Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jason does not wake up. 

Rather, his consciousness snaps into place, the world around him twisting from nothing but brightness into the dull surroundings of an apartment that had been condemned nearly a decade ago. He takes in the baby-blue walls and the worn furniture. He breathes in the scent of nearly burnt chicken. He feels the warm bundle of fur in his arms.

He looks down and stares for a long moment, silent and confused. The dog was supposed to be dead, killed years ago when he managed to squirm out of his leash and run into oncoming traffic. The last time Jason had seen him, he'd been nine years old.

Sparky stares back at him, a bundle of happiness with his mangy white tail thumping against Jason's legs as Jason's fingers flex through it, petting like it was carved into his muscle memory. No—that wasn't right. This was muscle memory.

Jason lifts his gaze and stares at the table in front of him. He's sitting at the head of it, with a coloring book laid open to a half-finished Triceratops. The colors swim outside the lines carelessly. Cheap dollar-store crayons are scattered across the counter, some rolling dangerously close to the edge.

The dog lifts his head and licks at Jason's chin, making him scrunch his nose and pull Sparky away, holding him up over his lap. It feels too real. Too warm. Too wet. Too gross.

"What'd I say about Sparky in the dinin' room, Jacie? You're gonna make him think it's okay to beg."

Jason blinks slowly, lips parting as his eyes shift from the dog to the woman standing at the stove, smiling at him from the kitchen.

His mouth goes dry, tasting like sand. No words come out. He just sits there, shocked into silence.

She was dead.

He had found her in the bathroom. 

He had felt her cold skin. 

He had seen the needle. 

He had called the police.

She was supposed to be dead.

"Jacie? Honey, you okay?"

He swallows hard. "Yeah," he breathes, his fingers tightening in the dog's fur. "Sorry, Ma."

"You sure? You look like you seen a ghost. Don't tell me you been watchin' that Sci-Fi Channel again. I told ya, that crap's gonna give ya nightmares."

He was staring at a ghost. He wished it were just nightmares from bad B-rated horror flicks, because that would've been easier than seeing her again. She looks so different from the last time he remembered—alive and young. 

Jason never knew she'd ever looked that young.

"No," Jason says shakily, setting Sparky on the floor. "I haven't."

"Well, at least you listen. Your dad could use a lesson. Stays up late watchin' it, and then I gotta hear him complainin' about how stupid the blood looked, or how the guns don't sound right."

Jason could hear the exasperated fondness in her voice, and he was sure he had been sent back in time to another universe. He could never remember his mom like this, especially with her fondness for talking about Willis. Catherine had never said a bad word about him to Jason, but he used to be convinced that she did everything in her power to save face for Willis so that Jason's perspective of him was never tainted. But Jason knew. He always knew. The walls had been thin enough for him to hear the yelling. He had been perceptive enough to hear the tired disappointment in her voice every time she talked about Willis.

"Jasie, ya okay?" Catherine asked.

Jason blinked, swallowing heavily, his eyes suddenly clouded with tears. His lip wobbled, and he fought against everything not to break down. He could've blamed it on suddenly being tossed into a body too young for his mind, or on being immediately overwhelmed by everything. He knew the truth, though, and he wasn't ashamed to start crying, but crying would only stir panic.

He had spent years recovering from her death, his grief never properly processed, always lingering at the surface. Her death had affected him in ways no one else could've understood. She had become a promise to himself, a piece in his screwed up moral compass. And yet there she was, washed clean of her death, her sadness, her loneliness.

And she was happy.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

Jason shook his head quickly, rubbing his eyes. "Stubbed my toe," he mumbled.

Catherine let out a soft laugh. "Be careful, then. Last thing ya need is ta inherit my clumsiness," she said. "I'd walk straight inta a wall 'fore I knew it."

He hadn't inherited it before, but that was because he had never been Catherine's biological son, no matter how much he wished he had been. She had been his mother. He never even knew she'd been clumsy outside of the drugs. All his memories of her had been skewed, however, and he couldn't remember when she'd ever seemed normal.

"I'm not clumsy," he said, the words slipping out on instinct rather than purpose. Maybe he was just trying to keep up whatever image he had, but there were puzzle pieces missing, and Jason had no answers for any of the questions racing through his mind. He didn't know how old he was. He didn't know what year it was. He didn't know what universe this was. He wasn't sure it was even the one he'd been born into. Maybe his mind had erased this from memory, or maybe it had never happened at all.

A sick part of him hoped and prayed this was another universe. One where nothing bad ever happened to her. One where future him never found her dead. One where she and he lived better than before. He hoped this was some mundane universe that meant he could have what he'd never had before.

A champion of Death, a twisted voice echoed in his mind.

His fingers curled, nails digging into his palms until a sharp pinch of pain jolted through his hand. He chewed the inside of his cheek, glancing back at the unfinished coloring page. He couldn't let himself hope too much—not yet. He needed answers first. He had to know if he'd been shoved back into the same shitty universe, or if this was another one—one where he actually had a chance at being something bigger than he'd ever dreamed, even if Death still hovered close, her gift dangling above him.

"Can ya turn the news on for me?" Catherine asked. Jason glanced back at her, watching her drop a handful of potatoes into a pot of boiling water. He gave a small nod.

He looked around the counter but didn't see the remote. Pushing himself off the table, he wandered into the cramped living room and picked it up, staring at it hesitantly. He had no idea what channel the news was on. He pressed the ON button and watched the old boxed Panasonic flicker to life.

An episode of The Young and the Restless filled the screen. Jason recognized some of the actors, but he barely remembered what was ever going on. He'd only ever sit and watch if there had been nothing else, and the plots always seemed to recycle themselves or get too obscure. Catherine had enjoyed the show, from what he remembered.

He flicked past the channel, cycling slowly until he landed on GNN.

"...a spike in violent incidents across the Narrows district this week. Officers have linked several attacks to escalating turf disputes between rival gangs. Commissioner James Gordon urged residents to stay vigilant and report suspicious activity. 'We are doing everything in our power to stabilize the streets,' Gordon said at a press briefing earlier today."

Jason stared at the television, his gaze falling to the corner of the screen where the time and date glowed. His chest tightened as he read it. He'd figured he was young, but not this young.

September 17, 1998.

He had just turned eight a month ago in this timeline.

That explained a lot. Jason had few memories before age nine. Things had been easy enough when he was younger, aside from the usual arguments his parents had. Willis hadn't started getting deep into the crime scene and working for Falcone until Jason was closer to ten, after losing his job at the construction site, or that’s what he knew. He had never been too certain when his father started getting involved with that life. Catherine had always been a full-time mom, and she hadn't started stressing about money—or about Willis's "occupation"—until he began bringing it home.

Jason was back before the foundations had started to crack. And maybe, just maybe, he could stop the cracks from forming at all. Everything that had gone wrong in his life had started with his family. If he could fix that, maybe he could prevent every bad decision and mistake he'd ever made.

If Catherine and Willis stayed good—if they stayed alive—Jason would never go into foster care. He'd never have to run away from shitty families who only wanted his checks. He'd never be homeless. He'd never need to steal. He'd never meet Bruce.

Fuck.

He would never meet Bruce.

Jason froze, the remote slipping from his hand and thudding into the carpet. He hadn't thought about not meeting Bruce. He'd known that keeping his memories came with the possibility that if the Fates had thrown him into a different life, with no ties to Gotham, he might never see him again. He'd accepted the idea of not being Robin—why would he be, if the circumstances didn't exist? Without Robin, he wouldn't die. Without his death, there'd be no need for anything that came after.

But maybe it wasn't just Bruce. Maybe it was the realization that without him, life became unpredictable. Jason was staring into a void of decisions that could lead anywhere. He would only have his parents. Everyone else he'd grown to love and care about would slip away, none the wiser that he had ever existed.

He didn't know if that terrified him more than repeating his mistakes. He decided he'd worry about it later, though not too much later, because he had a feeling time itself was working against him.

"...CEO Lucius Fox revealed that the company will be investing millions into developing affordable pharmaceuticals for working-class families. Critics, however, remain skeptical, citing Gotham's history of corporate corruption..."

A scoff came from Catherine, startling Jason. He turned to see her standing just behind the beat-up couch, arms crossed.

"The only time Wayne Industries did anythin' good for us was when Thomas an' Martha Wayne were alive," she said, shaking her head. "They actually tried helpin' this godforsaken city. All these other rich people? Full'a shit. Next thing ya know, those meds are gonna come with more side effects an' worse symptoms, all in the name'a helpin' us.

Catherine huffed and leaned heavily against the couch, eyes narrowing at the TV. "An' don't even get me started on that Gordon guy," she muttered. "Always on the news, talkin' 'bout cleanin' up the Narrows like it's just some project. Please. He don't live there, he don't know nothin'. Whole damn city's built on people like us bein' disposable. Cops walk in, make a big show, then leave once the cameras're off."

She shook her head, voice picking up steam. "An' the mayor? Don't even know his name half the time. One crook after another, sittin' in that office gettin' their pockets lined by the Falcones or Roman or whatever mobster's holdin' the biggest wallet this week. Gotham's been sold out more times than I can count. Hell, the mob runs this city more honest than the suits do. At least the mob don't pretend."

Catherine waved a hand like she was swatting a fly. "Wayne Industries, City Hall, the GCPD—they're all in bed together. You think they care if the lights go out here? You think they care if kids're goin' hungry?" She gave a short laugh, humorless. "Nah. As long as them rich folks can see the skyline from their penthouses, Gotham'll stay the same rotten apple it's always been."

Jason sat still, watching her. She looked alive, her face bright with energy as she vented. He had no memory of her like this—spitting fire, speaking with the kind of conviction that sounded like she believed she could still fight against Gotham instead of being swallowed by it.

Catherine's voice trailed off as she caught Jason's wide-eyed stare. She let out a breath, the sharpness in her face easing. "Sorry, Jasie," she said, her tone softening, the bite fading into something gentler. "Didn't mean ta go off like that. You don't need me dumpin' all my rants on ya."

She came around the couch, resting a hand on the back of it as her gaze lingered on him. "Just... listen to me on this one, honey. Don't go trustin' the rich. They smile real nice, they hand out crumbs, but they don't see us. Not really. We're just shadows to 'em, part of the city they don't bother thinkin' about." Her lips curved into a small, almost bitter smile. "They ain't never gonna save us. You wanna survive here, you gotta remember that."

Jason swallowed hard, biting down on the protest that nearly rose to his lips. Bruce was different, he wanted to say. Bruce had taken him in, given him a roof, books, meals, and a chance to be something more than a kid scraping by on the streets. Bruce had been kind in his own cold, standoffish way.

But Catherine wasn't wrong, and that knowledge sat heavily in Jason's chest. Just because Bruce had been nice to him didn't mean he wasn't still part of the problem. Bruce was rich, born into the kind of money that meant he never had to worry about rent or heat or whether his next meal was coming from a soup kitchen. Bruce could play at being Gotham's savior all he wanted, but Crime Alley had always been bottom of the barrel. 

Batman had never really protected it, not the way Jason remembered. The Bowery, the Alley, the blocks where Jason had grown up—they were always left to rot. Bruce fought supervillains, crime lords, and lunatics in costumes. But the everyday people, the kids, and families that lived in the cracks? They were forgotten. That had been one of the reasons Jason became the Red Hood in the first place. If Batman wouldn't protect everyone in Crime Alley, then Jason would. He had made it his mission, his burden, to look after the ones Bruce turned a blind eye to. 

Now, Crime Alley was unprotected, and Jason couldn't do a thing about it.

"Go clean up the counter an' put your things up in your room," Catherine said, glancing over at him with a smile. "It's 'bout time ta walk Sparky, ain't it?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said. He glanced back at the television for a long moment before turning to the counter and picking up everything that was spread across it.

Sparky nudged at his leg, nipping at the cuff of his jeans and giving a playful growl before hopping back, front paws stretched out in a bow and tail wagging.

Jason smiled faintly. "Just a second, Sparky."

He finished gathering his things and walked toward his room, Sparky padding behind him. He pushed the door open, the wooden sign with JASON painted messily across it clicking against the frame.

Inside, the little bedroom had the look of a second-hand life above a pawnshop. The plaster walls were painted a washed-out blue, cracked in a few places where water had leaked from the upstairs apartment. A single iron bed was tucked against the wall under a drafty window, its thin quilt rumpled from when he'd last been in it. Through the glass, he could see the fire escape and, beyond it, the dim neon of a closed-down diner flickering over Crime Alley.

Toy cars and a bent plastic bat sat lined up along the windowsill. A couple of coloring books and broken crayons were stacked crookedly on a low dresser with one knob missing. Near the pillow lay a battered Wonder Woman action figure, one arm snapped off, but still wearing its tiny plastic tiara.

Beside it sat a leaning pile of paperbacks from the corner library — a dog-eared copy of The Hardy Boys: The Tower Treasure, Encyclopedia Brown Takes the Case, a tattered Greek Myths for Young Readers, Treasure Island, and a yellowing copy of A Wrinkle in Time. Their spines were cracked from being read over and over.

The room smelled faintly of crayons, laundry soap, and Sparky's fur. It was cramped and worn but undeniably his, and for a moment it felt like stepping back into a photograph.

Jason walked towards the table next to his bed, laying the coloring book and box of crayons on top. He took in the sight for a moment, moving the sit in the edge of the bed, the springs creaking underneath his weight. He ran his hand over the sheets, watching as Sparky pawed at his leg.

He took a deep breath, reaching down to pet the dog. "This is fucking insane, Sparky." The pup yipped and tried to nibble at his fingers. Jason let him, feeling the small teeth pinch gently at his skin.

He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to breathe. Everything about this was still overwhelming, yet he couldn't find it in himself to spiral into an almost-panic again. Maybe it was because the whole thing felt like a misplaced dream, and he had no idea what reality the Fates had dropped him into.

Was this a world where Catherine stayed alive? Where his father never was murdered? Where everything was flipped? Or was it the same world, with all the same history, just rewound to before everything went to hell? He hoped—against his own cynicism—that it was the former, an alternate space where things might still turn out differently.

Knowing his luck, Jason had a sick feeling it was the latter: the same reality he'd always been in, only a few years before shit hit the fan.

Jason pushed himself up off the bed. "Let's go outside." Maybe then he could figure out if this was really his own reality, or something else entirely.

He blamed his mind for not remembering much of his childhood before he was nine. What he did recall was how he used to talk to some of the women on Harker Street, one of the stretches of Crime Alley where the sex workers gravitated towards. They'd doted on him more often than not, slipping him snacks or a smile, and they always gossiped more than they should have. Jason never minded. Even as a kid, he'd found them an easy outlet for information when he was homeless and needed to know what streets to avoid.

Jason grabbed Sparky's leash from the hook by the door, the worn leather cool in his hand. Sparky's tail thumped against the wall, the little dog hopping from paw to paw in anticipation. Jason clipped the leash to the collar and straightened up.

"I'm gonna walk him," he called toward the kitchen, his voice carrying over the low murmur of the TV.

Catherine poked her head out from the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her vowels stretched, soft and rough-edged, like always. "Be careful out there, Jason," she said. "An' be back by eight, y'hear? Don't go makin' me worry."

For a second, Jason froze. It was rare for someone to tell him to "be careful" anymore. The last person to say it was Dick, right before he went in and died again. It always felt strange, almost heavy, to hear someone fuss over him like that. A part of him wanted to snap back that he could handle himself, that she didn't need to worry.

Jason nodded once, tightening his grip on the leash. "Yeah. We'll be back." Sparky barked once in reply, already pulling him toward the door.

Jason slipped the deadbolt, pulled the door shut behind him, and felt the faint tremor of the frame as it clicked back into place. Sparky tugged ahead, nails clicking on the worn linoleum of the hall.

The stairwell smelled like old paint and damp concrete. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow. Jason's boots thudded softly against the steps as he descended, one hand on the peeling rail. Sparky stopped every few stairs to sniff, tail wagging like this was all brand new.

The air grew cooler as they went down, the mixed scents of fried food, cigarette smoke, and wet pavement drifting up from the street. Jason glanced at the cracked windows on each landing; the faint glow of neon signs bled through, painting splashes of pink and green on the walls. It all looked the way he remembered and didn't remember at once, like a half-recovered dream.

By the time he reached the last flight, his shoulders had tightened. The door at the bottom was steel, dented where someone had kicked it, and plastered with old fliers. He pushed it open with his shoulder.

Cool air rushed in, damp and sharp, carrying the familiar noise of the Alley—distant arguments, a car engine, a baby crying somewhere far off. Sparky barked and strained at the leash, eager to explore.

Jason stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk, Sparky continued tugging on the leash, and sniffing fiercely on the ground, pulling him down the street.

The street looked smaller than he remembered, tight and narrow, framed by brick buildings that leaned on each other for support. Fire escapes zigzagged up the sides, their paint peeling, and windows flickered faintly with the glow of televisions inside apartments. Rusted metal gates hung at crooked angles in front of small shops and tenements, their locks worn from years of use.

The sidewalks were cracked, uneven, and dotted with puddles from a recent storm. Neon signs buzzed faintly over a corner bodega, dripping light onto the wet pavement, while a green-and-white striped awning sagged lazily over a small bakery a few doors down. Trash cans overflowed with scraps, but the alley still had life in it: kids chased a ball, bouncing off puddles and dodging Sparky's playful jumps, while women leaned on stoops or against walls, scarves draped over their shoulders, chatting idly.

Jason's gaze drifted to the small details: the hand-painted signs, the crooked mailboxes, the laundry strung across balconies above, flapping in the faint breeze. Jason felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: Nostalgia.

Sparky barked softly, nudging his hand. He began to walk down the street, boots splashing through shallow puddles, letting his eyes absorb every crooked corner, every familiar storefront, every piece of life that made this place stubbornly, painfully, his home.

His eyes flicked to the posters tacked to telephone poles and walls, nailed with rusty tacks or yellowing tape. Community events stared up at him in bright, blocky letters: church bake sales, shelter drives, and late-night tutoring for kids like him. Odd jobs were scrawled in hasty handwriting—babysitting, hauling groceries, cleaning rooms for a few bucks. The missing kid flyers made him pause, the black-and-white faces haunting in their stillness.

He pulled his gaze to the gang markings. Jagged symbols and letters were sprayed on brick walls, stairwells, and shutters, the colors bold against the drab background. Some marked corners as territory, others just warned anyone passing by. Jason had seen these signs before and recognized the early signals of turf wars.

Hidden among the usual, his eyes caught newly placed flyers. One flyer depicted a skeletal figure holding scales, ink smudged but unmistakable. Another had a phrase in Greek letters, water-stained and curling at the edges. A small hand-drawn sun with a crescent moon beside it stared back at him from a corner of a bulletin board.

Jason raised a brow at the strange flyers, wondering if this was some weird underground cult thing that always happened to surface at the oddest times in Gotham. Or maybe this was connected to the Court of Owls and the nightmarish shit they had going on. Jason wasn't sure, but he knew that Gotham had a thing when it came to cults and secret societies, and Jason made a point to keep away from it.

Sparky tugged at the leash harder, pulling Jason from the flyers. He let the dog lead him a few steps, scanning the street as he walked. He came to the end of the street and gave a soft tug on the leash, guiding Sparky to follow him onto the less-busy streets, the ones that lead into the more questionable streets.

Jason was on a mission after all, and if anyone could give him answers, it would be the working girls.

They turned off the busier block and onto a thinner street. The change was instant—lights dimmer, storefronts fewer, windows boarded or papered over. The buzz of conversation faded to mutters and the distant rattle of a bottle rolling across concrete.

The further they walked, the less the neighborhood felt like the one he'd just been in. Here, the brickwork was scorched or cracked, doorways recessed deep like hiding places. A burned-out corner store sat shuttered, its sign a skeleton of neon tubing. 

Jason's boots crunched on glass as he passed a bus stop with its bench smashed in two. Shadows clung to the edges of buildings. A group of guys lingered near a doorway, heads close together, eyes sliding over Jason and Sparky with that cold, measuring look. Another man shuffled by with a paper bag clutched tight, muttering to himself, disappearing into a stairwell.

From an alley to his right came the dull thud of fists hitting flesh. Jason's head turned on instinct. In the gloom, two silhouettes had another man pinned against the wall, fists and knees driving into his ribs. The victim's breath hitched into a choked groan.

Every muscle in Jason's body wanted to move, to step in, to break it up. The Red Hood in him practically snarled. But his fingers only clenched harder around Sparky's leash. He wasn't the Red Hood here. He wasn't even big enough to swing a bat. Right now, he was eight years old again, small enough that one of those guys could just scoop him up and snap him in two without blinking. Jumping in would get him killed.

He swallowed hard, forcing his feet to keep walking, jaw tight.

Jason kept his head down and walked, Sparky's paws clicking against the cracked pavement. The glow from the last streetlight behind them faded, leaving the next block in a low, yellow haze. Rusted fire escapes crisscrossed the buildings overhead like a cage.

Harker Street wasn't far now. He could almost smell the old diner grease and the faint perfume that clung to the women.

"Hey, kid!"

The shout cut through the night, sharp and unfriendly. Jason's shoulders stiffened. Across the street, a man in a heavy coat leaned out of a recessed doorway, cigarette glowing between his fingers. His eyes narrowed under the brim of a cap.

"You lost or somethin'?" The man's tone wasn't curious; it was predatory, like a cat watching a mouse. Another figure shifted deeper in the shadows behind him.

Jason didn't answer right away. He kept Sparky close to his leg, leash shortened, heart thumping with the automatic calculation he used to make as Red Hood—distance, exits, hands, weapons—but this time he also felt the cold reality of his small frame. No armor. No gun. No height. Just a scrawny eight-year-old with a dog.

He gave a curt shake of his head, forcing his voice steady. "No. Just walking my dog."

The man chuckled low, flicking ash onto the sidewalk. "Little late for a kid to be out walkin' dogs in this part of town."

Jason's stomach tightened. He didn't stop moving. He just kept walking, eyes ahead, each step deliberate. 

He didn’t slow down. His pulse kicked hard against his ribs, but his face stayed blank. 

Sparky gave a soft whine, sensing the change in Jason’s grip. Jason tightened the leash until the dog was pressed against his calf, eyes flicking to the other side of the street. An open corner store. A burned-out phone booth. A gap between two parked vans. Exits. He memorized them automatically.

“You hear me, kid?” The man’s voice edged closer, boots scraping on concrete. “C’mere a second.”

Jason turned his head just enough to glance back—not meeting the man’s eyes, just enough to show he’d heard—and then crossed the street at a diagonal, quick but not running. Running would make him prey. Walking fast made him invisible. He tugged Sparky gently, and the little dog, bless him, trotted along without barking.

Behind him, the man muttered something, a short bark of laughter. Jason didn’t look back again. He kept his eyes on the glowing sign of a laundromat up ahead and the thin trickle of people coming and going there. More eyes, more witnesses.

By the time he reached the laundromat’s doorway, the man’s voice was gone, swallowed by the hiss of a passing bus and the clatter of a dumpster lid. Jason let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He stopped for a second, crouching to rub Sparky’s head, partly to steady himself.

“Good boy,” he whispered. His hands were still trembling a little. In this body, in this year, he really was just another kid out after dark.

Jason crossed another intersection, weaving around a pothole filled with oily rainwater, and finally stepped onto Harker Street.

The block hummed with life in a way the quieter alleys hadn't. Neon signs buzzed and flickered over doorways, their glow washing the pavement in pinks, reds, and electric blues. Strip clubs with painted-over windows sat shoulder to shoulder with bars that never really closed, their doors yawning open to spill music and cigarette smoke onto the sidewalk. A couple of beaten-down hotels loomed above them like tired sentries, their facades crumbling but still lit by a few flickering bulbs.

Further down, warehouses lined the edge of the street, their loading bays shut, graffiti crawling up the walls. Beyond them, Jason could see the faint outline of the Bowery's taller buildings. 

People moved everywhere. Women in short skirts leaned against doorframes, laughing between drags of their cigarettes. Men in heavy jackets clustered near the bar entrances, trading quiet words. A cab honked twice before rolling past, splashing water from a cracked gutter. The air smelled of fried food, perfume, stale beer, and engine oil all at once.

Jason stopped for a moment, Sparky pressing against his leg as if sensing his pause. The street was exactly as he remembered it—maybe a little cleaner, a little more alive—but it was Harker. 

He kept walking down the street, his eyes scanning the movement of the crowd. 

A woman leaned against a doorway, cigarette smoldering between her fingers. Her coat was worn, her boots scuffed, but her eyes caught his immediately. She waved a hand toward him.

"Hey, Jay! Over here, sweetie!"

Jason froze, brow furrowing. The tone was familiar, warm and doting, but her face... he couldn't place it. Not a single memory sparked.

He hesitated. "Uh, hi," he said cautiously, keeping Sparky close.

The woman smiled like he'd just stepped into her arms, though she didn't move closer. "There you are! Been wonderin' where you'd wandered off to. How's my little man doin' tonight?"

Jason's lips twitched, unsure what to say. He didn't remember being a "little man" in her presence. But there was something in her tone—gentle, teasing, caring—that made him relax a fraction.

"You... uh... I mean, I'm good," he said, scratching the back of his neck.

"Well, don't keep me waitin', hun," she grinned, glancing down at Sparky and then back at him. "You eatin' all right? Keepin' outta trouble?"

Jason blinked. Out of trouble? That was a laugh. But somehow, he found himself answering as he might to any adult keeping an eye on a kid. "Yeah. I'm fine."

She reached out to ruffle his hair lightly, and he flinched only slightly, unused to being treated this way. "Good boy."

Jason didn't recognize her, but something in her attention felt comforting, grounding. He glanced at Sparky, who seemed just as relaxed, tail thumping against his leg.

The woman's eyes softened, and she leaned back against the doorway, letting the neon glow wash over her face. "Alright, hun, just be careful out here, y'hear? Streets get tricky after dark." She paused, glancing around before lowering her voice slightly. "Hey, you know, Maggie's been lookin' for ya. She said she's got somethin' for your birthday. Don't wanna spoil it, but she's been askin' where you've been."

Jason tilted his head, frowning. He didn't remember a Maggie. But the way the woman said it—so casual, like it was normal—made him feel a little less like he was navigating a completely foreign world.

He nodded, letting Sparky tug him gently forward. "Got it. I'll be careful."

She waved as he moved on. "See you 'round, Jay. Don't keep the girl waitin' too long."

Jason waved back, moving down the street, ears tuned to the hum of the city. Voices rose and fell around him with snatches of conversation, laughter, and arguments, all blending into a low buzz.

"...Penguin's stiffin' everybody. Ain't worth the heat," a man's voice drifted down from the fire escape above.

Jason slowed, glancing up. A cluster of people lounged on the metal steps, smoke curling through the damp night air. The sharp scent of weed hung heavy.

"Better him than Dent," one of the men muttered, exhaling hard. "You don't wanna be on the wrong side of his shit."

"Dent's got his hands full," a woman cut in, her voice edged with certainty. "He already laid out Robin the other night."

Another man barked a short laugh. "C'mon. That kid? He's quick. Saw him run a guy down like nothing."

"Don't matter," the first man said with a shake of his head. "Dent's ruthless."

The woman crossed her arms, flicking her wrist as she waved smoke from her face. "And where was Batman, huh? Should've been watchin' him."

"Didn't ya hear?" someone else piped up, voice low but eager. "'Parently, Bats was there. Got to the kid before Dent could kill 'im."

The woman huffed, dragging on the joint before passing it along. "Ain't no kid should be dealin' with that shit. If my bug was doin' somethin' like that? God."

Jason felt a tug on the leash, and Sparky looked up at him with a low whine. He resumed walking, the voices on the fire escape fading into the night. What they'd said made sense. Jason knew enough about Dick's time as Robin and his run-ins with Two-Face. This one, especially. And hearing it had played out here, too, only added to his suspicion: he was in the same reality, not some alternate one.

He frowned slightly. At least the woman had been right, kids shouldn't be running around fighting crime. Hypocritical, maybe, since he'd done it himself for a short time. But after his own death, Jason had learned better. Or, well, he tried to think he had learned better, because he wasn't sure how he was going to accept being a normal kid again. He doubted he'd be able to keep sane for long, especially if he had to do the same things he did when he was a child. Like school.

Oh, God. School.

He should have stayed dead.

Not that he didn't enjoy school because he did, but there was a difference in going back to elementary school, and honestly, Jason would have to do something to get away from that.

"Jay-Baby!"

A woman bounded out from the doorway of a bar, bangles clattering on her wrists, hair teased high and shining under the neon glow. Her grin was wide enough to swallow the night, her arms already open like she'd been waiting all evening just for him.

Before Jason could step back, she swooped down and wrapped him up, squeezing until his ribs creaked. "Oh, my God! Look at you, Jay-Baby! My boy!" she squealed, rocking him side to side. Sparky barked and wagged, practically dancing at their feet.

Jason stiffened in her grip, awkwardly caught between pushing her off and letting her crush the air out of him. Then it clicked, the other woman's words. Maggie's been lookin' for ya. She's got somethin' for your birthday.

This had to be Maggie. Loud, excitable, warm in a way that nearly bowled him over. He didn't remember her face, didn't have the memory to go with the name, but her energy made it obvious. She knew him. Or at least, she knew the boy he was supposed to be.

"My God, you got taller! And look at those cheeks, still got that pout on ya," Maggie said, pulling back just enough to plant her hands on his shoulders and beam down at him. "My Jay-Baby! You don't know how much I missed seein' this face."

Jason blinked up at her, throat dry, unsure how to respond. He didn't remember Maggie. He didn't know why he didn't remember any of this. Shouldn't it have been important enough to stick? Or had the Fates screwed with his head when they dropped him here? That didn't make sense, though. It didn't feel like anything had been missing.

More likely, it was just the fact that he'd been a kid. Memories from back then blurred easily, slipping through the cracks. Still, the lack of recognition gnawed at him. The way she looked at him, so familiar, so certain, left him off-balance.

Maggie gave him one last crushing squeeze, then pulled back, eyes bright and glittering under the neon. "Oh! That reminds me! I still got somethin' for ya! Your birthday gift! Been sittin' on it for weeks waitin' for you to show that face."

"You didn't have to get me nothing," Jason said.

Maggie barked a laugh, smacking his arm lightly before slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Didn't have to? Baby, please. You think I wouldn't spoil you? Not a chance." She turned on her heel and tugged him toward the bar door with surprising strength

Sparky barked once, trotting at Jason's side as if he was used to this routine.

The bouncer at the door straightened when he saw them coming, arms crossed over a chest like a concrete wall. His gaze flicked to Jason, and Jason's step faltered for a beat.

Tony.

He remembered the man, faintly, a familiar face from his future. Jason never spoke to him then, but he had stayed a bouncer from what Jason could remember.

"Hey, kid," Tony rumbled. "Long time no see."

Jason swallowed, nodding once, still thrown by how easily the man seemed to know him.

"That's right, Tony!" Maggie crowed, clapping the bouncer on the arm as she breezed past. "My Jay-Baby's back, and we're celebratin' proper!"

Tony's mouth quirked into the faintest smile. He held the door open, giving Jason a nod. "Go on in. Don't keep her waitin'."

Jason let Sparky trot through first before following, pulled along by Maggie's whirlwind energy. He didn't remember Maggie clearly, but he remembered Tony. And that alone made him feel a bit like a piece of shit.

The heavy door swung shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the street and replacing it with the loud thrum of music, clinking glasses, and the muted buzz of conversation. Smoke hung in the air, mixing with the tang of liquor and fried food.

As Maggie tugged him inside, heads started to turn.

"Hey, Jason!" someone called from a booth, lifting a beer in salute.

"Look at him, little man's back!" another laughed from the bar.

A waitress passing with a tray leaned down just enough to ruffle his hair. "Ain't you the cutest. Been too long, sweetheart."

Jason stiffened at the contact. People continued to wave, nod, and even leaned down to pat his shoulder as he passed. Their smiles came easy, voices full of warmth. They weren't faking it. They knew him, or thought they did.

Jason's brow knit tight. There's no way. Little me didn't have this kind of community. Not here.

This street had always been on one of the less friendly places. Nobody cared about a half-starved kid running around with a mutt. And yet here they were, greeting him like he was family.

Then again, Jason never tried to integrate himself back in the community when he came back to Gotham.

Maggie only grinned wider, basking in it as she hauled him toward the back. "See that, Jay-Baby? Whole room lights up when you show that face. Always does."

Jason stayed quiet, confusion digging into his chest as he let himself be pulled along, small and out of place in a world that seemed to know him better than he knew himself.

Maggie's bangles jingled as she tugged him past the booths and tables, ignoring the waves and whistles as if the whole crowd wasn't watching. Jason kept his eyes down, letting her steer, Sparky trotting close at his side. They passed through a narrow hall that smelled of beer kegs and old cleaner. Maggie pushed open a plain door at the end, the noise of the bar softening behind them.

"Here we are," she announced, ushering him inside like she was presenting a treasure chest.

It was a break room. Small, a little cramped with the hum of an old fridge filling the silence. A round table sat in the middle with mismatched chairs around it, a half-finished crossword and an ashtray left behind. A battered couch sagged against the wall, its cushions worn flat.

Maggie finally let him go, clapping her hands together as if she'd been holding in excitement for hours. "There we go, just us. No crowd, no noise. Perfect place for a surprise, yeah?"

Jason looked around, blinking at the normalcy of the room. Just a break room. Nothing special. Which somehow made the situation feel even stranger. He glanced down at Sparky, who sniffed happily at the couch before circling Jason's feet.

Jason shifted awkwardly, the weight of Maggie's energy still buzzing in the air.

Maggie bustled over to the little table, crouched down beside a chair, and tugged out a paper bag tucked underneath. The bag crinkled as she set it on the table with a flourish, her grin brighter than the neon outside.

"Alright, Jay-Baby," she said, sliding it toward him. "Been sittin' on this too long. You keep goin' on and on about readin', so I figured—hell, why not? I saved up a bit, got you somethin' proper."

Jason pulled the bag closer, peering inside. He slid out the stack of hardcovers one by one, their glossy jackets smooth beneath his fingers. They weren't tattered hand-me-downs. They were pristine. Romance novels, classics: Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Anna Karenina. Their spines were unbroken, corners sharp, covers gleaming like they'd never been touched.

And then he stopped on the last one. Pride and Prejudice.

Mint condition. Crisp pages, cover so clean it almost glared under the overhead light. Jason's throat tightened as he stared at it. He remembered his own copy, which was the exact same as the one before him, but with a cracked spine, yellowed pages scribbled through with his cramped handwriting. Whole paragraphs underlined, margins filled with sharp little thoughts he'd never shown anyone. That copy had been his, lived in, real. This one looked like it had never been opened.

Maggie leaned forward, chin in her hand, watching his face. "Told ya I'd spoil you," she said warmly. "Ain't nothin' too good for my Jay-Baby. Figured you'd get a kick outta these. Lotta heart in 'em."

Jason ran his thumb across the flawless spine, the weight of memory pressing hard against the smooth, untouched cover. He didn't know her. He didn't remember her. But somehow, she'd put into his hands a version of something that had once served as an escape.

Maggie's smile was warm, expectant, like she was waiting for him to light up, to remember her the way she so clearly remembered him.

He tried. He really did. Jason squeezed his eyes shut for a second, forcing himself to dig backward, to scrape through the mess of memories he had from being a kid in Crime Alley. He pictured the women on the street, the ones who'd slipped him candy, ruffled his hair, called him pet names. Faces blurred in the haze of smoke and neon, laughter echoing somewhere just out of reach.

But Maggie's face? Her voice? Nothing. Just a blank.

When he opened his eyes again, she was still there, watching him with that big, beaming grin, bracelets clattering as she leaned forward. She thought she was carved into his childhood, but to him, she was a stranger.

Jason forced a small, awkward smile, lowering his gaze to the book so she wouldn't see the truth.

Maggie tilted her head. Her grin didn't falter, but her eyes narrowed knowingly. She'd caught the hesitation, though she clearly didn't read it the way it was.

"Oh, I see what this is," she said, wagging a finger at him. "You're sittin' there thinkin' this is too much, huh? Like you don't deserve a gift that costs a pretty penny." She laughed, sharp and loud, filling the little room. "Please. Don't gimme that look, Jay-Baby. I wanted to. I chose to. You think I wouldn't spoil you?"

Jason blinked, thrown. She thought it was about the books, about the money. Not the gaping hole in his memory where her face should've been.

Maggie leaned across the table and tapped the book cover, her nails clicking against it. "Don't matter what it cost. What matters is you wanted somethin' that made you happy and you deserve to have it. End of story."

Jason swallowed, unsure how to argue with her. He didn't remember her. But she remembered him, and right now she was looking at him like he was worth every cent she'd scraped together.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Maggie's grin lit up the whole room. "That's my Jay-Baby," she said, clapping her hands once like she'd won a prize. "Knew you'd come 'round. Don't go thinkin' you gotta earn it. You just take it and enjoy it, hear me?"

Jason nodded again, the words sticking in his throat.

Maggie leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, still buzzing with energy. "So! Tell me everything. How's your mama, huh? Catherine holdin' up all right? She still got that laugh that fills a whole room?" She didn't wait for an answer before barreling on. "And Willis. He keepin' steady work, or's he still tryin' to hustle his way outta everythin'?"

Jason stiffened slightly but forced himself to nod. Maggie didn't notice, her bracelets jingling as she gestured. "And school—don't think you're gettin' outta tellin' me about school. You still top of your class? You still makin' all the teachers sweat 'cause you read faster than they can talk?"

Jason shifted in his chair, Sparky's head resting against his knee. He tried to keep his face neutral, to answer where he could without giving away too much.

Maggie's grin never dimmed. "And what about friends? Don't tell me you're hidin' in a corner with your nose in a book all day. A kid like you should have a whole crew trailin' after him."

Jason swallowed. Friends. That word landed heavy. He lowered his gaze to Sparky, scratching behind the dog's ears while Maggie waited, expectant and bright.

"Ma's... good," he said carefully. "She's fine."

Maggie grinned. "Good, good. She deserves it. Lord knows, that woman's been carryin' the whole damn world on her back. Saw her last week, haulin' groceries up those stairs by herself, near dropped the bags. I told her I'd help, and she near smacked me with her purse. That's Catherine for ya, stubborn as a mule. Don't matter if Willis is disappearin' for nights, leavin' her to do everythin' herself, she won't let nobody see her sweat. She'll break her back before she lets anyone think she's strugglin'. That's your mama."

Jason just nodded, filing it away.

"And Willis?" Maggie asked, her eyebrows high like she expected him to dance around it.

"Work's steady enough," Jason muttered, vague.

Maggie snorted. "Steady? Please. Man's been chasin' cash jobs all over the Bowery—construction, odd shifts at the docks, even tried his hand haulin' crates for Falcone's boys. You didn't hear that from me, but everybody knows. He better be smart enough to keep his head down. Word is Dent's sniffin' around, takin' over turf, and the last thing Willis needs is to owe Dent a damn thing."

Jason kept his face still, though his stomach knotted. His dad was already slipping, then.

"And school?" Maggie pressed, leaning in eagerly.

Jason shrugged. "It's fine."

"Fine," Maggie repeated with a scoff, throwing her hands in the air. "This kid! You got teachers talkin' like you're some little professor, and you call it fine? Don't think I don't hear it. Heard that you was rattlin' off book quotes at recess last month. Course, I also heard some punk tried to trip you. Bet that didn't go so well for him." She winked. "You're too sharp to let bullies keep you down."

Jason didn't answer, just scratched Sparky's ears, letting the dog lean into him.

Maggie leaned back in her chair, eyes glittering like she had a secret. "You wanna know somethin'? Catherine's been tryin' to stash a little cash. Slippin' a few bills aside when she can. Says it's for you. Wants you to apply to Gotham Academy. Don't tell ya Mama I told you. She'd wack me with a stick, but I knows you don't like all 'em secrets."

Jason stilled. Gotham Academy. In his memory, Bruce had made that happen. Paid the tuition, pulled strings, shoved him through those halls.

Maggie barreled on. "She's got it in her head that you're gonna end up sittin' in those fancy classrooms, outshinin' every snot-nosed brat from uptown. Next thing I know, you'll be pushin' Bruce Wayne off his stoop." She laughed so hard she slapped the table. "Can you imagine? Jay-Baby starin' down Gotham's golden boy, teachin' him a thing or two about brains."

Jason went rigid, pulse spiking. The casual way Maggie said it, like it was normal for her to picture him brushing shoulders with Gotham's richest man. It twisted something in his chest. All Maggie saw was hope for him.

Jason let out a small, awkward laugh, the sound rough in his throat. "Yeah... I couldn't imagine doin' that."

The words felt wrong the second they left his mouth. He could imagine it. He already had. He'd brushed shoulders with Bruce Wayne, with his son, with the gilded world they lived in. He'd walked those halls, eaten at that table, slept under that roof. And yet, he'd always been the outsider, the stray who ended up biting more than he could chew.

Jason winced inwardly, forcing his face to stay neutral as he continued to scratch Sparky behind the ears. Maggie didn't notice, too caught up in her own rambling, her energy spilling over the room like sunlight.

But Jason felt the weight of the truth pressing down on him. He had lived in Bruce's world once, and while there had been moments Jason had been happy, it always had something twisted underneath. He could barely survive it the first time around.

Maggie's laughter tapered off, her grin lingering a moment longer before her face softened. Then something passed over her expression, like she'd just remembered herself, remembered where they were. The brightness dimmed, and she leaned forward on the table, her bracelets clinking dully instead of jingling.

"Listen, Jay-Baby," she said, voice lower now, weightier. "I'm real glad you're here, and I love jokin' around with you, but you gotta start bein' careful. This ain't the time to be runnin' around like the streets are yours. I'm even surprised your mama let you out by yourself."

Jason blinked at the sudden shift, the levity in the room gone.

"You've seen the posters, yeah?" Maggie asked, eyes sharp now. "Those kids gone missin'? Most of 'em are boys. Young. Like you." Her mouth pulled tight, her hand pressing flat to the table. "Ain't nobody gettin' answers. Cops don't care, you know how it is. But people talk. Folks are scared, and with good reason."

Jason's grip on the book in his lap tightened, his stomach going cold. He had seen the posters.

"So promise me somethin', huh?" Maggie went on, leaning closer, her painted nails tapping against the wood. "You don't walk around alone no more. You stick close to your ma. Or me. Or Tony, hell. Somebody who's gonna watch out for you. World's too ugly for a boy to be wanderin' on his own."

Jason swallowed, Sparky pressing his nose against his knee as if sensing the tension.

Maggie's eyes softened again, but the seriousness didn't leave them. "I ain't jokin', Jay-Baby. You be smart. You hear me?"
Maggie glanced up at the clock on the break room wall, her bangles sliding down her arm as she folded her hands on the table. The grin she'd worn earlier didn't come back this time.

"Look at the time," she murmured, shaking her head. "It's gettin' late, Jay-Baby. Streets ain't safe after dark. Ya know that." She pushed back her chair, standing with a rustle of fabric. "Best you get yourself home before your mama starts worryin'."

Jason took Pride and Prejudice off the table, then slid it back into the bag with the others. He looped the paper handles carefully in one hand, the bag bumping lightly against his leg.

"I can walk—" he started, but Maggie cut him off with a firm wave of her hand.

"And don't you go arguin'," she said, her tone leaving no room. "I'm not lettin' you out there alone. I'll get one of the boys to walk you back. Tony, maybe. Or Big Frank. Somebody who knows how to clear a street."

Jason's jaw flexed, but he swallowed down the protest. He wanted to tell her he didn't need anyone, that if anything, the city needed to be afraid of him. But right now, with the bag of mint books tugging at his arm and Sparky waiting by the door, he wasn't Red Hood. He was a stupid, useless eight-year-old.

"Okay," he muttered, shifting the bag in his hand.

Maggie softened, reaching out to smooth a hand over his hair, her bracelets clinking gently. "That's my boy. We'll get you home safe. Can't have Gotham stealin' another one of our own."

Jason nodded once, letting her believe it.

Maggie stuck her head out the break room door and hollered down the hall. "Frank! Big Frank! Get in here a sec!"

The sound of a chair scraping echoed from the front room, followed by the heavy thud of boots. A mountain of a man filled the doorway, broad-shouldered with a thick beard flecked in gray. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, arms like tree trunks, and he had the tired look of somebody who'd seen too much but wasn't fazed by any of it anymore.

"What's up, Mags?" His voice was gravelly.

"Do me a favor, will ya? Walk my Jay-Baby home. Streets are nasty tonight, an' I don't trust a thing after dark."

Frank's eyes flicked down to Jason, to the bag dangling from his hand and the little white dog wagging at his heel. For a moment, Jason thought he'd smirk or question why an eight-year-old needed an escort. But instead, Frank just nodded once. "Yeah. Got it."

Maggie bent down and kissed the top of Jason's head before ruffling his hair. "Don't give Frank any grief, you hear me? Go straight home to your mama. And you—" she jabbed a finger at Frank, grinning, "—you make sure nobody so much as breathes wrong at my boy."

Frank grunted in acknowledgment, motioning Jason to follow.

Jason shifted the bag in his hand, Sparky trotting ahead, and stepped back out into the club before walking out into the neon-lit night. The hum of the bar dimmed as the door shut behind them.

Tony gave a nod from his post at the door. "Night, kid. Get home safe."

"Yeah," Jason muttered, tugging Sparky's leash gently.

Frank fell into step beside him, big enough to block half the sidewalk, his silence a wall between Jason and the shadows lurking at the edges of the alley. They walked in near quiet, only the sound of Frank's boots and Sparky's nails clicking on the pavement.

Jason kept his head down, gripping the bag tighter. Maggie's laughter, her hope, her warning—they all clung to him heavier than the books he carried. Missing kids. Gotham Academy. Bruce Wayne. All of it gnawed at the back of his mind, and he couldn't shake the anger coiled in his chest. He hated being small again. Hated feeling helpless when he knew just how much this city would take if left unchecked.

The apartment block came into view, the familiar shadow of cracked brick and broken windows looming like a ghost. Jason exhaled slowly, relief creeping in at the sight of something solid, something he remembered.

Then he saw it.

The living room light still on, leaking through the thin curtains. A shadow moved behind them—broad, restless, pacing.

Jason's grip on the bag tightened, his stomach twisting in anxiety.

Willis was home.