Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The older Dick gets, the more (unfortunately) he starts understanding why Bruce holds such a radical stance when it comes to meta people existing within Gotham. The answer itself is easy, hidden right on its surface — they are one hell of parasites to deal with when they go nuts. Which is exactly why he spends his Friday night not under the blankets in his bed, binging all seasons of Friends, but in the middle of the city, trying to escape from the influence of one of the metas that travelled all the way down from New York to their humble, dirty town for an insipration. 

They caught him (or, at least, they thought they did), just thirty minutes ago; a mindfucker and concurrently an obsessed writer named Carroll — Jason’s amused “Surely not Lewis?” still echoed in Dick’s ears faintly — who kept kidnapping random people from the streets, trying to find a good reference for his book. Or for his character. Whatever. Dick isn’t sure, and he doesn’t care enough to check his facts.

The point stands: the four of them — him, Red Hood, Red Robin, and Robin — somehow managed to fail to get their hands on Carroll before he did his magic. 

He was in the middle of the dramatic monologue, when Jason attempted to tackle him on the ground, and thus, a physical contact triggered Carroll to see something. Something hidden in Jason’s mind. Because the next thing they knew, Carroll was muttering something about Red Hood being a personified grief, and the world went black.

Dick lets out a sigh, waving off the remaining of the dark fog, trying to examine his surroundings. Carroll’s base is located in the Diamond District, and that was where they originally confronted him. But Dick is not there now, neither in the same place nor even in the same district. 

It is a Crime Alley and its depth that meets him back.

‘O, you here?’ Dick taps on his comms a little, receiving only cracking noise back. Just in case if he can’t hear them, but they are able to, he adds: ‘Okay, B, don’t freak out. I know we promised not to get ourselves in some shitty situation while you are sick and bedridden, but things are not as bad as they look like! I am in the Crime Alley. Near the…’

He frowns.

The nearest recognisable point next to him is an old, very small eatery of an old, Spanish woman named Josefina. 

The problem is, the last time this place existed it was ages ago, and Dick knew about it because thirteen years old Jason brought him there once, explaining that this woman was one of a few kind people, who sometimes helped him to survive in the streets. Josefina died a year after Jason. The eatery was quickly replaced by a pawnshop that is still standing there to this day. So, why…?

‘Fuck,’ he curses out. ‘I think I have a major trouble.’

He steps further in the dark alley, his eyes squinting at the familiar corners. There is something uncanny in these streets, and it takes a minute from Dick to figure out what is exactly bothering him — the lack of sounds. The streets are empty. Too empty, to the point there is no sound of wind rustling yellow leaves or passing by cars, crossing all speed limits as usual. He sees no people trailing around aimlessly, cannot spot a single animal, hiding on the balconies or trees. Just a defeating silence.

What exactly is Carroll’s ability? They have a very little information on the way he works, and kidnapped people, released by him later willingly, claim that they felt nothing during whatever he was doing with them. That they slept through the whole thing without a single idea of what even happened, waking up already in the hospital.  If he assumes that Carroll just trashes inside people’s minds… memories, then what happens next? Where is he now, and why Dick is the one who is conscious? 

…Is he in Jason’s memories?

‘Red Hood!’ Dick calls out, as loud as he can. ‘Hood, are you—’

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence when someone throws an empty plastic bottle in his head. It doesn’t hurt, but he still hisses instinctively. 

‘Stop screaming!’ 

Dick turns around to where the thin, barely audible voice comes from. His eyes instantly focus on the small child, standing in the middle of the trash bin. One of his hastily bandaged hand is keeping the lid of the bin from snapping closed, while another is gripping the side of it.

‘Sorry, kiddo,’ Dick’s voice soften quickly. He steps closer cautiously. ‘What are you doing over here, huh?’

With another step, the dim light of the street finally reveals the kid’s face, and Dick, despite the obviousness of it, freezes in a surprise. Because… because, of course, it is Jason. His baby brother.

He is so much smaller here, younger than Dick remembers him to be when they first met. God, he is probably barely reaching Dick’s knees — that is how small he is! And he is a naturally cute kid, one of these that you cannot help but want to pat, but… he looks ill. His face is hollowed, drained and bleak. There is a hint of red in his cheeks and on the tip of his nose, but considering that Jason is in some light t-shirt with countless patches all over it, it is nothing but a sign of hypothermia, nothing else. 

‘What are you doing here?’ Jason bites back eagerly, jumping out of the bin nimbly. ‘You look… like hoot, man. Are you another Batman look-alike or something?’

Wow. Little Jason just destroyed his ego in three short sentences. If Dick heard this in the beginning of his journey as the Nightwing, he would kill himself right on this street. God bless his brother’s ability to fire words no less skilfully than bullets, huh.

‘...People call me Nightwing,’ Dick smiles patiently, because there is no way he can be irritated with this little child. ‘I am better than Batman, by the way, but you got it right, little one. I am a vigilante.’

‘Not the stealthiest one, it seems,’ Jason sighs. He sounds so condescending, almost as if Dick is some kind of lunatic in a need of help. ‘Well, listen there, Wingster… You don’t go around these streets screaming like this, alright? It is Crime Alley. You are either quiet and smart with how you move around or dead . They can put a bullet in your back before you even realise what is going on.’

Well, Dick doesn’t need an introduction to the Crime Alley and its rules, but it is sweet that Jason still tries to help him out a little. He can’t help, but fold arms on his chest, and tease him for it:

‘Are you worried about me? Itching to become my number one fan or something?’

Jason looks like he wants to throw something else in his head, but chooses not to. Now, when Dick actually pays more attention, his brother looks slightly… stiff. Perhaps, he is afraid of an unknown man, even if he is claiming to be a vigilante. After all, he is nothing but a stranger, and a stranger is clearly a danger. His brother is smart; he knows this better than anyone.

‘Okay, thanks, kiddo. I appreciate that,’ Dick winks at him. ‘You should probably go home, though. It is too cold there.’

For a some reason, Jason has a physical reaction to this simple suggestion. His shoulders sag painfully before instantly tensing again. His big blue eyes awkwardly shift to glare at the brick wall, almost as if it is the most interesting thing in the world.

‘Gotcha. Later.’

Dick can’t help it, he feels a lump of anxiety forming in his throat. A sensation as if something bad is about to happen or already did. 

How old is Jason in there? If he has no idea who Nightwing is, it means that Dick is still Robin, somewhere out of there. Additionally, Bruce found Jason, when a boy was twelve. This Jason is definitely much younger, but… but what is happening in his life now? Is Catherine Todd dead already? And if yes, then how long Jason actually spent on the streets before getting adopted?

…They never actually spoke about it. 

Bruce knows, Dick is sure, but he doesn’t. He never really… Jason never really spoke with him much about personal things; they never get a chance too, with Dick’s schedule and Jason’s mental walls that neither Bruce nor Dick had knowledge to deal with. Or time.

‘Hey, uh… Do you want me to take you back to your parents?’ Dick tries again, a poor attempt to get a bit of information out of Jason. ‘They are probably worried about you.’

‘No!’ Jason practically jumps on his place; he looks around anxiously before trying to smooth down his expression in something calmer. ‘My mom is sick. No need to worry her right now. I will be home later, I am just waiting for someone.’

Something about this feels like a lie.

Maybe Catherine is already dead? Or he, probably, doesn't actually wait for someone? Could he be homeless at this point of his life?

Dick sighs, slightly frustrated. He can’t just ask, can he? But he also cannot just… move forward. Not when his baby brother looks like he is going to pass out in his cold, lonely and terrified. Probably of him, too.

‘Who are you waiting for?’ Dick tries again. ‘I can wait with you, you know.’

‘Everything is okay,’ Jason repeats. His voice doesn’t sound so sure. Rather small and pleading. Who is he trying to reassure? Himself or Dick? ‘Please.’

All Dick wants is to hug this kid. To kiss his cheeks, his forehead hidden behind baby curls, and to cradle him to the chest, promising to take care of him. To save him. Something that he knows he can’t do. 

Because at the end of the day, there is no way to actually save this Jason. Or Jason that he had back in the time.

The brother he is.

‘As you wish, Little Wing,’ Dick shuts his eyes.

‘I am fine. I am well and fine, and healthy and safe,’ Jason blurts out like a mantra. Dick wonders how often he did that as a kid, repeated these words all over again, until his understanding of safety didn’t blur in what Red Hood calls to be normal. Dick doesn’t want to know if it was something Jason chanted in his mind when Joker caught him. ‘Please, you should just go.’

He points out at something behind Dick, and when he turns around to see what it is, he realises that there is a single, pristine white door amongst metallic ones, half-open, inviting. It is strange that Jason sees it, too, though.

‘Will you be safe?’ Dick asks quietly, knowing the answer beforehand.

Jason nods eagerly.

‘Of course. Mom waits for me at home. And I always return to her.’

Dick musters out a smile, and unwillingly, too slowly, moves towards an open door. 

His heart squeezes tightly when he hears the wheels of the car screeching close, followed by a low, intangible male voice calling for Jason, until the kid jumps on the passenger seat, shutting the door behind himself. It never moves anywhere further. Its glass is tanned securely, protecting anything from being seen by the outsiders. And Dick is not an idiot. He knows what it means. He read Bruce's reports on Jason's past too, re-read them thousand of times after his death, trying to drown himself on all things he never knew Jason went through.

He fights an urge to try to intervene, even if it is just a memory. But in the end, the lump in his throat gets more painful, and Dick ends up storming out, shutting the door behind himself with in a disgusted panic.

He has no idea why he thought that it mattered if Catherine is alive in this memory or not. After all, the presence of parents never changed anything for Jason — they kept failing him all. 

Chapter Text

The moment Damian’s eyes focus on his surroundings again, he decides that not only the man they encountered today is a fraud, who needs to stop calling himself a writer and just jump out of the highest building in Gotham, but also a little ridiculous thing lacking any sense of intelligence. When Carroll muttered that Red Hood was a grief itself, Damian couldn’t even hide his own amusement properly; he snickered. Because if Todd is a personified something, then it clearly not grief — it is anger. A raw, endless pit of madness, no less. Because grief is a gentle thing, a total opposite of Jason Todd with his bloody knuckles and overstayed rebellion phase. 

And Damian only proves himself to be correct when he steps further in the unlit corridor of the familiar safehouse, straining his ears to hear a muffled, loud string of curses.

He found himself on the doorstep of a familiar place. An ugly stolen metallic plate with a “ride or die” written on it served a giveaway for Jason’s least favourable safehouse, in Narrows. Damian was here once or twice, and he likes to consider himself to be familiar with this layer. However, he can also guess that whatever memory he is in, it is the relatively old one. In this vision, the place is far too dishevelled and empty, not as lived in as it is now.

The next thing Damian notices is a broken window in the living room. There is a long trace of blood, all leading further in the house, leading straight to the bathroom. The door is wide open, and thus, the voice of his brother grows louder with each step.

Damian still freezes, when he finally appears in front of him.

Despite the only source of the light being a full moon, shyly looking out from the feverishly drawn curtains with red spots all over white material, Damian suddenly sees it all. Red Hood’s helmet laying on the floor, half-shattered, clearly by impact of being smashed away as there is a hole in the wall. A bloodied batarang thrown in the floor. And Todd. Bleeding out Todd.

The blood streams straight in the sink, half of it still spilling on the floor, while Jason grips the open would with one hand, the other one desperately trying to open the medkit; so far, unsuccessfully. 

Damian blinks twice before two things settle down in his mind. 

Todd’s throat is sliced, cut-open. And there is no way he can actually patch himself up, no matter how hard he seems to try. 

‘God,’ Jason wheezes out. ‘God, please.’

It is a pathetic image to witness.

Except, there is no irritation or disgust that Damian could share, only a faint sense of confusion, and… and something else. He trashes his thoughts around helplessly, trying to define where it comes from, but there are questions inside his mind, not answers.

What this means? When did it happen? And most importantly… had Father done it?

Damian makes a cautious step forward, almost slipping up on the blood. There is too much of it; the last time he had seen so much blood was back in the League of Assassins, and it was a torture room, not someone’s bathroom. He leans to pick up the batarang carefully, but when he tries so, Jason suddenly speaks up again.

‘Leave it,’ Jason scowls at him, like a wounded animal, and Damian is so flabbergasted by the ability to interact with the memory, that the weapon slips out of his fingers, falling on the floor with a loud, clicking sound. ‘Fuck.’

It never occurred to him that these memories have some sense of consciousness. 

‘Todd,’ Damian calls for him then. ‘Let me stitch it.’

If he is here, seen by the ghost of the past, and able to interact with it, then surely it means something. Then it is his responsibility to help — because that’s what Father and Grayson taught him to do, to prioritise saving people above anything else. None of them warned him, however, that once it would be his estranged brother that needs his help. That is dying in front of him. Somehow, it is very different from all times Damian unwillingly saved Drake.

‘Fuck off,’ Jason whispers angrily; his voice cords are clearly wounded because his usually humming, low voice sounds broken, like a scratch against the glass. ‘Leave the fuck out of here.’

‘Are you an idiot?’ Damian hisses back, snatching a kit that lays under his hand; half of the tools go flying on the floor with an ugly sound that ironically sound the same as Jason’s breath. ‘Let me—’

‘I am dying, for fuck’s sake!’ Jason opens his mouth again, and instead of the scream, there are painful coughs clawing out, the ones that cause even more blood leaving his throat.

Damian scrunches his nose.

He doesn’t want to see this! He doesn’t want to witness any of this, why—

‘You—’

‘I will die in two minutes,’ Jason whispers so, so quietly. 'I know it.'

His anger is gone suddenly; subdued. Hisses and screams turn to storms in big blue eyes with green glint in it — the Lazarus Pit tries so hard to heal this wound, to save its child again — as he slowly sits down on the puddles of blood, bringing his knees close to his chest.

Damian swallows down.

It is a memory, he reminds himself. Just a vision of the past. Nothing new. Nothing that happens right now.

But it somehow makes him even more anxious. Because this just means that Jason had died twice, not once. That this happened before. That for a some reason no one knew about this. And that probably—

Probably, his father did it. 

‘What happened?’ Damian frowns, hands curling in fists. 

He needs answers. He can’t just judge the situation by the look of it. Because he knows, father loves Todd. And father doesn’t kill — he is merciful even to scums like clown; there is no way he would break his rule for his own beloved son he mourns all the time! Was it something that Jason did? Was it a mistake? There is should be a logical explanation.

‘Don’t,’ Jason mutters.

‘What?’

‘Don’t ask,’ Jason scowls. ‘I am not going to tell you anything!’

‘What is your problem, Todd?!’ Damian snaps.

He doesn’t want help, he doesn’t want to speak of it — what is it that he wants, then? To die?

‘Had father killed you?’ Damian continues, stubborn. His voice is angry, too loud — the total opposite of breathless sounds coming from Jason’s blooded mouth. ‘Had… Had he…’

‘Don’t, don’t, don’t!’ Jason shakes his head a little, and the way Damian can see the open wound on his throat, even though he desperately tries to squeeze it with his hand, is disgusting. It makes him want to run away, to shut the door and never look back. ‘Stop. Your father is a good man. And you are his son. Stop talking!’

Todd is clearly angry. There is no doubt.

But the way he says it doesn’t sound like he mocks Damian or even Bruce, it is almost as if he tries to reassure Damian in it.

Or, maybe, himself. 

Because Damian is not the one who is dying. And dying people always need some consolation. 

‘You are insane,’ Damian ends up spitting out. Because what else can he do? Jason is dying, and he cannot get answers from a dead man; not until he sees the real Todd, anyway. ‘Stay there and die as much as you want, if it is what—’

‘No!’ Jason suddenly scrambles towards him, and his hand stops squeezing the wound — a fatal mistake. ‘Please, don’t go! I am sorry. I don’t want to die alone again. Please.’

Damian swallows down again, his eyes strangely prickling with… something. He instinctively lurches forward to press his hand to Jason’s throat, and despite not touching it directly, having a glove not to feel all the terrifying gush, it still makes him even more nauseous than before.

Todd looks like a beaten up dog that was left under the rain, all alone.

And Damian is fond of dogs. Even if these kinds of dogs usually end up being put in an endless sleep, no matter how much you try to save them.

‘You are not going to tell me what happened,’ Damian sighs, more to himself than to Jason.

He puts his bloody hand atop of Damian’s, where it squeezes his wound. His grip is fragile, too weak. Damian hates how unusual it is for someone like Todd. He hates everything about it. He wants to shake him, to make him mad again. Because this... this is not what he is; not what Damian used to see in him.

‘I hate all of this,’ his brother confesses through sniffles, almost as if hearing his inner thoughts.

And then, his breath dies down with a loud, gurgling sound. His body slumps weakly, and Damian carefully puts him on his back, straight on cold tiles. There is a part of him that wants to wash him out, to cover him with a blanket; a sentiment that he wished he could offer to his victims, in the past. But Damian shouldn’t be here, he knows. And Todd is not dead. Not any more. The next time he sees Jason, he will be fine. And… it is not like Damian cares about him.

His eyes are still traitorously blurry when he leans down to close Jason’s eyelids before turning to leave. He doesn’t care that the door changed again, that he doesn’t know where he will find himself next. He just wants to be out of there as soon as possible, even if it won’t help to forget what he had just seen.

A part of him wonders if Todd had ever mentally left this specific memory at all. Because it surely doesn’t seem like a possible option.

Chapter Text

Not the warehouse, not the warehouse, not the—

Tim sighs in relief, when he opens his eyes not to the sight of the dingy warehouse in Ethiopia, but to the familiar creamy walls of the Wayne Manor.

Once Carroll gripped Jason’s wrist, initiating his doubtful therapy sessions, Tim only was afraid of only one thing: of getting stuck in the memory of Jason’s own death. Arguably, afterwards, his brother witnessed enough horrors as well, but it is a death of an innocent child that made Tim worried. After all, he knows what Joker can do. In fact, he read what Joker had done to Jason Todd. Even reading the autopsy made him sick, he didn't need to actually see how it went in reality.

Realising that he is merely back at home is an immediate consolation. Despite the house definitely looking older, reminiscing of times when Tim used to be just a guest there, not a family member, he still feels comfortable to stroll around mindlessly.

Following the natural instinct, Tim moves towards the Batcave. He hears voices coming from there, a mixture of screams and light slams, but when he actually steps inside there is no one in there, just echoes. They sound distorted, like a badly scarred cassettes, but even like this it is easy to tell that they probably belonged to Bruce and Dick once. He hears snippets of words coming up from muffled waves — something about mantles, Robin, and then Jason.

But he doesn’t see Jason himself. And that is supposed to be his memory.

So, he walks out, trying to see in what direction this memory goes to. Kitchen and library — which, according to Alfred, used to be the kid’s favourite places to stay at — are empty, and thus, Tim climbs on the second floor, towards his bedroom. It is still on its place in the memory, obviously, indicated by a cute plate on the door with carefully curved letter J on it. But the place is quiet until Tim lets himself in. Afterwards, he catches someone sniffling. 

Tim’s eyes quickly scan the area of the room until he notices the kid hiding under the desk, with legs pressed to the chest. He seems to desperately try to stifle his sobs, but on occasions he fails to keep it within himself, choking on tears and letting out a quiet, ugly whine. 

Sighing, Tim drags the chair that Jason smartly put in front of the desk to block the view of himself, and squats down in front of him.

And… Oh.

Obviously, it is not the first time Tim sees this Jason. He stalked him when he used to be Robin, they crossed their paths during charity events, though he is sure that Jason doesn’t remember him at all, but—

But back then, Tim was slightly younger than Jason. Back then, when Tim watched at him, he saw a cooler, elder kid with no less exciting mantle. And then Jason returned as a mighty, intimidating Red Hood, and it had never occurred to Tim just how tiny Jason used to be before he died.

…Tiny and cute. Dick wasn’t lying, then — Jason was a very sweet-looking kid. Definitely nicer than Damian, anyway.

A shot “aw-w” slips out from his tongue, followed by something that Tim wouldn’t do unless he was completely alone right now — a shy but earnest pat on Jason’s hair. Whirls of dark curls are surprisingly soft, like feathers, and Tim can’t help but card through them a little.

…He freaks out, when Jason suddenly leans in his touch, though.

‘What—’

‘I hate when they argue,’ Jason murmurs quietly to him, as if sharing some secret.

Their eyes meet, and Tim freezes on his place like a deer caught in the light. Why the fuck Jason sees him? It is a memory, not the past. And memories are… untouchable, according to laws of all movies Tim watched with the same premise. Right?

Maybe Jason speaks with someone else?

‘Uh,’ he stammers out awkwardly, turning his head around, hoping to see Alfred or, honestly, someone else. But the room is still as empty as before. ‘You mean, Dick and Bruce?’

‘Yeah,’ Jason sighs, ducking his head away once Tim’s caresses stop. Pressing his lips in a thin line, he adds: ‘Today is supposed to be a cool day.’

Okay. He definitely can interact with little Jason. For a some reason. Whatever. 

‘Cool, huh?’ Tim repeats slowly. ‘Why?’

He nudges kid to the side, and as Jason offers him some space under the desk, Tim settles down next to him slowly, trying not to hit his head by the accident. He expects his brother to move away completely, but instead he scoots himself closer, pressing his back to Tim’s shoulder, curling a little.

Which is… sudden, but nice.

Being someone’s older brother was never something Tim wanted, and luckily, Damian didn’t really need a babysitter either. He grew up used to being the only child in the family until Bruce took him under his wing, and well… He enjoyed it until one day he was promoted — more like demoted, but anyway — to the role of a middle child. 

That one he doesn’t like in the slightest. It is boring, irritating, and he would appreciate more being the youngest rather than the mess he is stuck in now.

But, hey, kids can be cute. Once in a while.

‘Oh, it is like, one of these rare days when big brother Dick came home. We hang out today so much!’ Jason explains enthusiastically, his tears forgotten for a second. ‘He— He told me so many cool stuff! And even stories about Zitka… I mean the real one, not plushie one... We… We walked around the whole Gotham, and we are ice-cream, my favourite one. Also, we were in the Zoo before the dinner!’ 

Oh, God. This kid is a blabbering mess. The younger version of Jason would probably love speaking with Tim, when he was a child. That duo would probably add a solid headache to Dick, most likely, but… 

‘Ah, yeah. Dick is cool, right?’ Tim nods, his own memories of the first weeks of being taken care of by Dick making him smile a little. ‘Sounds fun so far. What happened?’

Jason sniffles.

‘They started arguing over the dinner, and Alfie asked them to move the… conversation to the Batcave.’

Tim nods slowly.

Luckily for him, he didn’t witness that many arguments between Bruce and Dick. Their relationship tamed down after Jason’s death, and afterwards, even if they had some bad blood, Tim never really knew about it until Bruce or Dick would make an absent-minded remark on that matter.

‘Oh, well… Don’t get sad because adults are silly,’ Tim pokes his shoulder in an awkward reassurance. ‘They will calm down eventually.’

It makes Tim wonder what this Jason would think if he knew their conflicts do stop in the future. Just after he leaves.

Dies, he corrects himself mentally. Not leaves.

‘Yeah, I know… But it is not only about them,’ Jason rubs his eyes. ‘I mean… Of course, I am worried about them. And I feel bad when adults are screaming, but… but that is not why I am crying, you know?’

‘Really?’ Tim tilts his head to the side. ‘Then what is it about?’

‘It is…’ Jason nibbles his bottom lip nervously. ‘Every time they do that… Or not necessarily, just… sometimes I… What am I doing here?’

‘What? ’

‘You heard me!’ Tears in Jason’s eyes reappear, and he turns around to face Tim properly; it, in turn, causes him a slight panic — what the fuck he supposed to do? ‘I… I am a shitty replacement to Dickie! And… And the tabloids are right, I am just a street rat, and— And I don’t know how long Bruce is going to tolerate me before he realises that I am not that great at all. What if he kicks me out today? Or tomorrow?’

What.

Tim never really bothered fantasising what his predecessor was worried about, but never in his life he thought that Jason of all people struggled about feeling himself to be a part of the family. After all… Jason was — is? — Bruce’s beloved son, his pride and joy, though, the greatest mistake as well.

In the past, Bruce shined on the events, when he spoke about Jason and his accomplishments at school; he was bright in a way it was obvious to Tim that it was far beyond his usual acting skills.

‘Jason, listen, your father won’t do that, okay?’

‘Right. Right, he won’t,’ Jason swallowed down painfully. ‘You are right.’

‘See? Bruce loves—’

‘Tomorrow is my birthday. Of course, he won’t throw me away. He is kind like that. But what happens the day after that?’

‘Tomorrow is your birthday?’ Tim asks weakly. 

‘Yeah. I am going to be fifteen.’

Fifteen—

Shit.

This kid is going to die in half of a year. This kid, this confused, lost kid. 

Not a hero, wrapped in a mantle, not a dangerous criminal — just a teenager.

‘Forget about it,’ Jason sighs shakily, hugging himself. ‘It is stupid. I am just being ungrateful. I mean, I have a home, food, school… A-all kind of things. Bruce had already sacrificed enough to make my life better. I don’t know why I feel so sad lately.’ 

Tim wants to argue with this kid. He wants to explain to him that Bruce didn’t sacrifice anything by taking Jason in, that Jason was a gift for him, a mirth, and it is insane to assume otherwise. That there is no way Bruce would ever throw Jason away.

Except, in a way, he did. 

Not intentionally — Bruce is bad at cutting ties with his kids in a normal, direct way — but that is probably how Jason saw this situation, when he was stripped out of his mantle. If he didn’t feel like he was at his own place at all… like he was coming back to the streets… 

Oh. Maybe this is why he tried to find his mother.

‘Jason, listen,’ Tim touches Jason’s shoulder lightly, and the way he tenses before easily giving in, practically begging to be touched, makes Tim even more sad. ‘You are loved, alright?’

His words sound useless and blank. 

‘Does it change anything at all?’ Jason whispers bitterly.

‘Jason—’

‘Thank you, anyway,’ he shakes his head, almost asking not to continue this conversation. ‘But you probably should go.’

Does it change anything?

Tim wants to say that it does. But this child is going to die soon, and despite all the pain his family will endure afterwards, it is surely not going to change anything for Jason. 

‘The door is on the left,’ Jason adds, refusing to look at him again, instead, burying his face in his knees. ‘Thanks again. You… You are nice.’

Oh, this is fucking unfair.

‘Bye, Jason,’ his hand brushes against the crown of the child’s head one last time before climbing out of the desk. ‘Happy early birthday?’

There is no answer this time. 

Tim leaves through the door Jason instructed him to. It changes everything and nothing at the same time.

He thinks Jason might be used to this by now.

Chapter Text

Dick catches the sight of Damian standing in the pristine white corridor surrounded by emptiness the moment he closes the door behind himself. Unbelievable small — smaller than usual — his brother glances at him with a mixture of suspicion and confusion in bright green eyes, making Dick wonder if his own face looks any different. They don’t talk at all, in the beginning; at least, not until Tim finds them belatedly, a frown cast upon his face.

He breathes in and out. Whatever he just had seen… he cannot linger on memories of it for too long, not when his brothers need him. Dick can torture himself with it as long as he can later, in the solitude of his room.

‘How about we summarise the events of today for so far?’ He starts, raising the corners of his lips in a wide smile. ‘Just to make sure that we are on the same page… all of us were stuck in Jason’s memories, right?’

Tim nods.

‘I feel like they are connected somehow. What had you seen, Dick?’

‘That was an old memory… Long before Jason was adopted,’ he explains slowly, reluctant. When Tim continues to stare at him, expecting for more details, he unwillingly adds: ‘Well, he was on the streets. His mother’s health supposedly was in bad shape. I… There wasn’t much going on. I don’t know what else to say.’

There is no way he tells his little brothers what he had truly seen. Not only because he cannot imagine telling something so cruel to kids, but also because… how fair would it be, to share Jason’s past like this? Involuntarily or not, they already overstepped enough by getting inside his head.

‘Okay,’ Tim answers. ‘Well, I saw Jason in the Manor. The day before his fifteenth birthday. The one that you two spent together, I think.’

His face light up instantly. 

He remembers that day. A rare summer day in Gotham that actually seemed warm and sunny; the bright rays of sun piercing through windows, a loud crowd of kids and their families waiting for their tickets to get in a newly reconstructed zoo, intensively melting ice cream in their hands, and so much laughter. They even took a quick photo in the booth, their bodies pressing together in a crammed place, and to this day Dick remembers sitting little Jason down on his lap, because the kid was so short that he couldn’t reach the camera. 

He wishes he had this photo later, once Jason turned into a memory of a brother. But neither him nor Alfred could actually find it in his room no matter how hard they searched for it, and Bruce begrudgingly suggested that Jason probably took it with himself when he ran away. Thus, forever lost.

‘It was a good day, huh,’ he smiles.

Tim shifts on his place awkwardly, eyes turning to glare at the wall behind Dick.

‘Yeah, uh. It was. But he kinda cried in his room afterwards, when you… I think, Bruce and you are argued? Anyway, he spiralled about… different stuff. Mostly about not feeling like a part of the family,’ his words sound rushed out, as if he is afraid that hearing this slower and actually having time to proceed what was said would kill Dick. ‘Anyway. Like I said, I feel like we should try to pin down the connection between memories.’

Dick forgot that he had another argument with Bruce back then. Most importantly, he never even thought that it would affect Jason somehow. Let along, to the point of causing this kind of thoughts.

No. He can’t think about this right now, either.

He swallows down, instead turning his attention to the suspiciously silent Damian, who hasn’t uttered a word since they met again. Sneaking an arm around his shoulder, he brings Damian closer to his chest.

‘Well, I think there are going to be some connection, too,’ Dick hums. ‘So, Damian, what had you seen?’

Damian purses his lips in a thin line.

‘Todd’s death.’

Tim lets out a muffled “who-ops”, and Dick instantly sends a glare in his direction. His hand wrapped around Damian’s shoulder clings into him tighter. He can’t find any words to comment how awful this is. 

For years, Dick tortured himself with imagining that day. With pretending that he was there, that he could help, that he could change something — and every time he woke up from nightmares, where he couldn’t. Where he was stuck in the warehouse as well, immobile and useless, watching Jason being beaten to the death and then left bleeding out, and—

And he can’t imagine how worse it could be, to actually be stuck there.

‘Oh, Damian, I am so, so sorry. Are you—’

‘I am not talking about the warehouse,’ Damian interrupts him coldly. ‘I am not talking about that death.’

‘What that supposed to mean?’ Tim raises his eyebrows. ‘Do you mean Jason died twice?’

‘We would notice if something like this happened,’ Dick protests instantly; not because he doesn’t trust Damian, but because even the slimmest chance that Jason actually died twice, a possibility that they — he — failed to save his brother again, when he needed it, feels like a noose tightly tying itself around his throat. ‘Are you sure that he died? Perhaps, it was just a bad wound.’

‘Yeah,’ Tim agrees readily. ‘It could be just—’

‘He bled out in front of me, so stop acting like you know any better!’ Damian snaps, pushing Dick aside, almost defensively. Despite sounding awfully furious, his eyes are scared, and this breaks Dick’s heart even more. ‘He died alone and angry in his own bathroom.’

As if what they heard wasn’t bad enough already, Damian’s voice cracks again.

‘Father had killed him.’

‘Now it sounds ridiculous,’ Tim shakes his head.

It does sound ridiculous. Perhaps, Bruce’s relationship with Jason are not that good, but they are nowhere this bad. Not to mention that it is… well, Bruce. Bruce never kills. That is the first thing that comes to anyone’s mind, when they try to describe Batman. Not his merits, not his attitude. His golden no-kill rule.

‘Maybe it was a memory of some nightmare?’ Dick tries again, hiding his own confusion behind a half-smile. ‘You know, Bruce would never—’

‘His batarang sliced his throat,’ Damian cuts him through again, determined. His hands are curled in fists, and if Dick didn’t know any better, he would think that his little brother is on the verge of tears. ‘I assume that he didn't realise that Todd died that day.’

And that is when something clicks for Dick.

Jason does have an ugly, uneven scar tissue covering half of his neck. He asked him about it a few times, but Jason never actually replied. Just told him to fuck off. Dick assumed that it is something that was left after his time in the League of Assassins. He never wondered when it happened, but it definitely was before Jason joined the family again, because… well, Dick doesn’t remember his brother without it.

‘Why would he keep something so crucial in the secret?’ Tim chews on his bottom lip, and Dick can practically hear the chaotic trail of thoughts circling in his mind. ‘I mean, wouldn’t he want to speak about it with someone?’

‘I tried to question him,’ Damian shrugs, clearly frustrated by the lack of answers. ‘He refused to elaborate.’

Of course, he did. Dick has a faint idea why.

Because if their places were switched, he would never tell about something so terrible, too. Accident or not, he can’t imagine himself tarnishing memories of his younger siblings about their father with something so, so cruel. And Jason, deep inside, is a caretaker through and through. Maybe he could spare a few details to Dick, if he was stuck in that memory, instead... but Damian?

‘You said he died angry,’ Tim’s voice falls in a familiar pattern of indifferent intonation that he always uses when he tries to focus on the case instead of thinking about his emotions. When Damian nods, he continues: ‘Well, he was crying in my memory. Doesn’t it sound like the five stages of grief a little bit? Anger, depression…’

‘Mine would be denial,’ Dick catches up, rubbing his cheeks harshly, desperately trying not to think about Jason’s second death. ‘He refused to admit that he had any problems within his family and that he needed any help.’

‘I still find it strange that the stage of anger came chronologically so late, considering everything, but overall, I think we are on the right track.’

Because isn’t Jason supposed to be full of anger from the beginning? Rash and violent, insolent… Isn’t it how the tale always goes since he died? 

And for a moment, Dick tries to remember if he ever said this about his baby brother, too. If he played along with the scenario Bruce created in his mind, desperately trying to abstract of admitting his own mistake.

He thinks he did, once or twice. Why he never said something else?

The instant disgust fills his heart, making the next words flow out of his mouth faster than he actually proceeds them:

‘I don’t think Jason actually allowed himself to be genuinely angry at Bruce or anyone else until he died.’

But it is truth, after all. 

‘That would mean the next stage is bargaining,’ Damian concludes blankly.

‘God, not the warehouse,’ Tim murmurs to himself.

Dick wants to chide him for that, but it could be that; the last prayers before the death sound a lot like bargaining for surviving, after all. 

And Dick loves Jason, he loves him so much, but he thinks actually witnessing him dying might kill him all the same.

Tim must be really lucky today, because what they see once the next door opens is a small apartment. It doesn’t look like any of those Jason owns; at least, not ones they were let in to. 

It is a really small room that seems to be serving both as a living and dining room, and it has two separate doors, leading to somewhere else. The light inside is warm, but dimmed, and a beige-coloured wallpaper is crumpled slightly, some layers coming down, just waiting to be torn out completely. If not for cheap Christmas’s decorations all over the place, it would look, admittedly, sad.

‘Let it snow, let it snow!’

It takes some effort to spot Jason in this light — he turns out to be a small ball of something hidden behind the Christmas tree.

Back into being a kid, though now much younger than Tim witnessed him the last time, Jason is standing atop of the stool, his tongue sticking out as he tries to decorate the tree with a very little toys he has. His big blue eyes are lit up, ever enthusiastic, and his head is nodding along a low humming coming out of the another room. He looks ridiculously funny in an old t-shirt with washed out Gotham Knights symbol that clearly belonged to someone older and bigger as it hangs on his malnourished body, reaching knees, and small plaid pants that seem a little bit small on him.

‘Hey, kiddo,’ Dick greets carefully, but his face is already softened to the point of no return. Always so hopelessly fond for his siblings.

Jason turns at the three of them in the instant.

‘You actually came!’ He exclaims happily, waving with his free hand. ‘He said that you will, but I wasn’t so sure!’

Buzzing with an excitement, the kid almost knocks himself off the stool that sways on the uneven floor. It takes a second from Dick to cross the whole room to put a hand on his back, just in case if he actually falls. Tim doubts that it was anything but an instinctive motion.

‘Oh, be careful, Little Wing,’ he sighs with no heat behind it.

Tim mouths him a quick “hypocrite”, while little Jason giggles. Dick ends up rolling his eyes.

‘Who said that we will come?’ Damian interrupts a light-hearted moment, his arms folded on the chest.

It might be the closest Damian has been to his usual behaviour since they have been stuck here, and so, Tim decides not to bitch at him in turn. He would rather see Damian being all irritating than actually witness a genuine fear in his eyes again.

Not because he is worried, of course. Just… because.

‘Oh, you will see,’ Jason promises, going through the box in his arm. Getting out of it a small angel figurine that looks awfully home-made, straight from the shiny candy wrappers, he throws the empty box on the floor, and pokes Dick on his shoulder. ‘Can ya help me? I need to place it right on top of the tree.’

‘Oh, Jay, baby, sure,’ Dick obliges happily, raising Jason with an ease. ‘Do your thing.’

As they deal with the angel figure, Tim cautiously steps closer, his eyes travelling across the apartment. From the second look, he starts noticing that this home is not just concerning due to its poor, dishevelled state, but also because of strange things lying around, clearly implying that this might be Jason’s childhood home. The glass bowl put on the low table before the couch is filled not with fruits or candies but with blisters of medicaments. The windowsill holds a pack of cigarettes and a shattered, barely holding up together ashtray. He spots some used syringes in the small bin at the corner of the room. There are places where he can clearly see faint traces of fists breaking through thin walls.

No child should be allowed to witness all of this, but Tim doubts that Jason has ever considered this place to be nothing but kind and warm.

‘Do you like Christmas?’ Tim ends up asking Jason, offering his best smile.

Damian murmurs something in his mother language under his tongue. It is obvious he doesn’t see reasons to play along with some scenario, instead of just getting at the bottom of the case, but Tim thinks differently. 

It supposed to be a bargaining. But what about a kid in his house, preparing himself to the celebration, feels like it? Wouldn’t it be logical to associate literally another memory with this stage? His death, something from the League. Something desperate.

They overlook something. And Tim is determined to figure out what.

‘Aha,’ Jason dusts off his hands, satisfied with the angel’s placement. ‘This is my favourite holiday ever.’

‘Since when?’ Damian snorts.

It is a fair question. Jason never fails to mention during winter patrols how he hates this useless holiday, and how the sound of brand songs makes him wants to shoot someone in the leg.

‘Since always, duh? Hey, big guy, put me back on the floor,’ Jason kicks his legs slightly, and Dick giggles before following his command. ‘Also, this year Christmas should be superb.’

‘Yeah? Why?’

‘Well, I am finally back!’ Jason exclaims impatiently, cleaning up the things dropped on the floor. ‘And you are all here! Dad will come too, right?’

‘Of course,’ Tim quickly reassures him, though, he is not sure who the kid has in a mind — Bruce or Willis. ‘So… you want to celebrate with us?’

‘I mean… we are going to be family again, right?’ Jason pauses, chewing on the inner side of his cheek. His voice grows slightly smaller, when he continues: ‘I know I’ve been a little… undisciplined, but I am changing for you! I was good at coming whenever you called me! And… and I always find a way to help. This gotta count for something?’

This is absolutely not a memory.  

So, then what? A conscious part of his brain? An inner child?

‘I can still be a part of the family, right?’ He asks anxiously, when they exchange confused glances.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ Dick swallows down. ‘Little Wing, you… you are always a part of the family.’

Tim stares at Jason playing with the sleeves of his shirt, and can’t help but wonder if that kid he has seen a few moments ago — the one that hid under the table, never feeling like his family accepted him — has ever left. If Jason already felt not belonging to the Wayne family in his best years, then how worse this feeling got once he became Red Hood? Once Bruce actually refused to accept him in the instant he was home?

‘I… I will be good, and dad will love me again,’ Jason murmurs. ‘Right?’

‘This is embarrassing,’ Damian comments bitterly. ‘You shouldn’t beg for love of your own father.’

The moment he says that, Tim finds an answer he was searching for.

There is no mistake. This is bargaining. 

Everything Jason does the last year since he rejoined the family is bargaining; an attempt to get back in the family. He has no other ways of begging but accepting their rules, by jumping into every mission and dangerous task they call him for, hoping that after one of them, something will finally change between them. Like a kid earning good grades in hope to get their parents’ approval.

‘But what else can I do?’ Jason asks, confused.

Damian seems taken aback by receiving genuine answer, not a snark or irritation. Staring at the kid slightly younger than him, but so lost, as if he is expecting Damian to find a solution to his problem, his younger brother looks almost flustered. 

‘Jay, baby,’ Dick’s face falls, and no matter how hard he tries to put his smile back on, it just looks progressively more and more distorted in grief. ‘Listen—’

Suddenly, the door not so far from the Christmas tree swings open with a screeching sound. The instant smell of roasted meat and some species coming out of it makes it clear that it is where kitchen locates in.

Tim partly expects it to be another ghost of the memories; perhaps, Willis or Catherine. Instead, they find an adult Jason. The one that they all are used to, with the white streak of hair folded by its tips in a small shape of heart, and scars littered all over his body. With a funny apron tied on his hips, and in a ridiculous Christmas sweater under it, he looks surprisingly contained. Happy, maybe? He is not sure, he had never see Jason looking like this before.

‘Hey!’ Little Jason turns around to face himself. ‘They really came!’

The kid races towards him. Once he stops in front of him, Jason raises his hand to pat him on the unruly curls, causing a petulant whine escape the kid's lips. 

‘I guess, they made it,’ Jason agrees with a short smile on a tired face. Pressing his little self towards the door of the kitchen, he urges him: ‘Okay, be a help — finish with the dinner, while I’ll talk to them. We still had to prepare the dinner for actual guests, shrimp. Remember?’

‘Wait, we are not celebrating with the family this year?’ The kid frowns, clinging in his apron.

‘No, no, we are not,’ Jason sighs. ‘We are waiting for Roy and Lian. Then, after midnight, Lance and Ema are planning to visit.’

‘Oh. Right,’ The kid nods, his head ducking disappointingly. ‘Hey, but maybe dad will come, too?’

He sounds so hopeful that even older version of Jason has a hard time to simply state the obvious — their dad will not come. Instead, he leans to press a quick kiss to the kid’s forehead, and shoos him off.

‘If you are going to be slow, no one will come at all.’

The kid sticks his tongue out, murmuring something about bossy old men, but ends up closing the door behind himself after offering a quick wink in their direction. Dick waves at him, murmuring a soft goodbye right until little Jason turns their back at them. And once he completely disappears, Jason’s smile drops as well, turning in a mildly exhausted expression. 

‘Ignore the child,’ he tells them as a matter of fact. ‘He is still rather naive in the heart.’ 

Oh, Tim thinks sadly.

This is acceptance. 

Chapter Text

Despite the urgency hanging in the air, Todd is not hurrying to continue the conversation in the slightest. Instead, they spend another minutes in the perfect silence, watching him prepare the dinning table for guests — the table cloth he puts on is white with openwork, reminding more of stolen curtains than actual table cloth; the plates he assigns by places are chipped at the edges, drawings on them slightly scratched. He doesn’t seem bothered by it, though. Just hums a catchy song under his breath — something about looking in the mirror if you are searching for the hero.

None of that helps them to figure out what to do. Damian generally has no idea how to deal with these situations, but even Grayson (who is naturally talented in speaking with people) and Drake (who is more lucky than gifted) look at each other in confusion.

They are more used to deal with mean Todd, after all. A version of him that is direct and harsh, who always throws daggers that are called his opinion, until no one can ignore them any more. Damian doesn’t remember a single time when their family brought up the topic of his problems without Todd himself drawing attention to it, unapologetically loud and open. Vulnerable.

Damian used to hate this about him, seeing nothing honourable in tearing his soul wide open for those who mostly didn’t want to listen. But now he thinks it might be a powerful weapon. A one that their family lacks.

‘So-o,’ Dick finally steps in; always a mediator in between of his family members, he tries his best to arrange a friendly atmosphere by taking a heap of utensils, and starting to help Jason with decorations. ‘We are a little bit confused.’

‘A little bit might be an underestimation,’ Tim adds, following their brother’s initiative. Leaning to the well, he sighs. ‘Help us out?’

‘Media literacy is dead, huh,’ Jason chuckles. ‘Dickhead, don’t put anything on that chair near the window, it is Ema’s place. I have a special set of Japanese utensils for her. With a bamboo made stuff and shit.’

‘Right,’ Dick awkwardly retrieves forks he already put on the mentioned place. ‘And Ema is…?’

‘And Lance,’ Damian clears up the throat. 

‘They are my classmates in the college.’

Judging by the similar confused expressions on their face, Damian isn’t the only one who had not a single idea that their brother is studying somewhere. Maybe because imagining Jason living a casual life, without getting involved in crimes and some vigilante activities, feels strange. Damian is not sure if he had ever seen their brother being normal, excluding a few times he was out of the patrolling nights, and they crashed in his safehouse for help.

‘Todd. Since when do you… actually do something useful?’

His words land hard. And mean. Damian doesn’t need to face his brothers to figure out that they threw a quick, warning glare in his direction.

‘Shocking, I know,’ Jason shrugs. ‘A local lapdog has some business to deal with beyond barking at the trees and bringing a bone to its owner.’

‘Oh, but Little Wing, it is a great news!’ Ignoring his crude remark, Dick reaches to his brother through the table, squeezing his shoulders softly. ‘I am so proud of you. And you were always so insane about college! Why didn’t you tell us?’

Jason eyes at hands on his shoulders, then, slowly, back at Dick. He is not bristling, not swatting it away, but he barely looks bothered by it either. In a way, this Todd even looks… sedated. Washed out. Perhaps, just tired, but undeniably strange. 

‘When was the list time we had a conversation related to my life?’

‘Uh—’

‘Maybe we should discuss the batarang incident first,’ Damian interrupts, because that what is bothering him for an hour now.

Todd openly laughs at him. It is embarrassing, to be so easily made fun of, and for a moment he considers an option to hiss at him all the things they had seen so far, all the evidence that Jason Todd is ruined beyond the repair. Remind him that everyone knows that now, too. But Jason continues the conversation faster.

‘See? Back to discussing work. Or dad,’ He nods to Dick. Brushing his touch off, he crosses the room in a few quick steps, and leans to the old radio left on the media console; there is no TV, though. ‘I am not going to discuss my death. Against the common belief, swarming in your precious detective heads, I am actually not obsessed with it. I don’t even like talking about it, mind you.’

He switches the station of the radio, the cracking of Christmas songs eerily snapping in a classical music.

‘Yet, you are a grief itself,’ Tim comments absent-mindedly, eyes focused on nothing in particular.

‘Do we grieve only about the dead?’ Jason answers, sitting down on the low coffee table, his body turned towards them. ‘Or does our souls allowed to mourn possibilities and lost family, even if they are alive?’

This sounds familiar — this sounds like something Damian can relate to. 

He knows the answer, because it sits deep inside him, somewhere between his ribcage, in the depth of his heart.

Damian mourns the family he could have with grandfather and mother, if things were different, too. Mentally goes through sweet memories with Ra’s that eventually distorted in new ones, far more cruel ones as his grandfather’s madness spiralled further with no point of return. Misses his mother and all the love she showed to him, while understanding that in their lives, they shall go the separate ways in order to be happy — that he wants him to get a life better than she can give in the League.

And sometimes he is struck by the grief towards his father as well, even if he is sitting next to him. Because there is still a wound left by memories of them that were never created at all; of Damian’s early childhood that they both wished they could experience together.

Grief holds its space not only in thoughts about dead bodies that are cradled to hearts. Sometimes, it fills the cage of memories with living people, too. 

‘Are we… truly so lost to you?’ Dick starts, his intonation weak. ‘I know we weren’t always kind to you… Or, I guess, we aren’t even nowadays, but it is so hard. And we are trying our best.’

‘And if the problem is with Bruce, then just ignore him,’ Tim aids unhelpfully.

Damian snorts at the same time Todd does. For a moment, even Grayson’s lips twitch in a nervous smile, though it doesn’t stay for too long.

‘Not everything is about Bruce,’ Jason tells him, as a hypocrite. And then, as if sensing it, corrects himself: ‘Or, at least, it is never only about him.’

‘Would it hurt to try again, though?’ Dick’s voice is a desperate cry, even if he tries to hide it. 

‘You are missing a point,’ Jason waves him off, his voice sounding so tired that Damian can’t help but remember a memory of dying to him, all alone. Almost as if recalling the same thing, his brother puts a hand atop of his neck, rubbing the scar soothingly. ‘All I did was trying. And it hurt. Again and again. So, I want to move further. I am trying to. For once.’

Damian has never seen Todd’s constant brooding back and forth as attempts to rejoin family before. In fact, every time he appeared on their patrols because of being called — like a dog, his mind supplies once again bitterly — after his vocal complaints, rough arguments and blood spilled between Father and him, Damian considered it to be just a performance. A willingness to make their dad even more miserable.

But knowing and hearing Todd’s perspective on this makes it feel different.

He doesn’t like it.

‘Okay, we get it, but… Maybe you could try talking with us more for the starters?’ Tim steps closer, before sitting down on the armchair, not so far from Jason. ‘Even about your college. We would be interested. I mean, listen, we didn’t even know that you are this close with Arsenal.’

‘And then what, to let it all used against me if I step out from guidelines daddy dearest put on me? ’ Jason presses elbows to his knees, leaning forward. His lips twitch in a bitter smile. ‘Forgive me for trying to keep my peace, Tim. But I can’t risk it all for another ghostly chance that you all wave in front of me in the fit of guilt complex.’

‘So, what do you want us to do now, Todd?’ Damian raises his eyebrows. ‘Just to leave you alone?’

‘I… I don’t know why I should come up with any advices,’ he pushes fingers in his curls, tugging him a little, head hanging low. ‘It is not like I asked you to come here. Or to do anything.’

Right.

In all this mess, Damian actually forgot that everything started with a mission, not with a usual foolery in the Manor. Jason didn’t invite them there, and considering all testimonies from previous victims of Carroll, he won’t even remember a thing about these memories, rooms or their conversations. 

He will wake up as if nothing happened at all.

They won’t.

‘We are sorry, Little Wing. I—’

‘No need to. I know. It is hard for everyone, you had already—’

‘Shut up,’ Dick snaps all of a sudden. His helplesness is quick to shift to anger if he fails to find a solution to the problem he personally accepts as his own fault. ‘Don’t pretend like you don’t deserve it. Like you never wanted to hear us apologising to you. You want to say that never wanted to hear Bruce apologising for killing you? Is it so much easier for you to keep his peace, instead of your own?’

Damian can understand Grayson’s frustration. He also fails to comprehend the idea of Todd, who always so eager to rub their mistakes and hypocrisy in their faces, deciding never to bring up his second death to anyone at all. Is that love to his father speaking, a one that cannot be overshadowed even by the death itself? Or is Jason just thinking that he deserved what he got?

If it is the latter one, then Damian is right: his brother is truly stupid.

‘Or don’t you want to hear me apologising before you? Come on, Tim told me — I had ruined our day together, straight before your birthday. You cried in your room all alone, while I was busy with throwing tantrums without even checking up on you later. That was the last proper memory we got together before you died, and you don’t want me to apologise for it, huh? Talk about hypocrisy.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Jason blows up next, jumping back on his legs. ‘I had never said that I don’t want to hear them, alright?! I just don’t see reasons to listen to them, if they don’t change a single thing!’

Tim flinches. He seems to caught up on something, and Damian bitterly realises that he didn’t. Unlike Drake, he merely cannot grasp his brother’s character, even if he feels like he understands his long, sometimes meaningless rants more than others. He wonders if it is jealousy speaking — it screams far too loud in his head sometimes — or an unpleasant realisation of how detached he feels from human emotions, the complexity of them.

‘Well, then stop living in the past!’

‘What do you think I am fucking trying to do?!’ 

‘How would I know?! I apparently didn’t even know that my little brother is going to college!’

Damian winces, eyeing between his arguing brothers. Todd’s rage might be familiar, but he is not used to seeing Grayson like this, even if he heard infamous stories about his patience snapping. He glares at Tim, and he stares back at him, before standing up to close the distance between them, always chilling hands, gripping the back of his neck menacingly. 

‘Dick is going to regret this when he comes to his senses,’ he whispers to him. ‘We probably should stop them.’

Not like Jason is going to remember any of it. But Dick will, of course — so if no one is going to blame him for lashing out, then he will do it himself.

‘Well, do that, Drake. I am not intending to play a peacemaker.’

The scoff is the only answer he receives back.

‘What, now you grew tired of imagining me like the most violent kid in the world, and decide to pity me, is that it?’

‘Okay, Jason, we are sorry,’ Tim interrupts whatever Dick was going to say with a light tug on Jason’s apron. ‘You are right. If we want to fix this up, we need to use our own brains to do that. But… just in case, if you have any advices on how to do that, we won’t mind hearing it. That was what Dick was trying to say.’

…That is definitely not where Grayson was going with his breakdown.

But maybe because it sounds nice enough or because his second brother is a fool with a special place in the heart for kids younger than him, he does turn his attention in their direction, and tries to calm down.

‘If you want to help, then stop picturing me inside your twisted heads, depending on your moods or daddy’s orders, and actually keep in mind that I am a fucking human being — not a tale to tell to newly recruited kids in capes,’ Jason grits, pressing heels of his hand to his eye. ‘And, please, just leave already.’

The last sentence finally snaps Dick out of what he was going through. Paling gradually, he reaches out for Jason again, but Jason, whose back is turned to him, fails to notice the movement behind, and walks away towards the couch.

‘Little Wing—’

‘Thank you for advice,’ Tim cuts him through softly, catching Dick’s hand frozen in air, instead. ‘And we will. There is no sense in torturing his conscience over something like this.’

‘Drake just made a great point. More shocking news at seven.’

Tim practically yanks him to the door for this, but at least Dick seems to back in the line. He still seems reluctant about leaving, but Tim, who storms out first, tugs him after himself, clearly determined to find a way to get out of this rather sooner or later.

Damian reaches out for the handle, intending to close the door after himself. His fingers twitch at the sight of Jason, clearly disappointed and tired, fixing the Christmas tree. 

Because just for a split second, as insane as it is, he can see the little boy they all witnessed earlier when he stares at grown up Todd. And his heart aches for him.

‘Todd?’

Jason slowly turns his head on him, almost confused. 

‘Damian?’

‘I…’ He bites on his bottom lip nervously. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’

Jason stares, stares, stares—

And then his face breaks in a bleak, but genuine, almost boyish smile.

‘Yeah. Me too.’

Chapter Text

Two hours ago, Jason woke up, shaking off the influence of the meta-human like a wet dog, submitted a rushed but overall empty report about remembering nothing beyond some vague dreams about his mom, and left the Batcave. 

An hour and thirty minutes ago, others stirred in their beds as well, and Dick, barely acknowledging Bruce’s questions, went for his throat. Unwanted realisations were followed by a painful argument that ended up with his older son smashing the second Robin’s memorial in pieces before fleeing away. 

An hour ago, Bruce’s younger sons left detailed reports on his table before ducking their heads in absent-minded farewell, leaving him to deal with the aftermath.

A few minutes ago, after countless rereads of Damian’s report specifically — testimony, his mind corrects viciously; your son just witnessed a murder, and this is a testimony, Bruce, not a report — Bruce finally searched up for Jason in the system of students of the Gotham University. 

‘His major is English and Literary,’ Bruce murmurs, exchanging empty glances with an ID card of his son smiling at him through the display; he looks familiarly polite there. ‘And he receives a monthly scholarship granted for good grades.’

‘Is that so?’ Alfred hums, folding the suit from the memorial carefully; it took some time to clean up the shattered pieces of the glass stand that Dick sent flying through the whole room. 

‘His essay on the subject Voice of Protests in Literature was even published in the magazine of their university,’ he adds.

The exhaustion that keeps him uptight steals all the pride from his voice. 

He is supposed to be happy. All he ever wanted for Jason is to live normally. To get the life he missed a chance to get while being dead. 

Still, for a some reason, his eyes sliding across the tab with Jason’s grades are hollow, and every attempt to focus on the good commentaries his teachers left, ends up with circling back to the same words.

Batarang, bloodied on the floor. Throat, slit deeply. Approximately two minutes left. Attempts to stitch the would fruitless. Last breaths made on cold tiles. 

Your father is a good man—

‘Naturally, it did.’

Something in Alfred’s peaceful intonation strikes the chord in Bruce, and the flash of realisation catches him faster than he processes it in his head.

‘You knew,’ and then, much slower: ‘He told you.’

An ugly shade of green scorches his vision.

Jason told Alfred. 

Jason told Alfred. 

‘I guess, he did, master Bruce,’ Alfred’s face is soothing against the despair on his own.

Bruce grits his teeth, yanking the report file open again.

If he wants to make sense of everything that happened today, he needs to pull up facts, not his own assumptions. But these facts are cold and cruel, and they can’t help to sort out his wreckage of thoughts.

His second son, Jason Todd, died by his hand — it is a fact.

(Left in the explosion first, then abandoned to scramble out of this place by himself, hauling himself to the nearest safehouse, all while bleeding out profusely. Doomed to hope that there is a chance to patch himself up — trying to save himself, despite everything — until met by the reality that there is none, and then, letting out his last breath, thinking about how he died because his parent betrayed him. Again.)

He also moved on after several attempts to fix their relationship, throwing himself in threading a completely new life that his father wasn’t invited to participate in — that is also a fact.

But where it brings him?

‘I was just doing what I needed to do, Al. I never thought that this was going to happen,’ Bruce whispers, scratching on his aching temples. ‘That night, he was dangerous. He was uncontrollable, and—’

‘That night he was a child, yearning his father to be his dad, and we both know it.’

Alfred’s hands come to fall on Bruce’s tense shoulders, but he shrugs them away. 

‘That was not what you said before. You used to agree with me. You thought of him the same!’

‘I did,’ Alfred admits without a beat. ‘And I regret it deeply. My judgment at that time was flawed, and I am afraid I am as bad at admitting and confronting my mistakes as you are. But you never corrected me either, my boy. And this is your son.’

This is his son. God, this is his son, his boy, his—

‘That is not how it works, Al,’ he shakes his head instead emptily.

Jason is his son, always was and always will be. But that night it wasn’t about Jason — it was about Batman and Red Hood, about Joker ultimately, too. He did what he had to. What was right within a time. What a caped crusader would do in any other day. 

‘The night when I realised my mistake was when he came to me, our boy,’ Alfred continues slowly, thoughtfully. ‘He crumbled in my arms, and for the first time since return I listened to what he had to say — and suddenly, it wasn’t a man in my embrace, but the same lad, who was my favourite company back in the time. Everything had changed since he was younger, but very little changed within his soul.’

‘Why are you telling me this now?’ 

‘I just intended to say that you can ask for forgiveness from him now, master Bruce. With time and effort, you would be able to fix it, and he will let you, if you try. Don’t let your arrogance make you lose your son.’

‘It is not about my arrogance, Al,’ he protests. ‘It is different. And Jason knows it, too. He understands.’ 

Alfred sighs. Shaking his head, muttering something about grief knocking on the door, he leaves, retrieving the folded suit. Bruce waits for his steps to become inaudible, and only then he opens the cowl footage from the night Red Hood died and presses the replay button.

Somewhere during the eight watch of it, his phone buzzes, the belated response to his curt “Is there something you want to tell me?” , urging Jason to talk, comes in a string of quick messages popping out on his screen.

Jason:

No

Idk what they told you, I am totally fine

And I don’t plan anything or smth. If it is what you are concerned about

Past is past

You and I are even.

And that… means something, right? That, after all, they are fine. They are still family. 

Batman did what he had to do. And maybe it wasn’t something that Bruce Wayne was supposed to do, but Jason surely understands it.

He does.

Jason is in the middle of brushing his teeth, when there is an impatient knock on his door. 

First, then second, and finally third.

He glances out of the bathroom, staring puzzledly at the clock hanging on the wall, and when his worst suspicions confirm — it is a midnight; most importantly, a midnight of his official day off — he rolls his eyes.

‘A second!’ He screams, his voice coming out muffled due to all the toothpaste in his mouth.

Seems like nightly guests quickly became a habit in his house ever since Carroll.

It started with Dick, right in the same night he woke up after an unpleasant encounter. His mind was foggy, but not awfully so; in fact, for once he felt well-rested and contained. But judging by the rest of the events, the experience wasn’t mutual for his brothers.

For once, Dick barged inside his safehouse that day, awfully delirious and with his hands covered in blood, pieces of glass stuck in his bare palms. Shaking and murmuring some nonsense, he clung into him as if Jason was going to disappear in a thin air. Not knowing what to think, Jason silently cleaned his cuts, bandaged hurt hands, patted his head awkwardly — this gesture only made Dick more distressed — and shove a pack of tissues in his arms, hoping that this would help somehow. While Dick was coming to his senses, Bruce left him a cryptid message that made his stomach churn unpleasantly, and then left him to read once he answered.

Neither these two nor his younger brother, who started to show up on his doorstep for various stupid reasons, explained to him what happened.

Instead, Jason slowly started to get used to their lingering presence. To Dick’s random movie nights that he pulls up on with packs of popcorn and a thousand of question about his friends. To Tim’s visits with stack of books related to his major and conveniently found in the last minute two tickets to some art installation or theatre play. To Damian’s mostly fair, but still confusing tutoring sessions once he misses out on school for too much during his duties as a vigilante.

It is… whatever. 

Jason can’t lie, it does worry him — their undivided attention coming out of nowhere, smelling like trouble — but there is not much he can do, so he just accepts it, while it lasts. He can deal with the consequences later.

‘Please, don’t freak out,’ happens to be the first thing Jason gets in his face, when he opens the door.

Expectedly, it sets up a quite anxious mood from the beginning. 

Then, he takes in the sight of his three brothers present — Dick, standing in his stupid pyjama with teddy bears on it and in converses, Tim looking vaguely normal in his usual set of clothes, and Damian being in the Robin suit — and completely freaks out.

‘Man, what the fuck?!’

He tries to stick out his head to see if there is anyone walking down the corridor, being able to witness a literal Robin there, but Dick nudges him back inside the room, strangely anxious. 

Hiding something behind their backs.

‘Shhh!’ Dick smacks him on the shoulder. ‘Promise not to get mad.’

This shit is ridiculous. At this point, Jason should just close the door in front of their faces.

‘I am already mad,’ he hisses. ‘Fine, whatever, I promise.’

‘Okay,’ Tim claps in his hand. ‘So, we—’

His voice is interrupted by a loud bark behind. They all fall into silence for a good second, and then, the bark repeats obnoxiously. 

Jason hisses:

‘You brought a fucking dog here?!’

‘You promised not to get mad!’ Dick accuses him.

‘Drake, if you are not able to hold it properly, then go and stab yourself—’

‘How about you stab yourself and—’

‘Okay, calm down!’ Dick puts both of his hands on Damian’s and Tim’s faces, stopping them from butting their foreheads together. ‘How about we get inside the house before people actually start getting curious on what the fuck is going on here?’

Jason stares at them, bewildered, as they squeeze their way in the room, while the huge, golden-locked dog follows them politely. It looks at him with big brown, utterly lost eyes, and Jason nods in the understanding. 

He is confused, too.

‘So, this is a dog,’ Tim announces peacefully, once the door is closed tightly.

‘Really now,’ Jason rolls his eyes.

‘The service dog,’ Dick emphasises. ‘For you.’

Oh.

He heard before that service dogs help people like him. With bubbling anxiety, with chronic pains, with many, many different battles he is dealing with in the complete solitude. In fact, it was Roy who sent him an article about it back in the time — a one coming from the blog for single mothers in their forties, but that is aside the point — egging him to get one to himself. And don’t get him wrong, Jason loves dogs, but… but getting himself a one feels like a dream. With his style of life and everything, how can he take a responsibility for someone’s life? 

Usually, he satisfies his urge to pet some dog and embrace it for his own comfort, when he comes to study in Ema’s place, where her parents have a German Shepherd that they call Buddy. But that is pretty much it.

‘It was actually Damian’s idea,’ Dick continues. ‘But I think it is really smart.’

‘Embarrassing. The worst person you know just made a great point,’ Tim murmurs under his nose, instantly receiving a jab under his ribs from Damian himself.

Jason snorts before squatting down in front of the dog. It seems quiet, almost too shy, considering everything, and Jason matches it energy perfectly, his hand hovering above its head slowly. Seconds between them pass, and the dog itself knocks its head against his open palm, urging to be patted.

Oh, fucking hell, it is cute! 

Jason feels how all his previous points about responsibility disappear, turning in wisps of wind.

‘You stole the dog for me?’ Jason grumbles, his fingers reaching to scratch softly the dog behind its ears.

‘Little D saw a one during the patrol, and called Tim, who was close to him, so he could come and buy it in his civilian clothes.’

‘Apparently,’ Damian chimes in coldly, ‘Drake is a complete disappointment even in the eyes of law, because it was required to get a fully legal person for signing documents for owning the dog. Thus, he called Grayson.'

‘...I might or might not forget to mention it to Dick what type of the emergency we are facing,’ Tim cleared up his throat, completely ignoring his brother’s crude remark. 

Dick sighs, fixing the collar of his sleeping clothes. Jason shakes his head.

‘Yeah, explains some stuff,’ the dog puts its paws on Jason’s shoulders, and oh, he is melting. ‘But are you sure that I should—’

‘Yes,’ they all interrupt him in a perfect unison. 

Jason huffs.

At this point, he is not sure that he could tear himself off this dog even if they all told him that it is a bad idea, but encouragement is always welcome in his house.

‘It is a girl,’ Damian tells him, looking awfully pleased with whatever emotion is eliciting on Jason’s face. God, he hopes it is not tears. ‘How do you plan to name it, Todd?’

‘Girl, huh… My sweet girl,’ Jason coos, when the dog bumps their noses together. The giggle that escapes his throat is absolutely undignified, and he is sure he is going to be bullied about it later on, but he can’t help it. She is too adorable. ‘Mhm, how should we call you, princess?’

‘Call her Meow, and I am paying you twenty bucks,’ Tim suggests.

‘Drake, I hope you know that your future children would kill themselves if you ever name them.’

‘Where this came from?!’

Jason thinks about the Winter’s Tale copy left on his nightstand, bookmarked with a shabby check from the café where he sat with Lian the last weekends, ready to be finished tonight, and the name escapes his lips faster than he actually wonders how good it will sound on the dog.

‘Paulina?’

But the dog — his girl, Paulina — already wiggles her tail against his legs.

‘Ah-h, Paulina, my first niece!’ Dick declares, settling on the floor as well, hugging Jason instead of the dog. ‘Quick, all of you come here, we need to do a family photo.’

Jason pales, clinging to Paulina possessively. 

‘No. No. Get away from here, you all, you are going to give anxiety to the fucking service dog, I swear to God!’

But there is a helpless smile tugging at his lips, a one that he cannot erase no matter how much he tries.

As his brothers topple over him, shoving a phone in his hand for a photo, Jason realises that for the all times he thought his life had ended, this is the new beginning. 

One day he is even going to grow wings again. And perhaps that day just came a little bit closer.