Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Look me in the eyes, Bruce, and tell me you tried.”

“Jason—“

“You can’t, can you? Because you never did. But I’m giving you a chance. Look me in the eye, and decide whether it’s him or if it’s me— your son, or your morality?”

Bruce kept his eyes on the gun cupped in his hands. His eyebrows were bent inward, like a collapsed roof, and his lips were pressed together, flat, like a concrete floor. Jason’s arm stayed still and flexed around the Clown’s neck, and he held cold metal to his temple— his voice cracked as he spoke, his face blank and pale. His eyes were still covered by a domino, but the lenses were foggy and white, not the glowing fluorescent green they’d been before.

“I’m going to pull the trigger, unless you put that,” he jerked his head towards Bruce’s hands, the gun there, “right between my eyes. I am going to kill him unless you kill me. There is no third option. Him, or me, Bruce.”

Bruce still stared down at the gun in his hands. His mouth twitched down. Joker giggled obnoxiously, eyes darted between the two, blood smeared around his nose and his mouth. Jason shifted his weight and looked down at Bruce’s hands, where he held the gun across his palms, like he didn’t know where to hold it. Its metal was sleek and painted black, a few scratches unseen in the dark. The trigger and the end of the barrel were the only silver pieces, as if the paint had burned away with use. The safety had been on, but Bruce’s thumb running over the metal flicked it off, a dot of red visible.

“I can’t. Not even for you.”

“Can’t or won’t, Bruce?”

“...”

“Let me.”

“I can’t.”

“No. You just won’t. You won’t let me— You’re scared I’m like you.”

Bruce looked up from staring at the gun, his expression the same. He still couldn’t look Jason in the eyes— but he could look at the gun in Jason’s hand and the man the metal laid against, the green hair and ever widening smile. Joker was laughing now, eyes matching the way his lips began cracking and the way his yellow teeth seemed to glow, gums blood red. White lenses and insane yellowed eyes met, before Bruce finally looked Jason in the eye, and let the gun slip from out of his hand, turning on his heel. Jason’s jaw ticked as Bruce turned away, and pulled the Joker closer to his chest, pushing the gun further into his pale temple.

“Look at me, Bruce” Jason snarled the words, pumped them full of venom and slipped them between his canines, “Don’t turn your back on me, don’t you fucking dare.”

Bruce paused, cape swishing in a breeze coming through the window. Dust from the window sill and glass shards from when the two had thrown themselves through it rained down onto the ground. He didn’t turn his head. His fist was loose, dangerously close to his belt. 

“Why should I?” 

Bruce’s voice was rough, and it wasn’t Bruce anymore— not the Bruce Jason had known. Not till now. His voice was barely louder than the sirens or the cars or the rain outside, but it still cut its' way through the breeze. 

“Because you’ve done it once already. You turned your back on me. Look at me, Bruce. Don’t make the same mistake twice.” 

Bruce was quiet as he looked down at Gotham. The Batsignal stood brightly against the night sky. 

“Do you remember the night we met?” 

“…”

“I couldn’t turn my back on you then. I couldn’t, not with the light you held in your eyes. For all the things you’d been through, it was still there.” 

“You did. Eventually.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not enough.” 

“I know.” 

“You don’t. You’d have already done it if you did. It’s never enough. You can’t seem to look at anything else.” 

“Maybe.” 

“You won’t, will you?” 

“No.” 

Bruce kept walking. Jason’s face was wet, even with the roof stopping the rain. The Joker was laughing again, like he knew a joke they didn’t. Jason’s grip on the Joker’s collar was tight enough to make his leather gloves creak from the pressure. The clown wheezed out laughter as Jason tightened his arm and seemed to snap into place like shattered glass. With a final sigh, Jason’s expression relaxed, and he looked beyond, into the Gotham air, before inhaling, and pulling the trigger. 

Heat and light and wet covered Jason’s face as Bruce turned on his heel, metal flying through the air with a quiet whistle, cold sinking into his neck, more wet splashing up, some kind of squelching noise joining the sound of two corpses dropping. He couldn’t breathe. He pushed off the chalky corpse atop of him, gasping blood, hands around his neck, looking up, Bruce, he wheezed, Bruce, scrambling, where is it, metal from his pocket, button, click, he couldn’t breathe, his face was hot and wet and sticky. Walled in, a brick coffin this time, beeping, not again, can’t breathe—

Beep Beep

(6 seconds and Jason wished Bruce hadn’t come this time). 

The two fell fast. Jason grabbed at his neck to try and staunch the bleeding, but red only bubbled through his fingers. Bruce’s feet stayed in place, face frozen like he didn’t know whether to be surprised or not. The white lenses of his cowl bounced between Jason and the Joker, and he couldn’t make himself truly look at either one of them.

5 seconds.

Jason’s back hit the wall, and he switched between gasping and wheezing— a bomb trigger laying at his feet, red light leaving a halo on the ground, matching the pools of blood.

4 seconds.

Joker’s corpse was unnaturally still, smiling, laughing, green hair and white skin re-dyed a crimson as it bubbled from the gaping exit wound on his temple, dripping out from the loose skin. The rest of his face was tainted red with Jason’s blood, almost matching the large quarter of his gaping skull— Jason had used a lower caliber this time. Normally they weren’t this intact.

3 seconds.

Bruce finally moved, stumbling towards Jason, who pushed himself further against the wall, bloody prints on brick,

2 seconds, 

Bruce didn’t have enough time, but he needed to be there, now, this once, 

1 second, 

Bruce flung out his cape, a hopeful shield, not enough, never enough—

0 seconds,

Bang.

Ash. Or was it snow? Fell softly. Rubble around him. Crumbled, rumbling in his chest. Gray, concrete, dust. Copper in his mouth— like pennies, a fare for Charon. Death’s worth little when it’s always been there.  He tried to sit up. His body couldn’t. Cold. Stiff. He’s pale. Lips blue. A corpse? Rubble, bricks, wood fallen. A second coffin, just for him. He thinks he carved this one. He laughs bitterly at that thought, but it comes out as more of a rough gurgle.

Tried again, up. Stiff, fingers blue. Air’s warm. Fire, sirens. Lit up the smoke, like a firecracker after a smoke bomb on Fourth of July. Standing was shaky, an ax chopped tree. Stepped over rubble, rubble, pillar, pillar, rubble rubble pillar pillar rubble rubble pale corpse pillar pillar rubble rubble— until he was stumbling. Can’t step over a flat sidewalk. He was swaying, drunk on pain and shock like Willis on whiskey and rum.

He was avenged. It hurt like an open wound. (That might also just be his neck, he thinks, with a choked off laugh.) He– It was dead. Is dead. Dead. He wonders if years worth of vengeance always smells like smoke and metal. Should it really smell like iron, like the blood in your nostrils when someone gets in a good hit? Does it always smell like a broken nose fixed on the bathroom floor?  Why does it smell like the kind of sutures you do on your own back because no one watched it for you, why does it smell like a warehouse seven years and seven thousand miles away— Why? Good god. Maybe vengeance just hits an expiration date, like a jug of milk.

 (He thought it’d be sweet, baked things from an old friend, sugary and warm and kind and soft— But it wasn’t, was it. Vengeance… It was bitter iron in your mouth and stiff red and drumming feet on concrete and stumbling dizzily and warm dripping down your neck and a cold chest full of ice and all things numb.)

He was a mess of crimson and brown, red thickening and mixing with dust, splashing against concrete, the leather of his jacket scraping against back alley buildings, a red line following him on the ground and the walls. The sounds of sirens, heavy footsteps, scraping leather, and choked breathing all echoed against the back alley walls, closed windows. The Bat Signal was the only light in a red sky, a replacement for the moon and the stars, the Milky Way hidden by smog and smoke. Light rain sprinkled against his leather jacket and gathered like dew, mixing with the blood and dust on his shoulders. Each drop fell with every unsteady step, diluted red and splatters of mud behind him.

Sirens sped by as he pulled a key from the inside of his jacket, the handle jingling. He fell against the door, pushing it open as he stumbled a few steps and fell, lying face down on the ground for a moment, a puddle of red growing below him, door slamming behind him as it hit the wall and swung back, his hands desperate as he dragged himself, red trailing behind him, choking on blood and sobs, metal holsters grating on concrete, laughing, ticking time bomb in the corner, tell the big man I said hello, he laughed, grinning as he shifted his hat, Jason’s bones grinding against each other, breath in, out, one inch, in, out, another inch, coughing, one more inch, blurry in front of him, the world going dark at the edges, ringing, blood below him, heart beat in his ear, tick tick tick tick tick tick, rattling exhale—

Not now. World and his eyes back into focus, holsters on his hips. Crawling, hands not tied. Two feet to the door counter. Come on, come on, rattling inhale—

Pushing himself up, stumbling forward, leaning forward, falling as he walked, hand against the couch. Leather sliding against leather, feet drumming and dragging on concrete, only 1 foot— on his knees. Rattling exhale—

He could feel his face hit the floor, but he couldn’t feel any more pain. Thoughts slow. Eyes unfocused, drag drag drag drag, one numb hand in front of another, come on come on, rattling inhale—

Reaching the counter and grabbing the edge, pulling his back against the wood. Blinking, blinking, the cape isn’t there, it isn’t there— numb hand reach up to his neck, comes away red and wet and warm on cold leather. Twists right, pulls open the counter, head on the open door, eyes closing, rattling exhale—

And he just falls.

Chapter Text

Roy Harper knew he wasn’t a good man. Good men lived long, and Roy Harper was dying. Not from a gunshot, or a knife wound, or from some rare or even common disease— No, Roy Harper was slowly killing himself. He knew it. The needle marks on his arms measured the days and nights. He could shoot his bow just fine without being sober, even if his legs didn’t work much when he was drunk, but he patrolled just fine, really.

He knew that it wasn’t normal to come home just for white power, or to buy beer just to wash down the taste of ash, but he didn’t mind. Not much, anyways even if he occasionally gagged at the sight of a needle in his arm or at the taste of a joint or if whiskey usually made his throat burn till his eyes watered. 

He didn’t mind, but the people around him sure did. “Adopted Son of Famous Millionaire Ollie Queen Spirals”, “Adopted Queen Heir a Pincushion?”, or “Roy Harper; A Disappointment to the Queen Family?”. Roy was too drunk or too high in the clouds most days to read the papers, but he could remember Ollie kicking him out and he could see the pity when the Titan’s fired him, Dick’s perfect look of pity. 

He could hear the questions about rehab but he just let himself fall further and further every time. He was tired of hearing it— Roy was so tired. He wanted to rest, but he didn’t think that the way he was dying was the way he wanted to go— and he didn’t want to do it in Star. He didn’t want to think about Ollie being the one to find him, he didn’t want to think about Dinah being the one to find him, because even through the constant fog in his mind, he knew that would hurt them. The suicide calls were usually the ones that left everyone shaking.

He wanted to do it in Gotham, because at least then it’d be normal— death was worth less than pennies there. Everyone had seen a corpse or two, didn’t blink at blood on a doorway or a gunshot next door. Batman never cried or laughed, he was the type that didn’t care, hadn’t cared since his son died. Even Ollie had been a bit concerned for the bastard, and that’s something. He could empathize. He was tired. He imagined Brucie Boy was too.

But there isn’t any rest for the wicked.

Roy fell face first into the motel bed, leaving his duffle bag of clothes on the floor nearby. The nearly 6 hour flight left him exhausted, not to mention the migraine left over from a hangover. The bed’s springs creaked heavily with every breath, but Roy didn’t really mind, shifting into a more comfortable position. He looked around the motel room, taking in the low quality air with a deep sigh. The roof was covered in black mold, and he could see it making its way down the corners, and the walls glistened with dampness and smelled of mildew, the sheets and covers of the bed covered in stains and holding the smell of cheap detergent. A TV on a nightstand by the only window in the room was cracked, the actual nightstand covered in scratches and a few dents. The window had no curtains, but the window shades hung sideways, covered in dirt and roach husks. The carpet was a dark blue, covered in suspicious stains and nearly flat, with crumbs and tiny pieces of trash lying in the corners of the room.

Roy stayed lying down for a few hours, going in and out of sleep, eventually getting up for a drink. He took his wallet out of the duffel bag and made his way downstairs, locking the motel door and heading across the street. The neon lights were almost as bright and as noticeable as the smell of cigarettes and alcohol, the sound of music and the low murmuring of people speaking inside. Sitting at the counter, he ordered a few vodka shots, keeping his head down and savoring the burn in his throat. A woman sat next to him, ordering a gin and turning to talk to him,

“What’s a guy like you doing here?”

“A guy like me?”

“Someone young. Rich. The people here aren’t exactly your type.”

Roy turned to look at her. Her hair hung in loose curls, a patchy and brassy blonde against tan skin, her eyes an unnatural blue from cheap contacts. She wore a tight slitted dress and fishnet underneath, loosely holding a cigarette in her right hand and heels that gave her a few extra inches. She wasn’t very curvy, with a slim figure and defined hip bones poking through her cocktail dress.

”Ah. That’s why.”

“What?”

“When do you plan on doing it?”

“Doing what?”

“Killing yourself.”

“…”

“I remember when I had that look in my eyes. The feeling— or, really, the lack of feeling. The hollow person in the mirror.” She brought the cigarette to her mouth and took in the bitter air. She looked tired. “You’ve come to the right place. But did you come here for the right reasons?”

“Yea.”

“Be sure of that. Because once you try— there’s no going back. No regrets. Nothing. And maybe that’s what you want, or need, but if it’s not…”

“It is.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it is.“

Roy’s jaw ticked. 

“Speaking from personal experience?”

“No. General experience. You’re not the only one to go down that way. It’s why I know I can’t stop you.”

“Then why bother?”

She just smiled gently, took a sip from her drink, and smoked with the other hand. Ash fell onto her purple and scarlet dress, falling as she slowly stood, her empty glass sitting at the bar.

“No harm in trying.”

Roy stared at the bottom of his own glass as her heels tapped away.

By the time Roy crossed the street back to the motel, he was stumbling and swaying. He didn’t remember much except for the burn in his throat and the taste of vomit, heavy liquor, and smoke on his tongue. He fell against the motel door, reading a blurry 142, and scrapped his keys against the lock a few times before managing to turn it, stumbling in and slamming the door behind him with a grimace. He dragged a trashcan by the door to the corner of the bed, practically passing out on the mattress. 

Waking up slowly, Roy could feel his head pounding and he shifted against the uncomfortable feeling of his clothes sticking to his skin. He could hardly tell what he smelled like between all the options hitting his nose— vomit, alcohol, smoke, mildew, piss, all lingering there like the leftover tastes on his tongue, his breath as stale as the air. He ignored his pounding head as he left the bed, grabbing some Tylenol from his bag and dry swallowing a handful or so, ignoring the nausea spikes and pangs of hunger in his stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, but the nausea would definitely keep that streak going. He remembered something about not taking pills on an empty stomach, but he shoved it aside in favor of lighting a cigarette and sitting back down on the bed, looking down at the blackened soles of his feet. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d showered, either. He took out his phone, laying completely down and scrolling through Instagram, flicking cigarette ash down onto his chest.

Apparently, Dick and Kori had broken off their engagement. Shame. He’d thought they were happy together. He had a few flings with Kori and the fact that she’d picked Dick had hurt, even if he could understand why. He wasn’t perfect like Dick was. It’s why a certain part of him was happy at this news of her leaving him— he wanted Dick to crash and burn like he had, because if Dick fell apart like he did, it meant that maybe there wasn’t something intrinsically wrong with him. It meant that anyone could fall apart like he did. Has. He almost felt bad for wanting that— Dick, of all people, didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t too sure if anyone did. To be sure of that, though, meant to accept that he didn’t, and that was something he changed his mind on pretty much daily. He wasn’t sure of much anymore, really. There was some kind of reel after that one that mentioned Ollie and Donna separating, and he just closed the app after that. Sure said what a piece of shit he was, didn’t it? Could handle his (former) best friend being left at the altar, but not his adoptive ‘family’ (the one he wasn’t even part of anymore, not really.) splitting up. He laughed, the sound bitter like black coffee. Something was really wrong with him, huh? 

Roy pulled himself up, glancing at the sun dipping behind skyscrapers and smog, slipping his phone into his pocket and putting his cig out on the table next to him, ignoring the smell of burnt wood and the warm ash that fell into the covers. His mouth still tasted vile and he stumbled over to the bathroom with his bag, stripping down and turning on the shower while he brushed his teeth. His eyes were bloodshot, as per usual, and he couldn’t help but feel like the scars along his shoulders looked inflamed in the shitty lighting. He spat out a brown glob of toothpaste and got into the cold water, the shower head screaming at him every few moments. The water tasted like chlorine as he gargled it and spat it out.

The water beneath him ran brown, and red dripped from a peeled scab on his thigh he couldn’t remember getting. The wound was stitched, although it looked like it might’ve been stitched for a bit too long. He really couldn’t remember when he’d gotten it. The stitches were loose though, and coated in scabbing, so he took a razor he’d left on the toilet seat and cut into them, grimacing at the way they pulled at his skin and the scabs as he pulled them out. It bled a bit, and the water thinned out the red stream as it dribbled down his leg. His skin was covered in goosebumps and his fingers were wrinkled when he got out, pulling on only boxers and leaving his clothes on the floor, crashing down on the bed again. Ash stuck to his hair and wet arms, but he didn’t bother flicking it off, eyes stuck on the headboard. The scratches in the wood reminded him of the bar, the stools and the tables, and the woman he’d met there. Everything else was blurred, and he found himself failing to recall much of his drunken adventure, but for an unknown reason she was clear as glass in his mind.

"You’ve come to the right place. But did you come here for the right reasons?”

He’d said yes. He’d said yes, but— what was he doing this for? Because everything hurt? Hadn’t it always hurt? Why now? What was worse now? 

Because you’re alone.

Hadn’t he always been alone? Maybe not physically, but pretty much everything he’d ever done had been by himself.

Because you’re alone.

He doesn’t have anyone supporting him now. He hadn’t before though, had he?

You did. They left.

Or had he left?

"You’ve come to the right place. But did you come here for the right reasons?”

He wasn’t even sure of his reasons anymore. How could they be the right ones if he wasn’t even sure of them?

You’re sure of the hurt. The pangs. The problems. You cry yourself to sleep when you’re sober enough to think, and your face still tastes like salt when you wake up hungover. Pain is your reason. You’re tired. You don’t have anything or anyone to lose anymore. It’s time to go.

She had said she remembered when she looked like him. Past tense. What if he could go back? Could restart here? Take his life back?

Your pain won’t leave you. Only you can leave your pain. It won’t let you go back. 

It’s time to go.

He just closed his eyes and sunk his head into the pillow, holding it close. He ignored the tear marks on the pillow case, and ignored the way they dried, his eyelids shut tight.

Chapter Text

He opened his eyes, screwing them shut again when a full-body shiver ran through him, his body shaking on the ground. Jason tried pushing himself up, but his arm felt numb and he couldn’t seem to find where his legs were under him. The ground just felt wet, and his mind felt groggy, and there was a distant throbbing pain… somewhere.

He couldn’t tell where, just that it hurt, and something was sticking to him. There was a strong scent in the air, a familiar one, but he didn’t have enough of his mind to remember what it was. He tried getting up again, watching his right arm grasp the counter numbly, feeling something tear a bit as he flexed— his neck. His neck. Bruce. Blood— that’s what the scent was. His fingers were blue where they grasped the counter, and he realized that he couldn’t hear anything but ringing and flies buzzing around him. Something was wrong with his head— although that could just be bloodloss. 

There was something he needed from under the counter. It was… a kit? Red?

He opened the drawer with his left hand, the right one gripping the counter harshly, although the numbness and pale pallor of his skin made him unsure of his grip, muscles weak.

His hand wrapped around the handle, and he pulled it into his lap, adjusting till his back was against the… whatever it’s called, wall? Surface? He wasn’t sure. He put his hand against the bloody wound on his neck, and couldn’t help but notice the unnatural way it moved, like the skin was oozing over it. Something popped into his mind— someone had told him about a side effect of something. Some words about healing differently now. Something about fatal wounds, immortality for a few years. He’d been alive for more than a few, but they’d used the pit more than once. His neck wasn’t bleeding much anymore, and his mind was getting a little clearer. He knows that wounds like this often… clot? Clot. He thinks that’s the word. It didn’t hit the other thing that would’ve left it unable to clot like that. Bruce didn’t cut deep enough, apparent—

Bruce. Joker. Him.

He threw the Medkit across the room. It hit a wall and the dozens of needles and spools of thread and gauze went everywhere, little vials of antivenom and the like shattering and leaving hissing messes on the wall. He could care less.

Bruce. Joker. Him.

He tried to scream. Curse. Only a breathy hiss came out, and white was the only thing he could see for a moment. He’d forgotten about the giant gaping wound, somehow. He panted for a moment, and then dragged himself up using the counter, unsteady and still dizzy from bloodloss, swaying towards the bathroom. He fell into the door, holding himself by the handle, and looked into the dusty mirror. 

He looked psychotic, to say the least. His lips were tinted blue, and his normal tan was gone in the face of how pale-gray he was, and he could swear every little vein in his face looked visible, and his eyes looked crazed yet glazed over all at once, sickly green and glowing even through the unbroken lens of his domino. He looked… dead, with blood splattered everywhere it could be, some of it already a crusty crimson and some of it a red tinted black. His throat… it killed him, most likely. It was deep enough to. He could see the pale ligaments and pulsing, stretching muscle, tiny fat deposits yellowish and squelching with the tiniest movements, blood blooming and squirting with each squeeze that breathing and moving caused. 

He watched the skin as it seemed to crawl it’s way up by grabbing at the muscle, the muscle that seemed to be stringing itself together, and he was morbidly curious as to what it would be like to poke at it. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the situation, really. He’d taken over the Gotham underground and killed the Joker… only to be (temporarily) murdered by his own father. There felt like there was some joke to be made here—killed by his own mother, first, killed by his adoptive father second. 

His laughter was closer to gasping, but he thinks it still counts— this was just… absurd. The whole thing. His life. He was the Red King of Gotham, the Demon of Crime Alley, and somehow he was also the murdered son of Bruce Wayne and Batman’s first kill. And then he was still here because of some fucking Magic Mountain Dew Water that some eco-terrorist assassins tossed him into after he was murdered (and tortured, for like, half a year) by a serial killer clown (who his own biological mother sold him out to), followed by crawling out of a literal grave and getting hit by a car. Fucking absurd. What the hell was his life? 

He stumbled his way out of the bathroom, not brave enough to keep eye contact with the numb man in the mirror, and made his way to the couch, falling onto his back against the cushions and digging his palms into his closed eyes. He needed to patrol sometime soon. He wasn’t even sure what time it was—- or what day. Week. He could’ve been ‘dead’ (?) for a full week for all he knew. He picked himself up and pulled a burner out of his back pocket, remembering it was still there. 13:23 of April 29th. An hour after noon, and it was the anniversary today— except that was two days ago. Flies still buzzed in the other room. 

He’d been dead for about two days. 

He didn’t know when he’d gotten here, so it could’ve been only a day, except… it didn’t matter. He’d died. Again. He’d died plenty while training with the league, but that had been expected. They could fix that. Bruce had killed him in cold blood without any plan to bring him back. Bruce had killed him. Bruce had killed him. He dropped the phone, the screen darkened after he’d zoned out, and pressed his palms into his eyes again, pushing down till he saw colors and shapes in the darkness, palms wet and dripping with salt, rolling down to his elbows. His dad had killed him. Even Willis— trashy, loud-ass Willis— wouldn’t have done that. Right?

He needed to patrol, he needed to recover, he needed his dad, but he couldn’t do any of it—- he was stuck on the couch, his living room, stuck in the thought that Bruce had killed him—

Deep breaths. 

Talia would tell him to take deep breaths and call him Habibi. 

Tell him she’s sorry, she didn’t want him to go through this— any of it. He’d let her hold him, like Cathrine would. Deep breaths, Habibi. She’d pull him and the demon-kid close, till they could hear her heartbeat and every breath, and promise that she was sorry, but it was all necessary to make them their best. That she knew it hurt. Deep breaths, Habibi. She’d tell him to wait till the pit fixed his throat, and start planning from there. She’d taught him to take his time, look for opportunities. He— he could do that. He dropped his hands to his side, laid back down, and left his eyes closed; he needed to sleep it off, most likely.

He could do that.

(Deep breaths, Habibi.)

(His throat burned with each)

Ash and ember lie at his feet. Charred limbs and glazed, dead, desperate eyes searching the heavens all crunched under each step, gray infecting the air as thick boots strolled methodically. No pauses. No stepping over the embers. He held a gun in his right hand and a blood red helmet in the other, eyes white and piercing. His cheeks were gaunt, and armor covered his neck, although blood seemed to leak through the cracks.

His eyes weren’t covered, and there was little to them but toxic green. A wall of fire stood before him, hell brought down to Earth, and he looked through the flames at nothing. He looked like a demon amongst hellfire. ‘The Demon of Crime Alley’ had never felt so descriptive till the survivors saw him standing in the smoke and flame, till the city surrounding his wall of fire smelled of burning flesh, till the beacons amongst the hills, the shining Elites, couldn’t themselves see the stars or the sunrise, but only a blood red sun pushing through smoke.

The Demon of Crime Alley. Lucifer’s angels fell when they rebelled against God, didn't they?

(And Lucifer was an angel, once—

God’s favorite angel.)

Chapter Text

Jason’s neck burned with the strain he’d gone through tonight, but he couldn’t let his territory be torn away from him by Black Mask. He’d spent a few weeks recovering, and he was further along than he would be without the pit, but he hadn’t fully pieced himself together quite yet— physically or mentally. Although, the physical aspect had been easier to ignore than any mental one. He’d spent most of tonight burning one of Mask’s meeting sites into the ground, but he’d spaced out for most of it; all he knew was that he'd left an impact. It hadn’t even been three hours, and most of Gotham knew the ‘who’ and the ‘why’. As a bonus, he’d become a Gotham Cryptid, the ‘Alley Demon’ and ‘Malvado Rojo’ and a dozen others.

He certainly looked like a demon at the moment, hands stained red and covered in ash, eyes glowing through his hood lenses (they hadn’t stopped glowing since he’d killed the Joker and Bruce had—). He dropped down near a light post, seeing a few working girls. They all turned towards him, unsurprised, but a few seemed unsure at the sight of him— he wasn’t exactly a pretty sight at the moment. Only Cinnamon seemed unconcerned, stepping forward, smiling and going in for a quick hug; she was the most experienced in the business but she was also the youngest of the group. Cinnamon worked as a sort of matron for the other girls, scaring off pimps and finding apartments to set up brothels. She’d nearly shot him with a 12 gauge the first time they’d met.

”Been a little while, Red. What’ve you been up to?” She didn’t have the faux Gothamite accent she occasionally put on, her voice tired and a bit raspy, patchy blonde hair tangled and her mascara a bit smeared. She stepped back and reached to hold his wrists gently.

”Not much. Just gettin’ rid of some of Mask’s people and a clown, taking a quick vacation.” 

“Figured that was you. I’m glad someone finally got rid of that piece of shit.”

”Yea.”

”Heard some rumors that the Bat tried to stop you, though. I’m thinking they might be true with how long you were gone, but I wanted to check with you before believing it.” Jason shifted a bit, changing his stance and even Cinnamon could see the tenseness in his shoulders. He turned his head away from her, and she finally noticed the bit of crusted blood around his neck. She let go of his wrists, and he crossed his arms.

”Yea. He did.”

”Damn. Kinda was hoping he’d be on board.” 

He chuckled a bit, his throat bitter with copper.

“Yea. Me too.”

She seemed to catch the hint, crossing her arms as well, turning to face the same way he did, the two watching a drunkard limp across the street.

”That reminds me, Red. Could you look out for someone? I met him in a bar a night or two ago, and you could just tell that he wasn’t… stable. In a personal kinda way. Talked to him for a few seconds, and I figure he’s gonna try something soon. He was this redheaded guy, has a  green dragon tattoo on his shoulder. Bit younger. I think he’s staying in that motel across the street from Mike’s bar.”

”Sure, I’ll look into him.”

”Thanks Red, you’re a real saint.”

”Only for you girls— Speaking of your girls, any of the pimps been givin’ you problems lately?”

”Only one or two, but they usually back off when I mention you. Nobody’s forgetting the duffle any time soon, Hood, even with your little two week hiatus. They’re still scared a bit shitless of you. It works out great for us ladies.” She turned back towards him, grinning lopsidedly at him, and smacking him playfully on his left shoulder. He flinched a bit. She didn’t look surprised.

”What about the street kids?”

”They’re doing good. We’ve been watching out for them, and a few of the older ones we were housing found some folks to stay with. We make sure to check in on them, and they’ve been good. There’s some new kids on the street though. Mask keeps trying to get them to be runners, but we’ve kept most of them away from him.”

”Most?”

”His people managed to convince about 10 of them about a week or so ago. We got a few to quit and hide out with us, but there’s still about 6 of them working for him.”

”So I’ve got some cleaning to do.”

”Closer to just finishing the job you started.” He chuckled a bit at that, dropping his hands down to his sides and facing her again.

”Thanks for the tips, Cinnamon,” He pulled a small flip phone from one of his pants’ pockets, “I know it’s a bit old school, but call if you or your girls need some help.”

She just grinned, taking the phone and going in for another hug, ignoring how stiff he was and the way his hands awkwardly sat on his sides. 

“Thanks Hood. Now get out of here before you scare off my customers.” She finally let go, shooing him with her hands. 

He gave a little salute back and grappled up to the rooftop, hitting the concrete running, vaulting over the gaps and watching the sidewalks below. He couldn’t help but miss this— the flash of lights as he passed, neon blurs in his peripheral, the drop of his stomach during leaps between rooftops— he’d missed all of this. Adrenaline fueled him, and he well and truly was addicted. This craving to sprint and vault and grapple between Gotham rooftops— it wasn't something that he could get rid of, try as he might. The only thing he missed, now, was the way the wind blew through his hair. The freedom of it--- the downsides of a helmet, unfortunately. 

As Robin, he’d breathe in the cold, night air, and feel more connected to Gotham than he’d ever been— Something about the smog made him crave the cold city air like a desert-stranded man craves water. Even if he hadn’t had… business in Gotham, he would’ve come back. No matter how much he hated his city, it’d always be his. Not even death could change how it filled his bones and ran through his blood. He'd remembered, as Robin, hearing Bruce call Gotham theirs-- but the truth was that he, and Bruce, belonged to Gotham. To him, this city was more than a cradle; Gotham was the food you ate and the water you drank, and the air you breathed, it was a piece of you. To be a Gothamite was to be of Gotham-- There was no leaving Gotham behind, try as you might.

He rolled to a stop on a random rooftop, walking to the edge and taking a seat. Sitting there, he considered taking off the helmet despite the cold— it might be Spring, but the city was usually cold come night time. The city made up for the night through the bright lights– tacky neon signs and neighborhood streetlights came together during the night to replace the stars, each dotting another piece of the city. While he’d been away, he’d look up at the stars, and as beautiful as they were, he couldn’t help but be in awe at the sheer number of lights covering Gotham. He’d missed this.

As he reached up to take off the helmet, a craving for the night air beating his craving to leave his ears unfrozen, he felt a pair of eyes on him and saw a flash of blue a few buildings back— Nightwing was the last thing he needed tonight. Standing up quickly, he pulled out his grapple, aiming for a nearby building, and threw himself through the air, landing harshly and rolling into a sprint, moving quickly across the rooftops, jumping between buildings, grappling, changing streetsides, going for a few miles before he couldn’t see blue and his instinct wasn’t on edge— he was sure that Dick would use cameras to find where he’d gone, but he likely could make a route through the less monitored parts of the city and disappear for a bit. He slowed down, going at a more reasonable pace, still vaulting between rooftops, on the lookout---

A scream rang out, and he dove into the gap below, cursing at his luck tonight, hitting the ground and rolling into a fighting stance, kris in a forward grip, slashing it against a man’s arm, a kid pinned against the wall in front of him. The man held his arm against his chest, blood soaking his shirt, yelping when Jason turned and slammed him face-first against the wall, holding the knife edge on the curve of his neck, twisting and pressing his good arm against his back,

“You one’ve Maskies’ people?”

“He’ll kill your ass, you know that??”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Jason pressed the knife down and to the side, feeling it slide and grind against the vertebrate, the man’s body dropping once he stepped away from the wall. Blood pooled at his feet, and he wiped the knife on his thigh, sheathing it after. He turned towards the kid, whose hands were shaking as he pulled up his pants and tightened a threaded canvas belt. Purple, hand-shaped bruises stood out against pale skin, and one giant bruise forced the kid’s eye shut. Jason kneeled down, using his own body to block the sight of the man, hands gripping his knees, and looked up at the kid.

“This the first time?”

The kid shook their head no. His hands tightened around his knees.

“He promise you money?”

The kid shook their head no. His jaw ticked under the hood.

“You have somewhere to go?”

The kid shook their head no. He tilted his head to the side.

“You want somewhere to go?”

The kid slowly shook their head yes. He stood up slowly, holding out his hand.

“You don’t have to do anything for it, just walk there with me. If it hurts too much I can carry you.”

The kid grabbed his hand, unsure, walking with him, although they limped a bit. The two walked a few blocks before the kid stopped, tears in their eyes.

“I can carry you, kiddo-- you're allowed to say no if you don't want me to. Whatever you're ok with, bud.”

The kid nodded, eyes screwed shut. Jason gently lifted them onto his hip, holding the kids’ head against his shoulder, walking with them in his arms. He walked a few more blocks before knocking on one of the nearby doors, one of the working girls opening the door and letting him in, leading him to one of the open rooms they had. Cinnamon and him had set this up a few months ago, before he’d… gone on break. He put them down onto one of the beds, nodding to the working girl and receiving a nod back, before walking out onto the street again, grappling up towards a roof. He felt the shadow more before he saw it, putting his hands on his holsters and forcing himself to look relaxed. 

“Nightwing? Wasn’t expecting company to drop by tonight. Could’ve just called, don’t be such a Dick. Unless you're looking for your Old Man? Do let him know I said hi, if you find him.” He turned towards him, tapping his holster with his middle finger. Dick took a step back, tensing in response. He reveled in the way Dick looked at him calculatingly, clearly trying to figure out if it was only an insult or if he knew.

“...Not tonight, Hood. Looking around the neighborhood, looking for you and some good real estate— Love what you’ve done with the place. Real… gangster-y. Not my style, but I’ve been told I have some questionable taste. Got a quick question though, maybe a bit unrelated. Not exactly as fun as decor… at least for me, not sure about you-- You hiring kids to sell drugs now? Robin's been looking for a job--” Jason could easily tell Dick was just trying to piss him off, but he’d always been a sucker for bait. He dashed forward and threw a quick right jab over the asshole’s shoulder, throwing up his knee when Dick ducked and slipped to the left, catching his forearms, hearing a grunt, and taking the opportunity to bounce back out of range, relaxing once again and putting his hands back on his holsters. Dick stepped back, pulling out his escrima sticks and charging the ends, bent over defensively. 

”You’re pretty fast for being built like a walking brick.”

”You’re pretty slow compared to your fucking mouth. Ladies ever tell you that you talk too much?”

Dick had the audacity to snort. 

Both of them shifted, caught off guard. 

Jason tapped his holster rhythmically, leaning back casually, preparing himself for a backwards roll against the pavement. Dick tightened his grip around the escrima, before dropping them to his sides and standing upright.

”Look, Hood, I don’t wanna start a fight tonight. We’re both tired— you’re crispy, and I’m bruising. I don’t blame you for how you dealt with that guy down there.”

“You’re stalling. Why’re you actually here?” Jason put his palm around the gun grip, his leather gloves creaking.

Dick sighed, sheathing his escrima and running a hand through his hair.

”I am. Why’d you burn down Mask’s place?”

Jason stood up a bit straighter and cocked his head like a bird. His hand loosened slightly around the gun.

“You’re asking me why?”

”Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’m currently coated in blood?”

”So? It’s mostly rapist blood.”

“…You really don’t have a problem with that?”

“I said I don’t blame you, didn’t I? You put down the threat, took the kid to a safe place. Not too hard to understand.”

”Huh.”

”Yea.”

The both let their hands down a bit, grazing their weapons rather than holding them in a death grip, postures relaxing slightly. 

”So. Why?”

”I wanted to piss off Mask?”

”Please. I get enough of that from Robin. Try again.” Dick pinched his nose, letting both of his hands stray away from his escrima. Jason crossed his arms, scoffing, shifting his weight onto one leg, while Dick resisted the urge to laugh.

”Heroin. I tracked it from a few dealers handing it out to kids. Mask’s dealers.” 

“So you hit one of his warehouses?”

“Yea. Hard. Gotham needs to know that I’m back and I’m still not putting up with bullshit even after— in general.”

”After?”

”Don’t worry about it, Dick-wing.” Jason could feel himself nearly snarling with the words, his hands dropping and tightening. His chest felt numb and his throat burned. Dick tilted his head, calculating.

”Alright.”

”Alright?”

”Yea. You don’t seem all that bad. Just a little pissy.”

Jason snorted— The two seemed less caught off guard this time. 

Dick continued,

”I’ll get out of your hair— hood? I’ll get off your hood. See you around the block, I guess.”

”Hope I don’t.”

Dick just laughed as he grappled away.

Jason watched as he disappeared over the horizon, flipping through the air, like the acrobat he was. A part of his chest ached, the talk a reminder, a pit of loss. He… wasn’t surprised that Bruce hadn’t told him who he was. He wondered if Alfred knew.

Chapter Text

He was swinging and he could feel the metal hooks shifting in his hands and laughter grating through his ears— he was somewhere. His knees hurt. Something was digging into his back. He felt like he was drowning and burning up all at once, hard to breath and it sounded like he was underwater but his skin wanted to peel off like the burnt part of a marshmallow and there were flames all around him but a voice called out through the laughter and screaming and the flames—

“Jason.”

He turned his head. He couldn’t open one of his eyes. It smelled like smoke and rotting flesh. A shadow stood in the flames.

“B?”

The shadow shifted closer to him. It held his chin and picked up his head, softly caressing his throat before it started laughing and suddenly he was choking on blood and ash and he couldn’t breathe again there was a gunshot and he could hear Sheila fall and he heard her scream and the laughing was louder and louder and louder and hands were gripped around his throat—

“Jason.”

He tried to blink the tears from his eyes and breath, looking up at the shadow’s eyes. They were Bruce’s. He didn’t look angry, even as he gripped his hands around Jason’s throat. He started smiling, lips cracking and swelling, his cheeks ripping as it got wider and wider and Jason tried to sob, but he still couldn’t fucking breathe enough to, and then he was falling, his neck wet and sticky but everything was black and too small and it smelled like soil and tasted like chemicals, and there was a wire in his jaw,

“Jason.”

This time it came from underneath him, muffled, but this time he was smart and he started clawing at the velvet and the wood, hands bleeding and he could feel the bugs crawling around inside of his mouth and under his skin and he was still bleeding from his throat but he could feel soil now, and he tried to scream as he crawled up, dirt slipping between the stitches that kept his mouth shut, finally smelling fresh air, half buried in soil, something falling out of his eyes as he opened them and tried pulling himself out before he heard laughing again and the ground sucked him under, Bruce watching and smiling like the madman, and he finally fell into the earth, hitting something hard, something wrapping around him, and he tried to escape tried to scream, except this time he wasn’t muffled and there wasn’t laughing— there wasn’t laughing. 

Jason opened his eyes, panting and blinking the tears out of them. His ceiling was above him. His throat burned, and his back ached from hitting the floor, his blanket wrapped around him but not cushioning the fall. His throat burned, and he curled himself into a ball, sobbing into his knees.

He stayed there for an hour or so, eventually getting up, voice raspy and throat still burning, and made his way into the kitchen. His chest felt numb again. He pulled out a tea kettle as part of his morning routine, starting the process of making some tea and warming up some of the food prep he had in the freezer. The oven clock said it was 11:23, and the sun shined bright through the city smog. About six hours since patrol last night. He couldn’t help but feel satisfied, having gotten more sleep than normal. He pulled the food prep out of the microwave, eating it little bit by bit, reading through his checklist for the morning. 

Buy chicken breasts

Help Mrs. Cabrera with freezer

Leak Gotham DA files

Sort hard drives

Milk 

Start meds

Laundering Business 

Make business ID 

Stop by library, return copies.

Finishing his breakfast and grabbing his keys in one hand, tool box in the other, he closed the apartment door behind him. He walked down a flight of stairs, turning towards one of the more rundown doors and knocking twice. A graying woman opened the door, bouncing a baby on her hip, brows creased, but smiling politely,

”Oh, thank god, you’re a saint. Come in, come in, I have some snacks on the table, help yourself,” she pushed the door back, letting him in and closing it behind him, walking towards the kitchen, “I can’t for the life of me figure out what’s wrong with it… I already had to cook some of the ground beef I was saving for that one’s,” she motioned towards a small girl sitting at the table, “birthday, and some frozen veggies I was saving for when Freeze pulls his yearly outage stunt. You think you can get it fixed? I dunno if I have enough to have some electrician come in this month, you know how the landlord on this side of the building is.” Jason did know— he’d threatened the weasel to sell the place. The guy had only sold about ¾ of the building, and Mrs. Caldera had gotten the short end of the stick. The guy had gotten the hell out of Gotham before Jason could bargain for the rest, and he hadn’t had the time to make a visit. 

‘Yea, I got it, don’t sweat it.” Jason said it over his shoulder as he unscrewed the freezer from the wall and pulled it out towards the middle of the room, checking the wiring and paneling in the back, fiddling with it a bit, feeling eyes on his right side. He tried to ignore her, skin prickling from the attention. He’d worn a tank top today and his scars were hard to miss-- although, they were easier to hide than those ones on his face. “Mrs, you see rats or anything in here a lot? Missing food?”

”Once in a while, why? You see some back there?”

”Only their nest, luckily. They figured your freezer was a good spot to hide behind, so there’s a little bit of wear on these cords— not quite enough to break it, though. I have some traps upstairs if you want them?”

”It’s alright, I bought some a little while ago. One of the kids was complaining about tapping in the walls.”

”Gotcha. Lemme know if you need more.” His skin prickled a little less now, her attention less intense. He relaxed a little. Putting the panel back, he wiped his hands on a rag in his tool box, dust coming off in droves. “Your condenser coils were covered in dust. Pretty common, easy fix, just clean them off every once in a while. Nothing too major, just glad I didn’t have to mess with the electrical stuff in there. Always a pain in the a— butt.” He turned towards her, and she shook her head with a small smile on her face. Her blonde hair bounced with the movement. She reminded him of Cathrine. A healthier one, from before Willis went to prison for the first time. He turned back to the freezer, pushing and screwing it back in. He picked up his toolbox and waved to her, about to walk out, before she grabbed his arm. He flinched back, startled, turning quickly to her. She seemed surprised, letting go quickly, although she gathered herself quickly. 

“You should stay for lunch. You look tired.” 

He looked at the clock. 12:08. He looked back at her, giving his imitation of a signature Grayson smile, 

“It’s alright. I had plans to go have lunch with a pretty lady. You enjoy your fixed freezer.” She looked worried, in a motherly way. He hadn’t seen that in a long time. He squirmed under her gaze. 

“Alright. Just know you can come have lunch anytime, kiddo.” She smiled, softly, brows still scrunched a little bit. He could almost hear the mother henning being muffled in her brain.

”Course. Thanks for the offer though, I’ll have to take it some other time.” Lies. Just having his back to her made his skin crawl and his mind go through every exit in the house a dozen times— sitting for lunch would be a nightmare. 

“Alright.”

”Seeya then, Mrs. Cabrera. Text if you need anything else fixed.”

”I will. Good luck with that ‘pretty lady’.”

He turned to walk out and laughed as he made his way up to the welcome mat, grinning at her as he closed the door behind him.

He made his way down the street, groceries in one hand, checklist in the other.

Buy chicken breasts

Help Mrs. Cabrera with freezer

Leak Gotham DA files

Sort hard drives

Milk 

Start meds

Laundering Business 

Frame business ID 

Stop by library, return copies.

Bright red caught his attention from the corner of his eye— ‘Estate for Sale.’

Perfect. He turned towards the sign, a double-story building standing in front of him. It’d seen better days, with cracked windows and the walls crumbling, but it looked stable enough. He put the list into his pocket, scaling the wall and pulling himself up onto a balcony, pushing gently through the door and grimacing at the grinding and creaking of the rusty hinges. He’d be changing those. The interior wasn’t much better; crumbling drywall, rotting boards, cobwebs, literal bird nests, all sat throughout the sunroom. He wandered, door to door, finding similar patterns throughout the place. Despite the damages, he liked the architecture. It wasn’t the dark, brutalist style common through the rest of the city, instead housing lots of rounded windows, open doorways, and crumbling wooden pillars. He could see the place being turned into a library, books stacked along the walls and cafe tables sprinkled around, countertops covered in pastries and the smell of coffee wafting through. He’d seen similar places during the League tour Talia had sent him on for training, and a book cafe in Gotham felt like something the city could use. 

From a technical standpoint, it’d be easy to do. With Gotham’s laws for business lacking and corrupt officials, laundering wouldn’t be an issue, and neither would the regulations. It’d be a good place to spend his own time, as a bonus. He hadn’t risked visiting Gotham libraries much lately, with the risk that he’d run into Barbara, and having his own large collection would be… a dream, really. The place was towards the edge of the East End and the Northern part of the Coventry, only a few blocks from Gotham U and the Central Highschool, where the majority of customers would be coming in from. The only issue would be renovations, but he still had a decent few hundred thousand left in the account Talia had given him, separate from his more… illegal funds. He pulled out his phone from his pocket, looking up the building and taking a few minutes to find the blueprints, planning on sketching where he’d remodel and put up new counters, book racks and the like. Slipping his list back out of his pocket and crossing out ‘Laundering Business’, he dialed the number on the realtor sign plastered on the occasional window with his other hand, going through the numbered options till he was on the right line,

”Hi, this is Lindsey Daryls with Future Gotham Realtors, how may I help you?”

”My name is James J. Johnson, and I was calling to ask about the property for sale in the Gotham East End?“

”The 147239 address?”

”Yes.”

“Ah, thank you for calling, that property is readily available! I’m available to set up a tour sometime around 5:30 tomorrow, if that works?”

”That’d be perfect. Will I need to bring any paperwork?”

She rambled on for a minute, and he hummed where he thought he needed to, focused on a baby bird nested in a roof crossbeam, tweeting down at him. 

“Is that all, Mr. Johnson?”

“Yea. Thank you, Ms. Daryls, you’re a saint.”

”Just call me Lindsey, darling. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

”I’ll be looking forward to both you and the property, Lindsey.”

Another bird flew in through the window, landing gently in the nest.

Chapter Text

Jason flew across the rooftops, pistol out, eyes tracking a white van gunning down the street, tires squealing, some dumbass hanging out the back window, blood trailing down the side, falling onto the curb with a sharp turn. He leaped over the edge of a rooftop, landing atop the van, bowie knife stuck in the roof, flipping into the front window, shattering glass, rolling to the ditch as the van swerved, smashing a pole. He dusted himself off, holstered his gun, strolled up to the van and grabbed the driver as he tried to crawl out the front window, glass crunching beneath his boots, and threw him into a wall.

”How’s Maskie these days? Good business? Good pay for you fellas?”

”Fuck you.”

“Not ‘til after dinner, shitface,” Jason grabbed the man by his shirt collar, pulling him up into his face and pressing him against the wall, “Of course, that’s assuming I let you live ‘til dinner. Which, if you were to, say, tell me where you all got the crack in the back of the van from, I might consider.”

”Kiss my ass, asshole.”

”Ah ah, didn’t your mom teach you manners?” Jason dropped him onto the ground, head tilting when he groaned, “Let’s play a little game here, shitface. I ask you a question. You answer. Fun, right?”

”An’ I don’ answer your fuckin’ question?” 

Jason curb stomped his fingers, grinding his heel after he felt a snap, twitching at the screams. He waited till it died down to panting.

”I crunch your phalanges like tortilla chips at a football game. Ready to play?”

The man nodded hard, teeth grinding, eyes screwed shut, tears rolling. 

“What’s your name, shitface?”

“Agh. C— Carlos.”

”Carl. Simple. Easy. Just like this next question— Where’d they plan on selling this shit?”

”I— I dunno. Jus’ move shit. Don’ sell.”

Red Hood kneeled down, grabbing Carl’s hand and pulling his thumb back till he heard a pop, followed by a scream.

”Tsk, tsk, Carl. Buddy. Thought we were doing so much better. You wanna tell me or have me actually snap this shit?”

“Y— you didn’ snap it??”

”Just dislocated it, Carl. You ready to tell me where you planned on selling that shit?”

”Hear somethin’… somethin’ ‘bout kids. Take to Dixon. College kids, I think.”

”Good job, Carl. Next question; Where’d you all get the snow from? And I’m not just talking warehouses— I’m talkin’ which gangs are selling you dumbasses product, Carl.”

”Otisberg. Gotta’— there’s a warehouse, down there. Behind tha’ club. ‘Lotta snow, ice, kids, whole nine yards. Mask gotta’ gang we works with. Russian guys.”

“Interesting. Final question, Carl; You got anyone expecting you over in Otisburg? By Dixon?”

”Nah. We unload everythin’ ourselves.”

”At home?”

”I— Uh. Nah?”

“Good.” Jason pulled out his gun, and shot Carl between the eyes.

Roy sat at the roof’s edge, a bottle of Vodka in one hand and a blunt in the other. He exhaled smoke and took a swig from the glass, eyes on the smog above him. He could feel the stubble along his chin rub against the edges of the bottle. The world seemed a little tilted, and he could feel the effects of the alcohol on the back of his mind. He heard a few light footsteps behind him and let the bottle drop, head turning towards them. He figured it’d be a kid with how light the footsteps were, nearly dropping the vodka at the sight of a jacked vigilante dressed in leather and Kevlar. Color him surprised that there’s another nut job in Gotham. Even less surprising, this one’s covered in blood and brain matter. Fun times.

Live, Laugh, Fuck Gotham.

He kept his eyes on the guy even as he came and sat down next to Roy, the bloody helmet glimmering with the streetlights. He tilted his head when the guy took off the helmet and put it on his right side, opposite to Roy, looking up at the skyscrapers, and a domino covering his eyes. Roy couldn't help but stare-- he had a sharp jawline and soft, somewhat gaunt cheekbones; scars littered his face, like little stars, and he traced his eyes along the guys' crooked nose, the scar spanning across his bottom and top lip. He turned to Roy, revealing a new patchwork of scars and a jagged burn in the shape of a J along his cheek and temple--

”Mind if I get a sip of that? Can’t be healthy to have it all to yourself.”

His voice was raspy, like he’d been screaming, and with the blood on his hands, Roy wouldn’t be surprised. He wordlessly handed the bottle over, taking a drag from his blunt and glancing down again. The edge seemed to tempt him. The guy tapped him with the bottle, a little bit of blood staining where he’d grabbed it, and Roy took it back greedily, glancing down at the side of the bottle. The ass had definitely taken more than a sip. 

“Rough night?” His voice wasn’t as raspy or as deep as the Arkham-wannabe next to him, but Roy still sounded like shit.

”Could say that. What about you?”

“Rough life, really.” The douche laughed at that a bit, although it was closer to a quiet chuckle. It was even more raspy than his voice, like he didn’t have all that much practice doing it.

“Guess we’ve got that in common, huh?”

 The guy started talking again,

 “You thinkin’ about jumpin’?” Roy hadn’t even noticed that he was back to looking down at the pavement. It seemed pretty high up— he sure wanted to.

”Kinda, yea.” He hated the way his voice seemed to crack. He’d been wanting this for years, it didn’t make sense for him to be upset about it. Most likely was just the vodka and the weed kicking in.

”Wanna talk about it?”

Roy looked over at him. The guy looked back. Roy honestly couldn’t get the image of Dick’s kid brother out of his head when he looked at him— they had the same kinda face. Same expression of tough-but-actually-concerned (They both raised their right eyebrow, and the left side of their lips creased down into a smile, and the left eyebrow dropped down. They’d gotten surprisingly close, before he disappeared and got murdered by a fucking clown.) He thinks it’s the only reason he decided to say anything back instead of letting himself fall over the edge.

”Sure, I guess. Dunno where to start though.”

“Your name, probably.”

”Surprised you don’t already know it, knowin’ you Gotham types.”

“Oh, I do. Just wanted to hear it from you.”

”Oh. Well. I’m Roy. I, uh, used to be Oliver Queen’s kid. He kicked me out, ‘bout two years ago.”

“Sounds like that sucked.”

“I guess it did. I didn’t notice much— I haven’t really been home or anything since I started this whole shtick with the alcohol and drugs and shit. I just… Can’t handle everythin’, you know? You probably don’t, you look like a pretty stand up guy. Well. Put together, more of. The blood makes you look a little crazy.” The guy had the audacity to snort, but he seemed to be listening. Roy looked out at the skyscrapers. He thought they looked brighter from here, where the only lights were flickering neon and dimming street lamps. They replaced stars in Gotham, hanging where they might lie, a shitty copy. He hadn’t seen actual stars in years. “Everythin’ went to shit a few years ago, really. Too much all at once. Oliver and Dinah just... left-- for a long time. Without me. Me and Donna didn't work out.

“Then there was Dick’s kid brother.” The guy shifted in the corner of his eye, and he looked tense. He figured it was just because he started leaning towards the edge with the words. “He was this nice kid. Small. Smart. Best of us, really. He went from havin’ nothin’ to being the son of one of the richest guys on the planet. Always had a soft spot for him, and we weren’t that far apart in age, maybe 2 years. It can seem like a lot when you’re a teen, though. 

“He got murdered. I didn’t even know till Dickie finally got a voicemail from his dad once we got back into a service zone and started screaming bloody murder. Found out the kid had been kidnapped and murdered. Over the phone. Ended up making a few fake IDs and took him on a trip to the bar-- He shut down, the team disbanded without a leader, and blamed me for giving him a drinking problem, hated me for it. From that point-- I didn't have much left.

"I couldn't think of a reason why I shouldn't. Couldn't come up with a reason not to. Ended up hidding it for 5 years, and I... couldn't anymore. I just… Fuck, I’m tired. And I can’t sleep it off. The memories just can’t… won’t leave.”

He looked back at the guy, and they made eye contact, staring for a moment before he forced himself to look away, looking back at the street lamps. 

"Gotham is beautiful in such an ugly way. I think I understand why you people like it so much."

He looked at the skyscrapers as he leaned over the edge, closing his eyes as he felt the momentum in his stomach, hearing cursing above him and suddenly feeling himself stop, a hand wrapped around his ankle, ”Let me go, you piece of shit! You can’t— Let me go-- No no no, Fuck--”

He felt himself get pulled back up onto the roof, the guy throwing him towards the middle, landing on his ass, and he gritted his teeth at his hero, who stood next to the edge, arms crossed; 

“First, let’s not throw ourselves off of roof edges unless we have a grapple in our hands, Harper. Second, maybe don’t do it in front of a random vigilante?”

Roy just rolled his eyes, wishing he hadn’t dropped his blunt when he’d thrown himself off the roof. He kept going--

”And third, have you even considered going a shrink? Cus, man, you’ve got some major issues but you could absolutely get that shit sorted out. Maybe try solving the problem before hopping off buildings willy-nilly?”

“You’re really one to be talking, fighting crime in your damn motorcycle fetish outfit. You get it from a Strip-Club?”

”Seeing as how I’m not swan-diving off buildings with a plan to go ‘splat’ after, I think you need that shrink a fuck ton more. You need to put your pride aside, Ass-enal, and think about this outside of your own damn feelings, and ask for some damn help before it kills you— As much as Ollie’s been an ass, I’m sure Dinah would lend a hand. There are, in fact, people who care about you Roy. You’re not alone.”

Roy stiffened at the name, and ground his teeth at the mention of Dinah, focused resolutely on the guy’s face. He wanted to deck this douche so bad but he wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up with a boot to his teeth— there wasn’t a chance his drunk-ass could win a fight right now. He’d be damned if that stopped him from opening his big-ass-mouth;

”No no no, you don’t get to make assumptions about me, not someone like you. You have no goddamn idea what —  Go fuck off to someone else, maybe go find Batman and play cat an’ mouse— I’m sure he’d take you as a Joker substitute, with the Red Hood getup an’ everything—”

That comment seemed to actually piss the guy off, who started snarling, stepping into Roy’s personal space even as he crawled back on his palms, eyes a little wild, “Don’t fucking go there. I don’t give a flying fuck who you are, I’ll take that comment and shove it straight up your ass if I need to. He and I are not the same in any way, shape or form— I killed the fucker for a reason.”

“…What?”

”And despite your jackassery, do you really think Jason would want you to kill yourself, Roy? Fuck no, he wouldn’t, and neither would Dick. And that shit about the Titans hating you? Bullshit, those fuckwads can’t even hate Slade and he’s a goddamned pedo, much less their teammate who is a suicidal drug addict. Those morons save people like you all the damn time, Roy, so how the hell are they gonna hate you?”

“How the hell do you know who Jason is— was,” Roy pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly, “and two, how the hell do you know who the Titans are?” Roy drew himself up into the guy’s face, surprised when the guy took a step back, “Who the hell are you?”

”… just a ghost, Roy. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you listen— you’re not dead yet. Don’t rush it. All that shit that you said, everything you think is wrong, Roy. You have a chance at life. At living, redemption, all of it. Don’t be a moron and try to throw your life away, don’t throw it off a goddamn roof like you just tried to do. 

“You think any of the people you’re mourning would want you to do that? No? Then why the fuck are you trying to do it??” He emphasized each word with a poke to Roy’s chest. Roy couldn’t look at him, eyes stuck to the side, looking over at the streetlights and the neon. He hoped it was dark enough that the shining in his eyes and the salt on his cheeks wasn’t obvious— he was embarrassed enough. 

“Roy. Look at me. Please man. I’m asking nicely here.” Roy looked at him. His domino didn’t hide the threading between his brows or the tilted frown on his lips. 

“Don’t waste your life, live it while you still have it. Death isn’t as nice as it sounds. It’s not too late for you— really, it never was, and it never will be, so long as you’re alive.” Roy put his face in his palm, gritting his teeth, and trying to press the tears back into his eyes. He felt a hand pat his shoulder, and then it was gone. When he dropped his hand, he was alone on the roof. He looked at the vodka bottle on the edge of the roof, halfway empty, took a deep breath, and took the stairs back to the lower levels, leaving it there.

Chapter Text

“Cause of Death?” 

“Cranial Ballistics Wound, presumed to have. entered via the Temporal Lobe and exited through the Cerebellum, alongside the back of the head, the round lodged into a nearby wall— after taking most of his head with it, of course... It’s presumable the shot was taken from point blank range due to the size of the entry and exit wounds, alongside the force of the splatter behind the remains of the head. A .50 AE shell was found on the scene with inscriptions melted into the side.”

”Inscriptions?” Nightwing’s voice sounded tired, cautiously curious.

‘’‘God Punishes No Sinners’. Printed in a generic Times New Roman font. Leftover grooves on the bullet seem to match Hood’s usual LAR GWM, presumably a Mark V with the round size. No company markings on the shell support the continued idea that he loads his own rounds.”

”Not surprising.”

”What is surprising is that he left prints at the scene.”

”Finger prints? Thought he wore gloves?”

“No, footprints. He walked through the splatter and left an outline of his boot print at the scene. He’s got some big feet— size 13, and the treads match some of the Wayne Tech steel toe shoes that’ve been put out recently. Ironic to know he wears shoes designed by the one person he hates most.” Oracle’s voice was somber, even as amusement slid into it.

“Eh, B might be a close second, with the perimortem report on Joker. Not too surprising though– I’d buy them too if I didn’t have access to Bruce’s more advanced stuff.”

”Makes sense. What doesn’t is how descriptive the scene report is. As far as I know, B hasn’t gotten involved in this case and there’s no way in hell that the GCPD forensics team has started picking up this many details.”

“I think he might be. He’s been a bit more discreet about it, but he’s been obsessing over this guy since whatever happened with the Joker a few months ago. Not to mention how he locked the report from the rest of us… Honestly, O, instinct is telling me he’s hiding something. Something happened and he doesn’t want any of us to know.”

“He usually only gets like this when he’s emotional. But I think your instinct is right, Wing. Something’s going on here, and he’s not telling us what it is.”

“Think you’re right on that one, O. I just can’t figure out where to start out on this.”

”Questioning Hood on it might be our best chance— just ask him what happened that night. He hasn’t been seen since then and he quit being quite as hostile, so I think there’s more going on there than we could ever guess. While you’re doing that, I’m gonna try and go through some of the mission reports, although if he’s hiding something I have a feeling it’ll be mostly the broad details. If you could go through the physical reports to try and find his more updated version that might be better.”

“He keeps all the physical reports in his office and doesn’t let us have access, so it might take me a while.”

“That’s fine. Something tells me we’ll find all we need to know from Hood.”

“If he’s even willing to talk about it.”

“You can get Robin to tell you how he’s feeling and make Red slow his roll on the coffee. You’ve got the big brother energy going for you— if anyone can get him to talk, it’d be you.” Dick snorted, shifting up from where he sat on the edge of a roof. 

“Thanks O.”

“Anytime. I’ll send you those files once I break down B’s firewalls.”

”What would I do without you?” Barbra laughed as she ended the call, comm clicking. Dick grunted and sighed as he stood up and pulled out his grapple, aiming towards Crime Alley. 

“Guess I’m off to persuade a serial killer tonight.” He laughed under his breath and shook his head, grappling through the air, plastering on his classic smile.

The book cafe was nearly ready— he’d bought the property, had a renovation company start on the work of replacing the broken drywall, putting down furniture, slots for ovens and coffee machines, and he’d bought everything that he’d need except for the actual coffee grounds and menus. He figured he’d just hire a baker and a former Starbucks manager to do it for him— he was more interested in developing a better collection for the library. He’d gone through The NY Times best sellers to find most of his pieces, alongside some classics to round everything out, but the racks weren’t full yet, and he needed a way to stop people from just taking them home… Except, what if he had a check out system? Fees could help further income, so he could put it back into the Alley, then mix it with his dirty money. Honestly, this was one of his better ideas. Only a small chance of getting murdered, for once. 

There was a major problem, though— he had no fucking idea what to name the place. He’d bought and planned and executed the entire thing without having a name for it, for some reason. Maybe there was a reason he wasn’t considered a planner. Maybe. Or creative, really. He wanted something that would roll off the tongue. His first reaction had been to look up ‘Cafe name generators’ and he’d gotten disappointments like ‘Lava Java’ and ‘Java Junction Joint’. He suddenly understood how Bruce felt about him.

He’d gone even a step further and started writing random words that had slight associations with coffee and books and tried smashing them together to see if he could find something decent, but the things that came out of that were comparable to mules— stubborn and unwilling to work. Surprisingly, by the time he’d finally settled on a name he still had most of his hair;

‘Java Good Read’.

God he wished Bruce had actually killed him the second time. He was gonna have to make all his employees wear aprons with the stupid fucking name on it. He was gonna have to make posters that said ‘You Java Good Read. Apparently It wasn’t enough that he was a literal serial killer, apparently crimes against humor were something he wanted to add to the list. He totally wasn’t going to put posters everywhere with stupid shit like ‘Brew Your Own Story’. 

On the bright side, having a name meant he could finally buy a sign to put out front and could start with decorating everything outside of furniture and the color scheme— speaking of which, he’d gone a little crazy and had all the walls painted a soft coffee brown, bought all the furniture in black, and had used a dark forest green as an accent color on things like his mugs and the corners of shelves and doorways. He just needed to design a logo with the name and the right colors and he was practically set to hire a few college kids to run the place, watch them like a hawk for the first few shifts, read his favorite classics twelve times over in the corner, and open up the place. Maybe make a website. Even buy a few fabric printing machines and set up a little gift shop.

Perfect. 

Now he just had to do all that.

Fuck.

So hiring was harder than it looked, but he’d finally got it done. He’d found 20 or so kids, fired the dumbasses, and permanently hired around 12 of them, some just to clean up tables and organize books, and the more experienced ones to learn how to bake and make coffee from the two managers he’d magically found with experience in both. And, on the bright side, the entire process had been exhausting and he’d been tired enough to sleep for once. They were scheduled to open in about a week, everything stocked and ready, the kids trained, and the pleasure pain of making god awful pun posters finished. God, apparently he’d died and gained the same humor as one Dick Grayson. Only thing left to do was marketing, and his grand idea for it was flyers because Jason Todd was always known as a brilliant and dashing young man wasn’t he. 

Of course, it was during patrol that night that everything seemed to go to shit.

Jason was on stakeout by the warehouse location Carlos had lovingly given him, keeping an eye on the covered trucks rolling in with heat signatures lighting up the back and crates full of ice being unloaded from the uncovered pickups that rolled in behind them. The entire scheme was pretty obvious, and Jason figured that there was some bribery going on with the GCPD with how religiously patrols avoided the area. Fucking pigs.

He’d been looking down at one of the crates through his scope, taking note of the labeling for reference when he’d heard a familiar landing behind him— Nightwing had decided for once in his life to try and be quiet. Unfortunately, Jason hadn’t spent 7 years training with the league just to be ambushed by some moron who’d thought disco was a good influence for a vigilante disguise. Jason pushed himself up, swinging the rifle butt behind his right shoulder, Wing sidestepping left before Jason swung his left leg in a reverse roundhouse, Wing dropping and sweeping out Jason’s right leg, Jason dropping onto his shoulder and rolling sideways, popping up into a crouch and pointing the rifle barrel at Dick, finger hovering over the trigger. Dick put up his hands, grinning at Hood.

”Caught me.”

”The hell are you here for? My arrest? To annoy me into non-fatal shots?”

”I mean if you’re up for the last part—“

”You’re a Dick. Now shut the fuck up and quit reaching for your excrima. The hell are you interrupting my stakeout for?”

Dick, once again, had the audacity to snort, surprising both of them. 

“Well, honestly, I had a few questions—“

“Lemme guess, about little ol’ Carl?

“Well yea but not just him—“

”I shot him after he admitted to selling drugs to kids and I swear to god if you say a word about it I will pull the damn trigger—“

“Would you please quit interrupting me? Thank you. No, I am not here to lecture you about that. Yes, I figured that kids were part of the reason you shot him. I don’t care. What I do wanna ask you about is actually pretty unrelated.”

”Then get to it.” Dick’s eyes tracked his finger as he let it slip off the trigger, although he noted how closely it stayed. He rolled his eyes, wishing he wouldn’t probably be shot for dragging his hand down his face. He focused on Hood’s helmet for a minute, and Jason shifted under the intensity of it, his trigger finger twitching when Dick finally sighed, his lips pressed flat under the hood.

”I wanted to ask about a partnership.”

“…What?”

”You’re a vigilante. I’m a vigilante. You do good, I do good. I’m thinking of doing a partnership— we could solve cases three times as fast, I mean, think about it, it’d make both of our jobs easier.” 

Jason just stared at him from down the barrel for a few seconds, before sliding on the safety and putting it aside, laughing hard. Dick just looked down at him with a frown, crossing his arms, “What?”

Jason just kept laughing, like the ass he knew he was, nearly falling backwards, bent over with his hands on his thighs, almost hysterical and close to crying under the hood. He finally slowed down, taking a few deep breaths, looking back up at Nightwing who was glaring at him in all his Dick Grayson Glory, 

“Oh fuck, that’s funny. You’re asking me, a literal serial killer on the GCPD’s most wanted list, to help you, a vigilante with a no kill rule? Oh that’s great Dickwing. Just a little problem… I kill people, run several illegal drug rings— mind you, as an actual Crime Lord— and I’ve tried to kill both you and your dear ol’ pa several times. I own almost every ounce of ice running from here to the Narrows, and you want me to help you take down crime as your partner? Man, that’s just… fuckin’ stupid. How many hits did that empty head take before you came here?”  

“It’s not stupid, it’s logical, Hood. Don’t pretend that you aren’t running that ‘ice’ clean and giving people limits on how much they can buy from you, or that you’re not putting almost every cent you earn from selling into rehab centers. Wouldn’t it be a little counterproductive to treat your customers’ addiction? This is just adding more help to the vigilante part of your solution— don’t act like you’re just a Gotham Crime Lord.”

Jason just stared at him for a minute, trying to figure out what the motives here were; there was no way in hell he was asking for his help, regardless of what he saw of Jason’s harm reduction schemes.

”…I kill people, Dickwing– You willing to accept that?”

”Only if you take it down a notch or two while we’re working together. I don’t want a full graveyard on our hands, but I’m not against one or two kill shots on the right people.”

“…Huh. You’re an interesting guy, Goldie. Thought you followed your old man’s lead? Where’d the change of heart come from? The grayed morality?”

”Think I just do the Nightwing gig? Cops shoot people just like you do, Hood. I’ve done my fair share of pulling the trigger.”

Huh. Jason knew that Dick was a cop, but he didn’t think it’d shift his moral compass that much— Although he certainly didn’t have a problem with it. It was just… weird. Uncomfortable. New. 

He’d missed it. 

He’d missed a lot, really.

”Alright.” It wasn’t just Dick who felt shock at his answer.

”Alright?”

”Yea. This… partner bullshit. I’m in. You gotta number I can talk to you from?”

”Just a comm. There isn’t a tracker in it, don’t worry. Just press down twice if you want a line opened. It’s not connected to the whole Batclan, so you won’t end up dialing anyone but me or Oracle. She’s our techie, and she’ll be behind the scenes anytime we need files or footage.” 

Jason pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the comm from Dick’s outstretched hand— the design hadn’t changed since he was Robin. It was still the small tan earpiece that he remembered, working as a speaker to make sure nothing on the earpieces side was muffled while delivering everything said on the other end. He’d helped change the shape of the comm from when Dick had been Robin to make sure it stayed in the ear easier, closer to a hearing-aid than Dick’s round earbud comm. Something in his chest ached. “I’ll contact you if there’s a case I’d like someone else on, and you can do the same. Sound great?”

”Yea. Sure. Now get the hell out of here before you ruin my stakeout.”

Dick put his hands up, grinning again,

”Alright, alright, but don’t be scared to call if you want a hand.”

”Fine, alright. Now actually get going, Dickwing.”

Dick grappled off behind him, laughing, and he drug his hand down the front of his helmet, sighing. He’d just signed himself up for the Dickie Grayson treatment and he really couldn’t decide whether the emotional weight in his stomach was irritation or something… sadder. He turned back to the gangsters below him, unloading cargo, and he had an idea of how to ignore get rid of the weight on his stomach. Beating the shit out of Mask’s people was one of his favorite activities.

Beating the shit out of Mask’s people, in fact, did not go as planned— especially seeing as how Jason was now bleeding. He cursed quietly at the ache in every bone, the world spinning in circles, and the throbbing in his skull.

Corpses littered the floor. Iron, gunpowder, and death were all scents that seemed to linger in the air and under his skin. Flies gathered, waiting for not even a moment to buzz over the bodies. Silence sat heavily in the air, only disturbed by the ringing in his ears. Everything felt shallow, and the quiet eventually ebbed away, the sound of cars and sirens rising out from the ringing. It only made his headache worse, really. 

(Death now smelled like smoke, apparently. Not just rot. Why did it smell like smoke? There wasn’t any laughter here— or glowing brands. Where was he?)

He was laid back against a wall. The opposite side of the warehouse was a charcoal black, and neon light bled through. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, and he could feel himself becoming more lightheaded as the seconds dragged on.

He’d shot most of them. Stabbed one or two. There’d been more than he’d expected, and he’d thrown his helmet at some point.

 (Surrounded. Desperate. Laughter—) 

It’d rolled near some crates, near the wall. Some had been filled with poorly stored meth, explosive. The rafters had gone down and killed them, if the shrapnel or explosion hadn’t already.

(Why was he bleeding?)

Shrapnel. Tiny piece. Nothing major. He’d live. His head seemed to throb more now. He had a concussion, most likely. He was down on one knee. When did that happen? Oh well. Up. His calf hurt, and it looked wrong. It’d be fine. He stepped over a steaming corpse, and the smell of burnt flesh hit his nose hard. 

(It smelled like a brand.)

He needed to keep walking. He still had a grapple gun. The roof looked promising. Aim. Fire. The impact hurt. He felt dizzier now. It still smelled like iron, smoke, burning, rot, just like— 

Just like there. Not there. Open air, here. Sheila isn’t here. He couldn’t smell her cheap pack of cigarettes. Except— except there’s vomit under his feet, drool dripping down, and his mouth is bitter with bile. Bile had mixed with the taste of death, then. And Sheila had only smoked, had only been alive for two days, but her corpse had been there the entire time. It was the flies he hated most, really. He hated the flies. There’d been months of them—

Not there. He was here, and he needed to get up again. Needed to keep walking. One block of apartments, abandoned extra floor. The owner had died, and no one had looked, till he did. He can make it. There’s a kit under the windowsill. He’d known this would happen. He’d just hoped it wasn’t Bruce again. Halfway, he heard a corner girl laughing. She was always in the same spot, everytime. He’d shot a pimp for her, a few days ago. The bastard had reminded him of Willis. 

He was on his knees again. Tripped, there was something there.

Up again. Keep walking. His head was throbbing even harder now. He couldn’t think. The city felt like it was underwater. He’d be fucked if it wasn’t an empty roof. Up to the fire escape. When’d he get here? Who knows. He started crawling up the ladder. His grip wasn’t great, and it felt like maybe he’d fall. Maybe he’d break his neck. Maybe the pit would fix it? Who knows. 

(He’s tired of the green, the red in his dreams. Of his bloodied neck. Tired of his tearing skin, of it cracking just like glass.)

He’s at the top now. The window’s right above him. His hands linger over the fingerprint scanner. He managed to avoid cameras here, but he’s gonna need to be out in a few hours. Bruce might find him.

 He doesn’t want to see Bruce again. 

His window finally opens and he falls through it, crashing onto the concrete floor. Ouch. He pushes himself up, limping. He grabs his kit. Crawls onto the couch. Pulls off his armor. Tweezers, scalpel, check. He doesn’t bother with antiseptics or painkillers. The pit will disinfect it once skin can close, and it’ll move whatever veins and arteries around. 

Some of the shrapnel ended up in his shoulder. Just a few inches from the subclavian artery. He grits his teeth, using the scalpel to open the skin up a bit more. Tweezers, just to pull it out. This would probably cause permanent damage to anyone else, he thinks. It’s bleeding a decent bit. The pit just needs a minute to close it. The speed it works at seems to depend on his mood most days. 

Fuck, he needs a new helmet. 

He checks his calf. The muscle looks a little mushy, mutilated where something opened it. It’ll be fine. There’s not much else wrong with him now. Headache— courtesy of the concussion. He’ll sleep it off, it’ll be fine. Hair feels a bit wet, like there’s sweat or blood knotting it. The pit will probably heal it by tomorrow. He’ll take a day off if it doesn’t. Think about Bruce if he needs to hurry it up. Either way, he’s tired. He needs some sleep. Dick’s probably gonna ding him in a few hours, so he’ll sleep for about two hours, clear out this safe house, then ding him back. It’ll– be fine. He’ll be fine. Just set an alarm. It’ll be fine. 

(And in two hours, he would sleep through his alarm. In eight hours, Barbra will have chewed out Dick for offering a druglord partnership with a bat instead of just asking what happened.

The warehouse scene would be found in an hour, investigated in two, and printed in the papers by four, with titles like ‘Vigilante Violence— 36 Traffickers and Dealers Dead’. And Jason would sleep through it all, would sleep for 6 hours. And by then, he’d have forgotten how he’d gotten home. He was a bit busy staring down the barrel of his gun, anyhow, wondering just how much the pit could really fix.

 He found out, two days later. The truth was harder to swallow than the flies.)

Chapter Text

It was opening day. Jason sat in the corner of the shop, pretending to flip through a book he had memorized by now, watching as each customer flitted through the shelves and smiled into their cups. The staff was busy, the coffee machines constantly running and grinding, containers of coffee beans being passed around like hot potatoes, and the bakers in the back brick red from the heat, occasionally slipping out, hands smothered in flour. He took little sips every once in a while from a white thermos sitting next to him, savoring the lemonade he’d made the day before. The staff all held their thermos’ in the employee fridge, occasionally taking sips in the slower moments, glancing over at him with little smiles. Only Tiff, one of the younger baristas, hadn’t bothered trying hers yet. Her eyes never failed to trail over the crooked J or the thin lines littering his face, with her lips tilted down and face slightly pale. He wasn’t surprised that she was scared of him, but he hoped she’d get over it— or that he would. 

He flipped through the book somewhat mindlessly, reading lines he’d memorized years ago, by some miracle still hearing the lines before he’d gotten to them. The last time he’d read this book, it’d been before he’d left for Ethiopia. He’d nearly forgotten about it until recently, when he’d risked a trip to the Gotham library to make an account for one ‘James J. Johnson’. The book on the racks had brought out memories and he’d hardly noticed himself checking it out under his new account, thumb sliding down the spine, Les Misérables written in a swollen white there, Cosette’s black and white face looking up at him. He remembers the first time he’d seen the cover, the sad face there, and thought he’d look much the same while reading it, the 365 chapters in the table of contents as intimidating as it comes, but he’d pushed himself through it, actually enjoying the read. It was one of Bruce’s favorite books.

He found himself looking up from his lemonade and his book at the sound of Tiff speaking, her confused and apologetic customer service voice cutting through the little bits of chatter throughout the cafe,

“I’m sorry Ma’am, but I can’t do a refund since you’ve already had the entire drink. It’s my deepest apologies but—“

“Ah ah, I don’t wanna hear it. I don’t care, I just want my damn refund for this garbage you’ve decided to call coffee. I ordered a traditional macchiato, and you idiots gave me this bitter crap.”

”Ma’am, I really can’t give you a refund for a coffee you’ve already finished– I could give you another drink with a discount if— ”

“One, you are being extremely disrespectful to me right now. Two, I am not about to order another coffee just so it could be made by the same fucking morons who ruined it the first time,”

Jason closed his book and placed it down gently next to his thermos, standing up and putting his hands in his pockets, slowly walking towards Tiff and Karen, trying not to laugh and shake his head when she kept going, 

“and three, I would like to see your manager about this. Your behavior is entirely inappropriate and rude, and I am making a complaint against you. I will get my refund and your incompetent ass fired. Go grab him for me, Tiffany.”

”No need.” Jason once again shoved down his amusement at her reaction and the way she jumped out of her skin, forcing his face into a more irritated expression, “What would you like to complain about, Miss? Perhaps the way you’re treating my employees? Or the fact that you didn’t bother ordering correctly for your own tastes? If you don’t like bitter drinks, I would suggest that you don’t order them. 

 “I’d also suggest that you put aside your pride, accept Tiff’s offer for a discounted drink, and walk out that door.” Jason’s voice was quiet, his vocal cords still fucked from the incident but it carried like dust on the wind, the low rasp loud in the silence of the cafe, the entire room covered in a shocked quiet. Karen’s mouth was slightly askew, her brows close to her hairline, with quiet scoffs leaking out of her mouth, and her face frozen. 

“Or would you rather leave now, ma’am?” She stared at him for a moment before snapping out of it, rushing for the front door and shoulder checking him on the way out. 

She bounced off of him, his arm unmoving.

He turned his head, checking that she actually left through the doors before looking back at Tiff, smiling softly, nodding slightly, and mouthing the words ‘You’re doing great’ at her. He turned back towards his seat and sat back down, chatter throughout the room slowly returning the longer he stared at his book again. 

The next time he looked up, Tiff was glancing at him from behind the rim of a cup, smiling against the lemonade.