sides. It still has the thumb holes that Dick cut into the sleeves, just more frayed and worn, in a way that has made it even more just right. 

Damian had once accused him of being the most emotional in the family (very funny, still, even now). Perhaps he’d still been correct. Perhaps Alfred and Bruce will look at Tim twice when he wears it around the Manor, and Jason knows it will never stop him. Instead of carelessly tossing the hoodie onto his bed, it will be a relic living outside the mausoleum made by his father. And, well, brothers gave each other hand-me-downs, right? 

Tim takes the hoodie in near reverence, brows knit together in contemplation. He seems to reach some sort of epiphany. “Jason,” he begins slowly, “you’re not…you’re not running away, are you?” 

“No,” Jason lies. Sort of lies. It might have been the truth once. Now it’s just what feels like marching toward what seems to be an inescapable and cruel destiny. “It’s just…family business. Happy birthday.” 

Tim makes a face. “It’s April? My birthday is like three months away.” 

“Yeah, well,” Jason huffs, “I’m giving you a gift. So, therefore, happy birthday or something.” 

He waves a hand, as if it’s some magic gesture that will make this all okay, that will make it all go away. “Be back before you know it and it’ll be like I was never gone at all.” Something that aches suspiciously like fondness twangs in his chest and has him smiling despite it all. He gives Tim a quick two-fingered salute. “Captain…you have the conn. I’ll see you around.” 

Tim stands in the window, frozen in time, the White Zombie hoodie clutched in his hands, and watches him leave. He does not know that Jason is off to meet his ruination. 

Maybe it will be different this time. 

Maybe it won’t. 

So it goes.

Chapter Text

The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre–
To be redeemed from fire by fire. 

Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire. 

– Little Gidding

xviii. they hocked a beating heart for a sturdy spine–

There are the vestiges of memories fraying at the edge of his consciousness. A sweet fix of a dream of a boy whose reality is too hopeless to be had, just out of reach. 

When Jason turned 21, Dick showed up at his safehouse in the middle of the night with a Dairy Queen ice cream cake and a reluctant Tim and Damian in tow. The cake had been in the quick process of melting in the summer heat, especially after precariously being left on a fire escape while Nightwing had stopped to take care of a robbery. The four of them had split the cake into enormous quarter pieces and eaten until they nearly made themselves sick. Dick prided himself on exactly how much trash he could fit into his body, but even he had looked a little ill after so many heaping helpings of DQ’s signature fudge and crunch center surrounded by their world famous vanilla and chocolate soft serve. 

Dick had proceeded to lead their younger brothers in a rousing chorus of happy birthday , which had been a bit grating on the ears. Tim could not sing for the life of him, even with enthusiasm (which he did not display that night) and Damian was purposefully singing off key. Dick, however, had been jubilant. Jason still wondered to this day if he had threatened Tim and Damian with some unknown consequence if they did not follow along. Probably not. Then again, Dick Grayson was a man capable of more than people gave him credit for, and that was really saying something. The whole thing had been utterly mortifying, and Tim had gotten some random guy’s blood on his couch (“Oh crap I didn’t even know that was there!”), while somehow also heartwarming at the same time. 

Jason repays him in kind in the past on Dick’s twenty-first birthday by showing up to his apartment with a Dairy Queen classic cake. March 20th, 2005 is a Sunday, with a high of 56 degrees Fahrenheit. The moon is waxing gibbous, hidden away behind rain clouds as light showers blanket the city of Bludhaven. Twenty-one years ago to date, Richard John Grayson had been born to John and Mary Grayson. He’d been a healthy little baby with bright blue eyes and dark, wispy curls, and when he’d wrapped his tiny little hand around a single one of his father’s fingers, John had been gone on him for good. Dick Grayson had been a mama’s boy through and through, however. She’d called him her little Robin, because he was always bobbin’ along. 

When Dick had wrapped a hand around Bruce’s own 11 or so years later, it had sealed both their fates as father and son forever. He would bring light to Bruce’s dark world and leave a gaping emptiness when he left. Bruce would go searching for something–or some one –to fill that void. Enter Jason, stage left. 

Jason tries to be cool about it when Dick answers the door. “I tried to get Bruce to come, but he started acting all shady and vague and was muttering things along the lines of ‘ don’t want to infringe on his sense of independence’ or something stupid. You know him.” He sniffs derisively. “So I figured, oh what the hell, more for us. We can just gorge ourselves on ice cream cake now and throw up on criminals later. I hear the Riddler is out, and personally, I think he makes a good target in all that green.” Jason clears his throat. “It is your birthday,” he delivers flatly and presents the cake. “You batter believe it.”

Dick rolls his eyes and steps aside to let his younger brother in. “That pun was terrible.” 

He retrieves two spoons from the kitchen drawer where he keeps his silverware and hands one to Jason. The two brothers take a seat at the table and Jason pops off the clear plastic lid to grant them access to chocolate-y vanilla goodness and stabilized whipped cream frosting. Dick and Jason both dig into the cake with fervor. 

“Now you know how everyone else feels when you make shitty puns.” 

“Impossible,” Dick waves a dismissive hand. “I’m witty and original. Everyone appreciates a good pun.” 

Ignoring him, Jason continues. “Congratulations,” he says dryly, around a mouthful of ice cream. “You’re a fully-fledged bird now. Barely legal. Robin has truly left the nest.” 

Ever the gracious older brother, Dick gives him a noogie. “Whatever. I haven’t been Robin for a long time now.” 

Jason rolls his eyes and waves his spoon. “It’s the spirit of Robin. You’ll always carry it with you in your heart and blah blah blah, insert a gushy heart guts line and sentimentality here.”

“Wow,” Dick coughs. “That’s so touching. Very profound. Thank you. I expect you to be making a birthday speech for Bruce in front of Gotham’s elite next year. Seriously. They’ll never know what hit them.” 

Jason prepares for mock fisticuffs. “Shut up, or I’ll be hitting you.” 

“Now, now,” his older brother waggles a finger. “There’s no need for violence. You wouldn’t hit the birthday boy, would you?” 

“Right.” Jason says. “Thank you for reminding me that you’re still four years shy of maturity and still a boy rather than a man.”  

Dick flicks a glob of ice cream at him, much to Jason’s loud protest. “Thank you for reminding me what a complete little snot you can be.” 

“Hey, watch it. Or else I’ll totally pick my nose and wipe my Gotham-air infested boogers on your couch. And anyway,” Jason points his spoon at Dick. “You’d miss me if I was gone.” 

“And where exactly would you be going?” Dick snorts. “Also, what are you? Five ?” 

He chips away at the crunch layer of his side of the cake. “They will be very crusty boogers and leave residue that you can’t scrape off. I’m so serious.” A pause, more charged than Dick could ever know. “I don’t know…somewhere. Not here. Maybe like college, or something.” 

Or dead and buried and risen from the grave right from under your noses and rotting whilst alive and then–

“Do you think Bruce is still mad?” Dick asks him, suddenly. 

Jason squints, trying to scoop up a proportionate bite of cake, frosting, and ice cream. “You’re going to have to be more specific if you want me to try and read daddy-o’s mind.” 

Dick looks uncharacteristically exposed in the soft yellow artificial lighting of his kitchen. “About…y’know…me not going to college.” 

Disregarding all table manners he’s ever learned both before living in Wayne Manor and under the strict eye and tutoring of Alfred, Jason shoves the bite in his mouth and scoffs. “Nah. Besides, this feels like a he who casts the first stone situation to me. He never got very far in college either.” He swallows. “Look, frankly, not everyone is cut out for college. It’s fine. If it means anything to you, I don’t think any less of you. I think you’re doing just fine. I’m speaking for dear old dad when I say this, but I’m sure he feels the same. I love him, I do, but he does tend to fail in big emotional moments.” 

Dick seems to consider the weight of these words, and does not find them wanting. He rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” 

Jason’s gaze wanders to the kitchen window, where he watches rivulets of water cascade down the split panes. It’s a peaceful sight–the drops racing down the glass, colliding with each other, forming larger running rivers. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead.” 

He’d had a host of dreams, once upon a time, back before he’d lost it all. Dreams of the highest caliber–of going to college, whatever Ivy League college he wanted, of really making something of himself. Once, Jason had wanted to be somebody, and to be a man that Bruce would be proud to call son. 

Jason turns back to his brother. “I just know that I want to be around. I want to be part of this family.” 

Instead of the lingering artificial sweetness of chocolate and vanilla, he tastes the sharp and metallic tang of blood. The reverie of a memory is broken. 

The strategy for playing the classic game Two Truths and a Lie should be to come up with three statements that all have approximately the same degree of plausibility. Could one spot the lie? Could Bruce? 

We never saw it coming; how could we have known? Jason is untrustworthy and never listens; he is a danger to himself and others because of his reckless behavior. This behavior is out of the ordinary for Jason, and it’s worrying. 

What is typical teenage behavior, really? In adolescence, teenagers go through a lot of physical changes (yay! Puberty 2: The Short-Lived Sequel!), social and emotional changes, and brain-based changes. Being a teenager is a complicated time–especially if you partake in vigilante extracurricular activities. Common themes found in every American home might be disrespect and rudeness, risk-taking, a desire for more privacy, possibly more interest in friends and less in family, blooming romantic feelings amongst peers, yada yada. Congratulations–these behaviors are all fairly typical. In fact, these behaviors are an important part of the journey to self-awareness, independence, and young adulthood. It’s received the stamp of scientific approval and everything. Pretty solid stuff, if you ask Jason. 

When Jason had gone through all this the first time around, he really had been just fifteen. He’d been fifteen with his whole life ahead of him, and mad at his dad. Bruce had benched him from the magic of being Robin, but hadn’t really properly communicated why. Maybe it wouldn’t have even mattered. Maybe Jason wouldn’t have wanted to listen. It was like the situation with Dick all over again–Bruce’s inability to properly communicate his concerns once more becoming apparent at the tipping point, and it had sent Jason over the edge. 

If one were to look up warning signs indicative of serious behavioral issues, one might find the following: constant escalation of arguments, violence at home, skipping school, getting into fights, run-ins with the law, rapids changes in personality, falling grades, experimenting with alcohol and/or drugs, and so on and so forth. When Jason had run away to find his mother at fifteen, he had liked chocolate cake, school (including skipping patrols once in a while to finish his homework), baseball, having tea with Alfred, reading, and making Bruce smile. Jason and Bruce had truthfully only had a handful of (typical) arguments before this incident, all run-of-the-mill things that seem inconsequential nowadays. The only fights he got into were a side effect of being Robin, and he didn’t skip school unless it was for a mission, and he worked hard to keep his grades up. He actively discouraged his peers from getting into drugs and the only thing close to constituting violence at home was his training with Bruce. Even then, they were never out to injure each other on purpose. 

Jason had plenty of trouble in his life, certainly, but he’d never let it define him. No one would have flagged his behavior because the warning signs just weren’t there. Maybe if Bruce had thought to have him attend counseling or something of the like instead of training him to be Robin, things might have been easier. Bruce did have a point–he never really got to process his parents’ deaths, or the fact that he’d been homeless at such a young age. As much as being Robin instilled him with a sense of magic, it also carried heavy trauma and exposure to sights and other sensory information that a child should never be exposed to. Fifteen is hard enough anyway, and with his normal life and nightlife overlapping, it’d been like being hit with an ocean front. Really, the convergence affects all of them, especially when two prevailing flows of life meet and interact. He’d read once that in meteorology, this causes a mass accumulation that eventually leads to a vertical movement and to the formation of clouds and precipitation. 

He’d discovered the body of a woman he’d sworn to help and then told them’s the breaks kid when her abuser had walked away without any real punishment, taunting him. Jason has always had a strong sense of justice instilled deep within him. Then his father, the man he both held in high esteem and loved dearly, hadn’t believed him. A few days of harder hits from his own fists and not being in the right headspace didn’t necessarily constitute condemnation. Bruce had, in his own way, been trying to save Jason. He recognizes that now, years later. His father also just hadn’t gotten to the heart of the situation and hadn’t completely understood the situation. This had only further irritated Jason, especially when he’d been pulled from active duty as Robin–something he loved, something given to him by Bruce and Dick. 

It was only a matter of time before a thunderstorm brewed in his own life. 

Jason had been fifteen and lost, searching for all the answers in his life that seemed to be missing, and chasing after a lead that made sense in his labyrinthine world. So, he’d left in search of his birth mother, a chance to find out something about himself that he didn’t know. Finding his mother had been a chance to discover who he really was. It had seemed so simple at the time. Fifteen is still so young. Jason didn’t even have a driver’s license. Fifteen is naivety, clumsy, eye rolling, thinking you know everything but also nothing simultaneously, dreams of freedom, crushes and awkward attempts at young romance, learning hard lessons in life, growing out of clothing, and shoulder shrugs. Fifteen is secretly wanting to push those adulthood years off because you don’t want to leave home, because you like hanging out with your family, because nothing will be the same after it’s gone. 

He’d only been fifteen. 

There, in that moment, unbeknownst to him, it had begun. A choice for Bruce: Jason or the Joker. See, Jason doesn’t know that the moment he’d met Bruce Wayne in that alleyway on that fateful night, it had both saved and condemned him at once. Perhaps, if he’d only been a little faster at getting that last tire off, or if he hadn’t been so greedy, then they would have been two ships passing the night. You see, it goes something like this: the only universe where Bruce and Jason seem to have a solid relationship without despair is the one where they never meet. Jason, in all his infinite knowledge of a life twice lived, cannot know this. There’s no way for him to know what lies outside his own experience unless he’s tasted and seen it himself. 

The concept that something exists beyond our own perceived reality is explored more in philosophy and speculative science. Bruce Wayne, man that he is, is a man of solid science. He likes the empirical. On the other hand, you have the philosophical idea known as solipsism–only one’s mind is sure to exist. This hot take is of the epistemological position and holds that knowledge of anything outside one’s own mind is unsure; the external and other minds cannot be known and might not exist outside the mind. Solipsism was first recorded by the Greek presocratic sophist, Gorgias, as quoted by the Roman sceptic Sextus Empiricus. He appears to have said the following: nothing exists. Even if something exists, nothing can be known about it. Even if something could be known about it, knowledge about it cannot be communicated to others. 

The first time that Jason had run away to find his birth mother at the age of fifteen, he simply left with a handful of credit cards. He’d planned to fund his Eat, Pray, Love tour on Bruce’s dime. He’d done just that, too. Now, he had left a farewell note. Disregarding the fact that his father was Batman and Jason was leaving a purposeful credit card trail all but daring Bruce to come after him, he wasn’t a total heathen and had been raised with manners. The note more or less had been left for Alfred, but he'd left one regardless. Bruce had accidentally run into Jason in Beirut, mainly because there weren’t many hiding places there. He hadn’t even really been looking for him at the time–rather, he’d been chasing the Joker. It was sheer coincidence that reunited Bruce and Jason, Batman and Robin. 

Well fuck Gorgias and all the others. 

Jason isn’t a figment of Bruce’s imagination. He isn’t some doll personality character that exists in a little girl’s fantasy world and can be packed away when playtime is over, tucked in a corner at home or sold at a yard sale in a dilapidated cardboard box. He exists, his impending future exists, and he knows about it, and if he knows about it, then Bruce can know about it. Jason will admit that communication isn’t necessarily his strong suit, but philosophy aside, there are practical decisions that can be made. 

This time, Jason leaves a note full of his intentions just in case. 

Come after me. Chase me. Choose me. 

Bruce will assert that he could tell Sheila was Jason’s mother right upon meeting her. Jason’s got his mother’s eyes, he’ll say. Eyes big and blue and full of diablerie, as if he knows a secret that you don’t. The type of eyes that draw you in, as if the person they belong to wishes to clue you in on their mystery. As soon as I saw her, I knew we’d hit paydirt, and will be transcribed forever in the Batman’s files. 

“I’ll stop back in a couple hours to find out what your plans are, Jason.” 

Bruce both had driven and will drive off, wondering if he’s lost another partner. Because he’s a predictable fool who doesn’t know how to say you’re my son, I don’t want to give you up, I don’t want you to leave. It happened once with Dick Grayson, then with Jason Todd, and with Timothy Drake–and…something-something about a broken record. 

Sheila will regale Jason with the tales of her misguided youth. I was a struggling med student when I met and fell in love with your father. Shortly after you were born I got in trouble, when an operation I was assisting got botched. The incident put an end to my medical career back in the States. Willis was supposed to join me, once I got settled in England. But your dad fell in love with a Catherine Johnson before I could send for him. Willis wrote to me about her, telling me that they had been married a few days earlier. I thought it best to let them raise you as their own. I had neither the funds for or any hope of winning custody of you in a legal battle. Besides, a custody fight would have been too rough on you. I finally accepted the fact that I’d probably never see you again. 

Jason almost wishes that her statement had been true. It would have been better for everyone involved if he’d never decided to come after her. Willis and Catherine truly had loved him and did what they could to provide for him in a city that seemed to take everything from them, poisoning them in the process. His parents had only been trying to get by in their own way, in whatever way they knew how. He doesn’t fault them for it. 

Truthfully speaking, Jason has many secrets, one of which is knowing exactly how this Middle Eastern tour will come to an end. If it were up to him, he never would have left the country. If it were up to him, he would have promptly informed Bruce that something foul was afoot in the Ethiopian refugee camp. Something insidious that poisoned everything it touched. Say Bruce, I just have this funny feeling that maybe something isn’t right here. Why don’t you stick around? See for yourself. 

Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave me. 

But it’s not up to Jason, not Jason at 21 anyway, and instead he wakes up on what he highly regards as one of the worst days of his life (lives?) in the history of ever. Batman’s words echo in his ears, a memory apparently unchanged despite his best efforts. A desperate father’s plea that had been heard, considered, and overruled in light of circumstances. Jason really did have the intention of listening to Bruce. He had. But then he’d seen Sheila in danger, and there’d been that bleeding heart all over again. 

He’d tried to help his mother, and she’d delivered him straight into the waiting arms of the devil. Fifteen and hopeful. Fifteen and damned. 

You stay here and keep an eye on that warehouse until I return. Take no action until I get back! I repeat: no action! Just for once, please listen to me, Jason! Don’t tangle with the Joker alone! Wait for me to get back, please! That madman’s just too dangerous for you to handle. Do you read me? 

“Come on now, birdboy!” The Joker mocks him, holding his limp body by a handful of his chest armor. “You’re not going to sleep on me already, are you? The party’s just gotten started!” 

Jason knows how this will end, knows he should just lie there and take it so the Joker will grow tired of him. Perhaps he already has grown tired of Robin getting in the way of Batman. But Jason is a fighter. He won’t stop until he knows it’s over. 

He reels back to life swinging, all 15-year-old fists and backlogged years of anger. “Shut the fuck up!” 

Joker staggers from the solid punch to the gut, but he’s never once played fair. One of his henchmen delivers an uppercut to Jason’s jaw that sends him hurtling to the ground. He follows it up with a steel-toed boot kick to the gut for good measure. The pain is familiar and has haunted his dreams for years. Jason cradles his stomach and grimaces. He knows well what is to come. 

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to do to Uncle Joker. ” Joker raises that crowbar, casting a horrifying shadow on the wall behind Jason. “You’ve been a bad boy. You must be punished ! Prepare yourself for a severe spanking, young man. But let me tell you right from the start–”

He brings the crowbar down on Jason’s back with a sickening crunch . “–This is going to hurt you a lot more than it does me. ” 

It leaves him buckling, gasping for breath that won’t come. Blood flies from his mouth and stains the concrete floor of the warehouse. Joker brings the crowbar down again and again and again without remorse, each hit somehow harder than the last. The man even breaks into a sweat from the workout, from the chore of beating a child to death. He swings the crowbar until he’s half soaked with the blood of a 15-year-old boy. It doesn’t bother him much. 

Jason feels his bones splinter and shatter, feels his muscles and tendons tenderized into limp pulp. Blood runs like water from his broken body, from his burst vessels, from his mouth and head wound. He chokes on it, is blinded by it, betrayed by his own body, by the very thing that keeps him alive. A crowbar is identified as a sharp force object, and when wielded with a tremendous amount of force, leaves something known as chop injuries. These can be considered a combination of sharp and blunt force trauma. Jason is riddled with marginal abrasions and contusions, and even lacerations. This does not even cover the bone fractures. An autopsy, if Bruce has chosen or chooses to have one conducted, would reveal that he had few defensive wounds. Really, he’d only been able to get that one hit in. But Bruce won’t go for an autopsy, and Jason’s death will be ruled an accident, and only Bruce and those who read his files will know how Jason suffered at the hands of a deranged villain. Joker hits and hits until Jason is unmoving, until he’s tired himself out from the strain. Jason is left lying face down in a growing pool of his own blood, unconscious, and assumed dead by all in the room. 

He’s only ever been able to guess about what transpired after he falls unconscious, but against the odds, he wakes again in the warehouse for a second time. That’s the thing about Jason–he’s hard to kill. He doesn’t like to die. Jason will keep coming back until he can’t anymore. 

“No,” Sheila is wailing. “It can’t end like this.” 

From his peripheral, he can see her tied to a support beam. Predictable. Jason raises himself on fractured arms, everything broken inside his body shifting together in one excruciating go. It makes him so nauseous that he nearly passes out again and lets death take him. 

Sheila gasps. “ JASON ?! You’re still alive?!” 

One of his eyes is swollen shut, but he grits his teeth and turns to look at her. 

2:04. 

“The bomb, Jason!” Sheila urges. “Deactivate it!” 

Painstakingly, he begins to drag himself toward her. His legs are useless, and he musters barely enough movement to push himself forward. His fingers curl painfully into the leather of his gloves as he pulls himself across the rough floor of the warehouse, leaving a smeared trail of blood behind him. More proof that he was here, that he tried his best, that it was never good enough. 

Every breath is a chore and sends a sharp ache through him. He’s read the report that Bruce has on the events of his day. He knows the extent of his injuries. “In no shape…to handle…that…” 

1:35. 

“Gotta…get you…out of here…” He heaves. 

Because he was able to change so much. He’d been able to save Rhonda, save Gloria, even save fucking Jose Garzonas. Maybe there’d be some way she could get out this time. 

Jason manages to haul himself upright so that he can reach the ropes. Sheila watches him, horror clear as day in her expression. “I’ll…save you…mom…” 

It takes him what feels like an eternity, but he’s able to untie her. It’s all he can handle. Jason collapses to the ground, completely spent. 

Fifty-seven seconds left on the clock. 

He jabs a thumb at the door as his eyes slip shut. “You’re free…run for it.” 

43. 

When he doesn’t hear footsteps fleeing the scene, he stirs. 

39. 

“Go,” he urges, more blood gurgling than voice. 

23. 

Sheila shakes the ropes off and leans over him. With a gentleness he’d only experienced once from her, she lifts him from the broken heap he’s fallen into. “Come on,” she says gently. “Let me help you. We’ll both get out of here together.” 

She all but has to drag him across the warehouse. Jason just hangs there, unable to even lift his head. “We’re almost there,” she informs him kindly. 

Sheila props him carefully against a crate. “Stay here while I get the door.” 

It’s too late. It’s always too late. Jason, the man that he’s always been, just accepts it. He will lay there and take it. It’s what he’s always done. 

He hears the telltale rattling of the knob and Sheila’s horrified cry. “The door ! It’s locked!” 

Suddenly, she’s thrown backwards as Batman bursts through the door and doesn’t stop. Now this is new. 

11. 

“ROBIN!” Batman screams, and it tears through him like some sort of violence. 

10. 

Jason lays there, helpless, spent. “I’m…sorry.” 

6. 

Batman scoops him up, as gently as he can, despite Jason’s pained whine. “Hold on!” 

He makes for the door, but there’s no time left on the clock. His foot is barely out of the threshold when the bomb goes off. Batman takes the brunt of the blast, cradling Jason in his arms as the warehouse blows behind them. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears, then nothing. 

Eventually, Jason stirs. “Batman?” 

Funny. He’d always theorized that maybe he would have survived his injuries, if not for the explosion. Seems as though he’d been onto something there. When Bruce doesn’t respond, Jason musters everything left within himself to prop his body up. He is beyond horrified and what he finds. 

“Batman!”

He rolls Bruce over and rips away the remainder of his cowl. There is a horrific third degree burn winding up Bruce’s left side, cradling his jaw and reaching up under his eye, high on his cheekbone. The burn site is totally charred, furious and red, parts meant to be hidden away exposed to the night air. The stench of burnt flesh permeates the air and makes Jason’s stomach roil in protest. It is rancid, rotting, greasy–the smell of burning flesh smells like nothing else in comparison. It coats the inside of Jason’s nose and he thinks that he may never be able to get it out. His father’s body is wrecked, and Jason doesn’t know how to put him back together again. 

“Batman! Bruce !” He begs, tears already welling in his eyes. They sting more than they bring any sort of relief. 

Here it is, a vision relived, in the tangible and torrefied flesh. 

Batman is nothing but gruesome charred flesh, black and hot and burning. His cape billows behind him, more fire than material, and only the pointed ears of his cowl remain. Batman’s face is a blackened skull, jaw working haphazardly as tendons and sinew sizzle and melt off like bacon fat on a grill. The stench of burning flesh makes Jason’s stomach curdle. His father continues to stagger toward him, his typical Batman growl nothing but a shredded, agonizing wail . 

Batman wavers before his eyes, caught between a nightmare of calcine flesh and bleached bones and bullet holes seeping fatal amounts of blood over the floor. The red ichor splatters to the ground in great drops, and the room echoes with a sickening schlop, schlop, schlop. Jason’s eyes water with tears, both from the fetor of decay and scorched flesh, and the sight before him . 

“Jason,” Bruce garbles brokenly, breaking him from Scarecrow’s vision. 

He doesn’t need the reminder. He’s living it. Jason has failed him once again. 

Jason’s hands flit uselessly about, bruises mottling his flesh as his broken body already begins to swell, before he finally finds the beacon in Batman’s utility belt. “I’m so sorry. Don’t–don’t try to talk. Look, I can call for help.” 

“Jason,” his father coughs, turning his head to the side as he hacks up alarming spatters of blood–that sickening schlop, schlop, schlop. The ichor stains Jason’s skin and waters the dry dirt. 

“No time for that. Listen. Promise me. You won’t kill Joker for killing me.” Bruce painstakingly raises a hand to cup Jason’s cheek. “Protecting Gotham…helping others…healed me. I want that for you…because I love you, son. I know the anger, the pain you have inside. Killing him won’t end that pain. You have to be strong. Use this pain to be strong, son. For your family…Barbara and Dick.”

Jason shakes, grabs onto his father and doesn’t let go, as if he’s a lifeline that could tether him to this mortal plane. “ Bruce .” 

Don’t do this to me. Not again. Don’t leave me again. I can’t take it. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It should have been me. It was supposed to be me. 

Bruce coughs once more, blood running freely. “Promise you’ll be strong.” 

“I–” He stutters, the words catching in his throat. 

Jason never gets to promise him anything. Bruce chokes on an inhale and then dies in his arms with a rattling gasp that will feature in his nightmares forever. 

It’s all his fault. 

It’s all his fault. 

Bruce is dead again, not lost in the timestream, but lost to the past, lost to the future. He’s dead because of Jason. It should be Jason lying there, again and again and again. Everything begins to fall apart around him as the warehouse burns to nothing. 

There is an ache between his fifth and sixth ribs, acid hot and cutting to the bone. His hands shake. Grief creeps upon him again, like an old acquaintance, but when he faces it, it’s just love wrapped in a heavy winter coat that blankets him. If grief is just love persevering, if it’s just love with nowhere to go, and if Jason is full of love for his father, what then? It cuts through his heart like an unsettled score, and he’s never liked to leave fights unfinished. Fear sinks into his skin and rots his veins, turning his blood to thick sludge. What is loss? Guilt, suffering, anguish, despair, sorrow, anger, denial, terror–the list goes on. Loss is like a thesaurus inside you, a living nightmare you can’t wake up from. It’s the feeling of being stuck in time while everyone passes you by, perfectly preserved in a snapshot of hell on earth. Grief is like a wildfire licking up his ribs and culminating in his throat. It eats up all his air. It burns as he screams, raw and ragged. It is the feeling of being buried alive without any dirt over you. 

Jason would know. He’d goddamned know. 

The burning in his side is a piece of shrapnel lodged there; once, where Bruce had touched him so lightly but it’d felt like a punch all the years ago, all those years now that would never be. I’d do it again. Again and again and again. Jason is going to be sick. Bruce stares at him, blue eyes unseeing. Jason thinks the sight will haunt him for the rest of his miserable fucking life. 

Perhaps life is just a game that Jason is destined to lose. 

Trembling, he wraps himself around the cooling corpse of Bruce Wayne. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Dad. Dad, come back. Don't go. ” 

Sometimes, in the past, his grief has turned to anger, and that anger to breaking things. 

By God, Jason breaks good and hard.

Chapter Text

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years-
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres-
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate,
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate - but there is no competition -
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

— East Coker

xix: the song remains the same— 

If there is one thing to be said about his life, it’s that if he starts seeing his 15-year-old-self post-Ethiopia, things are not going well. Really, if he's going to be honest, they’re hardly ever going well. But this is a whole other level of rock bottom. Maybe he’s even scraped it, found a weak spot, and dug deeper. How many hits does it take to get to the center of the earth and complete despair? Jason thinks he may have just found out. 

So there he is, in the corner of his eye, fifteen and looking nothing like he’s been nearly beaten to death and then blown up. The boy is almost sprite-like, a near celestial balm in the midst of hell. Jason can tell just by looking at him that there’s goodness about him, and he feels an old ache in his chest like he’s seeing a long-lost friend. The teenage hallucination of him visibly brightens and waves when Jason notices him. That’s a new one. 

“I’ve been waiting for you!” The hallucination says, in his teenage voice, hopeful and full of once-squashed optimism. 

Completely disregarding his injuries, Jason throws his hands in the air. “We did it!” He cries, voice rough with no victory and no conviction. “We survived! No more asking why Bruce didn’t save us! Take a look! See what happens when we get what we goddamned want! Is this what you wanted?!” 

“I’m not here for that,” the hallucination replies gently, taking his furious grief in stride. “I’m here to see you—to talk about your life. See a man about a dog. ” 

Jason doesn’t really know what to do with all that, so instead he says, “What? Am I having an Ebenezer Scrooge moment or something? Does it look like fucking Christmas to you?” 

The younger version of him looks unimpressed. “Do you hear rattling chains?” 

He scowls at the snark, his own spirit of being reflected back at him. “No.” 

That being said, Jason watches the younger version of himself with a keen gaze. The apparition is strange, almost flickering in the dying light of a day. As he watches, the boy figure, fifteen and whole in what was light one instant, at another time is dark, so the figure itself fluctuates in its distinctness: being now a boy with a broken body, a casualty scene out of a war film: of which dissolving parts, no outline is visible in the terrible twilight wherein they melt away. And in the very wonder of this, it–or he–would be itself again; distinct and clear as ever. 

“What do you want?” Jason asks, miserable at the sight. 

The apparition of himself leans against a piece of jagged concrete and rebar. “Welfare check! Do you need assistance during this time of emergency? Is there anything I can do for you at this time?” 

“Yeah,” Jason grunts. “Go the fuck away.” 

“Ugh, rude.” The figure flickers again. Broken, whole, beaten, whole. He shrugs. “You broke it, man. I don’t know how else to say it.” 

“You’re not real,” Jason says, in an attempt to get the hallucination to go away. “I’m seeing things.”

Use context clues and your environment to recognize that what you are “seeing” isn’t real. It’s a hallucination, a false perception. It’s not real. Avert your attention away from it. Tell it to go away and otherwise do not engage with it. Think, Jason. Bruce is dead in his arms. That’s very real. But the weird flickering mirror reflection of himself is totally not real. His mind is playing tricks on him but he’s still based in terrible reality. It’s just an auditory and visual hallucination. Nothing new that he hasn’t seen before, which sucks, but nothing he can’t handle. 

This seems to greatly offend 15-year-old him. Or whatever it is he’s seeing. “Uh, excuse you. I am totally real. I’m you.” 

He closes his eyes and counts backwards from 10. He thinks of box brownies that Roy once burned to charcoal. Jason opens his eyes and sees himself looking back, arms crossed, brows raised, a product of fruitless endeavors. “Usually when I see you, you’re not…like this.” 

“That must be fake me, then.” The figure spreads his arms in a get a load of this gesture. “Now you get the real deal. I’m you. You’re me. I’m everything you want to be and everything you’ll never be again. I’m like, the ghost of your innocence incarnate or something. I don’t know, man. I’m fifteen. I don’t know the secrets of the universe. Think of me as like a Magic 8 Ball crafted from the parts of you left behind. I just know the universe doesn’t know what to do with you. You keep breaking things. ‘ Without a doubt ,’ in fact.”

Jason looks down at Bruce’s blood coating his hands. He feels older than his years. “I’ve really lost it this time,” he mutters. “The ghost of my dead self is talking to me and I didn’t even die. Displaced in time and now this fuckin’ mess.” He clears his throat. Might as well get this over with. “So you’re me? You stuck here, or something?” 

His 15-year-old self nods sagely. “All dogs go to heaven, but some part of their spirit remains.” 

Jason stares, unsure of exactly what that means. “I’m not a good person. I won’t see the pearly gates, or whatever, if they even exist.”

For whatever reason, that seems to amuse the other, ghostly version of him. He waves a dismissive hand. “Good, bad, that’s all subjective. Just because someone thinks that they have the moral high ground doesn’t make them righteous. We’re not gods. We make mistakes. It’s the course of life, and don’t let anyone tell you differently!” 

There’s a wide smile on his face, uninhibited and full of radiant joy. It starkly contrasts the scene they’re entrenched in. “Look—the way I see it, life is a long road of choices. Everyone makes mistakes. No one is truly good , not even Bruce. There are a lot of evil people in the world who make evil choices every day. You’re not one of them, Jason. You’re not beyond redemption. I think it’s been there for you all along, and you just didn’t know what to do with it. That’s okay. You don’t have to know everything. All you can do is try your best.” 

Jason scoffs and lets the words sink into his skin like a heavy summer humidity. “That’s a very simplistic outlook on life.”

“What can I say? I’m a minimalist.” The other, younger, more ghostly Jason tosses his cape in a show of grandeur. “Are you gonna look at me and tell me I’m wrong? You died in this warehouse once, and part of you–me–stayed dead. But that doesn’t mean all that goodness in you died either.” He taps Jason’s chest, and it feels real. “It’s always been here. It’s always been you. It’s just…maybe some of the choices you’ve made along the way didn’t reflect it.” 

“You know,” the missing part of him whispers conspiratorially. “Love is a choice, too. People like to say it just comes naturally, but loving someone can be hard work. Sometimes you have to wake up in the morning and decide if you’re going to love someone that day, even if you loved them the day before. Not like it all goes away overnight, but sometimes people can be hard to love, even if you’ve loved them all your life.” 

When Jason doesn’t say anything, his other self elbows him. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts, he realizes suddenly, when everything should be hurting. He feels like he’s been in the desert a thousand days without water. “Nice pep talk.” 

The other him drops down beside him. “Your family has let you down continuously. Yet, you hang around. You chose to change things for their benefit, for their betterment. You’ve made sacrifices which may forever go unrecognized. They won’t even realize the magnitude of what you’ve done. So why did you do it, Jason?” 

“It’s—“ Jason halts, the truth congealing in his throat like blood in a wound. “You know why.” 

“You can say it’s because you love them, y’know. It’s a good thing to say. In fact, all of you would probably benefit if you said it more. ” 

“Communication was never our greatest strong suit,” Jason muses. “Not when it comes to interpersonal relationships. You should know that. News at fucking eleven.”

“Don’t I ever,” the other him rolls his eyes. “You wear a thin disguise, if you hadn’t noticed. Not the Red Hood schtick, either. I know you better than you think I do because I am you. You’re just hiding from yourself. It’s just…you can’t hide from the truth, because the truth is all there is. But…you’ve attempted to change that for yourself.” 

Jason hesitates. “How will I know if what I’ve done was enough? What if I changed nothing?” He looks down at Bruce, trying to picture him as simply sleeping instead of as a cooling corpse. “Aside from the obvious.” 

His other self ponders this and sighs, weighted and old–beyond fifteen years. “You can’t control what other people do. Not really. You can try, but that just tends to make things worse. Their decisions aren’t your responsibility.” 

“You changed things, and you’ve seen the effects of those changes so far. Right now, the past and present you know are confluent. Your consciousness was sent back in time to your previous body. Neat trick, by the way. You gotta teach me that one. No cupboards required for this headtrip, y’know? Not everybody can do that. I think it tears the normal person apart. But I digress.” 

The missing part of him drops his jaw into his palm, unbothered, as if this is an everyday occurrence for him. “You’ve gone back into the past and changed the future, or something to that degree. The timeline that you’ve altered will sort of snap to its changed form when…well, whenever. You’ve made changes, and other people in your life have also made changes because of those changes, even though those have been out of your hands. My personal running theory is that the timeline will snap when your time traveling session ends. However that happens. I’m kinda murky on that point.” 

“The original course of time may be immutable, but!” He lazily waves a finger around with a smile. “As you’ve seen, history can be altered. Of course, we don’t know the long-term effects. The world as you know it will change. As to what degree, it’s hard to say. The future is never truly set.” 

Jason sits there and lets Bruce’s blood soak cold into his uniform. It chills him straight to the bone. “How do I know when I’ll wake up again? If I’ll wake up again?”

“Mmm,” hisself flickers and hums, “‘ cannot predict now .’ This part is all you. You wished for more time, and you got it. You may continue to get it. Who can say? It’s a mad world where we’re both learning temporal lessons. Maybe you can school Tim on it one day. Think of it this way: you’ve been given a second chance, and you did your best with what you had. Your years were not wasted. They never were. ‘ Rise, and walk with me !’” 

Despite his words, the other him doesn’t get up. “You wield the All Blades. You were chosen to restore balance. It’s a lot of mystical mumbo jumbo that I don’t get. Being Robin didn’t give you magic. You’ve been magic all along. I think you just tapped into it without knowing when Bruce died–probably to restore balance or something, maybe. You bent time enough that part of you unknowingly went back. But this is like, a once-in-a-lifetime sort of thing.” 

“Bruce has died before. This isn’t the first time,” Jason helpfully points out, because it’s the truth. 

He receives finger guns from broken fingers in return. “I don’t know how to frontload you with the specifics because, like I said, this was all you. Something about this time was different. I don’t know. I’m not that resourceful in my divination. I only know as much as you know. I’m not telling you anything new, per se.” 

Jason finally finds it in himself to close Bruce’s eyes. He does so gently and with great care. “And what about you? You said you were here to talk to me. What do you get out of it?” 

The missing part of himself tucks his legs into his chest and turns his gaze toward the handful of stars in the sky. “I’ve been looking for peace. I think you’ve been searching for the same thing, too. Thought we could help each other.” 

“I want closure.” Jason admits. “Or at least, I thought I did. I thought I needed it to move on.” 

He looks thoughtful. “I think closure can be helpful, sure. It’s like the emotional full stop at the end of something. Without it, we can get stuck in a psychological loop of the past. But it’s not an absolute requirement to move on. It provides us with a sense of finality, but…it’s not always attainable. I think that there’s no use in waiting around for something that you know, deep down, you’re never going to get.”

“Or,” hisself pauses, “maybe…closure, if it exists at all, if it is indeed attainable, cannot always come from the person who hurt you. Maybe it never does. Nothing anyone says can undo your pain or justify your suffering. No explanation will ever be enough. It might leave you with even more questions. Sometimes when we spend our lives chasing something, it only hurts us more in the end.” 

They sit in silence with the weight of the words hanging between them. His other self toes some rubble. “He comes for you. Bruce comes for you. You were never his emotional afterthought. He just thought that he knew what you wanted, and that made him too late.” He gives a long-suffering, sentimental sigh. “You know how he is.” 

Jason says nothing, so the wavering and whole reflection of himself continues. “You held onto the past out of resentment and unfulfilled expectations. You thought that he was a coward when it came down to the wire, that he wouldn’t fight for you. You wanted something that he could never give you without destroying himself. Even then, would it really ease the pain? The Joker’s death at Bruce’s hand won’t erase what he’s done. Revenge is an easy hunger, and you were starving for it. It was never going to bring you the peace you truly wanted. It might have brought you temporary satisfaction, but it wouldn’t have brought you true closure. Revenge isn’t justice–it’s personal retaliation. Healing comes from moving forward, not from making a point.” 

His other self picks up a handful of bloodied dirt and lets it fall through gloved fingers. “Death itself could not keep you. What the Joker did to you, not all of it stuck. He can’t control you now unless you let him. It happened. You endured terrible things. You didn’t deserve it and you are still dealing with the aftereffects. Who wins a rigged game? Who gets to feel the glory? Has the Joker been held accountable? Not in the way he should be. That’s the basis of the injustice you experience and grieve. You’ve never blamed Bruce for not saving you. It’s always been about letting the Joker walk. ‘ These are the shadows of things that have been. That they are what they are’ ...do not blame yourself.” 

His other self, that flickering reflection with kind eyes, smiles softly. “So…I’ll ask again. How do you win a rigged game?” 

Jason swallows. His throat feels dry. “You stop playing.” 

“‘ Signs point to yes .’ The Joker automatically loses because he needs you to play. I think you get the last laugh there. You’re free, Jason. That is your justice.” 

A stillness settles over the smoldering remnants of the warehouse. Jason watches his other self flicker–burned, whole and young, wartorn and waning, whole again–as he scans the scene around them. Then, in the blink of an eye, caught in the last breath of dying light of the setting sun, a visage of himself at 21-years-old. It’s nothing more than a quick slip of a phantom, a brush of shadow, but it’s there. Suddenly, the figure is fifteen again and looking right at him. 

There’s something rueful about the expression on his face. “The end is certain, but we often never see it coming. The future is uncertain, but we think that we can predict it. Isn’t that a bitch?” He sighs and pays no mind to the sudden charred skin of his side. “You were born under a bad sign with a blue moon in your eyes.” 

Jason stares, but he does not elaborate. Instead, he becomes a carbon copy of Jason himself, down to the swollen eye and all. “You have your known knowns, your known unknowns, and your unknown unknowns. Then, there’s the usual business to take care of.” 

“The usual business?” 

One last shimmer in the soft twilight, back to the spotless boy, the bold and bright Robin. “Dying, of course. Time ebbs and flows. You’ve dipped your finger in and created a ripple effect across time. Your touch will in turn touch others, though we don’t exactly know how. One thing is certain, and one thing remains the same. Someone must die here. It can be you, or it can be Bruce. Only one of you comes out of this alive. It’s a concrete truth of the universe. It’s something that not even you can change.” There’s a bittersweet smile on his face. “But…I can give you another chance. Grief makes us do funny things, I think. It makes us human, but it can also be used in other ways. At least, you can use it in other ways. You’re cool like that.” 

“‘ Cool like that ,’” Jason repeats under his breath, bewildered. “Since when was I some philosopher? Are you that part of me, too?” 

The other him shrugs, flickering again. There’s blood running down into his eyes, but he doesn’t even flinch. “Dunno. Guess you always had it in you. Who woulda thought?” 

“Another chance,” Jason drags the words out and lets them sit bitter on his tongue. “To save Bruce?” 

A shrug. “That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? You saving Bruce? You didn’t really have a choice about what happened before. It just happened. Maybe it was moments in time that you subconsciously wished to return to. Maybe it was your way of trying to make things right. Maybe it was simply wanting more time with the family you both had and didn’t in the wake of what you’d lost. ‘ Reply hazy, ask again .’ Or don’t. I don’t really know. But I know this now–if you die here, Bruce will live. It’s up to you. You can continue on with this change and see how the future plays out, or you can return to what you know–with all the changes you’ve already made, saved and set into motion.”

“I don’t want to die again,” Jason says quietly. “But I don’t want Bruce to die. I can’t–” he swallows. Sucks in a breath. “I can’t. There are people waiting for him–waiting on him.” 

His other self shuffles closer. “It’s not selfish, you know. To not want to die. Hardly anybody truly does.” 

Jason’s throat feels cracked and aching. “I’d do it again,” he croaks. “Protecting Gotham, helping others, being there–I want that for him. He can’t do that if…well…because of me.” 

Silence hangs between them like a heavy curtain. Despite feeling no other real physical symptoms, that ache between his fifth and sixth ribs is still there. Jason cannot ignore it. 

“Oh, what the hell,” he relents. “Third time’s the charm, or something like that. Death? Whatever.” Jason huffs, trying to feign bravery that he doesn’t really feel. “Everything’s easier the second time around, right? I mean, I already know what it’s like.” 

Time. He needs more time. Even five minutes more. If he’d had five minutes more, he could have died like he was supposed to and spared Bruce’s life. Five more minutes, dad, he’d begged through his teenage years until the ripe age of fifteen. Fifteen, and then full stop. Please dad, just five more minutes. 

"Saw the man but not the dog." He flicks the other him in the forehead, though there’s no real force behind it. “‘ Haunt me no longer .’” 

Jason receives an eye roll in return. It truly is like looking in the mirror. “‘ A small matter .’ Tell me one thing though. What do you think will happen? You know, after.” 

“‘ Ask again later ,’” Jason replies, and then he knows nothing. 

Truthfully speaking, Jason has many secrets, one of which is knowing exactly how this Middle Eastern tour will come to an end–or could end, since there are different options. If it were up to him, he never would have left the country. If it were up to him, he would have promptly informed Bruce that something foul was afoot in the Ethiopian refugee camp. Something insidious that poisoned everything it touched. Say Bruce, I just have this funny feeling that maybe something isn’t right here. Why don’t you stick around? See for yourself. 

Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave me. 

But it’s not up to Jason, not Jason at 21 anyway, and instead he wakes up on what he highly regards as one of the worst days of his life (lives?) in the history of ever for the third time. Batman’s words echo in his ears, a memory apparently unchanged despite his best efforts. A desperate father’s plea that had been heard, considered, and overruled in light of circumstances thrice over. Jason really did have the intention of listening to Bruce. He had. But then he’d seen Sheila in danger, and there’d been that bleeding heart all over again. Thrice now, apparently, because he was always going to be this way, as it were. 

He’d tried to help his mother, and she’d delivered him straight into the waiting arms of the devil. Fifteen and hopeful. Fifteen and foolish. Fifteen and damned. Fifteen and forever stuck. 

You stay here and keep an eye on that warehouse until I return. Take no action until I get back! I repeat: no action! Just for once, please listen to me, Jason! Don’t tangle with the Joker alone! Wait for me to get back, please! That madman’s just too dangerous for you to handle. Do you read me? 

“Come on now, birdboy!” The Joker mocks him, holding his limp body by a handful of his chest armor. “You’re not going to sleep on me already, are you? The party’s just gotten started!” 

Jason knows how this will end, knows he should just lie there and take it so the Joker will grow tired of him. Perhaps he already has grown tired of Robin getting in the way of Batman. But Jason is a fighter. He won’t stop until he knows it’s over. It’s never over, but it will be. 

He reels back to life swinging, all 15-year-old fists and throwing the punch just for the hell of it. And because it does make him feel slightly better, despite it all. “Shut the fuck up!” 

Joker staggers from the solid punch to the gut, but he’s never once played fair. One of his henchmen delivers an uppercut to Jason’s jaw that sends him hurtling to the ground. He follows it up with a steel-toed boot kick to the gut for good measure. The pain is familiar and has haunted his dreams for years. Jason cradles his stomach and grimaces. He knows well what is to come. He knows well that he cannot escape it, because one is stuck with carrying the certainties of the universe sometimes. 

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to do to Uncle Joker. ” Joker raises that crowbar, casting a horrifying shadow on the wall behind Jason. “You’ve been a bad boy. You must be punished ! Prepare yourself for a severe spanking, young man. But let me tell you right from the start–”

He brings the crowbar down on Jason’s back with a sickening crunch . “–This is going to hurt you a lot more than it does me. ” 

It leaves him buckling, gasping for breath that won’t come. Blood flies from his mouth and stains the concrete floor of the warehouse. Joker brings the crowbar down again and again and again without remorse, each hit somehow harder than the last. The man even breaks into a sweat from the workout, from the chore of beating a child to death. He swings the crowbar until he’s half soaked with the blood of a 15-year-old boy. It doesn’t bother him much. 

Jason feels his bones splinter and shatter, feels his muscles and tendons tenderized into limp pulp. Blood runs like water from his broken body, from his burst vessels, from his mouth and head wound. He chokes on it, is blinded by it, betrayed by his own body, by the very thing that keeps him alive. A crowbar is identified as a sharp force object, and when wielded with a tremendous amount of force, leaves something known as chop injuries. These can be considered a combination of sharp and blunt force trauma. Jason is riddled with marginal abrasions and contusions, and even lacerations. This does not even cover the bone fractures. An autopsy, if Bruce has chosen or chooses to have one conducted, would reveal that he had few defensive wounds. Really, he’d only been able to get that one hit in. But Bruce won’t go for an autopsy, and Jason’s death will be ruled an accident, and only Bruce and those who read his files will know how Jason suffered at the hands of a deranged villain. Joker hits and hits until Jason is unmoving, until he’s tired himself out from the strain. Jason is left lying face down in a growing pool of his own blood, unconscious, and assumed dead by all in the room. He isn’t. He never is. Not yet. One must never count him out until it’s over, and the end has not come yet. 

He’s only ever been able to guess about what transpired after he falls unconscious, but against the odds, he wakes again in the warehouse for a third time. That’s the thing about Jason–he’s hard to kill. He doesn’t like to die. Jason will keep coming back until he can’t anymore. Maybe this will be the time. 

“No,” Sheila is wailing. “It can’t end like this.” 

From his peripheral, he can see her tied to a support beam. Predictable. The sight itself is familiar. Jason raises himself on fractured arms, everything broken inside his body shifting together in one excruciating go. It makes him so nauseous that he nearly passes out again, despite knowing that death will not claim him yet.

Sheila gasps. “ JASON ?! You’re still alive?!” 

One of his eyes is swollen shut, but he grits his teeth and turns to look at her. He doesn’t need to look at the timer on the bomb. He already knows what it says. 

2:04. 

“The bomb, Jason!” Sheila urges. “Deactivate it!” 

Painstakingly, he begins to drag himself toward her. His legs are useless, and he musters barely enough movement to push himself forward. His fingers curl painfully into the leather of his gloves as he pulls himself across the rough floor of the warehouse, leaving a smeared trail of blood behind him. More proof that he was here, that he tried his best, that it was never good enough. Three strikes and he’s out. 

Every breath is a chore and sends a sharp ache through him. He’s read the report that Bruce has on the events of his day. He knows the extent of his injuries. He’s lived them now, three times over. “In no shape…to handle…that…” 

1:35. 

“Gotta…get you…out of here…” He heaves. 

Because he was able to change so much. He’d been able to save Rhonda, save Gloria, even save fucking Jose Garzonas. Because he’d gone back again and again. Maybe there’d be some way she could get out this time. 

Jason manages to haul himself upright so that he can reach the ropes. Sheila watches him, horror clear as day in her expression. “I’ll…save you…mom…” 

It takes him what feels like an eternity and a day, but he’s able to untie her. It’s all he can handle. Jason collapses to the ground, completely spent. He just wants it to be over. 

Fifty-seven seconds left on the clock. 

He jabs a thumb at the door as his eyes slip shut. “You’re free…run for it.” 

43. 

When he doesn’t hear footsteps fleeing the scene, he stirs. 

29. 

“Go,” he urges, more blood gurgling than voice. “ Go. I’m…not worth it.” 

23.

Sheila shakes the ropes off and leans over him. With a gentleness he’d only experienced twice from her, she lifts him from the broken heap he’s fallen into. “Come on,” she says gently. “Let me help you. We’ll both get out of here together.” 

“I’m dying,” he protests weakly. “Go.” 

He’s doomed. Jason has done it to himself this time, though it hasn’t ever been his fault. It’s just not something he can communicate easily. 

“You’re not.” She all but has to drag him across the warehouse. Jason just hangs there, unable to even lift his head. “We’re almost there,” she informs him kindly. 

Sheila props him carefully against a crate. “Stay here while I get the door.” 

It’s too late. It’s always too late. Jason, the man that he’s always been, just accepts it. He knows how this will end. He will lay there and take it. It’s what he’s always done. It is what he will continue to do because he must. 

He hears the telltale rattling of the knob and Sheila’s horrified cry. “The door ! It’s locked!” 

This time, the same as the first, on account of being a few minutes too late, Batman does not burst through the door to save him. It’s fine though. Jason is taking the glory this time. 

Bruce can smell the stench of cordite permeating the air. He should have known that Jason wouldn’t wait. He should never have left him alone. Memories of his short years with Jason fill his head as he runs toward the destruction. Jason, that night in the alley. Jason as Robin. Jason winning Gotham the Junior League World Series. Jason, flicking grease at him as they work on his bike together. Jason and a ridiculous amount of hair gel. Jason and sneaking an extra piece of chocolate cake. Jason, Jason, Jason. 

Fear grips his heart like a vice as Batman picks through the still-smoking rubble of what was once a warehouse. He finds Sheila first, on the verge of death. Gently, he lifts her into his arms. 

“Sheila…what happened here?” 

The woman, Jason’s birth mother, looks at him with those blue, blue eyes–Jason’s eyes. “Joker…” she wheezes, rattles. “He tied us up…set the bomb to explode…wanted to eliminate all evidence…of him being here. Jason tried…to rescue me. We almost…we almost made it. So close…” 

No. 

“He turned…out to be…such a good kid. All his problems…and he…still turned out good.”

No. No. 

“He’s…much better…than I deserve…much better.” 

Bruce’s ears are ringing. He feels physically ill. It feels as though the ground has dropped out from beneath him. 

“He threw himself…in front of…of me…in front of me. He took the brunt of the blast.” 

Sheila’s eyes flutter. “Such a good boy…must have…really…loved his mother. His–” she coughs once, chest rattling. Then, those blue eyes close forever. 

Bruce lays her gently on the ground, heart in his throat. 

It doesn’t take long to find Jason, body draped over a pile of rebar and busted concrete. 

One look tells the story. There’s no need to check for a pulse. But he does it anyway. 

Nothing. 

Bruce has lost him. 

He’s already cold to the touch– gone . 

Tenderly, Bruce gathers the fractured body of his son in his arms and cradles him to his chest. Jason’s own chest does not rise or fall. It looks more concave than anything. He gently wipes the blood off of Jason’s face the best he can and runs his fingers through those stubborn curls with shaking fingers. Jason doesn’t roll his eyes or swat his hand away. He doesn’t make some sharp remark about the action. 

He doesn’t do anything at all. 

That’s all there is. 

Nothing. 

Then, the pain tears through him–searing, stabbing, wrenching, gutting, unsurvivable. It feels as though one of his major arteries has been severed, or a vital organ has failed. Layers upon layers of cuts flayed into his flesh. He feels like dying. 

Bruce knows in this instant that he will never be the same again.

Chapter Text

You’ll live a long time yet, an eternity without me. 

You will look into the faces of passersby, hoping for something that will, 

In an instant, bring me back to you.

You will find moonlit nights strangely empty 

Because when you call my name through them, 

There will be no answer. 

Always your heart will be aching for me, 

And your mind will give you that doubtful consolation that you did a brave thing.

– Masquerade, Dangerously Yours 

xx. dearly departed, look what you’ve started—

Jason’s death is ruled a terrible accident–wrong place, wrong time–a casualty of a terrorist attack. Bruce removes every trace of Robin from him to keep that secret. Yet, he painstakingly logs every injury, every mark of very intentional suffering left on his son’s body. He pours over them like a madman as punishment until he has them memorized, until they further haunt his waking moments along with his dreams. Sometimes he still sees Jason’s blood coating his hands, and he thinks that it’s never going to come off. 

The clock shows the passing of hours, days turning to nights turning to days and into a week. The grief of losing Jason, and his absence around the Manor, eats away at Bruce and devours him whole. It is the worst thing in the world. His sleep has been erratic and haunted. He’d thought that Jason’s death would be the worst thing that could happen, and then he stayed dead. Every single morning, even after enduring gruesome and monstrous nightmares of his son’s death, Bruce still wakes up expecting to find Jason waiting for him somewhere in the Manor. 

Well good morning, Rip Van Winkle. It’s only been about 20 years. Where have you been?

Bruce would fumble for coffee and look around for Ace, who was often nowhere to be found. Thrice blessed, though it seems as though my very dog has forgotten me, Knickerbocker. 

Then perhaps you might be more of a worthy wight of the name Ichabod, who thinks of himself as being considered a kind of gentlemanlike personage of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains such as myself.

There is a contagion in the very air that blows from the haunted region of Gotham, breathing forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land and young gentlemen, after all, I see, Bruce would reply with a roll of his eyes. 

Well we do belong to the very witching time of night where ghost stories are born, Jason would laugh, and then throw a piece of crisp bacon at him. 

But there is no Jason waiting for him in the dining room, only a long-cold breakfast and emptiness in the air. The shock and panic has stayed with him at full throttle, and despite knowing the truth, it’s as if Bruce can’t understand where he is. Yet, somehow, Jason is always there in his head. What is the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different outcome? Bruce certainly feels as if he’s going mad. In an arbitrary move that leaves Alfred giving him the silent treatment for days, he attempts to rectify this by completely removing any traces of Jason from his line of sight. He cannot deal with the visual reminders that Jason exists only in photographs and the things he left behind now. 

There are new voicemails on his phone that he just never got around to listening to, probably because Jason talked to him about the contents in-person. He keeps them there, cannot delete them, because he feels like once he listens to them, that’s all there is. Bruce knows that he should want to see his son’s face, to hear his voice, especially when it’s something he longs for in both his waking and fitful resting hours, but at the same time, he cannot bear to look. It’s far too much to stare through time, past the distance insurmountable, and rushing toward those years where Jason had once been here, whole and within reach. 

A memory: Jason taking a commemorative photograph with Dick, who’d come home just to see him, on one of Thomas Wayne’s old cameras. It certainly hadn’t been because of Bruce. He gives the cherished picture to Bruce the moment it is printed out. “So you won’t forget,” Jason winks. 

Bruce should call Dick. 

He should call him and tell him, in so many words, that his little brother has died. He should say something along the lines of: Please come home. It’s Jason. He’s gone and he isn’t coming back. I think that I need you here. Jason asked me once upon a time to inform you if this ever happened. The funeral is soon, and I thought you might want to be there. 

( A memory, again: “Bruce,” Jason says, slowly. “If something…if something ever did, you know, happen to me…you’d tell Dick, right?” 

Bruce feels stricken at the very thought. “Jason…that’s…” 

Morbid. Terrible. Never going to happen. 

“I’m serious, B. There’s…I mean, it has to be an occupational hazard, right? I know you two aren’t exactly talking ,” his son clears his throat. “But it’s important. Dick is my brother. I want him to know if I…you know. Die, or something. Be kind of lame if my own brother didn’t come to my funeral.” 

Jason straightens his shoulders, appearing resolute as if he’s internally decided something. “Promise me, Bruce. Promise me that if I die, you’ll tell Dick. I’ll haunt the kitchen cupboards forever if you don’t.” 

“I won’t,” Bruce replies. 

Jason’s brows shoot to his hairline. “You won’t call Dick?” 

“I won’t allow you to die. ” Bruce says, instead. “You’re not going to die, Jay. I won’t let it happen. I’ll be there.”) 

But Bruce doesn’t know what to say. He never promised Jason, either, so he’s not breaking his word. Not about that, anyway. His greater transgression, his greatest and most terrible lie, is gently tucked into the wooden casket before him. Jason died, and Bruce allowed it, all because Bruce wasn’t there. Three times denied. 

And, just maybe, if he doesn’t call Dick, then Jason will make good on his threat. Maybe Jason will haunt the Manor until Bruce has joined him in death. So Bruce doesn’t call. Instead, he packs away these mournful visions of loss, grieving a present that is no longer there and a future that will never come to pass. All these moments where Jason, or someone else with him at the moment of capture, had wilfully and naively attempted to futilely defy time and to always be here and there, to be alive. Bruce doesn’t have it in him to part with them forever, but instead he hides them away. He does not call Dick. He does not do much at all. 

On the day of the funeral, it’s as if the world stops its regular turning for a few hours. The funeral itself is a small and extremely private affair. Only Bruce, Alfred, Barbara, and Jim Gordon are in attendance. It’s a closed casket double funeral–for both Jason and Sheila. There are matching casket sprays of white carnations, gerberas, gladioli, orchids, roses, and stock, emerald palms, and salal. 

Jason had talked flower language with Alfred once, when he’d found a book in the library on the subject matter. Alfred always took great pride in the gardens at Wayne Manor, and his heirloom English roses had won awards and even been featured in the David Austen yearly catalog back in 2001. Jason had wanted to pick the ever faithful butler’s brain about the subject. The all white floral ensemble is packed with meaning that perhaps the boy would appreciate if he were here. Alfred thinks he always was theatrical at heart. In so many meanings but also not that many at all, the entire spray signifies innocence and purity–or the death and memorial thereof.   

Nobody ever talks about how exhausting and painful it is to plan a funeral. Nobody talks about standing in the midst of a funeral home living a horrific and strangely surreal reality, the weight of grief unbearable, while the funeral home director is trying to sell you something. Bruce might later look back on this moment when he remembers it as the director only trying to do his job, but it had felt so jarring and bizarre. 

The light blue valance really is a nice touch, Mr. Wayne. It would go well with this detailed sculpted hardware–which comes in silver or gold, by the way. This casket has a high gloss finish, but we also have various wooden caskets. This one here is antique pine, and it’s quite lovely–see this timeless art deco style? And really, what do you think of the light blue valance? It would be an upgrade in cost, but–

No, he doesn’t go with the light blue valance. Jason would probably tell him that he could bury Nightwing in blue all he wanted. The color swath did almost match Dick’s Nightwing suit. The color of the valance doesn’t really matter since it’s a closed casket funeral–since Jason is broken and no one, not even Bruce, could put him back together again. Alfred makes the decision. The interior lining is cream velvet, something classic, he claims. 

The small congregation are all terribly grim, gathered together on a dreary May morning for the same miserable purpose. Bruce stands at the head of Jason’s casket, close to the pastor. Alfred stands next to Jim, and Barbara is sitting in her wheelchair, holding a nice bouquet of white lilies. She is the only one present who is crying. The tears streak gently but without pause down her face, eyes steadfast and forward with a furrow in her brow. She does not look at Bruce. She doesn’t think that she can. 

(Commissioner Jim Gordon returns to his office late one night to find his daughter sitting in the dark. He’s feeling irritable because Batman has seemingly gone AWOL. For several nights now, he’s waited atop the GCPD with the signal lit, only to be met with nothing but absence. 

You never call. You never write. What’s the use of having this “secure line” if you don’t bother answering for weeks on end? That’ll teach me to throw in with vigilantes in capes and tights and utility belts. 

“What was I thinking?” He mutters aloud as he shuts the door behind him and flips on the lights. “Babsie!” 

He startles at the sight before him. Barbara looks distraught, glasses off and in his clasped hands, head hung. She looks like she’s been crying. “Sweetie, what’s wrong? Is it the phantom pain again?” 

Jim worries about his daughter, his forever little girl, especially after…after. He would do just about anything to see her safe and happy, or at the very least content. 

“Dad, do you remember the boy I was tutoring? Bruce Wayne’s new ward?” 

Her voice is thick with grief. Jim doesn’t like it one bit, but he does remember the smiling boy that Bruce had taken in. He could always find a way to make Barbara laugh. It was nice to hear. 

“Yes,” he answers cautiously. 

Barbara looks up at him then, and he knows before she even speaks the words. “He’s…he–he died.”) 

The pastor, a nice older gentleman with wire-rimmed glasses and kind eyes, performs the graveside service. He reads some nice verses from the Bible that don’t really hold any weight or comfort for those present. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. 

“We are gathered here today to remember Jason Todd and Sheila Haywood. We have all been touched by Jason’s life and story, and each of us feels this loss deeply. But we cannot change what happened. When we are faced with uncertainty all around us, I think it’s important that we turn to what we are certain of. We are certain that Jason loved his family. He was always looking out for them, even if they weren’t aware of it at the time. We are certain that Jason was a source of great joy to his family and breathed new life into their home.” 

The pastor recounts the story of a man named Lazarus from the Bible and says it’s an especially precious story. Lazarus had been sick and died, and the well-known religious figure Jesus had arrived four days after his death. Jesus had been good friends with Lazarus and his two sisters, who were greatly aggrieved at their brother’s death. This story of grief ends with the miraculous resurrection of the man known as Lazarus, meant to be a comfort for those who hear it. 

“The story of Lazarus teaches us several important lessons about facing times of grief.” The pastor says. “First, the story of Lazarus reminds us that we need to take time to grieve. Sometimes, we convince ourselves that what we need to do is ‘be strong’ and ‘press on’ for the sake of those around us. But when Jesus came to Bethany to comfort the family of Lazarus, he did not brace himself and hold back his tears. He wept. You have many memories with your loved one, and they are very precious. Take time to remember. Take time to grieve. It is okay to cry.” 

Bruce’s grief is a great and agonous private thing, a burden he’s now forever doomed to carry that is entirely transparent to others despite his best efforts. He has never known what to do with it, the uncomfortable thing. Parents are never meant to bury their children. Fathers should never have to bury their sons. It is simply not the natural order of things. It is an error seen under the rotten sun. Bruce had wished, a cherished dream, to watch Jason continue to grow up, to grow from boy to man. He had not anticipated experiencing the anguish of laying his child to rest. 

This has been his greatest nightmare realized. 

(“So far, so good.” Jason says, alive and well in his memory. “But, how about Scarecrow’s drug? How’d you overcome that ?” 

Bruce doesn’t look at him as he ties Crane up. “By replacing the fears the drug nullified with a different fear–the most terrible fear I could conceive.” 

“Oh yeah?” Jason queries, trying for casual but coming off entirely curious. “What was that?”

Bruce huffs and places a hand on his shoulder, gently guiding him to the door. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you, chum. Maybe someday.” 

But someday never comes. He never does tell Jason the truth–that the most terrible fear he could conceive was finding his son dead. He’d pictured himself holding Jason’s limp and lifeless body in his arms. The vision had saved them both, years ago. But now…but now –)

“Our lives on this earth are hard and painful.” The pastor reminds them gently as if the evidence of that isn’t clearly laid out before them. “Sometimes things happen that we don’t fully understand. But our encouragement is that one day, all of our hurt and pain can be over, and we can spend all eternity in paradise.”

The pastor ends the service with a prayer and then sings Amazing Grace. 

Bruce, however, feels like his great and heavy grief will last for ten thousand years. 

Here lies Jason Todd. 

Beloved son and brother. 

Rest in peace. 

Never to get up again. 

At thirteen, Tim Drake has never truly known loss. His parents are still around, so are his friends, and no one else in his life has ever died. Tim’s grandparents had died when he was too young to remember them. His parents go away on long trips, sure, but they’re still present in his life. He’s been lucky. 

Ives’s grandmother died last October, and he’d been near sick over it for weeks. Ives and his grandmother had been close, he’d informed Tim. She liked to knit him a new sweater every year for Christmas with some new theme. He had recently gotten into Wizards and Warriors, so his 2004 Christmas sweater had been a dragon. Apparently, his grandmother had been knitting one with a paladin fighting the dragon for the next Christmas. Ives had worn the knitted sweaters for weeks following her death, looking more melancholy than Tim had ever seen him. 

Tim’s fortunate streak of luck runs out in the first week of May. 

It’s a Saturday, and he is pouring himself a glass of fresh orange juice to go with his cereal and listening to the morning news. His parents have a television for the kitchen for just this very purpose, because his dad likes to “stay informed of current events.” It sits nicely in the corner of his mother’s hand-selected white diamond quartzite countertop by the fruit bowl. Sometimes, when his parents aren’t home, Tim likes to catch the news before his Saturday morning cartoons. He still has a few minutes before Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles comes on, so he’d flipped to GNN. He is eagerly awaiting part two of the season 3 finale and biding his time with Lucky Charms and reports on bad gas prices, baseball steroid scandals rocking the nation, a money watch segment about affording college, and a bit on how Bat Burger is now offering a new version of french fries–Jokerized, with a secret special seasoning. 

It’s a chilly morning for the beginning of May, so he’s pulled on the White Zombie hoodie that Jason had given him about two weeks ago. Strangely enough, he hasn’t seen or heard from him since. Jason had said he was going on a trip, though he didn’t say where, but he’d promised that he would come back. He’d also kind of unloaded what sounded like a heavy burden that Tim still doesn’t fully understand, but that was okay. Jason could talk to him about whatever he wanted and Tim would listen. They’re friends, after all. 

The hoodie is worn, with Dick written in faded Sharpie on the tags inside, frayed thumb holes cut into the sleeves, a prized possession passed onto him. He’s proud of it–this random birthday gift full of memories given to him in the budding springtime when his true birthday is in the heart of summer. It’s too big on him, and almost feels like the awkward hugs that Jason sometimes initiates out of the blue. Ives is his friend, sure, but Jason…Jason has always secretly, in a way, felt like what he thinks having a brother would be like. 

He’s thinking about the ratio of marshmallows to whole grain cereal floating in his milk when Michaela McClure’s voice makes his heart stop. 

“GNN is sad to report the passing of Jason Todd, adopted son of known billionaire Bruce Wayne, this past week. According to officials, his death was the result of a terrorist attack earlier this week in Ethiopia. Jason had been looking for his mother, who also tragically perished in the attack. Jason was fifteen at the time of his death. He reportedly enjoyed baseball, reading, and spending time with friends and family.” 

They air a picture of Jason with his Junior League team. He is immortalized after his World Series victory, smiling wide and bright, captured mid-laughter as he helps his teammates pour a cooler of Gatorade over their coach. As if those simple, fleeting words could sum up Jason Peter Todd in his entirety. As if his life had been so short that he hadn’t touched that many people at all. 

Tim’s heart thumps wildly against his chest, as if it’s trying to pulse through his ribcage. 

“The Wayne family has refused to comment on Jason’s passing, and asks for privacy during this time–” 

Jason had been so sheerly alive that Tim kind of assumed he would just live forever. Jason was Robin, and Robin did not die. Dick Grayson had not died, and therefore Jason Todd should not have died. Rather, Jason was supposed to go see Tokyo Drift with him in June, because he claimed Tim needed to learn to enjoy fun movies. He was not supposed to die on a Wednesday in April in an explosion in a different country where Tim would never see him again. It feels as if Tim had only known Jason for a moment or quicker, and now there will be no more moments. He wishes for more time. Tim doesn’t get it. 

Truthfully, Michaela McClure really does look sorry about Jason’s death. 

And Tim? 

Tim throws up his Lucky Charms and orange juice all over the kitchen floor. 

Dick arrives back at Titans Tower after a successful mission, with a broken leg and hobbling about on a makeshift cane, and upon turning on his phone, discovers he has about three dozen missed calls and several voicemails. One in particular stands out to him from the sea of numbers–some he recognizes and some he doesn’t–and it’s from Barbara. This strikes him as odd, because they haven’t been dating for a while, and they don’t really…keep in touch, necessarily. He’d gone to see her after the Joker had paid her a visit and left her wheelchair-bound, and told her that she could always reach out to him if she needed anything. Perhaps this was the case, and he missed it while he was in space. 

He presses play and holds the phone up to his ear. 

“Dick,” she says, two weeks or so ago over the line. Her breath comes in a pained gasp, as if she’s been crying. It’s instantly alarming. “ Dick, oh god, I don’t know how to tell you this–” 

Roy is looking at him from across the room, and it’s eerie, the way the color drains from his disconsolate face. He’s reaching for Dick, absolutely stricken, and Dick feels worried twice over. 

“Dick,” he says, carefully, “listen, it’s Jason–” 

“–Jason…he–he’s dead, Dick.” 

“They’re saying it was an accident,” Barbara and Roy speak in tandem, transcending time. "He was caught in a terrorist attack." 

Roy is still talking, but he only hears Barbara through the phone. 

"It was the Joker." 

Dick’s mouth goes bone dry as the phone slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor. “No.” 

“I didn’t want you to find out from the news,” Roy replies. “It’s–he’s gone, Dick. He died two weeks ago. Oliver sent me the article about it. It isn’t very long–” 

“No,” he denies. “No, Jason isn’t dead. Bruce would have told me. He would have–” 

He had no messages from Bruce. Not a single text, not an email, and not a voicemail either. There hadn’t been anything from Alfred either. But Barbara called. Barbara told him. And Barbara wasn’t ever cruel. She would never lie to him like this. She would never make a mistake so monumental as this. 

“Dick,” Kory says, alarmed, “where are you going?” 

“I’ve got to find out,” he rasps, dragging himself to the computer. “I’ve linked the Titans computer into Bruce’s computer in the Batcave. I can access any information that’s in there. I can use Bruce’s password to bypass this main screen.” 

Roy looks further agonized. “Dick, I don’t think–” 

But Dick is fast–he always has been. With a few simple keystrokes, he’s already in. Jason’s file pulls up on the screen, claiming his status is unknown. And Dick thinks–oh lord, not Jason. It cannot be Jason. He inputs Bruce’s password and hits enter, heart like sludge coating his throat. 

There it is in all its digitized glory–Robin, Jason Todd’s file, all access granted. 

Status: DECEASED stares back at them all, bold and final. 

Jason, his little brother, who was only 5’4” and barely reached Dick’s shoulder, whose words sometimes stung like barbed wire but whose heart was all poorly concealed warmth and well wishes, who could scarf down his weight in chili dogs, who listened to metal while reading the works of Jane Austen, whose baking could likely win prizes at the state fair, who (not-so) secretly fed the alleycats behind Dick’s apartment, who ate his cereal with a light-up Star Wars spoon and did his damndest to call dibs on anything before Dick just for the hell of it, not because he really wanted it. His little brother who drew a ridiculously cartoonish and stylized picture of them that still hangs on Dick’s fridge, who acted all tough but secretly enjoyed any praise showered upon him and always rewarded anyone with the brightest smile in return, who loved school more than Dick ever did, who did the title of Robin and its colors proud. 

His little brother is dead. 

What if you stayed? What if you didn’t go to Tamaran? What if you just came home instead? There’s this case, I think it might go south. Really south, and I think you could help. I think you could make a difference. I think lives are at stake, and…

This thing…I think it’s inevitable. It’s dangerous. People could die. 

I came to you because I trust you, Dick. 

All I’m asking is that you just–

Good god, he’d said truly terrible things in the moment. He hadn’t meant it. Dick has been painstakingly planning his awkward but heartfelt apology the entire time he was in space. He was supposed to apologize when he got back to earth. Now he’ll never get the chance. Jason will never hear him because Jason died, and Jason died thinking Dick didn’t care, thinking that Dick regretted him, thinking that Dick wanted nothing to do with him. 

Whatever. Don’t die up there. I don’t want to have to go to your fucking funeral. 

But Dick hadn’t died up there. No, rather, Jason had died down here , and Dick didn’t even know. Dick didn’t even go to his fucking funeral. 

He drops his head into his hands, fists his hands in his hair, and wails. Dick weeps, heavy, gasping, heart-wrenching sobs that leave him gagging, chest heaving. Jason’s dead, and it’s his fault. If he’d never passed the mantle onto his little brother, then maybe he would still be alive. He should have been there. Jason asked him to be there. Jason trusted him, and what had he done with that trust? 

Dick Grayson returns to earth and finds that it’s immediately gone to hell in his absence. 

Several long nights after Jason’s death, Bruce finds himself wandering back into his study. He hasn’t stepped foot in the room since before Jason ran away, and before Bruce followed the Joker’s trail to the Middle East. His study is dark and empty, a sort of cold loneliness filling the spacious room and sinking into his bones. Sometimes, Jason would join him after school and work on his homework or read a book while Bruce sloughed through whatever business he had for the day. 

Tonight, there is no company, and Jason will never join him again. However, evidence of his presence still remains at large. Dick’s old gray leather jacket, one that Jason had inherited, is slung over the back of an armchair in his study. Jason had tossed it there weeks ago after returning from school, eager to talk to Bruce about something. He can’t even recall the conversation now. In mere seconds, Bruce decides that he cannot stand to look at the jacket anymore, and continues his fervent endeavor to pack away everything that reminds him of his dead son. 

However, when he pulls the article of clothing off the chair, something slips out of the jacket pocket and onto the floor with a dull thud. Bruce holds the worn leather in an outstretched hand and glances down to find a partially creased packet of Camel Lights resting on the rug, right next to a familiar lighter. Unbelievable, but so endearing at the same time, and so very Jason, hiding something in plain sight. 

Bruce stoops over and gently picks up the pack of cigarettes and lighter, carefully laying the jacket back on the armchair as he does. Perhaps he should just throw the whole thing away. It looks worn and feels lighter than a full pack, as if Jason had smoked half the damn thing away already. Alfred would throw a fit. He should pitch it and be done with it all. Bruce doesn’t do anything of the sort, though.  

He nestles the pack between his thumb and pinky, turning it upside down and tapping twice on the bottom with his pointer finger. It’s a comforting gesture, familiar–one he has seen Jason doing before. He rolls the chosen cigarette between his fingers and slips it into his mouth before leaning down to cradle the lighter to it. It’s a pose reminiscent of a gesture of prayer, the way his thumb flicks the fork of the lighter–just like Jason used to do. The flame dances to life in his cupped hands, licking up the filter plug wrap, and tipping paper. Once the cigarette is lit and the tobacco is glowing in the soft dark of the study, he releases the fork, but does not make the lighter disappear. It feels like a heavy weight in his hand. 

Bruce thinks of Jason on the night of his fifteenth and last birthday, leaning against the frame of the garage and listening to the gentle summer chorus of crickets. He makes a poor imitation of the original saint, now a real martyr, resting beneath damp dirt. Jason’s words, committed to memory along with the rest of that night, ring in his ears. 

I think the better question is what would you do without me? 

He takes a long drag of the cigarette, lets it fill his lungs and holds it there in a silent wish before exhaling. Alfred will certainly be able to tell that he’s smoked after this, but he cannot find it in himself to care. Perhaps Alfred won’t mind, either, if he knew the reason why.  

Bruce can almost pretend for a fleeting moment that the familiar smoke filtering from the cigarette held between his fingers is Jason, that the tendrils wrapping around him are his son dropping by for a brief hug. A quick fix, something to calm his nerves and get him through the very hour of darkness. He only takes a few more drags but lets it burn down. The cigarette fades into the night like Jason did. It burns bright then out, leaving a hideous black tar coating his lungs and a bitter taste in his mouth. It leaves him gasping for air, just like Jason’s death has left him. 

Bruce, in his own way, has brought back the biblical definition of mourning. There will be wailing and weeping, and great gnashing of teeth. Whose teeth, however, is the question. 

He taps the ashes straight into his half-drank tumbler of bourbon. It’s only a little more than a few swallows left, but it’s enough to do the snuff job. When the butt has burned down low, he tosses the entire thing into the glass and watches the smoke filter up and out. The stench of burned tobacco hangs low in the study, seeping into the old wood beams and bookshelves. 

Bruce leans over to open a drawer of his desk to find his secret stash of scotch, and that’s when he finds the baseball and note.

Chapter Text

You are the blood

Flowing through my fingers

All through the soil 

Up in those trees

You are electricity 

And you are light 

You are sound itself 

And you are flight 

– You Are The Blood

xxi. mother, i can feel the soil falling over my head–

Time cannot withstand the raw ache of a grieving father. A grief so unknown, so profound, that it finds home nowhere and in nothing but brutality. Bruce doesn’t know where to put the hurt, so he twists his fists in it like hand wrap and uses it for violence. It is the kind of savagery that ruptures veins, that knocks out teeth and blood and spittle, that crushes bones, that leaves one wheezing for mercy, begging for air. It is the kind of violence that is just shy of death, a finger-wagging taunt to the slaughter. 

He glues the slivers of his youngest son’s skull back together with spit from crown head kisses and salted tears, all his misshapen and broken bones, and holds them until they set. But first, he picks the brain matter blowback from Jason’s Robin suit and pokes it back through the holes. He’s a grown man now, and he’s lived and breathed the extensive list of injuries, but he still can’t figure out where all the pieces go. 

(No one tells this story, and, according to Tim somewhere in the past-future-past, it should never be spoken of at all.) 

He searches for that killing blow, from a crowbar, he’s deduced, which might not have been in his head at all. It might have ambled to the surface, feel for bumps on the seared skin, see if it’s burned away. Check the temple, holy and holey but never whole anymore, for some spider web fracture if there is one. Open the windows and let out all the smoke that drowned his lungs in thick soot and black tar, scrape it out of the flayed bronchioles and alveoli, spread like smooth butter on fresh oven bread. Prop him up; palms on his knees on the settee in the office. Leave his shortbread cookies under the cushion so when a younger him comes sugartoothed and begging, they’re waiting like crumbling, buttery commas. Because his story hasn’t ended yet. It’s only just begun. The beginning and the end are the same are the end is the beginning. Give him a little peace. 

For Bruce, there is no peace. He dissects Jason’s death in his waking moments and in his restless dreams. He tirelessly envisions that day over and over and thinks of decisions he could have made that birth fruitless outcomes in the wake of reality. In his mind, he can save Jason–it’s easy. He knows all the steps now. Bruce can breathe it all back to life, breathe Jason back to life, all in the shade of his daily delusion. Then, the lie ends. What is done cannot be undone. Jason is dead. 

So it goes. 

Bruce stalks the night with a homicidal want, a suicidal ache, both the same and not, but both acrid and festering in is chest and curdling his blood. He throws himself into the fray with carelessness, and the pain really does make him feel something–if his target can manage to even land a hit, that is. Misery loves company, and he’s all too ready to share in his suffering. 

When the day is done and the sun has set and the long night has cast its shadow, Bruce will do it all again. He doesn’t care if he makes it home.

Dick returns to his empty and dark apartment where his last few precious minutes with Jason still hang heavy in the air. There are traces of his brother everywhere–his favorite blanket folded and thrown over the back of the couch, the picture he’d drawn on the fridge, his lightsaber spoon out and collecting dust on the counter, pictures where he’s the star or supporting cast hung on the walls–even that stupid stain on Dick’s carpet reminds him of Jason. It’s all familiar, all pastpresentfuture slamming into him at once, this life with and without Jason. 

And there is, on his kitchen table, something he doesn’t remember leaving out. 

It’s a note, written in familiar handwriting. 

Dick, 

I’m sorry. You were right. I shouldn’t have tried to tell you how to live your life. You were needed elsewhere. It’s fine. I get it. I’m not mad. I shouldn’t have been such an asshole. 

Maybe I’ve never said this out loud, but I want you to know that I look up to you. I guess I just felt doomed, and you have this uncanny way of inspiring hope in people. I thought I needed some of that. (Do NOT tell Roy I said this. He will never let me live it down.) This is going to sound stupidly corny, but you’re my big brother, and I know that you’ll be there for me in the future, but other people count on you too. It’s okay. The duality of man or whatever. Sorry I pushed. 

I left something for you in the freezer. It’s not much of an apology. You can even have the lightsaber spoon–my prized possession. Just don’t be mad at me forever. Truce? Come find me when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting. 

Ps. Don’t be so hard on yourself. I can hear you beating yourself up over that fight. I’ve already forgiven you. So don’t worry about it. 

He reads the note over once, twice, five times, until he can hear it in Jason’s voice. His little brother had looked up to him, had come to him begging for help, and Dick had let him down for the last and final time. Then, he’d forgiven him, even with Dick’s vile words likely still sitting heavy in his skull. He’d asked, almost posthumously, that Dick not be mad at him forever. They’d never really done the whole pleasantries thing, no formalities between them. Then–

With trembling hands and a petrified heart, Dick opens his freezer door. Very carefully, he pulls out an unfamiliar yet recognizable apology. The pie is perfectly preserved, even better looking than the last one Jason had brought him, despite the frost beginning to accumulate on the cover. He cradles the dish to his chest and turns, sliding down the door of his refrigerator until he hits the floor. Dick sits there until his legs go to pins and needles, until the pie thaws, and cries until he’s wrung out. Then, he cries some more. The tears stop coming, but the headache doesn’t, and he just sits there in total misery. 

He holds what feels like the last known link to his little brother and cannot find it in himself to eat it. Dick Grayson, for one of the few times in his life, has no hope. All he has is a melting pie, a bitter heart full of regrets, and a dead little brother that he believes he could have saved. Guilt is an easy jacket to wear, and it fits him no matter his age, despite all his growth. 

The cemetery is peaceful. It should be, as most of its inhabitants will never stir again. 

Jason’s grave is still fresh, only weeks-old. New little shoots of grass have sprouted from the overturned dirt, the first of many in nature’s blanket that will keep his brother tucked into the earth, undisturbed. 

“Bruce never called to tell me what happened, Jason.” 

It should be an easy thing, talking to the dead. They don’t respond, after all. But for Dick, well, he’s never been great at one-sided conversations. 

“He didn’t know I was halfway across the universe, but he didn’t even leave me a message. I called Alfred. Bruce hasn’t slowed down since you died. The Batman’s been on the prowl every night. It’s standard operating procedure for the Batman. Death is all in a day’s work.”

Dick doesn’t know when it all went wrong between the two of them, but it happened long before Jason came into the picture. Jason had brought them together, even if Dick had wondered at the time why Bruce had so quickly adopted Jason, but never Dick. Death had, unfortunately, become commonplace in their lives, but never with someone they knew so well. Never so close to home. 

He’s being bitter about it. It’s hard not to be. 

“ I gave you my old Robin costume. I should have been there. You…you asked me to be there, and I let you down.” 

Jason, fifteen, wrapped in the simple mania of no responsibility–of all the responsibility in the world, cast upon him. Jason, who will never grow older. Jason, who expected nothing from them and was still let down, down, down into the ground. 

“I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for all those things I said. You didn’t deserve it,” Dick tells the grave anyway. “I had this whole speech prepared–thought about it the whole time I was in space. It was grandiose. You probably would have told me it’s too much. I don’t regret choosing. You–well, I suppose if it meant you’d still be here, then… Jesus Christ, Jay. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. You’ll never know how sorry I am.” 

But sorry doesn’t cut it. Sorry doesn’t bring the dead back to life. This is more than a simple admission of error or discourtesy expressed over puerile feelings and thoughtless, damaging words. This is the weight of a life destroyed, one that Dick is going to carry with him for the rest of his life. 

He places a heavy hand over his eyes. “Fuck him. Why didn’t he call me?” 

When Bruce returns to the Cave that night, he finds Dick sitting in a chair, waiting for him. His fingers are interlocked, elbows propped on the arms of the chair and hands hiding the distasteful down curve of his mouth. His left leg is in a cast, jeans rolled up to allow for more room. Bruce wonders what happened while he was away–while he’s been away, where he’s been. Instead, he says–

“I didn’t expect to see you again.” 

The bitter confession stings. It does. It cuts like a dull knife, carves out Dick’s kidneys. He sighs heavily. 

“I heard about Jason. Bruce…I…I’m really sorry. ” 

Bruce pushes past him to the computer. Dick reaches for his cane and rises to follow. 

“You weren’t there–at the funeral.” 

Dick didn’t know. How was he supposed to know? Bruce never bothered to tell him. Dick works his jaw, a wildfire of emotions igniting in his chest and quickly spreading through his blood. He feels alive with the buzz. Still, his father won’t look at him. 

“C’mon Bruce. Talk. Don’t turn your back on me. Not on me. I’m here now.” 

Bruce doesn’t look at him, instead studying the utility belt in his hands. “You were lucky.” 

Dick starts at the unanticipated words. 

His father removes the cowl–transforming from Batman to Bruce Wayne. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe they’ve lost Bruce for good this time. “When you didn’t listen to me, your injuries weren’t fatal.” 

Dick has fallen into Gotham Bay before during a fight. It had been winter, and the water had been freezing. He had fallen in, face first, and it had stolen all the breath from his lungs and left him so terribly, utterly cold. It had been the kind of cold that set in fast and seeped right to the bone, had frozen his lungs and made all his limbs feel as if they weighed cinder blocks. It had left him feeling empty and cold for weeks. Nothing, none of it, compares to how he feels right now. 

He can tell right where this is going, this thing that’s gone on between them for years now. Dick can always tell when Bruce is rearing for a fight. He knows all the words to say, all the right buttons to push, everything to lay the perfectly obvious trap for Dick to walk right into, because Dick likes to fight too. The two of them have been butting heads for so long that it feels only natural. 

“Of course,” Bruce continues, oblivious to him, “by the time I properly trained you–” 

“Bruce,” he breaks in, helplessly, “come on. I’m not here to fight.” 

This always happens, just like clockwork. Round and round the two of them go, where they stop, well–Dick is tired of it. He wants it to stop ever happening at all. 

Bruce slams his hands down on the monitor desk. “Then don’t!” 

Dick arrives at a few very quick conclusions. “Are you blaming me ?” He asks, incredulously. “I left, so Jason replaced me, and because I left, he died ? No fucking way. You don’t–you don’t get to do that.” 

He scoffs, because they’re really in it now, no matter how hard he tries to avoid it. “Jason wasn’t me. I was a trained acrobat. I could think quickly in perilous situations. But why did you let him become Robin before he was ready? You brought him into this life, not me.” 

Bruce turns on him with such ferocity that it sends Dick rearing backward. He stumbles and falls, his loss of mobility a factor, the anger of his father his stumbling block. There is a look in Bruce’s eyes that Dick has never seen. He’s never been afraid of Bruce, not really. He’s known him so long, and Bruce has never looked at him like that–not once. That look, it’s a cousin to hatred. 

He pays Dick’s fall no mind. “DON’T YOU DARE BLAME ME FOR JASON’S DEATH! DON’T YOU DARE!” 

“I told you to look after him!” Dick roars, frightened, all fury and grief both destroying and keeping him at the same time. “He was my brother, Bruce. My goddamned little brother. ” 

Bruce’s eyes blaze with fury, the worst that Dick has ever seen. “He was my son ! Why did I think I ever needed a partner?! They slow you down! They make you worry about them rather than doing your job! He wouldn’t listen! He wanted to do everything his way! He was just like you . In a few years, I would have had to fire him like I did you!” 

And it’s funny but also not funny at all, hearing Bruce claim that Jason was just like Dick after Jason had claimed Dick was just like Bruce. The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree, genetics be damned. Dick cannot find it in him to laugh at the irony. 

Alfred says this is destroying you , Dick wants to say. He’s worried about you. And me, I’m…

He puts it all aside, because this is his father. “Bruce,” Dick starts, throat dry, “I think you should–” 

Take it easy. Take a break. Come home. You never came home from Ethiopia. You’re still there. What if you never come home? I need you here–alive. You’re killing yourself. I can tell. Alfred can tell. I don’t think you should be alone. I don’t want to be alone. 

“I think–” Dick tries to find the right words, tries to not say something that will further breed hostility. 

“I’m not interested in continuing this conversation,” Bruce says suddenly, sounding weary beyond his years. “I suggest you leave. And,” he pauses, the silence hanging heavy between them, “give your key to Alfred on the way out.” 

He turns on his heel and heads for the stairs, and he does not look back. Dick sits up from his position on the floor and watches him go. He sits there on the cool floor of the Batcave for a long, long time before he finally gets up. Then, he begins the arduous process of climbing the stairs to the clock door. 

Hey dad, what do you think of your son now? 

A memory: Jason asking Bruce, “could you take my picture? I don’t think I’ll remember.” 

“Master Dick,” Alfred says by way of soft greeting when he emerges into the Manor proper. He looks relieved in a way that Dick has never seen before. “Shall I prepare dinner?” 

However, Alfred also looks older than Dick remembers. Then again, so did Bruce. “No, Alfred. I won’t be staying.” 

Dick places his key to the Manor, the one he’s had since the very first day he’d moved in years ago and never once lost, into the butler’s hand. “In fact, I think I’m leaving for good this time, and I won’t be coming back.” 

Cold shock settles over Alfred’s face. Dick swears he turns a few shades paler. “Master Dick, surely you cannot be serious.” 

“As a heart attack,” Dick replies solemnly, and does not laugh. “Per Bruce’s orders. He asked me to leave and give you my key. So, that’s it. After this, I’m gone.” He hesitates. “If you need me, call. I’ll come. But not home.” 

“Since when have you listened to Master Bruce’s orders so strictly? He’s a twat, Master Dick.” 

Dick startles. 

But Alfred isn’t done, apparently. “I am quite certain that Master Bruce, misguided though he may be by his grief, thinks that he is making a wise choice in sending you away. Master Dick, I beg of you to listen to me at least this one time in your life when I tell you this. Master Bruce is a bloody fool and you should not take what he says to heart. In fact, I urge you to disobey him this time. It’s for the good of everybody in this family that you do not listen to him.” 

Dick stares, and Alfred presses on. 

“I suppose that Master Bruce, if I were to pretend to read his mind–and what a fright that would be for me–thinks of this decision as protecting you. But it’s the most dunderheaded logic I have heard recently, utter bollocks, along with most of his recent personal decisions, and he is a right fool for saying it to you. I am certain that he’ll regret it in a matter of hours.” 

“Do you remember,” Alfred says, his tone suddenly soft, “what I told you years ago, the first night that you went down to the Cave?” 

Dick blinks, wracking his brain for the memory. “You asked me if I knew what the path to hell was paved with, I think.” 

The butler responds with an affirmative hum. “And I’ll be buggered if we aren’t staring down the path of hell at this very moment.” He presses the key back into Dick’s hand and gently closes his fingers around it, tucking it into Dick’s fist. “Don’t disappear so far that you leave us forever, Master Dick. It would be a shame to lose two boys in this house. I fear that I am already losing a third.” 

They are different portraits of grief all hanging in the same stagnant museum, separated by corridors of the heart but all haunted by the same ghost. Dick knows this well enough. Still, he walks out the front door of Wayne Manor, his once childhood home, and does not know when he will return– if he will return. 

Alfred and Jason share the same birthday. 

Correction–they had shared the same birthday: August 16th. 

He sits down to afternoon tea alone with the David Austin Catalogue de Roses 2006 and stares at the beautiful Queen of Sweden roses on the cover. Their color begins as a soft-apricot pink, gradually changing to pure soft pink over time. They have a lovely myrrh fragrance and form a bushy, yet upright shrub. Normally, Jason would have taken afternoon tea with him and talked about roses for the upcoming season. Wayne Manor is often in the running for Gotham Garden of the Year, and the gardens have to look lovely for an upcoming spring event that is already in the works. 

Jason had always liked reading the names of the various species available and adding his own commentary. The Lady of the Lake, Lady of Shalott, Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Emily Bronte, Don Juan, Maid Marion, and Heathcliff had been favorites and subjects of discussion. Alfred had taught him about Brother Cadfael, the main character in a historical murder mysteries series about a monk in the 12th century who aids the law by investigating and solving murders. 

(“Do you think,” Jason laughs, “if in a different life, I was a priest who solved murders, some company would breed and name a rose after me too? Br​​other Jason doesn’t have the same ring to it as Brother Cadfael, though.” 

Alfred smiles into his teacup. “Oh, certainly, Master Jason. The plant would bear very large, globular flowers–reminiscent of peonies. They will never be clumsy despite their size, and will hold together very nicely. I think they should be red, however. Pink doesn’t suit you so well.” 

“Maybe we should read that series.” Jason says. “The one about Brother Cadfael and medieval criminology. I think it could be interesting.” 

“Oh,” Alfred agrees, “I think that could be arranged.”) 

He flips to a page in search of something similar to what he’d described in that afternoon conversation what feels like a lifetime ago. Reds, pinks, purples, yellows, and creams blur together on the spread. Planting locations of walls or fences, doorways, front of the house, mixed border, and pergolas fill the pages. It doesn’t matter. His hunt is specific. He narrows it down to two choices. 

Benjamin Britten, a variety of unusual coloring that changes with age to a glowing deep pink-red. The deeply cupped flowers soon open to slightly cupped rosettes. The fragrance is fruity, with aspects of wine and pear drops. It forms a dense, rather upright shrub. The second choice is Eden Climber Red, a compact climbing rose bearing large, crimson-red blooms, with many petals, which are very much in the style of the Old Roses. It has a good fragrance and flowers throughout the summer until fall. A thorny variety; its foliage is semi-glossy and dark green.

A bed of roses in memoriam of a boy loved and lost. 

Alfred fills out an order form for both, and then turns his attention to the pristine cupcake on a bone-white fine china saucer. There is a single, green-striped candle placed carefully through a professionally placed swirl of buttercream frosting. The cupcake is chocolate with strawberry-vanilla ganache filling–neapolitan. He pulls a match from a small box and strikes it before lighting the candle. 

“Happy birthday, Master Jason, my dear boy. Your sixteenth should be special.” 

When he blows out the small flame, he can almost pretend for a moment that Jason is sitting across from him, a vision filtering through the smoke and dreamlight of late-afternoon. He’s got his elbow propped on the table, bad manners but something he’s always done regardless, and his cheek rests in his palm. There’s a lazy smile on his face, gentle and soft and boyish, and so very Jason. It’s as if he’s waiting for something. If only Alfred could pretend for a minute longer. 

“I think,” Alfred clears his throat and picks up the worn novel next to him. “I think we were on chapter two of Saint Peter’s Fair. We must finish this before we can watch the television adaptation.” 

But the vision is gone, just like Jason, and all the theatre training in the world cannot keep the show going on. Instead, Alfred drops the book back to the table, and lets his head fall into his hands. 

It is late afternoon when Tim collapses to the ground gracelessly and lets his head rest against the carved granite of Jason’s grave. He stares up at the tender and stricken face of the angel atop the headstone as she folds her hands in prayer, wings outstretched. There are a great many graves in Gotham Cemetery, but this one in particular stands out amongst the others. 

“You must get pretty lonely,” he comments idly, throat dry. “Just an angel to keep you company. She doesn’t seem like much of a talker to me. It doesn’t seem like you get many visitors. I don’t even know that Bruce…” 

Tim swallows, then shudders. “I don’t even know if he could. ” 

He clears his throat in an attempt to carry on. “Well? What’s new with you?” When he gets no response, he nods. “Hm. Right. Nothing much, I gather. Things have certainly changed topside, that’s for sure. It’s been about four months since…y’know…one hundred-and-seven days, to be exact. A lot can change in one hundred-and-seven days. A lot can change in one day.” 

Tim tugs on a handful of grass and lets it fall through his fingers, catching a sole blade. He tears at it, splitting it in two. “Dick has gone to ground. I don’t even know where he is. I know that Bruce is right next door, but he’s not at the same time. I could walk over to your house and knock on the door and Bruce would be there, but it would still be easier to find Dick–who is very good at hiding when he doesn’t want to be found, by the way. I think he could be the hide ‘n seek champion.” 

He rifles around in his backpack for a few moments before emerging triumphant, a well-worn deck of cards in his hand. “Ha, knew it was in here. Folded in with the cards is a crumpled piece of old notebook paper covered in dates and numbers. “Well, let’s see. Where were we? I think I’m thirty dollars down to you. Two bids a hand, man. Your own rules, so don’t bitch.” 

Tim deals out the cards to both of them. “How are we feeling today, Jason? Lucky?” 

He pauses, routine, for an answer that will never come. “Mm, yeah. Me too.” 

Tim peruses his cards and then adds more to Jason’s hand, laid on his grave. After another quick look, he flips his own hand around to show the boy that isn’t there. In his place, there is only engraved granite and dirt. “I call. You win. Straight flush, whaddya know.” 

“See,” Tim points out helpfully, “this is the part where you’d say something like ‘my hypocrisy knows no bounds’ and then I roll my eyes.” His next words choke themselves out of his throat, but he has to force them because they’ve lodged themselves between his esophagus and his tonsils. “I uh,” he gasps, eyes welling with unshed tears, “I. I’m all out of aces, Jason. I just…just want to break even, y’know?” 

It’d be a beautiful summer day if not for the oppressive thumb of sweltering heat and humidity hanging in the air. Tim can see it on the horizon–a storm is brewing, dark clouds encroaching on the city limits and bringing a special flavor of clamminess with it. He’s damp enough with sweat as it is, considering he rode his bike all the way here. At least Crest Hill isn’t that far from Gotham Cemetery since they’re both located in Bristol. Perhaps it would be nice to be out when the sky breaks. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he was drenched. Perhaps it would wash away some of the heaviness he’s been carrying. 

He does his best to sound cheerful despite his true feelings. “Brought you something–a gift. Today is your sixteenth birthday, after all.” 

“Let me paint the scene for you,” Tim jokes. “It’s Christmas Eve, 2004. The Wayne Christmas Charity Gala is in full swing. Three people in three-piece suits are holed up in a sitting room playing poker instead of mingling with the partygoers. One of them turns to the other and says, ‘ look, I’m thinking of a business pitch. Think Scrabble on the go with simultaneous play. It’s a race to the finish. The packaging could be fruit-themed. We could also work it into the name. You might think it tacky, but it could sell.’ Oh, and this is my personal favorite. ‘ Get this–the winner is crowned ‘Top Banana.’ I mean, Top Banana? Come on. I’ll bring the crackers since you so obviously brought the cheese. ‘ I’m thinking we go independent. You know, BYOB-Be Your Own Boss.’ Any of that sound familiar to you?” 

He pulls the banana-shaped bag from his backpack and rests it gently at the feet of the angel guarding the grave. “Now, do you know how this game is described on the website and in ad campaigns? ‘Players and their opponents aim to use all of their letters to build a word grid in a race to the finish. The first player to use all of their tiles is crowned ‘Top Banana’!’ Scrabble on the go with simultaneous play. The packaging is a banana. It’s in the name. It’s totally tacky and it sells. The creators produced it independently of any major game company. Food–yeah, pun intended, so what–for thought, don’t you think?” 

The soft fluttering of wings and the telltale clear whistles assembled from repeated syllables–the call of an American robin–distract him. Cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up. Isn’t that ironic, Tim muses, a robin telling him to cheer up. He’s read about robins because he’d done a science report on them back in elementary school. The robin is highly regarded as a sweet little bird with its red breast and brave-hearted soul. In Celtic folklore, the robin is known as the Oak King of Summer, who battles the Holly King every Midsummer to reclaim the crown and give the people shorter nights and longer days, thereby bringing the return of the light. Many cultures across the world also believe that robins are tiny messengers from lost loved ones–or that their lost loved ones are visiting them. There’s even an old adage that claims when robins appear, loved ones are near. Alternatively, if you see a robin red-breast, it could symbolize a new beginning and rebirth. Selflessness, even unto sacrifice; divine sacrifice and hope. 

(What Tim Doesn’t Know: Jason’s tangible mark has been left on the Manor, his presence preserved on the grounds. In nature, engraved deep into the bark of a tree, a global symbol of wisdom, strength, and endurance, he forever remains unblemished. The old oak still stands stately and strong, living and living, with Jason kept carved into its bark. 

What Tim Does Know: Jason had promised he would return. The Oak King is always reborn, bringing the light and vitality of life back with him. It cannot always be night.

What Tim Does Know: The dead do not come back to life. The dead do not return, period. And Jason is very, very dead.) 

The robin, just a juvenile based on its speckled brown plumage, but growing to adulthood by the looks of it, sings to him its sweet serenade song. Cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up. It hops across the base of the grave adjacent to Jason’s, tilting its little head in awkward and stilted, fowl movements and regards Tim with open curiosity. 

“You’re far from the nest.” Tim sniffles. “Is that you, Jason? It’s past Midsummer, but the nights are still long and endless. Gotham is lost without you. They starve for the return of the light. Bruce, he–” he swallows hard. “I think he’s lost without the light. It’s swallowed him up, and he doesn’t know how to get back out. I don’t think he’s looking for a way back.” 

He wrings his hands in an open display of nervousness. No one will tell on him. His only witnesses are either buried six feet under and pushing daisies, or the quintessential early bird of the true thrush genus. “It’s…it’s bad, Jason. I’m worried. It’s not justice anymore–what he’s doing. It’s. It’s something else. It’s brutal, it’s never ending, and it’s terrifying. He doesn’t stop. It’s like he’s completely out of touch with reality.” Tim sets his jaw and grinds his teeth together, a nasty, cruel fear clawing its way into his ribcage and making its home there. “I think,” he whispers to a dead boy, “I think Bruce is trying to get himself killed. And if he doesn’t stop soon…I think he’s going to get exactly what he wants.” 

It’s almost too much to acknowledge what he knows to be true out loud. If it stays in his mind, then perhaps it’s just an irrational, intruding thought. Perhaps Bruce Wayne isn’t going out every night looking to die. Perhaps he is not so far gone. But Tim also knows that you cannot hide from the truth, because the truth is all there is. However, that doesn’t mean the truth can’t be changed. That doesn’t mean that Bruce Wayne has to die like he so desperately wishes. 

“I think I might need you to use these tiles like a knockoff Ouija board and tell me what to do.” Tim says honestly. “You can be Top Banana forever. I’ll never dispute it.” 

All he receives in reply is a soft summer breeze that rustles the short-cut grass over the grave. The clouds above him roll together in great tufts, like waves in a tumultuous ocean in the sky crashing over each other. In the distance, thunder rumbles, low and threatening lightning. It is not so dissimilar to the tempest inside him. 

Tim closes his eyes and sighs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you might say. Maybe I’ll see if I can find Dick, after all. Maybe he can talk some sense into Bruce. He might be the only person left who can.” 

“I wish…” He clenches his fists so hard that his nails dig into his palms, leaving angry crescent indents that nearly break skin. It would be fine if he drew blood, he thinks. It would be fitting. “I should have stopped you, that night when you left. I knew something was up. You told me you weren’t running away, but…but I think that I knew. I think that I knew that…that if you left, you wouldn’t be coming back. I let you go, and if I had begged you to stay…” 

A memory: a bared broad-toothed grin, brave and bold and everything Tim wishes he could be. “Be back before you know it and it’ll be like I was never gone at all.” 

Jason had told him once that he was a man of his word. All a man has is his word, and if he doesn’t keep it, then what did he have? Nothing. Tim had believed him. Even that night when he had been hesitant, he had believed him. Jason had never given him a reason not to believe him. 

Then Jason had returned in a bodybag, presumably, because that is how bodies return home. His absence has been felt ever since–a crack in the earth that has sucked them all in and now they can’t get out. Months later and there’s no leg up. Tim doesn’t feel brave, and he doesn’t feel bold. All he feels is a hurt the likes of which he’s never known. Would Jason have stayed if Tim had begged him? If he had pleaded until his voice gave out? Or had Jason been doomed from the start, unbeknownst to all of them? Was there really anything they could have done to stop him–to save him? 

“I wish.” Tim halts and sucks in a deep breath. The air is hot and humid in August, yet it hurts his teeth like it’s biting cold. “I wish we could have met again under different circumstances. This life…I try not to think about it too much. Things never turn out the way you expect them to, I guess. I hear there’s a pretty big plot twist, but I doubt you’ll like it. In fact, I don’t think anyone will.” He feels sick to his stomach. Something terribly cursed has stuck with him, eating away at his insides until they turn to rot. The connotations of which…if he’s right…Tim isn’t sure he could handle it. “Jason…how did you know about Bananagrams?”

Chapter Text

There are three conditions which often look alike
Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:
Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment
From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference
Which resembles the others as death resembles life,
Being between two lives–unflowering, between
The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:
For liberation–not less of love but expanding
Of love beyond desire, and so liberation
From the future as well as the past. 

– Little Gidding 

xxii. buoying blood, trigger ether, sink above–

Bruce looks so tired. He has since Jason died. 

The newspapers and other media outlets don’t know about Robin’s death, but even they’ve had stories about Batman acting…differently. He seemed happier with Dick. Nowadays, it’s like he just doesn’t care. But Tim wants him to care again. He wants Bruce to be the Batman that Tim remembers. 

Tim’s parents have enrolled him into boarding school, which does make his life a bit more difficult. It’s fine though, really, because Tim has always been a go-getter. He won’t let dorm life in the 8th grade impede him too much. 

On the Friday that his break week begins, Tim puts his plan into action. He rides his bike to the bus stop and buys a ticket for New York. It’s easy, really, to secure transportation these days. He simply tells a fib to his nanny back home that he’s going to a friend’s house for the week, and this sets his grandiose, carefully thought out plan into motion. He rehearses his heartfelt business proposal speech that he intends to deliver to Dick the entire ride out of state. Tim waits in the bushes a safe distance away from Titans Tower, armed with a backpack full of snacks and a pair of binoculars. 

He tells himself that it’s just a matter of time. Dick will have to leave the Tower sometime. Late afternoon turns to evening, and Tim eventually sees Troia and Changeling leave, indicating that their meeting is over. Then comes Starfire–leaving alone. Dick usually accompanies her. Cyborg and Jericho exit stage left next, but there is still no sign of Dick Grayson. Even after twenty minutes of waiting, Nightwing is nowhere to be seen. He’s not in Kory’s apartment, either. In fact, when he knocks on the door, she informs him that Nightwing left the Titans weeks ago. Okay. So he’s back to square one, or maybe square two, now that he knows Nightwing is apparently no longer with the Titans. But…just where in the world is Dick Grayson? 

Tim decides that his next step is to return to Bludhaven. Dick kept his apartment there, and if he left the Titans, then maybe he went back. So he spends the night at a hotel in New York, then catches the bus back to Bludhaven the next morning. Really, the clock is ticking on Bruce’s life, so he needs to find Dick as soon as possible. 

Dick’s weirdo neighbor lady eyeballs him like a reptilian predator as he passes by where she’s posted up on a folding metal chair outside, cigarette in hand. Like, seriously, one eyeball lazily tracks him through his entire walk. It’s freaky and makes him squirm. 

“Do you see Elvis?” She rasps. “It’s been real quiet around here lately. I would know. I can smell the color red.” 

Tim’s palms begin to sweat. “Uhhhh.” He drawls, helplessly, gaze darting around. 

She leans in, as if beckoning him closer, her apparent lazy eye rolling forward to focus on him. “I see Elvis. He didn’t really die. He walks among us.” 

“Okay,” Tim breathes out, voice pitched high as he feebly eases by her to the door. 

Once inside, he tries to put that whole interaction behind him and races up the stairs to Dick’s apartment. He may or may not do some light breaking and entering. So what if he taught himself how to pick locks? Frankly, Tim has a lot of time on his hands, and it’s a useful life skill. The place is a wreck. There’s a coffee cup with its own biome thriving on the desk in Dick’s office. But…there are also files and crumpled papers strewn about in some possible haphazard filing system. Dick is a detective, Tim figures, so he must keep notes–even something scribbled on a shopping list. 

He finds the clue he’s looking for–a newspaper article about Haly’s Circus. Dick has apparently decided to retreat to his childhood home–the circus. Tim will just go to him. He’s still got the rest of his break left to sort this out, after all. 

One brisk autumn evening in November, Alfred opens the front doors to Wayne Manor one evening to find a guilty-looking Dick Grayson and a pleased Timothy Drake on the other side. 

“Good heavens,” the butler says. “Master Dick, Master Timothy–do come inside.”

Once both the prodigal son and neighbor boy have been ushered inside, he addresses them again. 

“May I ask what warrants this surprise–and very welcome–visit?” 

Tim stares at the Renoir and the Erte, which he’s already seen many times before, but says nothing. It’s been months since he’s been in Wayne Manor. The last time he was here, Jason had still been alive. Even the old home seems empty without him. 

Dick clears his throat. “Tim found me at the Circus. He said that Bruce needed me here.” He casts a suspicious side-eye at Tim. “I couldn’t let him wander around alone, so I brought him here with me.” 

Because Tim had apparently been searching all over the East Coast for him. Tim, a twelve-year-old , on his own in New York and then Bludhaven before finally finding Dick at Haly’s Circus. 

“Uh,” Tim coughs. “I’m not twelve, anymore. I’m thirteen.” 

Right, because that makes it all so much better. 

“And I don’t want to cause trouble,” Tim adds meekly. “Dick, please,” he then begs, “once you help Batman, I’m out of here.” 

Alfred sighs. “Master Timothy, it is indeed a pleasure to see you, but if you are here for a purpose, please state your case.” He thinks about Dick’s words. “And– where are your parents?” 

“They’re off visiting someplace or another on business,” Tim answers, idly scratching his cheek. “Dad’s always traveling and mom goes with him.” 

Dick narrows his eyes. “And you?” 

“They put me in a boarding school outside Gotham City, but this is vacation week. I’m not skipping class or anything–don’t worry.” Tim reassures him, because Dick definitely looks worried. He decides to get straight to the point. “Look, I’m sorry about this but…ever since Jason…died, Batman’s been acting crazy. He needs help…” 

Tim trails off at the nearly identical stares that Dick and Alfred are giving him, but musters up the courage to power through. “...and I think he needs you.” 

“What are you talking about?” Dick asks, slowly. 

Sighing, Tim fishes around for something he’d tucked into his jacket pocket. “Okay, you won’t take me seriously until I tell you everything.” He finds what he’s looking for and then eases himself into a chair. “Dick, I don’t want this to hurt you. And I’m really afraid it might.” 

Dick pulls a matching chair over and sits across from him. “Tim, just tell me your story, please.” 

“Alright,” Tim sucks in a breath and holds out a photograph. “We’ve met before the Christmas party. I’ve even got this picture to prove it. This was taken on my first trip to the circus–on the day I saw Batman for the first time. It was the day your parents were killed.” 

Sure enough, the photograph in Tim’s outstretched hand shows John and Mary Grayson standing next to a couple that Dick recognizes as Tim Drake’s parents. Dick is kneeling in front of them all, with a little Tim looking up at him. They’re all smiling–wide and happy, like nothing in the world is wrong.  

“Oh, my god–” Dick gasps, taking the photo. “My parents…” 

Alfred peers over his shoulder. “I-I know this photograph. That’s you ?” 

“Uh huh,” Tim responds, but he doesn’t sound happy about it. “After Bruce Wayne made you his ward, my parents sent it to you. They thought you’d want it. I was only a kid, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget what happened.” 

Tim proceeds to recount to them the night of John and Mary Grayson’s deaths, and about how his parents had thought that he might be afraid of the circus. That’s why they’d asked the Graysons to take the picture. He tells them that Dick had promised he would do his act especially for Tim. He tells them that he doesn’t remember the clowns or the animals, or anything else. Tim just remembers waiting for Dick to go on. He saw the Graysons fall, and then he saw Batman swoop in to help. 

It had been the first time he’d seen Batman. And in that moment, he went from being a monster to becoming some great Dark Knight. 

Tim had had nightmares about that night for years. Dick’s quadruple somersault had featured in those terrors every single time, again and again and again. 

“What does this have to do with anything?” Dick queries, impatience leaking into his tone. 

“Everything, Dick.” Tim explains. “That image of you doing your somersault, it stayed with me for years. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. You see, it all came together when I was about nine. The news was on, and I was sort of watching it.” 

The truth is that he’d been preoccupied playing with his trucks, but his parents had been watching it in the background. Then, the newscaster had mentioned footage of Batman and Robin taken by hidden security tape the night before. Tim knew then that he had to pay attention. It had been footage of them trying to apprehend the Penguin. 

And in that footage, Tim had seen the unmistakable acrobatics that had haunted him for years. 

Dick rubs the back of his neck. “I still don’t understand.” 

“C’mon Dick.” Tim shakes his head. “That flip you did as Robin…it was a quadruple somersault. The circus ringmaster said only three people could do that. I knew that somersault like I knew my own name. And it all made sense. Batman showed up at the circus and took you with him. About six months later, Robin made his first appearance. If you were Robin, and you were Bruce Wayne’s ward–I realized Bruce Wayne must be Batman.” 

Dick visibly startles at the revelation while Alfred’s brows shoot upward in open surprise. 

Tim presses on, because he can’t stop now. He’s got to drive his main point home. “When you moved to New York to become Nightwing, there wasn’t any Robin for several months. Then Bruce Wayne adopts Jason Todd, and suddenly there’s a new Robin.” 

“Then,” he all but whispers, reverent in the memory, “then I heard about Jason’s death, and again, there was no Robin. And after that, there’s been all those reports about Batman on the rampage. He’s gotten much more violent after Jason died. It’s made me really worried.” 

Tim huffs, thinking back over the years. “You know, since I was able to read, I’ve clipped every article I could about Batman and Robin. Heck,” he mutters, not looking either of them in the eye, “I used to fantasize what it would be like to be Robin.” 

“But mostly, I read about you two. You’ve both been so important to me in so many ways.” He gestures to the empty air with great emphasis. “I’ve seen it–Batman going off the deep end without Robin. I know it’s serious trouble.”  

Dick looks equal parts stunned and stone sour after Tim’s spiel. “Supposing all this is true, what do you want from me?” 

Once, years ago, in this very Manor just down the hall, Tim had hustled Dick at several consecutive hands of poker. This afternoon, the stakes are much higher. There is no Jason here to cajole or provide guidance. It is the lack thereof that is a great blackhole that has sucked them all in, and is about to rend Batman into fatal pieces. 

Tim straightens and sets his jaw, determined. “I think he needs you , Dick. But he doesn’t need you as Nightwing. He needs you as Robin. ” 

Dick’s face does something complicated where it appears as if he’s experiencing a flurry of emotions at once. He doesn’t really settle on one, either. “ Robin? You want me to go back to being Robin? I can’t. Just as I can’t go back to being thirteen again.” 

Before Tim can lose all hope from that reaction, Dick gently takes him by the arm and guides him to the great grandfather clock at the end of the hall. “But you’re right. Batman needs me. And maybe instead of arguing with him, I should try to help him. If he’ll accept my help.” 

Dick fiddles with the hands of the clock and then Tim’s entire world shifts as he slides it back, revealing a dark passageway down. “I guess it’s time to show you something down here .” He smiles, and it’s a splinter of the old Dick Grayson shining through–the older brother sneaking out of a party to play cards with kids. He ruffles Tim’s hair. “You little son of a gun. You knew the entire time .” 

“Not exactly like I could just come out and say it,” Tim mutters, following Dick down the stairs and into the cave proper. 

The lights flicker on, bright and luminescent, revealing a whole hidden world beneath Wayne Manor. There are trophies–a dinosaur, an enormous penny, a massive Joker card, and more–and computers galore. Bats flurry in the stalactites above them, chirping in distaste at the sudden brightness disrupting their dark. 

“It’s incredible,” Tim breathes, taking it all in. “I can’t believe I’m actually here.” 

Dick moves to a row of cases displaying various costumes–including his old Robin uniform. He scoffs at his reflection. “Robin? Those were the days.” 

He strips himself of his jacket and sweater, pulling them off over his head and revealing the Nightwing suit hidden beneath. Okay, great. So Tim has made some headway here, but not exactly what he was going for. Nightwing won’t do. Nightwing can’t do what Robin can. 

Tim waves his hands in a visual display of his distress. “No, not Nightwing . Dick, don’t you understand? Batman needs Robin! ” 

But Dick doesn’t stop, and instead makes his way over to a sleek-looking motorcycle. He’s gone, through some hidden tunnel system to Gotham proper, before Tim can even try and stop him. It can’t be Nightwing, because…as depressing as it is, Nightwing isn’t enough. It has to be Robin. Batman needs Robin. 

“Doesn’t anyone understand?” He mourns, pitifully. 

“Perhaps, Master Timothy,” Alfred’s voice surprises him, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. “Perhaps Master Dick understands profoundly, and perhaps that is why he brought you here.”  

Jason had saved Tim’s life once. If Tim can save Batman, if he can at least stop him from killing himself , then he has to take that chance. If Dick won’t do it, if there’s no one else, then Tim will do it. Because he has to. Because someone has to do it. Batman needs a Robin to stop him from falling into darkness. 

The only issue is that Batman has already fallen. 

It’s up to Tim to try and pull him back out. 

“Hey dummy, wake up.” 

Dick stirs at the familiar and helpful voice that pipes up from the shadows of his apartment. “Hunnnngh?” He slurs intelligibly. 

“‘Early vigilante catches the mook,’ and all that noise.” 

He sluggishly rolls over and reaches blindly for the source of the voice, tone pitching to a special flavor of impertinent slyness that makes something in his chest seize. Dick ignores his injuries–which may be the source of his problem here–and takes a moment to orient himself. He’s still in his Nightwing uniform, bleeding all over his carpet. That’ll stain. Great. 

“I feel like shit.” 

A snort. “You look it. You’re bleeding all over the carpet. It kind of looks like the side profile of George Washington.” 

“Thanks for stating the obvious,” he looks up to the corner by the forgotten stack of video games, “Robin.” 

“Just being a bud, Grayson.” 

The hallucination of Jason lurks in the corner, shrouded in darkness. He hunches in on himself, cape billowing unnaturally long from his pointed shoulders. The peaked shoulders remind him of Batman, but his little brother never had any armor like that. Jason–or this vision of him–looks both small and otherworldly at the same time. It’s as if Dick cannot get a good visual on him, despite only being a few feet away. There are no distinct facial features, only the white lenses of a domino mask. 

“Did you know,” Jason continues, “Gotham is only a 33 minute car drive away.”

Oh, Dick is well aware, thank you. 

“You never call, you never write, and you never visit.” His dead little brother nags him. “That’s okay. You and Gotham are like oil and water. I get it. I always came to visit you more anyway. Looks like I still got it.” 

Dick blinks at him in abject misery, yet his tone is soft and aching. “Why are you here, Jay?” 

“Look,” the hallucination of his brother says plaintively, “it’s not getting any better for me. I died months ago. I’m dead. I’m safely stowed away in my grave, in my coffin.” He peers at Dick in a strange look of ponderance, white slits turning to gleaming red eyes. “Or am I?” 

“Am I dreaming?” Dick wonders aloud, ignoring everything the vision has just said in favor of pinching himself. 

“Are you awake?” Jason shoots back at him, lightning quick. He sniffs derisively. “I think you’re seeing what you want to see.” 

Dick makes a furtive and vain attempt to swallow the lump stuck in his throat. “Of course I want to see you. I always want to see you.” 

“ Do you?” Jason queries in disbelief. “That being said, I think we should focus more on you. After all, if you’re talking to me , I wouldn’t exactly call you the pinnacle of health. Look at you, seeing dead people. What is this, The Sixth Sense ?” 

Dick throws an arm over his eyes. “You always did have a smart mouth.”

“Never knew when to keep it shut,” Jason agrees. “Part of my charm.” 

Dick attempts to right himself by using the couch behind him as leverage. “Right. You here to fill me in on what I missed?” 

“Hm,” Jason hums in contemplation. “Bludhaven. I never did ask. What’s the attraction?” 

He looks toward the still-open window and beyond, to the sprawling city outside. “It’s a hopeless case. A lost cause. A town so mired in corruption and sin that it’s drowning.” 

“I hear the school system’s good,” Jason quips. 

Dick rolls his eyes. “Comedian.” He sighs, sagging against the couch. “When Batman sent me down here I thought I’d solve one case and book. But then I realized…if I could make a difference here–well, that’d be something. This filthy town needs me.” 

The hallucination says nothing, simply standing in the corner and choosing to stare at him instead. Dramatic. 

Dick clears his throat and gestures around the room with a grand sweep of his arm. “Where to now, Boy Wonder?” 

“Where would you like to go?” 

Anywhere , Dick wants to say. I’ll go anywhere if it’s with you. 

Jason shifts closer. Dick can see the red and green detailing of his suit along with the yellow lining of his cape. “Wanna play a game? It’s a mind-reading game. Sick, right?” 

Dick doesn’t reply. 

His silence doesn’t seem to deter Jason one bit. “Okay, okay. I’ll go first. Ready? If you could change anything in your life, anything at all, what would it be?” 

I would go back. I would be there for you when you needed me most. I would stop you, save you, take your place if that’s what does it. 

“Wow. Tough crowd,” the ghost of his dead brother whistles. “Okay then. Do you blame yourself?” 

Dick’s mouth feels dry. “What?” 

“I mean, you must. The guilt is eating you alive. It’s way obvious.” Jason chirps, then slouches, cape seeping across the floor, almost touching the toes of Dick’s boots. “You’re losing, y’know. But you can still be in it to win it if you can get this last question. It’s a good one.” 

Dick withers back in fear. 

“What do you see when you look at me?”

Jason waits, and waits, and waits. He waits in silence for Dick to muster up some answer, some semblance of something, a sliver of truth. 

“I can’t…” he finally coughs, brushing away the sudden wetness from his eyes with the gloved palm of his hand. “I can’t read your mind.” 

Jason shakes his head and tuts. “No, no. That’s not the parameters of the game at all. Three strikes, man. You’re out. No cheating on my part, cross my heart. Now, I know as much as you know. This was supposed to be an exercise in introspection. But if you don’t want to face the facts, then I’ll be the one to tell you. Breaking news at eleven: you’re not doing so hot, Dickie.” 

Dick knows that. He does. Bruce has Tim now to keep him from going completely off the deep end. And Dick has…coping mechanisms. He gets by, even if it’s via scraping the bottom of the barrel. So what if occasionally hallucinating his dead little brother is one of them? It’s not like it has ever been a conscious effort. 

“You gotta let me go,” Jason says, achingly gentle. “This isn’t good for you, Dick. You know that. You know . You asked why I’m here, but you know why I’m here.” 

“I don’t,” Dick replies miserably. “I don’t. I don’t .” 

“You can’t–” Jason begins, frustrated, then sighs. He sounds like he’s given up. “I’m not…I’m not some self-soothing mechanism, Dick. I’m…” 

Don’t say it, Dick wants to beg him. Don’t do it to me. It doesn’t make me feel better to see you. It does. It doesn’t. I can’t let you go. If I let you go now–

“You’ve been listening to my voicemails again. I know you have. I can read your mind.” 

“Then you know,” Dick insists. “Then you know that I can’t–” 

Jason shudders, full bodied and stark against the darkness. “Some magic’s real. But this isn’t it, Dick. It fixes nothing–it’s only harming you.” 

But Dick has been grasping at those fabled wisps of Robin magic that Jason had possessed with trembling, desperate fingers. Bruce has made a very visible and highly conscious effort to hide what is left of Jason away. Dick cannot even discuss happy memories–the few they share together, or the experiences unique to the both of them–with their father. Instead, every night, he falls asleep hoping that he’ll see Jason in his dreams, if just to catch one more glimpse of him, even if it’s not real. Dreams can be real enough in the moment, even if they fall short of the genuine article. 

Sometimes, on particularly bad nights like tonight, Jason will come to him in his waking hours. It is typically never a good sign. Some nights, Jason will drag himself, fractured and bloody, across Dick’s apartment floor. He will wail and ask why Dick didn’t save him, why he had died alone across the world, why nobody had protected him. He will beg Dick to save him. Dick has committed Jason’s injuries to memory so thoroughly that he could recite them without needing the files for reference. The hallucinations are always horrifyingly accurate to detail. 

Other nights, Jason is cruel and mocking in his reminders–of Dick’s failure, that he died hurt and afraid, and he throws it in Dick’s face and rubs salt in the never healing wound. I called for you, I called you, I begged you to help me, and you told me to fuck off. I died screaming and it’s your fault. It’s all your fault. I’m dead and I’m not coming back and I’ll never be real again. 

But not tonight–no, tonight, Jason is almost real. 

“Well, this is where I came in from. So…” Jason thumbs toward the wall. 

And…and he’s moving toward the open window. 

Dick sits up straighter, not entirely willing for the spell to break. “You taking off so soon?” 

The visage of his brother moves like a ghost, nearly curling back to him but not. “Before I go, I got one question. Was it all worth it?” 

Dick swallows and watches him pause at the window, the yellow and black cape billowing behind him, impossibly long. “No question,” he answers, honestly. 

No question. It was all worth it. I’d do it all again. If I could do more, I would, in a heartbeat. I would be your brother in every lifetime. I would be a better brother. I would save you. I would–

Jason turns back to him for a second and throws up a lazy two-fingered wave. His posture and gestures scream casual coolness, but the tone of his voice is baby blanket soft. “You sleep now. Everything will be different in the morning. See you around, Grayson.” 

So Tim has this board in his room. 

Nobody talks about Jason Todd at all. It’s as if his name is taboo, as if simply speaking it will summon something terrible into existence and threaten them all. Yet, the morbid memorial dedicated to him– A Good Soldier –remains up and very present in the Cave. Dick must do his best to not even acknowledge it, because he walks past it every time without even sparing it a glance. Bruce, though…Tim will accidentally catch Bruce standing in front of it, despondent, lost in horrible thought. But they don’t talk about Jason. 

(Well, unless Bruce calls Tim Jason. That’s a thing that has happened, several times in fact. And Tim, well–he just deals with it. Bruce, however, seems to shut down completely. Tim witnesses him shuttering himself up in real time, every time.) 

So yeah, Tim has this board in his room. 

It has pictures, clipped articles, scribbled out memories in an attempt to further preserve them, and tangles of string tied to push pins connecting them all in a mass mess. There are dates hastily scrawled onto some, and most of all…there is an alarming amount of question marks. There is a picture of Jason, wide and smiling, right in the center. 

Jason had known about Bananagrams–a game that hadn’t been released to the general public until January 2006. Yet, somehow, Jason had known about it and pitched it to Tim back in December 2004. This alone is an alarming fact in and of itself, but there’s more to the story. You just have to know where to look. He takes the time to look, to review everything that could be of any significance in this bizarre cold case. 

Tim reminisces on the mystery of Jason Peter Todd and the years they had known each other. Not nearly long enough, if you ask him. It would never be long enough. If you give Tim an inch, he’ll want with a starving hunger and take a mile. But this road is a dead end, and it has been for a while. There is only looking back. There is nowhere or way to go forward. 

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, absent thee from felicity a while, and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain to tell my story, Jason recites in his memory. To be or not to be, that is the question. 

“What were you?” Tim asks the picture of his dead friend. “What did you do ?” 

He thinks of a Saturday afternoon spent skateboarding around Wayne Manor. 

Tim, what do you think of time travel? Have you seen 12 Monkeys? Here’s the main plot. A hazy recall of Jason giving him the basic rundown of the movie, supplemented by his own dubious internet searches. He even rents the movie, rated R and all, and watches it just to be sure. 

He dies, recounts Jason in his mind. Those were the visions he was haunted by. They were actually memories. It’s like…perception versus reality. The point of the film is that you can go back and change something in the past, but it’s already happened, because he went back and changed it. It's a paradox, and a time loop, and a bunch of other things. 

There’s Giordano’s and a brush with death on a night Tim does not think he could ever forget. The determined set of Jason’s saw and the grim acceptance in his eyes. An air about him like he’d set out to do something, and he’d be damned if it didn’t go his way. 

It’s my job to–

To what? Timothy thinks back to that horrific night, and finds himself repeating his own words. Die? 

Jason had always been Jason , certainly. But…there were times…there were times when Tim felt that he was more. It’s difficult to put into words, but he has to try. They say that eyes are the window to the soul. Jason would get this look in his eye sometimes, and Tim wonders distantly if anyone else had ever noticed. Tim has read that most emotional expressions are conveyed through body language. This much is true. Another truth is that Jason Todd had always been quite the actor. Maybe not born to be in the center of the ring and basking in the limelight like Dick Grayson, but he could put on a show for an audience. Tim is beginning to think that sometimes everyone else had been the audience–Jason’s own family, a handful of vigilantes, included. 

“‘The eyes are the window to your soul, or was it just an illusion, his version of what was, is or could be, conception of a thought brought into reality by the wandering of the ever-restless mind of William.’” Tim quotes aloud, and it seems fitting somehow. Jason and Shakespeare did tend to go hand-in-complicated-hand after all. 

To fully understand the emotion that someone is conveying, it’s important to look at all their body language. Still, if they’re particularly practiced at hiding things, one might never know the truth. Tim gets this feeling that Jason had hidden plenty of secrets from Batman, the renowned and so-called World’s Greatest Detective. But, there were times that Jason seemed…different. Older, wiser, and worn. Tim could always see it in his eyes. 

Got a lifetime of knowledge , he’d said, once. It had been years ago, but Tim remembers. 

See, Tim got this gig as Robin because he’s a pretty good detective himself, thanks. 

So Tim has this board in his room, and this working theory about Jason Peter Todd. 

What had been Jason’s version of what was, is or could be, conception of a thought brought into reality by the wandering of his ever-restless mind? Not only a conception of a thought, but a real life lived–a totally separate reality experienced not by the wandering of his ever-restless mind, but wandering in the very literal sense. It had been Jason the whole time, but possibly not always the Jason from this time. 

Conspiracy theories again, Tim? The ghost of Jason Todd asks from his perch on the desk of Tim’s room. His knee is drawn up, elbow resting on the bend and cheek propped into his hand. He looks faintly amused. Come on, Robin. You can do it. Think hard. 

“Did you know?” Tim asks the empty air. “You…that day when you were talking about Macbeth. That Saturday when you asked me about time travel. Did you know the whole time ?” 

Did you know that you would die? Have you lived this before? 

“A paradox,” he says faintly. “A time loop. Time travels in circles, Jason . You– you were Bruce Willis. You went back. You were trying to change something, chasing some perception only you knew about, and somehow…you went back. And then…something changed. You faced your reality.” 

Faced his reality and died. Faced his reality and was murdered in cold blood. 

Captain, you have the conn. 

Jason had been leaving him clues the entire time, in his own weird way. It’s like the story of Hansel and Gretel with the weirdest breadcrumb trail ever. 

“What did you change , Jason?” 

Tim huffs, not yet wanting to face the magnitude of his ever-developing theory as the pieces fall into place, and leans back against his desk. He’d recently moved into a room in Wayne Manor for the time being due to…recent events. It’s still somewhat new to him. Which is why he’s surprised when he hears a click emanate from somewhere in the desk, and realizes he’d accidentally just pressed a button that activated some secret compartment in his desk. 

Very slowly, he turns around and drops down to further examine the piece of furniture. The soft click had come from a drawer to his right, and when he opens it, it is empty…save for the loose and false inner panel. Upon lifting it, he discovers a composition notebook. 

FOR TIM DRAKE’S EYES ONLY is written in a very familiar scrawl across the front. 

With shaking hands, Tim reaches for the notebook. 

He comes to with a gasp, a death rattle, ricocheting through his broken ribs and echoing in his dormant lungs, out of a gaping, choking mouth and–stopping. Then, he begins to scream. Terrible, ruined screams that go nowhere fast as he frantically feels about in the dark. He has no idea where he is, just that he’s trapped, and he can’t get out. The lining of whatever he’s confined in is soft and plush, silken and stuck. He braces his hands out as far as he can go and contorts painfully, everything inside him shifting, all the broken pieces crunching and grinding together in an agonous instant. Nothing gives way. 

Stuck stuck stuck trapped trapped trapped he’s TRAPPED AND HE CAN’T GET OUT–

He curls his hands, the only part of him that doesn’t seem to hurt, into fists and bangs them against the roof of his small enclosure. “ BATMAN !” 

There are fresh, hot tears pouring from his eyes and he chokes on blood when he screams. He doesn’t know where he is, he’s in excruciating pain, and it’s so very, very dark. It’s the kind of darkness that pulls you in and bleeds you dry, sucks everything out of you, leaves you with nothing, and you cannot escape. 

Batman, save me. Batman, help me. Bruce. Dad. Help me. Help me, please–  

(Batman had three sensors placed in the coffin. Unfortunately, they were all designed to go off if someone broke in, not if someone broke out. )

Batman does not come, no matter how many times he screams, no matter how much he cries, no matter how long he bangs against whatever is holding him until his hands ache. 

He’s frantic, panicked, pushing against the short walls of his–his coffin, it must be–and he can’t breathe. “C’mon. C’mon. C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon C’MON !” 

He desperately rifles through the pockets of his slacks, the pockets of his jacket, even grits his teeth together and bears it all as he searches through his shoes and socks. Nothing. He was not buried in costume. There are no keepsakes of his alter ego on his person. No batarangs, no tools, no equipment of any kind that would ever tell you that this boy, in this pine box, was the teenaged hero who fought alongside the Dark Knight. Batman has no room for sentimentality of any kind when it comes to maintaining his greatest secret. 

“Something, gotta–gotta have something –” 

He can’t get out he can’t get out he can’t get out HE CAN’T GET OUT–

He’ll survive it, this grim and unendurable vivisepulture. He’ll survive it because he has to survive it. There is no other option. 

“Calm…calm down. Not enough air...Calm...” 

He rips the buckle from his belt, musters all the brute strength left in him and tears the metal from the leather. Then, he uses it to dig into the cushioned fabric holding him hostage. He hacks away at it, hit after desperate hit, until his fingers scrape wood. He doesn’t stop. He claws at it, leaving deep grooves in the wood, scratching again and again and again, until his fingers bleed –until his nails break, tear away, until his fingers are just as broken as the rest of him. He kicks and punches at the wood above him until it splinters. 

“Gotta..gotta dig… dig your way out…” 

Finally, finally after an eternity under the earth, encased in a coffin, he breaks through the pine. That’s when the dirt begins to rain down on him–loamy and rich and suffocating . It hinders his progress, fills his open, gasping mouth, clumps in his tear-soaked lashes. He tries his best to push the loose dirt toward his feet, then to his sides, in order to create a space where he can sit up. He claws at the soil in anguish, moving up into the thick slough of mud, tasting the earth and all its rotten spoils, until he can stand. 

Jason is only four feet and six inches tall. 

They bury coffins six feet under. 

He digs up into the earth with a frenzied fervor, choking on clod as he fractures further. 

It’s a stormy night–the type that rattles windows, that comes with a torrential downpour, that has most sensible-minded people holed up indoors. Lightning flashes, hot and bright and dangerous , across the gloomy Gotham night sky. The stench of ozone, earth, and rot hangs heavy in the charged air. 

The angel, his steadfast companion through the solitary months of his decomposing, weeps openly as Jason Todd claws his way out of his own grave–new life breathed into him long months post-mortem. Fifteen and dead, but sixteen and so utterly, excruciatingly alive. 

“ Bruce ,” he begs to the empty cemetery, body shattered and mind rent. “ Bruce. Bruce. Dad. ” 

He staggers forward, taking deep, heaving breaths of fresh damp air. The rain beats down on him from above, cold and soaking him bone-deep. Everything hurts. It hurts and he wants his dad where is Bruce where is Bruce–

Another step and his vision goes dark as white hot pain tears through him. 

When he opens his eye, he remembers. Jason remembers. He died in the warehouse explosion. He did it all again, willingly. He died and they must have had his funeral and he dug himself out and he is a teenager, but he is also twenty-one. He died but he’s back and he has to get to Bruce. 

If he can just make it to Bruce… if he can just get to his dad , then Bruce will fix it. Bruce will make everything better. He’d paid his dues to the universe or whatever, and now he just wants to go home. Bruce can take him to Doctor Thompkins. Hell, Bruce could get him into the best private care and room in Gotham General. He could spend his following ensuing months of recovery doped to high hell and never fall into the hands of the League of Assassins after all. He could skip the whole Lazarus Pit thing entirely. He just has to get to Bruce. 

Jason painstakingly drags himself across the cemetery and out into the street. It’s a nightmare of a night, autumn threatening to border into bitter winter, but somebody spots him and calls 911. Really, he thought he’d gotten much farther. 

  The paramedics flit about him in no time, and the detectives follow close behind. 

“Can you hear me, son?” A man in a tan leather jacket asks. “What’s your name?” 

“Bruce,” Jason croaks. “Need…Bruce. Bruce.” 

One of the paramedics pushes the detective back, not unkindly. “Give him some space. He’s nearly been beaten to death.” 

“You’re lucky to be alive, son.” One of the other paramedics comments while the detective grouses. 

Jason is losing his grasp on consciousness again. He can feel it. It’s slipping away too fast and he doesn’t have the fucking time for it. He’s on an important mission. He can’t leave it unfinished. Jason needs to get to Bruce. 

“Who is Bruce?” The detective pushes. “Tell me about Bruce. Did he do this to you?” 

“No,” Jason gasps, still heaving. “ No. Please, ” he begs. “ Dad. Dad. ” 

Then his eyes roll back into his head, and he knows nothing more. 

Chapter Text

Do not stand at my grave and weep 

I am not there. I do not sleep. 

I am a thousand winds that blow. 

I am the diamond glints on snow. 

I am the sunlight on ripened grain. 

I am the gentle autumn rain. 

When you awaken in the morning's hush 

I am the swift uplifting rush 

Of quiet birds in circled flight. 

I am the soft stars that shine at night. 

Do not stand at my grave and cry; 

I am not there. I did not die.

– Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

xxiii. hold onto the ghost of my body–

One late afternoon when the long summer bleeds into autumn, Dick visits Jason. 

The trees in Gotham Cemetery have begun to change, a beautiful kaleidoscope of vibrant hues–fiery reds to gentle golds and muted browns. The season has decided to arrive with a slow grace this year, a slow and lingering death of dog days into the brisk winter. The air is fresh–crisp and clean–despite the smog of the city. The afternoon is cool, enough of a nip to require a jacket, and leaves inside places feeling a suffocating comfort and warmth when stepping out of it. Golden hour is at 3 pm, and the glow casts a resplendent calm over the cemetery as the streams of light filter through the trees. Civil dusk is on the horizon, and with it will come Nightwing, but for now it’s just Dick Grayson stopping by to see his brother. 

Jason would love this weather, he’s sure. Perhaps Dick would find him holed up with a thick book somewhere–something classic for fall, like Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre. He might comment on how his book of choice is appropriate for the weather, seeing as how they’re both set in seemingly permanently foggy northern England. Or maybe he would be out in the back acres, throwing a ball for Ace and walking the expanse of the gardens to the treeline. Maybe he would be found volunteering down at the soup kitchen in Park Row, curls tucked into a hairnet and plastic gloves too big for his hands, then playing baseball with the kids there after the meal. It’s Jason, so perhaps he does all these things in a single Saturday afternoon. 

Gingerly he kneels beside the grave and places the hard copy of Halo 3 next to a weather-worn bag of Bananagrams . “It dropped the other week. Midnight release. I’m sure you would’ve been waiting in that line. They say the content is unmatched by any games right now. I hear the graphics are next level. The soundtrack is supposed to be amazing too.” 

Dick doesn’t look up at the angel atop Jason’s grave. Somehow, despite her being carved from granite, she feels too real–too knowing. Her eyes are unseeing, but Dick feels as though she still sees right through him. He should’ve been the one to watch out for his brother. 

“Bruce gave you the mantle of Robin, sure, but I picked you. You know me. I was mad about him passing on something that didn’t belong to him. It wasn’t really his choice. He does that a lot, you know–makes choices for other people that he has no right making. But I watched as you became the brave hero he needed you to be. Maybe you always were. Maybe there was no becoming about it–maybe it was something natural to you. I was Robin first, and Tim is Robin now, but you had something we don’t. Something no one saw but me, even though you said it yourself once. Can you guess?” 

Jason doesn’t guess, of course. The only disturbance of the peace is the rustle of an autumn breeze through the trees. Dick sucks in a breath, and the cool air hurts his teeth as it rushes to his lungs. “Magic…was I wrong?” 

He looks at Master Chief emblazoned on the cover of the game case. “You never got to finish the fight,” Dick muses aloud, recalling Master Chief’s quote at the end of Halo 2 before the game’s abrupt end. 

Jason had been terribly upset about it all at the time. Dick had just thought it was a hell of a cliff hanger. 

“I was upset, you know,” Dick laughs mirthlessly, placing one hand on the gravestone. “I…I wasn’t fair to you from the start. I think maybe Bruce’s adoption of you didn’t sit well with me on some level. I wanted to know why he did that for you, but he didn’t do that for me. And…and I apologize for that. It wasn’t your fault. I should’ve been better. It wasn’t fair of me to resent you for something beyond your control. I should’ve been a better brother.”

Dick smiles, but it hurts. “Then you bullied your way into my life by calling me in the middle of the night. Man, was that a shock–you asking me to be brothers. I didn’t…I didn’t know that’s what you wanted all along. I should have known.” 

He glances up at the clouding sky, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. “Bruce and I weren’t in a good place. Then you came along and tried your best to repair things between us. At the time, it was something I wanted to be broken. Bruce had hurt me, and I wanted to hurt him back. It made sense. Then, even when I wanted to fix things, it seemed too difficult. I still don’t know how exactly it got so bad. Maybe I just didn’t see the point of trying to repair things in the long run. We always ended up fighting again anyway.” 

“I think you were too good for us,” Dick confesses, and it chokes him. “I don’t think either of us ever deserved you. I told you once that it would take some sort of miracle to fix the mess Bruce and I got ourselves into. I think that miracle was you, and we were both too blind to see the truth for what it was. I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t have waited until now to say all this. Maybe I’m just a coward after all.” 

He rests both hands against the smooth front of the stone slab. “I’m sorry. ‘Brothers visit each other, right?’ I said that to you once, and I haven’t been good about it.” 

And see, this is the thing about Dick Grayson. 

He has failed Jason. He continues to fail Jason. 

He’d always wondered if Jason would grow taller than him one day. Jason had always been so small before. Even if he had grown as tall as Bruce, he’d always stay small to Dick in a way. There had to be some law in the universe that kept little brothers small, so they didn’t grow too big or go too far away from their older brothers. 

Dick places his forehead against the headstone and closes his eyes, tears biting at his cheeks. “We’ll make it. Tell me we’ll make it, Jay.” 

On a breezy autumn afternoon, Bruce finds himself in the far edge of the gardens throwing a ball for Ace. After one particular pitch, Ace does not return with the ball, so he wanders over in the general direction to look for his missing dog. When he does find Ace, the dog is happily gnawing on the tennis ball by something he’d forgotten about. 

There’s an old oak tree standing stately and unfaltering at the end of the gardens. An aged iron bench of intricate designs and curved armrests sits under the swaying leafy canopy, evergreen paint chipped and fading. In the springtime, there’s often a patch of daffodil greens and flowers, untended next to the legs of the bench. It seems forgotten, this sanctuary of gentle silence and scenic peace. This particular spot had been a favorite of his mother’s, and then a favorite hideaway when he was a young boy. 

Carved into the old oak tree is a message, big and bold and unmissable. 

JASON TODD WAS HERE. 

All the breath leaves Bruce’s lungs. 

He brushes hesitant and trembling fingers over the engravings. 

When he looks up, Jason is waiting for him. 

His son is sitting on the bench where Bruce’s mother used to sit and read to him, so long ago. His arm is thrown over the worn back of the seat and he’s resting one leg on his other knee, foot tapping the air to some secret rhythm. He looks all parts casual, as if he’s simply enjoying the beautiful autumn day. 

Then, he looks at Bruce. 

“You found me. Took you long enough, old man.” 

Bruce thinks he might be having a heart attack. He must be. He must be dying. 

“I’m so glad,” Jason continues with a smile. “I’ve been so afraid.” 

He gasps for air. “Afraid? Jason, what–what are you doing here?” 

“I think the more appropriate question is what was I doing here,” Jason thumbs at the carving on the tree. “Or did you lose your ability to read while I was away?” 

Bruce collapses against the rough bark of the oak, hand splayed over his dead son’s name as the boy stares back at him. “What are you afraid of?” 

“You,” Jason answers, accuses, admits. 

He cannot take it. He cannot bear it. 

“Me?” Bruce rasps, fingers curling into the cashmere of his sweater as he heaves. “You’re afraid of me ?” 

Jason flexes his fingers. “Yes. You don’t want me.” 

“No,” Bruce denies immediately, a choked gasp of a cry nearly escaping. He forces it back. “ No, Jay. I always, always want you. You…you were the best.” 

His son–his dead son, his baby boy–is looking at him like Bruce is some indecipherable puzzle that he’s determined to solve. “Then why are you trying so hard to forget me?” 

“I’m not,” Bruce assures him. “I would never.” 

Jason rises from the wrought iron bench and steps toward him. Once, twice, thrice, until he’s standing before him. Bruce could reach out and touch him. If only Bruce could reach out and touch him. 

“I was here. I was here . I’m still here,” he goes to tap Bruce on the chest, right above his heart, but stops an inch away. “But you keep trying to get rid of me.” 

“No,” Bruce rasps. “No, Jason.” 

The edge of the gardens is still. It’s just the two of them here, in this brief and impossible moment of stopped time. Jason cocks his head and looks at Bruce in disbelief. 

“You are. Why do you think I’ve been away?” 

You died. You died and I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry. You’ll never know how sorry I am. God, son. You’ll never know. I should have told you how much I loved you. How much I love you. I’m so sorry. 

“ You ,” he punctuates this word with great emphasis, “have been pushing me away. You’ve done your best to compartmentalize me like I’m one of your cases. I died and then you packed me up into file boxes and digitized notes. You took down all the pictures of me in the Manor and put them out of sight. You do your best to not think of me at all. I’m just a footnote in Batman’s career because Bruce Wayne can’t handle the thought of me.” 

Jason throws his hands in the air, wild. “Don’t you want me? Do you regret me? Am I nothing but your biggest failure? Will I ever be your son again?” 

Always, always, always, Bruce begs. I always want you, I never regret you–not for a moment, not ever. You’re not a failure. You’re always my son. You’ll always be my son. 

“You’re killing me, Bruce. Joker may have struck the blow but you’re killing me .” 

Bruce keens, a dying sound that bubbles in his chest and rots the cavity of his heart like hot acid. Jason doesn’t look away from him, gaze wicked sharp, as if he’s seeing straight through him to his very soul. Bruce wonders what he finds there. 

“Do you see me?” Jason asks, angry. “Are you even looking? All I ever wanted was for you to see me.” 

“Of course I do, Jason.” He pleads. “Good god, of course I do.” 

Jason shakes his head. “No. Not yet.” 

“I do ,” Bruce cries, desperate. “I am seeing you. I’ve always seen you.” 

Jason sighs, longsuffering, as if Bruce is nothing but a mere child throwing a fit. “ What do you see when you look at me, Bruce ? Go on, tell me. What do you see?” 

How does he put it into words? He sees a starving boy in Crime Alley with more bravery in his phalanges that gripped a tire iron and swung at Batman after jacking his tires than ten men have in them. He sees a boy who loves to learn, who loves school so much that he skips patrols to finish his homework. He sees a boy that touched the lives of everyone around him more than he could ever know. He sees a boy that cares so much for others that his love branches into fury at injustice, because his heart is so big and so heavy that he doesn’t know where to put all that goodwill. Even still, he sees a boy that wears his heart stitched onto his sleeve with gooey mesoderm, hem made of elastic fiber and connective tissue, with fragile care, clumsily hidden behind his back in an attempt to shield it from the world. When he looks at Jason, he sees his son.

He also sees his greatest failure, because Bruce had failed to save him. 

Jason looks away from him then, finally, when Bruce doesn’t answer. “What if I was different? What if I changed? What would you think of me then? What would you see then, if you can’t even tell me what you see now?” 

“Jason–” He starts, and cannot find the words. 

His son pins him in place with a look. Jason looks afraid. “I can’t breathe, Bruce.” 

Ace barks and the moment is shattered. His son is gone. 

Bruce finds himself on his knees, on the ground in front of the old oak, palm and fingers still pressed to the bark. Jason’s message is still there, the only sign that he had ever been there at all. The bench is still covered in leaves, indicating that it’s been unused for a long time. Bruce leans his head against the tree and weeps. 

“Dead?” 

It can’t be. 

Nightwing clutches the message that Joker had left for him to deliver to Batman. I’m sorta committed to the plan at this point, and I need you to deliver a message to your dad. “Robin…Robin is dead ?” 

The news knocks the wind out of him. It can’t be true. It can’t be. 

Barbara refuses to look at him. Perhaps he wasn’t supposed to find out like this, but it’s too late now. He knows, and there is no going back. 

He has to brace himself on a computer terminal. “How…how do we know?” 

“The Huntress,” Barbara tells him, but can’t bear to look at him. “She arrived at Arkham after him.” 

He’s dead, Oracle. Robin is dead. 

Helena had seen it–the remnants of his uniform at the bottom of the sewer when Killer Croc had dragged her under. The bright yellow R, a symbol of hope, had been the only thing left mostly intact. There’d been nothing but bones and a useless scrap of fabric–all that was left of Timothy Drake. She’d been crying on the comms. 

Dick is so angry. It blooms like wildfire in his chest and bleeds into his tone. “What was he doing at Arkham alone ? And since when is Huntress sanctioned?” 

Killer Croc ate Robin–consumed him. Bones snapped in an instant between teeth and trapped in a gaping maw, muscles and sinew shredded in violent bursts, skull crushed into bits from the force of impact, spine ripped from his body like a child pulling a dandelion out of the ground. There isn’t even a body. His skeleton has been picked clean, skin peeled away and tendons stripped from bone, left to be lost in the sewers. There is a boy who was, and there is a boy who died a violent, bloody death and is no more. 

(Stop. Go back. There are two boys who were and aren’t, anymore. Now there is only Dick, and Dick wants–

Dick wants –) 

Just like that–Tim is gone. 

His little brother is gone. 

Barbara finally looks at him, turning her chair toward him. “I did what I had to do, Nightwing.” 

Dick cannot believe this. He refuses to believe it. “Did you send him to Arkham, Babs?” 

“It was his idea,” she confesses. 

Because of course it was. Because of course Tim would volunteer for something like that. Dick clenches his fists so hard that he almost feels the nails of his fingers cutting into his palms through the gloves of his suit. 

He grinds his teeth and heaves. “Just like Jason…we weren’t there for him. How long does this go on?” 

“No end in sight,” Black Canary agrees. “Now that we know he’s not terminal.” 

Dick doesn’t look at either of them, but there is open fury written all over his face. It’s frightening to see Dick Grayson like this. “That could be changed, Dinah.” He says darkly. “I could make him terminal.” 

It would be so easy. It would be so easy. He could end things once and for all. 

Barbara gasps. “No…Nightwing, no . Then the Joker wins.” 

He sneers. “He’s already won. You were right , Babs. He wins every time.” 

And who stops him? Batman? What does Batman do against that Joker that ever has a lasting impact? Everything that’s ever happened has always been about Batman. It will always be about Batman. It will always boil down to the infected bones of the vile thing between them. The Joker is a violent, rabid, and mad dog. What happens to mad dogs in Gotham? 

“No one hates him more than me. No one wants him dead more than me. But this isn’t the way,” Barbara tries to reason. “Nightwing, please. This isn’t the way.” 

Dick turns away from them both and covers his eyes with a hand. He feels sick to his stomach. “I know, Babs. God help me, I know . Everybody dies but him. ” 

But Dick can’t let it go. Not this time. He wants revenge–hungers for it like nothing he’s ever known. So he suckerpunches Black Canary, apologizes for the dirty move, and steals her bike. He takes Joker’s message to Batman, commits it to memory, and crumples the paper. Barbara will probably cry about it (and she does), but it’s something he has to do. It’s something he has to do because no one else will do it. 

There is a barrier barring everyone from entering the cathedral, but Nightwing strolls right inside. He walks right past all of Joker’s poisoned goons and heads straight for the source. Joker is dressed like Elvis, taking a knee and speaking into a microphone that blasts his message through the cathedral. 

“Ladies and gentleman, let’s all give a big welcome to the first of the boy blunders…ROBIN: EPISODE ONE!” 

Nightwing says nothing, only stands there in silence with his head hung. 

Joker coughs. “Jeez, Wing-Nut. You look like somebody died.” His gaze rolls to the hand not holding the microphone. “Oh, that’s right. You lost another little brother recently, didn’t you?” 

In his hand are the tattered remains of a familiar yellow-black cape. 

“Now where was I? Hm, ah yes, the death of WingDing, the former boy-hostage.” 

Cartilage shatters and skin splits beneath the impact of his fists. 

The Joker is sent floundering back into the first row of pews. He grins, blood dripping from his mouth. “See, I was planning on having Batman kill me…suicide by superhero, see?” He tosses his empty gun at Nightwing, who dodges with ease. “I’m dying anyway, right? So why not get a little blood on his cape in the process?” 

He climbs out of the pews and licks the blood off his lips, tongue worrying the new split in the skin. “But revenge once removed is sweeter. It’d really put a twist in his kevlar if one of his litter did the dirty deed.” 

Joker grabs the top of his suit by the lapels and tears it off. “So…you up for a little homicide, handsome? Are you mad enough? Big and bad enough?” 

Nightwing’s answer is a roundhouse kick to his jaw. 

“Attaboy!” Joker cheers as his head snaps to the side. 

The force of impact from the single kick alone has left his right eye swollen completely shut. He chuckles and wipes away viscera. “Oh,” Joker whistles through split lips and broken teeth. “Hurts so good. But I still don’t think you want it enough. Where’s that killer instinct, Buffalo Wing? Where’s the rage ?” 

He’s able to dodge the next few blows and delivers a clasped-handed swing to Nightwing’s stomach that sends the vigilante stumbling. “Look, if you can’t manage this, I’m sure Papa Bat is on the way. He’ll help me along to the big adios. Imagine how mad he’ll be if I’ve whacked–” 

Another brutal hit to Nightwing’s chest that leaves him heaving. 

“– Two boy wonders on the same day !” 

Then, Nightwing miraculously recovers and catches the next throw. He wraps his fingers around Joker’s closed fist and squeezes , as if he’s trying to reach through the epidermis and tendons until he hits bone. Then, he rears his free fist back and breaks the Joker’s nose. It cracks, blood spurting everywhere, as sends him sprawling backward to the floor. 

“All the deaths! All the pain!” Nightwing shouts, enraged. “When is enough enough, Joker?!” 

He sends the other man through a bench, the wood splintering and cracking from the force of impact. Joker drags himself to his knees and hangs his head, wheezing. There’s an awkward rattle to his lungs and a weak wheeze with each breath. His arms hang limply in front of him and his jaw is hanging at an uneven angle. 

Dick thinks it’s finally over. He thinks–

“Ah…jeez…” Joker croaks, body trembling. “I hit Jason harder than that.” 

Dick’s mouth goes dry. 

Joker raises his head and looks him dead in the eyes. He’s not shaking because of his injuries. His body is trembling because he’s laughing. “His name was Jason, right?” 

“ Ooh, ” he rasps. “Wow, let me let you in on a little secret of mine. Boy, did Jason know how to scream. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sound. In fact, I still hear him screaming in between hits in my sweetest dreams. The reverb in that warehouse, echoing off the walls, wow –” 

He barely has time to suck his bottom lip between his cracked teeth before Nightwing descends on him. Dick trembles with the wrath, wraps his fist in the savagery and aims to kill. He delivers vicious hit after vicious hit. 

“ There it is!” Joker gurgles in triumph in the few seconds between punches. “You gotta want it! That delicious, yummy, bubbling hate –” 

Dick hits him and hits him and hits him. He feels the epidermis split and burst, feels fragile bone shatter beneath his fists, feels the blood soaking into his gloves. It fuels him, the pain, it makes him want to further the agony. Dick wants it to hurt. Dick wants Joker to hurt like he hurts. 

And Dick hates. He hates and he hates and he hates. 

He hates the Joker, hates that Bruce has let him go on this long, this sick and twisted punchline that the Joker has been dragging out all these years. He hates that Jason is dead because he got caught between Bruce and this maniac. He hates that Jason died so the Joker could get at Bruce. He hates that there’s a memorial to his brother in the Cave, just his ruined uniform and a plaque referring to him as a good little soldier , as if it sums up everything about him. He hates that Tim has fallen to the same fate. 

Good god, Dick is so full of hate. 

He lets it drive him, lets it fuel the starving fire of his temper, lets it guide his clenched fists as they beat the Joker into a mess of multi-colored bruises, soft tissue hemorrhages, and open wounds. He knocks out teeth and lets the blood and spittle fly. He wants to take his thumbs and press them into the Joker’s eyes and push until the Joker screams and screams and finally stops when there’s nothing left . He doesn’t, but he wants to. Instead, he throws packed punch after punch until his shoulders ache from the strain and the brutal violence. He doesn’t hold back. 

Maybe the Joker will die of hypovolemic shock, with all his vile blood coating Dick’s hands and the floor. Maybe it’ll be an intracranial hemorrhage. Maybe the buildup of blood within his disgusting skull will lead to such an increase in intracranial pressure that it’ll crush all his revolting brain tissue or limit its blood supply. He votes brain herniation, and envisions parts of Joker’s brain squeezed past structures in his fractured skull. He hopes the Joker seizes violently, has a heart attack, and then dies. Maybe it’ll be fat embolism syndrome that kills him–where the fat globules are released into his rotten bloodstream, can include more seizures, and then death. Dick hungers for it, that specific brand of suffering and misery that comes along with a vicious death. He’s starving for it. 

“He’s had enough, Nightwing.” 

Nightwing pauses, bloody fist reared back to deliver another sucker punch, heart twisting in fluttering disbelief. “ Robin ?” 

“It’s me,” Robin reassures him, hands held out placatingly. 

It’s Tim–missing the top half of his soft armor and the majority of his cape, but looking relatively unharmed for some scrapes and a particularly nasty bruise on his cheek. If he’d dare to say it, Tim looks almost–

But Nightwing grits his teeth. “No…no, you’re dead. It’s a trick.” 

He turns his sights back on Joker, who is limply hanging from his grasp, unconscious. “An illusion! Another sick joke!” 

Robin throws himself forward, desperately grabbing at Nightwing’s arms in an attempt to restrain him. “It’s me , Nightwing! Stop it! Stop this!” 

Tim certainly feels real enough, and suddenly everything comes rushing back to him. Dick staggers and drops the Joker to the floor in a pool of his own blood. 

In the end, it’s the blood aspiration that gets Joker due to the extensive damage to his oropharyngeal and nasopharyngeal cavities. It’s fucking pathetic that he dies choking on his own blood. It’s also not enough. Dick wishes it was worse. Dick wishes it was more painful. Dick wishes that death wasn’t a joke to the Joker, and that he died screaming and terrified. 

(Somewhere in time there is a boy in a warehouse across the world waiting for someone to come and save him. No one does.) 

But it’s a relief when it’s over. 

It’s a relief when the crazed and murderous maniac’s chest stops rising and falling. 

It’s a relief when the choking stops and the only sound echoing in Gotham Cathedral is Nightwing’s heaving gasps. 

And Tim looks–

Tim looks scared. 

“Nightwing?” He questions feebly from his hands and knees, on the floor, where Dick had thrown him off. 

The realization hits Dick all at once.

“What have I done? I..I killed him.” 

Batman, Huntress, and Spoiler arrive on the scene while Tim is checking Joker’s pulse. It only takes fifteen compressions for Batman to bring him back to life. Helena is not happy with the outcome. 

Huntress fixes Batman with an unimpressed look. “We should have let him die.” 

“We don’t do that,” Batman replies, to which she rolls her eyes. She takes little comfort in the fact that he sounds almost morose about it. “Not even for him.” 

“I did it. I killed him.” 

Nightwing is twisting his fingers around the wrist of the hand that he used to beat a man to death with. It aches from the strain. It does not ache nearly as much as everything inside him–his chest all the way up to his throat, burning and hot and empty all at once. His jaw hurts from how hard he’s clenching it. His breaths come in fast, short bursts. He cannot look at Batman–cannot look at his father. 

Robin places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “But Joker’s alive. He’s okay.” 

Spoiler rests an elbow on Robin’s shoulder. “And Robin’s alive! See?” 

“That doesn’t change anything,” Nightwing chokes. “I lost all control. I let my anger carry me. He was dead and I was happy about it. He won.” 

He pulls away from Robin and drags his feet down the center aisle, toward the doors. His head is hung, heart heavy enough to drop through the floor. “The Joker won because of me.” 

Tim feels a desperate panic fluttering in his chest and reaches out. “Nightwing, don’t–” 

“Let him go, Robin.” Batman says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “He has to face what he’s done.” 

Face what he’s done? But, Bruce–

“And you’re alive!” Spoiler shouts, body slamming Robin and wrapping her arms around him in a tight squeeze. “Don’t you ever do that to me again. Ohmigod. So not funny, Rob.” 

Tim smiles despite himself. “ Ungh. Not so tight, Spoiler. I still hurt all over.” 

His smile drops at the thought of Dick alone, left to wallow in the wake of his violence and grapple with the weight of his actions. He’s been worried about Dick lately. There have been worrying signs. Tim worries–

Tim worries that Dick is going to get himself killed. 

“We…we should go after him,” he whispers to Spoiler. “I don’t think–” 

Batman guides them both out of the cathedral. “Let him go, Robin.” 

But the last time Tim let someone go, he never came back. 

(Not alive.) 

Dick returns to his apartment in Bludhaven alone. There is nothing waiting for him but empty silence. He strips himself of his bloodied suit, a stark reminder of homicide by his hand, and sits in the emptiness. The silence holds no comfort or peace, only echoing agony. 

He decides to busy himself with pictures of Barbara before the Joker shot her, and his many pictures of Jason. There are dozens that he’d taken, though he’s never had Tim’s touch with a camera, but they’re still not enough. Then, the memory of his video camera strikes him, and he digs around in his closet until he can dredge it up. 

With shaking hands, he opens the screen, turns it on, and hits play. By some sheer miracle, the thing still has battery life. 

“Dick,” Jason is hissing in the grainy video feed. He’s scrunching up his nose and clenching his fists at his sides, shoulders raised near to his ears. There’s a flush on his face and Dick isn’t sure if it’s entirely from the heat or from embarrassment. “You’re so not funny.” 

He seems to notice that Dick is holding a camera and attempts to dodge being filmed, but Dick remembers being dedicated to following him. Jason apparently gives up. Dick can see it in the relaxed ease of his shoulders and based on the fact that his younger brother turns around and gives the camera the middle finger. Jason is smiling, wide and wild and bright, like nothing is wrong in the world. 

He hears his own voice from the footage. 

“So, Jason Todd, tell us how you do it. Gotham wants to know your strategy for securing the World Series title and beating Metropolis today.” 

Jason waves a hand in the air in a mock mystical gesture. “If you build it, they will come.” 

“Uh, thank you Kevin Costner. You’re a little shorter than I remember.” 

His little brother flicks the brim of his cap with his thumb a forefinger, a smirk on his face. “Someday, when you come back from Bludhaven, and you’re unemployed and have no place to live, you can come stay at my mansion I bought with my Major League money.” 

“Thanks, twerp.” 

Jason snaps and points at him from behind the fence. “You remember that every time you see 2005 Junior League World Series Champions on the welcoming sign when you drive to Gotham. Are you on there at all? No? Didn’t think so.” 

“Seriously, Jay. I want that autograph.” 

Jason salutes, serious as a heart attack. “Sir, yes, sir. Anything for my adoring fans.” 

“You’re right,” Dick digs his fingers into the worn fabric of his couch. “Every time I see the 2005 Junior League World Series Champions on the welcoming sign, I think of you.” 

He accidentally knocks the fast forward button on the camera, and the video footage starts up again, speeding along. He rushes to stop it before noticing something odd. Dick hits play and stills at the sound of Jason’s voice–familiar, but the words he’s saying aren’t. Dick has never seen this footage. Feeling desperate, he rewinds the tape until the beginning of the segment. 

This had to be recorded only months before his death. 

“ –ello?” Jason says, adjusting the camera. “Testing, testing. Oh, there it is.” There is a blur of scenery–the messy inside of Dick’s apartment–before Jason turns the lens on himself. “Great. This thing should be more user friendly. I’m recording over that video you got of me singing Cheap Trick. You’ll never see that again. But I decided to be nice and leave you something else instead.”

Dick doesn’t even breathe. He can’t. 

“Whatever, man. So, I’m doing this report for school and even went and did extra research at the museum ‘cause they have this cool special exhibit and everything. Did you know , ” Jason’s tone turns conspiratorial, “that the ancient Egyptians believed the most interesting thing you could do in your life was die? Go figure. Death wasn’t the end for them.” 

He sighs, looking wearier than a fifteen-year-old should. “We risk our lives every time we go out. I think that maybe Bruce likes to pretend it isn’t true, but you and I both know the bottom line. There’s so many good stories out there where the brave hero gives their life to save the day. Because of their sacrifice, the good guys win and everybody lives happily ever after. But the hero never gets to see the ending. They’ll never know if their sacrifice made a difference. They’ll never know if the day was really saved. In the end, they just have to have faith. Ain’t that a bitch? Batman doesn’t do faith. He does facts. You can see how this would be a problem.” 

Jason’s brows furrow in apparent thought. Dick has seen this expression many times before. “What do you think the end is like–whatever it may be, however it comes? You know, not in a depressing way, but more like a ‘hope for tomorrow’ way. I think everybody wants to achieve some level of permanence in this world–to leave their mark so they’re not forgotten. Maybe it’s their hope to leave the world a little better and a little brighter. But in the end…” 

His little brother swallows and says nothing for a minute. His tone turns contemptuous, and there’s a slight sneer on his face. Dick can tell by the small disdainful curl of his mouth and the wrinkle of his nose. “Do you know what it’s like, following in the footsteps of the Golden Boy? Do you know how many times Bruce brings you up? Compares me to you? Tells me how you’d do it better? Well, you never were as good of a detective as the Bat, so I’ll let you in on a little secret.” 

“I’m proud of you.” The sneer disappears, smoothed over by honest earnestness and a melancholy smile. “I’m telling you this now because you’ll never hear it from me again. Not in person, anyway. You’ve been a hero to me before we ever even met. You were the most amazing thing I had ever seen back when you were in the circus. You were everything I’d always wanted to be. You still are. I respect you. As far as ‘hope for tomorrow’ goes, I’d say you’re it. You once brought hope to Bruce, and you bring hope to Bludhaven. You brought it to me when you agreed to be my brother.” 

Jason holds up a finger, brows shooting skyward. “Don’t get me wrong. You annoy the hell out of me sometimes and you can really live up to your name, but…you’re my brother. And as far as brothers go, you’re pretty okay. Never change, man. I’d miss you.” 

He clears his throat. “The ancient Egyptians were also concerned that the dead should be able to breathe again. They did this whole “opening mouth” ceremony thing where priests sat the mummy upright and then said some symbolic words. ‘Thy mouth is opened by Horus with his little finger, with which he also opened the mouth of his father Orisis.’ You know, spiritual stuff. Good thing I never shut my mouth.” 

“So yeah, the ancient Egyptians spent a good majority of their time thinking about death and making all these provisions for the afterlife.” Jason waves a dismissive hand around and rolls his eyes, despite the fact that Dick knows he found all this interesting. The nonchalance is faked. “Obviously, due to the ubiquity of their funeral monuments. It was a very important and elaborate affair to die. They had all this stuff put away for them to take into the afterlife and all their important organs rearranged in their body or placed in jars. But did they really take it with them in the end? I mean, is there really an afterlife? Is it what they’d envisioned? Were they right to put their faith in such a thing? I mean, we don’t do any of that stuff anymore. Makes you wonder, I guess.” 

Jason stops for a moment and looks offscreen. Dick can hear himself singing loudly. Jason must have recorded this when he’d been preoccupied in the shower one day, the little sneak. His little brother smiles, warm and genuine and fond. It makes Dick’s teeth ache. “Well, I guess that…in the end, I’d have Alfred, and Bruce, and I’d have you. I also have faith that you’ll remember me, heart in my throat and all, and spare me a second death.” 

He pauses in the video and looks off to the side. “Maybe you feel the same way. Maybe you don’t. I don’t know. If I could read minds, I’d make it into the most bitchin’ game ever–ask all the hard-hitting questions while already knowing the answers. But I can’t. So I’ll ask this: are you proud of me? If you see this one day, don’t you dare bring any of it up. Don’t tell Bruce I said any of this either. I’d never live it down. But you can…you can talk about being proud of me, if you are, I guess. Maybe.” 

“JASON ,” Dick bellows from somewhere offscreen. “DID YOU STEAL MY CLOTHES?” 

The video ends abruptly, the final shot being of Jason laughing, wild and unbidden and slightly blurry. Dick lets the camcorder fall from his hand and hit the floor, and his heart drops with it.

Chapter Text

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph.

– Little Gidding

xxiv. deny me three times or hurry up and decide— 

Foreword: 

​​ If you’re reading this, then something has happened to me. I’m writing this now as a precaution, and because I feel bad that I won’t be there for you in the future. Don’t ask me how I know that Bruce has taken you in, or how I knew exactly what room Alfred would put you up in, or that you’d eventually find this. I know that you’ll become Robin, too. I told Bruce and Dick once that I was magic, and I’m telling you that now. I just know.  

Speaking of Dick and Bruce, I’m trying to do damage control, but I don’t know how much I’ll accomplish. The two of them are a nightmare, and I fear you’ll get the worst of it. Sorry about that, even if they never apologize to you for it. They’re both gonna fuck up a lot, but bear with them, for me. And for them. They need you, whether they want to admit it or not.  

They’ll train you, too. Maybe they’ve already started before you find this. I don’t know all the specifics of what’s going to happen. But I want to put my two cents into your training too, even if it’s from beyond the grave. I got a lifetime of knowledge, little bro. Think of it as my part of the Robin Manual, which is totally something we should compile. If I were alive, I would ask you to be my Robin. In a way, I'm passing the mantle onto you officially now. Dick did it for me, too, once upon a time. I want you to know that I'm proud of you, and that no matter what happens, I'll always be proud of you. I'm saying it now, real and in writing, in case you never hear it from me again. I know you'll be great. You're my Horatio, remember? You'll carry on the legacy and do it proud–more than I ever did. Chances are that you're going to get into some real deep shit in the future, which comes with the territory I'm afraid, so I want you to remember that. Yes, I'm serious.  

Anyway, I digress. Let’s start off with what you really need to know… 

Just in case.

JASON TODD’S GUIDE TO BEING ROBIN FOR DUMMIES (named Tim Drake):

In all my infinite wisdom and lifetime of knowledge, I have left you this guide. Use it wisely in my absence. 

First and foremost, we need to establish some ground rules. Abide by these at all times. 

Rule Number One: DO NOT TAKE ANY UNNECESSARY RISKS. 

Rule Number Two: DO NOT BECOME WEIRDLY OBSESSED WITH TIME TRAVEL. 

Subsection: DO NOT ATTEMPT TO TIME TRAVEL. 

Subsection 2: DO NOT ATTEMPT TO CREATE A TIME MACHINE.

Note: Am I making myself clear here yet? 

Rule Number Three: Sometimes you should listen to Batman, but sometimes you shouldn’t, mostly because he can be an idiot. You know what they say about taking things with a grain of salt. Buy yourself a bulk container of it for your time as Robin. 

Rule Number Four: Have someone you can talk to about things. Batman and Nightwing share one of many fatal flaws, but this one weighs heavy on both of them. Don’t follow their example. Know that there are people who are willing to help you if you need it. Don’t keep it all in. Do as I say, not as I do. Dick will listen. He’ll always answer your calls if he can. He may never reach out to you in his time of need, but he’ll be there for you in yours. 

Rule Number Five: Look out for all of them for me.  

Chapter Index: 

1. People to Meet & Places to See

2. Vehicle Maintenance & Modifications 

3. Advanced Explosives & How to Disarm Them

4. Equipment Caches Hidden Around the City (That Bruce Doesn’t Know About) 

5. Language of Combat (Jason’s Addendum) 

6. How To Be Houdini (Effectively): Everything You Need to Know About Being an Escape Artist 

7. Hunting & Tracking (Beyond Batman) 

8. On Occultism (Into the Mystic) 

9. People to NOT Meet & Places to NOT See

10. The Secret to Utopia: Beneath Gotham

Tim flips to chapter eight, which has been underlined, highlighted, and annotated with his own notes. Jason had written about a wide variety of occult topics—from his encounter with Deacon Blackfire and his cult of homeless followers to other demonic or weird happenings or encounters rooted in Gotham. However, there is never any indication related to the occult or mysticism regarding Jason himself in this chapter. 

Deacon Blackfire had mind-control abilities and an extended lifespan. He was a manipulative and power-hungry cult leader who claimed to be over 100-years-old. At first, we were unsure if he was truly magical, or actually just one of the world’s greatest charlatans. The man claimed he’d once been a shaman of the Miagnai tribe, a heavenly messenger sent from God Himself, a savior. The story goes that the Miagani people grew wary of him and demanded he be cast out of the tribe, but the shaman struck down Chief Palebear–the leader of the tribe. The Miagani people retaliated and tried to kill him, but ultimately failed, and instead sealed him away in a cave tomb. 

Blackfire claimed he was this shaman, and started a homeless shelter in Crime Alley. It would have been a noble effort if he wasn’t so crazy. He claimed that he’d found the secret to eternal youth–bathing in buckets of human blood. Somebody send that to Ra’s via international mail and see what he thinks about it. Anyway, I digress. Blackfire craved power and destruction, and orchestrated his freak religious movements toward these goals. 

You may remember this somewhat, but here are the more gory details via my personal account. He formed this huge army in the sewers beneath Gotham, mostly taking advantage of the homeless population. Blackfire then used this army to launch a violent war on crime, all while claiming he was god. The part you probably remember was Gotham ending up isolated from the rest of the country for a hot second.  

Bodies were dropping left and right–criminals, true, but the scenes were like something out of a horror movie. Batman never took me along on these cases, and one night, Blackfire’s murderous little cult got to him. There were–and I’m sure there still are–times when Bruce would disappear for days while working on a case. But I always heard some word from him. I think he didn’t want me to worry. This time, though, he’d been gone for a week. I paid Commissioner Gordon a visit as Robin and learned that over 500 people had gone missing in a single week. Almost all of the missing persons had rap sheets, but it had gotten so bad that crooks started coming to the police to report other missing crooks. 

They’d starved Batman. They’d drugged, tortured, and brainwashed him. They’d broken him in a way I’d never been before. Here, there are several lines that look like they’d been started and then scribbled out. Tim has never been able to read what Jason had tried to say over and over, seemingly starting anew and growing frustrated. I snuck into the sewers in disguise. While I was down there, the cult blew up the Mayor right in front of Gordon. I’m sure you remember hearing about that on the news. Meanwhile, the cult was going to kill Batman and have Blackfire bathe in his blood. I know, right? Like what the actual fuck? Like that scene from Carrie where they pour pig’s blood over her head at prom. 

Batman escaped and fell into the water. They thought they’d killed him and left, so I dove in after him. Then I was attacked by like 100 rats. LITERALLY A NIGHTMARE. NEVER WANNA DO THAT AGAIN. HOLY SHIT. It got worse too. It was dark down where I ended up trying to escape the rats. I fell into some place that reeked of terrible decay and awful rot. I called out for Batman, and he responded, but he was talking pure insanity about how he hadn’t kept the faith and how he was being punished. He kept repeating, ‘welcome to hell, welcome to hell,’ as if THAT didn’t freak me right the fuck out. I finally figured out what I’d been walking all over trying to reach him. I fumbled for my flashlight and turned it on to find piles of rotting corpses, and Batman in the midst of them. That scene plagued my nightmares for a while after that night, let me tell you. 

Bruce was in a really bad way. I’d never seen him in such a state. He kept flipping back and forth between a weakened version of the Batman I knew, and the effects of the drug withdrawal. He was hurt, and badly. In our efforts to escape, we ended up in a part of the sewer that Batman told me he’d never been before, and accidentally stumbled upon another horrific scene. We found Deacon Blackfire alright, bathing in the blood of naked men hung upside down with their throats slit. Thinking about it still makes me queasy. I accidentally stepped on a can and alerted them to our presence, 

Batman was in no shape to do much of anything, so I knew I had to get us out. While we were subterranean, they killed a news reporter on live television, and then Deacon Blackfire tried to spread his so-called gospel on air. My hope for you is that you never saw this, though I know you’ve probably seen some terrible things. I ended up having to blow the tunnel we were in, but we were still trapped down there with a ton of the cult members–all armed with bats and axes and all this other barbaric weaponry. I remember telling him, “It’s been fun, Batman. At least we’ll be going out in style.” I kind of thought we were going to die, if I’m being honest. 

We almost did, too. I held them off for as long as I could, but there were way too many of them for just me. Wish that wasn’t the case, but we’re all human, I guess. Anyway, I was pretty sure that I was going to die, so I started yelling and begging for Batman to do SOMETHING. It was like he really came to life like I’d never seen. He took out all those guys single-handedly. Somehow we managed to find our way out of the sewers, but it seemed like it took years. Felt like one of the longest nights of my life. When we got out, we learned that Gotham had fallen. 

Bruce kept saying that we were never coming back to Gotham, that it was Deacon Blackfire’s city now, and there was nothing we could do to help, that we’d LOST–

Tim skips through the pages. 

Batman had me manning this turret machine gun full of tranquilizer darts–

Felt like pictures I’d seen of the Holocaust–

You have to remember to whittle the odds down any way you can because sooner or later, you’re going to have to stand toe-to-toe with your enemy to fight it out–

Remember when Dick accused you of cheating at poker that night? Sometimes it’s okay to stack the deck in your favor before you reach that point. Guts can only carry you so far–

I got shot and had to stay behind for a bit, but–

Batman beat the brakes off Blackfire and–

Here’s a lesson to be learned: the important thing is never to let them sense fear or weakness in you. That’s the fatal mistake. Blackfire’s followers tore him apart. We couldn’t save him that night. The nightmare finally ended, and Gotham slowly return to normal, but–

Tim sighs, already knowing Jason’s insider account of Deacon Blackfire’s reign of terror over Gotham City by heart. He has studied this guide, poured over it for hours on end, hoping to find some clue Jason had left him. It’s true that there are many, including things Jason probably shouldn’t have known, but nothing quite suits what he’s looking for. He flips forward through the rest of chapter eight and nine to Jason’s final message to him. The majority of chapter ten seems like total nonsense. Tim can’t make heads or tails of what Jason had been trying to tell him. 

The main bulk of chapter ten is Jason talking about some secret treasure hidden under Gotham and some weird curse that follows it. Tim has heard a lot of things in his time, including tales about how Gotham is cursed, but he’s never heard it told quite like this. If he’s being honest, chapter ten sounds more like a school assignment for creative writing than anything. It’s totally bizarre. He also alludes to some kind of utopian society that once existed under Gotham, which he calls Wonder City or Old Gotham interchangeably, that existed hundreds of years ago. As far as Tim is aware, no such thing ever existed. He’d even searched through all of Batman’s files looking for any trace of it. 

Jason had also seemed to take inspiration from fighting the Riddler over the years, and had included an enigma of his own. As the story progresses, the characters (which seem to be some kind of alternate allegories for Batman and Robin, by the looks of it) come across a series of sets of three numbers hidden around the city. Tim has thought for some time now that this has to be some sort of hidden clue, but the answer lies in the puzzle itself that he has yet to solve. It goes like this: 

Humanity seated at a door of twenty-four,

False face, two truths hidden 

Amidst this supernatural soliciting. 

Captured inside concatenation, 

Eternal return here unbidden,

Only the dead have seen the end of war. 

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose and silently asks anyone who will listen why his dead brother had to be so cryptic. He wishes that he could blame this behavior on being raised by Batman, but he has a feeling that Jason was just like that. He liked his classics, and had a flair for the dramatic, and had taken a lot of answers with him to the grave. The ones he’d left to Tim were either incredibly straightforward, or somehow hidden amidst an insane story he’d apparently penned up in his free time. Tim can almost imagine him smirking in glee at the thought of leaving Tim such a tangled fictional narrative to solve. 

He decides to, once again, take the apparent clue line by line. Humanity seated at a door of twenty-four. Tim thinks about humanity literally, as he has in the past, and decides that perhaps that’s not what the purpose of its inclusion was intended for. After all, poems were often allegories, and never typically forthright in their meanings. Jason had always been a fan of Shakespeare, which could only spell trouble and a headache for Tim. So, he thinks about humanity and all its definitions, and finally decides on the heart. Humanity and the heart go hand-in-hand, and it fits with the theme. False face, two truths hidden obviously indicates that the story is a cover for whatever Jason hid in it–two truths, apparently, in this case. Tim honestly has no idea what amidst this supernatural soliciting means. Jason could be talking about the “treasure” hidden in the false utopia–a Lazarus pit. But he’s not really sure. 

Captured inside concatenation likely means that something or somebody is stuck inside a series of interconnected events. Eternal return here unbidden could reference the philosophical concept that time repeats itself in an infinite loop and that exactly the same events will continue to occur in exactly the same way, over and over again, for eternity. The concept was primarily associated with Stoicism in Ancient Greece, before being picked up and further explored by the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. He thoroughly explored the idea in his novel Thus Spoke Zarathustra, in which the protagonist learns to overcome his horror of the thought of eternal return. Nobody really knows for certain if Nietszche truly believed in the literal truth of eternal return, or, if he didn’t, what his intentions were for using it. It is worth noting that Tim had found an annotated copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra in Jason’s room once, when he’d snuck in looking for answers. He isn’t sure where exactly here refers to, but he knows that unbidden means that the referenced return likely came about through unconscious effort, or that the traveler was uninvited. 

The final quote is from Plato–well, debatably, but definitely attributed to George Santayana. It reflects the idea that war is a continuous cycle, and only death brings an end to the experience of conflict. If he circles back to the other stanzas, Jason was likely referring to death as a means of escape from the infinitely repeating and unconscious loop, therefore ending the conflict. 

Perhaps the weirdest part of the entire story is that after this fictional Batman and Robin escape the collapsed utopia of Old Gotham–revealed to be a front to cover a violent and sinister conspiracy that served the villain’s megalomaniac desires–they went home and watched National Treasure. Tim’s initial thoughts on this bit are that Jason was a total nerd and just really liked the movie, because although the plot has similar themes to the fabricated story, it falls out of cohesion otherwise. 

Today, however, he thinks that Jason was of the belief that he might need glaringly obvious directions. In Jason’s work of fiction, his version of Batman and Robin follow bizarre clues throughout the Wonder City that ultimately lead them to the treasure hidden beneath. Nicolas Cage and company do something similar in the plot of National Treasure. They also use the Silence Dogood letters and a fucking Ottendorf cipher to find the next clue that points them to Independence Hall. Tim could kick himself. 

“A book cipher ,” Tim mutters, sneaking out of his own room and cautiously checking the 

surrounding area before fleeing to Jason’s still-kept room–a mausoleum, he thinks sourly. “You total loser. I should have known all along.” 

The issue is that Jason owned a lot of books. The series of three number sets must be the cipher itself, but he has no idea what the key could be. Tim stares at the books on the shelves and rubs his temples, thinking hard back to Jason’s weird puzzle. 

Humanity seated at a door of twenty-four,

False face, two truths hidden 

Amidst this supernatural soliciting. 

He knows that he’s heard these words before. They strike some chord of familiarity within him, but the answer is just out of reach. If humanity is the heart, and the heart is seated at a door, it must be literal. He thinks about the number twenty-four, a door, and the heart, and it hits him–the ribcage. 

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs. 

False face must hide what the false heart doth know. 

Two truths are told…

This supernatural soliciting…

“Tim, what do you think of time travel?” 

“‘If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, absent thee from felicity a while, and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain to tell my story.’”

With a trembling hand, Tim withdraws the worn copy of Macbeth from the bookshelf, something sour on his tongue. 

Cass doesn’t know her younger brother. Younger only be a handful of days, but younger nonetheless. Yet, she knows the absence of him. She can read it in the weary lines of Bruce’s shoulders, in the sorrowful look Dick sometimes gets in his eye at the mention of baseball or neapolitan ice cream. Tim is…different. It’s like there’s an entire colony of ants crawling all over each other under his skin. There is a certain nervousness about him, when it comes to matters regarding Jason anyway, that no one else seems to notice. 

Tim knows something. 

Tim knows something that nobody else seems to know. Not even Batman. 

Batman knows a lot. 

And Cass knows this to be true, but Batman does not know whatever Tim knows, and Tim has not deigned to share it with him for some unknown reason. Perhaps, she thinks, he dare not speak it aloud. 

Tim has a secret, and it must be a heavy burden to bear alone, because she can see how it weighs on him. There’s the nervousness living just under his skin, the physical manifestations of single mindedly picking at hangnails until they bleed, the slight pinch of his brows. Bruce never seems to notice any of this, but Cass sees it all. 

Cass knows something that Batman doesn’t know, too. 

Cass also knows that Tim doesn’t know she knows. 

On August 16th, 2008, Bruce takes Cassandra to Gotham Cemetery in the late evening. The sun hangs low in the city skyline, casting an almost ominous crimson eventide over them. It’s unusually chilly for a summer evening, and they have both dressed in jackets for the weather. 

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” he tells her. 

Their drive and subsequent walk through the tombstones is completed in silence, before Bruce stops at a grave different from those surrounding it. The tombstone reads: Here lies Jason Todd. Beloved son and brother. Rest in peace. 

“Happy birthday, kid.” 

Cass stands, hands clasped behind her back politely, and dares. “No one talks about him,” she says, finally, after a prolonged period of silence. “All I know is…he was the second Robin.” She braves the next sentence anyway. “And that the Joker kill–” 

“He would have been eighteen today,” Bruce effectively cuts her off. “He loved cars, getting into fights, neapolitan ice cream, and the color green. And most of all, he loved the thrill of being Robin. I never stopped him because he wanted it so badly. He wanted too much to prove something.” 

Cass looks away from her brother. “Just like Spoiler…” 

“Yes,” Bruce agrees. “Maybe if I’d put an end to his attempts, he’d be getting ready to go off to college…or just having a normal life.” He swallows, and finally looks at her for the first time since entering the cemetery. “But he’ll never have that.” 

His shoulders sag, and he looks older than she remembers in the lowlight gloom of the evening. “I want to talk to you about what went wrong with Jason. I bit off more than I could chew. I thought I could take the pain in Jason’s heart and replace it with something better. I thought I could give him a reason to turn his life around. But he missed his mother. My own mother was shot to death in front of me, but Jason’s mother–his birth mother–was alive. She abandoned him, but she was alive.” 

Bruce stares at the angel looming above them, the figure giving off the illusion of darkened stained tear tracks down her granite cheeks from years of rain exposure. “And perhaps that’s why I didn’t stop him from scouring the Middle East to find her because of the hope that she was alive.” 

“I wanted what any father wants for his son,” he continues, and it startles her a little to see him begin to cry. “Hope. Happiness. A future of never wanting or regretting something he could never have again. I just…I just went about it the wrong way. I allowed him to have hope…and it killed him.” 

Bruce hangs his head and hides his tears and face away in his hands. It’s too late, though. Cassandra has already read him. “He’ll never have it. For some of us, it’s too late. For some of us, there is no going back.” 

Cassandra meets her first younger brother and figures something out about the second one all in the same evening. There are times when Dick and Tim are together, and she is allowed to join them (she is always welcomed, they all tell her), when they share a plate of Alfred’s chocolate chip cookies. Their oldest brother, however, never lets them eat the last one. Dick never eats it, either. Truthfully, it remains on the plate, and Cass has no idea what happens to it after Alfred takes it away. It’s weird. 

It is not a peacekeeping solution to keep Tim and Cass from fighting over the last cookie. They wouldn’t do that, not really. It’s something deeper. She’s not upset over a cookie, but it’s more of a curiosity thing. 

When asked, Dick only says one thing with a faraway look in his eye. 

“He called dibs on the last chocolate chip cookie forever.” 

Perhaps, that night, Cass learns something about all three of her brothers. 

It is a late rainy afternoon in September and Bruce is leaving Wayne Enterprises for the day. The valet has brought his car around front, and as he’s preparing to climb into the driver’s side, he happens to cast a casual glance across the street. It is then that he spots something amidst the everyday bustle and busyness of Gotham sidewalks and traffic that makes his heart seize. 

Across the street, there is a young man–an older teenager, by the looks of it, staring at him. He’s the only person stopped amidst the foot traffic pushing by him on the sidewalk, a stalwart and near ghostly presence. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his brown leather jacket and his gaze is steady, aimed right at Bruce. There is a stark streak of white struck through his bangs and ruffled by the autumn breeze, a contrast from the rest of his dark hair. His eyes, though far away, are blue and piercing, as if he’s looking right into his target’s soul and seeking something. He’s tall, nearly as tall as Bruce himself, if not taller. Broad-shouldered and centered, with a strong jaw and grim set to his mouth. 

He looks–

Dare Bruce even say it–

He looks a great deal like Jason. It’s undeniable. Bruce has seen that very expression many times before, worn on a younger face but still bold and on display. He’s seen that exact stance before, practiced by a younger boy, but with the same set to his shoulders and exhibiting an attitude of immovable force. 

Hope, wretched hope, flares to life in his chest like a sparked wildfire. 

Bruce abandons his car and the thought of his drive home and runs into traffic toward the boy. He watches as the stranger’s–no, he knows him–eyes narrow in the slightest as Bruce Wayne, a very known public figure, stumbles toward him as fast as Gotham will allow. The city slows for no one though, not even Batman or Bruce Wayne, and a bus cuts him off. He halts suddenly to avoid getting turned into roadkill, and waits impatiently as the bus drives by. But, when it has finally passed, the spot where the boy had been is empty. Tourists, commuters, and other citizens walk past, unperturbed, as if he had never been there at all. 

The valet rushes after him. “Mr. Wayne,” the man wheezes, “are you okay? What happened?” 

“I–” Bruce starts, then stops. Because what does he say? I saw my dead son staring at me from across the street so I tried to speak with him. He was as real as you and me and he was right here. “I thought…I saw someone I knew.” 

Knew, yes. Because Jason is years dead. 

Not beaten. Never beaten. Ride it. It’s not fear. It’s the chemicals. I know what I am. Yes. It’s not fear. I know what I am. It’s not fear. 

“Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!” 

“Sir!” Alfred’s frantic voice comes over the line of the Batmobile. “Calm down! There’s no one in the car with yo–” 

Batman punches the control panel, and Alfred fades into nothing but zigging lines of static. He heaves, wrestling with Two Face inside the cramped interior of the car. 

“Hey, it’s me,” another familiar voice greets him from outside the window. “You okay? Alfred said you tussled with that Scarecrow monster thing and–” 

Batman stills, a disgusting mix of tears and sweat dripping from underneath the cowl. “ No ,” he breathes. “Jason?” 

“Hello, Bruce.” The vision of his son–grown and strong now–greets. There’s an easy smile on his face, as if they’re seeing each other again after Jason was just away for a few days or so. It’s gentle in nature. There is no white streak of hair this time. “We meet again.”

Batman pops the door, reaches out, and pulls him inside. 

“ Jason ? Aw, man. Batman, don’t–” 

He holds his dead-alive son with a wretched desperation. “You shouldn’t have come back! Who did this to you?! It’s wrong, Jason! It’s wrong !” 

Jason’s shoulder shakes in quiet amusement. “Does it matter who? The why is so much more important than who. ” 

Batman grips Jason by the lapels of his jacket and shakes him. “Then why ?! Why would you come back?! It’s over ! I had to live with it! YOU’RE DEAD! ” 

“It’s because of you that I’m here,” he says, struggling against Bruce’s hold. “And I’m not the only one. All of them. If you weren’t here, all these monsters would go away. You know it’s true. These freaks, these deviants, these killers. They slap on costumes and face paint and do wrong. Just so you can chase them. And that’s why I’m back. I wanted to help you, Bruce. You need someone better to chase.” 

“NO!” Batman roars–screams. It’s violent and sudden and tears through his lungs. 

“No matter what I do, no matter how many I murder– and there’ll be a lot of them–you’ll never be able to stop me.” Jason sneers, eyes hidden behind his domino mask. “You know why, Bruce? You love me too much. That’s so much worse than the rest of them, now isn’t it?” 

His expression turns forlorn and somber. “Who would leave their son out in the sun, Bruce?” 

Bruce trembles under the intense stare, with the fate of his dead son in his hands. 

“There aren’t enough archangels in the sky to come down and save us.” Jason tells him, tone grave. “We’re all miserable. You did this to all of us. Why do you see me ? What do you see when you look at me? At any of us? Hurry up and fucking decide. You’re running out of time.” 

Suddenly, as if gravity is against them, Jason hurls Bruce from the blown roof of the Batmobile, and he knows nothing. He awakens nine hours later, out of the suit and bandaged, and hooked up to an IV line. Tim, in full Robin gear, is seated beside him. 

Bruce groans. “I…I think the worst of it has passed.” 

“Yeah, well,” Tim says with a rueful smile, “Alfred wants to get two more units of blood into you. How many pints of blood do you keep on hand around here?” 

With great effort, Bruce rises from the medical cot. “ Enough. Shouldn’t you be in San Francisco with the Teen Titans?” 

“I was on my way, I swear.” Tim assures him, knees pulled up to his chest and wrapped in his arms. “But I had to head back and play Nascar with you.” 

Bruce drags his IV pole with him as he goes, partially using it to steady himself. “You can still catch the next flight and be out there in time.” 

“I’m flying out tonight,” Tim says, pleasantly loping along beside him. 

“Good, “ Bruce grunts. 

Tim watches him. “It got a little hairy there for a while, huh?” 

Bruce doesn’t look at him. “I suppose.” 

“Bruce…if Jason ever really came back…” 

He will, he must, he told me he would. What would you do if you knew? Could you handle it? If you knew what he’d done, what he will do…what would you do? What you said to me when you thought I was him…

His father halts and turns slightly in his direction, waiting for him to continue. “Yes…?” 

It’s Tim who turns away this time and raises a dismissive hand. “Never mind.” 

Chapter Text

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars…

And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven…

…and the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery. 

…and have distanced what is behind me for good reasons, 

But call any thing back again when I desire it. 

In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach, 

In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its old powder’d bones, 

In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes… 

I follow quickly, I ascend to the nest in the fissure of the cliff.

I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you, 

And you must not be abased to the other. 

– Leaves of Grass 

xxv. looking through the eyes of a life lived twice–

So there’s this thing about Dick Grayson. 

He’s notorious for not clearing his voicemail inbox. 

His voicemail is full, and has been for years, but it is full of messages from a single person. 

“Hey Dick, this is your brother. It is 3:33 on Monday afternoon and I was just calling to make sure you’re not dead on your nasty carpet. You took some hard hits and sounded doped to high hell last night when we talked. I’m talking snowed, man. It made me a little nervous to leave you and I–well, Alfred wanted me to check in and make sure you’re really okay with the wounds and the pain meds. Call me when you get this and you’re lucid enough to talk. Bye.” End of voicemail. 

“Pick up your phone, dweeb! Oh my god, when are you coming home? I’m going to make sure your favorite parts of the turkey are drier than the fucking desert and that your slices of your favorite pies are hollow if you don’t call me back within the HOUR. I will also let Ace lick your mashed potatoes and bread rolls. You know Alfred only makes those for special occasions. CALL ME BACK OR WALK THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR WITHIN THE HOUR. I’m so serious. I’m watching the clock. If you bail on Thanksgiving, expect severe and brutal retaliation.” End of voicemail. 

“Hey loser, it’s your brother. Super important topic of discussion here. Have you seen the mix I sent you? Listen, I’m just curious. I just want to chat about life–or in your case, the lack of a life–and see how things are going. Did you listen to the mix? It’s nothing major really. I just put a lot of thought into that mix. Like a lot of effort into it. It took like at least 3 minutes of work and burning songs off LimeWire. And it’s–you know, it hurts my feelings maybe a little bit. But that’s it. That’s me. Just that guy. Whatever. I’ve been there since you were a baby. Like the thought of me has been with you. Deep in the womb and linked through unformed brain synapses. The memory of me was stored in your placenta juices and we were separated at your birth. Maybe. Okay, I grossed myself out with that one. But you know? You know what? Just never mind. Neglect me. Don’t even worry about it. It’s important, whatever you’re doing. So. Alright. BYE.” End of voicemail. 

“ASSHOLE! When you call me and ask me to do something, you better answer when I call back! I’m not your secretary! I’m not some trick pony!” End of voicemail. 

“I don’t know how busy you are right now. Next time Bruce takes me to Tarbooshe’s , and you ask me to get you something, I’m not getting you shit. Or anything else in life. You’re not getting jack shit. Watch how it is when I see you. Next time you’re arguing with Bruce and you ask me to take your side like, ‘can you take my side? Can you take my side?’ I’m taking Bruce’s side for the rest of my life. I swear to god. Watch what happens. Next time you say, ‘oh please Jason make me stuffed mushrooms,’ watch what happens. NOTHING. You’re getting NOTHING from me.” End of voicemail. 

“ROY TOLD ME YOU MADE KORY A MIXTAPE OH MY GOD–” End of voicemail. 

“DICK CALL ME BACK RIGHT FUCKING NOW BRUCE KNOWS WE CRASHED THE OTHER CAR–well that you crashed it and I was just there and did nothing to stop you but I honestly don’t know what he expects. Like was I supposed to grab the wheel from you? Take the key out of the ignition and kick it into neutral? What? You weren’t unconscious at the wheel. All decisions were made of sound–okay this is questionable because it’s you–mind and body. Which brings me back to my main point. DO NOT ANSWER ANY CALLS FROM HIM. Not that you do very often anyway, but. WE HAVE TO GET OUR STORIES STRAIGHT. CALL ME PRONTO. WHY ARE YOU SO UNREACHABLE HALF THE TIME?! HOLY SHIT HE FOUND ME–” End of voicemail. 

“I know that you know that I know that I can see on your bike’s tracker that you stopped at Batburger. I know that you sent me to voicemail on fucking purpose. TRUST you will be dealt with accordingly. But for now can you get me a double Batburger Deluxe with medium Bat-Fries, and a strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream and NO cherry.” End of voicemail. 

“You remind me of the wizard of dodging phone calls. I swear to god.” End of voicemail. 

“Dick, if you don’t pick up the phone RIGHT NOW…that’s not funny. I’m gonna totally die of boredom and then haunt your living room forever. Your PS2 will randomly turn on in the night. I’ll blast Robot Chicken every time you’ve just fallen asleep. I’ll run up your electrical bill. I’ll sing Elvis’s entire discography through the vents so your weird neighbor will think he walks among us. Well, more than she already does. Then I’ll start talking in a Memphis drawl and begin sending her subliminal messages to harass you. You will never know peace. Here, I’ve been practicing. ‘AMBITION IS A DREAM WITH A V8 ENGINE. YOUR UPSTAIRS NEIGHBOR IS KEEPING ME HOSTAGE. FREE ME AND KNOW THE BLESSING OF ROCK ‘N ROLL RHYTHM LIL MAMA–’” End of voicemail. 

“Hey…it’s Jason. I mean, you can probably see it’s me on your caller id. I…don’t know. Look, I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry for pushing. I shouldn’t have. I’m probably the last person you want to hear from right now, but I want you to know I’m dead serious. You don’t like me and I don’t blame you. I…I don’t like me either. I don’t deserve you as a brother. I don’t know how to apologize to you. You don’t have to forgive me. I just…I…You chose me, and I fucked it all up.” End of voicemail. 

“You’re one of the only people who took me as I am and never asked for anything more. I don’t think I ever returned the favor. I’ll try to everyday now.” End of voicemail. 

“I’m sorry, Dick. God. If you could just…I know you haven’t left on that trip yet, so if you could just answer the phone. Just for a few seconds. I need you to know. I need to know that you know.” End of voicemail. 

“So…story time. I never told you this, but there was this one time where I totally got shot and Doc Thompkins had to dig the bullet out of me. Had a cannula and everything. It was kind of a close call, I guess. Bruce was pretty freaked out. He told me he wasn’t going to force me to do it all anymore. I asked him if he was kidding. I told him we had work to do. Well…Dick…I guess I’ve got work to do. I’m going on that trip after all, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. If you can, just…forget I ever said anything that night. You still don’t have to forgive me. Maybe you don’t want to be my brother anymore, but…I just want to be brothers again.” End of voicemail. 

“I was wrong. I fucked up. I’m scared. I don’t think I can do this. I want to come home but I can’t. If you somehow get this within the next few days, can you come and get me? I don’t think I can call Bruce and ask him. I don’t even know if he would answer. Love you. Bye.” End of voicemail. 

Dick never deletes them and carefully saves the archive of his little brother's voice each time. It's been years, but the ache of Jason never seems to go away. On nights when Dick is feeling particularly afraid that he will forget his brother's voice, he listens to those voicemails. It's painstaking. He knows them by heart. He could probably recite them in his sleep, even. But no simple picture can ever do someone like Jason Todd justice, and Dick strives to keep his memory preserved as whole as he can. 

So he toggles to the top of the inbox, finds the first message from 2004, and hits play. 

"Hey Dick, this is your brother–" 

Dick has never been good at letting things or people go. 

Maybe he never will be. 

Jason’s official cause of death–what really killed him, because despite everything, he’d survived it all –was asphyxiation due to smoke inhalation. 

Bruce has this recurring nightmare. 

In this dream, this torment from hell inflicted upon him by his own subconscious, Jason is dying. It is a completely different nightmare than the real events of April 27, 2006–though that one haunts him too. In this dream, Bruce witnesses Jason dying. He witnesses everything, every single time. He is there for every blow, every scream as it stretches on and echoes and seeps into his own bones, poisoning the marrow with a sickness to which there is no cure. Jason braces himself and braves the first couple of swings, but ultimately breaks down into strangled cries and choked sobs that make Bruce feel like he is going to vomit. He’s done that before–woken up in a disgusting mess of his own bile, staining his sheets and sticking to his clammy skin, but only after the nightmare ends. 

He hears every impact of the crowbar, is helpless as every brutal contact is forever imprinted on Jason’s skin and splintered into his bones. 

In the dream and true to life, the Joker beats Jason nearly to death. 

But Jason doesn’t die. 

In the dream and truer still to life, the bomb in the warehouse explodes with Jason trapped inside. He lies there amidst the rubble, unable to move enough to free himself. 

But Jason doesn’t still doesn’t die. 

There were burn marks on his body, but that’s not what kills him in the end. Still, the air is ripe with the stench of charring flesh as Jason’s tendons and sinew melt from the flames. Bruce’s stomach curdles at the smell. He lies there in a hot pool of his own ichor, trapped, still conscious and fighting against an enemy he cannot beat. There is a rattling in his lungs and blood spews from his lips as he begins to cough. Every inhale and forced exhale tears through his broken body. The coughing bouts and pain are enough already, but then comes the nausea. With the nausea comes the vomiting–Jason chokes on his own blood and bile, tears streaming down his marred and bruised cheeks as bloodied fingers dig desperately at rough concrete and rebar. It’s a horrific sight and sound theatre–his son coughing and throwing up his own insides in between shredded, agonizing wails. 

And he’s calling–

Jason is calling for him. 

“Bruce!” He wails. “Bruce!” 

He’s confused and terrified, crying and looking around in despair as the burning world spins before him. Then, Jason stills–not gone yet, but tired. His body falls slack, lungs no longer expelling smoke or the foul mixture of blood and vomit. He falls unconscious, and then–

Finally, this is how Jason dies–truest and cruelest. 

It is not quick. It is not a mercy. It is drawn-out and torturous. 

Bruce witnesses his son dying and die , over and over and over and over. 

Suddenly, he finds himself not amidst the ruins of a warehouse in Ethiopia, but standing in Gotham Cemetery. The lingering fetor of decay and scorched flesh makes Bruce heave. It is night, and the air is charged with the beginnings of a thunderstorm. It’s the type that rattles windows and knocks down houses, that comes with a torrential downpour. Ozone, earth, and rot bleeds into the stench of decay and burning flesh, causing his stomach to spasm. It’s a horrible smell. The agony doesn’t end tonight, and instead Bruce finds himself standing in front of Jason’s grave. It is night, and it is cold. It’s the sort of cold that seeps right through him and makes his teeth ache, a terrible emptiness sinking into his marrow. The night is frightfully lonely and leaves him aching so that even his throat burns.

Here are clear cut and dry facts that Bruce knows about the process of human decomposition. Autolysis, also known as self-digestion, begins immediately after death. The lack of blood circulation and oxygen causes cells to create an acidic environment, which then causes their membranes to rupture and release enzymes that break down tissue. Some key indicators of autolysis include rigor mortis, the formation of skin blisters and subsequent glossy sheen, and loosening of the other layer of skin. 

The body will then enter the bloat stage, where gases produced by bacteria cause the body to swell significantly. Sulfur compounds cause skin discoloration, and putrefaction odors attract insects to the site. Hallmarks of the bloat stage include body size doubling due to gas buildup and subsequent strong, highly unpleasant odors that linger. Insect activity also begins at this stage. Following the bloat stage, the active decay stage is marked by the breakdown of soft tissues, resulting in significant mass loss. Body fluids may seep through orifices; skin, muscles, and organs liquefy, leaving behind hair, bones, and cartilage. Skeletonization marks the final stage of body decomposition, where organic compounds such as collagen degrade. This stage is highly variable and dependent on environmental factors.

Within 24-72 hours postmortem, internal organs begin to decompose. Within 3-5 days postmortem, bloating will occur with accompanying foam leakage from the nose and mouth. Within 8-10 days postmortem, the body will undergo color change as abdominal gases accumulate. Several weeks postmortem, nails and teeth loosen. One month postmortem, the body liquefies. 

The decomposition process inside a casket is slower compared to bodies that are exposed to the elements. Caskets provide a sealed environment that can delay decomposition by limiting exposure to oxygen, moisture, and bacteria. The first stage is known as the fresh stage, and is essentially the same as autolysis. Bloating occurs after, though this stage can be delayed in a casket, particularly if the casket is sealed tightly. Active decay in a casket is slower due to the restricted environment. Additionally, the presence of embalming fluids can further slow decomposition by temporarily preserving tissues. The advanced stage is marked by most of the body’s soft tissues decomposing until only bones, cartilage, and some dried skin remains. In a casket, it can take a body years to reach this stage. Skeletonization may take a decade or more to occur in a sealed casket, especially if it is made of durable materials. 

Bruce wants to shut his eyes and turn away. He wants to leave this place. He wasn’t ever  meant to see anything more. The thought of seeing his son, dead and rotting beneath the dirt, has him gasping for breath. Bruce cannot handle it. He wants to run. But he can’t turn away, and it’s as if he is rooted to the spot. 

Far beneath the dirt and encased in wood, Jason is still from his eternal rest, hands positioned crossed over his chest. His skin is gaunt–brown, hard, wrinkled, and brittle–and stretched thin over bones. His phalanges, mandible, and zygomatic bones are prominent, peaking against the leathery layers of derma. All the injuries he’d sustained before death still linger, immortalized until skeletonization due to adipocere formation. 

Bruce has seen a plethora of dead bodies over his tenure as Batman, and even some before. But this–seeing his son, actively decomposing and dead –is too much. He clutches his chest, gasping for air. Everything smells and tastes of rot, festering and foul. It mixes with the rain and permeates the air, clouding his lungs and cloying on his tongue. There is nothing here but misery. 

Then, in an instant, Jason’s fingers twitch. 

Bruce witnesses the spasm, watches the color leak back into his skin, observes as his muscles and soft tissues rebuild themselves like magic . Jason comes to life with a gasp, choked and tortured. Embalming fluid pours from his split lips as he coughs it up from drowning lungs, and despite him being locked in a casket and buried beneath the earth, the night air reeks of formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, and methanol. It burns down through Bruce’s esophagus and into his lungs, stinging his nasal cavity and causing tears to prick at the corner of his eyes. Jason alternates between throwing up chemicals and cavity fluid and gasping for air. His coughs are violent, chest spasming painfully as his fingers twitch uselessly and he thrashes around in the confined space, ears watery as he chokes up embalming fluid. 

Once he has expelled all the fluid, he screams. 

The sound is ragged and raw, desperation and pain intertwined with months of dormity and drowned lungs. He begins banging on the lid of the casket, tears streaming down his bruised but whole cheeks. He screams and wails, calling for Batman, calling for Bruce, for somebody– anybody. 

Bruce moves to help his son, to fall to his knees and begin to unearth Jason himself, but he cannot move. He finds that he’s frozen, that even his voice has been stolen from him. Jason, I’m coming. Hold on. I’m going to get you out. Just hold on, son. I’m coming. I’ll save you. 

But Bruce can’t get him out. 

Bruce can’t even rescue Jason from death in his own dream. 

Jason panics, chest heaving, before quickly realizing his screaming is in vain. He quiets and stills, the switch from sheer hysteria almost supernatural. Then, he tears the buckle from his belt and begins to hack at the lining of the casket lid with a fervent desperation. When he hits wood, he scratches at the wood with the metal buckle until it breaks, leaving deep grooves in the grain, again and again, until his fingers bleed. His nails break, tear away, distal phalanges no doubt splintering from the force of his effort. Jason doesn’t stop. He kicks and punches at the wood above him until it finally gives way, splintering from his abuse. 

Jason takes that inch of give and takes and takes and takes. Dirt spills in around him, suffocating, as he continues to work at the hole, sticking his hands and wrists through and wriggling with all his might to enlarge it. The fetid stench in the air takes a turn for suffocating–rich and loamy as rain pelts them. Bruce is soaked to the bone watching his son dig and claw his way out of his grave, buried dead but alive, with no one there to help him. Jason fights against the dirt falling into his open, gasping mouth and the casket. He does what he can to push it toward his feet, then his to his sides, until he can sit up. He claws at the soil, pulling himself upwards through the soaked earth, thick with mud, until he can stand. 

Bruce remembers. 

Jason was so small, only four and a half feet tall when he died. 

He is still buried several feet beneath the dirt.

Jason uses the sturdy base of the casket to ground himself as he digs up into the earth with a frenzied fervor, choking on clod as he goes. It feels like an eternity before he surfaces, bloodied and muddied hand shooting out of the ground like a scene from a horror movie. The dirt around him gives way as he pulls himself up into the torrential downpour. Haunted, and with halted movements, he uses both hands to drag himself further and further, until he is fully freed from the dirt. He collapses, coughing up mire as the rain soaks him through in seconds. His body trembles, but he steels himself with what seems to be a grim determination. 

“Bruce,” he begs to the empty cemetery, shakily using his own headstone to pull himself to his feet. His face spasms in agony, but he doesn’t stop for long. “Bruce. Bruce. Dad. ” 

Bruce watches his son stagger forward, still heaving. 

Every step he takes is pained and faltering, but Jason only grits his teeth and presses on. 

Suddenly, he stops abruptly, movements jerky and disjointed, as if it was unplanned. Jason stills as lightning flashes across the sky, bright and hot and vicious, illuminating his face. He looks like Bruce remembers alive, but his skin is a horrific gallery of contusions and lacerations. His right eye is blackened, deep and purple, bright blue iris stark against a subconjunctival hemorrhage. His piercing gaze finds Bruce amidst the rain. 

“I can’t breathe.” 

Bruce starts, dread like an anchor dropping his heart through his stomach. 

Jason is staring directly at him, drenched. “I died screaming for you but you didn’t come. You never come for me.” 

That’s not true, Bruce wants to scream. I came for you. I did. I’ll always come for you. 

“You were never there when I needed you the most.” Jason accuses, and it hurts as deeply as if his son had reached into his chest and ripped out his heart. “I died because you failed, but somehow I’m the failure. You don’t even remember me.” 

Bruce finds his legs suddenly freed, and takes a halting step toward the dead-alive boy. “No,” he pleads. “No. I do. I could never forget you.” 

“ No ,” Jason shouts, enraged. “You made a memorial to me built out of fear . All I am to you anymore is a cautionary tale that you use to scare little kids into civilian life. Because I wasn’t good enough for you. Because I was too broken for you. Because I was too rash and reckless for you. Because you still don’t trust me, even in fucking death. You’ve done nothing since my death but murder my memory over and over again.” 

His son trembles in the rain, tears streaming down his face. Jason’s expression shoots for furious but falls just short, right into heartbreak. “You only want to use my death as a means to an end. But that’s not me ,” he cries. “You know it’s not me. Why don’t you remember me anymore? Do I mean nothing to you beyond your grief anymore? You’ve let it blind you this whole time and you turned me into something I’m not .” 

“No,” Bruce denies again, but Jason shakes his head, tears getting lost in the downpour. 

“It has. So I didn’t listen to you that day. So what , Bruce? There’s plenty of times I didn’t listen to you. There’s plenty of times Dick ignored your orders. The same goes for Tim and Cass, too. Yet you use me as a some sick and twisted moral tale because I’m the one who died. You act like my death is my fault.” Jason heaves, grinds his teeth together and turns away. It’s so like Jason to try and hide his grief. “That’s not fair, Bruce. It’s not fucking fair. I was fifteen. I didn’t even have my license, and you want to act like my death was my fault. I was murdered .” 

Bruce chokes back a sob. 

Jason straightens up and turns back to him. “You blame yourself, but you’ve since cast the fault onto me. I’ve never been a revered corpse to you. Maybe you only saw me as low hanging fruit overripe with bad seeds and destined for quick spoil. You’re a hypocrite, Bruce. That memorial for me in the Cave–what does it say? ‘A good soldier . ’ Don’t make me laugh. Cautionary tales are never good. Since when did I stop being your son, and start being your soldier ? When did I stop being good? Did you ever think I was good? Even a little bit?” 

“Stop!” Bruce cries. “Jason, stop !” 

But Jason doesn’t stop. Bruce’s words only seem to make him angrier. “What if I came back? What if I refused to let my murderer get away with the responsibility of my death–with all the agony and suffering he’s caused everyone over the years? He killed me, yes, but he also hurt countless others. What if I chose to hold him accountable? What if I would rather die again than let him walk the earth? We both know you’d never let me end him. Would you leave me flayed and dead? Would you kill your own son, Batman? And I am asking Batman, because we all know that’s really who you think you are. Sorry! Bruce can’t come to the phone because he isn’t here right now! He hasn’t been for a long time and he won’t be coming back!” 

Bruce wants to run to him, wants to grab him by the arms and tell him it’s not true–none of it. But he can’t. Instead he finds himself sinking into the mud. “Jason–” 

“Whatever,” his son scoffs. “I think we both know the answer. You just don’t want to say it.” Suddenly, something vicious clouds his eyes. “That’s fine. You’re already killing me again anyway. Do you know how I died, Bruce? And I mean really died. Other than screaming for you, of course.” 

Jason reaches up with broken and bleeding fingers and touches his neck. “Smoke inhalation. It hurt like a bitch, by the way. They say the majority of people die from that when it comes to death by fire. But it wasn’t quick. I didn’t take one breath of that super heated air and die instantly. I died slowly. It was agony. Do you want to see? You’ve always liked visuals. Let me show you.” 

Horror sinks its sharp claws into Bruce’s heart and punctures it, leaking fear directly into his bloodstream. He wants to reach out and stop Jason but he can’t. A fine and deep slit–almost as if from a batarang–begins to bleed from one side of his son’s neck to another. Jason, unbothered, reaches up and pulls at the incision with both hands until he reveals the cartilage of his larynx and trachea. Red ichor spills onto his dirty white button up and all over the ground in a frightening waterfall. Bruce can see the blood spurting from his carotid arteries and jugular veins, nerves exposed. His muscles contract as he bares his teeth in a grim smile and gasps for air. 

“I can’t breathe , Bruce.” 

Bruce wakes with a start, cold sweat clinging to his body, skin clammy. He throws himself over the side of the bed and abruptly retches into a trash can. He stays there a long time, pathetically hunched over the stench of his own vomit, before he moves again. When he does, it’s to reach for the well-worn pack of Camel Lights he’s long kept in the drawer of his nightstand. There are only two cigarettes left, and something about that makes him feel more hollow than he already does. Bruce goes through the motions, well-memorized, with trembling hands. It takes a few attempts for him to get the lighter to work, and he nearly burns his thumb in the process. 

“Don’t you know those things can kill you?” 

He stills at the familiar yet unfamiliar voice. It sounds older, still some youth clinging to it like baby fat to a child’s cheeks, and endlessly amused.

“You look tired, old man.” 

He knows that voice. He just heard it, preserved in a horrifying vision, just this very night. Heart lodged in his throat, Bruce realizes he must have never truly woken up. He also realizes that he’s scared–no, terrified to turn and face his son. But he braves it, because he’s forever left Jason hanging long enough. 

Standing in his doorway is the young man he’d seen a few weeks ago, staring at him once more. His hands are again shoved into the pockets of his brown leather jacket, that peculiar stark white of his bangs standing out in the slivers of moonlight peeking through the heavy drapes of Bruce’s room. His blue eyes–Jason’s eyes, no subconjunctival hemorrhage present–are soft and sad. Yet, he’s still looking at Bruce as if he’s searching his soul. 

Bruce barely trusts his voice, but manages to choke something out. “Who are you?” 

“You don’t recognize your own son?” Jason asks, voice touched with surprise, but also as if he expected as much. 

No, that’s not it, Bruce aches to say. Because this Jason is older and bigger. He looks like he’s about nineteen, like how Bruce has always dreamed he’d grow up to be. This Jason is not four and a half feet, growth stunted from malnourishment and neglect. 

Instead, heart heavy and aching, he simply says, “You’ve grown.” 

Jason waves a hand dismissively. “Well, so have you. Older, or wiser? Maybe both, from the looks of it. And grown into nasty habits. Smoking in the Manor.” He waggles a finger as if scolding a child. “Naughty, naughty, Bruce. What would Alfred say?” 

“What do you want?” Bruce replies instead of answering. He doesn’t think that he can take any more tonight. He can’t even wake up from a dream. 

Jason sighs, long and heavy. He looks away from Bruce, to the windows. Perhaps he sees something there, something made of dreams, that Bruce is unable to see. “I promised I’d haunt you once. I always keep my word–even if it takes a few years. So, you know, just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in.” 

“You’re different,” Bruce notes. 

Jason apparently doesn’t understand what he means. “Oh, this?” He tugs on a few strands of ghostly white hair. “Premature graying due to stress.” 

“Stress?” Bruce asks, thankful that his ghosts haven’t turned to poltergeists yet once more. 

“You know, from dying.” His son says, more amused than bitter. It strikes Bruce as strange, considering the first part of his nightmare. It also hurts. “Also induced by this goddamned family. You’re all a mess, you know that? I mean, good god.” 

Bruce sits in silence, contemplating what he could mean by that while Jason strides across the room in near silence. He pulls back the drapes, allowing the night to seep into the room. Then, he cracks one of the windows and lingers there. 

Jason looks morose as he leans against the windowsill, backlit by the moonlight. It casts a haunting glow over him. “Time passes. That’s for sure.”

“What do you mean?” 

The grown ghost of his dead son fixes him with a look. “World’s greatest detective my ass. Been sleeping well, father dearest?” 

When Bruce doesn’t answer him, Jason quirks a brow but continues. “Time moved on that night,” he observes astutely. “But you didn’t.” 

Something about the look of sorrow deeply ingrained into his son’s face causes Bruce to finally break. He crushes the cigarette–the cancerous tobacco having become something almost precious, a reminder of Jason before –in his hand and heaves. 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce sobs. “Jason– Jay. I’m so goddamned sorry.” 

Jason startles at the sudden show of emotion. “What–” 

“I wasn’t there,” Bruce chokes. “I wasn’t there when you needed me most. I left you. God. I left my son. You’re my son .” 

Jason rushes over, looking alarmed. He flits around the edge of the bed with twitching hands, unsure of what to do. “Right,” he says, voice edging on panic. “I’m your son. Alright.” 

“ I’m so sorry for failing you. I couldn’t save you and I’m so sorry.” 

Bruce’s chest hitches as he gasps for air, cries so great that he feels like he can’t breathe. 

“I forgive you,” Jason tells him, bewildered. But what forgiveness can a ghost offer? There’s no solace in forgiveness for Bruce, because what he wants most he cannot have. “It’s okay , Bruce. I forgive you for not saving me. I died a long time ago. It’s beyond fucked up, but it’s all over with now. Please stop crying. You’re freaking me the hell out.” 

He slowly reaches over and takes the pack and crushed cigarette from Bruce’s hand. The thing is beyond destroyed–flattened and awkward, remnants of tobacco sticking to his clammy palm and falling onto the sheets. Jason throws the thing away and dusts his hand off on his jeans. 

“I do this for you,” Bruce admits, bared and stripped raw before his dream come to life. 

Jason swallows hard and reaches out, gently touching his shoulder and guiding him to lie back against the pillows. “What? Kill yourself to be with me? I know and I fucking hate it.” He sighs. “Can’t you just live for me for once? Is that so goddamned hard?” 

“Sometimes,” Bruce whispers, and watches his son’s expression fall further into despair. 

He takes a step back, toward the window. The moonlight illuminates him in full sorrow, a young man broken and young man dead. “All I do is ruin you.” 

“No,” Bruce reaches for him, for that real and warm touch from a grown boy years dead. “ No , Jay. You were the best. It’s my fault.” 

But Jason is already retreating, further and further into the dream. “Goodnight, Bruce.” 

“I loved you,” Bruce tells him, desperate, rubbing tears from his eyes so hard that he sees stars. “I love you, Jason.” 

When he opens his eyes, Jason is gone. The window is open, a gentle breeze filtering in, but there is no sign his son was ever there at all. In the morning, when Bruce wakes, the window is shut and the drapes are drawn and the only presence in the room is the rotten stench of stomach bile and cheap tobacco. 

Chapter Text

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

– East Coker 

xxvi. show me yesterday, for i can’t find today–

Something about Bludhaven feels a different kind of dark these days. 

Something isn’t right, and it’s terribly unsettling.