Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In hindsight, it had been a really terrible idea. 

One of the worst he's ever had. Then again, when it comes to the Joker, Jason's judgment tends to get... skewed. 

Top that off with the fact that he was shitfaced, having drank his weight in the strongest alcohol the bartender had brought him. And the conversation he'd overheard from some randos sitting next to him at the bar hadn't helped, either. 

"Ugh, I swear to God, Arkham has got to be the shittiest prison on the planet. How does it keep having so many breakouts?" 

Jason looked over at the man, vision doubling before he tried to focus on the tiny TV behind the bartender. And he saw it. That damn, pasty face, yellowed teeth, inhumanly wide smile, eyes that carry more madness than the whole fucking Asylum put together. 

"- broken out of Arkham again. The GCPD are looking for clues to his whereabouts, and we have information on Batman and Robin moving into the scene -"

"Ah, fuck. Get ready for more Joker venom in your water the next few weeks, fellas."

"Honestly, someone should kill that motherfucker already, for God's sake."

"You know what?" Jason said, loudly, ignoring his own hiccup and the way the three men looked at him in confusion and just a tad of fear. "Yes. Someone should."

He had the guns, he had the balls, and he had more alcohol than blood in his system. 

And he's the fucking Red Hood. He gets. shit. done. 

So that had been it. 

Tracking the bastard had been surprisingly easy. It was like he wanted to be found - which was honestly his modus operandi, so scratch the surprising part. He had been in a fucking warehouse - the motherfucker - spraypainting some wretched, sadistic love letter for Batsy. Jason didn't hesitate, didn't allow the man to explain his elaborate plan or tell the punchline of his first joke. 

"Boy Won-" and then he had a bullet between his eyes. 

And Jason left, threw up in the bushes outside, drunkenly drove himself back to his closest safehouse and promptly collapsed on the couch. 

Unfortunately, his drunk brain had not realized three extremely important points:

1. He was not carrying his Red Hood uniform - no armor, no helmet. Just the guns. 

2. There were security cameras everywhere. Outside the warehouse, inside the warehouse, on the streets he drove through, outside the bar... 

3. He left his DNA everywhere on the scene. 

He doesn't regret what he did. 

But dammit, the fucking Batman is tailing him now, and if memory serves, he's due for the beat down of a lifetime. 

Now the man and his birdies are hunting down his allies, his henchmen, dismantling his whole operation with the sole purpose of finding him. 

With how aggressively, obsessively and ferally the bats begin chasing Red Hood down, Jason is convinced they somehow found out his real identity. And are out for his blood. Can't leave his casket empty, no sir. 

Jason has tried everything to hide. This is not how he wanted his reveal to go - not Batman finding him first and beating him up for killing his favourite counterpart. Definitely not with what his henchmen have described as a rabid, feral, out-of-control Nighwing with him, who, to quote his second-in-command, Hal, "looks terrifyingly desperate to find the Red Hood." And, his own freaking replacement in tow, who is apparently a fucking genius. 

Nope. No, thanks. Not yet, anyway. 

He needs a game plan first. 

He does his best, hiding out in Crime Alley, telling his men to scatter and only communicate through secure lines, halting most of his operations and even stopping patrols until he can figure things out. 

It's not enough. 

One night, in full Red Hood gear, he finds himself face-to-face with a mob boss in the man's secluded office one second, and then face-to-face with an enraged Batman who just knocked out said mob boss and his whole bodyguard ensemble. He barely blinks, looking down at the groaning or unconscious bodies around him, hands holding a briefcase full of money, and then... he bolts. 

Nightwing lands as light as a feather and as terrifying as a freaking nightmare in front of him, stopping him in his tracks with a gasp. 

But it almost makes Jason snicker when he realizes that he's now taller and bigger than his older brother. 

"Red Hood," Batman speaks behind him. 

He takes a deep breath. 

"Two bats in one night. To what do I owe the honor?"

He is so thankful for the modulator in his helmet - it hides the way his voice is shaking. 

"We need to talk," Nightwing says, and his voice is deep and angry. Jason can't remember hearing him this upset - ever. Jesus. He expected anger from Batman, but why the hell is Nightdick so upset about it? 

"Oh?" he plays dumb, clutching his hard-earned money closer. He cut too many heads for it, he's not going to just give it up. 

"I know what you've done," Batman says, as he slowly surrounds him so that he is now side by side with Nightwing.

He stares at the two, and something in his heart clenches. It's the first time since he returned that he's seen them up close. The first time they have spoken to him. Something raw and sad inside of him screams, but he locks it even deeper within himself. It's too late for that. 

"Pray tell, Batman. What did I do?"

Fuck this, even with all the evidence they surely have, they are going to have to beat the confession out of him.

"You know very well the type of shit you've pulled," Nightwing growls. 

"Wow... You let your sidekicks curse now, Batman?"

"We're not here to joke around," Batman says, crossing his arms. 

Huh. He would've thought Batman would have started beating him by now but none of them have really moved.

"You're not? Oh, man, what do I do with all of these punchlines I've prepared?"

Ugh, fuck, that sounded way too much like the Joker for his liking. He has to suppress a shiver. 

"Red Hood... I will go straight to the point," Batman growls. Oh, boy, here it comes, "I am willing to form a temporary alliance." 

...What. 

He stays silent.

"We will... turn a blind eye... on your criminal activities and stay away from Crime Alley. Temporarily," Nightwing adds.

"What?" he voices it this time, wondering if he's hallucinating. Maybe the Bat already punched him, cracked his skull open and now he's insane. 

"We need you to do something for us in exchange," Batman says, voice low and hesitant. 

"...What is it?" he asks, curiosity winning over his instinct to get the hell out of there. 

"You know Crime Alley better than anyone. I need you to help us find someone." 

Oh... so this is not about the Joker? 

"Who?" 

"Jason Todd," Nightwing answers, and his voice wavers. 

What. the. fuck. 

He is struck silent. His brain is all but bluescreening. He feels hot all of a sudden, a rush of blood going to his brain that almost makes him stumble. His throat and mouth go dry. 

He is so fucking thankful for his helmet. 

"I'm sure you've seen the news. A civilian who ran into the Joker and murdered him. This is highly confidential but... we know who he is. He's Jason Todd. And we know he's hiding in Crime Alley. We need to find him."

He swallows hard. Once. Twice. Three times. His voice still comes out dry, but thank heavens for the modulator. 

"What..." he has to swallow again. "What do you plan to do with the guy? Arrest him? Throw him in Arkham?"

"That's between us and Jason," Batman growls. 

He almost laughs out loud at that. 

"I'm not going to help you send him to jail, seems to me he did your job for you. Gotham already seems healthier without the extra Joker venom the clown was planning to release." 

Batman and Nightwing look at each other for a moment. 

And then... Nightwing seems to deflate. His anger leaves him, replaced by something raw, desperate. 

"You're our only hope, Hood. Please." 

Red Hood hesitates a second, looks both of them in the eye. He can't deny it tugs at his heartstrings. 

"Why is this person so important to you?" 

The question comes out rushed, breathless, and definitely without his permission. 

"He's... Bruce Wayne's son. He's been... missing. For too long. And Bruce Wayne will do anything, anything to find him," Batman says, and for a moment his voice goes dry and raspy.

Oh jeeze, a stab to the heart would've hurt less. 

But then again, this is so. fucking. funny. 

So, of course, he agrees. 

This is going to be the best fucking prank he's ever pulled on anyone, ever. The fact that it will be on Batman just makes it so much sweeter. 

Chapter Text

Arkham has always given Tim the creeps. 

Not just because it's the preferred vacation spot of Gotham’s worst psychos—though that’s bad enough—but because the place itself feels like it’s running on cursed wifi. No matter how many reinforced doors, retina scanners, and Bat-funded upgrades they throw at it, Arkham still leaks villains like a broken vending machine dispensing nightmares.

He hates it when they have to go there. 

Like right now. 

It's late, and it's cold, and fucking Joker has escaped again. Another thing that gives Tim the creeps. That freaking clown. 

“Just when we finally got the aqueduct de-Scarecrowed,” Steph mutters, eyes squinting at the shadows like they owe her money.

Tim nods. “Yeah, that first gulp of fear-toxin tap water was not it. Still have nightmares about drinking my own trauma.”

“Joker venom’s worse,” she says.

"Oh yeah. Less ‘face your fears,’ more ‘laugh yourself to death and also maybe explode.’”

And then Gordon gasps. Literally. The Commissioner of Gotham, a man who once stared down Killer Croc without blinking, looks like someone just told him his taxes were sent to the Penguin. 

He’s pale, holding his phone like it just insulted his mother. “Are you absolutely certain of this?” he asks.

Batman tenses. Tim tenses. Steph tenses. Somewhere, Alfred probably tenses via psychic butler instincts.

“What?” Batman growls. It's the Batman version of "What the hell did he do now?"

Gordon lowers the phone like it might bite him and blinks. “He… died.”

All three bats speak at the same time.

"I'm sorry?"

"Come again?"

"The fuck did you say?"

“Language,” Batman growls reflexively at Steph, as if they aren’t currently dealing with a deceased Joker situation.

“Killed in a warehouse nearby. One shot. Civilian,” Gordon says, looking like he needs a very strong drink and possibly a nap.

Sixty seconds later, the Batmobile is rocketing through Gotham at speeds that break laws and possibly physics. Batman’s jaw is clenched like it is personally offended. The leather steering wheel groans under his grip.

Steph leans forward from the backseat. “B, you’re gonna burst a blood vessel.”

The leather creaks louder. The Bat-jaw might just explode right now. Steph wisely shuts her mouth and sits back. Tim keeps his eyes glued to the window, pretending Gotham’s charming selection of crumbling buildings and warehouse real estate is utterly captivating. Yep, most interesting freaking thing he's seen, if you ask him.

And then they're in front of the warehouse. 

Crime scene already taped off. Cops milling about and looking frazzled, which is code for they saw something insane. Gordon’s car screeches up behind them, parks like a drunk moose. A young officer—blonde, serious, possibly regretting every career choice—is already briefing him as he climbs out.

“Neighbors heard a gunshot. No signs of struggle. Victim appears to have been in the middle of… spray painting a message.”

They walk as she speaks. Tim notices the gross something coated over one of the bushes before they enter the warehouse. He decides not to inspect. Self-care.

And indeed, there he is. Sprawled on the floor, surrounded by policemen surveying the area and putting tape everywhere, taking pictures, writing things on notepads and whatnot. The sight is no less terrifying than when he was alive - he's still smiling, eyes wide open, a bleeding hole between them. Behind him on the wall, spray-painted in sloppy red letters:

Batsy, how many Robins—

It trails off.

Charming. Subtle, too.

Steph leans closer to Tim. “Man, am I glad I got fired. You guys are like serial killer magnets.”

"Fuck, think he was coming for me next?"

"Who knows," she shrugs, but she also looks spooked.

"We have the footage, sir," another young policeman says, bringing over a small tablet. They gather around it. 

"That's a surprisingly clear image," Steph says as the split screen shows the outside of the warehouse on the left and the inside on the right. 

She's right. Gotham security footage tends to look like it was taken by a potato.

"Quiet," Batman growls as someone walks into the frame on the outside, and the camera shows him from behind. 

He's huge - tall and all muscly, wearing a brown leather jacket and black jeans. He stumbles - was he fucking drunk? - up to the door. 

Then the frame on the right shows him from the front. Face on full display. And...

"Holy fucking shit. Is that -" Steph starts.

“No,” Tim says automatically, like saying it fast enough would undo reality. “No way. Right, Batman?”

Oh fuck, Batman is indeed going to burst a vessel. His mouth is open in horrified surprise, which is so uncommon on him, it looks like someone else for a second. He doesn't say anything. He might be having an aneurysm or just a very private panic attack. He just lifts an incredibly shaky hand to tap the tablet twice, making it zoom into the man's - boy's, really - face. 

It's unmistakable. Jason fucking Todd lifts a gun, doesn’t even flinch, and bam. Joker’s dead. Just like that. No speech. No cool one-liner. Just...pop goes the sociopath.

Jason then stumbles outside, hurls into a bush, hops on a motorcycle like this is a totally normal Tuesday and not, you know, murder o'clock, and vanishes into the night.

“Do you recognize this man?” the officer asks, like they’re not collectively watching their shared trauma solve their Joker problem via blunt-force vigilante-turned-civilian justice.

Batman doesn’t answer. Gordon gives him a look. One of those please tell me you don't immediately recognize our newest possible psychopath looks.

Batman rearranges his face into his usual granite grimace and turns away, dead silent.

"Nightwing. I need you in Gotham, right now."

Because of course. When your undead ex-Robin assassinates your arch-nemesis mid-graffiti while possibly - definitely - intoxicated, the only answer is: call the responsible sibling.

.

.

It's so. fucking. hilarious. 

Red Hood brings Batman and Nightwing to one of his own warehouses. It's currently empty, now that he told his men to hide like death is biting their freaking ankles. 

Now they're sitting behind the screen he installed a few months ago, while Nightwing explains all of the evidence they have gathered to him. They’re squinting at the security feed like it’s evidence. He just thinks it’s peak comedy.

The footage plays on a screen Jason installed months ago, mostly to keep tabs on his own men. Right now, though, it’s doing the Lord’s work: showing him, drunk off his ass, stumbling out of a bar with a bottle still clutched in one hand like it’s a teddy bear. And then the whole murder scene.

Epic. 

Jason laughs. Loudly. It's pure joy wrapped in whiskey-soaked memory.

Batman, of course, does not laugh. Batman glowers.

“What?” Jason says, gesturing to the screen. “Kid’s got style.”

“Kid broke about a billion laws that night,” Nightwing says, arms crossed, the Dick Grayson patented ‘Disappointed But Still Hot’ look in full effect. “And he’s been MIA ever since. We’ve been trying to track him down for days.”

Jason shrugs. 

“Have you considered the possibility that maybe you guys just suck at your jobs?”

"Red Hood, this is serious," Nightwing says, sighing. "He could be injured or - or -"

"You sound awfully concerned for that man, Nightwing. I thought this was just a job Wayne was paying you to do."

Nightwing glares at him, bristling. 

"One, we don't get paid  -"

“Tragic. That sounds like incredibly bad financial planning. Honestly, someone should unionize.” 

“—Two,” he pushes through, “that’s not a man. That’s barely an adult. He’s nineteen.”

“Nineteen-year-olds are legally adults,” Jason deadpans. “Ask the draft board.”

“And three,” he continues, like he's not absolutely losing his mind, “I’d be concerned about any civilian who shoots the Joker in the face. That’s not normal behavior. He might need help.”

Jason laughs again, but this time it’s bitter. Sour. The kind of laugh that sounds like it’s keeping a scream on standby.

"Right. You're not looking for him to beat him half to death and then chuck him into Arkham to rot for life." 

"What we do with that boy once we find him is hardly your concern," Batman growls. "You are just needed to navigate Crime Alley and bring him to us."

Bastard. 

Who does he fucking think he is.

Jason’s entire body stiffens, just for a second. Then he relaxes with exaggerated ease, legs stretched out, posture oozing mockery.

“Oh, I get it. You don’t want to find the kid. Wayne just wants you to make sure he actually vanishes."

Nightwing sighs, the kind that’s heavy enough to carry grief and resignation in one breath. “Hood—come on.”

But Jason leans in, voice low and venom-laced.

"You're wrong there, Bats. Sorry. I know you think of me as just a drug-dealing crime lord -"

"I don't think of you," Batman interrupts coldly.

This bitch. 

“—but I protect Crime Alley. If the kid’s one of ours, then guess what? He’s under my protection. Not yours.”

"That's some solemn discourse for a literal drug-dealing crime lord," Nightwing says, and Red Hood can picture him rolling his eyes behind the mask. "But no, we won't hurt him. Bruce Wayne and his family just want their lost member back safely." 

Jason hums noncommitally, the his family part feeling like a kick in the nuts. He yanks the manila folder off the table and flips it open like he’s about to draft a lawsuit.

Instead, it sucker punches him in the heart.

Photos. Of him. Smiling. Laughing. That soft, pre-death version of Jason Todd that barely feels real now. The innocent little kid who thought Robin was magical and everything he could've ever asked for.

There’s one of him and Bruce. One of him and Dick. Fuck, one of him and Alfred. All of them feel like a clawed hand is grabbing his heart and squeezing, digging nails in.

All of them show a kid who still believed birthdays mattered and that capes meant safety.

Then—

An autopsy photo.

Jason stops breathing.

It’s him. Pale. Bruised. Tiny. Laid out on a metal table like a science project no one finished. Like the street alley kid no one wanted to claim. He looks small. Breakable.

Had he always been that small?

The pictures peter out to show the written autopsy report. Damn. He was tiny and weighed nothing. 

Tears slip out before he can stop them. The modulator covers the sniff, thank God.

“He’s certainly grown, huh?” Jason mutters, voice tight. It comes out sounding like a joke. It’s not.

“Yeah,” Nightwing replies softly, with a little half-laugh that breaks on the way out.

Jason closes the folder like it offends him. Like it burns.

“Alright. I’ll find him. But only if you all keep out of the Alley. No patrols. No secret Bat-stalkers.”

"We'll only step in if there's a clue about his whereabouts," Batman half-agrees. 

"And you won't chase my men down -"

"Unless they hurt civilians."

“Do I look like Penguin to you?”

“You keep us informed,” Dick cuts in, trying to steer this flaming emotional plane back toward reason. “We’ll meet nightly. Exchange updates.”

Jason nods, then tilts his head with mock curiosity. “By the way—where’s Robin? Going retro with the lineup?”

“Robin’s working on something else,” Batman says. The way he says it sounds less like an update and more like a death threat.

“Whatever,” Jason shrugs. “I liked the last one better anyway.”

"What?" Nightwing asks. 

But Jason’s already up, crossing the room, picking up his phone with a flourish.

“Hal, my man,” he says into the receiver, voice smug and electric. “We’re back in business. And holy shit, do I have a story for you and the boys.”

He turns, facing the screen still paused on his drunken mug.

For once, he wishes he wasn’t wearing the helmet—just so they could see the smile stretching across his face.

Not a happy smile. Not quite.

But definitely victorious.

.

.

His men are back to work the very next day, like clockwork. He makes it clear that the Batgang is off-limits, and swears that the vigilantes won't hurt them in return. 

His top-guys know him. They don't know the full story, never knew he was Robin and have no idea who Batman is or why exactly he hates him this much. But they know his face, and his real name, and that he used to be Bruce Wayne's kid before he, uh, "ran away". 

They can't stop laughing at the story. 

The news leaked, too. The very next day. Batman managed to keep his name and connection to Bruce Wayne from the media, but the footage of him drunkenly killing the Joker still splashes all possible media outlets in Gotham and its surroundings. Gotham’s entire media circuit goes full-blown soap opera.

So now he's... sort of a hero? 

Public opinion polls show Gotham’s population split evenly between "we love him" and "we love him but he’s terrifying."

His henchmen, who have never shut up about how much they admire him even when Jason blushes and snaps and leaves the room in exhasperated embarrassment, cheer at him and pat his back and ruffle his fucking hair and hug him until Jason snaps and tells them he will shoot them in the fucking balls if they don't quit it.

Now they're sitting in one of his safehouses, drinking cheap beer and eating cheapest chips as they play cards and laugh. 

"Oh, boss, this too fucking much," one of them wheezes, nearly spiling his drink. "Batman has to be pulling his own eyes out just so he doesn't have to see a kid doing his job for him all over Gotham."

"Not a kid," Jason says, glaring threateningly, but then smiles slightly, "but yeah. He’s gonna go more Joker than Joker at this rate."

"So, what's the plan, then?" another one asks, still chuckling. 

"Well... send them on a fucking goose chase. I'm going to have them circle Crime Alley like it's a fucking roller coaster."

“And then?” another asks, raising an eyebrow. “You tell them?”

Jason shrugs. “Nah. Why ruin the magic?”

He doesn't notice the way the men look at each other. The “our boss is emotionally constipated but he's just a kid and we love him anyway and we worry about him” look.

Hal, hardened as he is by years in the business, shows a bit of emotion as he looks at his young boss. 

“Y’know… now that you know your old man’s out looking for you…”

"Yeah, has the Batman prioritizing this over everything else..."

Jason glances up from his cards, murder eyes fully activated.

“Did we not go over this? I’m the Red Hood. Not some abandoned kid waiting for his dad to come back from his vape run. Bruce Wayne is dead to me.”

“Right. Rule number one. No BW mentions at the table,” someone says, hands raised like they’re being held at gunpoint. Which, to be fair, they might be.

Jason sighs. Then grins.

“Anyway. Hal, Lina, Mark—you’re with me. Operation: Psychological Warfare via Looney Tunes begins tonight.”

They laugh. But behind the chuckles are glances that say: We’re worried about you, you chaos raccoon. Jason, genius that he is, remains blissfully unaware that they think he’s the one who needs supervision, and that they sometimes feel like they need to protect him.

He thinks he is the mom friend, the one who protects and vouches for them.

It’s giving “delusion,” honestly.

Pot-meet-kettle kinda thing. 

.

They meet that night at a random building roof at the very limits of Crime Alley. His men are wearing masks as well, to hide their identities. 

This time, Robin accompanies Batman and Nightwing and... oh, hell no. 

He's tiny! Like, legally tiny. This isn’t a sidekick, this is an endangered species.

Jesus, forget unionizing, someone should call CPS on the fucking Bat, honestly. 

"Hood," Batman growls as a way of salute, standing between his kids, fists clenched like he's ready to drop hands if someone looks at them wrong.

"Batman," Hood answers, mocking his growly voice. His men snicker behind him. 

"We have no time for jokes," Nightwing says, fists also clenched, posture the carbon copy of Batman's. 

“No, I get it. Leg day’s calling, huh?” Jason shoots back.

"Red Hood," Batman says, his voice rising. 

Jason snickers but lifts his hands. "Sorry, banter is my love language, Batsy. If we're going to be a team, you're gonna have to take it." 

"It really is," Mark says behind him. "One of the downsides of working for him is putting up with those jokes."

"Hey!" Red Hood says, amused but offended. "They're quality jokes."

"It's worth the dental care benefits honestly," Lina says, shrugging. 

"You have health benefits?" Robin asks, peeking behind Batman's cape like a curious hamster, eyes wide behind the mask. 

Jason hates him. He does. He really fucking does. But my God, he's fucking adorable.

"Of course they have health benefits! What am I, Wayne Enterprises?" he says.

“Wayne Enterprises has one of the nation’s top-tier healthcare programs and—” Batman begins, before visibly short-circuiting and grinding his jaw like it’s trying to chew through his own rage. "This is a fucking waste of time."

"Oh! Language!" Robin says, snickering. 

Jason is not charmed. He is not about to adopt this kid. Nope. Shut it down, Jason.

Batman glares at him, baring his teeth like they might burst out and start beating them all up in pure frustration. To Jason's surprise, Nightwing snickers before driving a hand to his mouth to cover it. Then he clears his throat. 

"Ok, as much as I love this banter and the fact that you give your workers health inssurance -"

"- and maternity leave, paternity leave, 401k matching, therapy stipends -" Lina starts, counting with her fingers.

"- childcare assistance, a lot of PTO, flexible schedule -" Mark goes on, nodding along. 

Hal just snickers. 

"ALRIGHT," Nightwing says, loud, lifting his hands. "Red Hood's a socialist icon. We get it. Moving on."

"You're just jealous you don't even get a salary," Red Hood mutters, shrugging. 

“You don’t?” Lina gasps. “Dude. I can get you a union rep. They do great pro bono work.”

"That's what I was telling him -" 

Batman’s fists are clenched so tight, they’re about to form a black hole.

"Oh. My. God." hegrowls. It works at shutting them all up. "If we don't start working right this second you can kiss our arrangement goodbye and I will make it my personal mission to hunt down all of your precious henchmen and throw them into Blackgate one by one before you can finish your next joke, I swear to God."

Jason shudders at the threat, and can feel the others shaking behind him. 

"Alright, Jesus. Lighten up a bit. Fine. We'll start by checking out the Alley's bars."

"The bars?" Nightwing asks, sounding exhausted. 

"Your kid is probably an alcoholic. Didn't you see the tapes?" Red Hood says. 

"Fine," Batman growls. "Lead the way."

Oh, this is gonna be so much fun. 

Chapter Text

"Alright, Batgang, here’s the deal," Red Hood announces, standing in the rankest alley in all of Gotham, just outside a bar so questionable even rats file HR complaints. “Batman, Nightwing, and Robin can’t just go strutting around Crime Alley like they’re handing out justice-themed business cards. This isn’t your typical mob headquarters.”

Nightwing crosses his arms, looking every inch the stoic leader he thinks he is. “So, what’s the plan?”

Jason nearly snorts. God, he’s serious. “The plan is to throw people off your scent,” he says, adopting his best ‘I’m definitely the responsible one’ tone. “Lucky for you, there are a lot of people in Crime Alley who dress like you guys.”

“There are?” Nightwing asks, genuinely confused.

“Oh yeah,” Mark says, not missing a beat at following his leader into joke-themed chaos. “Big scene. Lotta leather. Lotta zippers. Sometimes capes. It’s kind of a… kink thing. But hey, the pay’s probably decent. Bachelor parties, themed club nights, birthday grams, the scort thing—Crime Alley’s economy is weird.”

He watches with silent glee as Bruce’s mouth flattens into a line and Nightwing’s eyebrows climb into his hairline. Robin just tilts his head like he’s storing this info for later nightmares.

“I’m sorry, what?” Nightwing finally chokes out.

“They also do non-kinky impersonations,” Hal adds dryly. He is the best at lying. Not a single smile slipping through. “For mockery purposes. Birthdays, office parties, that sort of thing. They're very popular during Pride.”

Jason nods solemnly. “Yeah. A lot of locals hate you.”

Nightwing blinks. “Hate us?”

“Oh, pretty boy, they loathe you,” Jason says, slapping a hand over his chest. “It’s cultural at this point.”

Robin frowns, lower lip poking out. “They hate us?”

Jason's heart actually hurts a little. He’s so small. “Not you, little dude. You’re a local sensation. People knit you hats.”

He almost ruffles the kid’s hair but stops himself. He has some dignity.

Bruce, face carved from stone, speaks up. “So the plan is we pretend to be civilians dressed as ourselves?”

“Exactly,” Jason says. “Cosplayers on a pub crawl. Man, you catch on fast.”

“This is the worst idea I’ve ever agreed to,” Nightwing mutters.

“Wrong,” Jason grins. “The worst idea you agreed to was the Discowing suit. This is a close second.”

"Hey! The Discowing suit is a masterpiece."

"It's not. And - did you have to zip it so low?" 

"Enough."

Bruce breathes heavily through his nose — the Bat-version of screaming into a pillow — and marches toward the bar. Jason grabs Robin by the collar before the kid can follow.

“Whoa there, champ. No minors in bars. Even I have standards.”

Robin glares. “So what am I supposed to do, knit?”

“Stand watch. Survey for threats. Mark’ll hang back with you.”

“You got it, boss,” Mark says with a wink. “I’ve got a little brother your age.”

“Congrats?” Robin deadpans.

Bruce turns and glares at Jason, then at Mark like he personally insulted Alfred.

“If anything happens to him—”

“Blackgate will look like a day spa, yeah, I got it,” Jason says, hands raised. “Relax. He’s fine.”

“I can handle him,” Robin says. “I’ve stabbed people twice his size.”

Mark looks mildly concerned.

Bruce still looks like he wants to launch Jason into the sun but nods anyway.

“Comm lines open. Stay close. Be safe.”

Jason shoves the twinge of nostalgia down, smothers it with sarcasm. “Oh, one last thing—Crime Alley tradition dictates you have to take a tequila shot when entering any bar. Sacred ritual. Cultural cornerstone.”

Nightwing squints. “We don’t drink on duty.”

Jason shrugs. “Then they’ll know you’re not one of them. And if this kid’s hiding out here, the locals will tell him you’re hunting. He’ll be gone before you can say, ‘I’m Batman and I disapprove of this shot glass.’”

Bruce stares at him. Blank. Calculating. Then turns and walks into the bar like he’s heading to his own execution.

Jason grins behind his helmet. “God, I love team bonding.”

.

The bar reeks of alcohol, vomit, and poor life decisions. Music blasts at eardrum-murdering levels. People are dancing on sticky stages, draped over chairs, slurring words that stopped being English a long time ago.

It’s perfect.

Jason struts up to the bar like he owns the place, his helmet catching the neon lights in just the right way. Everyone sober enough to notice them gives a double-take—some confused, others clearly annoyed.

The bartender looks them over slowly, unimpressed. “Costume party?”

“Yep,” Jason says brightly. “Real close by. But first, we need to get absolutely wrecked before I see another Green Lantern impersonator in body paint.”

The bartender sighs like this isn’t even in the top ten weirdest things tonight.

“Five of your strongest tequila shots, my man.”

Glasses hit the counter. Liquid courage is served. Jason turns to hand them out with all the pomp of a generous god.

Bruce reluctantly grabs the tiny shot glass between his fingers like it personally insulted his ancestors. Nightwing looks like he wants to teleport back to Bludhaven right this fucking second. 

“Drink it,” Jason says. “Or you’ll stand out.”

Bruce closes his eyes, tips it back, and immediately looks like someone just waterboarded his soul. Nightwing winces harder than he does taking a boot to the ribs.

“Welcome to Crime Alley,” Jason says, clinking glasses with Lina and Hal.

He turns his back to them, lifts the front of his helmet just enough to sip his own shot, and closes it again. Smooth. Perfectly chilled. Disrespectfully good.

When he looks back, Bruce and Dick are both hovering awkwardly like they’re waiting to be picked up from prom by Alfred. Jason grins. They are so not built for this. These two have never had more than half a glass of champagne at a Wayne gala. Jason? He and his crew could drink a biker gang under the table and still walk home sideways in a straight line.

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” he mutters.

He scans the crowd. Big tattooed guy pounding shots like it’s a religion. A group of women looking at them like they're the last men on Earth. Jackpot.

.

Tim leans against a wall, arms crossed, scowling like Gotham’s most stylish gargoyle.

Mark kicks a bottle cap across the pavement. “So… what’s your favorite weapon?”

Tim side-eyes him. “That your idea of small talk?”

“I’m trying, man.”

“…Bo staff,” Tim says finally. “And fists. And throwing knives. Balanced ones. Not the glittery bullshit.”

Mark nods, thoughtfully. “I once hit a guy with a frozen ham.”

Tim blinks. “Why?”

“It was... situationally appropriate.”

Tim stares. Then, almost imperceptibly, his lips twitch. “That’s kind of awesome.”

“Yeah, until he pulled a meat hook and almost sent me to Jesus.”

Tim huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Been there.”

Mark tilts his head. “Meat hook?”

“No, not that. Just... close calls. It’s scary.”

They fall into a brief silence, the buzz of the bar faint in the background.

Then Mark tries again. “So, can I ask something?”

“You can ask,” Tim mutters. “Not promising I’ll answer.”

“Does Batman just pick up random kids and shove them into primary colors?”

Tim actually snorts. “He didn’t shove me into the suit,” he says. Then, changing the subject to a less personal one: “What do you think they’re doing in there?”

Mark squints at the building. “I give it five minutes before someone challenges Batman to a tequila-off.”

“And Nightwing starts dancing.”

“Oh, definitely. You can’t be that bendy and not use it for dance-offs and chaos.”

“He dances every chance he gets,” Tim confirms.

Mark laughs, imagining Dick dancing salsa as he beats villains. “I’d pay good money to see that.”

Tim lifts a brow, thinking about the Batcave's security footage. “What’s your definition of ‘good money’?”

.

"Bats, you go talk to the big guy. He looks like a gang leader. Definitely knows something. Nighty, you go talk to those women. They might have seen him. Hal, Lina and I will talk to the people at the bar."

They both nod once, and then Batman is moving towards Tattos-and-steroids, and Nightwing is making his way towards the women who can't believe their damn luck. 

Hal, Lina and Jason sit at the bar, laughing. 

"Boss, this is the best operation you've taken us on," Lina says. 

"Isn't it?" he laughs. He turns to the barman. "Three beers, please. Oh and please, please, send two more shots to the guys in costumes." The man nods. 

Several minutes pass with Jason, Hal and Lina exchanging a really pleasant talk. 

Jason’s nursing his second beer (it's slow going, he has to maneuver his helmet for each sip) and a wicked grin when it happens.

“Wait a damn second!” a gravel-throated voice booms from the back. Tattoo Mountain—the guy Jason clocked earlier as Trouble with a capital T— points a beefy finger at Batman's chest. “I know you. You’re the guy from last year’s Vigilante Kink Night. You bailed before the hot tub!”

Jason chokes on his drink. 

Bruce blinks once. “I believe you’re mistaken.”

“No way, man,” the guy slurs, slapping Bruce on the back like they’re long-lost war buddies. “You almost had me with all those questions. Come on. One tequila-off, just like last time. First one to puke loses their pants.”

“Excuse me—”

But it’s too late. The bartender already slammed down two bottles and a crowd is cheering, some of them chanting “Hot Tub Batman! Hot Tub Batman!”

Jason collapses onto the bar, wheezing with laughter.

Batman turns to look at him, as if asking for help. 

Jason mutters into the shared line comm they set up earlier, "Don't stand out", and lifts his glass in a mock salute.

.

Across the bar, Dick Grayson is surrounded.

He's mid-sentence—trying very hard to get intel from a woman in a glittery jumpsuit—when someone shrieks behind him, “OH MY GOD, ARE YOU A STRIPPER?!”

Before he can defend his honor, a sash is thrown over his shoulder. It sparkles violently. It reads: BACHELOR BAIT.

“I—no, I’m not—”

“Guys,” Glitter Jumpsuit gasps, clasping her hands. “This is SO much better than that magician we hired.”

Another woman waves a plastic tiara at him. “Flex!”

“I’m serious,” he says, trying to inject any authority into his voice. “I just need to ask a few questions—”

“Bet those muscles aren’t even real,” someone across the booth says, squinting suspiciously. “No way that ass is natural. You’re stuffed with foam or something.”

Dick’s eyes narrow. Oh no. Not the ass. We don’t bring the glutes into this.

“Excuse me,” he says with grim dignity. “I have a very disciplined workout routine.”

“Uh-huh,” the girl says, leaning closer. “You're just a phony. Foam and lies.”

A tequila shot lands in front of him with an audible clink. The bartender doesn’t even make eye contact, just mutters, “On the house,” and walks away like he's seen the future and it's awful.

Dick blinks. “What?”

“What?” the girl taunts. “Too much of a pussy to drink it?”

He stares her down. He slams the shot. It burns. He swears his ancestors weep.

“Alright,” she says, cracking her knuckles. “I bet you can't win against me in arm-wrestling. Loser of each round chugs a shot. Best of five is the ultimate winner. Let’s go, foam boy.”

The others scream in delight. “YEAH! GET HIM, CLAIRE!”

Claire plants her elbow on the table with a thud. Dick eyes her, then shrugs. He’ll go easy—win her over, gain trust, ask some questions, escape humiliation-free. Easy.

He sets his elbow down. Takes her hand.

Oh fuck.

Oh no.

Oh shit, her forearms are made of steel rebar.

She doesn’t smile. Just raises one eyebrow.

The match begins.

.

Jason doesn't think he can laugh any harder, until he turns back to Bruce.

The first shot hits the bar.

Bruce eyes it like it’s an explosive.

Tattoo Guy lifts his and shouts, “Gotham rules, baby!” then downs it like water.

Bruce lifts the glass. His jaw tightens. He drinks.

The crowd erupts.

Jason is crying. Hal is taking a video. Lina is laying bets.

By the third shot, Tattoo Guy is starting to sway. By the fourth, he’s slurring words and telling Bruce he has “a very trustworthy face.”

Bruce, somehow, is still stone-faced and upright.

“Dude,” Tattoo Guy gasps after the fifth shot. “Are you even human?”

Bruce, blinking slowly: “No.”

He slams the sixth shot.

Tattoo Guy vomits into a nearby plant and collapses onto a chair.

The crowd goes wild. Someone starts a slow chant: “Bat! Man! Bat! Man!”

Jason wipes a tear from his eye. “That’s my dad,” he tells the bartender. “He doesn’t drink often, but when he does, he ruins people.”

Hal and Lina exchange a look but don't comment on it. 

Jason turns back to Nightwing. 

.

The second their hands lock, Claire drags him halfway to the table before he catches himself. His biceps flex. His forearm bulges. He digs his heels into the bar floor.

But she’s not even sweating.

The girls are chanting now. “CLAIRE! CLAIRE! CLAIRE!”

Dick grits his teeth. “Okay,” he mutters. “She’s strong. That’s fine. That’s fine. We do hard things.”

Claire smirks. “You okay there, sweet cheeks?”

He snarls. “I’m just warming up.”

He tries to push back—really push—but her hand doesn’t budge. It’s like trying to wrestle a brick wall that’s been hitting creatine since the Reagan administration.

“Come on, foam boy,” she whispers. “Flex those fake little arms.”

She slams his hand to the table.

The girls go feral.

“One-nothing!” someone shouts.

“Another shot!” another cheers.

A second tequila shot is placed in front of him before he can even recover. He downs it out of spite.

He resets. Focuses. Breathes like he’s in the Batcave, not under siege by Bachelorette Gladiators.

Match two starts.

This time, he lasts four seconds.

“Two-zero!” Claire grins. “You’re making this so easy.”

Across the bar, Jason is losing his goddamn mind.

He’s leaned against the counter, doubled over in silent laughter, while Lina and Hal egg him on.

“Oh my god,” Lina wheezes. “She’s going to tear his shoulder out of its socket.”

Jason’s nearly crying. “Tell me someone’s recording this. Please. I need this in HD.”

“Focus,” Hal says, though even he’s smiling. “You’re supposed to be blending in.”

“I am blending in,” Jason says, “with the joy of my people.”

.

Back at the booth, Dick adjusts his grip for round three. “You know,” he grunts, “this would be easier if I were drunk enough to hallucinate my dignity.”

Claire winks. “No worries. You’re getting there.”

She slams him again.

“Three-oh! WOOOOOO!”

The table erupts. A tiara lands on Dick’s head.

“LOSER SHOT!” someone shouts.

Dick raises the glass with a dead look in his eyes and downs it without blinking.

He leans back, dazed, eyes glassy. “Batman’s gonna kill me.”

Suddenly, his comm crackles. Jason’s voice, smug and delighted:
“Hey, Nighty? How’s the foam holding up, buddy?”

Dick does not respond. He just glares at the middle distance, full of shame, tequila, and a little glitter.

.

Across the bar, Bruce Wayne is enduring the worst reconnaissance mission of his life.

He's dizzy, he wants to throw up. Someone gave him another freaking shot after winning and he thinks it might have burnt a hole through his trachea. Some guy he approached in an attempt to get the mission back on track is currently telling a story about how he once got kicked out of a bowling alley for punching a clown.

Not metaphorically. A literal clown.

“...and then the dude honked at me, so I clocked him,” the guy laughs, slamming a massive hand on the table. “Bastard had it coming. I don’t care if he was hired for a kid’s birthday.”

Bruce nods stiffly, eyes scanning the room. “Right. Of course. Honking is…provocative.”

“You’re quiet,” the man says, narrowing his eyes. “Like Batman.”

Bruce freezes for half a second. “I don’t even like bats. I’m more of a… possum guy.”

The man blinks. “A possum guy?”

“Yeah,” Bruce says. “They’re…adaptable. And immune to snake venom.”

The guy stares at him.

Bruce stares back.

The man finally shrugs. “Huh. Respect.”

Just when Bruce thinks he's in the clear, a waitress appears beside him with two tequila shots.

He looks at them like they’re ticking time bombs. “I didn’t order these.”

“Compliments of the house,” she says, then nods at the bartender, who gives Bruce a double thumbs up.

Bruce glances down at the shots, then at the man.

The man grins. “You’re not gonna chicken out, are you? Come on, big guy. You drink with me, or I start thinking you are Batman.”

Bruce contemplates every decision he’s made in his entire life.

Then, with the same expression he has when disarming a bomb, he lifts the shot glass.

The tequila burns like chemical warfare. His eye twitches.

The man claps him on the back hard enough to knock a rib out of alignment. “ATTA BOY! Now hit me with your best Bat-gravel voice, man, I know you got one!”

Bruce says nothing.

“I’ll start,” the man says, dramatically lowering his voice: “Justice doesn’t take a day off, punk.”

Bruce closes his eyes. “I’m in hell.”

“Dude, that was sick! Do another one! ‘I’m the night!’ C’mon!”

Across the room, Red Hood's voice crackles through his comm.

“Uh, Batman? Quick check-in. How’s the tequila? You turn into a possum yet?”

“Red Hood,” Bruce mutters darkly. “I swear to God.”

“Smile a little, Bats,” Jason snickers. “You’re blending right in.”

“I am surrounded by drunks, degenerates, and deeply unwell individuals.”

“Exactly. Welcome home.”

"Nobody here knows anything. We're leaving," he growls. 

He turns back to the bar and sees - Dick, downing a tequila shot like it's the only thing that will disarm a ticking time-bomb. Surrounded by bachelorettes. Fuck. 

Red Hood walks up to him, and if it weren't for the fucking helmet, he knows he'd be seeing a mocking grin on his face. 

"Ready for the next bar, Possum-man?"

"Next bar?" he asks, alarm seeping through his voice. Damn. His composure is slipping. 

"Well, duh. We need to check as many as we can. One bar won't tell us where this kid is hiding out, will it?"

Bruce wants to die right then and there. 

Distantly, he hears the women screaming as one of them wins a round of arm-wrestling against Dick. His poor son takes another shot, and looks so dejected. 

God almighty, what did he get them both into?

Chapter Text

They finally stumble out of the bar, Batman practically peeling Clair and Nightwing apart like stubborn velcro, and then dragging his son upright by the scruff like an angry dad cat.

It takes another round of shots from Claire’s enabler friends to fully detach them, but eventually, they escape the alcohol-scented vortex.

Tim eyes Nightwing, who’s swaying like a metronome in a wind tunnel, and sighs.

“What happened in there?”

Jason is doubled over, using Hal for balance, laughing so hard his abs are getting shredded. Best workout he’s had all week.

"You got shitfaced, didn't you?" Mark says, smile wide as he looks at Nightwing up and down. 

Lina smacks him upside the head. “Language. There’s a twelve-year-old here!”

“I’m fourteen,” Robin deadpans, dead-eyed.

Mark rubs his head, unfazed. “Oh, forgive me, Your Maturity.”

Robin just groans and turns to Batman. “What now?”

“Now,” Batman says, voice grim like he’s announcing a funeral, “we go to the next bar.”

Nightwing visibly blanches. Then turns green.

“…Oh no.”

"No fair! I don't want to stand in the sidelines!" Tim complains, stamping his foot like a toddler denied a toy. Which, frankly, only makes him look more like a toddler. An adorable, wrathful one.

Jason groans. This is going to give him a cavity.

He sighs heavily. He's the Prince of Crime Alley after all, he's sure he could get Robin into a bar without anyone saying anything...

"What do you say, Possum-man? If he promises not to even take a whiff of the alcohol, can he enter the next bar?"

Jesus, if looks could kill, Batman's glare would have dug Jason's second grave by itself. 

“…Possum-man?” Robin snickers before instantly slapping a hand over his mouth. The Batglare zeroes in.

“…Fine,” Batman grits. “But only as recon backup. That’s it.”

Next to them, Nightwing giggles like a drunk muppet, still rocking on his heels. “Tiiiiiny Robin’s gonna get his firssst tequilaaa,” he slurs.

Jason loses it. 

.

Upon Batman's request (transl. threatening growl) they try to go classy next. A rooftop bar with velvet chairs, a jazz trio, and cocktails named things like Blood of My Ex and Grapefruit Apocalypse. 

Jason looks around. “This place has one of those bathrooms with mouthwash and eucalyptus towels. We don’t belong here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nightwing says. “I belong anywhere with mood lighting and a no-fistfight policy.”

He immediately proves this wrong by challenging a guy in a bowtie to a “friendly parkour-off.”

Batman doesn’t even react when Nightwing jumps off the side of the building.

“Did he just—?” the bartender asks.

“He’ll be back,” Robin mutters, sipping a ginger ale like a disappointed prom chaperone.

Hal’s talking to a group of very tipsy finance bros (or maybe future mob bosses), trying to explain the concept of the Green Lantern Corps using a cocktail napkin and three olives.

Jason flirts with a girl named Daphne who absolutely thinks the Red Hood is a WWE character.

Tim somehow ends up at a table with three grad students arguing about vigilante ethics and is thriving.

Batman sits in the corner, sipping gin tonic like it's battery acid, watching every exit like they’re about to be raided by the League of Assassins and/or Yelp reviewers.

.

The next bar is somehow even worse—and better.

Flashing lights, sticky floors, and a crowd already deep in an argument.

“Wait—they don’t even have powers!” someone yells.

Jason pauses mid-step. “Oh no.”

Someone else jabs a finger in his direction. “Okay, but Red Hood would totally wreck Batman in a fight.”

Silence. Dense. Tense.

Then—without warning—it devolves into a gin-chugging contest.

With straws.

Long, loopy, probably unsanitary straws.

Jason pops open the front of his helmet, creates a tiny gap, and demolishes three doubles like he’s drinking water on a desert moon.

Batman chokes on his third one like someone’s grandma after Zumba and has to sit down. Possibly forever.

The crowd loses it.

Nightwing is now doing handstands on the bar while Mark counts the seconds out loud and Hal provides commentary like it’s Olympic gymnastics. Lina is trying to pour tequila shots in his mouth while muttering about breaking a record in upside-down drinking. 

At the third bar, Batman attempts to wrestle the mission back into relevance. A man—incredibly drunk—leans in and slurs, “Wait… aren’t you dating Bruce Wayne?”

“No, no,” a girl nearby corrects helpfully. “He’s with Superman.”

Batman dies inside a little. Jason doesn't think he will ever laugh this much again in his life.

Mark challenges Nightwing to another arm-wrestling competition, but with how drunk the poor vigilante is by now, he doesn't notice that they changed the rules - it's the winner of each round the one who gets the shots now. Hal and Lina egg them on.

Thankfully for the blue vigilante, Mark gets a little spooked at the determination in his eyes and gives up after his third lost round - in which his hand got slammed into the table so hard he swears he heard a bone pop. 

At bar four, Nightwing takes one look at the welcome shot and sprints for the bathroom. Batman downs his own, then sits very still like he's trying not to go blind.

Everything’s still fine until Jason spots someone handing Robin a beer.

“HEY! THAT’S A TEN-YEAR-OLD!” he yells.

“I’M FOURTEEN!” Robin screams back. “And I wasn’t gonna drink it!”

“Who brings a kid to a bar anyway?” the guy scoffs.

But Batman is there—moving faster than bad news at a Wayne family dinner. He grabs the man’s shirt, jaw clenched like he’s about to suplex Green Lantern.

“No one messes with my Robin.”

The man looks like he’s seen the Devil in a cape. Robin sticks out his tongue like a smug gremlin.

Jason watches it all unfold, and—

Something breaks loose in his chest.

It’s not jealousy, exactly. Not really nostalgia. Just… something. A dull ache. Like phantom pain where a piece of him used to be.

He shakes it off, jams the feelings back down into the emotional junk drawer of his soul, and walks up beside Batman. Puts a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s alright, B. Our guy here didn’t mean anything, right buddy?”

The man nods like a bobblehead and bolts. Jason catches something that sounds like “crazy cosplayers...” on his way out.

“You good, B?” Tim asks, as Batman glares at the empty space like it personally offended him.

No answer. Batman turns on his heel and walks out.

Jason glances back—Nightwing is upside-down on a table again while Mark tries to stack coasters on his feet.

He sighs and follows Batman into the night. He finds him standing across the street from the bar, half-shadowed under a flickering neon sign that reads "TIPSY GOTHAMITES." The irony is not lost on anyone.

He's got his arms crossed, looking like a stone gargoyle that’s just done with life, crime, and his entire gene pool.

Jason stops a few feet away, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “We uh… thinking about calling CPS on ourselves, or…?”

Batman doesn’t respond. He just stares straight ahead, face still carved from granite, like he’s buffering.

Jason sighs and leans against the wall beside him.

“…You know, for someone who can dodge sniper bullets, you are terrible at handling bar crawls.”

Batman grunts.

Progress.

“You gonna tell me why we’re out here having a dramatic hero sulk while Nightwing tries to break the world record for ‘Most Upside-Down Tequila Shots’?”

Batman mutters something under his breath. Jason leans in.

“What was that, big guy?”

"...I can't lose him."

Jason blinks. "What? Who?" 

"Robin."

Jason stomach does a weird little flip. His heart stutters like it just tripped on its own feet and faceplanted. 

"Why would you lose him?” he asks, throat dry.

Batman doesn’t answer at first. Just stares at the street like it holds some kind of mercy.

Then: “I lost one, once. And it destroyed me.”

Jason forgets how to breathe.

He knows.

He knows Batman means him.

And it’s too much. Too raw. It tears open a wound he didn’t know was still bleeding. And suddenly all the jokes, all the distance, all the years—none of it means anything.

He has no idea how to answer that. Has no idea how to pretend that he is a clueless villain just working with Batman for his own personal gain. 

Batman stiffens like he realized who he’s talking to. He straightens, clears his throat, scrubs a hand across his face. Turns to glare, because that’s easier than feeling.

Then the bar door explodes open.

“I AM THE NIGHT!” Nightwing bellows.

Mark is wheezing behind him. "Dude sprayed tequila out his nose!"

"THAT IS A NIGHTWING SUPERPOWER, YOU IGNORANT RAT!" Nightwing keeps shouting, as if the alcohol had dulled his hearing. 

"Which way now?" Lina asks, trying to wipe the front of Nightwing's suit with toilet paper, like a concerned mom. 

“Home,” Batman says.

“Aw, come on!” Jason groans. “We’ve still got three bars left!”

“We’ve also got zero leads.”

Robin steps out behind them, smug as a cat. “Actually—I’ve got something.”

Everyone turns.

"Someone in the bar says they saw him a few days ago. He is indeed staying in Crime Alley. He took one of the bartenders home. She's not working tonight but she'll be in tomorrow - she can give us an address."

Jason freezes. Face heating. Oh no.

Lina raises her eyebrows. Mark smirks. Hal turns a weird shade of pale.

Batman steps forward and places a hand on Tim’s head.

“Good job, Robin. I’m proud of you.”

Jason’s heart caves in on itself like a dying star.

"...Yeah. You're clearly drunk right now. Come on, I'll call Pennyone," Tim says, frowining.

Ah, yes, keep stabing Jason in the fucking heart, why don't you. 

.

.

Red Hood's men don't go to sleep that night after they arrive. They're night creatures after all.

So they lounge in one of their warehouses, drinking beer and laughing hard as Hal, Lina and Mark recount the events and show them the thousands of pics and videos they took. 

Mark is laughing hard, until he spots their young boss quietly walking outside while he thinks nobody is noticing. 

He follows him and finds him on the roof, standing on the edge, bathed in citylight. Looking up.

For all the bravado and fire and sheer dumb courage… Jason looks young.

Like a kid with too much weight on his back. Like someone who remembers too clearly what it felt like to be loved once and not know if he still is.

“You good, boss?” Mark asks, softly.

“Yeah,” Jason replies.

Liar.

Mark walks over, quietly.

He wants to say something profound. Something healing.

But instead, he smiles.

“…That Robin kid sold me footage of Nightwing dancing the Macarena on a rooftop for twenty bucks. Just in case you’re not done laughing yet.”

Jason snorts.

Then chuckles.

Then cracks a full, genuine grin as he steps down from the ledge.

And for a moment, just a moment—he feels a little bit okay.

Chapter Text

The address the bartender gives them leads to a run-down, roach-infested shoebox of a building smack in the middle of Park Row.

Obviously, Jason doesn’t live here. He picked it for the drama. The symbolism. The sheer poetry of emotional damage. Convincing the bartender to lie had taken five bucks and a wink.

Jason watches from across the street, squatting on a fire escape with a bag of popcorn he stole from a street vendor. Helmet on. Soul empty. Heart full of spite.

The moment Batman steps out of the Batmobile and sees the building, his face visibly tightens.

Nightwing stares up at it like he’s reliving twenty years of Catholic guilt. Tim recoils like the smell just punched him in the face.

They brought Spoiler. Excellent choice. Jason likes her. She’s chaotic and mean to Bruce.

She looks around and mutters, “Damn. Kid was better off rotting in a coffin.”

“Spoiler,” Batman growls.

“What? I’m just saying, you'd think a zombie would pick a place that's less rotten than its flesh.”

Jason busts out laughing.

“Not a zombie,” Nightwing mutters grimly. “He’s alive.”

“...Or cursed,” Spoiler counters.

“Or a cryptid,” Tim adds.

“Or a demonic revenant bent on vengeance,” Jason throws in cheerfully. "Should we call Constantine for backup?"

Batman’s jaw clenches so hard Jason’s surprised his cowl doesn’t crack. He storms up the stairs like Gotham personally insulted him.

They break into the apartment easily.

And then…

Action.

It’s clean. Painfully clean. Empty… but not. The place screams haunted house if haunted houses were passive-aggressive therapy traps.

In the middle of the pathetic little living room is a single coffee table, lovingly set like a shrine. There are photos: baby-faced Jason with Bruce, with Dick, with Alfred, all grinning like a toothpaste commercial. Jason perched on Dick’s shoulders in a carnival. A candid one of Bruce reading to Jason on the couch, Jason drooling on his shirt.

“Oh no,” Steph whispers.

Dick inhales sharply. “He kept these?”

Tim’s hand hovers over one like it might disintegrate.

He picks up a folded crayon drawing from the table. Two stick figures. One tall with triangle ears. One tiny and grinning. It reads, in wobbly handwriting:

"DAD AND JAYLAD 4EVER"

“Oh my God,” Tim whispers. “He was cute.”

“Shut up,” Dick hisses, voice breaking.

On the cracked counter sits a dusty laptop playing an old video clip. Bruce scolding a young Jason at a gala for eating shrimp with his hands.

Overlaid subtitles read:

“This is the moment I realized love is conditional.”

“Note the disappointment in his eyes.”

“Cue sad piano music. Or just cry. That works too.”

“B…” Steph calls from the fridge. “I think the fridge is crying.”

The fridge is covered in newspaper clippings.

BRUCE WAYNE'S SECOND SON FOUND DEAD. 

WHO WAS HASON TODD AND HOW DID HE DIE?

BRUCE WAYNE ADOPTS NEW HEIR - TIM DRAKE. 

And printed tweets:

“why does Wayne adopts kids like stray cats.”

“@brucewayneofficial adoption isn't a coping mechanism bro.”

“Bruce Wayne treats orphans like Pokémon fr.”

"i'd be pissed if my dad adopted a kid immediately after I died man like wtf man that was your little boy"

"so anyone else finds it weird that time drake is literally like a replacement of that other kid that used to be wayne's son?"

"hide yo kids hide yo wife cuz if time drake dies batman will kidnap you and adopt your ass"

It's sad. Heatbreaking really.  But Steph can't stop laughing. Neither can Jason.

Tim stares, horrified. “Are these… are these all real?”

Jason tries to stifle the giggles. Oh, they’re real. He printed them at a FedEx.

Then—the stereo clicks on.

Jason’s pre-recorded voice blares out, dry as hell:

“Hey, bitches. You’re breaking and entering. That makes you criminals. Add it to your resume under ‘bat-themed war crimes.’ I’m not here. Duh. You think I’d actually live in this sad little murder apartment? Please. I have taste. But hey, if you see Bruce, tell him thanks for the childhood trauma. Wouldn’t be here without him. Anyway, love and kisses. Or, like, emotional scars. BYEEE.”

Silence.

Steph is wheezing.

Dick covering his mouth with a hand.

Tim looks like he’s having an out-of-body experience.

Batman stands in the center of it all, rigid and still, shoulders heaving just slightly. His eyes fall on the crayon drawing in Tim’s hands.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

Then starts barking orders for fingerprint scanning, gathering evidence... detective work to keep their minds away from the emotional warfare. 

.

Later that night, after they have sent what little evidence they could gather to the lab, they stand on a lonely rooftop.

The rooftop is quiet except for the soft hum of the city below. Spoiler’s got her feet kicked up on the ledge, Nightwing is pacing with his arms crossed, and Tim is sitting with his back against a rusted vent, chewing absently on a protein bar he’s forgotten the flavor of.

They're tired. Not just from the patrol—from everything.
The apartment. The pictures. The stereo message. The fridge. The crayon drawing.

No one's said much since they left.

Then Bruce lands behind them, silent as ever. He doesn’t speak immediately. Just walks to the ledge and looks out over Gotham like it’s a kid he can’t figure out how to raise.

They're all expecting another brooding command or a grim reminder to “stay focused.”

Instead, Bruce exhales and—smiles.

Not big. Barely noticeable. But real. A little tired. A little fond.

They all freeze like he just sprouted wings.

“…Are you okay?” Tim asks slowly.

“Did—did he hit his head?” Spoiler whispers.

Nightwing just stares like he’s watching his dad laugh at a fart joke for the first time.

Bruce doesn’t look at them. He’s still watching the city. But he speaks, and it’s softer than any of them are used to hearing him.

“Jason… was always funny.”

Silence.

He keeps going, voice a little rough around the edges now. “Sharp. Clever. That kid could make me laugh harder than anyone else ever could. Sometimes mean. But not cruel. Never cruel. Not really. Just…”

He swallows loudly.

“He’d make fun of Alfred’s tea if it was too cold. He’d do impressions of Gordon when no one was around—especially the mustache. He once called a mob boss 'Penguin’s knockoff cousin' right to his face and still got away. And he—he was proud of it.” Bruce chuckles, short and broken. His smile fades, but it doesn’t disappear. “I loved that about him. The way he could find something to laugh at, even when things were bad. Even when he was hurting.”

No one says anything. Spoiler bites her lip. Tim looks down. Nightwing’s jaw tightens.

They don’t say his name. Not out loud. But it’s the only thing hanging in the air between them.

And just a few feet away, crouched on the fire escape above them, hidden in the shadows, Red Hood listens.

Helmet on. Breathing slow.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

But his heart gives the quietest crack inside his chest. Something shifts, breaks, re-forms behind his ribs.

Because he remembers too.

He remembers Bruce laughing so hard he couldn’t talk when Jason put a cowboy hat on Alfred’s head and said, “Tea, partner?”

He remembers that laugh. He missed that laugh.

And now it’s back—for a second. For him.

But they don’t know it’s him.

He presses a gloved hand over the part of his chest that aches.

Then he’s gone before they ever think to look up.

Just a whisper in the dark.

A joke no one quite finished telling.

.

.

The kettle whistles softly in the background, steaming up the tiny kitchen of the safehouse.

Jason is still in full gear — helmet on, jacket zipped, posture tight like a coiled spring. He’s sitting sideways in a chair, long legs stretched out, head tipped back like he’s trying to keep gravity from dragging all the feelings down his throat.

Hal and three of his guys are there. Not goons. Not lackeys. Part of his crew.

Taye, ex-paramedic with a scar over one eye, pours two mugs of tea and hands one to Jason without asking.
Marcus, who looks like he could bench press a car but collects ceramic frogs, sets down a slice of cake he brought from home.
Luis, who speaks maybe six words a week, is sitting on the couch repairing Jason’s busted shoulder holster with a sewing kit that probably used to belong to someone’s grandmother.

It’s… warm here.

Safe, in a way Jason hasn’t felt in years.

“He laughed,” Jason says, quietly.

They all pause.

Taye raises a brow. “Who laughed?”

Jason shrugs, slow and heavy. “My dad.”

“Didn't think the latest prank was directed at him,” Marcus says. Not accusing, just… surprised. “Didn’t know you two talked.”

Jason scoffs. “We don’t. Not really. But… I left some stuff. He found it. And he laughed.”

Taye leans in a little, gently. “Good laugh or bad laugh?”

Jason hesitates.

“…Good. Real good. It was the kind he used to do, back when I was… smaller. Dumber. Back before… things.”

They don’t know the things. They know some things — that he was dead. That he came back. That Bruce Wayne never came looking.

They know Jason Todd is complicated. A legend in Gotham’s underground. A walking ghost with a gun and a bleeding heart under riot gear.

They also know he reads books like his life depends on it, drinks hot cocoa like it’s lifeblood, and falls asleep on the couch when he’s too tired to pretend to be okay.

Taye offers him the other mug. “So what’d you do? To make him laugh?”

Jason groans softly. “Set up a fake apartment with sad stick figure drawings, crayon letters, fake obituary clippings and printed tweets about how Bruce Wayne collects orphans like Pokémon cards.”

There’s a long pause. And then—

Marcus bursts out laughing. Taye nearly spills his tea. Even Luis smiles as he threads the needle.

“You’re the worst,” Hal says, fond.

Jason shrugs, deadpan. “It’s called performance art.”

He goes quiet a moment.

Then, softly—

“He said I was always funny. That he… loved that about me.”

Taye looks at him, careful. “That a bad thing?”

Jason doesn’t answer. Just turns the mug in his hands.

“…It’s just weird,” he mumbles. “Hearing that now. After all this time. I’ve hated him for so long. And now… he laughs.”

Hal leans back. “Sounds like he misses you.”

Jason shrugs, voice low. “He didn’t even know it was me.”

Another silence. Not heavy. Just… thoughtful.

Jason huffs a breath through his nose. “He said he loved that I was funny. That I was a little mean. That’s what he loved.” He sets the mug down. “So I guess that’s all I’ve got left. Being funny and mean.”

Luis, out of nowhere, says:
“Nah. You’re also a pain in the ass.”

Jason blinks, stunned.

Then snorts, laughs into his arm. “Thanks, man.”

Taye claps a hand on his shoulder, gently. “Look, kid. I don’t know what happened between you and your dad. We ain’t gonna pry. But for what it’s worth? You don’t have to just be angry or funny. You can be both. You’re a person, not a gimmick.”

Jason swallows hard behind the helmet.

And for the first time all night, his shoulders ease.

Finally, he stands up. Back in command mode. The Red Hood again.

“Anyway. We’re breaking into Wayne Enterprises tomorrow.”

Marcus sputters. “What? Why?!”

Jason grabs a duffel bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“To swap Bruce Wayne’s shampoo with glitter bomb hair dye and hide photos of my toddler mullet in every drawer.”

Taye gapes. “That’s your revenge?!”

Jason cocks his head.
“No. That’s my love language.”

He walks out the door.

Chapter Text

Bruce Wayne is having the worst week of his life.

Some say it's a curse. Others suspect a nervous breakdown. Lucius Fox just keeps muttering “we need hazard pay.”

It all started on Monday, when Bruce arrived at a Wayne Enterprises board meeting with glitter in his hair. Not a touch of shimmer—no, glitter. Full unicorn explosion. His assistant swears she heard him muttering about inventing “military-grade glitter shampoo.”

Tuesday was worse. He showed up with half his head bleached. Just… half. Not a trend. Not a statement. Just a man silently signing contracts with the simmering rage of someone who accidentally used glitter shampoo and bleach while sleep-deprived and homicidally angry.

Wednesday? His hair was mysteriously flawless again. Restored. Untouchable. And then came lunch.

A Very Important Investor Lunch.

Bruce took exactly two bites of his artisanal roasted salmon, sipped some overpriced wine, paused, went ghost-pale, and bolted mid-sentence—leaving the Vice-President of the Bank of Madrid mid-"synergy" to sprint toward the nearest bathroom like it was a Batcave under siege.

Thursday? Sick day. First in a decade.

Friday? His office was vandalized. Boldly. Strategically. Psychologically.

Someone had plastered the walls with photos of a sad twelve-year-old Jason Todd, all with cartoonishly frowny Sharpie faces drawn over Bruce’s own in every group shot. His desktop background had been replaced with an endless loop of grainy security footage: Jason (as Red Hood, of course) drunkenly blowing the Joker's brains out and flipping the bird at the camera.

The private liquor cabinet? Ransacked. All the aged scotch and French cognac replaced with gas station tequila. Plastic caps. Lime-flavored. One bottle just said “ALCOHOL?” in Comic Sans.

The PR team insists Bruce is just "overwhelmed by the emotional impact of discovering his lost son is alive.” Gotham Twitter is split down the middle:

#ProtectBrucie

#EatTheRich (and his glittery shampoo)

Batman and Nightwing aren't faring much better.

Their latest patrol ended with them being spotted on rooftop security cams looking like glitter-bombed piñatas. Nightwing’s suit was tagged with neon pink “#DICK” across the chest. Batman’s grappling hook had been replaced with a sparkly bubble gun—he discovered this mid-chase.

Their cuffs? Swapped out for... well... let's just say they now come in pink leather with fuzzy trim and “FOR ROLEPLAY ONLY” tags.

At one point, Batman hurled what he thought was a smoke bomb.

It was a stink bomb.
It went off immediately.

They smelled like old sushi and burned rubber for days.

Robin is oddly unaffected.

He got some glitter in his belt, yes, but also high-quality protein bars, a fistful of imported candy, and a mysteriously well-sewn patch on his cape. He suspects someone reinforced it. He's too scared to ask why.

Jason Todd is having the time of his life.

He's pranking them with the enthusiasm of a feral raccoon who learned how to online shop. He keeps just barely missing them in person, and Batman keeps brooding harder every time.

But then—karma delivers.

Nightwing, face solemn, tells him:

“Bruce Wayne's PR team wants you to do a press conference. With Mr. Wayne. And Dick Greyson. So the public understands why you're on our side.”

Jason chokes on his own spit. This is it. This is the moment.

He says yes before Nightwing finishes the sentence.

Because nothing—not even tequila-replacement, stink bombs, or sex-cuffs—beats the satisfaction of standing two feet from Bruce Wayne while he has a visible aneurysm trying to pretend “Red Hood” isn’t Jason Todd in a leather jacket and smug smile.

.

.

.

The gates are open.

Jason sits on his bike just outside them, engine idling. The lights of the manor glow soft and gold in the distance, framed by the trees, like a damn memory that won't die.

Wayne Manor.

He hadn’t been here in years. Not since before.

Not since he was Jason.

Now, he's Red Hood. Helmet on. Armor zipped. Guns hidden, knives sheathed. He’s not the boy who used to kick soccer balls against the east wall or fall asleep in the library with a book on his chest and Bruce’s jacket draped over him.

He’s not the boy who used to live here.

Bruce had invited him—“Red Hood,” formally and politely—to dinner. Said it was a gesture of gratitude. “A friend to the family,” he’d called him.

Jason had laughed when he got the message. Laughed so hard he nearly threw his phone off a rooftop. A friend to the family. Cute.

But he said yes. Because he’s a sucker. Because he hates himself. Because a sick part of him wants to know—what did they do with his room?

Did Tim take it? Did they repaint it? What happened to his books? That massive bookshelf Bruce built with his own hands—Jason had watched him sand it, stain it, install it. Did they burn it when he died? Box it all up? Toss it out with last week’s broken Batarangs?

He tells himself he doesn’t care.

But the engine’s been running for six minutes.

And he hasn’t moved.

He swears under his breath, kills the engine, and swings his leg off the bike. His boots crunch on the gravel as he walks forward—slow, deliberate, like he's walking into a graveyard.

The gate creaks shut behind him.

The house is exactly the same.

That hurts more than it should.

He reaches the front door and raises a gloved hand to knock. Then stops.

He’s not sure he can do it.

He stares at the wood, at the old knocker, at the faint scratch marks he made when he was twelve and locked himself out once. They’re still there.

He chokes on something bitter.

The door swings open.

Bruce Wayne stands on the other side.

Of course he opened it himself.

He’s in a sweater and slacks, no tie, no mask, but every inch the Bruce Jason remembers: composed, polite, tall and impossibly familiar.

Jason nearly takes a step back.

Bruce gives him a small, measured smile. “Red Hood. I’m glad you came.”

Jason’s voice crackles through the helmet, cold and mechanical. “You invited me.”

“Yes. It felt appropriate. You’ve been helping us. I thought… a meal. To thank you.”

Jason wants to laugh. He wants to scream.

Instead, he says, “You’re a very generous man, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce steps aside. “Please. Come in.”

Jason crosses the threshold.

The house smells the same.

Warm wood. Old books. Faint cologne. Coffee. Leather.

Home.

He clenches his fists.

He keeps his gaze forward, avoiding the hallway to the right. He knows what’s down it. He doesn’t want to see if the family photos are still up. Doesn’t want to know if he’s been erased.

Bruce gestures toward the dining room. “Alfred’s made dinner. He insisted.”

The name hits like a brick to the chest.

And then—there he is.

Alfred walks in from the kitchen, holding a tray with two delicate cups of tea. His posture hasn’t changed. Neither has the way his gaze softens when it lands on people he cares about.

He doesn’t blink at the Red Hood’s presence. Doesn’t comment. Doesn’t recoil. He simply walks forward with quiet grace and sets the tea in front of them both.

He looks at Jason.

Just looks.

And it’s worse than any word.

Jason freezes.

Every instinct in his body screams to say something. To pull off the helmet, fall into his arms, tell him—

I missed you. I missed you so much I couldn’t breathe some nights. I would’ve come back just for your goddamn tea.

Instead, he nods stiffly. “Thanks.”

Alfred inclines his head, voice low and warm. “Of course.”

Then he’s gone.

Jason doesn’t move for a full thirty seconds.

Bruce sits across from him. “I wasn’t sure if you… eat. With the helmet on.”

Jason forces his voice steady. “Only if I trust the host.”

Bruce nods. “Understandable.”

"I'm not going to eat," he clarifies.

"I understand."

They sit.

Silence falls between them. Heavy. Jason stares at the teacup. The silverware is the same. His chair is the same. The plates have tiny Robins painted on the edges. Decorative. Subtle. Infuriating.

“I wanted to say thank you,” Bruce says after a while. “For what you're doing. I can’t imagine how hard it must be.”

Jason lets out a short, sharp sound that might be a laugh. “You’d be surprised.”

Bruce continues, gently. “Jason Todd was a good boy. He deserved more time. He deserved better.”

Jason grips the edge of the table. His gloves creak.

“I miss him every day,” Bruce says.

Jason stands abruptly. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Bruce, surprised: “Second floor. First door on the left.”

Jason nods and walks quickly up the stairs.

He does not go to the bathroom.

He walks straight past it.

Down the hall.

Turns the corner.

And stops in front of his door.

The nameplate’s still there.

He opens it.

And it’s like the world stops.

His room is exactly as he left it.

The bookshelves are still overflowing. His bed’s a mess—blankets half-off, a hoodie slung over the corner post. There’s a half-finished math worksheet on the desk, coffee-stained and wrinkled. A baseball cap on the floor.

And on the wall, framed above the bookshelf: a photograph of him and Bruce.

Jason, grinning with two black eyes after a patrol. Bruce, one arm around him, trying and failing to hide a smile.

Jason steps inside.

He touches the edge of the bookshelf.

His hand shakes.

He swallows something jagged and warm.

Then bolts.

.

He reappears in the dining room so quickly it startles Bruce.

“Thanks for the invite,” Jason says quickly, voice cold again, sharp. “I’ve got to go.”

Bruce stands, confused. “Of course. I—thank you again.”

Jason nods stiffly.

Then he’s gone.

.

.

The Red Hood, lounges on a folding chair like it’s a throne, legs spread, helmet gleaming, muscled arms crossed tightly.

He didn’t sleep. He spent two hours walking around Gotham rooftops, tried to drink, couldn’t keep anything down, and finally ended up outside the manor again around 4 a.m. staring at the window that used to be his.

He hadn’t felt like a ghost in a long time.

But now?

He’s not even sure he exists to them anymore—unless he’s useful.

So yeah.

Rough night.

But noting that some mild Bat-bullying can't fix. Right? Yeah. Of course. 

Two PR specialists circle him like frightened deer around a lion with a bazooka.

One is terrified.

“Okay, okay, so just to recap—please, for the love of God—stay on script. We are deeply grateful for your assistance. You’re working with Batman. You’re helping us locate the missing Jason Todd. You are not a suspect. You are not violent.”

Jason grins. “Sure, sure. I’m a beacon of professionalism.”

The second PR rep—Julian, tall, immaculately dressed, and radiating chaotic bisexual energy—leans in and whispers, “You don’t have to wear that jacket, you know. Personally, I think your buildup in black spandex could end wars.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Thanks, I use the blood of my enemies as protein shake.”

Julian sighs dreamily. “God, that’s so hot.”

“JULIAN,” the first PR rep squeals, nearly hyperventilating.

Julian waves him off. “Let him live a little. Gotham loves a bad boy.”

Jason tilts his head. “Oh, honey. They’re about to see a disaster.”

The nervous one collapses into a chair. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die on live television.”

.

Camera lights flash.

Bruce Wayne steps up to the podium in full Brucie Mode™—tragically handsome, eyes glassy, jaw tight with anguish. A mourning billionaire ready for an Oscar.

“Thank you for coming,” Bruce begins solemnly. “As many of you know, my adopted son Jason Todd has recently… returned to the public eye under shocking circumstances. We are grateful to have the help of Gotham’s vigilantes during this difficult time.”

Jason stands beside him. He raises a hand and does finger guns at the cameras. “Heyyyy.”

Bruce twitches.

Dick Grayson—also present, suit perfectly tailored, expression set to “tragically hopeful”—leans into the mic like he's doing Shakespeare. “We believe Jason is out there. Lost. Scared. Possibly hurt. We just want him to know he’s loved.”

Jason nods sagely. “And hot.”

Dick freezes. “What?”

Jason shrugs. “If I were Jason Todd—and I'm not, obviously—I’d want to know people think I’m hot. It’s important for morale.”

Bruce’s eye does the tiniest twitch.

The terrified PR man offstage mouths, “OH MY GOD.”

Dick clears his throat. “Red Hood is assisting us in locating Jason—”

Jason cuts in, “And in boosting Gotham’s overall vibe.” He points to a very confused reporter. “You! Yeah, you in the sad tie. Ask me a question.”

The reporter stammers. “Um… Mr. Hood, do you consider yourself a friend to the Bat-Family?”

Jason nods, solemnly. “Absolutely. The bat-boys and I are practically brothers. We braid each other’s hair, share trauma, steal each other’s snacks. It's like a really violent sleepover that never ends.”

He pauses for effect.
“I think Batman is starting to see me as a son, really. Just one that files quarterly reports and carries a gun.”

Another reporter jumps in. “Mr. Wayne, would you consider the Red Hood a close friend of the Wayne family as well?”

Bruce inhales like he’s bracing for impact.

“Red Hood has certainly helped—”

“I’d say we have a professional relationship,” Jason cuts in. “I consult on two major areas: Bruce's addiction to adopting traumatized orphans, and improving Wayne Enterprises' utterly dismal employee benefits package.”

The crowd titters.

Jason leans toward the mic. “Did you know they don’t cover public transport? In Gotham? This city’s subway system is just a Saw movie with extra rats.”

Bruce clears his throat, barely holding it together.

“We are confident we will find Jason soon.” He turns toward one of the cameras, face softening. “Son, if you're seeing this, wherever you are—”

Jason’s heart clenches so hard it feels like it might tear in two. Because he doesn’t know if Bruce is actually talking to him, or if it’s all part of the perfect public performance.

“Wherever Jason is…” Jason interrupts, voice tight behind the modulation, “…I hope he’s watching this. I hope he knows how much they love him. How much they miss him. How they kept his room exactly the same.”

A beat.

Then:

“...Unless that’s just what they tell everyone for PR. Nice branding, though. #StillOurSon—trending already?”

Bruce turns to look at him.

Slowly.

Searching.

Dick forces a smile so tight it might snap his face in half. “We’re simply focused on finding my brother—”

“Mr. Red Hood, sir,” someone calls from the crowd. “How is it working side by side with the Batman?”

Jason shifts his weight and answers without missing a beat. “He’s efficient. Definitely has a flair for the dramatic. Can’t communicate to save his life. He thinks ‘grunting’ is a full language.”

Laughter ripples through the press.

Jason adds, “But hey, I’m just glad I’m not a ten-year-old orphan or he would’ve slapped me into red and green spandex and told me to fight crime on a school night.”

He pauses.

Looks down at himself.

“…I don’t have the legs for green tights.”

More laughter. Cameras flash. The PR guy backstage groans into his clipboard.

Julian just winks at Jason, slow and predatory, mouthing “Call me.”

Bruce lifts a hand with the grace of a man trying not to commit murder on live TV.

“The important thing,” he says, “is that Red Hood is aiding us in finding Jason, and that all of our efforts are focused on bringing him home. Safe. Whole.”

A reporter yells, “Mr. Wayne! Will Jason face charges for murder?”

The air freezes.

Jason stiffens like he’s been electrocuted. The blood drains from his face beneath the helmet. Every sound cuts out except the violent pounding of his heart.

Bruce blanches.

Dick’s jaw tightens. His face goes bright red—not with shame.

With rage.

He leans forward, voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

“If anyone thinks they’re putting my little brother anywhere other than back home, safely, they’re going to have to go through me.”

A pause.

He says it again, lower.

“Over my dead body.”

The entire room falls into stunned silence.

Even Jason forgets how to breathe.

What the actual fuck.

Bruce straightens slowly. He doesn’t even blink.

“This press conference is over.”

Chaos erupts—reporters shouting, questions flying, cameras flashing—but Jason can’t hear any of it.

His heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might shake his ribs apart.

Because for all the sarcasm and all the armor and all the jokes—he didn’t expect that.

He didn’t expect them to mean it.

And now he has no idea what to do with that feeling in his chest that feels like grief and hope at the same time.

.

They climb off the podium.

Dick’s nostrils are flaring like a cartoon bull. Bruce is rubbing his forehead like he's trying to press the Batcave back into existence with sheer willpower.

“I meant it, B,” Dick snaps, rounding on him. “You won’t make him go through a trial. You will not put him in jail.”

Bruce doesn’t answer. He just keeps rubbing harder, eyes closed, breathing through the very real possibility of throwing himself into traffic.

“God,” Jason mutters, trailing behind them. “Dramatic. Soap-opera worthy. You guys need theme music.”

He says it lightly—voice smooth, cocky as ever—but inside, his ribs ache. Because he can still hear Bruce saying “son, if you're seeing this…” and it’s too much and not enough.

Dick turns to him fast, eyes shining, jaw clenched.

“You think this is a joke, don’t you?!” he yells, voice cracking. “Well it isn’t! That’s my little brother! That I lost, and mourned, and—and now he’s back! And I will do anything, anything to find him. You hear me?!”

Jason lifts his hands in mock surrender, but he’s already flinching, because Angry Dick Grayson is terrifying and also… heartbreaking.

“Loud and clear, pretty boy,” Jason says. He tries for casual. He lands somewhere between sarcastic and dying.

From the side, Tim and Steph approach like they’re navigating a live bomb.

“Red Hood,” Tim says, adjusting his tie, voice quiet but firm. “A pleasure.”

His eyes stay on Dick and Bruce, but there’s no mistaking the suspicion under that polite tone.

“That was hilarious,” Steph whispers next to him, eyes sparkling. “You should do stand-up. Like, when you’re not busy being Gotham’s Scary Murder Uncle.”

Jason snorts. “Noted.”

She gives him a wink, then turns to Dick and Bruce like she’s corralling two oversized toddlers. She plants a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Alright, come on, angry boys. Let’s get you out of the spotlight before someone throws a punch or a press badge. Bye, Red!”

Jason nods slightly.

He’s already turning to leave when he notices Tim hasn’t moved.

The kid’s still standing there, staring up at him. And for a second, Jason wonders if Tim knows.

Then:

“I know you’re just joking,” Tim says quietly. “Steph’s right—it was funny. But…”

He swallows. Looks down.

“It’s a really touchy subject for them. This whole Jason thing.”

Jason shifts. “Oh?”

Tim nods, hesitant. “When Bruce adopted me… after my parents died… they were both wrecked. Jason’s death destroyed them.”

Jason’s lungs stop working.

“I used to hear Dick crying. At night. He didn’t think anyone could hear. He visited Jason’s grave. Every day. Sometimes he’d sit there for hours. And sometimes he would... talk to him. Throughout the day. Talk like… like he thought Jason could hear him.”

Jason’s hands curl into fists at his sides.

“And Bruce…” Tim pauses. “He stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. Snapped at everyone. Called Jason’s name in his sleep. Once, I heard Alfred trying to wake him up from a nightmare, and Bruce shoved him away. Said he was too late.”

Jason’s heart shatters in slow motion.

“And Alfred…” Tim’s voice breaks, just slightly. “Alfred was devastated. I caught him polishing Jason’s bookshelf once. Just… crying. Quiet. Like he didn’t want anyone to see.”

A single tear rolls down Jason’s cheek inside the helmet.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just listens.

Tim looks up at him again, and for a terrifying moment, it seems like he knows.

And maybe he does.

“So,” Tim says softly, “if you’re really helping us—awesome. That’s amazing. But if this isn’t real to you… if this is some game… just—please.”

He bites his lip. “Please leave my family alone. They don’t deserve more pain. I know you’re, like, evil or whatever, but... I think you do care. So… just don’t mess with them. Okay?”

Jason stares at him.

God, how does this kid keep getting sweeter every time he sees him?

He nods slowly. “It’s real, kid. I’m really…”
He hesitates.
“I’m not here to hurt them.”

Tim studies him for a long second. Then gives him the faintest smile.

“Okay.”

He turns and jogs off to catch up with the others.

Jason doesn’t move.

He stands there for a full minute. Heart cracked wide open. Every memory from last night clawing its way back up his spine.

Then his phone buzzes.

Lina.

You okay, boss?

Jason stares at the message.

He takes a long, shaking breath.

Then types:

Prepare your fucking liver. We’re getting shitfaced. Tell the rest.